Volume One—Chapter Six.For the first half-mile after crossing the Colne, the thoughts of the young courtier had been given exclusively to his cousin. He recalled the old time—that scene in the silent dell—the kiss among the wild flowers—that proved her partiality for him. He remembered all these occurrences with a strong confidence in Lora’s loyalty.His fanciful reflections were suddenly, and somewhat rudely, interrupted.On arriving at an inn that stood by the roadside, a spectacle was presented to his eyes which turned his thoughts into a different channel.In a wide open space in front of the hostelry was a troop of horsemen. By their armour and equipments, Walter knew them to becuirassiers, in the service of the king.There were about fifty in the troop; and from the movements of the men, and the condition of their horses—still smoking from the march—it was evident they had come to a halt only a few minutes before.The troopers had dismounted. Some of them were still occupied with their horses, helping them to provender; while others, who had already performed this duty, were seated under a huge old elm tree—joyously, as well as noisily, regaling themselves with such cheer as the hostelry afforded.A glance at these roisterers told the young cavalier who and what they were:—a troop of the returned army from the north, that had been lately, and somewhat clandestinely, brought southward by the king.This corps had originally been recruited in the Low Countries, and among them were several foreigners. Indeed, the smaller number were Englishmen; while there were many countenances of the true Gallic type, and a still larger proportion of those famed hirelings—who figured so largely in the wars of the time—theWalloons.Amid the clamour of voices, with which the ears of the young courtier were assailed, he could hear French and Flemish commingled with his native tongue; while the oaths peculiar to all three nations, thickly interlarding the conversation, told him that he was in the presence of a remnant of that army that “swore so terribly in Flanders.”A crowd of the neighbouring rustics had collected around the inn; and stood with mouths agape, and countenances expressing unlimited astonishment at the sayings and doings of the strange steel-clad cavaliers who had dismounted in their midst.To Walter Wade there was nothing either new or surprising in the spectacle. He had seen the like in London; and often of late. He had been expecting such a sight—partly from having heard, in passing through Uxbridge, that a troop of horse was before him; and partly from having observed their tracks along the dusty road upon which he had been travelling.He did not know why they were going down into Buckinghamshire; but that was the king’s business, not his. In all likelihood they were on their way to Oxford, or some garrison town in the west; and were making their night halt at the inn.Giving but a moment’s thought to some such conjecture, the young courtier was about riding past—without taking notice of the coarse jests flung towards him by the rough troopers under the tree—when a voice of very different intonation, issuing from the door of the hostelry, commanded him to halt.Almost simultaneous with the command, two cavaliers stepped forth out of the inn; and one of them, having advanced a few paces towards him, repeated the command.Partly taken by surprise at this rude summons—and partly believing it to proceed from some old Court acquaintance—Walter drew bridle, and stopped.It was easy to tell that the two men, who had so brusquely brought themselves under his notice, were the officers in command of the troop. Their silken doublets—only partially concealed by the steel armour—their elegant Spanish leather boots, with lace ruffles at the tops; the gold spun upon their heels; the white ostrich plumes waving above their helmets; and the richly-chased scabbards of their swords—all indicated rank and authority. This was further made manifest, by the tone of command in which they had spoken, and their bearing in presence of the troopers.The latter, on seeing them come forth from the house, desisted from their jargon; and, though they continued to pass their beer cans, it was in a constrained and respectful silence.The two officers wore their helmets; but the visors of both were open; and Walter could see their faces distinctly.He now perceived that neither of them was known to him; though one of them he thought he had seen before, a few days before—only for a moment, and in conference with the queen!This was the older of the two, and evidently the senior in rank—the captain of the troop. He was a man of thirty, or thereabouts; with a face of dark complexion, and not unhandsome; but with that rakish expression that drink, and the indulgence of evil passions, will imprint upon the noblest features. His had once been of the noblest—and still were they such that a gentleman need not have been ashamed of—had it not been for a cast half-cynical, half-sinister, that could be detected in his eyes, sadly detracting from a face otherwise well favoured. Altogether it was a countenance of that changing kind, that, smiling, might captivate the heart, but scowling could inspire it with fear.The younger man—who from the insignia on his shoulder was acornet—presented a very different type of physiognomy. Though still only a youth, his countenance was repulsive in the extreme. There was no need to scan it closely, to arrive at this conclusion. In that reddish round face, shaded by a scant thatch of straight hay-coloured hair, you beheld at a glance a kindred compound of the stupid, the vulgar, and the brutal.Walter Wade had never looked on that countenance before. It inspired him with no wish to cultivate the acquaintance of its owner. If left to his own inclinations, the young courtier would not have desired ever to look upon it again.“Your wish?” demanded he, rising proudly up in his stirrups, and confronting the officer who had addressed him. “You have summoned me to stop—your wish?”“No offence, I hope, young gallant?” replied the cuirassier captain. “None meant, I assure you. By the sweat upon your horse—not a bad-looking brute, by the way. A good nag. Isn’t he, Stubbs?”“If sound,” laconically rejoined the cornet.“Oh! sound enough, no doubt, you incorrigible jockey! Well, youngster; as I was saying, the sweat upon your horse proves that you have ridden fast and far. Both you and he stand in need of refreshment. We called to you, merely to offer the hospitality of the inn.”“Thanks for your kindness,” replied Walter, in a tone that sufficiently expressed his true appreciation of the offer; “but I must decline availing myself of it.Iam not in need of any refreshment; and as for my horse, a short five miles will bring him to a stable, where he will be well cared for.”“Oh! you are near the end of your journey, then?”“By riding five miles further I shall reach it.”“A visit to some country acquaintance, where you can enjoy the balmy atmosphere of the beech forests—have new-laid eggs every morning for breakfast, and new-pulled turnips along with your bacon for dinner, eh?”The choler of the high-bred youth had been gradually mounting upward, and might soon have found vent in angry words. But Walter Wade was one of those happy spirits who enjoy a joke—even at their own expense—and, perceiving that his new acquaintances meant no further mischief, than the indulgence in a little idlebadinage, he repressed his incipient spleen; and replied in the same jocular and satirical strain.After a sharp passage of words—in which the young courtier was far from being worsted—he was on the point of riding onward; when the captain of the cuirassiers again proffered the hospitality of the inn—by inviting him to partake of a cup of burnt sack, which the landlord had just brought forth from the house.The offer was made with an air of studied politeness; and Walter, not caring to appear churlish, accepted it.He was about raising the goblet to his lips, when his entertainers called for a toast.“What would you?” asked the young courtier.“Anything, my gallant! Whatever is uppermost in your mind. Your mistress, I presume?”“Of course,” chimed in the cornet. “His mistress, of course.”“My mistress, then!” said Walter, tasting the wine, and returning the cup to the hand from which he had received it.“Some pretty shepherdess of the Chilterns—some sweet wood nymph, no doubt? Well, here’s to her! And now,” continued the officer, without lowering the goblet from his lips, “since I’ve drunk to your mistress, you’ll not refuse the same compliment to my master—the King. You won’t object to that toast, will you?”“By no means,” replied Walter, “I drink it willingly; though the king and I have not parted the best of friends.”“Ha! ha! ha! friends with the king! His Majesty has the honour of your acquaintance, eh?”“I have been nearly three years in his service.”“A courtier?”“I have been page to the queen.”“Indeed! Perhaps you have no objection to favour us with your name?”“Not the slightest. My name is Wade—Walter Wade.”“Son of Sir Marmaduke, of Bulstrode Park?”“I am.”“Ho! ho!” muttered the questioner, in a significant tone, and with a thoughtful glance at the young courtier.“I thought so,” stammered the cornet, exchanging a look of intelligence with his superior officer.“Son to Sir Marmaduke, indeed!” continued the latter, “In that case, Master Wade, we are likely to meet again; and perhaps you will some day favour me with an introduction to your sweet shepherdess. Ha! ha! ha! Now for the toast of every true Englishman—‘The King!’”Walter responded; though with no great willingness: for the tone of the challenger, as well as his words, had produced upon him an unpleasant impression. But the toast was one, that, at the time, it was not safe to decline drinking; and partly on this account, and partly because the young courtier had no particular reason for declining, he raised the goblet once more to his lips, as he did so, repeating the Words—“to the king.”The cornet, drinking from a cup of his own, echoed the sentiment; and the troopers under the tree, clinking their beer measures together, vociferated in loud acclaim:—“the king—the king!”
For the first half-mile after crossing the Colne, the thoughts of the young courtier had been given exclusively to his cousin. He recalled the old time—that scene in the silent dell—the kiss among the wild flowers—that proved her partiality for him. He remembered all these occurrences with a strong confidence in Lora’s loyalty.
His fanciful reflections were suddenly, and somewhat rudely, interrupted.
On arriving at an inn that stood by the roadside, a spectacle was presented to his eyes which turned his thoughts into a different channel.
In a wide open space in front of the hostelry was a troop of horsemen. By their armour and equipments, Walter knew them to becuirassiers, in the service of the king.
There were about fifty in the troop; and from the movements of the men, and the condition of their horses—still smoking from the march—it was evident they had come to a halt only a few minutes before.
The troopers had dismounted. Some of them were still occupied with their horses, helping them to provender; while others, who had already performed this duty, were seated under a huge old elm tree—joyously, as well as noisily, regaling themselves with such cheer as the hostelry afforded.
A glance at these roisterers told the young cavalier who and what they were:—a troop of the returned army from the north, that had been lately, and somewhat clandestinely, brought southward by the king.
This corps had originally been recruited in the Low Countries, and among them were several foreigners. Indeed, the smaller number were Englishmen; while there were many countenances of the true Gallic type, and a still larger proportion of those famed hirelings—who figured so largely in the wars of the time—theWalloons.
Amid the clamour of voices, with which the ears of the young courtier were assailed, he could hear French and Flemish commingled with his native tongue; while the oaths peculiar to all three nations, thickly interlarding the conversation, told him that he was in the presence of a remnant of that army that “swore so terribly in Flanders.”
A crowd of the neighbouring rustics had collected around the inn; and stood with mouths agape, and countenances expressing unlimited astonishment at the sayings and doings of the strange steel-clad cavaliers who had dismounted in their midst.
To Walter Wade there was nothing either new or surprising in the spectacle. He had seen the like in London; and often of late. He had been expecting such a sight—partly from having heard, in passing through Uxbridge, that a troop of horse was before him; and partly from having observed their tracks along the dusty road upon which he had been travelling.
He did not know why they were going down into Buckinghamshire; but that was the king’s business, not his. In all likelihood they were on their way to Oxford, or some garrison town in the west; and were making their night halt at the inn.
Giving but a moment’s thought to some such conjecture, the young courtier was about riding past—without taking notice of the coarse jests flung towards him by the rough troopers under the tree—when a voice of very different intonation, issuing from the door of the hostelry, commanded him to halt.
Almost simultaneous with the command, two cavaliers stepped forth out of the inn; and one of them, having advanced a few paces towards him, repeated the command.
Partly taken by surprise at this rude summons—and partly believing it to proceed from some old Court acquaintance—Walter drew bridle, and stopped.
It was easy to tell that the two men, who had so brusquely brought themselves under his notice, were the officers in command of the troop. Their silken doublets—only partially concealed by the steel armour—their elegant Spanish leather boots, with lace ruffles at the tops; the gold spun upon their heels; the white ostrich plumes waving above their helmets; and the richly-chased scabbards of their swords—all indicated rank and authority. This was further made manifest, by the tone of command in which they had spoken, and their bearing in presence of the troopers.
The latter, on seeing them come forth from the house, desisted from their jargon; and, though they continued to pass their beer cans, it was in a constrained and respectful silence.
The two officers wore their helmets; but the visors of both were open; and Walter could see their faces distinctly.
He now perceived that neither of them was known to him; though one of them he thought he had seen before, a few days before—only for a moment, and in conference with the queen!
This was the older of the two, and evidently the senior in rank—the captain of the troop. He was a man of thirty, or thereabouts; with a face of dark complexion, and not unhandsome; but with that rakish expression that drink, and the indulgence of evil passions, will imprint upon the noblest features. His had once been of the noblest—and still were they such that a gentleman need not have been ashamed of—had it not been for a cast half-cynical, half-sinister, that could be detected in his eyes, sadly detracting from a face otherwise well favoured. Altogether it was a countenance of that changing kind, that, smiling, might captivate the heart, but scowling could inspire it with fear.
The younger man—who from the insignia on his shoulder was acornet—presented a very different type of physiognomy. Though still only a youth, his countenance was repulsive in the extreme. There was no need to scan it closely, to arrive at this conclusion. In that reddish round face, shaded by a scant thatch of straight hay-coloured hair, you beheld at a glance a kindred compound of the stupid, the vulgar, and the brutal.
Walter Wade had never looked on that countenance before. It inspired him with no wish to cultivate the acquaintance of its owner. If left to his own inclinations, the young courtier would not have desired ever to look upon it again.
“Your wish?” demanded he, rising proudly up in his stirrups, and confronting the officer who had addressed him. “You have summoned me to stop—your wish?”
“No offence, I hope, young gallant?” replied the cuirassier captain. “None meant, I assure you. By the sweat upon your horse—not a bad-looking brute, by the way. A good nag. Isn’t he, Stubbs?”
“If sound,” laconically rejoined the cornet.
“Oh! sound enough, no doubt, you incorrigible jockey! Well, youngster; as I was saying, the sweat upon your horse proves that you have ridden fast and far. Both you and he stand in need of refreshment. We called to you, merely to offer the hospitality of the inn.”
“Thanks for your kindness,” replied Walter, in a tone that sufficiently expressed his true appreciation of the offer; “but I must decline availing myself of it.Iam not in need of any refreshment; and as for my horse, a short five miles will bring him to a stable, where he will be well cared for.”
“Oh! you are near the end of your journey, then?”
“By riding five miles further I shall reach it.”
“A visit to some country acquaintance, where you can enjoy the balmy atmosphere of the beech forests—have new-laid eggs every morning for breakfast, and new-pulled turnips along with your bacon for dinner, eh?”
The choler of the high-bred youth had been gradually mounting upward, and might soon have found vent in angry words. But Walter Wade was one of those happy spirits who enjoy a joke—even at their own expense—and, perceiving that his new acquaintances meant no further mischief, than the indulgence in a little idlebadinage, he repressed his incipient spleen; and replied in the same jocular and satirical strain.
After a sharp passage of words—in which the young courtier was far from being worsted—he was on the point of riding onward; when the captain of the cuirassiers again proffered the hospitality of the inn—by inviting him to partake of a cup of burnt sack, which the landlord had just brought forth from the house.
The offer was made with an air of studied politeness; and Walter, not caring to appear churlish, accepted it.
He was about raising the goblet to his lips, when his entertainers called for a toast.
“What would you?” asked the young courtier.
“Anything, my gallant! Whatever is uppermost in your mind. Your mistress, I presume?”
“Of course,” chimed in the cornet. “His mistress, of course.”
“My mistress, then!” said Walter, tasting the wine, and returning the cup to the hand from which he had received it.
“Some pretty shepherdess of the Chilterns—some sweet wood nymph, no doubt? Well, here’s to her! And now,” continued the officer, without lowering the goblet from his lips, “since I’ve drunk to your mistress, you’ll not refuse the same compliment to my master—the King. You won’t object to that toast, will you?”
“By no means,” replied Walter, “I drink it willingly; though the king and I have not parted the best of friends.”
“Ha! ha! ha! friends with the king! His Majesty has the honour of your acquaintance, eh?”
“I have been nearly three years in his service.”
“A courtier?”
“I have been page to the queen.”
“Indeed! Perhaps you have no objection to favour us with your name?”
“Not the slightest. My name is Wade—Walter Wade.”
“Son of Sir Marmaduke, of Bulstrode Park?”
“I am.”
“Ho! ho!” muttered the questioner, in a significant tone, and with a thoughtful glance at the young courtier.
“I thought so,” stammered the cornet, exchanging a look of intelligence with his superior officer.
“Son to Sir Marmaduke, indeed!” continued the latter, “In that case, Master Wade, we are likely to meet again; and perhaps you will some day favour me with an introduction to your sweet shepherdess. Ha! ha! ha! Now for the toast of every true Englishman—‘The King!’”
Walter responded; though with no great willingness: for the tone of the challenger, as well as his words, had produced upon him an unpleasant impression. But the toast was one, that, at the time, it was not safe to decline drinking; and partly on this account, and partly because the young courtier had no particular reason for declining, he raised the goblet once more to his lips, as he did so, repeating the Words—“to the king.”
The cornet, drinking from a cup of his own, echoed the sentiment; and the troopers under the tree, clinking their beer measures together, vociferated in loud acclaim:—“the king—the king!”
Volume One—Chapter Seven.After this general declaration of loyalty, there was a lull—an interval of profound silence—such as usually succeeds the drinking of a toast.The silence was unexpectedly broken, by a voice that had not yet mingled in the chorus; and which was now heard in clear, firm tones, pronouncing a phrase of very different signification:—“the people!”A sentiment so antagonistic to the one so late issuing from the lips of the troopers, produced among them an instantaneous commotion. The soldiers, seated under the tree, started to their feet; while the officers faced in the direction whence the voice had come—their eyes angrily flashing under the umbrils of their helmets.He, who had so daringly declared himself, was not concealed. A horseman, of elegant appearance, had just ridden up, and halted in the middle of the road; where the landlord—apparently without orders, and as if accustomed to the service,—was helping him to a goblet of wine. It was this horseman who had called out: “The People!”In the enthusiasm of their loyalty, his arrival had either not been observed by the troopers,—or at all events no notice had been taken of it,—until the emphatic pronunciation fell upon their ears like the bursting of a bomb. Then all eyes were instantly turned towards him.As he gave utterance to the phrase, he was in the act of raising the wine cup to his lips. Without appearing to notice the effect which his speech had produced, he coolly quaffed off the wine; and with likesang froid, returned the empty goblet to the giver.The defiant insolence of the act had so taken the troopers by surprise, that they stood in their places—just as they had started up—silent, and apparently stupefied. Even the officers, after hurrying forward, remained speechless for several seconds—as if under the influence of an angry amazement. The only sounds for a while heard were the voices of the spectators—tapsters, stable-helpers, and other idlers—who had clustered in front of the inn—and who now formed an assemblage, as large as the troop itself. Despite the presence of the armed representatives of royalty, the sentiment of these was unmistakeably the same, as that to which the strange horseman had given voice; and they were emphatically complimentingthemselves, when they clinked their pewter pots, and in chorus, proclaimed: “The People!”Most of them, but the moment before, and with equal enthusiasm, had drunk “the King;” but in this sudden change of sentiment they only resembled most politicians of modern times, who have been dignified with the name of “Statesmen!”But even among these tapsters and stable-helpers, there were some who had refrained from being forced into a lip loyalty; and who echoed the second sentiment with a fervent spirit, and a full knowledge of its everlasting antagonism to the first.When the ultimate syllable of this sacred phrase had died upon the ear of the assembled crowd, it was succeeded by a silence ominous and expectant. Two individuals commanded the attention of all—the captain of the cuirassiers, and the horseman who had halted upon the road: the toaster of the “king,” and the proposer of the “people.”The soldier should speak first. It was to him that the challenge—if such he chose to consider it—had been flung forth.Had it been a rustic who had uttered it—one of the assembled crowd—even a freehold farmer of puritanic pretensions—the cuirassier captain would have answered him on the instant, perhaps with steel added to the persuasion of his tongue. But a cavalier, of broad bands, and gold spurs buckled over Spanish leather boots—astride a noble steed—with a long rapier hanging handy anent his hip—was an individual not to be ridden over in such haste, and one, whose “argument” called for consideration.“Zounds, sir!” cried the captain of the cuirassiers, stepping a pace or two forward, “from what Bedlam have you broken loose? Me thinks you’ve been tasting too freely of the Saint Giles’s tap; and ’tis that which makes your speech smell so rankly. Come, fellow! Uncover your head, and tune your tongue to a different strain. You go not hence, till you’ve purged your traitorous throat by drinking the toast of every true and loyal gentleman of England—‘The King.’”“Fellow, indeed!” exclaimed the cavalier, looking scornfully askance at him who had dictated the insulting proposition. “A fellow!” he continued, in a calm but satirical tone, “not in the habit of drinking toasts with strangers. Yours is not to his liking, any more than your fashion. If he had the fancy to drink to England’s king, it would not be in the company of those who have disgraced England’s fame—at the ford of Newburn.”Gathering up his reins as he spoke, and giving utterance to a taunting laugh, the strange horseman pressed the spur against the sides of his splendid steed, and started off at a swinging gallop along the road.It was only when that laugh rang in his ears, that the cuirassier captain became roused to the full frenzy of rage; and, with eyes on fire, and brow black as midnight, he rushed forward, sword in hand, in a frantic attempt to strike down the insulter.“Disloyal knave!” cried he, lungeing out to the full length of his arm, “thou shalt drink the king’s health in thine own blood! Ha! stop him!” he continued, as the horseman glided beyond his reach—“My pistols!”“Ho, there!” shouted he to his followers. “Your carbines! Fire upon him! Where are your weapons, you careless vagabonds? To horse, and follow!”“An ye take my advice, masters,” put in the landlord of the inn—a sturdy tapster of independent speech—“ye’ll stay wheer ye are. An ye doan’t, ye’ll be havin’ yeer ride for nothin’. Ye mawt as well gie chase to a wild goose. He’ll be two mile frae this, ’fore you can git astride o’ your nags.”“What, varlet!” cried the cuirassier captain, turning furiously upon the speaker—“you presume—”“Only, great coronel, to gie ye a bit o’ sound advice. Ye ma’ folla it or no’ an’ ye pleeze; but if ye folla him ye won’t catch him—not this night, I trow, though theerbea full moon to light ye on his track.”The air of imperturbable coolness, with which the Saxon Boniface made rejoinder, instead of increasing the fury of the officer, seemed rather to have the effect of tranquillising him.“You know him, then?” demanded he in an altered tone.“Well, e-e’s! a leetlish bit only. He be one o’ my customers, and have his drink occasional as he passes by here. I know his horse a bit better mayhap. That be a anymal worth the knowin’. I’ve seed him clear that geeat—it be six-feet-high—moren once, wee’ve seed him do it. Ha’nt we, lads?”“That we have, Master Jarvis,” replied several of the bystanders, to whom the appeal had been made.“E-ees, indeed, great coronel,” continued the landlord, once more addressing his speech to the captain of cuirassiers, “an’ if yer fellows want to folla him, they maun be up to ridin’ cross country a bit, or else—”“His name!” eagerly interrupted the officer, “You know where the knave lives?”“Not exactly—neyther one nor t’other,” was the equivocal reply. “As for his name, we only knows him ’bout here as theBlack Horseman, an’ that he belong som’ere among the hills up the Jarret’s Heath way—beyond the great park o’ Bulstrode.”“Oh! he lives near Bulstrode, does he?”“Somer bot theer, I dar say.”“Iknow where he lives,” interposed one of the rustics who stood by. “It be a queery sort o’ a place—a old red brick house; an’ Stone Dean be the name o’t. It lie in the middle o’ the woods ’tween Beckenfield an’ the two Chaffonts. I can take ye theer, master officer, if ye be a wantin’ to go.”“Jem Biggs!” said the landlord, sidling up to the last speaker, and whispering the words in his ear, “thee be a meddlin’ ’ficious beggar. If thee go on such a errand, don’t never again show thy ugly mug in my tap room.”“Enough!” impatiently exclaimed the officer; “I dare say we shall easily find the fellow. Dismount, men,” continued he, turning to some of the troopers, who had sprung into their saddles. “Return your horses to their stalls. We may as well stay here for the night,” he added in a whisper, to his cornet; “it’s no use going after him till the morning. As the old prattler says, we might have our ride for nothing. Besides, there’s that little appointment in Uxbridge. By the angel Gabriel! I’ll find the knave if I should have to scour every corner of the county. More wine, landlord!—burnt sack!—and beer for these thirsty vagabonds! We’ll drink the king once more, with three times three. Ha! where’s our courtier? Gone too?”“He’s just ridden off, captain,” answered one of the troopers, still seated in his saddle. “Shall I gallop after, and bring him back?”“No,” replied the officer, after a moment’s consideration. “Let the stripling go his way. I know wherehe’sto be found; and shall do myself the honour of dining with him to-morrow. The wine! Come! fill your cans, you right royal rascals, and drink—The King!”“The King! Hurraw!”
After this general declaration of loyalty, there was a lull—an interval of profound silence—such as usually succeeds the drinking of a toast.
The silence was unexpectedly broken, by a voice that had not yet mingled in the chorus; and which was now heard in clear, firm tones, pronouncing a phrase of very different signification:—“the people!”
A sentiment so antagonistic to the one so late issuing from the lips of the troopers, produced among them an instantaneous commotion. The soldiers, seated under the tree, started to their feet; while the officers faced in the direction whence the voice had come—their eyes angrily flashing under the umbrils of their helmets.
He, who had so daringly declared himself, was not concealed. A horseman, of elegant appearance, had just ridden up, and halted in the middle of the road; where the landlord—apparently without orders, and as if accustomed to the service,—was helping him to a goblet of wine. It was this horseman who had called out: “The People!”
In the enthusiasm of their loyalty, his arrival had either not been observed by the troopers,—or at all events no notice had been taken of it,—until the emphatic pronunciation fell upon their ears like the bursting of a bomb. Then all eyes were instantly turned towards him.
As he gave utterance to the phrase, he was in the act of raising the wine cup to his lips. Without appearing to notice the effect which his speech had produced, he coolly quaffed off the wine; and with likesang froid, returned the empty goblet to the giver.
The defiant insolence of the act had so taken the troopers by surprise, that they stood in their places—just as they had started up—silent, and apparently stupefied. Even the officers, after hurrying forward, remained speechless for several seconds—as if under the influence of an angry amazement. The only sounds for a while heard were the voices of the spectators—tapsters, stable-helpers, and other idlers—who had clustered in front of the inn—and who now formed an assemblage, as large as the troop itself. Despite the presence of the armed representatives of royalty, the sentiment of these was unmistakeably the same, as that to which the strange horseman had given voice; and they were emphatically complimentingthemselves, when they clinked their pewter pots, and in chorus, proclaimed: “The People!”
Most of them, but the moment before, and with equal enthusiasm, had drunk “the King;” but in this sudden change of sentiment they only resembled most politicians of modern times, who have been dignified with the name of “Statesmen!”
But even among these tapsters and stable-helpers, there were some who had refrained from being forced into a lip loyalty; and who echoed the second sentiment with a fervent spirit, and a full knowledge of its everlasting antagonism to the first.
When the ultimate syllable of this sacred phrase had died upon the ear of the assembled crowd, it was succeeded by a silence ominous and expectant. Two individuals commanded the attention of all—the captain of the cuirassiers, and the horseman who had halted upon the road: the toaster of the “king,” and the proposer of the “people.”
The soldier should speak first. It was to him that the challenge—if such he chose to consider it—had been flung forth.
Had it been a rustic who had uttered it—one of the assembled crowd—even a freehold farmer of puritanic pretensions—the cuirassier captain would have answered him on the instant, perhaps with steel added to the persuasion of his tongue. But a cavalier, of broad bands, and gold spurs buckled over Spanish leather boots—astride a noble steed—with a long rapier hanging handy anent his hip—was an individual not to be ridden over in such haste, and one, whose “argument” called for consideration.
“Zounds, sir!” cried the captain of the cuirassiers, stepping a pace or two forward, “from what Bedlam have you broken loose? Me thinks you’ve been tasting too freely of the Saint Giles’s tap; and ’tis that which makes your speech smell so rankly. Come, fellow! Uncover your head, and tune your tongue to a different strain. You go not hence, till you’ve purged your traitorous throat by drinking the toast of every true and loyal gentleman of England—‘The King.’”
“Fellow, indeed!” exclaimed the cavalier, looking scornfully askance at him who had dictated the insulting proposition. “A fellow!” he continued, in a calm but satirical tone, “not in the habit of drinking toasts with strangers. Yours is not to his liking, any more than your fashion. If he had the fancy to drink to England’s king, it would not be in the company of those who have disgraced England’s fame—at the ford of Newburn.”
Gathering up his reins as he spoke, and giving utterance to a taunting laugh, the strange horseman pressed the spur against the sides of his splendid steed, and started off at a swinging gallop along the road.
It was only when that laugh rang in his ears, that the cuirassier captain became roused to the full frenzy of rage; and, with eyes on fire, and brow black as midnight, he rushed forward, sword in hand, in a frantic attempt to strike down the insulter.
“Disloyal knave!” cried he, lungeing out to the full length of his arm, “thou shalt drink the king’s health in thine own blood! Ha! stop him!” he continued, as the horseman glided beyond his reach—“My pistols!”
“Ho, there!” shouted he to his followers. “Your carbines! Fire upon him! Where are your weapons, you careless vagabonds? To horse, and follow!”
“An ye take my advice, masters,” put in the landlord of the inn—a sturdy tapster of independent speech—“ye’ll stay wheer ye are. An ye doan’t, ye’ll be havin’ yeer ride for nothin’. Ye mawt as well gie chase to a wild goose. He’ll be two mile frae this, ’fore you can git astride o’ your nags.”
“What, varlet!” cried the cuirassier captain, turning furiously upon the speaker—“you presume—”
“Only, great coronel, to gie ye a bit o’ sound advice. Ye ma’ folla it or no’ an’ ye pleeze; but if ye folla him ye won’t catch him—not this night, I trow, though theerbea full moon to light ye on his track.”
The air of imperturbable coolness, with which the Saxon Boniface made rejoinder, instead of increasing the fury of the officer, seemed rather to have the effect of tranquillising him.
“You know him, then?” demanded he in an altered tone.
“Well, e-e’s! a leetlish bit only. He be one o’ my customers, and have his drink occasional as he passes by here. I know his horse a bit better mayhap. That be a anymal worth the knowin’. I’ve seed him clear that geeat—it be six-feet-high—moren once, wee’ve seed him do it. Ha’nt we, lads?”
“That we have, Master Jarvis,” replied several of the bystanders, to whom the appeal had been made.
“E-ees, indeed, great coronel,” continued the landlord, once more addressing his speech to the captain of cuirassiers, “an’ if yer fellows want to folla him, they maun be up to ridin’ cross country a bit, or else—”
“His name!” eagerly interrupted the officer, “You know where the knave lives?”
“Not exactly—neyther one nor t’other,” was the equivocal reply. “As for his name, we only knows him ’bout here as theBlack Horseman, an’ that he belong som’ere among the hills up the Jarret’s Heath way—beyond the great park o’ Bulstrode.”
“Oh! he lives near Bulstrode, does he?”
“Somer bot theer, I dar say.”
“Iknow where he lives,” interposed one of the rustics who stood by. “It be a queery sort o’ a place—a old red brick house; an’ Stone Dean be the name o’t. It lie in the middle o’ the woods ’tween Beckenfield an’ the two Chaffonts. I can take ye theer, master officer, if ye be a wantin’ to go.”
“Jem Biggs!” said the landlord, sidling up to the last speaker, and whispering the words in his ear, “thee be a meddlin’ ’ficious beggar. If thee go on such a errand, don’t never again show thy ugly mug in my tap room.”
“Enough!” impatiently exclaimed the officer; “I dare say we shall easily find the fellow. Dismount, men,” continued he, turning to some of the troopers, who had sprung into their saddles. “Return your horses to their stalls. We may as well stay here for the night,” he added in a whisper, to his cornet; “it’s no use going after him till the morning. As the old prattler says, we might have our ride for nothing. Besides, there’s that little appointment in Uxbridge. By the angel Gabriel! I’ll find the knave if I should have to scour every corner of the county. More wine, landlord!—burnt sack!—and beer for these thirsty vagabonds! We’ll drink the king once more, with three times three. Ha! where’s our courtier? Gone too?”
“He’s just ridden off, captain,” answered one of the troopers, still seated in his saddle. “Shall I gallop after, and bring him back?”
“No,” replied the officer, after a moment’s consideration. “Let the stripling go his way. I know wherehe’sto be found; and shall do myself the honour of dining with him to-morrow. The wine! Come! fill your cans, you right royal rascals, and drink—The King!”
“The King! Hurraw!”
Volume One—Chapter Eight.Desirous of escaping from the disagreeable companionship—into which he had been so unceremoniously, as well as unwillingly, drawn—the young courtier had taken advantage of the confusion, and trotted quietly away.On rounding a corner—beyond which the road was not visible from the inn—he put spurs to his horse, and urged the animal into a gallop.Though he had given no offence, he was not without apprehension, that he might be followed, and summoned back: for the brace of bullies, from whom he had just parted, appeared quite capable of committing further outrage. He knew that, in the name of the king, excesses were of every-day occurrence. The Monarch’s minions had become accustomed to insult the people with impunity. The soldiers in particular bore themselves offensively—more especially those hungry troopers, who, returning unpaid from the Northern campaign, were thrown idle upon the country. The disgrace they had fairly earned—by fleeing before the Scots, from the ford of Newburn—had deprived them of the sympathies of their own countrymen: as a natural consequence provoking towards the latter a sort of swaggering and reckless hostility.The incident which had occurred, and in which he had been an involuntary actor, inspired Walter Wade with some emotions that were new to him: and, as he slackened his pace, after a sharp canter, he fell into a train of reflections very different from those hitherto engaging his thoughts.He was still too young to have entered into the politics of the time. He knew that there was trouble between the king and his people; but, breathing only the atmosphere of the “Presence,” he could have no other belief, than that the right was on the side of royalty.He knew that the king, after an interregnum of eleven years, had summoned a Parliament, to settle the differences between himself and his subjects. He knew this, from having been officially present at its opening. He knew, moreover, that this Parliament, after sitting only a few days, had been summarily dismissed: for he had been also present at its prorogation.What should the young courtier care for such incidents as these—however significant they might be to the patriot, or politician?To do him justice, however, Walter Wade, young as he was, was not altogether indifferent to what was passing. The spirit of his ancestry—that love of liberty, that had displayed itself at Runnymede—was not absent from his bosom. It was there; though hitherto held in check by the circumstances surrounding him. He had witnessed the punishments of the pillory—by summary sentence of Star Chamber and High Commission Court; he had been present at fearful spectacles, of ear-croppings and other mutilations; and, although among companions, who beheld such scenes with indifference—or often regarded them as sources of amusement—more than once had he been profoundly affected by them. Stripling though he was, more than once had he reflected upon such royal wrongs. Circumstances, however, had placed him among the ranks of those, to whom the smiles of a tyrant were sweet; and he was still too young and unreflecting, to give other than a passing thought to the theme of Liberty.That the enemies of the king suffered justly, was the belief that was breathed around him. He heard the statement on all sides, and from pretty lips—from the lips of a queen! How could he question its truth?His encounter with the cuirassiers had produced an impression upon him, calculated to shake his political sentiments—almost to change them.“A scandal!” muttered he to himself. “That these military bullies should be allowed to act as they please! I wonder the king permits it. Perhaps it may be true what ‘wicked Pym,’ as the queen calls him—said in the Parliament House:—that his Majesty encourages their insubordination. Ah! if I had thought so, I should have joined that brave fellow, who drank just now tothe people. By-the-bye, who canhebe? He’s gone up the road—as if he lived our way. A splendid rider, and a horse worthy of him. I never saw either before. If he be of Bulstrode neighbourhood, he must have come into it since my time. Perhaps a traveller only? And yet his horse looked fresh, as if he had just stepped out of the stable. He could not have ridden him farther than from Uxbridge?“I thought those fellows were preparing to pursue him,” continued he, glancing back over his shoulder. “They must have given up the idea: else I should hear them behind me. If they come on, I shall slip aside among the trees, and let them pass. I don’t want any more converse with such companions as Captain Scarthe—that’s what his cornet called him, I think; nor yet with Master Cornet Stubbs himself. Stubbs indeed! Surely, there must be something in names?”On finishing this series of reflections, the young courtier drew bridle, and halted for the purpose of listening.He could hear voices behind—at the inn—a chorus of rough voices in loud vociferation. It was the “hip hurrah,” of the troopers responding to the toast of “the king” There were no other sounds—at least none to indicate that the pursuit was being continued.“Good! they are not following him. Prudent on their part, I should say. If he has kept on, as he started he will be miles off by this.”“There’s no chance of my overtaking him!” continued he, once more heading his horse to the road. “My faith! I wish I could. Now that I remember the circumstance, I’ve heard there are robbers on this route. Sister wrote me about them, not long since. They stopped a lady’s coach, and plundered it; though they did no hurt to the lady beyond stripping her of her jewels—even to the rings in her ears! Only one of them—the captain I suppose—came near the coach. The others stood by, but said not a word. How very funny of the fellows to act so! Well, if it be my ill-fortune to encounter robbers, I hope it may also be my good fortune to find them equally well-mannered. I don’t mind giving them all I’ve got,—it’s not much—if they’ll only let me pass on, unmolested like the lady. I’faith, I’ve been a fool to leave London so late: and that unlucky adventure at the inn has made it later. It’s quite right. There’s a beautiful moon, to be sure; but what of that, in this lonely place? It would only help to give light to the rascals; and enable them all the more easily to strip me of my trappings.”Notwithstanding his apparent indifference to an encounter with robbers, which these reflections might indicate, the young traveller was not without some apprehension. At the time, the roads of England were infested with highwaymen, and footpads. Robberies were incidents of daily occurrence—even on the very skirts of the metropolis; and on the highways, and byeways, the demand for your purse was almost as common as the modern solicitation for alms.In general, the “gentlemen of the road” were not sanguinary in their disposition. Some were even courteous. In truth, many of them were men who, by the tyrannous exactions of the Sovereign, had been beggared in fortune, and forced to adopt this illegal mode of replenishing their exchequers. They were not all ruffians by instinct. Still there were some of them, with whom “Stand and deliver!” meant “Death if you do not!”It was not without a feeling of nervousness, that Walter Wade scanned the long slope of road extending towards the crest of Red Hill—at the bottom of which he had now arrived. It was on this very hill—as stated in the correspondence of his sister—that the coach had been stopped, and the lady rifled of her rings.The road running up the steep acclivity was of no great width—nothing resembling the broad macadamised “turnpike” of modern times. It was a mere track, just wide enough for wheels—bordered by a beechen forest, through which the path wound upward; the trees standing close along each side, and in some places forming arcades over it.The young traveller once more reined up, and listened. The voices from the inn no longer reached his ear—not even in distant murmuring. He would have preferred hearing them. He almost wished that the pursuit had been continued. Little as he might have relished the companionship of Captain Scarthe, or Cornet Stubbs, it would have been preferable to falling into that of a party of highwaymen or footpads.He bent forward to catch any sound that might come from the road before him. He could hear none—at least, none of a character to make him uneasy. The soft monotone of the goatsucker fell upon his ear, mingled with the sharper note of the partridge, calling her young across the stubble. He heard, also, the distant barking of the watch-dog, and the sheep-bell tinkling in the fold; but these sounds, though characteristic of tranquil country life—and sweet to his ear, so long hindered from hearing them—were not inconsistent with the presence either of footpad or highwayman; who, lurking concealed among the trees, need not interrupt their utterance.Walter Wade was far from being of a timid disposition; but no youth of eighteen could be accused of cowardice, simply because he did not desire an encounter with robbers.It did not, therefore, prove poltroonery on his part, when, proceeding along the road, his heart beat slightly with apprehension,—no more, when on perceiving the figure of a horseman dimly outlined under the shadow of the trees, he suddenly came to a halt, and hesitated to advance.The horseman was about a score of paces from where he had stopped—moving neither one way nor the other, but motionless in the middle of the road.“A highwayman!” thought Walter, undecided whether to advance, or ride back.“But no, it can scarce be that? A robber would not take stand so conspicuously. He would be more likely to conceal himself behind the trees—at least until—”While thus conjecturing, a voice fell upon his ear, which he at once recognised as the same he had late heard so emphatically pronouncing “The People!”Reassured, the young traveller determined to advance. A man of such mien, as he who bestrode the black steed—and actuated by such a sentiment, as that he had so boldly announced—could scarcely be a disreputable person—much less a highwayman? Walter did not wrong him by the suspicion.“If I mistake not,” said the stranger, after the preliminary hail, “you are the young gentleman I saw, a short while ago, in rather scurvy company?”“You are not mistaken: I am.”“Come on, then! If you are my only pursuer, I fancy I shall incur no danger, in permitting you to overtake me? Come on, young sir! Perhaps on these roads it may be safer for both of us, if we ride in company?”Thus frankly solicited, the young courtier hesitated no longer; but, pricking his horse with the spur, rode briskly forward.Together the horsemen continued the ascent of the hill.Half way up, the road swerved towards the south-west. For a short distance the track was clear of trees, so that the moonlight fell full upon it. Here the two travellers, for the first time, obtained a distinct view of one another.The stranger—who still retained hisincognito—merely glanced towards his companion; and, seemingly satisfied with a slight inspection, allowed his eyes to wander elsewhere.Perhaps during his halt before the hostelry, he had made a more elaborate examination of the young courtier.Walter, on the other hand, had at the Inn caught only a glimpse of the black horseman. Now, though out of courtesy, looking furtively and askaunce, he proceeded to examine him more minutely.The personal appearance of the latter was striking enough to court examination. Walter Wade was impressed with it—even to admiration.He saw beside him, not a youth like himself, but a man in the full prime and vigour of manhood—perhaps over thirty years of age. He saw a figure of medium size, and perfect shape—its members knitted together, with a terseness that indicated true strength. He saw shoulders of eleganttuornure; a breast of swelling prominence; a full round throat, with jaws that by their breadth proclaimed firmness and decision. He saw dark brown hair, curling around a countenance, that in youth might have appeared under a fairer complexion, but was now slightly bronzed, as if stained with the tan of travel. He saw eyes of dark hazel hue—in the moonlight shining softly and mildly as those of a dove. But Walter knew that those same eyes could flash like an eagle’s: for he had seen them so fired, on first beholding them.In short the young courtier saw by his side a man that reminded him of a hero of Middle Age romance—one about whom he had been lately reading; and whose character had made a deep impression upon his youthful fancy.The dress of the cavalier was in perfect keeping with his fine figure and face. It was simple, although of costly material. Cloak, doublet, and trunks were of silk velvet of dark maroon colour. The boots were of the finest Spanish leather, and his hat a beaver—the brim in clasp coquettishly turned up, with a jewelled front holding a black ostrich feather that swept backward to his shoulder. A scarlet sash of China crape, looped around the waist—an embroidered shoulder-belt crossing the breast, from which dangled a rapier in richly-chased sheath; buff-coloured gloves, with gauntlets attached; cuffs of white lawn covering the sleeves of his doublet; and broad collar of the same extending almost to his shoulders. Fancy all these articles of costly fabric, fitted in the fashion of the time to a faultless manly figure, and you have a portrait of the cavalier whose appearance had won the admiration of Walter Wade.The horse was in keeping with the rider—a steed of large size and perfect proportions—such as an ancient paladin might have chosen to carry him upon a crusade. He was of the true colour—a deep pure black, all except his muzzle where the velvet-like epidermis was tinged with yellowish red, presenting the hue of umber. Had his tail been suffered to droop, its tip would have touched the ground; but even while going into a walk it swung diagonally outward, oscillating at each step. When in the gallop, it floated upon the air spread and horizontal.The spotted skin of a South American jaguar, with housings of scarlet cloth, caparisoned the saddle; over the pommel of which hung a pair of holsters, screened by the thick glossy fur of the North American beaver.The bit was a powerful mameluke—about that time introduced from the Spanish peninsula—which, clanking between the teeth of the horse, constantly kept his mouth in a state of foam.This beautiful steed had a name. Walter had heard it pronounced. As the young courtier rode up, the horse was standing—his muzzle almost in contact with the road—and pawing the dust with impatience. The short gallop had roused his fiery spirit. To tranquillise it, his rider was caressing him—as he drew his gloved hand over the smooth skin of the neck, talking to him, as if he had been a comrade, and repeating his name. It was “Hubert.”After exchanging salutations, the two horse men rode side by side for some moments, without vouchsafing further speech. It was the silence consequent upon such an informal introduction. The rider of the black steed was the first to break it.“You are Walter Wade—son to Sir Marmaduke, of Bulstrode Park?” said he, less by way of interrogative, than as a means of commencing the conversation.“I am,” answered the young courtier, showing some surprise. “How learnt you my name, sir?”“From your own lips.”“From my own lips! When, may I ask?” inquired Walter, with a fresh scrutiny of the stranger’s countenance. “I don’t remember having had the honour of meeting you before.”“Only within the last half-hour. You forget, young sir, having given your name in my hearing?”“Oh! true—you overheard then—you were present—?”“I rode up just as you were declaring your identity. The son of Sir Marmaduke Wade has no need to conceal his name. It is one to be proud of.”“In my father’s name I thank you. You know him, sir?”“Only by sight and—reputation,” answered the stranger, musingly. “You are in the service of the Court?” he continued, after a pause.“No longer now. I took leave of it this very morning.”“Resigned?”“It was my father’s wish I should return home.”“Indeed! And for what reason? Pardon my freedom in asking the question.”“Oh!” replied the young courtier, with an air ofnaïveté, “I should make you free to the reason, if I only knew it myself. But in truth, sir, I am ignorant of it. I only know that my father has written to the king, asking permission for me to return home; that the king has granted it—though, I have reason to think, with an ill grace: since his Majesty appeared angry with me at parting; or, perhaps, I should say, angry with my father.”The intelligence thus communicated by theci-devantcourtier, instead of eliciting any expression of regret from his companion, seemed rather to gratify him.“So far good!” muttered he to himself. “Safe upon our side. This, will secure him.”Walter partially overheard the soliloquised phrases, but without comprehending their import.“Your father,” continued the stranger, “is likely to have good reasons for what he has done. No doubt, Master Walter, he has acted for your best interests; though it may be rather unpleasant for you, to exchange the gay pleasures of a royal palace for a quiet life in the country.”“On the contrary,” replied the youth, “it is just what I was desiring. I am fond of hawking and hunting; not in the grand ceremonious fashion we’ve been accustomed to at Court—with a crowd of squalling women to fright away the game—but by myself on the quiet, among the hills here, or with a friend or two to take part. That’s the sport for me!”“Indeed!” said the strange horseman, smiling as he spoke. “These are heterodox sentiments for a courtier? It’s rather odd to hear one of your calling speak disparagingly of the sex, and especially the ladies of the Court. The maids of honour are very interesting, are they not? I have understood that our French queen affects being surrounded by beauties. She has a long train of them, it is said?”“Painted dolls!” scornfully rejoined the ex-courtier, “tricked in French fashions. Give me a genuine English girl—above all one who keeps to the country, and’s got some colour. And some conscience besides; for, by my troth, sir, there’s not much of either about the Court—except what’s artificial!”“Bravo!” exclaimed the stranger, “a Court satirist, rather than a courtier. Well! I’m glad to hear my own sentiments so eloquently expressed. Give me also the genuine English girl who breathes only the pure air of the country!”“That’s the style for me!” echoed Walter in the warmth of youthful enthusiasm.“Well! there are many such to be met with among these Chiltern Hills. No doubt, Master Wade, you know some; and perhaps you have one in particular before your mind’s eye at this very moment? Ha! ha! ha!”The colour came to Walter’s cheeks as he stammered out a reply, which only partially repudiated the insinuation.“Your pardon!” cried the cavalier, suddenly checking his laughter. “I don’t wish to confess you. I have no right to do so. I have given you reason to think me unmannerly.”“Oh! not at all,” said Walter, himself too free of speech to be offended by that quality in another.“Perhaps you will excuse the curiosity of a stranger,” continued the black horseman. “I have been only a short time resident in this part of the country; and one is naturally curious to know something of one’s neighbours. If you promise not to be offended, I shall make bold to ask you another question.”“I shall not be offended at any question one gentleman may ask of another. You are a gentleman, sir?”“I have been brought up as one; and, though I have parted with, or rather been deprived of, the fortune that attaches to such a title, I hope I have not forfeited the character. The question I am about to put, may appear rather trivial after so elaborate an introduction. I merely wished to ask, whether you are the only member of your father’s family?”“Oh! dear no,” frankly responded the youth; “I have a sister—sister Marion.”“Grown up, like yourself?”“She should be by this. She wasn’t quite grown, when I saw her last; but that will be three years come Christmas. She’s older than I; and, i’faith I shouldn’t wonder if she be taller too. I’ve heard say she’s a great, big girl—nearly the head taller than Lora.”“Lora?”“Lora Lovelace—my cousin, sir.”“’Tis his sister—’tis Marion. I thought as much. Marion Wade! A noble name. It has a bold clarion sound—in keeping with the character of her who bears it. Marion! Now know I the name of her who for weeks I have been worshipping! Who for weeks—”“My cousin,” continued the candid young courtier, interrupting the silent reflections of his travelling companion, “is also a member of my father’s family. She has been staying at Bulstrode Park now for many years; and will remain, I suppose, until—”The heir of Bulstrode hesitated—as if not very certain of the time at which the stay of his cousin was to terminate.“Until,” interrogated the cavalier, with a significant smile, “until when?”“Really, sir,” said Walter, speaking rather confusedly, “I can’t say how long our cousin may choose to remain with us. When she comes to be of age, I dare say, her guardian will claim her. Papa isnother guardian.”“Ah! Master Walter Wade, I’d lay a wager, that before Mistress Lora Lovelace be of age, she’ll choose her own guardian—one who will not object to her staying at Bulstrode for the remainder of her life. Ha! ha! ha!”Instead of feeling indignant, the cousin of Lora Lovelace joined in the laugh. There was something in the insinuation that soothed and gratified him.Conversing in this jocular vein, the two travellers reached the summit of the sloping declivity; and, continuing onward, entered upon a wild tract of country known asJarret’s Heath.
Desirous of escaping from the disagreeable companionship—into which he had been so unceremoniously, as well as unwillingly, drawn—the young courtier had taken advantage of the confusion, and trotted quietly away.
On rounding a corner—beyond which the road was not visible from the inn—he put spurs to his horse, and urged the animal into a gallop.
Though he had given no offence, he was not without apprehension, that he might be followed, and summoned back: for the brace of bullies, from whom he had just parted, appeared quite capable of committing further outrage. He knew that, in the name of the king, excesses were of every-day occurrence. The Monarch’s minions had become accustomed to insult the people with impunity. The soldiers in particular bore themselves offensively—more especially those hungry troopers, who, returning unpaid from the Northern campaign, were thrown idle upon the country. The disgrace they had fairly earned—by fleeing before the Scots, from the ford of Newburn—had deprived them of the sympathies of their own countrymen: as a natural consequence provoking towards the latter a sort of swaggering and reckless hostility.
The incident which had occurred, and in which he had been an involuntary actor, inspired Walter Wade with some emotions that were new to him: and, as he slackened his pace, after a sharp canter, he fell into a train of reflections very different from those hitherto engaging his thoughts.
He was still too young to have entered into the politics of the time. He knew that there was trouble between the king and his people; but, breathing only the atmosphere of the “Presence,” he could have no other belief, than that the right was on the side of royalty.
He knew that the king, after an interregnum of eleven years, had summoned a Parliament, to settle the differences between himself and his subjects. He knew this, from having been officially present at its opening. He knew, moreover, that this Parliament, after sitting only a few days, had been summarily dismissed: for he had been also present at its prorogation.
What should the young courtier care for such incidents as these—however significant they might be to the patriot, or politician?
To do him justice, however, Walter Wade, young as he was, was not altogether indifferent to what was passing. The spirit of his ancestry—that love of liberty, that had displayed itself at Runnymede—was not absent from his bosom. It was there; though hitherto held in check by the circumstances surrounding him. He had witnessed the punishments of the pillory—by summary sentence of Star Chamber and High Commission Court; he had been present at fearful spectacles, of ear-croppings and other mutilations; and, although among companions, who beheld such scenes with indifference—or often regarded them as sources of amusement—more than once had he been profoundly affected by them. Stripling though he was, more than once had he reflected upon such royal wrongs. Circumstances, however, had placed him among the ranks of those, to whom the smiles of a tyrant were sweet; and he was still too young and unreflecting, to give other than a passing thought to the theme of Liberty.
That the enemies of the king suffered justly, was the belief that was breathed around him. He heard the statement on all sides, and from pretty lips—from the lips of a queen! How could he question its truth?
His encounter with the cuirassiers had produced an impression upon him, calculated to shake his political sentiments—almost to change them.
“A scandal!” muttered he to himself. “That these military bullies should be allowed to act as they please! I wonder the king permits it. Perhaps it may be true what ‘wicked Pym,’ as the queen calls him—said in the Parliament House:—that his Majesty encourages their insubordination. Ah! if I had thought so, I should have joined that brave fellow, who drank just now tothe people. By-the-bye, who canhebe? He’s gone up the road—as if he lived our way. A splendid rider, and a horse worthy of him. I never saw either before. If he be of Bulstrode neighbourhood, he must have come into it since my time. Perhaps a traveller only? And yet his horse looked fresh, as if he had just stepped out of the stable. He could not have ridden him farther than from Uxbridge?
“I thought those fellows were preparing to pursue him,” continued he, glancing back over his shoulder. “They must have given up the idea: else I should hear them behind me. If they come on, I shall slip aside among the trees, and let them pass. I don’t want any more converse with such companions as Captain Scarthe—that’s what his cornet called him, I think; nor yet with Master Cornet Stubbs himself. Stubbs indeed! Surely, there must be something in names?”
On finishing this series of reflections, the young courtier drew bridle, and halted for the purpose of listening.
He could hear voices behind—at the inn—a chorus of rough voices in loud vociferation. It was the “hip hurrah,” of the troopers responding to the toast of “the king” There were no other sounds—at least none to indicate that the pursuit was being continued.
“Good! they are not following him. Prudent on their part, I should say. If he has kept on, as he started he will be miles off by this.”
“There’s no chance of my overtaking him!” continued he, once more heading his horse to the road. “My faith! I wish I could. Now that I remember the circumstance, I’ve heard there are robbers on this route. Sister wrote me about them, not long since. They stopped a lady’s coach, and plundered it; though they did no hurt to the lady beyond stripping her of her jewels—even to the rings in her ears! Only one of them—the captain I suppose—came near the coach. The others stood by, but said not a word. How very funny of the fellows to act so! Well, if it be my ill-fortune to encounter robbers, I hope it may also be my good fortune to find them equally well-mannered. I don’t mind giving them all I’ve got,—it’s not much—if they’ll only let me pass on, unmolested like the lady. I’faith, I’ve been a fool to leave London so late: and that unlucky adventure at the inn has made it later. It’s quite right. There’s a beautiful moon, to be sure; but what of that, in this lonely place? It would only help to give light to the rascals; and enable them all the more easily to strip me of my trappings.”
Notwithstanding his apparent indifference to an encounter with robbers, which these reflections might indicate, the young traveller was not without some apprehension. At the time, the roads of England were infested with highwaymen, and footpads. Robberies were incidents of daily occurrence—even on the very skirts of the metropolis; and on the highways, and byeways, the demand for your purse was almost as common as the modern solicitation for alms.
In general, the “gentlemen of the road” were not sanguinary in their disposition. Some were even courteous. In truth, many of them were men who, by the tyrannous exactions of the Sovereign, had been beggared in fortune, and forced to adopt this illegal mode of replenishing their exchequers. They were not all ruffians by instinct. Still there were some of them, with whom “Stand and deliver!” meant “Death if you do not!”
It was not without a feeling of nervousness, that Walter Wade scanned the long slope of road extending towards the crest of Red Hill—at the bottom of which he had now arrived. It was on this very hill—as stated in the correspondence of his sister—that the coach had been stopped, and the lady rifled of her rings.
The road running up the steep acclivity was of no great width—nothing resembling the broad macadamised “turnpike” of modern times. It was a mere track, just wide enough for wheels—bordered by a beechen forest, through which the path wound upward; the trees standing close along each side, and in some places forming arcades over it.
The young traveller once more reined up, and listened. The voices from the inn no longer reached his ear—not even in distant murmuring. He would have preferred hearing them. He almost wished that the pursuit had been continued. Little as he might have relished the companionship of Captain Scarthe, or Cornet Stubbs, it would have been preferable to falling into that of a party of highwaymen or footpads.
He bent forward to catch any sound that might come from the road before him. He could hear none—at least, none of a character to make him uneasy. The soft monotone of the goatsucker fell upon his ear, mingled with the sharper note of the partridge, calling her young across the stubble. He heard, also, the distant barking of the watch-dog, and the sheep-bell tinkling in the fold; but these sounds, though characteristic of tranquil country life—and sweet to his ear, so long hindered from hearing them—were not inconsistent with the presence either of footpad or highwayman; who, lurking concealed among the trees, need not interrupt their utterance.
Walter Wade was far from being of a timid disposition; but no youth of eighteen could be accused of cowardice, simply because he did not desire an encounter with robbers.
It did not, therefore, prove poltroonery on his part, when, proceeding along the road, his heart beat slightly with apprehension,—no more, when on perceiving the figure of a horseman dimly outlined under the shadow of the trees, he suddenly came to a halt, and hesitated to advance.
The horseman was about a score of paces from where he had stopped—moving neither one way nor the other, but motionless in the middle of the road.
“A highwayman!” thought Walter, undecided whether to advance, or ride back.
“But no, it can scarce be that? A robber would not take stand so conspicuously. He would be more likely to conceal himself behind the trees—at least until—”
While thus conjecturing, a voice fell upon his ear, which he at once recognised as the same he had late heard so emphatically pronouncing “The People!”
Reassured, the young traveller determined to advance. A man of such mien, as he who bestrode the black steed—and actuated by such a sentiment, as that he had so boldly announced—could scarcely be a disreputable person—much less a highwayman? Walter did not wrong him by the suspicion.
“If I mistake not,” said the stranger, after the preliminary hail, “you are the young gentleman I saw, a short while ago, in rather scurvy company?”
“You are not mistaken: I am.”
“Come on, then! If you are my only pursuer, I fancy I shall incur no danger, in permitting you to overtake me? Come on, young sir! Perhaps on these roads it may be safer for both of us, if we ride in company?”
Thus frankly solicited, the young courtier hesitated no longer; but, pricking his horse with the spur, rode briskly forward.
Together the horsemen continued the ascent of the hill.
Half way up, the road swerved towards the south-west. For a short distance the track was clear of trees, so that the moonlight fell full upon it. Here the two travellers, for the first time, obtained a distinct view of one another.
The stranger—who still retained hisincognito—merely glanced towards his companion; and, seemingly satisfied with a slight inspection, allowed his eyes to wander elsewhere.
Perhaps during his halt before the hostelry, he had made a more elaborate examination of the young courtier.
Walter, on the other hand, had at the Inn caught only a glimpse of the black horseman. Now, though out of courtesy, looking furtively and askaunce, he proceeded to examine him more minutely.
The personal appearance of the latter was striking enough to court examination. Walter Wade was impressed with it—even to admiration.
He saw beside him, not a youth like himself, but a man in the full prime and vigour of manhood—perhaps over thirty years of age. He saw a figure of medium size, and perfect shape—its members knitted together, with a terseness that indicated true strength. He saw shoulders of eleganttuornure; a breast of swelling prominence; a full round throat, with jaws that by their breadth proclaimed firmness and decision. He saw dark brown hair, curling around a countenance, that in youth might have appeared under a fairer complexion, but was now slightly bronzed, as if stained with the tan of travel. He saw eyes of dark hazel hue—in the moonlight shining softly and mildly as those of a dove. But Walter knew that those same eyes could flash like an eagle’s: for he had seen them so fired, on first beholding them.
In short the young courtier saw by his side a man that reminded him of a hero of Middle Age romance—one about whom he had been lately reading; and whose character had made a deep impression upon his youthful fancy.
The dress of the cavalier was in perfect keeping with his fine figure and face. It was simple, although of costly material. Cloak, doublet, and trunks were of silk velvet of dark maroon colour. The boots were of the finest Spanish leather, and his hat a beaver—the brim in clasp coquettishly turned up, with a jewelled front holding a black ostrich feather that swept backward to his shoulder. A scarlet sash of China crape, looped around the waist—an embroidered shoulder-belt crossing the breast, from which dangled a rapier in richly-chased sheath; buff-coloured gloves, with gauntlets attached; cuffs of white lawn covering the sleeves of his doublet; and broad collar of the same extending almost to his shoulders. Fancy all these articles of costly fabric, fitted in the fashion of the time to a faultless manly figure, and you have a portrait of the cavalier whose appearance had won the admiration of Walter Wade.
The horse was in keeping with the rider—a steed of large size and perfect proportions—such as an ancient paladin might have chosen to carry him upon a crusade. He was of the true colour—a deep pure black, all except his muzzle where the velvet-like epidermis was tinged with yellowish red, presenting the hue of umber. Had his tail been suffered to droop, its tip would have touched the ground; but even while going into a walk it swung diagonally outward, oscillating at each step. When in the gallop, it floated upon the air spread and horizontal.
The spotted skin of a South American jaguar, with housings of scarlet cloth, caparisoned the saddle; over the pommel of which hung a pair of holsters, screened by the thick glossy fur of the North American beaver.
The bit was a powerful mameluke—about that time introduced from the Spanish peninsula—which, clanking between the teeth of the horse, constantly kept his mouth in a state of foam.
This beautiful steed had a name. Walter had heard it pronounced. As the young courtier rode up, the horse was standing—his muzzle almost in contact with the road—and pawing the dust with impatience. The short gallop had roused his fiery spirit. To tranquillise it, his rider was caressing him—as he drew his gloved hand over the smooth skin of the neck, talking to him, as if he had been a comrade, and repeating his name. It was “Hubert.”
After exchanging salutations, the two horse men rode side by side for some moments, without vouchsafing further speech. It was the silence consequent upon such an informal introduction. The rider of the black steed was the first to break it.
“You are Walter Wade—son to Sir Marmaduke, of Bulstrode Park?” said he, less by way of interrogative, than as a means of commencing the conversation.
“I am,” answered the young courtier, showing some surprise. “How learnt you my name, sir?”
“From your own lips.”
“From my own lips! When, may I ask?” inquired Walter, with a fresh scrutiny of the stranger’s countenance. “I don’t remember having had the honour of meeting you before.”
“Only within the last half-hour. You forget, young sir, having given your name in my hearing?”
“Oh! true—you overheard then—you were present—?”
“I rode up just as you were declaring your identity. The son of Sir Marmaduke Wade has no need to conceal his name. It is one to be proud of.”
“In my father’s name I thank you. You know him, sir?”
“Only by sight and—reputation,” answered the stranger, musingly. “You are in the service of the Court?” he continued, after a pause.
“No longer now. I took leave of it this very morning.”
“Resigned?”
“It was my father’s wish I should return home.”
“Indeed! And for what reason? Pardon my freedom in asking the question.”
“Oh!” replied the young courtier, with an air ofnaïveté, “I should make you free to the reason, if I only knew it myself. But in truth, sir, I am ignorant of it. I only know that my father has written to the king, asking permission for me to return home; that the king has granted it—though, I have reason to think, with an ill grace: since his Majesty appeared angry with me at parting; or, perhaps, I should say, angry with my father.”
The intelligence thus communicated by theci-devantcourtier, instead of eliciting any expression of regret from his companion, seemed rather to gratify him.
“So far good!” muttered he to himself. “Safe upon our side. This, will secure him.”
Walter partially overheard the soliloquised phrases, but without comprehending their import.
“Your father,” continued the stranger, “is likely to have good reasons for what he has done. No doubt, Master Walter, he has acted for your best interests; though it may be rather unpleasant for you, to exchange the gay pleasures of a royal palace for a quiet life in the country.”
“On the contrary,” replied the youth, “it is just what I was desiring. I am fond of hawking and hunting; not in the grand ceremonious fashion we’ve been accustomed to at Court—with a crowd of squalling women to fright away the game—but by myself on the quiet, among the hills here, or with a friend or two to take part. That’s the sport for me!”
“Indeed!” said the strange horseman, smiling as he spoke. “These are heterodox sentiments for a courtier? It’s rather odd to hear one of your calling speak disparagingly of the sex, and especially the ladies of the Court. The maids of honour are very interesting, are they not? I have understood that our French queen affects being surrounded by beauties. She has a long train of them, it is said?”
“Painted dolls!” scornfully rejoined the ex-courtier, “tricked in French fashions. Give me a genuine English girl—above all one who keeps to the country, and’s got some colour. And some conscience besides; for, by my troth, sir, there’s not much of either about the Court—except what’s artificial!”
“Bravo!” exclaimed the stranger, “a Court satirist, rather than a courtier. Well! I’m glad to hear my own sentiments so eloquently expressed. Give me also the genuine English girl who breathes only the pure air of the country!”
“That’s the style for me!” echoed Walter in the warmth of youthful enthusiasm.
“Well! there are many such to be met with among these Chiltern Hills. No doubt, Master Wade, you know some; and perhaps you have one in particular before your mind’s eye at this very moment? Ha! ha! ha!”
The colour came to Walter’s cheeks as he stammered out a reply, which only partially repudiated the insinuation.
“Your pardon!” cried the cavalier, suddenly checking his laughter. “I don’t wish to confess you. I have no right to do so. I have given you reason to think me unmannerly.”
“Oh! not at all,” said Walter, himself too free of speech to be offended by that quality in another.
“Perhaps you will excuse the curiosity of a stranger,” continued the black horseman. “I have been only a short time resident in this part of the country; and one is naturally curious to know something of one’s neighbours. If you promise not to be offended, I shall make bold to ask you another question.”
“I shall not be offended at any question one gentleman may ask of another. You are a gentleman, sir?”
“I have been brought up as one; and, though I have parted with, or rather been deprived of, the fortune that attaches to such a title, I hope I have not forfeited the character. The question I am about to put, may appear rather trivial after so elaborate an introduction. I merely wished to ask, whether you are the only member of your father’s family?”
“Oh! dear no,” frankly responded the youth; “I have a sister—sister Marion.”
“Grown up, like yourself?”
“She should be by this. She wasn’t quite grown, when I saw her last; but that will be three years come Christmas. She’s older than I; and, i’faith I shouldn’t wonder if she be taller too. I’ve heard say she’s a great, big girl—nearly the head taller than Lora.”
“Lora?”
“Lora Lovelace—my cousin, sir.”
“’Tis his sister—’tis Marion. I thought as much. Marion Wade! A noble name. It has a bold clarion sound—in keeping with the character of her who bears it. Marion! Now know I the name of her who for weeks I have been worshipping! Who for weeks—”
“My cousin,” continued the candid young courtier, interrupting the silent reflections of his travelling companion, “is also a member of my father’s family. She has been staying at Bulstrode Park now for many years; and will remain, I suppose, until—”
The heir of Bulstrode hesitated—as if not very certain of the time at which the stay of his cousin was to terminate.
“Until,” interrogated the cavalier, with a significant smile, “until when?”
“Really, sir,” said Walter, speaking rather confusedly, “I can’t say how long our cousin may choose to remain with us. When she comes to be of age, I dare say, her guardian will claim her. Papa isnother guardian.”
“Ah! Master Walter Wade, I’d lay a wager, that before Mistress Lora Lovelace be of age, she’ll choose her own guardian—one who will not object to her staying at Bulstrode for the remainder of her life. Ha! ha! ha!”
Instead of feeling indignant, the cousin of Lora Lovelace joined in the laugh. There was something in the insinuation that soothed and gratified him.
Conversing in this jocular vein, the two travellers reached the summit of the sloping declivity; and, continuing onward, entered upon a wild tract of country known asJarret’s Heath.
Volume One—Chapter Nine.Jarret’s Heath—now Gerrard’s Cross Common—was at the time of which we write, a tract of considerable extent—occupying an elevatedplateauof the Chiltern Hills, and one of the largest. Commencing at the brow of Red Hill, it extended westward for a distance of many miles—flanked right and left by the romantic valleys of Chalfont and Fulmere.At that time only the adjoining valleys showed signs of habitation. In the former stood the noble mansion of Chalfont House, with its synonymous village; while on the other side, quaintly embowered amid ancient trees, was the manorial residence of Fulmere. About two miles farther to the westward, where the plateau is broken by a series of rounded indications, stood the magnificent mansion of Temple Bulstrode, the residence of Sir Marmaduke Wade.The elevated plain, lying between the above-named lordships, bore scarce a trace of human occupancy. It’s name, Jarret’s Heath, would indicate the condition of its culture. It was a waste—upon which the plough had never broken ground—thickly covered with high gorse and heather. Here and there appeared straggling groves and copses, composed chiefly of black and white birch trees, interspersed with juniper and holly; while on each side towards the valleys, it was flanked by a dense forest of the indigenous beech.Lengthwise through this waste trended the King’s highway—the London and Oxford road—beyond it impinging upon the Park of Bulstrode, and running alongside the latter towards the town of Beaconsfield.In the traverse of Jarret’s Heath the main road was intersected by two others—one passing from the manor house of Fulmere to the village of Chalfont Saint Peter’s: the other forming the communication between Chalfont and the country towards Stoke and Windsor. These were but bridle orpackhorsepaths, tracked out irregularly among the trees, and meandering through the gorse wherever it grew thinnest. That running from Stoke to Chalfont was the most frequented; and an old inn—thePackhorse—standing upon the Chalfont side of the waste, betokened traffic and travel. There was not much of either; and the hostelry bore only a questionable character.Such as it was, however, it was the only sign of habitation upon Jarret’s Heath—if we except the remains of a rude hovel, standing by the side of the London road, just at the point where going westward from Red Hill, it debouched upon the waste.This hovel had been long untenanted. Part of the roof had fallen in: it was a ruin. An open space in front, through which ran the road, might once have been a garden; but it was now overgrown with gorse, and other indigenous shrubbery—only distinguishable from the surrounding thicket by its scantier growth.It was a singular spot to have been selected as a residence: since it stood more than a mile from any other habitation—the nearest being the suspected hostelry of the Packhorse. Perhaps it was this very remoteness from companionship that had influenced its original owner in the choice of a site for his dwelling.Whether or no, it had been at best but a miserable tenement. Even with smoke issuing out of its clay chimney, it would have looked cheerless. But in ruins, with its roof falling piecemeal upon the floor, tall weeds standing close by its walls, gorse overgrowing its garden, and black birches clustering thickly around, it presented an aspect of wild and gloomy desolation: the very spot where one might expect to be robbed, or even murdered.Conversing as we have described them, the two travellers had arrived near the edge of the opening in which stood this ruined hut. The moon was still shining brightly; and through the break in the brushwood, formed by the cleared causeway of the road, they could distinguish—though still at the distance of a mile or more—the tops of the magnificent trees, oaks, elms, and chestnuts, that crowned the undulating ridges of Bulstrode Park. They could even see a portion of the noble mansion of Norman architecture, gleaming red and white under the silvery sheen of the moonlight.In ten minutes more Walter Wade would be at home.It was a pleasant anticipation for the young courtier to indulge in. Home so near, after such a long protracted absence—home, that promised the sweet interchange of natural affection, and—something more.The cavalier—whose journey extended farther up the road—was about congratulating his companion on the delightful prospect; when a rustling noise, heard to the right of the path suddenly stopped their conversation. At the same instant a harsh voice, sounded in their ears, pronouncing the significant summons:—“stand and deliver!”The two travellers had already ridden into the open ground, in front of the ruined hut, out of which the voice appeared to proceed. But they had no time to speculate as to whence it came: for on the instant of its utterance, a man was seen rushing forward into the middle of the road, and placing himself in a position to intercept their advance.His threatening attitude, combined with the mode in which he manipulated a long-handled pike—the point of which he held close to the heads of their horses—left no doubt upon the minds of the travellers that to stop them was his determination.Before either could make reply to his challenge, it was repronounced in the same loud tone, and with a fresh gesture of menace—in which the pike played an important part.“Stand and deliver?” interrogated the cavalier, slowly repeating the stereotyped phrase. “That’s your wish, is it, my worthy fellow?”“It is!” growled the challenger, “an’ be quickish, if ye’ve any consarn for yer skins.”“Well,” continued the cavalier, preserving the most perfectsang froid, “you can’t say but that we’ve been quick enough in obeying your first command? You see we have both come to a standinstanter? As for your second, it requires consideration. Beforedelivering, we must know the why, and the wherefore—above all, to whom we are to unburthen ourselves. You won’t object, to obliging us with your name—as also your reason for making such a modest request?”“Curse your palaver?” vociferated the man, with an impatient flourish of the pike. “There be no names given on the road, nor reasons neyther. Yer money, or yer blood! It be no use yer tryin’ to get out o’ it. Look thear! Ye see there be a dozen o’ us! What’s the good o’ resistin’? Ye’re surrounded.”And as he said this, the robber with a sweep of his formidable weapon indicated the circle of shrubbery—near the centre of which the scene was being enacted.The eyes of the two travellers involuntarily followed the pointing of the pike.Sure enough theyweresurrounded. Six or seven fierce-looking men, all apparently armed with the same sort of weapon as that in the hands of their leader, stood at equal distances from each other around the opening—their forms half concealed by the trees and gorse. They were all standing perfectly motionless. Not even their weapons seemed to stir; and not one of them had as yet spoken, or stepped forward; though it might have been expected they would have done so—if only to strengthen the demand made by their spokesman.“Keep your places, comrades!” commanded the latter. “There’s no need for any o’ ye to stir. These are civilish gentlemen. We don’t want to hurt them. They bean’t a-goin’ to resist.”“But theybe” interrupted the cavalier, in a mocking but determined tone, at the same time whipping a pistol from its holster—“I amto the death; and so too will the gallant youth by my side.”Walter had drawn his slender rapier—the only weapon he possessed.“What! yield to a pack of cowardly footpads?” continued the cavalier, cocking his pistol, as he spoke. “No—sooner—”“Your blood on your own head then!” shouted the robber, at the same time rushing forward, and extending his pike so that its steel point was almost in contact with the counter of the cavalier’s horse.The moonlight shone full upon the footpad, showing a face of fierce aspect—features of wild expression—black beard and whiskers—a thick shock of dark hair matted and tangled—eyes bloodshot, and gleaming with a lurid light!It was fortunate for their owner, that the moonlight favoured the identification of those fear-inspiring features—else that moment might have been his last.The cavalier had levelled his cocked pistol. His finger was upon the trigger. In another second the shot would have been discharged; and in all likelihood his assailant would have been lying lifeless at the feet of his horse.All at once, the outstretched arm was seen to drop; while at the same instant from the horseman’s lips issued an exclamation of singular import.“Gregory Garth!” cried he, “you a highwayman—a robber? About to rob—to murder—”“My old master!” gasped out the man, suddenly lowering the point of his pike. “Be it you? Pardon! O pardon, Sir Henry! I didn’t know ’twas you.”And as the speaker gave utterance to the last words, he dashed his weapon to the ground, and stood over it in a cowering and contrite attitude—not daring to raise his eyes to the face of him who had brought the affair to such an unexpected ending.“O Master Henry!” he again cried, “will you forgive me! Brute as I am, ’twould ha’ broke my heart to a hurted a hair o’ your head. Curse the crooked luck that’s brought me to this!”For some moments there was a profound silence—unbroken by any voice. Even the companions of the robber appeared to respect thesituation: since not one of them moved or made remark of any kind!Their humiliated chief was himself the first to put a period to this interval of embarrassment.“O Master Henry!” he exclaimed, apparently in a paroxysm of chagrin. “Shoot me! Kill me if ye like! After what’s passed, I doan’t desarve no better than to die. There’s my breast! Send yer bullet through it; an’ put an end to the miserable life o’ Greg’ry Garth!”While speaking, the footpad pulled open the flap of his doublet—laying bare before the moonlight a broad sinewy breast, thickly covered with coarse black hair.Advancing close to the cavalier’s horse he presented his bosom, thus exposed—as if to tempt the death he had so strangely solicited. His words, his looks, his whole attitude, proclaimed him to be in earnest.“Come, come, Garth!” said the cavalier in a soothing tone—at the same time returning the pistol to its holster. “You’re too good a man—at least youwere once—to be shot down in that off-hand fashion.”“Ah!onceMaster Henry. May be that’s true enough. But now I desarve it.”“Spare your self-recrimination, Gregory. Your life, like my own, has been a hard one. I know it; and can therefore look more leniently on what has happened now. Let us be thankful it’s no worse; and hope it will be the means of bringing about a change for the better.”“It will, Master Henry; it will! I promise that.”“I’m glad to hear you say so; and doubt not but that you’ll keep your word. Meanwhile give orders to your trusty followers—by the way a well-behaved band—not to molest us. To-morrow morning there will be travellers along this way, upon whom I have not the slightest objection that both you and yours should practise your peculiar avocation; and to your heart’s content. Please desire those gentlemen to keep their distance. I don’t wish them to make any nearer approach—lest I might have the misfortune to find in their ranks some other old acquaintance, who like yourself has fallen from the paths of virtue.”As the footpad stood listening to the request, a singular expression was observed to steal over his fierce features—which gradually gathered into a broad comical grin.“Ah! Master Henry,” he rejoined, “I may order ’em, to obleege ye, but they woant obey. Yer needn’t be afeerd o’ ’em for all that. You may go as near ’em as you like—theyan’t a-goin’ to molest you. You may run your sword through and through ’em, and never a one o’ ’em’s goin’ to cry out he be hurt.”“Well, they seem patient fellows in all sincerity. But enough—what do you mean, Gregory?”“That they be nobodies, Master Henry—reg’lar nobodies. They be only dummies—a lot o’ old coats and hats, that’s no doubt done good sarvice to their wearers ’fore they fell into the hands o’ Gregory Garth—ay, and they ha’ done some good sarvice since—o’ a different kind, as ye see.”“So these fellows are only scarecrows? I had my suspicions.”“Nothing more nor less, master. Harmless as I once was myself, but since that time—you know—when the old hall was taken from you, and you went abroad—since then I’ve been—”“I don’t want to hear your history, Garth,” said his former Master, interrupting him, “at least notsince then. Let the past be of the past, if you will only promise me to forsake your present profession for the future. Sooner or later it will bring you to the block.”“But what am I to do?” inquired the footpad, in a tone of humble expostulation.“Do? Anything but what you have been doing. Get work—honest work.”“As I live, I’ve tried wi’ all my might. Ah! Sir Henry, you’ve been away from the country a tidyish time. You don’t know how things be now. To be honest be to starve. Honesty an’t no longer o’ any account in England.”“Some day,” said the cavalier, as he sate reflecting in his saddle. “Some day it may be more valued—and that day not distant Gregory Garth!” he continued, making appeal to the footpad in a more serious and earnest tone of voice, “You have a bold heart, and a strong arm. I know it. I have no doubt too, that despite the outlawed life you’ve been leading,your sympathies are still on the right side. They have reason: for you too have suffered in your way. You know what I mean?”“I do, Sir Henry, I do,” eagerly answered the man. “Ye’re right. Brute as I may be, and robber as I ha’ been, I ha’ my inclining in that ere. Ah! it’s it that’s made me what I be!”“Hear me then,” said the cavalier bending down in his saddle, and speaking still more confidentially. “The time is not distant—perhaps nearer than most people think—when a stout heart and a strong arm—such as yours, Garth,—may be usefully employed in a better occupation, than that you’ve been following.”“Dy’e say so, Sir Henry?”“I do. So take my advice. Disband these trusty followers of yours—whosestaunchnessought to recommend them for better service. Make the best market you can of their cast-off wardrobes. Retire for a time into private life; and wait till you hear shouted those sacred words—“God and the People!”“Bless ye, Sir Henry!” cried the robber, rushing up, and, with a show of rude affection, clutching the hand of his former master. “I had heard o’ your comin’ to live at the old house in the forest up thear; but I didn’t expect to meet you in this way. You’ll let me come an’ see ye. I promise ye that ye’ll never meet me as a robber again.This night Gregory Garth takes his leave o’ the road.”“A good resolve!” rejoined the cavalier, warmly returning the pressure of the outlaw’s hand. “I’m glad you have made it. Good-night, Gregory!” he continued, moving onward along the road; “Come and see me, whenever you please. Good-night, gentlemen!” and at the words he lifted the plumed beaver from his head, and, in a style of mock courtesy, waved the dummies an adieu. “Good-night, worthy friends!” he laughingly repeated, as he rode through their midst. “Don’t trouble yourselves to return my salutation. Ha! ha! ha!”The young courtier, moving after, joined in the jocular leave-taking; and both merrily rode away—leaving the footpad to the companionship of his speechless “pals.”
Jarret’s Heath—now Gerrard’s Cross Common—was at the time of which we write, a tract of considerable extent—occupying an elevatedplateauof the Chiltern Hills, and one of the largest. Commencing at the brow of Red Hill, it extended westward for a distance of many miles—flanked right and left by the romantic valleys of Chalfont and Fulmere.
At that time only the adjoining valleys showed signs of habitation. In the former stood the noble mansion of Chalfont House, with its synonymous village; while on the other side, quaintly embowered amid ancient trees, was the manorial residence of Fulmere. About two miles farther to the westward, where the plateau is broken by a series of rounded indications, stood the magnificent mansion of Temple Bulstrode, the residence of Sir Marmaduke Wade.
The elevated plain, lying between the above-named lordships, bore scarce a trace of human occupancy. It’s name, Jarret’s Heath, would indicate the condition of its culture. It was a waste—upon which the plough had never broken ground—thickly covered with high gorse and heather. Here and there appeared straggling groves and copses, composed chiefly of black and white birch trees, interspersed with juniper and holly; while on each side towards the valleys, it was flanked by a dense forest of the indigenous beech.
Lengthwise through this waste trended the King’s highway—the London and Oxford road—beyond it impinging upon the Park of Bulstrode, and running alongside the latter towards the town of Beaconsfield.
In the traverse of Jarret’s Heath the main road was intersected by two others—one passing from the manor house of Fulmere to the village of Chalfont Saint Peter’s: the other forming the communication between Chalfont and the country towards Stoke and Windsor. These were but bridle orpackhorsepaths, tracked out irregularly among the trees, and meandering through the gorse wherever it grew thinnest. That running from Stoke to Chalfont was the most frequented; and an old inn—thePackhorse—standing upon the Chalfont side of the waste, betokened traffic and travel. There was not much of either; and the hostelry bore only a questionable character.
Such as it was, however, it was the only sign of habitation upon Jarret’s Heath—if we except the remains of a rude hovel, standing by the side of the London road, just at the point where going westward from Red Hill, it debouched upon the waste.
This hovel had been long untenanted. Part of the roof had fallen in: it was a ruin. An open space in front, through which ran the road, might once have been a garden; but it was now overgrown with gorse, and other indigenous shrubbery—only distinguishable from the surrounding thicket by its scantier growth.
It was a singular spot to have been selected as a residence: since it stood more than a mile from any other habitation—the nearest being the suspected hostelry of the Packhorse. Perhaps it was this very remoteness from companionship that had influenced its original owner in the choice of a site for his dwelling.
Whether or no, it had been at best but a miserable tenement. Even with smoke issuing out of its clay chimney, it would have looked cheerless. But in ruins, with its roof falling piecemeal upon the floor, tall weeds standing close by its walls, gorse overgrowing its garden, and black birches clustering thickly around, it presented an aspect of wild and gloomy desolation: the very spot where one might expect to be robbed, or even murdered.
Conversing as we have described them, the two travellers had arrived near the edge of the opening in which stood this ruined hut. The moon was still shining brightly; and through the break in the brushwood, formed by the cleared causeway of the road, they could distinguish—though still at the distance of a mile or more—the tops of the magnificent trees, oaks, elms, and chestnuts, that crowned the undulating ridges of Bulstrode Park. They could even see a portion of the noble mansion of Norman architecture, gleaming red and white under the silvery sheen of the moonlight.
In ten minutes more Walter Wade would be at home.
It was a pleasant anticipation for the young courtier to indulge in. Home so near, after such a long protracted absence—home, that promised the sweet interchange of natural affection, and—something more.
The cavalier—whose journey extended farther up the road—was about congratulating his companion on the delightful prospect; when a rustling noise, heard to the right of the path suddenly stopped their conversation. At the same instant a harsh voice, sounded in their ears, pronouncing the significant summons:—“stand and deliver!”
The two travellers had already ridden into the open ground, in front of the ruined hut, out of which the voice appeared to proceed. But they had no time to speculate as to whence it came: for on the instant of its utterance, a man was seen rushing forward into the middle of the road, and placing himself in a position to intercept their advance.
His threatening attitude, combined with the mode in which he manipulated a long-handled pike—the point of which he held close to the heads of their horses—left no doubt upon the minds of the travellers that to stop them was his determination.
Before either could make reply to his challenge, it was repronounced in the same loud tone, and with a fresh gesture of menace—in which the pike played an important part.
“Stand and deliver?” interrogated the cavalier, slowly repeating the stereotyped phrase. “That’s your wish, is it, my worthy fellow?”
“It is!” growled the challenger, “an’ be quickish, if ye’ve any consarn for yer skins.”
“Well,” continued the cavalier, preserving the most perfectsang froid, “you can’t say but that we’ve been quick enough in obeying your first command? You see we have both come to a standinstanter? As for your second, it requires consideration. Beforedelivering, we must know the why, and the wherefore—above all, to whom we are to unburthen ourselves. You won’t object, to obliging us with your name—as also your reason for making such a modest request?”
“Curse your palaver?” vociferated the man, with an impatient flourish of the pike. “There be no names given on the road, nor reasons neyther. Yer money, or yer blood! It be no use yer tryin’ to get out o’ it. Look thear! Ye see there be a dozen o’ us! What’s the good o’ resistin’? Ye’re surrounded.”
And as he said this, the robber with a sweep of his formidable weapon indicated the circle of shrubbery—near the centre of which the scene was being enacted.
The eyes of the two travellers involuntarily followed the pointing of the pike.
Sure enough theyweresurrounded. Six or seven fierce-looking men, all apparently armed with the same sort of weapon as that in the hands of their leader, stood at equal distances from each other around the opening—their forms half concealed by the trees and gorse. They were all standing perfectly motionless. Not even their weapons seemed to stir; and not one of them had as yet spoken, or stepped forward; though it might have been expected they would have done so—if only to strengthen the demand made by their spokesman.
“Keep your places, comrades!” commanded the latter. “There’s no need for any o’ ye to stir. These are civilish gentlemen. We don’t want to hurt them. They bean’t a-goin’ to resist.”
“But theybe” interrupted the cavalier, in a mocking but determined tone, at the same time whipping a pistol from its holster—“I amto the death; and so too will the gallant youth by my side.”
Walter had drawn his slender rapier—the only weapon he possessed.
“What! yield to a pack of cowardly footpads?” continued the cavalier, cocking his pistol, as he spoke. “No—sooner—”
“Your blood on your own head then!” shouted the robber, at the same time rushing forward, and extending his pike so that its steel point was almost in contact with the counter of the cavalier’s horse.
The moonlight shone full upon the footpad, showing a face of fierce aspect—features of wild expression—black beard and whiskers—a thick shock of dark hair matted and tangled—eyes bloodshot, and gleaming with a lurid light!
It was fortunate for their owner, that the moonlight favoured the identification of those fear-inspiring features—else that moment might have been his last.
The cavalier had levelled his cocked pistol. His finger was upon the trigger. In another second the shot would have been discharged; and in all likelihood his assailant would have been lying lifeless at the feet of his horse.
All at once, the outstretched arm was seen to drop; while at the same instant from the horseman’s lips issued an exclamation of singular import.
“Gregory Garth!” cried he, “you a highwayman—a robber? About to rob—to murder—”
“My old master!” gasped out the man, suddenly lowering the point of his pike. “Be it you? Pardon! O pardon, Sir Henry! I didn’t know ’twas you.”
And as the speaker gave utterance to the last words, he dashed his weapon to the ground, and stood over it in a cowering and contrite attitude—not daring to raise his eyes to the face of him who had brought the affair to such an unexpected ending.
“O Master Henry!” he again cried, “will you forgive me! Brute as I am, ’twould ha’ broke my heart to a hurted a hair o’ your head. Curse the crooked luck that’s brought me to this!”
For some moments there was a profound silence—unbroken by any voice. Even the companions of the robber appeared to respect thesituation: since not one of them moved or made remark of any kind!
Their humiliated chief was himself the first to put a period to this interval of embarrassment.
“O Master Henry!” he exclaimed, apparently in a paroxysm of chagrin. “Shoot me! Kill me if ye like! After what’s passed, I doan’t desarve no better than to die. There’s my breast! Send yer bullet through it; an’ put an end to the miserable life o’ Greg’ry Garth!”
While speaking, the footpad pulled open the flap of his doublet—laying bare before the moonlight a broad sinewy breast, thickly covered with coarse black hair.
Advancing close to the cavalier’s horse he presented his bosom, thus exposed—as if to tempt the death he had so strangely solicited. His words, his looks, his whole attitude, proclaimed him to be in earnest.
“Come, come, Garth!” said the cavalier in a soothing tone—at the same time returning the pistol to its holster. “You’re too good a man—at least youwere once—to be shot down in that off-hand fashion.”
“Ah!onceMaster Henry. May be that’s true enough. But now I desarve it.”
“Spare your self-recrimination, Gregory. Your life, like my own, has been a hard one. I know it; and can therefore look more leniently on what has happened now. Let us be thankful it’s no worse; and hope it will be the means of bringing about a change for the better.”
“It will, Master Henry; it will! I promise that.”
“I’m glad to hear you say so; and doubt not but that you’ll keep your word. Meanwhile give orders to your trusty followers—by the way a well-behaved band—not to molest us. To-morrow morning there will be travellers along this way, upon whom I have not the slightest objection that both you and yours should practise your peculiar avocation; and to your heart’s content. Please desire those gentlemen to keep their distance. I don’t wish them to make any nearer approach—lest I might have the misfortune to find in their ranks some other old acquaintance, who like yourself has fallen from the paths of virtue.”
As the footpad stood listening to the request, a singular expression was observed to steal over his fierce features—which gradually gathered into a broad comical grin.
“Ah! Master Henry,” he rejoined, “I may order ’em, to obleege ye, but they woant obey. Yer needn’t be afeerd o’ ’em for all that. You may go as near ’em as you like—theyan’t a-goin’ to molest you. You may run your sword through and through ’em, and never a one o’ ’em’s goin’ to cry out he be hurt.”
“Well, they seem patient fellows in all sincerity. But enough—what do you mean, Gregory?”
“That they be nobodies, Master Henry—reg’lar nobodies. They be only dummies—a lot o’ old coats and hats, that’s no doubt done good sarvice to their wearers ’fore they fell into the hands o’ Gregory Garth—ay, and they ha’ done some good sarvice since—o’ a different kind, as ye see.”
“So these fellows are only scarecrows? I had my suspicions.”
“Nothing more nor less, master. Harmless as I once was myself, but since that time—you know—when the old hall was taken from you, and you went abroad—since then I’ve been—”
“I don’t want to hear your history, Garth,” said his former Master, interrupting him, “at least notsince then. Let the past be of the past, if you will only promise me to forsake your present profession for the future. Sooner or later it will bring you to the block.”
“But what am I to do?” inquired the footpad, in a tone of humble expostulation.
“Do? Anything but what you have been doing. Get work—honest work.”
“As I live, I’ve tried wi’ all my might. Ah! Sir Henry, you’ve been away from the country a tidyish time. You don’t know how things be now. To be honest be to starve. Honesty an’t no longer o’ any account in England.”
“Some day,” said the cavalier, as he sate reflecting in his saddle. “Some day it may be more valued—and that day not distant Gregory Garth!” he continued, making appeal to the footpad in a more serious and earnest tone of voice, “You have a bold heart, and a strong arm. I know it. I have no doubt too, that despite the outlawed life you’ve been leading,your sympathies are still on the right side. They have reason: for you too have suffered in your way. You know what I mean?”
“I do, Sir Henry, I do,” eagerly answered the man. “Ye’re right. Brute as I may be, and robber as I ha’ been, I ha’ my inclining in that ere. Ah! it’s it that’s made me what I be!”
“Hear me then,” said the cavalier bending down in his saddle, and speaking still more confidentially. “The time is not distant—perhaps nearer than most people think—when a stout heart and a strong arm—such as yours, Garth,—may be usefully employed in a better occupation, than that you’ve been following.”
“Dy’e say so, Sir Henry?”
“I do. So take my advice. Disband these trusty followers of yours—whosestaunchnessought to recommend them for better service. Make the best market you can of their cast-off wardrobes. Retire for a time into private life; and wait till you hear shouted those sacred words—
“God and the People!”
“Bless ye, Sir Henry!” cried the robber, rushing up, and, with a show of rude affection, clutching the hand of his former master. “I had heard o’ your comin’ to live at the old house in the forest up thear; but I didn’t expect to meet you in this way. You’ll let me come an’ see ye. I promise ye that ye’ll never meet me as a robber again.This night Gregory Garth takes his leave o’ the road.”
“A good resolve!” rejoined the cavalier, warmly returning the pressure of the outlaw’s hand. “I’m glad you have made it. Good-night, Gregory!” he continued, moving onward along the road; “Come and see me, whenever you please. Good-night, gentlemen!” and at the words he lifted the plumed beaver from his head, and, in a style of mock courtesy, waved the dummies an adieu. “Good-night, worthy friends!” he laughingly repeated, as he rode through their midst. “Don’t trouble yourselves to return my salutation. Ha! ha! ha!”
The young courtier, moving after, joined in the jocular leave-taking; and both merrily rode away—leaving the footpad to the companionship of his speechless “pals.”