Volume Two—Chapter Eleven.The two spies moved silently away—neither speaking above his breath, till they had regained the road, outside the gates of Stone Dean, then, no longer fearing to be overheard, they talked in louder tone.“What a grandcoupit would be!” observed Scarthe, partly in soliloquy, and partly addressing himself to his companion.“What, captain?” inquired Stubbs.“To capture this whole nest of conspirators.”“It would, by Ged!”“It would get me that colonelcy—true as a trivet; and you, my worthy cornet, would become Captain Stubbs!”“Zounds! why not try to take ’em then?”“Simply because we can’t. By the time we should get our vagabonds in their saddles, and ride back, every knave of them would be gone. I saw they were about to break up; and that’s why I came so quickly away. Yes—yes!” continued he, reflectingly, “they’d be scattered to the four winds, before we could get back. Besides—besides—hemight slip off through the darkness, and give trouble to find him afterwards! What matters to me about the others? I must make sure ofhim; and that will be best done in the daylight. To-morrow he shall be mine; the day after, the lieutenant of the Tower shall have him; and then the Star Chamber; and then—the scaffold!”“But, captain,” said Stubbs, in answer to the soliloquised speech, only a portion of which he had heard. “What about our worthy host, Sir Marmaduke? Can’t you takehim?”“At any time—ha! ha! ha! And hark you, Stubbs! I’ve a word for you on that delicate subject. I’ve promised you promotion. The queen, on my recommendation, will see that you have it. But you get my endorsement, only on conditions—on conditions, do you hear?”“I do. What conditions, captain?”“That you say nothing—either of where you’ve been, what you’ve heard, or what you’ve seen this night—till I give you the cue to speak.”“Not a word, by Ged! I promise that.”“Very well. It’ll be to your interest, my worthy cornet, to keep your promise, if you ever expect me to call youcaptain. In time you may understand my reasons for binding you to secrecy, and in time you shall. Meanwhile, not a whisper of where we’ve been to-night—least of all to Sir Marmaduke Wade. Ah! my noble knight!” continued the captain, speaking to himself, “I’ve now got the sun shining that will thaw the ice of your aristocratic superciliousness! And you, indifferent dame! If I mistake not your sex and your sort, ere another moon has flung its mystic influence over your mind, I shall tread your indifference in the dust, make you open those loving arms, twine them around the neck of Richard Scarthe, and cry—‘Be mine, dearest! mine for ever!’”The speaker rose exultingly in his stirrups, as if he had already felt that thrilling embrace; but, in a moment after, sank back into his saddle, and sate in a cowed and cowering attitude.It was but the natural revulsion of an over-triumphant feeling—the reaction that succeeds the indulgence of an unreal and selfish conceit.His sudden start upward had roused afresh the pain in his wounded arm. It recalled a series of circumstances calculated to humiliate him;—his defeat—the finding of the glove—his suspicion of a rival—that assignation scene, that almost made it a certainty.All these remembrances, suggested by the sting of the still unhealed sword-wound, as they came simultaneously rolling over his soul, swept it clear of every thought of triumph; and, despite the success of his strategy, he re-entered the park of Sir Marmaduke Wade, as heavy in heart, and perhaps poorer in hope, than any tramping mendicant that had ever trodden its tree-shaded avenues.He knew the situation of Marion’s sleeping chamber. He had made it his business to ascertain that. He gazed upon the window as he rode forward. He fancied he saw a form receding behind the curtain, like some white nymph dissolving herself into the world of ether.He checked his steed; and for a long time kept his eyes fixed upon the casement: but nothing appeared to impart consolation. There was no light in the chamber; the cold glitter of the glass was in consonance with the chill that had crept over his spirits; and he moved on, convinced that his imagination had been mocking him.And yet it was not so. It was a real form, and no illusion, that he had seen receding from the window—the form of Marion Wade, that more than once had appeared there since his departure.The lamp, so opportunely extinguished, had not been re-lit. The cousins, groping their way through the darkness, had betaken themselves to bed.What else could they do? Even though what they had seen might forbode evil to some one, what power had they to avert it?Had there been a certainty of danger, it is true,—and to him who was the chief subject of her apprehensions,—Marion Wade could not have gone tranquilly to sleep.Neither did she: for, although the midnight excursion of the cuirassier captain and his comet might have no serious significance, coupled with the presentiment from which she was already suffering, she could not help fancying that it had.The hour was too late for an adventure, either of gaiety or gallantry, in a rural neighbourhood, where all the world—even the wicked—should have long ago retired to rest.For more than an hour the cousins had lain side by side—conferring on the incident that had so unexpectedly transpired. Of other confidences they had before unbosomed themselves—though much of what they intended to have said remained unspoken: on account of the distraction caused to their thoughts by this new circumstance.Both had been perplexed,—alike unable to discover a clue to the mysterious movement of Scarthe and his comet.After more than an hour spent in shaping conjectures, and building hypotheses, they had arrived no nearer to a rational belief, than when commencing their speculations on the subject.Finally, Lora, less interested in the event or its consequences, laid her head complacently on the pillow, and fell off into a sleep—determined, no doubt, to dream of Walter.For Marion there was no such solace; no rest for her that night—with the image of Henry Holtspur hovering over her heart; and her bosom filled with vague apprehensions about his safety.She had not tried to sleep. She had not even kept to her couch; but stealing gently from the side of her unconscious cousin, she had repeatedly sought the window; and gazed forth from it.After going several times to and fro, she had at length stationed herself by the casement; and there crouching in its embayment—her form shrouded by the silken tapestry—had she remained for hours, eagerly listening to every sound—listening to the rain, as it plashed heavily on roof, terrace, and trees—watching the lightning’s flash—straining her eyes, while it glared, adown that long arcade between the chestnuts, that bordered the path by which the nocturnal excursionists might be expected to reappear.Her vigil was not unrewarded. They came back at length—as they had gone—Scarthe and Stubbs, together and by themselves.“Thank Heaven!” muttered Marion, as she caught sight of the two forms returning up the avenue, and saw that they were alone. “Thank Heaven! Their errand, whatever it may have been, is ended. I hope it had no reference tohim!”Holding the curtain, so as to screen her form, she stayed in the window until the two horsemen had ridden up to the walls. But the darkness outside—still impenetrable except when the lightning played—prevented observation; and she only knew by the sound of their horses’ hooves, that they had passed under her window towards the rear of the mansion, and entered the courtyard—whose heavy gate she could hear closing behind them.Then, and not till then, did she consent to surrender herself to that god, puissant as love itself; and, gently extending her white limbs alongside those of Lora, she entered upon the enjoyment of a slumber—perhaps not so innocent, as that of her unconscious cousin—but equally profound.Little did Scarthe suspect, that the snow-white vision, so suddenly fading from his view, was the real form of that splendid woman, now weirdly woven around his heart. Had he suspected it, he would scarce have retired to his couch; which he did with embittered spirit, and a vile vow, instead of a prayer, passing from his lips. It was but the repetition of that vow, long since conceived to win Marion Wade—to win and wed her, by fair means or by foul.He besought his couch, but not with the intention of going to sleep.With a brain, so fearfully excited, he could not hope to procure repose.Neither did he wish it. He had not even undressed himself; and his object in stretching his limbs upon a bed, was that he might the more effectually concentrate his thoughts upon his scheme of villainy.In his homeward ride he had already traced out his course of immediate action; which, in its main features, comprehended the arrest of Henry Holtspur, and sending him under guard to the Tower of London. It was only the minor details of this preliminary design that now occupied his mind.Before parting with his subaltern, he had given orders for thirty of his troopers to be ready to take saddle a little before daybreak; the order being accompanied by cautionary injunctions—that the men were to be aroused from their slumbers without any noise to disturb the tranquillity of the mansion—that they were to “boot and saddle” without the usual signal of the bugle; in short, that they were to get ready for the route with as much secrecy and silence as possible.There would be just time for the cornet to have these commands executed; and, knowing the necessity of obedience to his superior, Stubbs had promptly proceeded to enforce them.One by one, the men were awakened with all the secrecy enjoined in the order; the horses were saddled in silence; and a troop of thirty cuirassiers, armedcap-à-pied, ready to mount, stood in the courtyard, just as the first streak of grey light—denoting the approach of dawn—became visible above the eastern horizon.Meanwhile, Scarthe, stretched along his couch, had been maturing his plan. He had but little apprehension of failure. It was scarce probable that his enemy could escape capture. So adroitly had he managed the matter of the espionage, that Henry Holtspur could have no suspicion of what had occurred.Scarthe had become sufficiently familiar with Walford and his ways, to know that this traitor would be true to the instincts of jealousy and vengeance. There was no fear that Holtspur would receive warning from the woodman; and from whom else could he have it? No one.The arrest would be simple and easy. It would be only necessary to surround the house, cut off every loophole of escape, and capture the conspirator—in all probability in his bed. After that the Tower—then the Star Chamber; and Scarthe knew enough of this iniquitous tribunal, to feel sure that the sentence it would pass would for ever rid not only Walford, but himself, of a hated rival. It would also disembarrass the king of a dangerous enemy; though of all the motives, inspiring Scarthe to the act, this was perhaps the weakest.His hostility for Holtspur—though of quick and recent growth—was as deeply rooted, as if it had existed for years. To be defeated in the eyes of a multitude—struck down from his horse—compelled to cry “quarter”—he, Richard Scarthe, captain of the King’s cuirassiers—apreux chevalier—a noted champion of the duello—this circumstance was of itself sufficient to inspire him with an implacable hostility towards his successful antagonist. But to suffer this humiliation in the presence of high-born women—under the eye of one whom he now loved with a fierce, lustful passion—worse still; one whom he had reason to believe was lovingly inclined towards his adversary—all this had embittered his heart with more than a common hatred, and filled his bosom with a wild yearning for more than a common vengeance.It was in planning this, that he passed the interval upon his couch; and his actions, at the end of the time, along with his muttered words, proved that he had succeeded in devising a sure scheme of retaliation.“By heavens!” he exclaimed aloud, springing to his feet, and measuring the floor of his chamber with quick, nervous strides; “it will be a sweet revenge! She shall look upon him inhishour of humiliation. Stripped of his fine feathers, shall he appear under her window, under her aristocratic eyes—a prisoner—helpless, bayed, and brow-beaten. Ha! ha! ha!”The exulting laugh told how pleasant was his anticipation of the spectacle his fancy had conjured up.“Shall he wearthe white gauntletin his beaver?” he continued, pondering over new modes of humiliating his adversary. “There would be something sweet in such a sublime mockery? No: better not—he will appear more ridiculous with his head bare—bound like a felon! Ha! ha! ha!”Again he gave way, unchecked, to his exultant laugh, till the room rang with his fierce cachinnations.“Zounds!” exclaimed he, after an interval, during which the shadow of some doubt had stolen over his face. “If she should smile upon him in that hour, then my triumph would be changed to chagrin! Oh! under her smile he would be happier than I!”“Aha!” he ejaculated, after another pause, in which he appeared to have conceived a thought that chased away the shadow. “Aha! I have it now. She shallnotsmile. I shall take precautions against it. Phoebus! what a splendid conception! He shall appear before her,notbareheaded, but with beaver on—bedecked with a bunch of flowers!”“Let me see! What sort were those the girl gave him? Red, if I remember aright,—ragged robin, corn poppies, or something of the kind. No matter about that, so long as the colour be in correspondence. In the distance, Marion could scarce have distinguished the species. A little faded, too, they must be: as if kept since the day of the fête.Shewill never suspect theruse. If she smile, after beholding the flowers, then shall I know that there is nothing between them. A world to see her smile? To see her do the very thing, which but an instant ago, I fancied would have filled me with chagrin!”“Ho!” he again ejaculated, in a tone of increasing triumph. “Another splendid conception! My brain, so damnably dull all through the night, brightens with the coming day. As our French queen is accustomed to exclaim, ‘une pensée magnifique!’ ’Twill be a home thrust for Holtspur. Ifheloveher—and who can doubt it—then shall his heart be wrung, as he has wrung mine. Ha! ha!The right hand glove shall triumph over the left!”As Scarthe said this, he strode towards the table on which lay his helmet; and, taking from the breast of his doublet the gauntlet of Marion Wade—the one she had really lost—he tied it with a piece of ribbon to the crest;—just under thepanacheof plumes.“Something for him to speculate upon, while inside the walls of his prison! Something to kill time, when he is awake, and dream of, when asleep! Ha! ha! A sweet revenge ’twill be—one worthy the craft of an inquisitor!”A footstep coming along the corridor put a period to his changing soliloquy.It was the footstep of Stubbs; and in the next instant the flat face of the cornet presented itself in the half-opened door.“Thirty in armour, captain—ready for the road,” was the announcement of the subaltern.“And I am ready to head them,” answered his superior officer—setting his helmet firmly upon his head, and striding towards the door, “Thirty will be more than we need. After all, ’tis best to make sure. We don’t want the fox to steal away from his cover; and he might do so, if the earths be not properly stopped. We’re pretty sure to find him in his swaddling clothes at this hour. Ha! ha! ha! What a ludicrous figure our fine cavalier will cut in his nightcap! Won’t he, Stubbs?”“Ought to, by Ged!”And, with this gleeful anticipation, Scarthe, followed by his subaltern, stepped lightly along the passage leading towards the courtyard—where thirty troopers, armedcap-à-pied—each standing on the near side of his steed—awaited the order to spring into their saddles.In two seconds’ time the “Mount and forward!” was given—not by signal-call of the bugle, but by word of command, somewhat quietly pronounced. Then, with captain and cornet at its head, the troop by twos, filed out through the arched entrance—directing their march towards the gateway that opened upon the Oxford Road, treading in the direction of Beaconsfield.It was by this same entrance the two officers had come in only a short while before. They saw the hoof-prints of their horses in the dust—still saturated with the rain that had fallen. They saw also the track of a third steed, that had been travelling the same direction: towards the house.They found the gate closed. They had left it open. Some less negligent person had entered the park after them!“Our host has got safe home!” whispered Scarthe to his subaltern.“So much the better,” he—added with a significant smile, “I don’t want to capturehim—at least, not now; and if I can makea captiveof his daughter—not at all. If I succeed not in that, why then—then—I fear Sir Marmaduke will have to accept the hospitality of his Majesty, and abide some time under the roof of that royal mansion that lies eastward of Cheap—erst honoured by the residence of so many distinguished gentlemen. Ha! ha! ha!”Having delivered himself of this jocular allusion to the Tower, he passed through the park gate; and at the head of his troopers continued briskly, but silently, along the king’s highway.On went the glittering phalanx—winding up the road like some destroying serpent on its way to wickedness—the pattering of their horses’ feet, and the occasional clink of steel scabbards, striking against stirrups andçuisses, were the only sounds that broke upon the still air of the morning—to proclaim the passage of armed and mounted men.
The two spies moved silently away—neither speaking above his breath, till they had regained the road, outside the gates of Stone Dean, then, no longer fearing to be overheard, they talked in louder tone.
“What a grandcoupit would be!” observed Scarthe, partly in soliloquy, and partly addressing himself to his companion.
“What, captain?” inquired Stubbs.
“To capture this whole nest of conspirators.”
“It would, by Ged!”
“It would get me that colonelcy—true as a trivet; and you, my worthy cornet, would become Captain Stubbs!”
“Zounds! why not try to take ’em then?”
“Simply because we can’t. By the time we should get our vagabonds in their saddles, and ride back, every knave of them would be gone. I saw they were about to break up; and that’s why I came so quickly away. Yes—yes!” continued he, reflectingly, “they’d be scattered to the four winds, before we could get back. Besides—besides—hemight slip off through the darkness, and give trouble to find him afterwards! What matters to me about the others? I must make sure ofhim; and that will be best done in the daylight. To-morrow he shall be mine; the day after, the lieutenant of the Tower shall have him; and then the Star Chamber; and then—the scaffold!”
“But, captain,” said Stubbs, in answer to the soliloquised speech, only a portion of which he had heard. “What about our worthy host, Sir Marmaduke? Can’t you takehim?”
“At any time—ha! ha! ha! And hark you, Stubbs! I’ve a word for you on that delicate subject. I’ve promised you promotion. The queen, on my recommendation, will see that you have it. But you get my endorsement, only on conditions—on conditions, do you hear?”
“I do. What conditions, captain?”
“That you say nothing—either of where you’ve been, what you’ve heard, or what you’ve seen this night—till I give you the cue to speak.”
“Not a word, by Ged! I promise that.”
“Very well. It’ll be to your interest, my worthy cornet, to keep your promise, if you ever expect me to call youcaptain. In time you may understand my reasons for binding you to secrecy, and in time you shall. Meanwhile, not a whisper of where we’ve been to-night—least of all to Sir Marmaduke Wade. Ah! my noble knight!” continued the captain, speaking to himself, “I’ve now got the sun shining that will thaw the ice of your aristocratic superciliousness! And you, indifferent dame! If I mistake not your sex and your sort, ere another moon has flung its mystic influence over your mind, I shall tread your indifference in the dust, make you open those loving arms, twine them around the neck of Richard Scarthe, and cry—‘Be mine, dearest! mine for ever!’”
The speaker rose exultingly in his stirrups, as if he had already felt that thrilling embrace; but, in a moment after, sank back into his saddle, and sate in a cowed and cowering attitude.
It was but the natural revulsion of an over-triumphant feeling—the reaction that succeeds the indulgence of an unreal and selfish conceit.
His sudden start upward had roused afresh the pain in his wounded arm. It recalled a series of circumstances calculated to humiliate him;—his defeat—the finding of the glove—his suspicion of a rival—that assignation scene, that almost made it a certainty.
All these remembrances, suggested by the sting of the still unhealed sword-wound, as they came simultaneously rolling over his soul, swept it clear of every thought of triumph; and, despite the success of his strategy, he re-entered the park of Sir Marmaduke Wade, as heavy in heart, and perhaps poorer in hope, than any tramping mendicant that had ever trodden its tree-shaded avenues.
He knew the situation of Marion’s sleeping chamber. He had made it his business to ascertain that. He gazed upon the window as he rode forward. He fancied he saw a form receding behind the curtain, like some white nymph dissolving herself into the world of ether.
He checked his steed; and for a long time kept his eyes fixed upon the casement: but nothing appeared to impart consolation. There was no light in the chamber; the cold glitter of the glass was in consonance with the chill that had crept over his spirits; and he moved on, convinced that his imagination had been mocking him.
And yet it was not so. It was a real form, and no illusion, that he had seen receding from the window—the form of Marion Wade, that more than once had appeared there since his departure.
The lamp, so opportunely extinguished, had not been re-lit. The cousins, groping their way through the darkness, had betaken themselves to bed.
What else could they do? Even though what they had seen might forbode evil to some one, what power had they to avert it?
Had there been a certainty of danger, it is true,—and to him who was the chief subject of her apprehensions,—Marion Wade could not have gone tranquilly to sleep.
Neither did she: for, although the midnight excursion of the cuirassier captain and his comet might have no serious significance, coupled with the presentiment from which she was already suffering, she could not help fancying that it had.
The hour was too late for an adventure, either of gaiety or gallantry, in a rural neighbourhood, where all the world—even the wicked—should have long ago retired to rest.
For more than an hour the cousins had lain side by side—conferring on the incident that had so unexpectedly transpired. Of other confidences they had before unbosomed themselves—though much of what they intended to have said remained unspoken: on account of the distraction caused to their thoughts by this new circumstance.
Both had been perplexed,—alike unable to discover a clue to the mysterious movement of Scarthe and his comet.
After more than an hour spent in shaping conjectures, and building hypotheses, they had arrived no nearer to a rational belief, than when commencing their speculations on the subject.
Finally, Lora, less interested in the event or its consequences, laid her head complacently on the pillow, and fell off into a sleep—determined, no doubt, to dream of Walter.
For Marion there was no such solace; no rest for her that night—with the image of Henry Holtspur hovering over her heart; and her bosom filled with vague apprehensions about his safety.
She had not tried to sleep. She had not even kept to her couch; but stealing gently from the side of her unconscious cousin, she had repeatedly sought the window; and gazed forth from it.
After going several times to and fro, she had at length stationed herself by the casement; and there crouching in its embayment—her form shrouded by the silken tapestry—had she remained for hours, eagerly listening to every sound—listening to the rain, as it plashed heavily on roof, terrace, and trees—watching the lightning’s flash—straining her eyes, while it glared, adown that long arcade between the chestnuts, that bordered the path by which the nocturnal excursionists might be expected to reappear.
Her vigil was not unrewarded. They came back at length—as they had gone—Scarthe and Stubbs, together and by themselves.
“Thank Heaven!” muttered Marion, as she caught sight of the two forms returning up the avenue, and saw that they were alone. “Thank Heaven! Their errand, whatever it may have been, is ended. I hope it had no reference tohim!”
Holding the curtain, so as to screen her form, she stayed in the window until the two horsemen had ridden up to the walls. But the darkness outside—still impenetrable except when the lightning played—prevented observation; and she only knew by the sound of their horses’ hooves, that they had passed under her window towards the rear of the mansion, and entered the courtyard—whose heavy gate she could hear closing behind them.
Then, and not till then, did she consent to surrender herself to that god, puissant as love itself; and, gently extending her white limbs alongside those of Lora, she entered upon the enjoyment of a slumber—perhaps not so innocent, as that of her unconscious cousin—but equally profound.
Little did Scarthe suspect, that the snow-white vision, so suddenly fading from his view, was the real form of that splendid woman, now weirdly woven around his heart. Had he suspected it, he would scarce have retired to his couch; which he did with embittered spirit, and a vile vow, instead of a prayer, passing from his lips. It was but the repetition of that vow, long since conceived to win Marion Wade—to win and wed her, by fair means or by foul.
He besought his couch, but not with the intention of going to sleep.
With a brain, so fearfully excited, he could not hope to procure repose.
Neither did he wish it. He had not even undressed himself; and his object in stretching his limbs upon a bed, was that he might the more effectually concentrate his thoughts upon his scheme of villainy.
In his homeward ride he had already traced out his course of immediate action; which, in its main features, comprehended the arrest of Henry Holtspur, and sending him under guard to the Tower of London. It was only the minor details of this preliminary design that now occupied his mind.
Before parting with his subaltern, he had given orders for thirty of his troopers to be ready to take saddle a little before daybreak; the order being accompanied by cautionary injunctions—that the men were to be aroused from their slumbers without any noise to disturb the tranquillity of the mansion—that they were to “boot and saddle” without the usual signal of the bugle; in short, that they were to get ready for the route with as much secrecy and silence as possible.
There would be just time for the cornet to have these commands executed; and, knowing the necessity of obedience to his superior, Stubbs had promptly proceeded to enforce them.
One by one, the men were awakened with all the secrecy enjoined in the order; the horses were saddled in silence; and a troop of thirty cuirassiers, armedcap-à-pied, ready to mount, stood in the courtyard, just as the first streak of grey light—denoting the approach of dawn—became visible above the eastern horizon.
Meanwhile, Scarthe, stretched along his couch, had been maturing his plan. He had but little apprehension of failure. It was scarce probable that his enemy could escape capture. So adroitly had he managed the matter of the espionage, that Henry Holtspur could have no suspicion of what had occurred.
Scarthe had become sufficiently familiar with Walford and his ways, to know that this traitor would be true to the instincts of jealousy and vengeance. There was no fear that Holtspur would receive warning from the woodman; and from whom else could he have it? No one.
The arrest would be simple and easy. It would be only necessary to surround the house, cut off every loophole of escape, and capture the conspirator—in all probability in his bed. After that the Tower—then the Star Chamber; and Scarthe knew enough of this iniquitous tribunal, to feel sure that the sentence it would pass would for ever rid not only Walford, but himself, of a hated rival. It would also disembarrass the king of a dangerous enemy; though of all the motives, inspiring Scarthe to the act, this was perhaps the weakest.
His hostility for Holtspur—though of quick and recent growth—was as deeply rooted, as if it had existed for years. To be defeated in the eyes of a multitude—struck down from his horse—compelled to cry “quarter”—he, Richard Scarthe, captain of the King’s cuirassiers—apreux chevalier—a noted champion of the duello—this circumstance was of itself sufficient to inspire him with an implacable hostility towards his successful antagonist. But to suffer this humiliation in the presence of high-born women—under the eye of one whom he now loved with a fierce, lustful passion—worse still; one whom he had reason to believe was lovingly inclined towards his adversary—all this had embittered his heart with more than a common hatred, and filled his bosom with a wild yearning for more than a common vengeance.
It was in planning this, that he passed the interval upon his couch; and his actions, at the end of the time, along with his muttered words, proved that he had succeeded in devising a sure scheme of retaliation.
“By heavens!” he exclaimed aloud, springing to his feet, and measuring the floor of his chamber with quick, nervous strides; “it will be a sweet revenge! She shall look upon him inhishour of humiliation. Stripped of his fine feathers, shall he appear under her window, under her aristocratic eyes—a prisoner—helpless, bayed, and brow-beaten. Ha! ha! ha!”
The exulting laugh told how pleasant was his anticipation of the spectacle his fancy had conjured up.
“Shall he wearthe white gauntletin his beaver?” he continued, pondering over new modes of humiliating his adversary. “There would be something sweet in such a sublime mockery? No: better not—he will appear more ridiculous with his head bare—bound like a felon! Ha! ha! ha!”
Again he gave way, unchecked, to his exultant laugh, till the room rang with his fierce cachinnations.
“Zounds!” exclaimed he, after an interval, during which the shadow of some doubt had stolen over his face. “If she should smile upon him in that hour, then my triumph would be changed to chagrin! Oh! under her smile he would be happier than I!”
“Aha!” he ejaculated, after another pause, in which he appeared to have conceived a thought that chased away the shadow. “Aha! I have it now. She shallnotsmile. I shall take precautions against it. Phoebus! what a splendid conception! He shall appear before her,notbareheaded, but with beaver on—bedecked with a bunch of flowers!”
“Let me see! What sort were those the girl gave him? Red, if I remember aright,—ragged robin, corn poppies, or something of the kind. No matter about that, so long as the colour be in correspondence. In the distance, Marion could scarce have distinguished the species. A little faded, too, they must be: as if kept since the day of the fête.Shewill never suspect theruse. If she smile, after beholding the flowers, then shall I know that there is nothing between them. A world to see her smile? To see her do the very thing, which but an instant ago, I fancied would have filled me with chagrin!”
“Ho!” he again ejaculated, in a tone of increasing triumph. “Another splendid conception! My brain, so damnably dull all through the night, brightens with the coming day. As our French queen is accustomed to exclaim, ‘une pensée magnifique!’ ’Twill be a home thrust for Holtspur. Ifheloveher—and who can doubt it—then shall his heart be wrung, as he has wrung mine. Ha! ha!The right hand glove shall triumph over the left!”
As Scarthe said this, he strode towards the table on which lay his helmet; and, taking from the breast of his doublet the gauntlet of Marion Wade—the one she had really lost—he tied it with a piece of ribbon to the crest;—just under thepanacheof plumes.
“Something for him to speculate upon, while inside the walls of his prison! Something to kill time, when he is awake, and dream of, when asleep! Ha! ha! A sweet revenge ’twill be—one worthy the craft of an inquisitor!”
A footstep coming along the corridor put a period to his changing soliloquy.
It was the footstep of Stubbs; and in the next instant the flat face of the cornet presented itself in the half-opened door.
“Thirty in armour, captain—ready for the road,” was the announcement of the subaltern.
“And I am ready to head them,” answered his superior officer—setting his helmet firmly upon his head, and striding towards the door, “Thirty will be more than we need. After all, ’tis best to make sure. We don’t want the fox to steal away from his cover; and he might do so, if the earths be not properly stopped. We’re pretty sure to find him in his swaddling clothes at this hour. Ha! ha! ha! What a ludicrous figure our fine cavalier will cut in his nightcap! Won’t he, Stubbs?”
“Ought to, by Ged!”
And, with this gleeful anticipation, Scarthe, followed by his subaltern, stepped lightly along the passage leading towards the courtyard—where thirty troopers, armedcap-à-pied—each standing on the near side of his steed—awaited the order to spring into their saddles.
In two seconds’ time the “Mount and forward!” was given—not by signal-call of the bugle, but by word of command, somewhat quietly pronounced. Then, with captain and cornet at its head, the troop by twos, filed out through the arched entrance—directing their march towards the gateway that opened upon the Oxford Road, treading in the direction of Beaconsfield.
It was by this same entrance the two officers had come in only a short while before. They saw the hoof-prints of their horses in the dust—still saturated with the rain that had fallen. They saw also the track of a third steed, that had been travelling the same direction: towards the house.
They found the gate closed. They had left it open. Some less negligent person had entered the park after them!
“Our host has got safe home!” whispered Scarthe to his subaltern.
“So much the better,” he—added with a significant smile, “I don’t want to capturehim—at least, not now; and if I can makea captiveof his daughter—not at all. If I succeed not in that, why then—then—I fear Sir Marmaduke will have to accept the hospitality of his Majesty, and abide some time under the roof of that royal mansion that lies eastward of Cheap—erst honoured by the residence of so many distinguished gentlemen. Ha! ha! ha!”
Having delivered himself of this jocular allusion to the Tower, he passed through the park gate; and at the head of his troopers continued briskly, but silently, along the king’s highway.
On went the glittering phalanx—winding up the road like some destroying serpent on its way to wickedness—the pattering of their horses’ feet, and the occasional clink of steel scabbards, striking against stirrups andçuisses, were the only sounds that broke upon the still air of the morning—to proclaim the passage of armed and mounted men.
Volume Two—Chapter Twelve.Shortly after the spies had taken their departure from Stone Dean, the conspirators might have been seen, emerging from the house, mounting their horses, and riding off. They went, much after the fashion in which they had come—in silence, alone, or in small groups; and, after clearing the gate entrance, along different roads. Some half dozen stayed later than the rest; but before the daylight could have disclosed their identity, these had also bidden adieu to Stone Dean; and were journeying far beyond the precincts of its secluded park.When the last guest had gone, two of Holtspur’s improvised grooms—for whose services there was no further occasion—also took their departure from the place. There remained only three individuals in the old mansion—its owner, his Indian attendant, and Gregory Garth.Of these, the last mentioned, and only he, had yielded his spirit to the embrace of the drowsy god.On perceiving that his services as stable-helper were no longer in requisition, the ex-footpad,—having no other lodging to which he might betake himself,—had stretched his tired limbs along the beechwood bench; which, as on a former occasion, he had drawn up close to the kitchen fire. In five minutes after, not only the ample kitchen itself, but the contiguous apartments of pantry and wash-house,—with the various passages between,—were resonant of his snores.Holtspur was still in the apartment in which the meeting had been held—the library it was—where, seated in front of a writing table, with pen in hand, he appeared to busy himself in the composition of some document of more than ordinary importance.Oriole was the only one of the household who seemed to have no occupation: since he was neither sleeping, nor acting.He was not inside the house, nor yet outside, but part of both: since he stood in the doorway, on the top step of the front entrance,—the door being still open.He was in his habitual attitude of perfect repose,—silent andstatuesque. This he had maintained for some length of time—having lingered, vaguely gazing after the last guest who had gone away—or, rather, the two woodmen, Walford and Dancey: for they had been the latest to take their departure.It is difficult to say what may have been occupying the thoughts of the young savage. Perhaps they were dwelling upon scenes of the past—memories of his forest home, thousands of miles away—memories of his early years—of his tawny companions, and their sports—memories, perhaps more tender, of sister or mother? Whether or no, they stirred him not from his silent attitude; and for a long half hour he remained motionless, wrapped in speechless reverie.It was only on seeing the first streaks of the dawn, stealing over the beech-clad crests of the hills, that he began to arouse himself; and then only in his eyes were exhibited signs of activity.These, instead of being directed towards the sky, were turned towards the ground—scrutinising a space in front of the door-step, where the close crowding of hoof-prints told of the many horsemen who had late made their departure from the place.For some time the Indian kept his eyes upon the ground, without exhibiting any apparent interest in the tracks. And yet he appeared to be tracing them: perhaps only in obedience to a habit learnt, and indulged in, from earliest childhood.After a while, his glance wandered to a wider range; and something, observed at a few paces distance, appeared more seriously to engage his attention.His statuesque attitude became at once disarranged; and, gliding down from the steps, he walked rapidly along the gravelled walk, leading to the left side of the house.On arriving at the angle of the wall, he stooped downward—as if to examine some object at his feet.After remaining motionless for a few seconds, he continued on—still with body bent—towards the back part of the dwelling.He proceeded slowly, but without making a stop—till he had arrived near the rear of the mansion. There a narrow doorway, opening into the eastern wing, was before his eyes; and into this he stood gazing—evidently in some surprise. It could not be at seeing the door: for he knew of it already. It was its being open that elicited that look of astonishment.During his stay at Stone Dean he had never known that side door to be otherwise than shut, and locked too. As there was only himself, and his master, who had the right to unlock it, he was naturally surprised at finding it ajar.He might not have heeded the circumstance but for another, which seemed to connect itself with the open door. He had observed the footprints of two men, plainly impressed in the damp dust. They ran all along the wall, parallel to, and a few paces from it. Near the angle of the building, they were joined by a third set of footmarks; and from that point the three proceeded together till lost among the horse-tracks around the entrance in front.It was these footmarks that had first attracted the Indian from his stand upon the steps; and, in tracing them, he had been conducted to the side doorway.To examine the tracks, either of man or animal, and wherever seen, is a habit—indeed almost an instinct—with an Indian; and, ruled by this peculiarity of his people, Oriole had hastened to scrutinise the “sign.”The act was not altogether unaccompanied by a process of ratiocination. Slightly as he understood the bearings of those political schemes, in which his master was engaged, the faithful follower knew that there was reason for secrecy, as well as suspicion in regard to the men, with whom he was brought in contact. It was some vague thought of this kind, that had caused him to take notice of the tracks.He remembered having conducted all the gentlemen outward by the front door, on their departure, as he had conducted them inward on their arrival. He remembered that all had ridden directly away. Which of them, then, had gone round to the rear of the building, without his having observed them?There were three distinct sets of footprints, not going towards the back, but returning towards the front. One set had been made by hobnailed shoes. These might be the tracks of one of the three helpers; but the other two were those of gentlemen.Almost intuitively had the Indian arrived at this conclusion, when his analysis was interrupted by seeing the side door standing open—a circumstance which strengthened his incipient suspicion that there was something in the “sign.”Without waiting to examine the tracks any further, he glided forward to the doorway; and, stepping inside, traversed the narrow passage which conducted to the antechamber—where Scarthe and his cornet had so silently assisted at the ceremony of the nocturnal assemblage.The keen eye of the American aboriginal—even under the sombre light of the unused apartment—at once detected evidences of its late occupancy. The unshut doors afforded this; but the deep dust, that for years had been accumulating on the floors, showed traces of having been recently stirred by shuffling feet—leaving no doubt upon the mind of Oriole, that men had been in that room, and had gone out of it, only an hour or two before.The disturbed spider webs upon the glazed partition did not escape his observation; nor the little spot upon the pane of glass that had been rubbed clean.Oriole placed his eye to it. He could see the whole of the apartment, late occupied by his master’s guests. He could see that master, now alone—seated before his writing table—utterly unconscious of being observed.The Indian was about to tap upon the glass, and communicate the discovery he had made; but, remembering his own misfortune, and that he could only speak by signs, he glided back through the passage, with the intention of reaching the library by the front entrance.Daylight had come down—sufficiently clear to enable him to make scrutiny of the tracks with more exactness; and he lingered awhile retracing them—in the hope of finding some solution of the mystery of their existence. The sun had not yet risen; but the red rays of the aurora already encrimsoned the crests of the surrounding ridges, tinting also the tops of the tall trees that overhung the old dwelling of Stone Dean. The light, falling upon the roosts of the rooks, had set the birds astart, and caused them to commence the utterance of their cheerful cawing.Whether it was the clamour of the crows, or the rustling of the riotous rats—as they chased one another along the empty shelves, and behind the decayed wainscotting of the old kitchen—or whether the circumstance was due to some other, and less explicable cause, certain it is that the slumbers of Gregory Garth were at that crisis interrupted.His snoring suddenly came to a termination; and he awoke with a start.It was a start, moreover, that led to a more serious disturbance: for, having destroyed his equilibrium on the beechwood bench—which chanced to be of somewhat slender dimensions—his body came down upon the hard stone flags of the floor, with a concussion, that for several seconds completely deprived him of breath.On recovering his wind—and along with it his senses—which had for a while remained in a state of obfuscation—the ex-footpad soon comprehended the nature of the mishap that had befallen him.But the unpleasant tumble upon the flagged floor, had cured him of all inclination to return to his treacherous couch; and, instead, he strolled out into the open air, to consult the sun—his unfailing monitor—as to the time of day.Only the morning before, Gregory had been the proprietor of a watch—whether honestly so need not be said; but this timepiece was now ticking within the pigeon-hole depository of an Uxbridge pawnbroker; and the duplicate which the ex-footpad carried in his fob could give him no information about the hour.In reality, he had not been asleep more than twenty minutes; but his dreams—drawn from a wide range of actual experiences—led him to believe that he had been slumbering for a much longer time.He was rather surprised—though not too well pleased—when, on reaching the door, and “squinting” outside, he perceived by the sky that it was still only the earliest hour of the day; and that, after all his dreaming, he had not had the advantage of over half an hour’s sleep.He was contemplating a return to his bench-bedstead; when, on casting a stray glance outwards, his eye fell upon the figure of a man moving slowly around one of the angles of the mansion. He saw it was Oriole.As Gregory knew that Oriole was the proper butler of the establishment—or at all events carried the key of the wine-cellar—it occurred to him that, through the intervention of the Indian, he might obtain a morning dram, to refresh him after his uneasy slumber.He was proceeding outside—intending to make known his wish—when he perceived that Oriole was engaged in a peculiar occupation. With his body half bent, and his eyes keenly scrutinising the ground, the Indian was moving slowly along the side of the house, parallel to the direction of the wall.Seeing this strange action Garth did not attempt to interrupt it; but, taking his stand by the angle of the building, silently watched the movement.Somewhat to the surprise of the footpad, he saw the redskin crouch cautiously forward to a door, which stood open; and, with all the silent stealth, that might have been observed by the most accomplished cracksman, Garth saw him creep inside—as if afraid of being detected in the act!“Humph!” muttered Gregory, with a portentous shake of his shaggy occiput; “I shouldn’t wonder if Master Henry ha’ got a treetor in his own camp. What he be about, I shud like to know—a goodish bit I shud like it. Can’t a be wittels, or drink, the dummy’s after? No—can’t a be neyther: seein’ he ha’ got charge o’ the keys, and may cram his gut whensomever he pleezes. It be somethin’ o’ more consarn than eatin’ or drinkin’. That be it, sureish. But what the Ole Scratch kin it be?”As Gregory put this last interrogatory, he inserted his thick, knotty digits into the mazes of his matted mop, and commenced pulling the hair over his forehead, as if by that means to elicit an answer.After tossing his coarse curly locks into a state of woolly frowsiness, he seemed to have arrived no nearer to an elucidation of the Indian’s mysterious conduct; as was evinced by another string of muttered interrogatories that proceeded from his lips.“Be the redskin a playin’ spy? They be ticklish times for Master Henry, I knows that. But surely a tongueless Indyen lad, as ha’ followed him from tother side o’ the world, and been faithful to him most the whole o’ his life—he ha’ told me so—surely sich a thing as that an’t goin’ to turn treetor to him now? Beside, what kin a Indyen know o’ our polyticks? A spy,—pish! It can’t a be that! It may be a stealin’. That’s more likelyish; but whatsomdever it do be, heear go to find out.”Garth was about moving towards the side door—into which Oriole had made his stealthy entrance—when he saw the latter coming out again.As the Indian was seen to return towards the front, in the same cautious manner in which he had gone from it—that is, with body stooped, and eyes eagerly scrutinising the path—Garth also turned his glance towards the ground.Though no match for the American in reading the “sign”—either of the heavens or the earth—the ex-footpad was not altogether unpractised in the translating of tracks.It had been long—alas! too long—a branch of his peculiar calling; and the footpad’s experience now enabled him to perceive, that such was the occupation in which Oriole was engaged.He saw the footprints which the Indian was following up,—not now as before in a backward direction; but in that by which they who had made them must have gone.All at once a new light flashed into the brain of the retired robber. He no longer suspected the Indian of being a spy; but, on the contrary, perceived that he was in the act of tracking some individual, or individuals, more amenable to this suspicion. He remembered certain circumstances that had transpired during the night: odd expressions and actions that had signalised the behaviour of his fellow-helper, Walford. He had remarked the absence of the latter at a particular time; and also on the occasion of Walford’s taking two horses from the stable—the first led out—that he had used some arguments, to dissuade both Dancey and himself from giving him assistance.Garth supposed at the time, that Walford had been actuated simply by a desire to secure the perquisites; but now, that he looked upon the tracks—which Oriole was in the act of scrutinising—a new thought rushed into his mind: a suspicion that, during that eventful night, treason had been stalking around the dwelling of Stone Dean.Excited by this thought, the ex-footpad threw himself alongside the Indian, and endeavoured by signs to convey the intelligence he had obtained by conjecture—as well as to possess himself of that which the redskin might have arrived at, by some more trustworthy process of reasoning.Unfortunately Gregory Garth was but a poor pantomimist. His grimaces and gestures were rather ludicrous, than explanatory of his thoughts; so much so, that the Indian, after vainly endeavouring to comprehend them, answered with an ambiguous shake of the head. Then, gliding silently past, he ascended the steps, and hurried on towards the apartment—in which he proposed to hold more intelligible communion with his master.
Shortly after the spies had taken their departure from Stone Dean, the conspirators might have been seen, emerging from the house, mounting their horses, and riding off. They went, much after the fashion in which they had come—in silence, alone, or in small groups; and, after clearing the gate entrance, along different roads. Some half dozen stayed later than the rest; but before the daylight could have disclosed their identity, these had also bidden adieu to Stone Dean; and were journeying far beyond the precincts of its secluded park.
When the last guest had gone, two of Holtspur’s improvised grooms—for whose services there was no further occasion—also took their departure from the place. There remained only three individuals in the old mansion—its owner, his Indian attendant, and Gregory Garth.
Of these, the last mentioned, and only he, had yielded his spirit to the embrace of the drowsy god.
On perceiving that his services as stable-helper were no longer in requisition, the ex-footpad,—having no other lodging to which he might betake himself,—had stretched his tired limbs along the beechwood bench; which, as on a former occasion, he had drawn up close to the kitchen fire. In five minutes after, not only the ample kitchen itself, but the contiguous apartments of pantry and wash-house,—with the various passages between,—were resonant of his snores.
Holtspur was still in the apartment in which the meeting had been held—the library it was—where, seated in front of a writing table, with pen in hand, he appeared to busy himself in the composition of some document of more than ordinary importance.
Oriole was the only one of the household who seemed to have no occupation: since he was neither sleeping, nor acting.
He was not inside the house, nor yet outside, but part of both: since he stood in the doorway, on the top step of the front entrance,—the door being still open.
He was in his habitual attitude of perfect repose,—silent andstatuesque. This he had maintained for some length of time—having lingered, vaguely gazing after the last guest who had gone away—or, rather, the two woodmen, Walford and Dancey: for they had been the latest to take their departure.
It is difficult to say what may have been occupying the thoughts of the young savage. Perhaps they were dwelling upon scenes of the past—memories of his forest home, thousands of miles away—memories of his early years—of his tawny companions, and their sports—memories, perhaps more tender, of sister or mother? Whether or no, they stirred him not from his silent attitude; and for a long half hour he remained motionless, wrapped in speechless reverie.
It was only on seeing the first streaks of the dawn, stealing over the beech-clad crests of the hills, that he began to arouse himself; and then only in his eyes were exhibited signs of activity.
These, instead of being directed towards the sky, were turned towards the ground—scrutinising a space in front of the door-step, where the close crowding of hoof-prints told of the many horsemen who had late made their departure from the place.
For some time the Indian kept his eyes upon the ground, without exhibiting any apparent interest in the tracks. And yet he appeared to be tracing them: perhaps only in obedience to a habit learnt, and indulged in, from earliest childhood.
After a while, his glance wandered to a wider range; and something, observed at a few paces distance, appeared more seriously to engage his attention.
His statuesque attitude became at once disarranged; and, gliding down from the steps, he walked rapidly along the gravelled walk, leading to the left side of the house.
On arriving at the angle of the wall, he stooped downward—as if to examine some object at his feet.
After remaining motionless for a few seconds, he continued on—still with body bent—towards the back part of the dwelling.
He proceeded slowly, but without making a stop—till he had arrived near the rear of the mansion. There a narrow doorway, opening into the eastern wing, was before his eyes; and into this he stood gazing—evidently in some surprise. It could not be at seeing the door: for he knew of it already. It was its being open that elicited that look of astonishment.
During his stay at Stone Dean he had never known that side door to be otherwise than shut, and locked too. As there was only himself, and his master, who had the right to unlock it, he was naturally surprised at finding it ajar.
He might not have heeded the circumstance but for another, which seemed to connect itself with the open door. He had observed the footprints of two men, plainly impressed in the damp dust. They ran all along the wall, parallel to, and a few paces from it. Near the angle of the building, they were joined by a third set of footmarks; and from that point the three proceeded together till lost among the horse-tracks around the entrance in front.
It was these footmarks that had first attracted the Indian from his stand upon the steps; and, in tracing them, he had been conducted to the side doorway.
To examine the tracks, either of man or animal, and wherever seen, is a habit—indeed almost an instinct—with an Indian; and, ruled by this peculiarity of his people, Oriole had hastened to scrutinise the “sign.”
The act was not altogether unaccompanied by a process of ratiocination. Slightly as he understood the bearings of those political schemes, in which his master was engaged, the faithful follower knew that there was reason for secrecy, as well as suspicion in regard to the men, with whom he was brought in contact. It was some vague thought of this kind, that had caused him to take notice of the tracks.
He remembered having conducted all the gentlemen outward by the front door, on their departure, as he had conducted them inward on their arrival. He remembered that all had ridden directly away. Which of them, then, had gone round to the rear of the building, without his having observed them?
There were three distinct sets of footprints, not going towards the back, but returning towards the front. One set had been made by hobnailed shoes. These might be the tracks of one of the three helpers; but the other two were those of gentlemen.
Almost intuitively had the Indian arrived at this conclusion, when his analysis was interrupted by seeing the side door standing open—a circumstance which strengthened his incipient suspicion that there was something in the “sign.”
Without waiting to examine the tracks any further, he glided forward to the doorway; and, stepping inside, traversed the narrow passage which conducted to the antechamber—where Scarthe and his cornet had so silently assisted at the ceremony of the nocturnal assemblage.
The keen eye of the American aboriginal—even under the sombre light of the unused apartment—at once detected evidences of its late occupancy. The unshut doors afforded this; but the deep dust, that for years had been accumulating on the floors, showed traces of having been recently stirred by shuffling feet—leaving no doubt upon the mind of Oriole, that men had been in that room, and had gone out of it, only an hour or two before.
The disturbed spider webs upon the glazed partition did not escape his observation; nor the little spot upon the pane of glass that had been rubbed clean.
Oriole placed his eye to it. He could see the whole of the apartment, late occupied by his master’s guests. He could see that master, now alone—seated before his writing table—utterly unconscious of being observed.
The Indian was about to tap upon the glass, and communicate the discovery he had made; but, remembering his own misfortune, and that he could only speak by signs, he glided back through the passage, with the intention of reaching the library by the front entrance.
Daylight had come down—sufficiently clear to enable him to make scrutiny of the tracks with more exactness; and he lingered awhile retracing them—in the hope of finding some solution of the mystery of their existence. The sun had not yet risen; but the red rays of the aurora already encrimsoned the crests of the surrounding ridges, tinting also the tops of the tall trees that overhung the old dwelling of Stone Dean. The light, falling upon the roosts of the rooks, had set the birds astart, and caused them to commence the utterance of their cheerful cawing.
Whether it was the clamour of the crows, or the rustling of the riotous rats—as they chased one another along the empty shelves, and behind the decayed wainscotting of the old kitchen—or whether the circumstance was due to some other, and less explicable cause, certain it is that the slumbers of Gregory Garth were at that crisis interrupted.
His snoring suddenly came to a termination; and he awoke with a start.
It was a start, moreover, that led to a more serious disturbance: for, having destroyed his equilibrium on the beechwood bench—which chanced to be of somewhat slender dimensions—his body came down upon the hard stone flags of the floor, with a concussion, that for several seconds completely deprived him of breath.
On recovering his wind—and along with it his senses—which had for a while remained in a state of obfuscation—the ex-footpad soon comprehended the nature of the mishap that had befallen him.
But the unpleasant tumble upon the flagged floor, had cured him of all inclination to return to his treacherous couch; and, instead, he strolled out into the open air, to consult the sun—his unfailing monitor—as to the time of day.
Only the morning before, Gregory had been the proprietor of a watch—whether honestly so need not be said; but this timepiece was now ticking within the pigeon-hole depository of an Uxbridge pawnbroker; and the duplicate which the ex-footpad carried in his fob could give him no information about the hour.
In reality, he had not been asleep more than twenty minutes; but his dreams—drawn from a wide range of actual experiences—led him to believe that he had been slumbering for a much longer time.
He was rather surprised—though not too well pleased—when, on reaching the door, and “squinting” outside, he perceived by the sky that it was still only the earliest hour of the day; and that, after all his dreaming, he had not had the advantage of over half an hour’s sleep.
He was contemplating a return to his bench-bedstead; when, on casting a stray glance outwards, his eye fell upon the figure of a man moving slowly around one of the angles of the mansion. He saw it was Oriole.
As Gregory knew that Oriole was the proper butler of the establishment—or at all events carried the key of the wine-cellar—it occurred to him that, through the intervention of the Indian, he might obtain a morning dram, to refresh him after his uneasy slumber.
He was proceeding outside—intending to make known his wish—when he perceived that Oriole was engaged in a peculiar occupation. With his body half bent, and his eyes keenly scrutinising the ground, the Indian was moving slowly along the side of the house, parallel to the direction of the wall.
Seeing this strange action Garth did not attempt to interrupt it; but, taking his stand by the angle of the building, silently watched the movement.
Somewhat to the surprise of the footpad, he saw the redskin crouch cautiously forward to a door, which stood open; and, with all the silent stealth, that might have been observed by the most accomplished cracksman, Garth saw him creep inside—as if afraid of being detected in the act!
“Humph!” muttered Gregory, with a portentous shake of his shaggy occiput; “I shouldn’t wonder if Master Henry ha’ got a treetor in his own camp. What he be about, I shud like to know—a goodish bit I shud like it. Can’t a be wittels, or drink, the dummy’s after? No—can’t a be neyther: seein’ he ha’ got charge o’ the keys, and may cram his gut whensomever he pleezes. It be somethin’ o’ more consarn than eatin’ or drinkin’. That be it, sureish. But what the Ole Scratch kin it be?”
As Gregory put this last interrogatory, he inserted his thick, knotty digits into the mazes of his matted mop, and commenced pulling the hair over his forehead, as if by that means to elicit an answer.
After tossing his coarse curly locks into a state of woolly frowsiness, he seemed to have arrived no nearer to an elucidation of the Indian’s mysterious conduct; as was evinced by another string of muttered interrogatories that proceeded from his lips.
“Be the redskin a playin’ spy? They be ticklish times for Master Henry, I knows that. But surely a tongueless Indyen lad, as ha’ followed him from tother side o’ the world, and been faithful to him most the whole o’ his life—he ha’ told me so—surely sich a thing as that an’t goin’ to turn treetor to him now? Beside, what kin a Indyen know o’ our polyticks? A spy,—pish! It can’t a be that! It may be a stealin’. That’s more likelyish; but whatsomdever it do be, heear go to find out.”
Garth was about moving towards the side door—into which Oriole had made his stealthy entrance—when he saw the latter coming out again.
As the Indian was seen to return towards the front, in the same cautious manner in which he had gone from it—that is, with body stooped, and eyes eagerly scrutinising the path—Garth also turned his glance towards the ground.
Though no match for the American in reading the “sign”—either of the heavens or the earth—the ex-footpad was not altogether unpractised in the translating of tracks.
It had been long—alas! too long—a branch of his peculiar calling; and the footpad’s experience now enabled him to perceive, that such was the occupation in which Oriole was engaged.
He saw the footprints which the Indian was following up,—not now as before in a backward direction; but in that by which they who had made them must have gone.
All at once a new light flashed into the brain of the retired robber. He no longer suspected the Indian of being a spy; but, on the contrary, perceived that he was in the act of tracking some individual, or individuals, more amenable to this suspicion. He remembered certain circumstances that had transpired during the night: odd expressions and actions that had signalised the behaviour of his fellow-helper, Walford. He had remarked the absence of the latter at a particular time; and also on the occasion of Walford’s taking two horses from the stable—the first led out—that he had used some arguments, to dissuade both Dancey and himself from giving him assistance.
Garth supposed at the time, that Walford had been actuated simply by a desire to secure the perquisites; but now, that he looked upon the tracks—which Oriole was in the act of scrutinising—a new thought rushed into his mind: a suspicion that, during that eventful night, treason had been stalking around the dwelling of Stone Dean.
Excited by this thought, the ex-footpad threw himself alongside the Indian, and endeavoured by signs to convey the intelligence he had obtained by conjecture—as well as to possess himself of that which the redskin might have arrived at, by some more trustworthy process of reasoning.
Unfortunately Gregory Garth was but a poor pantomimist. His grimaces and gestures were rather ludicrous, than explanatory of his thoughts; so much so, that the Indian, after vainly endeavouring to comprehend them, answered with an ambiguous shake of the head. Then, gliding silently past, he ascended the steps, and hurried on towards the apartment—in which he proposed to hold more intelligible communion with his master.
Volume Two—Chapter Thirteen.On the departure of his fellow conspirators—patriots we should rather call them—Holtspur, as we have already said, had passed the remainder of the night engaged at his writing table.The time was spent in the performance of a duty, entrusted to him by his friends, Pym and Hampden; with whom, and a few others, he had held secret conference beyond the hours allotted to the more public business of the meeting. It was a duty no less important, than the drawing up of a charge of attainder against Thomas Wentworth, Earl of Strafford.It was one which Holtspur could perform with all the ardour of a zealous enthusiasm—springing from his natural indignation against this gigantic wrongdoer.A true hater of kings, he felt triumphant. His republican sentiments, uttered in the assembly just separated—so loudly applauded by those who listened to them—could not fail to find echo in every honest English heart; and the patriot felt that the time was nigh, when such sentiments need be no longer spoken in the conclave of a secret conference, but boldly and openly in the tribune of a nation.The king had been once more compelled to call his “Commons” together. In a few days the Parliament was to meet—that splendid Parliament afterwards known as the “Long”—and, from the election returns already received, Holtspur knew the character of most of the statesmen who were to compose it. With such men as Pym and Hampden at its head—with Hollis, Hazlerig, Vane, Martin, Cromwell, and a host of other popular patriots, taking part in its councils—it would be strange if something should not be effected, to stem the tide of tyranny, so long flowing over the land—submerging under its infamous waves every landmark of English liberty.Swayed by thoughts like these, did Henry Holtspur enter upon the task assigned him.For over an hour had he been occupied in its performance—with scarce a moment’s intermission; and then only, when the soft dream of love, stealing over his spirit, chased from it the sterner thoughts of statecraft and war, which had been the habitual themes of his later life.He had well-nigh finished his work, when interrupted by the entrance of the Indian.“Eh, Oriole?” demanded he, in some surprise, as, glancing up from his papers, he remarked the agitated mien of his attendant. “Anything the matter? You look as if something was amiss. I hope that you and Garth have not been quarrelling over your perquisites?”The Indian made sign of a negative to this imputation—which he knew was only spoken in jest.“Nothing about him, then? What is it, my brave?”This question was answered by Oriole raising one of his feet—with the sole turned upwards, at the same time glancing to the ground with an angry ejaculation.“Ha!” said Holtspur, who read those signs as easily as if they had been a written language—“An enemy upon the trail?”Oriole held up three of his fingers—pointing perpendicularly towards the ceiling of the room.“Three instead of one! and threemen! Well, perhaps they will be easier to deal with than if it was atrioofwomen.”The cavalier, as he made this half-jesting remark, seemed to give way for a moment to some reflection, altogether unconnected with the intelligence conveyed by his attendant.“What is it, Oriole? What have you seen?” asked he, returning to the subject of the Indian’s communication.Oriole’s answer to this was a sign for his master to follow him. At the same time, turning on his heel, he led the way out of the apartment, out of the front door, and round by the left wing of the house. Thither he was followed by Holtspur and Gregory Garth, when all three commenced re-examining the tracks.These were again traced in a backward direction to the side doorway.It could not be doubted that two of the men who made them had issued thence. The third—he who wore the hobnailed shoes—had met these on their coming out; and afterwards walked along with them to the front—where the footmarks were lost among the hoof-prints of the horses.There were no tracks leadingtowardsthe side entrance; but, as there was no other way by which the room could have been entered—except by the glass door, and that had certainly not been unclosed—it was evident that the two men who had come out by the side passage must have gone in by it.The absence of any footmarks leading inward had a signification of another kind. It proved that they, who had so intruded, must have passed inside before the coming on of the rain-storm, and gone out, after it had ceased. In other words, two men must have tenanted that chamber during most, if not all, of the time that the conference continued.Other signs pointed out by the Indian—the disturbance of the dust upon the floor, and the removal of the cerements from the glass—left no doubt as to the object of their presence in the unused apartment. Spies, to a certainty!Holtspur’s countenance became clouded, as this conviction forced itself upon him.The hobnails told who was the traitor that had guided them thither. There were plenty of like tracks on the other side of the house, leading to the stable yard. Oriole easily identified the footmarks as made by Will Walford.“It but crowns my suspicions of the knave,” said Holtspur, as with gloom upon his brow he walked back into the house.“Dang seize the white-livered loon!” cried the ex-footpad. “He shall answer for this night’s dirty doin’s. That shall be sureish sartin, or my name arn’t Gregory Garth.”On re-entering the library, Holtspur did not resume his seat; but commenced pacing the floor with quick, excited steps.What had arisen was matter to make him serious. Spies had been present—he could not doubt it—and the fact was full of significance. It concerned not only his own safety, but that of many others—gentlemen of rank and position in the county, with several Members of Parliament from other counties: among them Pym, Hollis, Hazlerig, Henry Martin, and the younger Sir Harry Vane.Sir Marmaduke Wade, too, must have been seen by the spies!In regard to the latter, Holtspur felt a special apprehension. It was by invitation—his own—that Sir Marmaduke had been present at the meeting; and Holtspur knew that the knight would now be compromised beyond redemption—even to the danger of losing his life.Whoever had occupied that antechamber must have overheard not only all that had been spoken, but have seen each speaker in turn—in short, every individual present, and under a light clear enough to have rendered sure their identification.It needed very little reflection to point out who had been the chief spy. The despatch, taken by Garth from the king’s messenger, rendered it easy to tell that Richard Scarthe had been in that chamber—either in person, or by deputy.All this knowledge flashed upon the mind of the patriot conspirator, with a distinctness painfully vivid.Unfortunately, the course, proper for him to pursue, was far from being so clear; and for some minutes he remained in a state of indecision as to how he should act.With such evidence as Scarthe possessed against him, he felt keenly conscious of danger—a danger threatening not only his liberty, but his life.If taken before the Star Chamber—after what he had that night said and done—he could not expect any other verdict than a conviction; and his would not be the first head, during that weak tyrant’s reign, that had tumbled untimely from the block.It was of no use upbraiding himself, with the negligence that had led to the unfortunate situation. Nor was there any time to indulge in self-reproach: for the longer he reflected, the more proximate would be the danger he had to dread.Henry Holtspur was a man of ready determination. A life partly spent amidst dangers of flood and field—under the shadows of primeval American forests—on the war-path of the hostile Mohawk—had habituated him to the forming of quick resolves, and as quickly carrying them into execution.But no man is gifted with omniscience; and there are occasions when the wisest in thought, and quickest in action, may be overtaken.It was so in Holtspur’s case at this particular crisis. He felt that he had been outwitted. In the fair field of fight he had defeated an adversary, who, in the dark diplomacy of intrigue, was likely to triumph over him.There was not much time to be lost. Was there any? They, who had made that stealthy visit to Stone Dean, would be sure to repeat it; and soon—not secretly as before, but openly, and in force.Why had they not returned already? This was the only question that appeared difficult to answer.Why the arrest had not been made at once—a wholesale capture of the conspirators—could be more easily answered. The spies might not have been prepared for acoupso sudden, or extensive.But since there had been time—“By Heaven!” exclaimed the cavalier, suddenly interrupting the train of his conjectures; “there’s no time to be lost! I must from here, and at once. Garth!”“Master Henry?”“Saddle my horse, on the instant! Oriole!”The Indian stood before him.“Are my pistols loaded?”Oriole made sign in the affirmative—pointing to the pistols that lay on the oaken mantelshelf.“Enough! I may need them ere long. Place them in the holsters.”“And now, Oriole,” continued his master, after a reflective pause, and regarding his attendant with some sadness; “I am going upon a journey. I may be absent for some time. You cannot accompany me. You must stay here—till I either return, or send for you.”The Indian listened, his countenance clouding over with an expression of disquietude.“Don’t be downhearted, my brave!” pursued Holtspur. “We shall not be separated for long—no longer than I can help.”Oriole asked by a gesture why he was to be left behind; adding in a pantomime equally intelligible to Holtspur, that he was ready to follow him to the death—to die for him.“I know all that, faithful boy,” responded his patron and protector; “right well do I know it: since you’ve given proof of it once before. But your prowess, that might avail me in the pathless coverts of your native forest, and against enemies of your own colour, would be of little service here. The foe I have now to fear is not a naked savage with club and tomahawk; but a king with sword and sceptre. Ah! my brave Oriole, your single arm would be idle to shield me, where a whole host are to be my adversaries. Come, faithful friend! I lose time—too much have I lost already. Quick with my valise. Pack and strap it to the croup. Put these papers into it. The rest may remain as they are. Quick, good Oriole! Hubert should be saddled by this time. Garth, what is it?”Garth stood in the doorway—breathless, ghastly pale.“Ho! what’s that? I need not ask. Too well do I understand those sounds!”“Lor’, O lor’! Master Henry! The house be surrounded wi’ horsemen. They be the kewreseers from Bulstrode.”“Ha! Scarthe has been quick and cunning! I’m too late, I fear!”Saying this, the cavalier snatched up his pistols—at the same time grasping his sword—as if with the intention of making an attempt to defend himself.The ex-footpad also armed himself with his terrible pike—which chanced to be standing in the hall; while Oriole’s weapon was a tomahawk, habitually worn about his person.Drawing his blade from its scabbard, Holtspur rushed towards the front entrance—close followed by Garth and the Indian.On reaching the door, which was still standing open, the conspirator saw at a glance, that resistance would be worse than idle: since it could only end in the sacrifice of his own life, and perhaps the lives of his faithful followers.In front of the house was ranged a row of steel-clad cuirassiers—each with his arquebus ready to deliver its fire; while the trampling of hoofs, the clanking of armour, and the voices of men resounding from the rear of the dwelling, told that the circumvallation was complete.“Who are you? What is your business?” demanded Holtspur of one, who from his attitude and gestures appeared to act as the leader—but whose face was hidden behind the closed visor of his helmet.The demand was mechanical—a mere matter of form. He who made it knew—without the necessity of asking—to whom he was addressing himself, as well as the business that had brought him there.He had not encountered that cavalier in the field of fight—and conquered him too—without leaving asouvenirby which he could be recognised.But it needed not the wounded arm—still carried in its sling—to enable Henry Holtspur to recognise Richard Scarthe, his adversary in the equestrian duel. Without such evidence both horse and rider might have been identified.“I came not here to answer idle questions,” replied Scarthe, with a laugh that rang ironically through the bars of his umbril. “Your first, I presume, needs no answer; and though I shall be over-courteous in replying to your second, you are welcome to the response you have challenged. My business, then, is to arrest a traitor!”“A traitor! Who?”“Henry Holtspur—a traitor to his king.”“Coward!” cried Holtspur, returning scorn for scorn; “this is the thanks I receive for sparing your paltry life. From your extensiveentourageof steel-clad hirelings, it is evident you fear a second chastisement at my hands. Why did you not bring a whole regiment with you? Ha! ha! ha!”“You are pleased to be facetious,” said Scarthe, whose triumphant position facilitated the restraining of his temper. “In the end, Master Holtspur, you may find it not such matter for mirth. Let them be merry who win. Laughter comes with but ill grace from the lips of those who are about to lose;nay, have already lost.”“Already lost!” interrupted Holtspur, driven to the interrogatory, by the tone of significant insinuation in which the other had spoken.“Not your liberty: though that also you have already lost. Not your head: that you may lose by-and-bye; but something which, if you be a true cavalier, should be dear to you as either.”“What?” mechanically inquired Holtspur, moved to the interrogatory, less by the ambiguous speech than by the sight of an object which, at that moment, flashed before his angry eye. “What?”“Yourmistress!” was the taunting reply. “Don’t fancy, my pretty picker-up of stray gloves, that you are the only one who receives such sweet favours. The fair lady of the golden hair, and white gauntlets, may have taken a fancy to dispose of a pair; and where two are thus delicately dispensed, the last given is the one most prized by me!”As Scarthe said this, he raised his hand triumphantly towards the peak of his helmet; where a glove of white doeskin was seen conspicuously set—its tapering fingers turned forward, as if pointing in derision at him who possessed its fellow!Scarthe’s gesture was superfluous. The eye of his adversary had been already fixed upon the indicated object; and the frown, that suddenly overspread his face, betrayed a strange commingling of emotions—surprise, incredulity, anger, with something more than its share of incipient jealousy.Rushed into Holtspur’s mind at that moment, the recollection of thetête-à-tête, he had witnessed after parting with Marion Wade—her promenade up the long avenue, side by side with Scarthe—that short but bitter moment, when she had appearedcomplaisante.If he wronged her in thought, he did not do so in speech. His jealousy kept silence; his anger alone found utterance.“False trickster!” he cried, “’tis an impudent deception. She never gave you that glove. Thou hast found it—stolen it, more likely; and, by Heaven! I shall take it from thee, and restore it to its slandered owner—even here, in spite of your myrmidons! Yield it up, Richard Scarthe! or on the point of my sword—”The threat was left unfinished, or rather unheard: for, simultaneous with its utterance, came the action—Holtspur raising his naked blade, and rushing upon his adversary.“Seize him!” cried the latter, reining his horse backward to escape the thrust. “Seize the rebel! Slay him, if he resist!”At the command, half-a-dozen of the cuirassiers spurred their steeds forward to the spot. Some stretched forth their hands to lay hold upon Holtspur, while others aimed at striking him down with the butts of their carbines.Garth and the Indian had sallied forth to defend their master; who, had it not been for this, would perhaps have made a more prolonged resistance. But the sight of his two faithful followers—thus unnecessarily risking their lives—caused him suddenly to change his mad design; and, without offering further resistance, he surrendered himself into the hands of the soldiers who had surrounded him.“Fast bind the rebel!” cried Scarthe, endeavouring to conceal his chagrin, at having shown fear, by pouring forth a volley of loyal speeches.“Relieve him of his worthless weapon! Tie him hand and foot—neck and crop! He is mad, and therefore dangerous. Ha! ha! ha! Tight, you knaves! Tight as a hangman’s neck-tie!”The order was obeyed quickly—if not to the letter; and in a few seconds Henry Holtspur stood bound, in the midst of his jeering enemies.“Bring forth his horse!” cried Scarthe, in mocking tones. “Theblack horseman! ha! ha! ha! Let him have one last ride on his favourite charger. After that, he shall ride at the King’s expense. Ha! ha! ha!”The black steed, already saddled by Garth, was soon brought round, and led towards the captive. There was something significant in the neigh, to which Hubert gave utterance as he approached the spot—something mournful: as if he suspected, or knew, that his master was in a position of peril.As he was conducted nearer, and at length placed side by side with the prisoner, he bent his neck round till his muzzle touched Holtspur’s cheek; while his low, tremulous whimpering proved, as plainly as words could have expressed it, that he comprehended all.The cuirassier captain had watched the odd and affecting incident. Instead of exciting his sympathy, it only intensified his chagrin. The presence of that steed reminded him, more forcibly than ever, of his own humiliating defeat—of which the animal had been more than a little the cause. Scarthe hated the horse almost as much as his master!“Now, brave sir!” shouted he, endeavouring, in a derisive strain, to drown the unpleasant memories which the sight of Hubert had summoned up. “Such a distinguished individual must not ride bareheaded along the king’s highway. Ho there! Bring out his beaver, and set it upon his crown jauntily—jauntily!”Three or four of the cuirassiers, who had dismounted, were proceeding to obey this last order—and had already mounted the steps leading up to the entrance—when an ejaculation from their commander caused them to turn back.“Never mind, my lads!” he cried, as if having changed his intention. “Back to your horses! Never mind the hat: I shall go for it myself.”The final words of this injunction were rather muttered, than spoken aloud. It was not intended they should be heard. They appeared to be the involuntary expression of some secret purpose, which had suddenly suggested itself to the mind of the speaker.After giving utterance to them, the cuirassier captain leaped silently out of his saddle; and, mounting the stone steps, entered the door of the dwelling.He traversed the entrance-hall with searching glances, and continued on along the corridor—until he stood opposite the door of an apartment. It was the library late occupied by the conspirators. He knew its situation; and surmised that he would there find what he was seeking for.He was not mistaken. On entering he saw the desired object—the hat of Holtspur, hanging upon the antlers of a stag that were fixed in a conspicuous position against the wall.He clutched at the hat, and jerked it down—with as much eagerness, as if he feared that something might intervene to prevent him.It needed no close scrutiny to discover the white gauntlet, still in its place beside thepanacheof ostrich feathers. On the next instant, the hat, though permitted to retain its plume, was despoiled of the doeskin.With a bitter smile passing over his pale features, did Scarthe scan the two gloves once more brought together. Finger by finger, and stitch by stitch did he compare them—holding them side by side, and up to the window’s light. His smile degenerated into a frown, as, on the completion of the analysis, he became convinced—beyond the possibility of a doubt—that the glove taken from the hat of Henry Holtspur, and that now figuring on his own helmet, werefellows, and formed a pair. Right and left were they—the latter being the true love-token!He had entertained a hope, though but a very slight one, that he might still be mistaken. He could indulge it no longer. The gauntlet, worn in the hat of the black horseman, must have once graced the fair fingers of Marion Wade.“Hasshe given it to him? Need I ask the question? She must have done so, beyond a doubt. May the fiend fire my soul, if I do not find an opportunity to make her rue the gift!”Such was the unamiable menace with which Scarthe completed the comparison of the gloves.That, just taken from the hat of Holtspur, was now transferred to the breast of his doublet. Quick and secret was the transfer: as if he deemed it desirable that the act should not be observed.“Go!” he commanded, addressing himself to one of the troopers who attended him, “go into the garden—if there be such a thing about this wretched place. If not, take to the fields; and procure me some flowers. Red ones—no matter what sort, so that they be of a bright red colour. Bring them hither, and be quick about it!”The soldier—accustomed to obey orders without questioning—hurried out to execute the singular command.“You,” continued Scarthe, speaking to the other trooper, who had entered with him, “you set about collecting those papers. Secure that valise. It appears to need no further packing. See that it be taken to Bulstrode. Search every room in the house; and bring out any arms or papers you may light upon. You know your work. Do it briskly!”With like alacrity the second attendant hastened to perform the part allotted to him; and Scarthe was for the moment left to himself.“I should be more hungry,” muttered he, “after these documents, I see scattered about, were I in need of them. No doubt there’s many a traitor’s name inscribed on their pages: and enough besides to compromise half the squires in the county. More than one, I warrant me, through this silent testimony, would become entitled to a cheap lodging in that grand tenement eastward of Cheap. It’s a sort of thing I don’t much relish; though now I’m into it, I may as well make a wholesale sweep of these conspiring churls. As for Holtspur and Sir Marmy, I need no written evidence of their guilt. My own oral testimony, conjoined with that of my worthy sub, will be sufficient to deprive one—or both, if need be—of their heads. So—to the devil with the documents!”As he said this, he turned scornfully away from the table on which the papers were strewed.“Stay!” he exclaimed—the instant after facing round again, with a look that betokened some sudden change in his views; “Not so fast, Richard Scarthe! Not so fast! Who knows that among this forest of treasonous scribbling, I may not find some flower of epistolary correspondence—abillet-doux. Ha! if there should be one fromher! Strange, I did not think of it before. If—if—if—”In the earnestness, with which he proceeded to toss over the litter of letters and other documents, his hypothetical thought, whatever it was, remained unspoken.For several minutes he busied himself among the papers—opening scores of epistles—in the expectation of finding one in a feminine hand, and bearing the signature: “Marion Wade.”He was disappointed. No such name was to be found among the correspondents of Henry Holtspur. They were all of the masculine gender—all, or nearly all, politicians and conspirators!Scarthe was about discontinuing his search—for he had opened everything in the shape of a letter—when a document of imposing aspect attracted his attention. It bore the royal signet upon its envelope.“By the eyes of Argus!” cried he, as his own fell upon the well-known seal; “What see I? A letter from the King! What can his majesty have to communicate to this faithful subject, I wonder? Zounds! ’tis addressed to myself!”“For ye Captain Scarthe,“Command: H.M. Royal Cuirassiers,“Bulstrode Park,“Shire of Buckingham.”“The intercepted despatch! Here’s a discovery! Henry Holtspur a footpad! In league with one, at all events—else how should he have become possessed of this? So—so! Not a traitor’s, but a felon’s death shall he die! The gibbet instead of the block! Ha! Mistress Marion Wade! you will repent the gift of your pretty glove, when you learn that you have bestowed it on a thief! By Saint Sulpiece! ’twill be a comicaléclaircissement!”“Ho, fellow! You’ve got the flowers?”“I have, captain. They be the best I can find. There a’nt nothing but weeds about the old place, an’ withered at that.”“So much the better: I want them a trifle withered. These will do—colour, shape—just the thing. Here I arrange them in a little bunch, and tie it to this hat. Fix them, as if the clasp confined them in their place. Be smart, my man; and make a neat thing of it!” The trooper plied his fingers with all the plastic ingenuity in his power; and, in a few seconds of time, a somewhat ragged bouquet was arranged, and adjusted on the beaver belonging to the black horseman—in the same place late occupied by the white gauntlet.“Now!” said Scarthe, making a stride in the direction of the door, “Take out this hat. Place it on the head of the prisoner; and hark ye, corporal; you needn’t lethimsee the transformation that has been made, nor need you show it conspicuously to any one else. You understand me?”The trooper having replied to these confidential commands with a nod and a knowing look, hurried off to execute them.Stubbs, in charge of the guards outside, had already mounted Holtspur on horseback; where, with hands fast bound, and, for additional security, tied to the croup of the saddle,—his ankles also lashed to the stirrup leathers, and a steel-clad cuirassier, with drawn sword on each side of him—he looked like a captive left without the slightest chance of escape.Even thus ignominiously pinioned, no air of the felon had he. His head, though bare, was not bowed; but carried proudly erect, without swagger, and with that air of tranquil indifference which distinguishes the true cavalier, even in captivity. His rough, and somewhat vagabond captors, could not help admiring that heroic courage—of which, but a few days before, they had witnessed such splendid proof.“What a pity,” whispered one, “what a pity he’s not on our side! He’d make a noble officer of cavalry!”“Help Master Holtspur to his hat!” tauntingly commanded Scarthe, as he clambered upon his own steed. “The wind must not be permitted to toss those waving locks too rudely. How becoming they will be upon the block! Ha! ha! ha!”As commanded, his hat was placed upon the prisoner’s head.The “forward,” brayed out by the bugle, drowned the satirical laugh of their leader, while the troopers, in files of two—with Scarthe at their head, Stubbs in the rear, and Holtspur near the centre—moved slowly across the lawn, leaving the mansion of Stone Dean without a master!
On the departure of his fellow conspirators—patriots we should rather call them—Holtspur, as we have already said, had passed the remainder of the night engaged at his writing table.
The time was spent in the performance of a duty, entrusted to him by his friends, Pym and Hampden; with whom, and a few others, he had held secret conference beyond the hours allotted to the more public business of the meeting. It was a duty no less important, than the drawing up of a charge of attainder against Thomas Wentworth, Earl of Strafford.
It was one which Holtspur could perform with all the ardour of a zealous enthusiasm—springing from his natural indignation against this gigantic wrongdoer.
A true hater of kings, he felt triumphant. His republican sentiments, uttered in the assembly just separated—so loudly applauded by those who listened to them—could not fail to find echo in every honest English heart; and the patriot felt that the time was nigh, when such sentiments need be no longer spoken in the conclave of a secret conference, but boldly and openly in the tribune of a nation.
The king had been once more compelled to call his “Commons” together. In a few days the Parliament was to meet—that splendid Parliament afterwards known as the “Long”—and, from the election returns already received, Holtspur knew the character of most of the statesmen who were to compose it. With such men as Pym and Hampden at its head—with Hollis, Hazlerig, Vane, Martin, Cromwell, and a host of other popular patriots, taking part in its councils—it would be strange if something should not be effected, to stem the tide of tyranny, so long flowing over the land—submerging under its infamous waves every landmark of English liberty.
Swayed by thoughts like these, did Henry Holtspur enter upon the task assigned him.
For over an hour had he been occupied in its performance—with scarce a moment’s intermission; and then only, when the soft dream of love, stealing over his spirit, chased from it the sterner thoughts of statecraft and war, which had been the habitual themes of his later life.
He had well-nigh finished his work, when interrupted by the entrance of the Indian.
“Eh, Oriole?” demanded he, in some surprise, as, glancing up from his papers, he remarked the agitated mien of his attendant. “Anything the matter? You look as if something was amiss. I hope that you and Garth have not been quarrelling over your perquisites?”
The Indian made sign of a negative to this imputation—which he knew was only spoken in jest.
“Nothing about him, then? What is it, my brave?”
This question was answered by Oriole raising one of his feet—with the sole turned upwards, at the same time glancing to the ground with an angry ejaculation.
“Ha!” said Holtspur, who read those signs as easily as if they had been a written language—“An enemy upon the trail?”
Oriole held up three of his fingers—pointing perpendicularly towards the ceiling of the room.
“Three instead of one! and threemen! Well, perhaps they will be easier to deal with than if it was atrioofwomen.”
The cavalier, as he made this half-jesting remark, seemed to give way for a moment to some reflection, altogether unconnected with the intelligence conveyed by his attendant.
“What is it, Oriole? What have you seen?” asked he, returning to the subject of the Indian’s communication.
Oriole’s answer to this was a sign for his master to follow him. At the same time, turning on his heel, he led the way out of the apartment, out of the front door, and round by the left wing of the house. Thither he was followed by Holtspur and Gregory Garth, when all three commenced re-examining the tracks.
These were again traced in a backward direction to the side doorway.
It could not be doubted that two of the men who made them had issued thence. The third—he who wore the hobnailed shoes—had met these on their coming out; and afterwards walked along with them to the front—where the footmarks were lost among the hoof-prints of the horses.
There were no tracks leadingtowardsthe side entrance; but, as there was no other way by which the room could have been entered—except by the glass door, and that had certainly not been unclosed—it was evident that the two men who had come out by the side passage must have gone in by it.
The absence of any footmarks leading inward had a signification of another kind. It proved that they, who had so intruded, must have passed inside before the coming on of the rain-storm, and gone out, after it had ceased. In other words, two men must have tenanted that chamber during most, if not all, of the time that the conference continued.
Other signs pointed out by the Indian—the disturbance of the dust upon the floor, and the removal of the cerements from the glass—left no doubt as to the object of their presence in the unused apartment. Spies, to a certainty!
Holtspur’s countenance became clouded, as this conviction forced itself upon him.
The hobnails told who was the traitor that had guided them thither. There were plenty of like tracks on the other side of the house, leading to the stable yard. Oriole easily identified the footmarks as made by Will Walford.
“It but crowns my suspicions of the knave,” said Holtspur, as with gloom upon his brow he walked back into the house.
“Dang seize the white-livered loon!” cried the ex-footpad. “He shall answer for this night’s dirty doin’s. That shall be sureish sartin, or my name arn’t Gregory Garth.”
On re-entering the library, Holtspur did not resume his seat; but commenced pacing the floor with quick, excited steps.
What had arisen was matter to make him serious. Spies had been present—he could not doubt it—and the fact was full of significance. It concerned not only his own safety, but that of many others—gentlemen of rank and position in the county, with several Members of Parliament from other counties: among them Pym, Hollis, Hazlerig, Henry Martin, and the younger Sir Harry Vane.
Sir Marmaduke Wade, too, must have been seen by the spies!
In regard to the latter, Holtspur felt a special apprehension. It was by invitation—his own—that Sir Marmaduke had been present at the meeting; and Holtspur knew that the knight would now be compromised beyond redemption—even to the danger of losing his life.
Whoever had occupied that antechamber must have overheard not only all that had been spoken, but have seen each speaker in turn—in short, every individual present, and under a light clear enough to have rendered sure their identification.
It needed very little reflection to point out who had been the chief spy. The despatch, taken by Garth from the king’s messenger, rendered it easy to tell that Richard Scarthe had been in that chamber—either in person, or by deputy.
All this knowledge flashed upon the mind of the patriot conspirator, with a distinctness painfully vivid.
Unfortunately, the course, proper for him to pursue, was far from being so clear; and for some minutes he remained in a state of indecision as to how he should act.
With such evidence as Scarthe possessed against him, he felt keenly conscious of danger—a danger threatening not only his liberty, but his life.
If taken before the Star Chamber—after what he had that night said and done—he could not expect any other verdict than a conviction; and his would not be the first head, during that weak tyrant’s reign, that had tumbled untimely from the block.
It was of no use upbraiding himself, with the negligence that had led to the unfortunate situation. Nor was there any time to indulge in self-reproach: for the longer he reflected, the more proximate would be the danger he had to dread.
Henry Holtspur was a man of ready determination. A life partly spent amidst dangers of flood and field—under the shadows of primeval American forests—on the war-path of the hostile Mohawk—had habituated him to the forming of quick resolves, and as quickly carrying them into execution.
But no man is gifted with omniscience; and there are occasions when the wisest in thought, and quickest in action, may be overtaken.
It was so in Holtspur’s case at this particular crisis. He felt that he had been outwitted. In the fair field of fight he had defeated an adversary, who, in the dark diplomacy of intrigue, was likely to triumph over him.
There was not much time to be lost. Was there any? They, who had made that stealthy visit to Stone Dean, would be sure to repeat it; and soon—not secretly as before, but openly, and in force.
Why had they not returned already? This was the only question that appeared difficult to answer.
Why the arrest had not been made at once—a wholesale capture of the conspirators—could be more easily answered. The spies might not have been prepared for acoupso sudden, or extensive.
But since there had been time—
“By Heaven!” exclaimed the cavalier, suddenly interrupting the train of his conjectures; “there’s no time to be lost! I must from here, and at once. Garth!”
“Master Henry?”
“Saddle my horse, on the instant! Oriole!”
The Indian stood before him.
“Are my pistols loaded?”
Oriole made sign in the affirmative—pointing to the pistols that lay on the oaken mantelshelf.
“Enough! I may need them ere long. Place them in the holsters.”
“And now, Oriole,” continued his master, after a reflective pause, and regarding his attendant with some sadness; “I am going upon a journey. I may be absent for some time. You cannot accompany me. You must stay here—till I either return, or send for you.”
The Indian listened, his countenance clouding over with an expression of disquietude.
“Don’t be downhearted, my brave!” pursued Holtspur. “We shall not be separated for long—no longer than I can help.”
Oriole asked by a gesture why he was to be left behind; adding in a pantomime equally intelligible to Holtspur, that he was ready to follow him to the death—to die for him.
“I know all that, faithful boy,” responded his patron and protector; “right well do I know it: since you’ve given proof of it once before. But your prowess, that might avail me in the pathless coverts of your native forest, and against enemies of your own colour, would be of little service here. The foe I have now to fear is not a naked savage with club and tomahawk; but a king with sword and sceptre. Ah! my brave Oriole, your single arm would be idle to shield me, where a whole host are to be my adversaries. Come, faithful friend! I lose time—too much have I lost already. Quick with my valise. Pack and strap it to the croup. Put these papers into it. The rest may remain as they are. Quick, good Oriole! Hubert should be saddled by this time. Garth, what is it?”
Garth stood in the doorway—breathless, ghastly pale.
“Ho! what’s that? I need not ask. Too well do I understand those sounds!”
“Lor’, O lor’! Master Henry! The house be surrounded wi’ horsemen. They be the kewreseers from Bulstrode.”
“Ha! Scarthe has been quick and cunning! I’m too late, I fear!”
Saying this, the cavalier snatched up his pistols—at the same time grasping his sword—as if with the intention of making an attempt to defend himself.
The ex-footpad also armed himself with his terrible pike—which chanced to be standing in the hall; while Oriole’s weapon was a tomahawk, habitually worn about his person.
Drawing his blade from its scabbard, Holtspur rushed towards the front entrance—close followed by Garth and the Indian.
On reaching the door, which was still standing open, the conspirator saw at a glance, that resistance would be worse than idle: since it could only end in the sacrifice of his own life, and perhaps the lives of his faithful followers.
In front of the house was ranged a row of steel-clad cuirassiers—each with his arquebus ready to deliver its fire; while the trampling of hoofs, the clanking of armour, and the voices of men resounding from the rear of the dwelling, told that the circumvallation was complete.
“Who are you? What is your business?” demanded Holtspur of one, who from his attitude and gestures appeared to act as the leader—but whose face was hidden behind the closed visor of his helmet.
The demand was mechanical—a mere matter of form. He who made it knew—without the necessity of asking—to whom he was addressing himself, as well as the business that had brought him there.
He had not encountered that cavalier in the field of fight—and conquered him too—without leaving asouvenirby which he could be recognised.
But it needed not the wounded arm—still carried in its sling—to enable Henry Holtspur to recognise Richard Scarthe, his adversary in the equestrian duel. Without such evidence both horse and rider might have been identified.
“I came not here to answer idle questions,” replied Scarthe, with a laugh that rang ironically through the bars of his umbril. “Your first, I presume, needs no answer; and though I shall be over-courteous in replying to your second, you are welcome to the response you have challenged. My business, then, is to arrest a traitor!”
“A traitor! Who?”
“Henry Holtspur—a traitor to his king.”
“Coward!” cried Holtspur, returning scorn for scorn; “this is the thanks I receive for sparing your paltry life. From your extensiveentourageof steel-clad hirelings, it is evident you fear a second chastisement at my hands. Why did you not bring a whole regiment with you? Ha! ha! ha!”
“You are pleased to be facetious,” said Scarthe, whose triumphant position facilitated the restraining of his temper. “In the end, Master Holtspur, you may find it not such matter for mirth. Let them be merry who win. Laughter comes with but ill grace from the lips of those who are about to lose;nay, have already lost.”
“Already lost!” interrupted Holtspur, driven to the interrogatory, by the tone of significant insinuation in which the other had spoken.
“Not your liberty: though that also you have already lost. Not your head: that you may lose by-and-bye; but something which, if you be a true cavalier, should be dear to you as either.”
“What?” mechanically inquired Holtspur, moved to the interrogatory, less by the ambiguous speech than by the sight of an object which, at that moment, flashed before his angry eye. “What?”
“Yourmistress!” was the taunting reply. “Don’t fancy, my pretty picker-up of stray gloves, that you are the only one who receives such sweet favours. The fair lady of the golden hair, and white gauntlets, may have taken a fancy to dispose of a pair; and where two are thus delicately dispensed, the last given is the one most prized by me!”
As Scarthe said this, he raised his hand triumphantly towards the peak of his helmet; where a glove of white doeskin was seen conspicuously set—its tapering fingers turned forward, as if pointing in derision at him who possessed its fellow!
Scarthe’s gesture was superfluous. The eye of his adversary had been already fixed upon the indicated object; and the frown, that suddenly overspread his face, betrayed a strange commingling of emotions—surprise, incredulity, anger, with something more than its share of incipient jealousy.
Rushed into Holtspur’s mind at that moment, the recollection of thetête-à-tête, he had witnessed after parting with Marion Wade—her promenade up the long avenue, side by side with Scarthe—that short but bitter moment, when she had appearedcomplaisante.
If he wronged her in thought, he did not do so in speech. His jealousy kept silence; his anger alone found utterance.
“False trickster!” he cried, “’tis an impudent deception. She never gave you that glove. Thou hast found it—stolen it, more likely; and, by Heaven! I shall take it from thee, and restore it to its slandered owner—even here, in spite of your myrmidons! Yield it up, Richard Scarthe! or on the point of my sword—”
The threat was left unfinished, or rather unheard: for, simultaneous with its utterance, came the action—Holtspur raising his naked blade, and rushing upon his adversary.
“Seize him!” cried the latter, reining his horse backward to escape the thrust. “Seize the rebel! Slay him, if he resist!”
At the command, half-a-dozen of the cuirassiers spurred their steeds forward to the spot. Some stretched forth their hands to lay hold upon Holtspur, while others aimed at striking him down with the butts of their carbines.
Garth and the Indian had sallied forth to defend their master; who, had it not been for this, would perhaps have made a more prolonged resistance. But the sight of his two faithful followers—thus unnecessarily risking their lives—caused him suddenly to change his mad design; and, without offering further resistance, he surrendered himself into the hands of the soldiers who had surrounded him.
“Fast bind the rebel!” cried Scarthe, endeavouring to conceal his chagrin, at having shown fear, by pouring forth a volley of loyal speeches.
“Relieve him of his worthless weapon! Tie him hand and foot—neck and crop! He is mad, and therefore dangerous. Ha! ha! ha! Tight, you knaves! Tight as a hangman’s neck-tie!”
The order was obeyed quickly—if not to the letter; and in a few seconds Henry Holtspur stood bound, in the midst of his jeering enemies.
“Bring forth his horse!” cried Scarthe, in mocking tones. “Theblack horseman! ha! ha! ha! Let him have one last ride on his favourite charger. After that, he shall ride at the King’s expense. Ha! ha! ha!”
The black steed, already saddled by Garth, was soon brought round, and led towards the captive. There was something significant in the neigh, to which Hubert gave utterance as he approached the spot—something mournful: as if he suspected, or knew, that his master was in a position of peril.
As he was conducted nearer, and at length placed side by side with the prisoner, he bent his neck round till his muzzle touched Holtspur’s cheek; while his low, tremulous whimpering proved, as plainly as words could have expressed it, that he comprehended all.
The cuirassier captain had watched the odd and affecting incident. Instead of exciting his sympathy, it only intensified his chagrin. The presence of that steed reminded him, more forcibly than ever, of his own humiliating defeat—of which the animal had been more than a little the cause. Scarthe hated the horse almost as much as his master!
“Now, brave sir!” shouted he, endeavouring, in a derisive strain, to drown the unpleasant memories which the sight of Hubert had summoned up. “Such a distinguished individual must not ride bareheaded along the king’s highway. Ho there! Bring out his beaver, and set it upon his crown jauntily—jauntily!”
Three or four of the cuirassiers, who had dismounted, were proceeding to obey this last order—and had already mounted the steps leading up to the entrance—when an ejaculation from their commander caused them to turn back.
“Never mind, my lads!” he cried, as if having changed his intention. “Back to your horses! Never mind the hat: I shall go for it myself.”
The final words of this injunction were rather muttered, than spoken aloud. It was not intended they should be heard. They appeared to be the involuntary expression of some secret purpose, which had suddenly suggested itself to the mind of the speaker.
After giving utterance to them, the cuirassier captain leaped silently out of his saddle; and, mounting the stone steps, entered the door of the dwelling.
He traversed the entrance-hall with searching glances, and continued on along the corridor—until he stood opposite the door of an apartment. It was the library late occupied by the conspirators. He knew its situation; and surmised that he would there find what he was seeking for.
He was not mistaken. On entering he saw the desired object—the hat of Holtspur, hanging upon the antlers of a stag that were fixed in a conspicuous position against the wall.
He clutched at the hat, and jerked it down—with as much eagerness, as if he feared that something might intervene to prevent him.
It needed no close scrutiny to discover the white gauntlet, still in its place beside thepanacheof ostrich feathers. On the next instant, the hat, though permitted to retain its plume, was despoiled of the doeskin.
With a bitter smile passing over his pale features, did Scarthe scan the two gloves once more brought together. Finger by finger, and stitch by stitch did he compare them—holding them side by side, and up to the window’s light. His smile degenerated into a frown, as, on the completion of the analysis, he became convinced—beyond the possibility of a doubt—that the glove taken from the hat of Henry Holtspur, and that now figuring on his own helmet, werefellows, and formed a pair. Right and left were they—the latter being the true love-token!
He had entertained a hope, though but a very slight one, that he might still be mistaken. He could indulge it no longer. The gauntlet, worn in the hat of the black horseman, must have once graced the fair fingers of Marion Wade.
“Hasshe given it to him? Need I ask the question? She must have done so, beyond a doubt. May the fiend fire my soul, if I do not find an opportunity to make her rue the gift!”
Such was the unamiable menace with which Scarthe completed the comparison of the gloves.
That, just taken from the hat of Holtspur, was now transferred to the breast of his doublet. Quick and secret was the transfer: as if he deemed it desirable that the act should not be observed.
“Go!” he commanded, addressing himself to one of the troopers who attended him, “go into the garden—if there be such a thing about this wretched place. If not, take to the fields; and procure me some flowers. Red ones—no matter what sort, so that they be of a bright red colour. Bring them hither, and be quick about it!”
The soldier—accustomed to obey orders without questioning—hurried out to execute the singular command.
“You,” continued Scarthe, speaking to the other trooper, who had entered with him, “you set about collecting those papers. Secure that valise. It appears to need no further packing. See that it be taken to Bulstrode. Search every room in the house; and bring out any arms or papers you may light upon. You know your work. Do it briskly!”
With like alacrity the second attendant hastened to perform the part allotted to him; and Scarthe was for the moment left to himself.
“I should be more hungry,” muttered he, “after these documents, I see scattered about, were I in need of them. No doubt there’s many a traitor’s name inscribed on their pages: and enough besides to compromise half the squires in the county. More than one, I warrant me, through this silent testimony, would become entitled to a cheap lodging in that grand tenement eastward of Cheap. It’s a sort of thing I don’t much relish; though now I’m into it, I may as well make a wholesale sweep of these conspiring churls. As for Holtspur and Sir Marmy, I need no written evidence of their guilt. My own oral testimony, conjoined with that of my worthy sub, will be sufficient to deprive one—or both, if need be—of their heads. So—to the devil with the documents!”
As he said this, he turned scornfully away from the table on which the papers were strewed.
“Stay!” he exclaimed—the instant after facing round again, with a look that betokened some sudden change in his views; “Not so fast, Richard Scarthe! Not so fast! Who knows that among this forest of treasonous scribbling, I may not find some flower of epistolary correspondence—abillet-doux. Ha! if there should be one fromher! Strange, I did not think of it before. If—if—if—”
In the earnestness, with which he proceeded to toss over the litter of letters and other documents, his hypothetical thought, whatever it was, remained unspoken.
For several minutes he busied himself among the papers—opening scores of epistles—in the expectation of finding one in a feminine hand, and bearing the signature: “Marion Wade.”
He was disappointed. No such name was to be found among the correspondents of Henry Holtspur. They were all of the masculine gender—all, or nearly all, politicians and conspirators!
Scarthe was about discontinuing his search—for he had opened everything in the shape of a letter—when a document of imposing aspect attracted his attention. It bore the royal signet upon its envelope.
“By the eyes of Argus!” cried he, as his own fell upon the well-known seal; “What see I? A letter from the King! What can his majesty have to communicate to this faithful subject, I wonder? Zounds! ’tis addressed to myself!”
“For ye Captain Scarthe,
“Command: H.M. Royal Cuirassiers,
“Bulstrode Park,
“Shire of Buckingham.”
“The intercepted despatch! Here’s a discovery! Henry Holtspur a footpad! In league with one, at all events—else how should he have become possessed of this? So—so! Not a traitor’s, but a felon’s death shall he die! The gibbet instead of the block! Ha! Mistress Marion Wade! you will repent the gift of your pretty glove, when you learn that you have bestowed it on a thief! By Saint Sulpiece! ’twill be a comicaléclaircissement!”
“Ho, fellow! You’ve got the flowers?”
“I have, captain. They be the best I can find. There a’nt nothing but weeds about the old place, an’ withered at that.”
“So much the better: I want them a trifle withered. These will do—colour, shape—just the thing. Here I arrange them in a little bunch, and tie it to this hat. Fix them, as if the clasp confined them in their place. Be smart, my man; and make a neat thing of it!” The trooper plied his fingers with all the plastic ingenuity in his power; and, in a few seconds of time, a somewhat ragged bouquet was arranged, and adjusted on the beaver belonging to the black horseman—in the same place late occupied by the white gauntlet.
“Now!” said Scarthe, making a stride in the direction of the door, “Take out this hat. Place it on the head of the prisoner; and hark ye, corporal; you needn’t lethimsee the transformation that has been made, nor need you show it conspicuously to any one else. You understand me?”
The trooper having replied to these confidential commands with a nod and a knowing look, hurried off to execute them.
Stubbs, in charge of the guards outside, had already mounted Holtspur on horseback; where, with hands fast bound, and, for additional security, tied to the croup of the saddle,—his ankles also lashed to the stirrup leathers, and a steel-clad cuirassier, with drawn sword on each side of him—he looked like a captive left without the slightest chance of escape.
Even thus ignominiously pinioned, no air of the felon had he. His head, though bare, was not bowed; but carried proudly erect, without swagger, and with that air of tranquil indifference which distinguishes the true cavalier, even in captivity. His rough, and somewhat vagabond captors, could not help admiring that heroic courage—of which, but a few days before, they had witnessed such splendid proof.
“What a pity,” whispered one, “what a pity he’s not on our side! He’d make a noble officer of cavalry!”
“Help Master Holtspur to his hat!” tauntingly commanded Scarthe, as he clambered upon his own steed. “The wind must not be permitted to toss those waving locks too rudely. How becoming they will be upon the block! Ha! ha! ha!”
As commanded, his hat was placed upon the prisoner’s head.
The “forward,” brayed out by the bugle, drowned the satirical laugh of their leader, while the troopers, in files of two—with Scarthe at their head, Stubbs in the rear, and Holtspur near the centre—moved slowly across the lawn, leaving the mansion of Stone Dean without a master!