Volume Two—Chapter Eight.We left the beautiful Bet Dancey, with her eyes fixed on the man she admired—waiting his entrance into her father’s cottage, and with a throbbing bosom.Hers were not the only eyes that were watching Henry Holtspur—nor the only bosom throbbing at his approach. There was one other beating as wildly as hers, though with emotions of a far different kind. It was that of her discarded suitor.On parting with his cruel sweetheart, Will Walford had walked on among the trees, not caring what direction he took. The horoscope of a happy life, as the husband of Bet Dancey—which he had been long contemplating—had become dim and dark by the very decided dismissal he had just received; and the young woodman’s world, circumscribed though it might be, was now, to his view, a vast chaos.For a time he could find no other occupation for either thought or speech, than to repeat the revengeful phrase with which he had signalised his departure.Only for a short time, however, did he continue in this reckless mood. The fact of his sweetheart being done up in her holiday dress, once more recurred to him—along with the suspicion that she must be expecting some one.This thought checked his steps—bringing him to an instantaneous halt.Despite his ungracious dismissal—despite the hopelessness of his own suit—he determined on discovering who was the happy rival—who it was for whom that boddice had been buttoned on.That there was such an individual he could scarce have a doubt. The girl’s manner towards himself—her air of anxiety while he stayed in her presence—the desire she had expressed for him to follow, and overtake her father—and finally the banging of the door in his face—all pointed to a wish on her part to get rid of him as soon as possible. Even the dull brain of the brute was quick enough to be convinced of this.If he had any doubting hope upon the subject, it was determined by the baying of the lurcher, which at this moment broke upon his ear. The dog could no longer be barking at him? Some other arrival must have engaged the animal’s attention; and who could that other be, but the man for whom Bet’s black tresses had been so coquettishly coifed?The jealous rustic faced round and commenced returning towards the hut—as if the bark of the dog had been a command for him to do so.Very different, however, was the attitude exhibited on his backward march. Instead of the reckless devil-me-care swagger with which he had taken his departure, he now made approach with the instinctive caution of one accustomed to the woods; sheltering himself behind the trunks of the trees, and gliding from one to the other—as if afraid of being shot at, by somebody lying in wait within the cottage.After arriving upon the edge of the open ground, that extended some yards outside the enclosure—he came to a final stop—crouching down behind a bush of holly, whose thick dark foliage appeared sufficient to screen him from the observation of any one—either in the cottage or in front of it.The first glance which he gave, after getting into position, discovered to him the individual whose arrival had set the dog to barking. Had it been the coarse cuirassier—Bet’s latest conquest—or even the officer who at thefêtehad made so free with her lips, Will Walford would have been pained by the presence of either. But far more dire were his thoughts, on perceiving it was neither one nor the other—but a rival infinitely more to be dreaded—his own patron—the protector of Maid Marian.Had it been any other who was making approach Will Walford might have sprung from his hiding-place, and shown himself upon the instant—perhaps commanded their instantaneous departure. But after witnessing that combat in the Saxon camp—combined with other knowledge he possessed of the character and qualities of the “black horseman”—a wholesome fear of this individual counselled him to keep his place.The dog soon ceased his angry demonstrations; and, springing gleefully upon his chain, commenced wagging his tail in friendly recognition of the new arrival. It was evident the cavalier was not coming to the cottage of Dick Dancey for the first time!As Walford reasoned thus, the cloud upon his countenance became darker—the agony in his heart more intense. Still more agonising were his emotions when he saw Henry Holtspur step inside the hut, and heard his voice in free conversation with that of the girl. The tones appeared to be of two persons who had talked in confidence—who understood one another!The shadow of a fell intent showed itself on the beetling brow of Will Walford. Despite his dread of such a powerful adversary, jealousy was fast urging him to a dark deed—to do, or dare it. No doubt, in another instant, it would have stimulated him to the wielding of that terrible woodaxe, but for an unexpected incident that turned him from his intention.The dog again gave out his howling note of alarm; but soon changed it into a yelp of recognition—on perceiving that it was his own master who was coming along the path.At the same instant Walford recognised the old woodman. Instead of showing himself, he crept closer in among the glabrous leaves of the holly, and lay crouching there—more like a man who feared being detected, than one bent on detection.It was not till the cavalier had stepped forth from the cottage, and, apparently entering into serious conversation with its owner, walked off with him into the woods, that Walford stole out from his hiding-place under the holly.Then, shaking his axe in the direction in which they had gone—with a gesture that seemed to signify only the adjournment of his fiendish design—and, still keeping the bush between his own body and the windows of the hovel, he sneaked sulkily away.He did not go in silence, but kept muttering as he went; at intervals breaking out into louder enunciations—as some thought especially exasperating struck into his excited brain.Again he repeated the menace made on his first departure from the cottage.“Ees, dang me! I’ll keep my threet, if I shud ha’ to hang for’t!”This time, however, the “threet” applied to a special victim—Holtspur. It is true that he still mentally reserved a condition; and that was, should his suspicions prove correct. He was determined to play the spy upon his sweetheart by day and by night; and, should he discover good grounds for his jealousy, nothing should then stay his hand from the fell purpose already declared—to kill.This purpose—fully resolved upon as he walked through the wood—had some effect in tranquillising his spirit; though it was far from giving it complete contentment.His steps were turned homeward; and soon brought him to a hut standing only a few hundred yards from that of Dick Dancey—of even humbler aspect than the domicile of the deer-stealer. It looked more like a stack of faggots than a house. It had only one door, one window, and one room; but these were sufficient for its owner, who lived altogether alone.The “plenishing” was less plentiful, and of a commoner kind than that in the cottage of the deer-stealer; and the low truck-bed in the corner, with its scanty clothing, looked as if the hand of woman had never spread sheet, or coverlet, upon it.This appearance of poverty was to some extent deceptive. However obtained, it was known that Walford possessed money—and his chalk score in the tap-room of the “Packhorse” was always wiped out upon demand. No more did his dress betray any pecuniary strait. He went well habited; and could even afford a fancy costume when occasion called for it—to represent Robin Hood, or any other popular hero of the peasant fancy.It was this repute of unknown, and therefore indefinite, wealth, that in some measure sanctioned his claim to aspire to the hand of the beautiful Bet Dancey—the acknowledged belle of the parish; and though his supposed possession of property had failed to win over the heart of the girl herself, it had a deal to do in making him the favourite of her father.Already slightly suspicious of Bet’s partiality for the black horseman, what he witnessed that morning rendered him seriously so. It is true there was still nothing ascertained—nothing definite. The cavalier might have had some object, in visiting Dancey’s cottage, other than an interview with Bet; and Walford was only too willing to think so.But the circumstances were suspicious—sufficiently so to make sad havoc with his happiness; and, had Dancey not returned at the time he did, there is no knowing what might have been thedénouementof the interview he had interrupted.On entering his unpretentious dwelling, Walford flung his axe into a corner, and himself into a chair—both acts being performed with an air of recklessness, that betokened a man sadly out of sorts with the world.His thoughts, still muttered aloud, told that his mind dwelt on the two individuals whose names constantly turned up in his soliloquy—Bet Dancey and Henry Holtspur. Though Bet was at intervals most bitterly abused, the cavalier came in for the angrier share of his denunciations.“Dang the interloper!” he exclaimed, “Why doan’t he keep to his own sort? Ridin’ about wi’ his fine horse an’ his fine feathers, an’ pokin’ hisself into poor people’s cottages, where he have no business to be? Dang him!“What’s brought him into this neighbourhood anyhow? I shud like to know that. An’ what’s he doin’now? I should like to know that. Gatherin’ a lot o’ people to his house from all parts o’ the country, an’ them to come in the middle o’ the night! I shud just like to know that.“Theer be somethin’ in ithedon’t want to be know’d: else why shud those letters I carried—ay, an’ opened an’ read ’em too—why shud they have told them as I tuk ’em to, to come ’ithout bringin’ theer own grooms, an’ at that late hour o’ the night? Twelve o’clock the letters sayed—one an’ all o’ them!“I shud like to know what it’s all about. That’s what I shud.“Ay; an’ may be I know some’un else as wud like to know. That fellow as fought wi’ him at the feeat. I wish he’d run him through the ribs, instead o’ gettin’ run through hisself. Dang it! what canhebe wantin’ wi’ me? Can’t be about that thwack I gin him over the skullcap? If’t are anything consarnin’ that, he wouldn’t a’ sent after me as he’s done? No, he’ a sent a couple o’ his steel-kivered sogers, and tuk me at once. Withers sayed he meeant well by me; but that Withers an’t to be depended on. I never knewhimtell the truth afore he went sogerin’; an’ it an’t like he be any better now. Maybe this captain do meean well, for all that? I’d gie somethin to know what hebewantin’.“Dang it!” he again broke forth, after pondering for a while, “It mout be somethin’ about this very fellow—this black horseman? I shud say that ’ere captain’ll be thinkin’ o’ him, more’n about anybody else. If he be—ha!”The last ejaculation was uttered in a significant tone, and prolonged, as if continuing some train of thought that had freshly started into his brain.“If’t be that;—it may be? Dang me! I’ll know! I’ll go an’ see Master Captain Scarthe—that’s what they call him, I b’lieve. I’ll go this very minnit.”In obedience to the resolve, thus suddenly entered upon, the woodman rose to his feet; seized hold of his hat; and made direct for the door.Suddenly he stopped, looking outward upon some sight, that seemed to cause him both surprise and gratification.“I’ve heerd say,” he muttered, “that when the devil be wanted he beeant far off. Dang it; the very man I war goin’ to see be comin’ to seeme! Ees—that be the captain o’ the kewreseers, an’ that’s Withers as be a-ridin’ ahint him!”Walford’s announcement was but the simple truth. It was Captain Scarthe, and his confidant Withers, who were approaching the hovel.They were on horseback; but did not ride quite up to the house. When within a hundred yards of the door the officer dismounted; and, having given his bridle to the trooper, advanced on foot and alone.There was no enclosure around the domicile of Will Walford—not even a ditch; and his visitor, without stopping, walked straight up to the door—where the woodman was standing on the stoup to receive him.With the quick eye of an old campaigner, Scarthe saw, that on the ugly face of his late adversary there was no anger. Whatever feeling of hostility the latter might have entertained at the fête, for some reason or other, appeared to have vanished; and the captain was as much surprised as gratified at beholding something like a smile, where he expected to have been favoured with a frown.Almost intuitively did Scarthe construe this circumstance. The man before him had an enemy that he knew to be his also—one that he hated more than Scarthe himself.To make certain of the justness of this conjecture was the first move on the part of the cuirassier captain.“Good morrow, my friend!” began he, approaching the woodman with the most affable air, “I hope the little incident that came so crookedly between us—and which I most profoundly regret—I hope it has been equally forgotten and forgiven by you. As I am an admirer of bravery, even in an adversary, I shall feel highly complimented if you will join me in a stoup of wine. You see I always go prepared—lest I should lose my way in these vast forests of yours, and perhaps perish of thirst.”As he approached the conclusion of this somewhat jocular peroration, he held up a flask—suspended by a strap over his shoulders—and unconcernedly commenced extracting the stopper.Hisci-devantadversary—who seemed both surprised and pleased at this brusque style of soldering a quarrel—eagerly accepted the proffered challenge; and, after expressing consent in his rough way, invited the cavalier to step inside his humble dwelling, and be accommodated with a seat.Scarthe gave ready assent; and in another second had planted himself, on one of the two dilapidated chairs which the hovel contained.The wine was soon decanted into a pair of tin cups, instead of silver goblets; and in less than ten minutes’ time Captain Scarthe and Will Walford were upon as friendly terms, as if the former had never touched the lips of Maid Marian, nor the latter broken a cross-bow over his head.“The fact is, my bold Robin!” said Scarthe, by way of a salvo, “I and my companion, the cornet, had taken a little too much of this sort of stuff on that particular morning; and you know when a man—”“Dang it, yes!” rejoined the rustic, warming to his splendid companion, who might likely become a powerful patron, “when one has got a drap too much beer i’ the head, he arn’t answerable for every bit o’ mischief in that way. I know ’twas only in sport ye kissed the lass. Dang it! I’d ha’ done the same myself. Ay, that I would.”“Ah! and a pretty lass she is, this Maid Marian. Your sweetheart, I take it, Master Walford?”“Oh! e-es;—Betsey be somethin’ o’ that sort,” replied the woodman, rather vain of the avowal.“A fortunate fellow you are! I dare say you will soon be married to her?”Walford’s reply to this interrogatory was ambiguous and indistinct.“As one,” continued the captain, “who has a good deal of experience in marrying matters—for I’ve had a wife, or two, myself—I’d advise you—that is, after the fair Betsey becomes Mistress Walford—not to permit any more presents of flowers.”“Dang it!” ejaculated the jealous lover, “what do you mean by that, master?”“Why, only that I was witness to that little affair in the old camp; and, to say the troth, was not a little surprised. If any one deserved those flowers from Maid Marian, it was surely the man who first took up her quarrel. That was yourself, Master Walford: as my skull case—which still aches at the remembrance—can truly testify.”“Dang me, if I didn’t! The black horseman had no business to interfere, had he?”“Not a bit! You and I could have settled our little difference between ourselves; and I was just upon the eve of asking your forgiveness—for I felt I had been foolish—when this fellow stepped in. He interfered, for no other reason, than to figure well in the eyes of the girl. I could see plain enough it was that; though I knew nothing of either party at the time. But I’ve learnt somethingsince, that puts the matter beyond dispute.”“Learnt somethin’ since—you have?” gasped Walford, springing up from his chair, and earnestly stooping towards the speaker. “If thee know’st anything anent Maid Marian—Bet Dancey, I mean, an’him—tell it me, Master! tell it me, an’—”“Keep cool, Walford! Resume your seat, pray. I’ll tell you all I know; but, before I can make sure that I have been correctly informed, it is necessary for me to know more of this person, whom you style theBlack Horseman. Perhaps you can tell me something, that will enable me to identify him with the individual whose name I have heard, in connection with that of Maid Marian, or Bet Dancey—as you say the beauty is called.”“What do you want to know o’ him?” asked Walford, evidently ready to impart all the intelligence regarding Holtspur of which he was himself possessed.“Everything,” replied Scarthe, perceiving that he need not take trouble to keep up even a show of reserve. “As for myself, I know only his name. After all, it may not have been him—who—”“Who what?” quickly inquired the impatient listener.“I’ll tell you presently, Master Walford; if you’ll only have a little patience. Where does this black horseman hold out?”“Hold out?”“Ay, where’s his hostelry?”“I’ve seed him oftener than anywhere else at the Saracen’s Head—down the road nigh on to Uxbridge.”“Zooks! my brave Robin, that isn’t what I mean. Where does he live?”“Where’s his own home?”“Ah! his home.”“’Tain’t very far off from here—just a mile t’other side o’ Wapsey’s Wood—in a big hollow i’ the hills. Stone Dean the place be called. It be a queery sort o’ a old dwellin’—and a good lot out o’ repairs, I reckon.”“Does he see any company?”“Wal, if you mean company—sich as fine ladies an’ the like—I doan’t think he ever do hev that sort about him. And not much o’ any sort, whiles the sun be a-shinin’. After night—”“Ah! his friends generally visit him by night,” interrupted Scarthe, with a glance that betokened satisfaction. “Is that your meaning, Master Walford?”“No, not gen’rally—ye mout say altogether. I have been to Stone Dean more’n twenty times, since he coomed to live at the old house—at all hours I’ve been—an’ I never seed a soul theer i’ the day time, ’cepting myself an’ Dick Dancey. Theer be a’ odd sort o’ a sarvint he brought wi’ him—a Indyen they calls him.”“But Master Holtspur has visitors in the night time, you think?”“Ay! that he have—lots o’ ’em.”“Who are they?”“Doan’t know neer a one o’ ’em. They be all strangers to these parts—leastwise they appear so—as they come ridin’, kivered wi’ mud an’ dust, like after makin’ a goodish bit o’ a journey. There’ll be a big gatherin’ o’ ’em theer nex’ Sunday night—considerin’ the letters that’s gone. I took six myself, an’ Dick Dancey as many more—to say nothing o’ a bunch carried to the west end o’ the county by a fellow I doan’t know nothin’ about. It be a meeting o’ some sort, I take it.”“On next Sunday night, you say?”The question was evidently asked with a keen interest: for the revelations which Will Walford was making had all at once changed the jocular air of his interrogator into one of undisguised eagerness.“Next Sunday night?”“At what hour?”“Twelve o’ the clock.”“You are sure about the hour?”“I ought to be; since I ha’ got to be theer myself, along wi’ Dick Dancey, to look to the gentlemen’s horses. A big crowd o’ ’em there’ll be for the two o’ us to manage: as the gentlemen be comin’ without theer grooms. But what was it, Master?” inquired the woodman, returning to the torturing thought that was still uppermost; “You sayed you knowed somethin’ as happened atween Bet Dancey an’him? If he’s been an’ done it, then, dang me—I’ll keep my threet, if I shud ha’ to swing for it!”“Done what?”“Made a fool o’ Bet—that’s what I meean. What is it ’t ye know, Mister Captain? Please to tell me that!”“Well, then,” replied the tempter, speaking slowly and deliberately—as if to find time for the concoction of some plausible tale. “For myself, I can’t say I know anything—that is, for certain—I have only heard—altogether by accident, too—that your Maid Marian was seen—out in the woods with a gentleman—and at a very unreasonable hour of the night.”“What night?” gasped the woodman.“Let me see! Was it the night of the fête? No. It was the next after—if I remember aright.”“Damn her! The very night I war gone over to Rickmans’orth wi’ them letters. Augh!”“I shouldn’t have known it was this fellow Holtspur: as the person who gave me the information didn’t say it was him. It was only told me that the man—whoever he might be—was dressed in fine velvet doublet, with a beaver and black plumes; but from what I’ve seen myself, and what you’ve just now told me, I think it very likely that the black horseman was the individual. It was in the woods—near Stone Dean—where they were seen. You say he lives there. It looks suspicious, don’t it?”“’Twar him! I know it—I be sure o’t. Augh! If I don’t ha’ revenge on him, and her too! Dang the deceitful slut! I will! I will!”“Perhaps the girl’s not so much to blame. He’s a rich fellow—this Holtspur, and may have tempted her with his money. Gold goes a great way in such matters.”“Oh! if’t were only money, I could abear it better. No! It an’t that, master, it an’t that! I’m a’most sure it an’t. She’s done it, damn her!”“Perhaps we may be mistaken. Things may not have gone so far as you think. At all events, I should advise you to let the girl alone; and confine your revenge to the villain who has wronged her.”“Him first—him first! And then, if I find she’s let herself be made a fool o’—”“Whether or not, he deserves no thanks from you for having made the attempt.”“I’ll thank him!—I will, whenever I gets the chance. Wait till I gets the chance.”“If I am not mistaken, you may have that—without waiting long.”Misinterpreting these words, the woodman glanced towards his axe with a significant and savage leer, that did not escape the keen eye of Scarthe.“True,” said the latter, in a tone of disapproval, “you might havethatchance almost at any hour. But there would also be a chance of failure, with a considerable risk of your getting run through the ribs. If what you’ve told me be as I suspect, there will be no need to resort to such extreme measures. Perhaps I may be able to point out a surer and safer method for you to rid yourself of this rival.”“Oh! Mister Captain! If you would only do that—only tell mehow—I’ll—I’ll—”“Have patience! Very likely I may be able to assist you,” interrupted Scarthe, rising to take his departure. “I’ve something in my mind will just suit, I think. But it requires a little reflection—and—some preliminary steps that must be taken elsewhere. I shall return here to-night, after sunset. Meanwhile, stay at home; or, if you go abroad, keep your tongue behind your teeth. Not a word to any one of what has passed between us. Take another pull at the flask, to keep up your spirits. Now, Walford, good day to you!”Having pronounced these parting words, the officer walked out of the hut; and, returning to his horse, leaped lightly into the saddle, and rode off—followed by his attendant Withers.He did not communicate to the latter aught of what had transpired between him and the woodman. The muttered words that escaped him, as he trotted off among the trees, were spoken in a slow, measured soliloquy.“No doubt one of the very meetings of which his Majesty has spoken so opportunely in his despatch? Richard Scarthe shall make one at this midnight assembly—uninvited though he be. Ah! if I can only find a fair opportunity to play eavesdropper, I promise Master Holtspur a more substantial dwelling than he now inhabits! Ho! have no fear, kind King Carolus! Right willingly shall I play the spy! Ha! ha! ha!”Elated by the high hope with which his new-gained knowledge had inspired him, he gave the spur to his grey, while Wapsey’s Wood gave back the echoes of his joyous laughter.
We left the beautiful Bet Dancey, with her eyes fixed on the man she admired—waiting his entrance into her father’s cottage, and with a throbbing bosom.
Hers were not the only eyes that were watching Henry Holtspur—nor the only bosom throbbing at his approach. There was one other beating as wildly as hers, though with emotions of a far different kind. It was that of her discarded suitor.
On parting with his cruel sweetheart, Will Walford had walked on among the trees, not caring what direction he took. The horoscope of a happy life, as the husband of Bet Dancey—which he had been long contemplating—had become dim and dark by the very decided dismissal he had just received; and the young woodman’s world, circumscribed though it might be, was now, to his view, a vast chaos.
For a time he could find no other occupation for either thought or speech, than to repeat the revengeful phrase with which he had signalised his departure.
Only for a short time, however, did he continue in this reckless mood. The fact of his sweetheart being done up in her holiday dress, once more recurred to him—along with the suspicion that she must be expecting some one.
This thought checked his steps—bringing him to an instantaneous halt.
Despite his ungracious dismissal—despite the hopelessness of his own suit—he determined on discovering who was the happy rival—who it was for whom that boddice had been buttoned on.
That there was such an individual he could scarce have a doubt. The girl’s manner towards himself—her air of anxiety while he stayed in her presence—the desire she had expressed for him to follow, and overtake her father—and finally the banging of the door in his face—all pointed to a wish on her part to get rid of him as soon as possible. Even the dull brain of the brute was quick enough to be convinced of this.
If he had any doubting hope upon the subject, it was determined by the baying of the lurcher, which at this moment broke upon his ear. The dog could no longer be barking at him? Some other arrival must have engaged the animal’s attention; and who could that other be, but the man for whom Bet’s black tresses had been so coquettishly coifed?
The jealous rustic faced round and commenced returning towards the hut—as if the bark of the dog had been a command for him to do so.
Very different, however, was the attitude exhibited on his backward march. Instead of the reckless devil-me-care swagger with which he had taken his departure, he now made approach with the instinctive caution of one accustomed to the woods; sheltering himself behind the trunks of the trees, and gliding from one to the other—as if afraid of being shot at, by somebody lying in wait within the cottage.
After arriving upon the edge of the open ground, that extended some yards outside the enclosure—he came to a final stop—crouching down behind a bush of holly, whose thick dark foliage appeared sufficient to screen him from the observation of any one—either in the cottage or in front of it.
The first glance which he gave, after getting into position, discovered to him the individual whose arrival had set the dog to barking. Had it been the coarse cuirassier—Bet’s latest conquest—or even the officer who at thefêtehad made so free with her lips, Will Walford would have been pained by the presence of either. But far more dire were his thoughts, on perceiving it was neither one nor the other—but a rival infinitely more to be dreaded—his own patron—the protector of Maid Marian.
Had it been any other who was making approach Will Walford might have sprung from his hiding-place, and shown himself upon the instant—perhaps commanded their instantaneous departure. But after witnessing that combat in the Saxon camp—combined with other knowledge he possessed of the character and qualities of the “black horseman”—a wholesome fear of this individual counselled him to keep his place.
The dog soon ceased his angry demonstrations; and, springing gleefully upon his chain, commenced wagging his tail in friendly recognition of the new arrival. It was evident the cavalier was not coming to the cottage of Dick Dancey for the first time!
As Walford reasoned thus, the cloud upon his countenance became darker—the agony in his heart more intense. Still more agonising were his emotions when he saw Henry Holtspur step inside the hut, and heard his voice in free conversation with that of the girl. The tones appeared to be of two persons who had talked in confidence—who understood one another!
The shadow of a fell intent showed itself on the beetling brow of Will Walford. Despite his dread of such a powerful adversary, jealousy was fast urging him to a dark deed—to do, or dare it. No doubt, in another instant, it would have stimulated him to the wielding of that terrible woodaxe, but for an unexpected incident that turned him from his intention.
The dog again gave out his howling note of alarm; but soon changed it into a yelp of recognition—on perceiving that it was his own master who was coming along the path.
At the same instant Walford recognised the old woodman. Instead of showing himself, he crept closer in among the glabrous leaves of the holly, and lay crouching there—more like a man who feared being detected, than one bent on detection.
It was not till the cavalier had stepped forth from the cottage, and, apparently entering into serious conversation with its owner, walked off with him into the woods, that Walford stole out from his hiding-place under the holly.
Then, shaking his axe in the direction in which they had gone—with a gesture that seemed to signify only the adjournment of his fiendish design—and, still keeping the bush between his own body and the windows of the hovel, he sneaked sulkily away.
He did not go in silence, but kept muttering as he went; at intervals breaking out into louder enunciations—as some thought especially exasperating struck into his excited brain.
Again he repeated the menace made on his first departure from the cottage.
“Ees, dang me! I’ll keep my threet, if I shud ha’ to hang for’t!”
This time, however, the “threet” applied to a special victim—Holtspur. It is true that he still mentally reserved a condition; and that was, should his suspicions prove correct. He was determined to play the spy upon his sweetheart by day and by night; and, should he discover good grounds for his jealousy, nothing should then stay his hand from the fell purpose already declared—to kill.
This purpose—fully resolved upon as he walked through the wood—had some effect in tranquillising his spirit; though it was far from giving it complete contentment.
His steps were turned homeward; and soon brought him to a hut standing only a few hundred yards from that of Dick Dancey—of even humbler aspect than the domicile of the deer-stealer. It looked more like a stack of faggots than a house. It had only one door, one window, and one room; but these were sufficient for its owner, who lived altogether alone.
The “plenishing” was less plentiful, and of a commoner kind than that in the cottage of the deer-stealer; and the low truck-bed in the corner, with its scanty clothing, looked as if the hand of woman had never spread sheet, or coverlet, upon it.
This appearance of poverty was to some extent deceptive. However obtained, it was known that Walford possessed money—and his chalk score in the tap-room of the “Packhorse” was always wiped out upon demand. No more did his dress betray any pecuniary strait. He went well habited; and could even afford a fancy costume when occasion called for it—to represent Robin Hood, or any other popular hero of the peasant fancy.
It was this repute of unknown, and therefore indefinite, wealth, that in some measure sanctioned his claim to aspire to the hand of the beautiful Bet Dancey—the acknowledged belle of the parish; and though his supposed possession of property had failed to win over the heart of the girl herself, it had a deal to do in making him the favourite of her father.
Already slightly suspicious of Bet’s partiality for the black horseman, what he witnessed that morning rendered him seriously so. It is true there was still nothing ascertained—nothing definite. The cavalier might have had some object, in visiting Dancey’s cottage, other than an interview with Bet; and Walford was only too willing to think so.
But the circumstances were suspicious—sufficiently so to make sad havoc with his happiness; and, had Dancey not returned at the time he did, there is no knowing what might have been thedénouementof the interview he had interrupted.
On entering his unpretentious dwelling, Walford flung his axe into a corner, and himself into a chair—both acts being performed with an air of recklessness, that betokened a man sadly out of sorts with the world.
His thoughts, still muttered aloud, told that his mind dwelt on the two individuals whose names constantly turned up in his soliloquy—Bet Dancey and Henry Holtspur. Though Bet was at intervals most bitterly abused, the cavalier came in for the angrier share of his denunciations.
“Dang the interloper!” he exclaimed, “Why doan’t he keep to his own sort? Ridin’ about wi’ his fine horse an’ his fine feathers, an’ pokin’ hisself into poor people’s cottages, where he have no business to be? Dang him!
“What’s brought him into this neighbourhood anyhow? I shud like to know that. An’ what’s he doin’now? I should like to know that. Gatherin’ a lot o’ people to his house from all parts o’ the country, an’ them to come in the middle o’ the night! I shud just like to know that.
“Theer be somethin’ in ithedon’t want to be know’d: else why shud those letters I carried—ay, an’ opened an’ read ’em too—why shud they have told them as I tuk ’em to, to come ’ithout bringin’ theer own grooms, an’ at that late hour o’ the night? Twelve o’clock the letters sayed—one an’ all o’ them!
“I shud like to know what it’s all about. That’s what I shud.
“Ay; an’ may be I know some’un else as wud like to know. That fellow as fought wi’ him at the feeat. I wish he’d run him through the ribs, instead o’ gettin’ run through hisself. Dang it! what canhebe wantin’ wi’ me? Can’t be about that thwack I gin him over the skullcap? If’t are anything consarnin’ that, he wouldn’t a’ sent after me as he’s done? No, he’ a sent a couple o’ his steel-kivered sogers, and tuk me at once. Withers sayed he meeant well by me; but that Withers an’t to be depended on. I never knewhimtell the truth afore he went sogerin’; an’ it an’t like he be any better now. Maybe this captain do meean well, for all that? I’d gie somethin to know what hebewantin’.
“Dang it!” he again broke forth, after pondering for a while, “It mout be somethin’ about this very fellow—this black horseman? I shud say that ’ere captain’ll be thinkin’ o’ him, more’n about anybody else. If he be—ha!”
The last ejaculation was uttered in a significant tone, and prolonged, as if continuing some train of thought that had freshly started into his brain.
“If’t be that;—it may be? Dang me! I’ll know! I’ll go an’ see Master Captain Scarthe—that’s what they call him, I b’lieve. I’ll go this very minnit.”
In obedience to the resolve, thus suddenly entered upon, the woodman rose to his feet; seized hold of his hat; and made direct for the door.
Suddenly he stopped, looking outward upon some sight, that seemed to cause him both surprise and gratification.
“I’ve heerd say,” he muttered, “that when the devil be wanted he beeant far off. Dang it; the very man I war goin’ to see be comin’ to seeme! Ees—that be the captain o’ the kewreseers, an’ that’s Withers as be a-ridin’ ahint him!”
Walford’s announcement was but the simple truth. It was Captain Scarthe, and his confidant Withers, who were approaching the hovel.
They were on horseback; but did not ride quite up to the house. When within a hundred yards of the door the officer dismounted; and, having given his bridle to the trooper, advanced on foot and alone.
There was no enclosure around the domicile of Will Walford—not even a ditch; and his visitor, without stopping, walked straight up to the door—where the woodman was standing on the stoup to receive him.
With the quick eye of an old campaigner, Scarthe saw, that on the ugly face of his late adversary there was no anger. Whatever feeling of hostility the latter might have entertained at the fête, for some reason or other, appeared to have vanished; and the captain was as much surprised as gratified at beholding something like a smile, where he expected to have been favoured with a frown.
Almost intuitively did Scarthe construe this circumstance. The man before him had an enemy that he knew to be his also—one that he hated more than Scarthe himself.
To make certain of the justness of this conjecture was the first move on the part of the cuirassier captain.
“Good morrow, my friend!” began he, approaching the woodman with the most affable air, “I hope the little incident that came so crookedly between us—and which I most profoundly regret—I hope it has been equally forgotten and forgiven by you. As I am an admirer of bravery, even in an adversary, I shall feel highly complimented if you will join me in a stoup of wine. You see I always go prepared—lest I should lose my way in these vast forests of yours, and perhaps perish of thirst.”
As he approached the conclusion of this somewhat jocular peroration, he held up a flask—suspended by a strap over his shoulders—and unconcernedly commenced extracting the stopper.
Hisci-devantadversary—who seemed both surprised and pleased at this brusque style of soldering a quarrel—eagerly accepted the proffered challenge; and, after expressing consent in his rough way, invited the cavalier to step inside his humble dwelling, and be accommodated with a seat.
Scarthe gave ready assent; and in another second had planted himself, on one of the two dilapidated chairs which the hovel contained.
The wine was soon decanted into a pair of tin cups, instead of silver goblets; and in less than ten minutes’ time Captain Scarthe and Will Walford were upon as friendly terms, as if the former had never touched the lips of Maid Marian, nor the latter broken a cross-bow over his head.
“The fact is, my bold Robin!” said Scarthe, by way of a salvo, “I and my companion, the cornet, had taken a little too much of this sort of stuff on that particular morning; and you know when a man—”
“Dang it, yes!” rejoined the rustic, warming to his splendid companion, who might likely become a powerful patron, “when one has got a drap too much beer i’ the head, he arn’t answerable for every bit o’ mischief in that way. I know ’twas only in sport ye kissed the lass. Dang it! I’d ha’ done the same myself. Ay, that I would.”
“Ah! and a pretty lass she is, this Maid Marian. Your sweetheart, I take it, Master Walford?”
“Oh! e-es;—Betsey be somethin’ o’ that sort,” replied the woodman, rather vain of the avowal.
“A fortunate fellow you are! I dare say you will soon be married to her?”
Walford’s reply to this interrogatory was ambiguous and indistinct.
“As one,” continued the captain, “who has a good deal of experience in marrying matters—for I’ve had a wife, or two, myself—I’d advise you—that is, after the fair Betsey becomes Mistress Walford—not to permit any more presents of flowers.”
“Dang it!” ejaculated the jealous lover, “what do you mean by that, master?”
“Why, only that I was witness to that little affair in the old camp; and, to say the troth, was not a little surprised. If any one deserved those flowers from Maid Marian, it was surely the man who first took up her quarrel. That was yourself, Master Walford: as my skull case—which still aches at the remembrance—can truly testify.”
“Dang me, if I didn’t! The black horseman had no business to interfere, had he?”
“Not a bit! You and I could have settled our little difference between ourselves; and I was just upon the eve of asking your forgiveness—for I felt I had been foolish—when this fellow stepped in. He interfered, for no other reason, than to figure well in the eyes of the girl. I could see plain enough it was that; though I knew nothing of either party at the time. But I’ve learnt somethingsince, that puts the matter beyond dispute.”
“Learnt somethin’ since—you have?” gasped Walford, springing up from his chair, and earnestly stooping towards the speaker. “If thee know’st anything anent Maid Marian—Bet Dancey, I mean, an’him—tell it me, Master! tell it me, an’—”
“Keep cool, Walford! Resume your seat, pray. I’ll tell you all I know; but, before I can make sure that I have been correctly informed, it is necessary for me to know more of this person, whom you style theBlack Horseman. Perhaps you can tell me something, that will enable me to identify him with the individual whose name I have heard, in connection with that of Maid Marian, or Bet Dancey—as you say the beauty is called.”
“What do you want to know o’ him?” asked Walford, evidently ready to impart all the intelligence regarding Holtspur of which he was himself possessed.
“Everything,” replied Scarthe, perceiving that he need not take trouble to keep up even a show of reserve. “As for myself, I know only his name. After all, it may not have been him—who—”
“Who what?” quickly inquired the impatient listener.
“I’ll tell you presently, Master Walford; if you’ll only have a little patience. Where does this black horseman hold out?”
“Hold out?”
“Ay, where’s his hostelry?”
“I’ve seed him oftener than anywhere else at the Saracen’s Head—down the road nigh on to Uxbridge.”
“Zooks! my brave Robin, that isn’t what I mean. Where does he live?”
“Where’s his own home?”
“Ah! his home.”
“’Tain’t very far off from here—just a mile t’other side o’ Wapsey’s Wood—in a big hollow i’ the hills. Stone Dean the place be called. It be a queery sort o’ a old dwellin’—and a good lot out o’ repairs, I reckon.”
“Does he see any company?”
“Wal, if you mean company—sich as fine ladies an’ the like—I doan’t think he ever do hev that sort about him. And not much o’ any sort, whiles the sun be a-shinin’. After night—”
“Ah! his friends generally visit him by night,” interrupted Scarthe, with a glance that betokened satisfaction. “Is that your meaning, Master Walford?”
“No, not gen’rally—ye mout say altogether. I have been to Stone Dean more’n twenty times, since he coomed to live at the old house—at all hours I’ve been—an’ I never seed a soul theer i’ the day time, ’cepting myself an’ Dick Dancey. Theer be a’ odd sort o’ a sarvint he brought wi’ him—a Indyen they calls him.”
“But Master Holtspur has visitors in the night time, you think?”
“Ay! that he have—lots o’ ’em.”
“Who are they?”
“Doan’t know neer a one o’ ’em. They be all strangers to these parts—leastwise they appear so—as they come ridin’, kivered wi’ mud an’ dust, like after makin’ a goodish bit o’ a journey. There’ll be a big gatherin’ o’ ’em theer nex’ Sunday night—considerin’ the letters that’s gone. I took six myself, an’ Dick Dancey as many more—to say nothing o’ a bunch carried to the west end o’ the county by a fellow I doan’t know nothin’ about. It be a meeting o’ some sort, I take it.”
“On next Sunday night, you say?”
The question was evidently asked with a keen interest: for the revelations which Will Walford was making had all at once changed the jocular air of his interrogator into one of undisguised eagerness.
“Next Sunday night?”
“At what hour?”
“Twelve o’ the clock.”
“You are sure about the hour?”
“I ought to be; since I ha’ got to be theer myself, along wi’ Dick Dancey, to look to the gentlemen’s horses. A big crowd o’ ’em there’ll be for the two o’ us to manage: as the gentlemen be comin’ without theer grooms. But what was it, Master?” inquired the woodman, returning to the torturing thought that was still uppermost; “You sayed you knowed somethin’ as happened atween Bet Dancey an’him? If he’s been an’ done it, then, dang me—I’ll keep my threet, if I shud ha’ to swing for it!”
“Done what?”
“Made a fool o’ Bet—that’s what I meean. What is it ’t ye know, Mister Captain? Please to tell me that!”
“Well, then,” replied the tempter, speaking slowly and deliberately—as if to find time for the concoction of some plausible tale. “For myself, I can’t say I know anything—that is, for certain—I have only heard—altogether by accident, too—that your Maid Marian was seen—out in the woods with a gentleman—and at a very unreasonable hour of the night.”
“What night?” gasped the woodman.
“Let me see! Was it the night of the fête? No. It was the next after—if I remember aright.”
“Damn her! The very night I war gone over to Rickmans’orth wi’ them letters. Augh!”
“I shouldn’t have known it was this fellow Holtspur: as the person who gave me the information didn’t say it was him. It was only told me that the man—whoever he might be—was dressed in fine velvet doublet, with a beaver and black plumes; but from what I’ve seen myself, and what you’ve just now told me, I think it very likely that the black horseman was the individual. It was in the woods—near Stone Dean—where they were seen. You say he lives there. It looks suspicious, don’t it?”
“’Twar him! I know it—I be sure o’t. Augh! If I don’t ha’ revenge on him, and her too! Dang the deceitful slut! I will! I will!”
“Perhaps the girl’s not so much to blame. He’s a rich fellow—this Holtspur, and may have tempted her with his money. Gold goes a great way in such matters.”
“Oh! if’t were only money, I could abear it better. No! It an’t that, master, it an’t that! I’m a’most sure it an’t. She’s done it, damn her!”
“Perhaps we may be mistaken. Things may not have gone so far as you think. At all events, I should advise you to let the girl alone; and confine your revenge to the villain who has wronged her.”
“Him first—him first! And then, if I find she’s let herself be made a fool o’—”
“Whether or not, he deserves no thanks from you for having made the attempt.”
“I’ll thank him!—I will, whenever I gets the chance. Wait till I gets the chance.”
“If I am not mistaken, you may have that—without waiting long.”
Misinterpreting these words, the woodman glanced towards his axe with a significant and savage leer, that did not escape the keen eye of Scarthe.
“True,” said the latter, in a tone of disapproval, “you might havethatchance almost at any hour. But there would also be a chance of failure, with a considerable risk of your getting run through the ribs. If what you’ve told me be as I suspect, there will be no need to resort to such extreme measures. Perhaps I may be able to point out a surer and safer method for you to rid yourself of this rival.”
“Oh! Mister Captain! If you would only do that—only tell mehow—I’ll—I’ll—”
“Have patience! Very likely I may be able to assist you,” interrupted Scarthe, rising to take his departure. “I’ve something in my mind will just suit, I think. But it requires a little reflection—and—some preliminary steps that must be taken elsewhere. I shall return here to-night, after sunset. Meanwhile, stay at home; or, if you go abroad, keep your tongue behind your teeth. Not a word to any one of what has passed between us. Take another pull at the flask, to keep up your spirits. Now, Walford, good day to you!”
Having pronounced these parting words, the officer walked out of the hut; and, returning to his horse, leaped lightly into the saddle, and rode off—followed by his attendant Withers.
He did not communicate to the latter aught of what had transpired between him and the woodman. The muttered words that escaped him, as he trotted off among the trees, were spoken in a slow, measured soliloquy.
“No doubt one of the very meetings of which his Majesty has spoken so opportunely in his despatch? Richard Scarthe shall make one at this midnight assembly—uninvited though he be. Ah! if I can only find a fair opportunity to play eavesdropper, I promise Master Holtspur a more substantial dwelling than he now inhabits! Ho! have no fear, kind King Carolus! Right willingly shall I play the spy! Ha! ha! ha!”
Elated by the high hope with which his new-gained knowledge had inspired him, he gave the spur to his grey, while Wapsey’s Wood gave back the echoes of his joyous laughter.
Volume Two—Chapter Nine.It was Michaelmas night over merry England; but at that late hour when the rustic—weary with the revels incidental to the day—had retired to rest and dream. In other words, it was midnight.Though at a season of the year when a clear sky might be expected, the night in question chanced to be an exception. The canopy of bright blue, usually smiling over the Chiltern Hills, was obscured by black cumulus clouds, that hung in motionless masses—completely shrouding the firmament. Not a ray of light, from either moon or stars, was shed upon the earth; and the narrow bridle-path, as well as the wider highway, could with difficulty be discerned under the hoof of the traveller’s horse.Notwithstanding the almost complete opacity of the darkness, it was not continuous. Gleams of lightning at intervals flashed over the sward; or, in fitful coruscation, illumined the deep arcades of the forest—the beeches, for a moment, appearing burnished by the blaze. Though not a breath of air stirred among the trees, nor a drop of rain had as yet fallen upon their leaves, those three sure foretellers of the storm—clouds, lightning, and thunder—betokened its proximity. It was such a night as a traveller would have sought shelter at the nearest inn, and stayed under its roof, unless urged upon an errand of more than ordinary importance. Despite the darkness of the paths, and the lateness of the hour—despite the tempest surely threatening in the sky—some such errand had tempted forth at least two travellers on that very night.As Marion Wade and Lora Lovelace sate conversing in their chamber, on the eve of retiring to rest, two horsemen, heavily cloaked, might have been been passing out from under the windows, and heading towards the high-road, as if bent upon a journey.It was Marion’s sleeping apartment, that was occupied by the brace of beautiful maidens—whose intention it was to share the same couch.It had not been their habit to do so: for each had her separate chamber. But an event had occurred making it desirable that, on that particular night, they should depart from their usual custom. Lora required the confidence of her cousin—older than herself—and her counsel, as well—in a matter so serious as to demand the privacy of a sleeping apartment.Indeed, two events had happened to her on the day preceding, both of which called for the interposition of a friend. They were matters too weighty to be borne by a single bosom.They were somewhat similar in character—if not altogether so: both being avowals of love, ending in offers of marriage.There was, however, a considerable dissimilarity in the individuals from whom the tender declarations had proceeded. One was her own cousin—Walter Wade—the other, it is scarce necessary to say, being Cornet Stubbs.Lora had not hesitated as to the reply she should make to either. It was not for this she was seeking the counsel of her cousin. The answers had been given frankly and freely—on the same instant as the asking. To Walter an affirmative; to Stubbs a negative, if not indignant, at least final and emphatic.That point had been settled before the sun went down; and Marion’s advice was only sought in order that the little Lora—her junior in years, as well as womanly experience—might become better acquainted with the details relating to that most important ceremony of a woman’s life—thenuptial.Alas, for Lora; her cousin proved but a poor counsellor. Instead of being able to give advice, Marion needed rather to receive it; and it was from a vague hope, that Lora might suggest some scheme to alleviate her own unpleasant reflections, that she had so gladly listened to the proposal of their passing the night together.What had occurred to disquiet the thoughts of Marion Wade?Nothing—at least nothing but what is known already; and from that, some may think she should have beenveryhappy. She had met the man she loved—had received from his own lips the assurance that her love was reciprocated—had heard it in passionate speech, sealed and confirmed by a fervent kiss, and a close rapturous embrace.What more wanted she to confirm her in the supremest happiness that can be enjoyed—outside the limits of Elysium?And yet Marion Wade was far from being happy!What was the cause of her disquietude?Had aught arisen to make her jealous? Did she doubt the fidelity of her lover?A simple negative will serve as the answer to both questions.She felt neither jealousy, nor doubt. The mind of Marion Wade was not easily swayed by such influences. Partly from a sense of self rectitude; partly from a knowledge of her own beauty—for she could not help knowing that she was beautiful—and partly, perhaps, from an instinctive consciousness of the power consequent on such a possession—hers was not a love to succumb readily to suspicion. Previous to that interview with her lover—the first and last properly deserving the name—she had yielded a little to this unpleasant emotion. But that was while she was still uncertain of Holtspur’s love—before she had heard it declared by himself—before she had listened to his vows plighted in words, in all the earnestness of eternal truth.Since that hour no doubt had occurred to her mind. Suspicion she would have scorned as a guilty thing. She had given her own heart away—her heart and soul—wholly, and without reserve; and she had no other belief than that she had received the heart of Henry Holtspur in return.Her unhappiness sprang from a different cause—or rather causes: for she had three sources of disquietude.The first was a consciousness of having acted wrongly—of having failed in filial duty; and to a parent whose generous indulgence caused the dereliction to be all the more keenly felt.The second was a sense of having transgressed the laws of social life—the unwritten, but well understood statutes of that high-class society, in which the Wades had lived, and moved, since the Conquest—and in all likelihood long before that hackneyed era of historic celebrity.To have challenged the acquaintance of a stranger—perhaps an adventurer—perhaps a vagabond—ah! more than challenged his acquaintance—provoked the most powerful passion of his soul—thrown down the gauntlet to him—token of love as of war—when did ever Wade—a female Wade—commit such an indiscretion?It was a bold act—even for the bold and beautiful Marion. No wonder it was succeeded by anarrière pensée, slightly unpleasant.These two causes of her discomfort were definite—though perhaps least regarded.There was a third, as we have said; which, though more vague, was the one that gave her the greatest uneasiness. It pointed to peril—the peril of her lover.The daughter of Sir Marmaduke Wade was not indifferent to the events of the time—nor yet to its sentiments. Though separated from the Court—and well that she was so—she was not ignorant of its trickery and corruption. In the elevated circle, by which she was surrounded, these were but the topics of daily discourse; and from the moderate, yet liberal, views held by her father, she had frequent opportunities of hearing both sides of the question. A soul highly gifted as hers—could not fail to discern the truth; and, long before that time, she had imbibed a love for true liberty in its republican form—a loathing for the effete freedom to be enjoyed under the rule of a king. In political light she was far in advance of her father; and more than once had her counsel guided his wavering resolves; influencing him—perhaps, even more than the late outrage, of which he had been the object—to that determination to which he had at last yielded himself; to declare for the Parliament and People.Marion had been gratified by the resolve—joyed to see her father surrendering to the exigencies of the times, and becoming one of the popular party, that had long owned her admiration.A heart thus attuned could not fail to perceive in Henry Holtspur its hero—its immaculate idol; and such to the mind of Marion Wade did he seem. Differing from all the men she had ever known—unlike them in motives, action, and aspect—in joys and griefs, passions and powers—contrasting with those crawling sycophants—pseudo-cavaliers who wore long love-locks, and prated eternally of Court and King—in him she beheld the type of a heroic man, worthy of a woman’s love—a woman’s worship!She saw, and worshipped!Notwithstanding the fervour of her admiration, she did not believe him immortal; nor yet invulnerable. He was liable to the laws of humanity—not its frailties, thought she, but its dangers.She suspected that his life was in peril. She suspected it, from the rumours, that from time to time had reached her—of his bold, almost reckless, bearing, on matters inimical to the Court. Only in whispers had she heard these reports—previous to the day of thefêtein her father’s park; but then had she listened to that loud proclamation from his own lips, when charging upon Scarthe, he had cried out “For the people!”She loved him for that speech; but she had done so even before hearing it; and she could not love him more.“Cousin Lora!” said she, while both were in the act of disrobing, “you ought to be very happy. What a fortunate little creature you are!”“Why, Marion!”“To be admired by so many; and especially by the man you yourself admire.”“Dear me! If that be all, Iamcontented. So should you, Marion, for the same reason. If I’m admired by many, all the world pays homage to you. For my part, I don’t want the world to be in love with me—only one.”“And that’s Walter. Well, I think you’re right, coz. Like you, I should never care to be a coquette. One heart well satisfies me—one lover.”“And that’s Henry Holtspur.”“You know too much, child, for me to deny it.”“But why should I be happier than you? You’ve your cavalier as well as I. He loves you, no doubt, as much as Walter does me; and you love him—I dare say, though I can’t be certain of that—as much as I love Walter. What then, Marion?”“Ah, Lora! your lover is sure—safe—certain to become yours for life.Mine is doubtful, and in danger.”“Doubtful? What mean you by that, Marion?”“Suppose my father refuse to acknowledge him—then—”“Then I know what his daughter would do.”“Whatwouldshe do?”“Run away with him;—I don’t mean with the venerable parent—the knight—but with the lover, theblack horseman. By the way, what a romantic thing it would be to be abducted on that splendid steed! Troth, Marion! I quite envy you the chance.”“For shame, you silly child! Don’t talk in such foolish fashion!”Marion coloured slightly as she uttered the admonition. The thought of an elopement was not new to her. She had entertained it already; and it was just for this reason she did not desire her cousin to dwell upon it, even in jest. With her it had been considered in serious earnest; and might be again—if Sir Marmaduke should prove intractable.“But you spoke of danger?” said Lora, changing the subject. “What danger?”“Hush!” exclaimed Marion, suddenly starting back from the mirror, with her long yellow hair sweeping like sunbeams over her snow-white shoulders; “Did you hear something?”“The wind?”“No! it was not the wind. There is no wind; though, indeed, it’s dark enough for a storm. I fancied I heard horses going along the gravel-walk. Extinguish the light, Lora—so that we may steal up to the window, and see.”Lora protruded her pretty lips close up to the candle, and blew it out.The chamber was in utter darkness.All unrobed as she was, Marion glided up to the casement; and, cautiously drawing aside the curtain, looked out into the lawn.She could see nothing: the night was dark as pitch.She listened all the more attentively—her hearing sharpened by the idea of some danger to her lover—of which, during all that day, she had been suffering from a vague presentiment.Sure enough, shehadheard the hoof-strokes of horses on the gravelled walk: for she now heard them again—not so loud as before—and each instant becoming more indistinct.This time Lora heard them too.It might be colts straying from the pastures of the park? But the measured fell of their feet, with an occasional clinking of shod hoofs, proclaimed them—even to the inexperienced ears that were listening—to be horses guided, and ridden.“Some one going out! Who can it be at this hour of the night? ’Tis nearly twelve!”“Quite twelve, I should think,” answered Lora. “That game of lansquenet kept us so long. It was half-past eleven, before we were through with it. Who should be going abroad so late, I wonder?”Both maidens stood in the embayment of the window—endeavouring, with their glances, to penetrate the darkness outside.The attempt would have been vain, had the obscurity continued; but, just then, a vivid flash of lightning, shooting athwart the sky, illuminated the lawn; and the park became visible to the utmost limit of its palings.The window of Marion’s bedchamber opened upon the avenue leading out to the west. Near a spot—to her suggestive of pleasant memories—she now beheld, by the blaze of the electric brand, a sight that added to her uneasiness.Two horsemen, both heavily cloaked, were riding down the avenue—their backs turned towards the house, as if they had just taken their departure from it. They looked not round. Had they done so at that instant, they might have beheld a tableau capable of attracting them back.In a wide-bayed window, whose low sill and slight mullions scarce offered concealment to their forms, were two beautiful maidens—lovely virgins—robed in the negligent costume of night—their heads close together, and their nude arms mutually encircling one another’s shoulders, white as the chemisettes draped carelessly over them.Only for an instant was this provoking tableau exhibited. Sudden as the recession of a dissolving view, or like a picture falling back out of its frame, did it disappear from the sight—leaving in its place only the blank vitreous sheen of the casement.Abashed by that unexpected exposure—though it was only to the eye of heaven—the chaste maidens had simultaneously receded from the window, before the rude glare that startled them ceased to flicker against the glass.Sudden, as was their retreating movement, previous to making it, they had recognised the two-cloaked horsemen, who were holding their way along the avenue.“Scarthe!” exclaimed Marion.“Stubbs!” ejaculated Lora.
It was Michaelmas night over merry England; but at that late hour when the rustic—weary with the revels incidental to the day—had retired to rest and dream. In other words, it was midnight.
Though at a season of the year when a clear sky might be expected, the night in question chanced to be an exception. The canopy of bright blue, usually smiling over the Chiltern Hills, was obscured by black cumulus clouds, that hung in motionless masses—completely shrouding the firmament. Not a ray of light, from either moon or stars, was shed upon the earth; and the narrow bridle-path, as well as the wider highway, could with difficulty be discerned under the hoof of the traveller’s horse.
Notwithstanding the almost complete opacity of the darkness, it was not continuous. Gleams of lightning at intervals flashed over the sward; or, in fitful coruscation, illumined the deep arcades of the forest—the beeches, for a moment, appearing burnished by the blaze. Though not a breath of air stirred among the trees, nor a drop of rain had as yet fallen upon their leaves, those three sure foretellers of the storm—clouds, lightning, and thunder—betokened its proximity. It was such a night as a traveller would have sought shelter at the nearest inn, and stayed under its roof, unless urged upon an errand of more than ordinary importance. Despite the darkness of the paths, and the lateness of the hour—despite the tempest surely threatening in the sky—some such errand had tempted forth at least two travellers on that very night.
As Marion Wade and Lora Lovelace sate conversing in their chamber, on the eve of retiring to rest, two horsemen, heavily cloaked, might have been been passing out from under the windows, and heading towards the high-road, as if bent upon a journey.
It was Marion’s sleeping apartment, that was occupied by the brace of beautiful maidens—whose intention it was to share the same couch.
It had not been their habit to do so: for each had her separate chamber. But an event had occurred making it desirable that, on that particular night, they should depart from their usual custom. Lora required the confidence of her cousin—older than herself—and her counsel, as well—in a matter so serious as to demand the privacy of a sleeping apartment.
Indeed, two events had happened to her on the day preceding, both of which called for the interposition of a friend. They were matters too weighty to be borne by a single bosom.
They were somewhat similar in character—if not altogether so: both being avowals of love, ending in offers of marriage.
There was, however, a considerable dissimilarity in the individuals from whom the tender declarations had proceeded. One was her own cousin—Walter Wade—the other, it is scarce necessary to say, being Cornet Stubbs.
Lora had not hesitated as to the reply she should make to either. It was not for this she was seeking the counsel of her cousin. The answers had been given frankly and freely—on the same instant as the asking. To Walter an affirmative; to Stubbs a negative, if not indignant, at least final and emphatic.
That point had been settled before the sun went down; and Marion’s advice was only sought in order that the little Lora—her junior in years, as well as womanly experience—might become better acquainted with the details relating to that most important ceremony of a woman’s life—thenuptial.
Alas, for Lora; her cousin proved but a poor counsellor. Instead of being able to give advice, Marion needed rather to receive it; and it was from a vague hope, that Lora might suggest some scheme to alleviate her own unpleasant reflections, that she had so gladly listened to the proposal of their passing the night together.
What had occurred to disquiet the thoughts of Marion Wade?
Nothing—at least nothing but what is known already; and from that, some may think she should have beenveryhappy. She had met the man she loved—had received from his own lips the assurance that her love was reciprocated—had heard it in passionate speech, sealed and confirmed by a fervent kiss, and a close rapturous embrace.
What more wanted she to confirm her in the supremest happiness that can be enjoyed—outside the limits of Elysium?
And yet Marion Wade was far from being happy!
What was the cause of her disquietude?
Had aught arisen to make her jealous? Did she doubt the fidelity of her lover?
A simple negative will serve as the answer to both questions.
She felt neither jealousy, nor doubt. The mind of Marion Wade was not easily swayed by such influences. Partly from a sense of self rectitude; partly from a knowledge of her own beauty—for she could not help knowing that she was beautiful—and partly, perhaps, from an instinctive consciousness of the power consequent on such a possession—hers was not a love to succumb readily to suspicion. Previous to that interview with her lover—the first and last properly deserving the name—she had yielded a little to this unpleasant emotion. But that was while she was still uncertain of Holtspur’s love—before she had heard it declared by himself—before she had listened to his vows plighted in words, in all the earnestness of eternal truth.
Since that hour no doubt had occurred to her mind. Suspicion she would have scorned as a guilty thing. She had given her own heart away—her heart and soul—wholly, and without reserve; and she had no other belief than that she had received the heart of Henry Holtspur in return.
Her unhappiness sprang from a different cause—or rather causes: for she had three sources of disquietude.
The first was a consciousness of having acted wrongly—of having failed in filial duty; and to a parent whose generous indulgence caused the dereliction to be all the more keenly felt.
The second was a sense of having transgressed the laws of social life—the unwritten, but well understood statutes of that high-class society, in which the Wades had lived, and moved, since the Conquest—and in all likelihood long before that hackneyed era of historic celebrity.
To have challenged the acquaintance of a stranger—perhaps an adventurer—perhaps a vagabond—ah! more than challenged his acquaintance—provoked the most powerful passion of his soul—thrown down the gauntlet to him—token of love as of war—when did ever Wade—a female Wade—commit such an indiscretion?
It was a bold act—even for the bold and beautiful Marion. No wonder it was succeeded by anarrière pensée, slightly unpleasant.
These two causes of her discomfort were definite—though perhaps least regarded.
There was a third, as we have said; which, though more vague, was the one that gave her the greatest uneasiness. It pointed to peril—the peril of her lover.
The daughter of Sir Marmaduke Wade was not indifferent to the events of the time—nor yet to its sentiments. Though separated from the Court—and well that she was so—she was not ignorant of its trickery and corruption. In the elevated circle, by which she was surrounded, these were but the topics of daily discourse; and from the moderate, yet liberal, views held by her father, she had frequent opportunities of hearing both sides of the question. A soul highly gifted as hers—could not fail to discern the truth; and, long before that time, she had imbibed a love for true liberty in its republican form—a loathing for the effete freedom to be enjoyed under the rule of a king. In political light she was far in advance of her father; and more than once had her counsel guided his wavering resolves; influencing him—perhaps, even more than the late outrage, of which he had been the object—to that determination to which he had at last yielded himself; to declare for the Parliament and People.
Marion had been gratified by the resolve—joyed to see her father surrendering to the exigencies of the times, and becoming one of the popular party, that had long owned her admiration.
A heart thus attuned could not fail to perceive in Henry Holtspur its hero—its immaculate idol; and such to the mind of Marion Wade did he seem. Differing from all the men she had ever known—unlike them in motives, action, and aspect—in joys and griefs, passions and powers—contrasting with those crawling sycophants—pseudo-cavaliers who wore long love-locks, and prated eternally of Court and King—in him she beheld the type of a heroic man, worthy of a woman’s love—a woman’s worship!
She saw, and worshipped!
Notwithstanding the fervour of her admiration, she did not believe him immortal; nor yet invulnerable. He was liable to the laws of humanity—not its frailties, thought she, but its dangers.
She suspected that his life was in peril. She suspected it, from the rumours, that from time to time had reached her—of his bold, almost reckless, bearing, on matters inimical to the Court. Only in whispers had she heard these reports—previous to the day of thefêtein her father’s park; but then had she listened to that loud proclamation from his own lips, when charging upon Scarthe, he had cried out “For the people!”
She loved him for that speech; but she had done so even before hearing it; and she could not love him more.
“Cousin Lora!” said she, while both were in the act of disrobing, “you ought to be very happy. What a fortunate little creature you are!”
“Why, Marion!”
“To be admired by so many; and especially by the man you yourself admire.”
“Dear me! If that be all, Iamcontented. So should you, Marion, for the same reason. If I’m admired by many, all the world pays homage to you. For my part, I don’t want the world to be in love with me—only one.”
“And that’s Walter. Well, I think you’re right, coz. Like you, I should never care to be a coquette. One heart well satisfies me—one lover.”
“And that’s Henry Holtspur.”
“You know too much, child, for me to deny it.”
“But why should I be happier than you? You’ve your cavalier as well as I. He loves you, no doubt, as much as Walter does me; and you love him—I dare say, though I can’t be certain of that—as much as I love Walter. What then, Marion?”
“Ah, Lora! your lover is sure—safe—certain to become yours for life.Mine is doubtful, and in danger.”
“Doubtful? What mean you by that, Marion?”
“Suppose my father refuse to acknowledge him—then—”
“Then I know what his daughter would do.”
“Whatwouldshe do?”
“Run away with him;—I don’t mean with the venerable parent—the knight—but with the lover, theblack horseman. By the way, what a romantic thing it would be to be abducted on that splendid steed! Troth, Marion! I quite envy you the chance.”
“For shame, you silly child! Don’t talk in such foolish fashion!”
Marion coloured slightly as she uttered the admonition. The thought of an elopement was not new to her. She had entertained it already; and it was just for this reason she did not desire her cousin to dwell upon it, even in jest. With her it had been considered in serious earnest; and might be again—if Sir Marmaduke should prove intractable.
“But you spoke of danger?” said Lora, changing the subject. “What danger?”
“Hush!” exclaimed Marion, suddenly starting back from the mirror, with her long yellow hair sweeping like sunbeams over her snow-white shoulders; “Did you hear something?”
“The wind?”
“No! it was not the wind. There is no wind; though, indeed, it’s dark enough for a storm. I fancied I heard horses going along the gravel-walk. Extinguish the light, Lora—so that we may steal up to the window, and see.”
Lora protruded her pretty lips close up to the candle, and blew it out.
The chamber was in utter darkness.
All unrobed as she was, Marion glided up to the casement; and, cautiously drawing aside the curtain, looked out into the lawn.
She could see nothing: the night was dark as pitch.
She listened all the more attentively—her hearing sharpened by the idea of some danger to her lover—of which, during all that day, she had been suffering from a vague presentiment.
Sure enough, shehadheard the hoof-strokes of horses on the gravelled walk: for she now heard them again—not so loud as before—and each instant becoming more indistinct.
This time Lora heard them too.
It might be colts straying from the pastures of the park? But the measured fell of their feet, with an occasional clinking of shod hoofs, proclaimed them—even to the inexperienced ears that were listening—to be horses guided, and ridden.
“Some one going out! Who can it be at this hour of the night? ’Tis nearly twelve!”
“Quite twelve, I should think,” answered Lora. “That game of lansquenet kept us so long. It was half-past eleven, before we were through with it. Who should be going abroad so late, I wonder?”
Both maidens stood in the embayment of the window—endeavouring, with their glances, to penetrate the darkness outside.
The attempt would have been vain, had the obscurity continued; but, just then, a vivid flash of lightning, shooting athwart the sky, illuminated the lawn; and the park became visible to the utmost limit of its palings.
The window of Marion’s bedchamber opened upon the avenue leading out to the west. Near a spot—to her suggestive of pleasant memories—she now beheld, by the blaze of the electric brand, a sight that added to her uneasiness.
Two horsemen, both heavily cloaked, were riding down the avenue—their backs turned towards the house, as if they had just taken their departure from it. They looked not round. Had they done so at that instant, they might have beheld a tableau capable of attracting them back.
In a wide-bayed window, whose low sill and slight mullions scarce offered concealment to their forms, were two beautiful maidens—lovely virgins—robed in the negligent costume of night—their heads close together, and their nude arms mutually encircling one another’s shoulders, white as the chemisettes draped carelessly over them.
Only for an instant was this provoking tableau exhibited. Sudden as the recession of a dissolving view, or like a picture falling back out of its frame, did it disappear from the sight—leaving in its place only the blank vitreous sheen of the casement.
Abashed by that unexpected exposure—though it was only to the eye of heaven—the chaste maidens had simultaneously receded from the window, before the rude glare that startled them ceased to flicker against the glass.
Sudden, as was their retreating movement, previous to making it, they had recognised the two-cloaked horsemen, who were holding their way along the avenue.
“Scarthe!” exclaimed Marion.
“Stubbs!” ejaculated Lora.
Volume Two—Chapter Ten.The astonishment of the cousins, at seeing two travellers starting forth so late, and upon such a dismal night, might have been increased, could they have extended their vision beyond the palings of the park, and surveyed the forest-covered country for a mile or two to the north-west of it.On the ramifications of roads and bridle-paths—that connected the towns of Uxbridge and Beaconsfield with the flanking villages of Fulmer, Stoke, Hedgerley, and the two Chalfonts—they might have seen, not two, but twenty travellers; all on horseback, and riding each by himself—in a few instances only two or three of them going together.Though upon different roads—and heading in different directions—they all appeared to be making for the same central bourne; which, as they neared it, could be told to be the old house of Stone Dean.One by one they kept arriving at this point of convergence; and, passing through the gate of the park, one after another, they rode silently on to the dwelling—where they as silently dismounted.There, delivering up their horses to three men—who stood ready to take them—the visitors stepped unbidden within the open doorway; and, following a dark-skinned youth—who received them without saying a word—were conducted along the dimly-lighted corridor, and ushered into an inner apartment.As they passed under the light of the hall lamp—or had been seen outside during the occasional flashes of the lightning—the costume and bearing of these saturnine guests proclaimed them to be men of no mean degree; while their travel-stained habiliments told that they had ridden some distance, before entering the gates of Stone Dean.It might have been remarked as strange, that such cavaliers of quality were thus travelling unattended—for not one of them was accompanied by groom, or servant of any sort. It was also strange, that no notice was taken of this circumstance by the men who led off their horses towards the stables—all three performing their duty without the slightest exhibition either of curiosity or surprise.None of the three wore the regular costume of grooms or stable-servants; nor had any of them the appearance of being accustomed to act in such capacity. The somewhat awkward manner in which they were fulfilling their office, plainly proclaimed that it was new to them; while their style of dress, though different in each, declared them to belong to other callings.Two were habited in the ordinary peasant garb of the period—with a few touches that told them to be woodmen; and as the lightning flashed upon their faces it revealed these two personages to be—Dick Dancey and his coadjutor, Will Walford.The dress of the third was not characteristic of any exact calling; but appeared rather a combination of several styles: as though several individuals had contributed a portion of their apparel to hismake-up. There was a pair of buff-leather boots, which, in point of elegance, might have encased the feet and ankles of a cavalier—the wide tops turned down over the knees, showing a profusion of white lining inside. Above these dangled the legs of a pair of petticoat breeches, of coarse kersey, which strangely contrasted with the costly character of the boots. Over the waistband of the breeches puffed out a shirt of finest linen—though far from being either spotless or clean; while this was again overtopped by a doublet of homespun woollen cloth, of the kind known as “marry-muffe”—slashed along the sleeves with the cheapest of cotton velveteen. Surmounting this, in like contrast, was the broad lace collar band of a cavalier, with cuffs to correspond—both looking, as if the last place of deposit had been the buck-basket of a washerwoman, and the wearer had taken them thence, without waiting for their being submitted to the operations of the laundry.Add to the above-mentioned habiliments a high-crowned felt hat—somewhat battered about the brim—with a tarnished tinsel band, but without any pretence at a plume; and you have the complete costume of the third individual who was acting as an extemporised stable-helper at the dwelling of Stone Dean.Had there been light enough for the travellers to have scrutinised his features, no doubt they would have been somewhat astonished at this queer-looking personage, who assisted in disembarrassing them of their steeds. Perhaps some of them, seeing his face, might have thought twice before trusting him with the keeping of a valuable horse: for, in the tall stalwart figure, that appeared both peasant and gentleman, in alternate sections, they might have recognised an old, and not very trustworthy acquaintance—the famed footpad, Gregory Garth.In the darkness, however, Gregory ran no risk of detection; and continued to play hisimprovisedpart, without any apprehension of an awkward encounter.By the time that the great clock in the tower of Chalfont Church had ceased tolling twelve, more than twenty of the nocturnal visitors to Stone Dean had entered within the walls of that quaint old dwelling; and still the sound of shod hooves, clinking occasionally against the stones upon the adjacent road, told that an odd straggler had yet to arrive.About this time two horsemen, riding together, passed in through the gate of the park. Following the fashion of the others, they continued on to the front of the house—where, like the others, they also dismounted, and surrendered their horses to two of the men who stepped forward to receive them.These animals, like the others, were led back to the stables; but their riders, instead of entering the house by the front door—as had been done by all those who had preceded them—in this respect deviated slightly from the programme.As soon as the two grooms, who had taken their horses, were fairly out of sight, they were seen to act in obedience to a sign given by the third; who, whispering to them to follow him, led the way, first along the front of the house, and then around one of its wings, towards the rear.Even had there been moonlight, it would have been difficult to identify these new comers, who were so mysteriously diverted from making entrance by the front door. Both were muffled in cloaks—more ample and heavy—than the quality of the night seemed to call for. Scarcely could the threatening storm account for this providence on their part?On rounding the angle of the building, the man preceding them made a stop—at the same time half-facing about.A gleam of lightning disclosed the countenance of their conductor. It was the woodman—Walford.His face was paler than wont—of that ghastly hue that denotes the consciousness of crime—while his deep-set watery eyes shining from beneath his white eyebrows and hay-coloured hair, gave to his ill-favoured features an expression almost demoniac.The countenances of the two cavaliers were also for an instant illuminated. One was the handsome face of Captain Scarthe—appearing like that of the guide—unnaturally pale under the unearthly glare of the electric light. The other was the stolid, but rubicund, countenance of his subaltern, Stubbs.While the light lasted, Walford was seen beckoning them to follow fester.“Coom on, masters!” muttered he, in an earnest, hurried tone, “There’s ne’er a minute to be lost. That ’ere dummy o’ an Indyen has got his eyes everywhere. If he sees ye, he’ll want to take ye inside among the rest; an’ that won’t answer yer purpose, I reckon.”“No! that would never do,” muttered Scarthe, hastening his steps; “our presence inside would spoil this pretty pie. Go on, my good fellow! We’ll follow you—close as the skirt of your doublet.”Without another word the trio moved on—the guide keeping a pace or two in advance, Stubbs clumsily staggering in the rear.In this order they continued around the right wing of the house—all three making their way with as much silence and caution, as if they had been a band of burglars about to enter upon the ceremony of “cracking a crib.”The almost amorphous darkness would have hindered them from being observed, even had there been any one in the way. But there was not—no one to see them stealing along that sombre-coloured wall—no eye to witness their entrance within the private side door that admitted them by a narrow passage into the unused apartments of the house—no eye to behold them as they stood within that small dark chamber, that communicated by a window of dingy glass with the large hall in which the guests of Henry Holtspur were assembled.“Just the place!” whispered Scarthe, as, glancing through the glass, he saw the forms of men, moving confusedly over the floor of a well-lit apartment, and listened to the murmur of voices. “The very observatory I wished for. Now go, my good fellow!” he continued, transferring his whisper to the ear of Walford. “In twenty minutes from this time steal our horses out of the stables, and have them ready. We shall go back by the front entrance. Your worthy confrères will never know but that we’ve issued from the hive inside there. If they should suspect anything, I’ve got two sorts of metal upon my person—one or other of which will be sure to keep them quiet.”Half pushing his late conductor bade into the passage, Scarthe quietly closed the door behind him; and drew Stubbs up to the cobweb-covered window. Behind it both silently took their stand—crouching like a pair of gigantic spiders, that had placed themselves in expectation of prey!Neither made the slightest stir. They no longer talked to each other even in whispers. They were well aware of the danger they would incur—if detected in their eavesdropping—aware that they might have to pay for it with their lives, or at the very least, suffer severe punishment, by a castigation upon the spot, and the consequent disgrace due to their dastardly conduct. The act they were committing was of no trifling character—no child’s play of hide and seek; but a bold and dangerous game of espionage, in which not only the personal liberty, but even the lives of many individuals might be placed in peril—these, too, among the highest in the land.Scarthe was conscious of all this; and, but that he was impelled to the act by the most powerful passion of man’s nature—the promptings of a profound jealousy—he might have hesitated before placing himself in such a position. His mere political proclivities would never have tempted him to the committal of such an imprudent act. Much as he inclined towards the king, he was not the man to play spy over a conference of conspirators—such as he believed this assembly to be, from motives of mere loyalty. The thought stimulating him was stronger by far.He had not placed himself in that position blindly trusting to chance. Like a skilled strategist, as he was, he had well reconnoitred the ground before entering upon it. His coadjutor, Walford, acting under a somewhat similar motive, had freely furnished him with all the information he required. The woodman—from an acquaintance with the old “caretaker,” who had held charge of the house previous to Holtspur’s occupation—had a thorough knowledge of the dwelling of Stone Dean—its ins and its outs—its trap-doors and sliding panels—every stair and corner, from cellar to garret. Walford had assured the spies, that the chamber in which he secreted them was never entered by any one; and that the glass door communicating with the larger apartment could not be opened, without breaking it to pieces. Not only was its lock sealed with the rust of time, but the door itself was nailed fast to the post and lintels.There was no fear of their being seen. The cobwebs precluded the possibility of that. As to their being heard, it would depend upon their own behaviour; and under the circumstances, neither captain nor cornet were likely to make any noise that might attract attention.For the rest the affair had been easy enough. Among a crowd of unknown guests arriving at the house—even under the supervision of a staff of regular domestics—it was not likely that a distinction should be made between the invited and those unasked; much less under theoutrécircumstances foreseen and well understood by Scarthe and his companion.Neither Dancey nor Garth were supposed to know the persons of either. Nor had Oriole ever seen them; though Walford was far more concerned about the instincts of the Indian, than the observations of his fellow-helpers.So far, however, he had succeeded in baffling both.Scarthe commenced by wiping off enough of the cobwebs, to give him a clear disc of vision, of about the size of a crown piece.With his eye close to the glass he commanded a view of the adjoining apartment, as well as the company it contained.As to hearing, there was no difficulty about that. Even the ordinary conversation could be heard plainly through the panes; but, when any one spoke louder than the rest, every word could be distinguished.Scarthe had not been very long occupied in his surveillance, before perceiving that he was playing the spy upon a company of gentlemen. None present were of the peasant type.Soon also did he become acquainted with the general tenour of the discourse, and convinced of the correctness of his conjecture: that the meeting was an assembly of conspirators. This was the name given to it by the royalist captain; though rather did it merit to be called a conference of patriots—perhaps the purest that ever assembled on the earth.The subjects discussed were various, but all relating to two matters of chief moment:—the liberty of the subject, and the encroachments of the sovereign. Out of doors, or inside, these were the topics of the time.Three or four of the speakers appeared to be regarded above the rest; and when one or other of these stood up, an air of silent respect pervaded the assembly.Scarthe had no personal knowledge of these distinguished individuals. He little suspected, when that man of noble mien rose up—he for whom the hum of conversation became suddenly hushed—and upon whom every eye was turned with a regard that seemed that of a brotherly affection—little suspected the sneaking spy of a Court, that he was listening to the most disinterested patriot England has ever produced—that glorious hero of the Chilterns—John Hampden.As little knew he that in the speaker who followed—a man of mature age, and perhaps of more eloquent tongue—he beheld the future accuser of Stafford,—the bold prosecutor who successfully brought this notorious renegade to the block.Neither did Scarthe recognise in that young but grave gentleman, who spoke so enthusiastically in favour of a nonconformist religion, the self-denying nobleman, Sir Harry Vane; nor in him who had a quick answer for every opponent, and a jest for every occasion, theelegant, whose appearance of superficial dandyism concealed a heart truly devoted to the interests of English liberty—Harry Martin of Berks.From his concealment Scarthe saw all these noble and heroic men, without identifying them. He cared not for one or the other—what they did, or what they said. His eye was set, and his ear bent, to see one who had not yet presented himself—to hear one who had not yet spoken.The host of the house—he who had summoned these guests together—was the man whom Scarthe desired to see and hear. Though the Royalist spy felt satisfied, that what had passed already would be proof sufficient against Holtspur, he wanted one speech from his own mouth—one word that would more surely convict him.He was not disappointed. In that congregation Henry Holtspur was not expected to be silent. Though regarded more in the light of an actor than an orator, there were those who waited to hear him with that silent eagerness that tells of a truer appreciation, than the mere ebullition of a noisy enthusiasm. As the host of the house he had hitherto modestly remained in the background, until forced to take his turn; and his turn at length came.In a speech which occupied more than an hour, Pym had set before the assembly a full list of the grievances under which the nation groaned—a sort of epitome of the famous oration that afterwards ushered in the attainder of Stafford. Its effect upon all, was to strengthen them in the determination to oppose—with greater energy than ever—the usurpations of the Court; and many of the gentlemen present declared their willingness to make any sacrifice, either personal or pecuniary, rather than longer submit to the illegal exactions of the monarch.“Why,” said Holtspur, rising to his feet and standing conspicuously before his guests, “why should we continue to talk in enigmas? I, for one, am tired of keeping up this pretence of hostility towards the subordinates, whilst the real enemy is allowed to escape all accusations of criminality. It is not Stafford, nor Laud, nor Finch, nor Mainwaring, nor Windebank, who are the oppressors of the people. These are but the tools of the tyrant. Destroy them to-day, and to-morrow others will be found to supply their place—as fitting and truculent as they. To what end, then, are our protests and prosecutions? The hydra of despotism can only be crushedby, depriving it of its head. The poisonous tree of evil is not to be destroyed, by here and there lopping off a branch. It can be rendered innoxious only by striking at its roots!“Some gentlemen here seem to think, that, by surrounding the king with good counsellors, we may succeed in bringing him to rule with justice. But good counsellors, under the influence of an unscrupulous Court, may any day change their character; and then the work will have to be done over again. Look at Stafford himself! Ten years ago, had we met as we meet to-night, Thomas Wentworth would have been with us—foremost in our councils—See the baneful effects of Royal favour! It will ever be so—as long as men set up an idol, call it a king, and fall down upon their faces to worship it!“For my own part I scorn to palter with words. I see but one criminal worthy our accusations; and he is neither councillor, nor secretary, nor bishop; but the master of all three. In my mind, gentlemen, it is no longer a question of whether we are to be ruled by a good king, or a bad king;but whether we are to have a king at all!”“Mysentiments!” cried Henry Martin, and several others of the younger and bolder spirits; while a general murmur of approbation was heard throughout the room.These were wild words—even within that secret assemblage. The question ofking or no king, had begun to shape itself in the minds of a few men; but this was the first time it had risen to the lips of any one. It was the firstspokensummons invoking the dark shadow that hovered over the head of Charles Stuart, until his neck lay bleeding on the block!“Enough!” gasped out Scarthe, in an almost inaudible whisper, as he recovered his long suspended breath, “enough formypurpose. You heard it, Stubbs?”“I did, by Ged!” replied the subordinate spy, taking care to imitate his superior in the low tone in which he made answer.“We may go now,” said Scarthe. “There’s nothing more to be seen or done—at least nothing I need care for. Ha! who’s speaking now? That voice? Surely I’ve heard it before?”As he said this, he placed his eye once more to the disc of cleared glass.Suddenly drawing himself back, and clutching his associate by the arm, he muttered:“Who do you think is there?”“Can’t guess, captain.”“Listen, then!” and, placing his lips close to the ear of his companion, he whispered in slow syllables, “Sir Mar-ma-duke Wade.”“Do you say so?”“Look for yourself: look and listen! Do both well: for the words you hear,may yet win you your sweetheart.”“How, captain?”“Don’t question me now,” hurriedly replied the latter, at the same time returning to his attitude of attention.It was in truth Sir Marmaduke Wade, who was addressing the assembly. But his speech was averyshort one: for the worthy knight was no orator; and it was nearly finished by the time Scarthe and the cornet had succeeded in placing themselves in a position to have heard him.Enough reached the ears of the former to give him all that he required for a fell purpose; which even at that moment had commenced taking shape in his diabolical brain.In the few words that dropped from the lips of his host, Scarthe could discover sufficient evidence of disloyalty. Indeed, the presence of Sir Marmaduke in that place—coupled with, perhaps, something more than suspicion which the king already entertained towards him—would be proof enough to satisfy the Star Chamber.“We may go now,” whispered Scarthe, stealing towards the door, and drawing his subaltern gently after him. “Softly, cornet!” continued he, as hand-in-hand they retraced the dark passage. “Those boots of yours creak like a ship in a swell! Fancy you are treading on eggs!”As he made this facetious remark, they emerged into the open air; and, whispering mutual congratulations, went skulking onward, like a brace of felons making their escape from the confinement of a prison.“If this fellow,” said Scarthe, “can only succeed in extricating our horses, I think we may flatter ourselves, that we have made a successful job of it. Come on.”And Scarthe led the way along the wall, towards the front of the dwelling.They proceeded with as much caution as ever. Though outside, they were not yet safe from having their presence discovered, and their purpose suspected. The sky was clearer than when they had last looked upon it: for the thunderstorm, now over, had scattered the clouds, and deluged the earth with rain.At the angle of the building they could make out the figure of a man, standing under the shadow of a tree. It was Walford. On seeing them, he stepped forth, and advanced to meet them.“Theer be nobody by the front door,” he muttered, when near enough to be heard. “Stay by the steps, but don’t show yer faces. I’ll ha’ the horses round in a twinkle.”Saying this, the traitor left them, and disappeared in the direction of the stables.Obedient to his instructions, they took their stand; and, still conversing in whispers, awaited his return.True to his promise almost in an instant the two horses were brought round—one led by himself, the other by Dancey.The latter was too much occupied by the gold piece, glistening within his palm, to think of scrutinising the countenance of the giver.“Odds luck, Wull!” said he, turning to his comrade, after the two horsemen had ridden off; “stable keepin’ appear to be a better bisness than windin’ the woodaxe! If they be all as liberal as these ’uns we shall ha’ a profitable night o’t.”Walford assented with a shrug of his shoulders, and a significant grin—which in the darkness was not noticed by the unsuspicious deer-stealer.Just then, Gregory Garth coming up armed with a tankard of ale—perhaps surreptitiously drawn from the cellar—interrupted the conversation, or rather changed it into a different channel: for it was still carried on to the accompaniment of a copious imbibing of the homebrew.
The astonishment of the cousins, at seeing two travellers starting forth so late, and upon such a dismal night, might have been increased, could they have extended their vision beyond the palings of the park, and surveyed the forest-covered country for a mile or two to the north-west of it.
On the ramifications of roads and bridle-paths—that connected the towns of Uxbridge and Beaconsfield with the flanking villages of Fulmer, Stoke, Hedgerley, and the two Chalfonts—they might have seen, not two, but twenty travellers; all on horseback, and riding each by himself—in a few instances only two or three of them going together.
Though upon different roads—and heading in different directions—they all appeared to be making for the same central bourne; which, as they neared it, could be told to be the old house of Stone Dean.
One by one they kept arriving at this point of convergence; and, passing through the gate of the park, one after another, they rode silently on to the dwelling—where they as silently dismounted.
There, delivering up their horses to three men—who stood ready to take them—the visitors stepped unbidden within the open doorway; and, following a dark-skinned youth—who received them without saying a word—were conducted along the dimly-lighted corridor, and ushered into an inner apartment.
As they passed under the light of the hall lamp—or had been seen outside during the occasional flashes of the lightning—the costume and bearing of these saturnine guests proclaimed them to be men of no mean degree; while their travel-stained habiliments told that they had ridden some distance, before entering the gates of Stone Dean.
It might have been remarked as strange, that such cavaliers of quality were thus travelling unattended—for not one of them was accompanied by groom, or servant of any sort. It was also strange, that no notice was taken of this circumstance by the men who led off their horses towards the stables—all three performing their duty without the slightest exhibition either of curiosity or surprise.
None of the three wore the regular costume of grooms or stable-servants; nor had any of them the appearance of being accustomed to act in such capacity. The somewhat awkward manner in which they were fulfilling their office, plainly proclaimed that it was new to them; while their style of dress, though different in each, declared them to belong to other callings.
Two were habited in the ordinary peasant garb of the period—with a few touches that told them to be woodmen; and as the lightning flashed upon their faces it revealed these two personages to be—Dick Dancey and his coadjutor, Will Walford.
The dress of the third was not characteristic of any exact calling; but appeared rather a combination of several styles: as though several individuals had contributed a portion of their apparel to hismake-up. There was a pair of buff-leather boots, which, in point of elegance, might have encased the feet and ankles of a cavalier—the wide tops turned down over the knees, showing a profusion of white lining inside. Above these dangled the legs of a pair of petticoat breeches, of coarse kersey, which strangely contrasted with the costly character of the boots. Over the waistband of the breeches puffed out a shirt of finest linen—though far from being either spotless or clean; while this was again overtopped by a doublet of homespun woollen cloth, of the kind known as “marry-muffe”—slashed along the sleeves with the cheapest of cotton velveteen. Surmounting this, in like contrast, was the broad lace collar band of a cavalier, with cuffs to correspond—both looking, as if the last place of deposit had been the buck-basket of a washerwoman, and the wearer had taken them thence, without waiting for their being submitted to the operations of the laundry.
Add to the above-mentioned habiliments a high-crowned felt hat—somewhat battered about the brim—with a tarnished tinsel band, but without any pretence at a plume; and you have the complete costume of the third individual who was acting as an extemporised stable-helper at the dwelling of Stone Dean.
Had there been light enough for the travellers to have scrutinised his features, no doubt they would have been somewhat astonished at this queer-looking personage, who assisted in disembarrassing them of their steeds. Perhaps some of them, seeing his face, might have thought twice before trusting him with the keeping of a valuable horse: for, in the tall stalwart figure, that appeared both peasant and gentleman, in alternate sections, they might have recognised an old, and not very trustworthy acquaintance—the famed footpad, Gregory Garth.
In the darkness, however, Gregory ran no risk of detection; and continued to play hisimprovisedpart, without any apprehension of an awkward encounter.
By the time that the great clock in the tower of Chalfont Church had ceased tolling twelve, more than twenty of the nocturnal visitors to Stone Dean had entered within the walls of that quaint old dwelling; and still the sound of shod hooves, clinking occasionally against the stones upon the adjacent road, told that an odd straggler had yet to arrive.
About this time two horsemen, riding together, passed in through the gate of the park. Following the fashion of the others, they continued on to the front of the house—where, like the others, they also dismounted, and surrendered their horses to two of the men who stepped forward to receive them.
These animals, like the others, were led back to the stables; but their riders, instead of entering the house by the front door—as had been done by all those who had preceded them—in this respect deviated slightly from the programme.
As soon as the two grooms, who had taken their horses, were fairly out of sight, they were seen to act in obedience to a sign given by the third; who, whispering to them to follow him, led the way, first along the front of the house, and then around one of its wings, towards the rear.
Even had there been moonlight, it would have been difficult to identify these new comers, who were so mysteriously diverted from making entrance by the front door. Both were muffled in cloaks—more ample and heavy—than the quality of the night seemed to call for. Scarcely could the threatening storm account for this providence on their part?
On rounding the angle of the building, the man preceding them made a stop—at the same time half-facing about.
A gleam of lightning disclosed the countenance of their conductor. It was the woodman—Walford.
His face was paler than wont—of that ghastly hue that denotes the consciousness of crime—while his deep-set watery eyes shining from beneath his white eyebrows and hay-coloured hair, gave to his ill-favoured features an expression almost demoniac.
The countenances of the two cavaliers were also for an instant illuminated. One was the handsome face of Captain Scarthe—appearing like that of the guide—unnaturally pale under the unearthly glare of the electric light. The other was the stolid, but rubicund, countenance of his subaltern, Stubbs.
While the light lasted, Walford was seen beckoning them to follow fester.
“Coom on, masters!” muttered he, in an earnest, hurried tone, “There’s ne’er a minute to be lost. That ’ere dummy o’ an Indyen has got his eyes everywhere. If he sees ye, he’ll want to take ye inside among the rest; an’ that won’t answer yer purpose, I reckon.”
“No! that would never do,” muttered Scarthe, hastening his steps; “our presence inside would spoil this pretty pie. Go on, my good fellow! We’ll follow you—close as the skirt of your doublet.”
Without another word the trio moved on—the guide keeping a pace or two in advance, Stubbs clumsily staggering in the rear.
In this order they continued around the right wing of the house—all three making their way with as much silence and caution, as if they had been a band of burglars about to enter upon the ceremony of “cracking a crib.”
The almost amorphous darkness would have hindered them from being observed, even had there been any one in the way. But there was not—no one to see them stealing along that sombre-coloured wall—no eye to witness their entrance within the private side door that admitted them by a narrow passage into the unused apartments of the house—no eye to behold them as they stood within that small dark chamber, that communicated by a window of dingy glass with the large hall in which the guests of Henry Holtspur were assembled.
“Just the place!” whispered Scarthe, as, glancing through the glass, he saw the forms of men, moving confusedly over the floor of a well-lit apartment, and listened to the murmur of voices. “The very observatory I wished for. Now go, my good fellow!” he continued, transferring his whisper to the ear of Walford. “In twenty minutes from this time steal our horses out of the stables, and have them ready. We shall go back by the front entrance. Your worthy confrères will never know but that we’ve issued from the hive inside there. If they should suspect anything, I’ve got two sorts of metal upon my person—one or other of which will be sure to keep them quiet.”
Half pushing his late conductor bade into the passage, Scarthe quietly closed the door behind him; and drew Stubbs up to the cobweb-covered window. Behind it both silently took their stand—crouching like a pair of gigantic spiders, that had placed themselves in expectation of prey!
Neither made the slightest stir. They no longer talked to each other even in whispers. They were well aware of the danger they would incur—if detected in their eavesdropping—aware that they might have to pay for it with their lives, or at the very least, suffer severe punishment, by a castigation upon the spot, and the consequent disgrace due to their dastardly conduct. The act they were committing was of no trifling character—no child’s play of hide and seek; but a bold and dangerous game of espionage, in which not only the personal liberty, but even the lives of many individuals might be placed in peril—these, too, among the highest in the land.
Scarthe was conscious of all this; and, but that he was impelled to the act by the most powerful passion of man’s nature—the promptings of a profound jealousy—he might have hesitated before placing himself in such a position. His mere political proclivities would never have tempted him to the committal of such an imprudent act. Much as he inclined towards the king, he was not the man to play spy over a conference of conspirators—such as he believed this assembly to be, from motives of mere loyalty. The thought stimulating him was stronger by far.
He had not placed himself in that position blindly trusting to chance. Like a skilled strategist, as he was, he had well reconnoitred the ground before entering upon it. His coadjutor, Walford, acting under a somewhat similar motive, had freely furnished him with all the information he required. The woodman—from an acquaintance with the old “caretaker,” who had held charge of the house previous to Holtspur’s occupation—had a thorough knowledge of the dwelling of Stone Dean—its ins and its outs—its trap-doors and sliding panels—every stair and corner, from cellar to garret. Walford had assured the spies, that the chamber in which he secreted them was never entered by any one; and that the glass door communicating with the larger apartment could not be opened, without breaking it to pieces. Not only was its lock sealed with the rust of time, but the door itself was nailed fast to the post and lintels.
There was no fear of their being seen. The cobwebs precluded the possibility of that. As to their being heard, it would depend upon their own behaviour; and under the circumstances, neither captain nor cornet were likely to make any noise that might attract attention.
For the rest the affair had been easy enough. Among a crowd of unknown guests arriving at the house—even under the supervision of a staff of regular domestics—it was not likely that a distinction should be made between the invited and those unasked; much less under theoutrécircumstances foreseen and well understood by Scarthe and his companion.
Neither Dancey nor Garth were supposed to know the persons of either. Nor had Oriole ever seen them; though Walford was far more concerned about the instincts of the Indian, than the observations of his fellow-helpers.
So far, however, he had succeeded in baffling both.
Scarthe commenced by wiping off enough of the cobwebs, to give him a clear disc of vision, of about the size of a crown piece.
With his eye close to the glass he commanded a view of the adjoining apartment, as well as the company it contained.
As to hearing, there was no difficulty about that. Even the ordinary conversation could be heard plainly through the panes; but, when any one spoke louder than the rest, every word could be distinguished.
Scarthe had not been very long occupied in his surveillance, before perceiving that he was playing the spy upon a company of gentlemen. None present were of the peasant type.
Soon also did he become acquainted with the general tenour of the discourse, and convinced of the correctness of his conjecture: that the meeting was an assembly of conspirators. This was the name given to it by the royalist captain; though rather did it merit to be called a conference of patriots—perhaps the purest that ever assembled on the earth.
The subjects discussed were various, but all relating to two matters of chief moment:—the liberty of the subject, and the encroachments of the sovereign. Out of doors, or inside, these were the topics of the time.
Three or four of the speakers appeared to be regarded above the rest; and when one or other of these stood up, an air of silent respect pervaded the assembly.
Scarthe had no personal knowledge of these distinguished individuals. He little suspected, when that man of noble mien rose up—he for whom the hum of conversation became suddenly hushed—and upon whom every eye was turned with a regard that seemed that of a brotherly affection—little suspected the sneaking spy of a Court, that he was listening to the most disinterested patriot England has ever produced—that glorious hero of the Chilterns—John Hampden.
As little knew he that in the speaker who followed—a man of mature age, and perhaps of more eloquent tongue—he beheld the future accuser of Stafford,—the bold prosecutor who successfully brought this notorious renegade to the block.
Neither did Scarthe recognise in that young but grave gentleman, who spoke so enthusiastically in favour of a nonconformist religion, the self-denying nobleman, Sir Harry Vane; nor in him who had a quick answer for every opponent, and a jest for every occasion, theelegant, whose appearance of superficial dandyism concealed a heart truly devoted to the interests of English liberty—Harry Martin of Berks.
From his concealment Scarthe saw all these noble and heroic men, without identifying them. He cared not for one or the other—what they did, or what they said. His eye was set, and his ear bent, to see one who had not yet presented himself—to hear one who had not yet spoken.
The host of the house—he who had summoned these guests together—was the man whom Scarthe desired to see and hear. Though the Royalist spy felt satisfied, that what had passed already would be proof sufficient against Holtspur, he wanted one speech from his own mouth—one word that would more surely convict him.
He was not disappointed. In that congregation Henry Holtspur was not expected to be silent. Though regarded more in the light of an actor than an orator, there were those who waited to hear him with that silent eagerness that tells of a truer appreciation, than the mere ebullition of a noisy enthusiasm. As the host of the house he had hitherto modestly remained in the background, until forced to take his turn; and his turn at length came.
In a speech which occupied more than an hour, Pym had set before the assembly a full list of the grievances under which the nation groaned—a sort of epitome of the famous oration that afterwards ushered in the attainder of Stafford. Its effect upon all, was to strengthen them in the determination to oppose—with greater energy than ever—the usurpations of the Court; and many of the gentlemen present declared their willingness to make any sacrifice, either personal or pecuniary, rather than longer submit to the illegal exactions of the monarch.
“Why,” said Holtspur, rising to his feet and standing conspicuously before his guests, “why should we continue to talk in enigmas? I, for one, am tired of keeping up this pretence of hostility towards the subordinates, whilst the real enemy is allowed to escape all accusations of criminality. It is not Stafford, nor Laud, nor Finch, nor Mainwaring, nor Windebank, who are the oppressors of the people. These are but the tools of the tyrant. Destroy them to-day, and to-morrow others will be found to supply their place—as fitting and truculent as they. To what end, then, are our protests and prosecutions? The hydra of despotism can only be crushedby, depriving it of its head. The poisonous tree of evil is not to be destroyed, by here and there lopping off a branch. It can be rendered innoxious only by striking at its roots!
“Some gentlemen here seem to think, that, by surrounding the king with good counsellors, we may succeed in bringing him to rule with justice. But good counsellors, under the influence of an unscrupulous Court, may any day change their character; and then the work will have to be done over again. Look at Stafford himself! Ten years ago, had we met as we meet to-night, Thomas Wentworth would have been with us—foremost in our councils—See the baneful effects of Royal favour! It will ever be so—as long as men set up an idol, call it a king, and fall down upon their faces to worship it!
“For my own part I scorn to palter with words. I see but one criminal worthy our accusations; and he is neither councillor, nor secretary, nor bishop; but the master of all three. In my mind, gentlemen, it is no longer a question of whether we are to be ruled by a good king, or a bad king;but whether we are to have a king at all!”
“Mysentiments!” cried Henry Martin, and several others of the younger and bolder spirits; while a general murmur of approbation was heard throughout the room.
These were wild words—even within that secret assemblage. The question ofking or no king, had begun to shape itself in the minds of a few men; but this was the first time it had risen to the lips of any one. It was the firstspokensummons invoking the dark shadow that hovered over the head of Charles Stuart, until his neck lay bleeding on the block!
“Enough!” gasped out Scarthe, in an almost inaudible whisper, as he recovered his long suspended breath, “enough formypurpose. You heard it, Stubbs?”
“I did, by Ged!” replied the subordinate spy, taking care to imitate his superior in the low tone in which he made answer.
“We may go now,” said Scarthe. “There’s nothing more to be seen or done—at least nothing I need care for. Ha! who’s speaking now? That voice? Surely I’ve heard it before?”
As he said this, he placed his eye once more to the disc of cleared glass.
Suddenly drawing himself back, and clutching his associate by the arm, he muttered:
“Who do you think is there?”
“Can’t guess, captain.”
“Listen, then!” and, placing his lips close to the ear of his companion, he whispered in slow syllables, “Sir Mar-ma-duke Wade.”
“Do you say so?”
“Look for yourself: look and listen! Do both well: for the words you hear,may yet win you your sweetheart.”
“How, captain?”
“Don’t question me now,” hurriedly replied the latter, at the same time returning to his attitude of attention.
It was in truth Sir Marmaduke Wade, who was addressing the assembly. But his speech was averyshort one: for the worthy knight was no orator; and it was nearly finished by the time Scarthe and the cornet had succeeded in placing themselves in a position to have heard him.
Enough reached the ears of the former to give him all that he required for a fell purpose; which even at that moment had commenced taking shape in his diabolical brain.
In the few words that dropped from the lips of his host, Scarthe could discover sufficient evidence of disloyalty. Indeed, the presence of Sir Marmaduke in that place—coupled with, perhaps, something more than suspicion which the king already entertained towards him—would be proof enough to satisfy the Star Chamber.
“We may go now,” whispered Scarthe, stealing towards the door, and drawing his subaltern gently after him. “Softly, cornet!” continued he, as hand-in-hand they retraced the dark passage. “Those boots of yours creak like a ship in a swell! Fancy you are treading on eggs!”
As he made this facetious remark, they emerged into the open air; and, whispering mutual congratulations, went skulking onward, like a brace of felons making their escape from the confinement of a prison.
“If this fellow,” said Scarthe, “can only succeed in extricating our horses, I think we may flatter ourselves, that we have made a successful job of it. Come on.”
And Scarthe led the way along the wall, towards the front of the dwelling.
They proceeded with as much caution as ever. Though outside, they were not yet safe from having their presence discovered, and their purpose suspected. The sky was clearer than when they had last looked upon it: for the thunderstorm, now over, had scattered the clouds, and deluged the earth with rain.
At the angle of the building they could make out the figure of a man, standing under the shadow of a tree. It was Walford. On seeing them, he stepped forth, and advanced to meet them.
“Theer be nobody by the front door,” he muttered, when near enough to be heard. “Stay by the steps, but don’t show yer faces. I’ll ha’ the horses round in a twinkle.”
Saying this, the traitor left them, and disappeared in the direction of the stables.
Obedient to his instructions, they took their stand; and, still conversing in whispers, awaited his return.
True to his promise almost in an instant the two horses were brought round—one led by himself, the other by Dancey.
The latter was too much occupied by the gold piece, glistening within his palm, to think of scrutinising the countenance of the giver.
“Odds luck, Wull!” said he, turning to his comrade, after the two horsemen had ridden off; “stable keepin’ appear to be a better bisness than windin’ the woodaxe! If they be all as liberal as these ’uns we shall ha’ a profitable night o’t.”
Walford assented with a shrug of his shoulders, and a significant grin—which in the darkness was not noticed by the unsuspicious deer-stealer.
Just then, Gregory Garth coming up armed with a tankard of ale—perhaps surreptitiously drawn from the cellar—interrupted the conversation, or rather changed it into a different channel: for it was still carried on to the accompaniment of a copious imbibing of the homebrew.