Volume Two—Chapter Four.On parting from Marion Wade, Henry Holtspur should have been the happiest of men. The loveliest woman in theshire—to his eyes, in theworld—had declared to him her love, and vowed eternal devotion. Its full fruition could not have given him firmer assurance of the fact.And yet he was not happy. On the contrary, it was with a heavy heart that he rode away from the scene of that interview with his splendid sweetheart. He knew that the interviewshould not have occurred—that Marion Wade ought not to be his sweetheart!After riding half a dozen lengths of his horse, he turned in his saddle, to look back, in hopes that the sight of the loved form might tranquillise his conscience.Happier for him had he ridden on.If unhappy before, he now saw that which made him miserable. Marion had commenced ascending the slope. Her light-coloured garments rendered her easily recognisable through the dimness of the twilight. Holtspur watched her movements, admiring the queenly grace of her step—distinguishable despite the darkness and distance.He was fast recovering composure of mind—so late disturbed by some unpleasant thought—and no doubt would have left the spot with contentment, but for an incident which at that moment transpired under his view.Marion Wade had got half-way up the hill, and was advancing with rapid step. Just then some one, going at a quicker pace, appeared in the avenue behind her!This second pedestrian must have passed out from among the trees: since but the moment before the receding form of the lady was alone in the avenue.In a few seconds she was overtaken; and the two figures were now seen side by side. In this way they moved on—their heads slightly inclined towards each other, as if engaged in familiar conversation!The dress of the individual who had thus sprung suddenly into sight was also of a light colour, and might have been a woman’s. But a red scarf diagonally crossing the shoulders—a high peaked hat with plume of ostrich feathers—and, more than all, the tallness of the figure, told Henry Holtspur that it was a man who was walking with Marion Wade.The same tokens declared he was not her brother: Walter was not near so tall. It could not be her father: Sir Marmaduke was accustomed to dress in black.The rows of chestnuts that bordered the walk came to a termination near the top of the hill. The figures had arrived there. Next moment they moved out from under the shadow of the trees, and could be seen more distinctly.“’Tis neither her father, nor brother—’tis Scarthe!”It was Holtspur who pronounced these words, and with an intonation that betokened both surprise and chagrin.“He has forced himself upon her! He came skulkingly out from the trees, as if he had been lying in wait for her! I shouldn’t wonder if ’twas so. What can I do? Shall I follow and interrupt the interview?”“There is danger here,” he continued, after a pause. “Ah! villain!” he exclaimed, standing erect in his stirrups, and stretching out his clenched hand in the direction of the departing figures, “if you but dare—one word of insult—one ribald look, and I am told of it—the chastisement you’ve already had will be nothing to that in store for you!”“O God!” he exclaimed, as though some still more disagreeable thought had succeeded to this paroxysm of spite, “a dread spectacle it is! The wolf walking by the side of the lamb!“He is bowing and bending to her! See! She turns towards him! She appears complacent. O God! is it possible?”Involuntarily his hand glided to the hilt of his sword—while the spurs were pressed against the ribs of his horse.The spirited animal sprang forward along the path—his head turned towards the mansion; but, before he had made a second spring, he was checked up again.“I’m a fool!” muttered his rider, “and you, too, Hubert. At all events I should have been thought so, had I ridden up yonder. What could I have said to excuse myself? ’Tis not possible. If it were so, I should feel no remorse. If it were so, there could be no ruin!“Ha! they have reached the bridge. She is leaving him. She has hurried inside the house. He remains without, apparently forsaken!“O Marion, if I’ve wronged thee, ’tis because I love thee madly—madly! Pardon!—pardon! I will watch thee no more!”So saying, he wheeled his steed once more; and, without again looking back, galloped on toward the gateway.Even while opening the gate and closing it behind him, he turned not his eyes towards the avenue; but, spurring into the public road, continued the gallop which the gate had interrupted.The head of his horse was homeward—so far only as the embouchure of the forest path that opened towards Stone Dean. On reaching this point he halted; and instead of entering upon the by-way, remained out in the middle of the high-road—as if undecided as to his course.He glanced towards the sky—a small patch of which was visible between the trees, on both sides overarching the road.The purple twilight was still lingering amid the spray of the forest; and through the break opening eastward, he could perceive the horned moon cutting sharply against the horizon.“Scarce worth while to go home now,” he muttered, drawing forth his watch, and holding the dial up to his eyes, “How swiftly the last hour has sped—ah! how sweetly! In another hour the men will be there. By riding slowly I shall just be in time; and you, Hubert, can have your supper in a stall at the Saracen’s Head. Aha! a woman in the window! ’Tis Marion!”The exclamatory phrases were called forth, as turning towards the park, he caught sight of the mansion, visible through an opening between the chestnuts.Several windows were alight; but the eye of the cavalier dwelt only on one—where under the arcade of the curtains, and against the luminous background of a burning lamp, a female form was discernible. Only the figure could be traced at that far distance; but this—tall, graceful and majestic—proclaimed it to be thesilhouetteof Marion Wade.After a prolonged gaze—commencing with a smile, and terminating in a sigh—Holtspur once more gave Hubert the rein, and moved silently onward.The ruined hut on Jarret’s Heath was soon reached, conspicuous under the silvery moonlight, as he had last viewed it: but no longer the rendezvous of Gregory Garth and his fierce footpads. The dummies had disappeared—even to the sticks that had served to support them—and nought remained to indicate, that in that solitary place the traveller had ever listened to the unpleasant summons:—“Stand and deliver!”Holtspur could not pass the spot without smiling; and more: for, as the ludicrous incident came more clearly before his mind, he drew up his horse, and, leaning back in the saddle, gave utterance to a loud laugh.Hubert, on hearing his master in such a merry mood, uttered a responsive neigh. Perhaps Hubert was laughing too; but man and horse became silent instantly, and from precaution.More than one neigh had responded to that of Holtspur’s steed; which the cavalier knew were not echoes, but proceeded from horses approaching the spot.Suddenly checking his laughter, and giving his own steed a signal to be still, he remained listening.The neighing of the strange horses had been heard at a distance: as if from some cavalcade coming up the road by Red Hill. In time, there were other sounds to confirm the surmise: the clanking of sabres against iron stirrups, and the hoof-strokes of the horses themselves.“A troop!” muttered Holtspur. “Some of Scarthe’s following, I suppose—from an errand to Uxbridge? Come, Hubert! They must not meet us.”A touch of the spur, with a slight pull upon the bridle rein, guided the well-trained steed behind the hovel; where, under the shadow of some leafy boughs, he was once more brought to a stand.Soon the hoof-strokes sounded more distinctly, as also the clank of the scabbards, the tinkling of the spur-rowels, and curb-chains.The voices of men were also mingled with these sounds; and both they and their horses, soon after, emerged from the shadows of the thicket, and entered the opening by the hut.There were seven of them; the odd one in advance of the others—who were riding two and two behind him.A glance at their habiliments proclaimed them to be men of military calling—an officer accompanied by an escort.As they arrived in front of the hovel, the leader halted—commanding the others to follow his example.The movement was sudden—apparently improvised on the part of the officer—and unexpected by his following. It was evidently the appearance of the ruin that had caused it to be made.“Sergeant!” said the leader of the little troop, addressing himself to one of the men who rode nearest to him, “this must be the place where the king’s courier was stopped? There’s the ruined hovel he spoke about: and this I take to be Jarret’s Heath. What say you?”“It must be that place, major,” replied the sergeant, “It can’t be no other. We’ve come full four mile from Uxbridge, and should now be close to the park of Bulstrode. This be Jarret’s Heath for sure.”“What a pity those rascals don’t show themselves to-night! I’d give something to carry them back with me bound hand and foot. It would be some satisfaction to poor Cunliffe, whom they stripped so clean: leaving him nothing but his stockings. Ha! ha! ha! I should like to have seen that noted court dandy, as he must have appeared just here—under the moonlight. Ha! ha! ha!”“I fancy I heard the neighing of a horse in this direction?” continued the leader of the little troop. “If the fellows who plundered the courier hadn’t been footpads, we might have hoped to encounter them—”“You forget, major,” rejoined the sergeant, “that Master Cunliffe’s horse was taken from him. May be the captain of the robbers is no longer a footpad, but mounted?”“No—no,” rejoined the officer, “the neighing we heard, was only from some farmer’s hack running loose in the pastures. Forward! we’ve already lost too much time. If this be Jarret’s Heath, we must be near the end of our errand. Forward!”Saying this, the leader of the band, close followed by the treble file of troopers, dashed forward along the road—their accoutrements, and the hooves of their horses, making a noise that hindered them from hearing the scornful, half involuntary laugh sent after them from the cavalier concealed under the shadow of the hut.“Another king’s courier for Scarthe!” muttered Holtspur, as he headed his horse once more to the road. “No doubt, the duplicate of that precious despatch! Ha! ha! His Majesty seems determined, that this time it shall reach its destination. An escort of six troopers! Notwithstanding all that, and the bravado of their leader, if I had only coughed loud enough for them to hear me, I believe they’d have, scampered off a little faster than they are now going. These conceited satellites of royalty—‘cavaliers,’ as they affectedly call themselves—are the veriest poltroons: brave only in words. Oh! that the hour were come, when Englishmen may be prevailed upon to demand their lights at the point of the sword—the only mode by which they will ever obtain them! Then may I hope to see such swaggerers scattered like chaff, and fleeing before the soldiers of Liberty! God grant the time may be near! Hubert, let us on, and hasten it!”Hubert, ever willing, obeyed the slight signal vouchsafed to him; and, spreading his limbs to the road, rapidly bore his master to the summit of Red Hill; then down its sloping declivity; and on through the fertile, far-stretching meadows of the Colne.
On parting from Marion Wade, Henry Holtspur should have been the happiest of men. The loveliest woman in theshire—to his eyes, in theworld—had declared to him her love, and vowed eternal devotion. Its full fruition could not have given him firmer assurance of the fact.
And yet he was not happy. On the contrary, it was with a heavy heart that he rode away from the scene of that interview with his splendid sweetheart. He knew that the interviewshould not have occurred—that Marion Wade ought not to be his sweetheart!
After riding half a dozen lengths of his horse, he turned in his saddle, to look back, in hopes that the sight of the loved form might tranquillise his conscience.
Happier for him had he ridden on.
If unhappy before, he now saw that which made him miserable. Marion had commenced ascending the slope. Her light-coloured garments rendered her easily recognisable through the dimness of the twilight. Holtspur watched her movements, admiring the queenly grace of her step—distinguishable despite the darkness and distance.
He was fast recovering composure of mind—so late disturbed by some unpleasant thought—and no doubt would have left the spot with contentment, but for an incident which at that moment transpired under his view.
Marion Wade had got half-way up the hill, and was advancing with rapid step. Just then some one, going at a quicker pace, appeared in the avenue behind her!
This second pedestrian must have passed out from among the trees: since but the moment before the receding form of the lady was alone in the avenue.
In a few seconds she was overtaken; and the two figures were now seen side by side. In this way they moved on—their heads slightly inclined towards each other, as if engaged in familiar conversation!
The dress of the individual who had thus sprung suddenly into sight was also of a light colour, and might have been a woman’s. But a red scarf diagonally crossing the shoulders—a high peaked hat with plume of ostrich feathers—and, more than all, the tallness of the figure, told Henry Holtspur that it was a man who was walking with Marion Wade.
The same tokens declared he was not her brother: Walter was not near so tall. It could not be her father: Sir Marmaduke was accustomed to dress in black.
The rows of chestnuts that bordered the walk came to a termination near the top of the hill. The figures had arrived there. Next moment they moved out from under the shadow of the trees, and could be seen more distinctly.
“’Tis neither her father, nor brother—’tis Scarthe!”
It was Holtspur who pronounced these words, and with an intonation that betokened both surprise and chagrin.
“He has forced himself upon her! He came skulkingly out from the trees, as if he had been lying in wait for her! I shouldn’t wonder if ’twas so. What can I do? Shall I follow and interrupt the interview?”
“There is danger here,” he continued, after a pause. “Ah! villain!” he exclaimed, standing erect in his stirrups, and stretching out his clenched hand in the direction of the departing figures, “if you but dare—one word of insult—one ribald look, and I am told of it—the chastisement you’ve already had will be nothing to that in store for you!”
“O God!” he exclaimed, as though some still more disagreeable thought had succeeded to this paroxysm of spite, “a dread spectacle it is! The wolf walking by the side of the lamb!
“He is bowing and bending to her! See! She turns towards him! She appears complacent. O God! is it possible?”
Involuntarily his hand glided to the hilt of his sword—while the spurs were pressed against the ribs of his horse.
The spirited animal sprang forward along the path—his head turned towards the mansion; but, before he had made a second spring, he was checked up again.
“I’m a fool!” muttered his rider, “and you, too, Hubert. At all events I should have been thought so, had I ridden up yonder. What could I have said to excuse myself? ’Tis not possible. If it were so, I should feel no remorse. If it were so, there could be no ruin!
“Ha! they have reached the bridge. She is leaving him. She has hurried inside the house. He remains without, apparently forsaken!
“O Marion, if I’ve wronged thee, ’tis because I love thee madly—madly! Pardon!—pardon! I will watch thee no more!”
So saying, he wheeled his steed once more; and, without again looking back, galloped on toward the gateway.
Even while opening the gate and closing it behind him, he turned not his eyes towards the avenue; but, spurring into the public road, continued the gallop which the gate had interrupted.
The head of his horse was homeward—so far only as the embouchure of the forest path that opened towards Stone Dean. On reaching this point he halted; and instead of entering upon the by-way, remained out in the middle of the high-road—as if undecided as to his course.
He glanced towards the sky—a small patch of which was visible between the trees, on both sides overarching the road.
The purple twilight was still lingering amid the spray of the forest; and through the break opening eastward, he could perceive the horned moon cutting sharply against the horizon.
“Scarce worth while to go home now,” he muttered, drawing forth his watch, and holding the dial up to his eyes, “How swiftly the last hour has sped—ah! how sweetly! In another hour the men will be there. By riding slowly I shall just be in time; and you, Hubert, can have your supper in a stall at the Saracen’s Head. Aha! a woman in the window! ’Tis Marion!”
The exclamatory phrases were called forth, as turning towards the park, he caught sight of the mansion, visible through an opening between the chestnuts.
Several windows were alight; but the eye of the cavalier dwelt only on one—where under the arcade of the curtains, and against the luminous background of a burning lamp, a female form was discernible. Only the figure could be traced at that far distance; but this—tall, graceful and majestic—proclaimed it to be thesilhouetteof Marion Wade.
After a prolonged gaze—commencing with a smile, and terminating in a sigh—Holtspur once more gave Hubert the rein, and moved silently onward.
The ruined hut on Jarret’s Heath was soon reached, conspicuous under the silvery moonlight, as he had last viewed it: but no longer the rendezvous of Gregory Garth and his fierce footpads. The dummies had disappeared—even to the sticks that had served to support them—and nought remained to indicate, that in that solitary place the traveller had ever listened to the unpleasant summons:—“Stand and deliver!”
Holtspur could not pass the spot without smiling; and more: for, as the ludicrous incident came more clearly before his mind, he drew up his horse, and, leaning back in the saddle, gave utterance to a loud laugh.
Hubert, on hearing his master in such a merry mood, uttered a responsive neigh. Perhaps Hubert was laughing too; but man and horse became silent instantly, and from precaution.
More than one neigh had responded to that of Holtspur’s steed; which the cavalier knew were not echoes, but proceeded from horses approaching the spot.
Suddenly checking his laughter, and giving his own steed a signal to be still, he remained listening.
The neighing of the strange horses had been heard at a distance: as if from some cavalcade coming up the road by Red Hill. In time, there were other sounds to confirm the surmise: the clanking of sabres against iron stirrups, and the hoof-strokes of the horses themselves.
“A troop!” muttered Holtspur. “Some of Scarthe’s following, I suppose—from an errand to Uxbridge? Come, Hubert! They must not meet us.”
A touch of the spur, with a slight pull upon the bridle rein, guided the well-trained steed behind the hovel; where, under the shadow of some leafy boughs, he was once more brought to a stand.
Soon the hoof-strokes sounded more distinctly, as also the clank of the scabbards, the tinkling of the spur-rowels, and curb-chains.
The voices of men were also mingled with these sounds; and both they and their horses, soon after, emerged from the shadows of the thicket, and entered the opening by the hut.
There were seven of them; the odd one in advance of the others—who were riding two and two behind him.
A glance at their habiliments proclaimed them to be men of military calling—an officer accompanied by an escort.
As they arrived in front of the hovel, the leader halted—commanding the others to follow his example.
The movement was sudden—apparently improvised on the part of the officer—and unexpected by his following. It was evidently the appearance of the ruin that had caused it to be made.
“Sergeant!” said the leader of the little troop, addressing himself to one of the men who rode nearest to him, “this must be the place where the king’s courier was stopped? There’s the ruined hovel he spoke about: and this I take to be Jarret’s Heath. What say you?”
“It must be that place, major,” replied the sergeant, “It can’t be no other. We’ve come full four mile from Uxbridge, and should now be close to the park of Bulstrode. This be Jarret’s Heath for sure.”
“What a pity those rascals don’t show themselves to-night! I’d give something to carry them back with me bound hand and foot. It would be some satisfaction to poor Cunliffe, whom they stripped so clean: leaving him nothing but his stockings. Ha! ha! ha! I should like to have seen that noted court dandy, as he must have appeared just here—under the moonlight. Ha! ha! ha!”
“I fancy I heard the neighing of a horse in this direction?” continued the leader of the little troop. “If the fellows who plundered the courier hadn’t been footpads, we might have hoped to encounter them—”
“You forget, major,” rejoined the sergeant, “that Master Cunliffe’s horse was taken from him. May be the captain of the robbers is no longer a footpad, but mounted?”
“No—no,” rejoined the officer, “the neighing we heard, was only from some farmer’s hack running loose in the pastures. Forward! we’ve already lost too much time. If this be Jarret’s Heath, we must be near the end of our errand. Forward!”
Saying this, the leader of the band, close followed by the treble file of troopers, dashed forward along the road—their accoutrements, and the hooves of their horses, making a noise that hindered them from hearing the scornful, half involuntary laugh sent after them from the cavalier concealed under the shadow of the hut.
“Another king’s courier for Scarthe!” muttered Holtspur, as he headed his horse once more to the road. “No doubt, the duplicate of that precious despatch! Ha! ha! His Majesty seems determined, that this time it shall reach its destination. An escort of six troopers! Notwithstanding all that, and the bravado of their leader, if I had only coughed loud enough for them to hear me, I believe they’d have, scampered off a little faster than they are now going. These conceited satellites of royalty—‘cavaliers,’ as they affectedly call themselves—are the veriest poltroons: brave only in words. Oh! that the hour were come, when Englishmen may be prevailed upon to demand their lights at the point of the sword—the only mode by which they will ever obtain them! Then may I hope to see such swaggerers scattered like chaff, and fleeing before the soldiers of Liberty! God grant the time may be near! Hubert, let us on, and hasten it!”
Hubert, ever willing, obeyed the slight signal vouchsafed to him; and, spreading his limbs to the road, rapidly bore his master to the summit of Red Hill; then down its sloping declivity; and on through the fertile, far-stretching meadows of the Colne.
Volume Two—Chapter Five.The Saracen’s Head stood an exact half-mile from the Colne river and the end of Uxbridge town. To reach it from the latter it was necessary to cross over the quaint old bridge—whence the place derives its name.It was a road-side inn, old as the bridge itself—perhaps ancient as the Crusades, from which its cognomen had come. It was the inn at which Scarthe and his cuirassiers had made their night halt, when proceeding to Bulstrode Park; the same afterwards known—as it is to the present day—by the appellation ofQueen’s Head. The altered lettering on its sign-board was not the act of the honest Saxon Boniface, who held it in the time of the first Charles; but of a plush-clad proprietor, who succeeded him during the servile days of the Restoration.While in Master Jarvis’s occupancy it might have borne a title equally as appropriate, and perhaps more significant than either—theKing’s Head: since under its roof, this phrase was frequently whispered—sometimes loudly pronounced—with a peculiar significance—one very different from the idea usually attached to it. It may be, that words spoken, and thoughts exchanged, within the walls of the old hostelry led to a king’s losing his head; or, at all events, precipitated that just and proper event.On the same night that Henry Holtspur was riding down Red Hill—with the Saracen’s Head as the declared goal of his journey—and about the same hour—a number of pedestrians, not all going together, but in scattered groups of two, three, and four, might have been seen crossing the Colne river at Uxbridge; who, after clearing the causeway of the bridge, continued on up the road, in the direction of the inn.On reaching it—one group after the other—they were seen to enter; after giving a preliminary challenge or greeting to its host, who received them by the door as they came up.This reception continued; until at least fifty men had glided inside the ivy-grown portico of the Saracen’s Head.They were all men—nothing in woman’s shape, or apparel, appearing amongst them.They were men in the humbler walks of life, though not the very humblest. Their dresses betokened them to be artisans; and of different callings,—as proclaimed by the various costumes: for in those days the costume told the trade.Nor did they appear to be habited for any particular occasion. The butcher was in his tall leathern boots, redolent of suet; the miller, in white cap, hoary with the “stoor” of the mill; the blacksmith, with wide hose hidden under an apron of singed sheepskin; and the tailor’sjour, with his bowed legs encased in a covering of cotton velveteen.In some of the groups there were individuals of a more pretentious appearance: men who wore beaver hats and doublets of superior quality, with sound russet boots, white linen cuffs, and collars. Still was there about their garments a certain commonness of cut, that proclaimed the wearers to be of the class of small shopkeepers—in modern days miscalledtradesmen.On any evening—especially if the weather chanced to be fine—a few such individuals might have been seen seeking the hospitality of the Saracen’s Head: for its tap was one of the most popular, and attracted customers even from Uxbridge. On the night in question, however, the great number of guests—as well as the lateness of the hour at which they were seeking the noted rendezvous—told of some purpose more important than merely to imbibe Master Jarvis’s celebrated brewage.There was an air of business about the men, as they marched along the road; and in their muttered conversations could be distinguished a tone of earnestness, that betokened some serious subject. They did not loiter, like men strolling out for an evening’s pastime; but walked briskly forward, as bent upon an errand, or keeping some preconcerted appointment.As already stated, the landlord of the inn received the different groups. There was something mysterious in this wordless welcome—so unusual at the Saracen’s Head; the more so, as on the broad open countenance of its owner there was no trace of churlishness. Equally mysterious might have appeared a circumstance observed as the guests came up to the door:—each raising his right hand within a few inches of Master Jarvis’s nose, with the thumb bent inward; holding the hand a second or two, in that position, and then withdrawing it!The mystery could only be explained, by presuming that this was a signal; and the slight assenting nod, with which it was answered, was simply a permission to enter.It might have been observed, moreover: that the guests so signalling, instead of going towards the common or tap-room of the inn, proceeded through a long corridor—leading to the interior of the establishment—where a large and much better appointed apartment had been arranged to receive them.Others who entered the house, without giving thethumb signal, greeted the landlord in a different way, and were shown towards the tap-room, or walked on, as was their wont, without invitation.For more than an hour these groups of men continued to arrive up the road from Uxbridge. At the same time other men—though not in such numbers—might have been seen coming down the same road from the direction of Red Hill, and Denham; and also along bye-paths—from the villages of Harefield, and Iver.Some difference might have been noticed between these and the men who came from Uxbridge—the former by their style of dress and general appearance being evidently denizens of the country—graziers or farmers—and not a few of them having the substantial look of independence that bespoke thefreeholder.All, however, were evidently moving towards the inn with a like motive—as each of them upon entering was seen to offer to its owner that silent masonic salute, which admitted them into the secret interior of the establishment.Of those who came in from the country, not a few were on horseback, as if they had ridden from a distance; and the ample stables were soon almost as well filled—and perhaps more profitably—than when Scarthe and his cuirassiers had honoured the inn with their patronage.Among the last who rode up was a horseman of distinguished mien; whose dress and equipments—but still more the steed he bestrode, and the style of his equitation—proclaimed him to be different from all the others. Even under the deceptive light of the moon there was no mistaking him for a common man. His free, graceful bearing, declared the cavalier.To the landlord, and a few others just entering the inn, he was individually known. These, as he rode forward to the door, could be heard whispering to one another that phrase that had lately become of almost cabalistic import—the black horseman!He dismounted; and without hesitancy entered along with the rest—simply nodding to them as he passed.It was not necessary forhimto hold up his thumb before the eyes of the stalwart door-keeper. This precaution, against the admission of traitorous spies, was not required in the case of Henry Holtspur. The owner of the hostelry knew the master of the ceremonies about to be performed under its roof; and the latter, passing him with a significant smile, kept on unattended along the dimly-lit corridor—as one who had oft trodden it before.With like familiarity, he opened the door of the inner apartment, now filled with men—whose manifold voices mingling in earnest conversation could be heard even to the entrance outside.Suddenly the sounds became hushed; but only for an instant. Then arose something more than a murmur of applause—amidst which could be heard, in many an enthusiastic repetition, the name of him who had entered, and the sobriquet by which to most of them he was better known.Though the massive door of oak closing again hindered the voices from being any longer heard outside, the conversation was not discontinued. Only was it conducted into its true channel—the master mind of that enthusiastic assemblage guiding it in its course.It might have been termed treasonable—if such phrase can be applied to speech condemning the conduct of the uxorious tyrant. Freely were the acts of the king commented upon, and his late edicts discussed; until some of the speakers, becoming inspired—partly by the intoxicating tap of the Saracen’s Head, which, at the cost of the cavalier, circulated without stint; and partly from the smart of some recent wrong—shook their clenched fists in the air, to render more emphatic their vows of vengeance.On that night, in the conclave held in the hostelry of the Saracen’s Head, was foreshadowed a spectacle—not long after to be realised and even witnessed by some there present—a king standing upon a scaffold!“Thank the Lord!” muttered Holtspur to himself, as he sprang into his saddle, and headed Hubert for the hills. “Thank the Lord for all his mercies!” added he, in the phraseology of some of his Puritan co-conspirators late ringing in his ears. “There can be no mistaking the temper of these fellows. After ten years of tyrannical usurpation they’re aroused at last. The time is come, not only for the dethronement of a tyrant, but for establishing in dear old England the only form of government that—is not a mockery of common sense—the only one upon which Liberty may rely—the Republic!”After he had given utterance to this speech, a smile—half of regretful bitterness, half of contempt—not only for his fellow countrymen, but his fellow-men—cynically shadowed his countenance: for the sentiment so expressed, naturally led him to reflect: how few there were in his own country who shared it with him!Holtspur lived in a time when the wordrepublicwas scarcely ever heard; or, when heard, only ill-understood, and scoffed at as a dream of the enthusiast. Not that he had himself any doubt as to its true signification. Perfectly did he comprehend its import—awful—grand—including the whole theory of human happiness, and man’s misery. Even in those times of tyrannical persecution—when Laud lorded it over the souls, and Strafford over the bodies of men—or even, still later, when, with impunity, the Waldense Protestant could be impaled upon the spear of the Inquisition—there were men and minds who could not be coerced to deny the divine origin of democracy, and believe in the pseudo “divine right” of kings.Not in those times alone, but in all ages: fortimecannot altertruth. A circle was a circle, before God made man to trace its curvature; and when God made men He intended them to govern themselves uncontrolled by tyrants.That they have not done so does not prove an error in the intention. The circumference of the circle, imperfect by some interruption, does not argue the non-existence of the curve. No more in early ages—no more in mediaeval times—no morenow—does the non-existence of the pure republic prove that it is not the proper form. Itisthe proper form,—the only one recognised by the laws of right and truth. He who does not acknowledge this, must be the owner either of abad heador abad heart. On either horn of the dilemma does he hang, who denies therepublic!Is there such a man, or thing in human shape? I cannot think there is. Thinking so, I could not avoid imitating my hero, in that scornful contempt, that expressed itself on his countenance, while reflecting how few there were who participated in his sentiments.Ah! had he lived in the present time he would have witnessed strange proofs of their truth. He would have recognised—as I do—in what others call the failure of republican institutions, their proudest triumph. He would have seen thirty millions of men, comparatively with the rest of their race, transformed into giants, by the influence of less than a century of republican training! He would have seen them divided into two parties—warring against each other like Titans of the olden time; and seeing this, he could have come to no other conclusion, than that, united, these thirty millions of republican people would have been a match for the whole monarchical world!Henry Holtspur did not need to dive into futurity for facts, to substantiate his belief in a republican form of government. His conviction came from the past—from the sources of eternal truth. The sarcasm expressed upon his features was caused by the contempt which a noble soul must naturally feel, for those things in human shape who believe, or pretend it, in the “divine right” of kings.The cloud lingered, until he had turned into the forest road, and came in sight of the old beech—that tree whose umbrageous branches overshadowed—to him, the sweetest and most sacred spot upon Earth.Once again he drew up under its canopy—once again gazed upon the white gauntlet, till love absorbed his every thought—even to the exclusion of that political passion—the republic.
The Saracen’s Head stood an exact half-mile from the Colne river and the end of Uxbridge town. To reach it from the latter it was necessary to cross over the quaint old bridge—whence the place derives its name.
It was a road-side inn, old as the bridge itself—perhaps ancient as the Crusades, from which its cognomen had come. It was the inn at which Scarthe and his cuirassiers had made their night halt, when proceeding to Bulstrode Park; the same afterwards known—as it is to the present day—by the appellation ofQueen’s Head. The altered lettering on its sign-board was not the act of the honest Saxon Boniface, who held it in the time of the first Charles; but of a plush-clad proprietor, who succeeded him during the servile days of the Restoration.
While in Master Jarvis’s occupancy it might have borne a title equally as appropriate, and perhaps more significant than either—theKing’s Head: since under its roof, this phrase was frequently whispered—sometimes loudly pronounced—with a peculiar significance—one very different from the idea usually attached to it. It may be, that words spoken, and thoughts exchanged, within the walls of the old hostelry led to a king’s losing his head; or, at all events, precipitated that just and proper event.
On the same night that Henry Holtspur was riding down Red Hill—with the Saracen’s Head as the declared goal of his journey—and about the same hour—a number of pedestrians, not all going together, but in scattered groups of two, three, and four, might have been seen crossing the Colne river at Uxbridge; who, after clearing the causeway of the bridge, continued on up the road, in the direction of the inn.
On reaching it—one group after the other—they were seen to enter; after giving a preliminary challenge or greeting to its host, who received them by the door as they came up.
This reception continued; until at least fifty men had glided inside the ivy-grown portico of the Saracen’s Head.
They were all men—nothing in woman’s shape, or apparel, appearing amongst them.
They were men in the humbler walks of life, though not the very humblest. Their dresses betokened them to be artisans; and of different callings,—as proclaimed by the various costumes: for in those days the costume told the trade.
Nor did they appear to be habited for any particular occasion. The butcher was in his tall leathern boots, redolent of suet; the miller, in white cap, hoary with the “stoor” of the mill; the blacksmith, with wide hose hidden under an apron of singed sheepskin; and the tailor’sjour, with his bowed legs encased in a covering of cotton velveteen.
In some of the groups there were individuals of a more pretentious appearance: men who wore beaver hats and doublets of superior quality, with sound russet boots, white linen cuffs, and collars. Still was there about their garments a certain commonness of cut, that proclaimed the wearers to be of the class of small shopkeepers—in modern days miscalledtradesmen.
On any evening—especially if the weather chanced to be fine—a few such individuals might have been seen seeking the hospitality of the Saracen’s Head: for its tap was one of the most popular, and attracted customers even from Uxbridge. On the night in question, however, the great number of guests—as well as the lateness of the hour at which they were seeking the noted rendezvous—told of some purpose more important than merely to imbibe Master Jarvis’s celebrated brewage.
There was an air of business about the men, as they marched along the road; and in their muttered conversations could be distinguished a tone of earnestness, that betokened some serious subject. They did not loiter, like men strolling out for an evening’s pastime; but walked briskly forward, as bent upon an errand, or keeping some preconcerted appointment.
As already stated, the landlord of the inn received the different groups. There was something mysterious in this wordless welcome—so unusual at the Saracen’s Head; the more so, as on the broad open countenance of its owner there was no trace of churlishness. Equally mysterious might have appeared a circumstance observed as the guests came up to the door:—each raising his right hand within a few inches of Master Jarvis’s nose, with the thumb bent inward; holding the hand a second or two, in that position, and then withdrawing it!
The mystery could only be explained, by presuming that this was a signal; and the slight assenting nod, with which it was answered, was simply a permission to enter.
It might have been observed, moreover: that the guests so signalling, instead of going towards the common or tap-room of the inn, proceeded through a long corridor—leading to the interior of the establishment—where a large and much better appointed apartment had been arranged to receive them.
Others who entered the house, without giving thethumb signal, greeted the landlord in a different way, and were shown towards the tap-room, or walked on, as was their wont, without invitation.
For more than an hour these groups of men continued to arrive up the road from Uxbridge. At the same time other men—though not in such numbers—might have been seen coming down the same road from the direction of Red Hill, and Denham; and also along bye-paths—from the villages of Harefield, and Iver.
Some difference might have been noticed between these and the men who came from Uxbridge—the former by their style of dress and general appearance being evidently denizens of the country—graziers or farmers—and not a few of them having the substantial look of independence that bespoke thefreeholder.
All, however, were evidently moving towards the inn with a like motive—as each of them upon entering was seen to offer to its owner that silent masonic salute, which admitted them into the secret interior of the establishment.
Of those who came in from the country, not a few were on horseback, as if they had ridden from a distance; and the ample stables were soon almost as well filled—and perhaps more profitably—than when Scarthe and his cuirassiers had honoured the inn with their patronage.
Among the last who rode up was a horseman of distinguished mien; whose dress and equipments—but still more the steed he bestrode, and the style of his equitation—proclaimed him to be different from all the others. Even under the deceptive light of the moon there was no mistaking him for a common man. His free, graceful bearing, declared the cavalier.
To the landlord, and a few others just entering the inn, he was individually known. These, as he rode forward to the door, could be heard whispering to one another that phrase that had lately become of almost cabalistic import—the black horseman!
He dismounted; and without hesitancy entered along with the rest—simply nodding to them as he passed.
It was not necessary forhimto hold up his thumb before the eyes of the stalwart door-keeper. This precaution, against the admission of traitorous spies, was not required in the case of Henry Holtspur. The owner of the hostelry knew the master of the ceremonies about to be performed under its roof; and the latter, passing him with a significant smile, kept on unattended along the dimly-lit corridor—as one who had oft trodden it before.
With like familiarity, he opened the door of the inner apartment, now filled with men—whose manifold voices mingling in earnest conversation could be heard even to the entrance outside.
Suddenly the sounds became hushed; but only for an instant. Then arose something more than a murmur of applause—amidst which could be heard, in many an enthusiastic repetition, the name of him who had entered, and the sobriquet by which to most of them he was better known.
Though the massive door of oak closing again hindered the voices from being any longer heard outside, the conversation was not discontinued. Only was it conducted into its true channel—the master mind of that enthusiastic assemblage guiding it in its course.
It might have been termed treasonable—if such phrase can be applied to speech condemning the conduct of the uxorious tyrant. Freely were the acts of the king commented upon, and his late edicts discussed; until some of the speakers, becoming inspired—partly by the intoxicating tap of the Saracen’s Head, which, at the cost of the cavalier, circulated without stint; and partly from the smart of some recent wrong—shook their clenched fists in the air, to render more emphatic their vows of vengeance.
On that night, in the conclave held in the hostelry of the Saracen’s Head, was foreshadowed a spectacle—not long after to be realised and even witnessed by some there present—a king standing upon a scaffold!
“Thank the Lord!” muttered Holtspur to himself, as he sprang into his saddle, and headed Hubert for the hills. “Thank the Lord for all his mercies!” added he, in the phraseology of some of his Puritan co-conspirators late ringing in his ears. “There can be no mistaking the temper of these fellows. After ten years of tyrannical usurpation they’re aroused at last. The time is come, not only for the dethronement of a tyrant, but for establishing in dear old England the only form of government that—is not a mockery of common sense—the only one upon which Liberty may rely—the Republic!”
After he had given utterance to this speech, a smile—half of regretful bitterness, half of contempt—not only for his fellow countrymen, but his fellow-men—cynically shadowed his countenance: for the sentiment so expressed, naturally led him to reflect: how few there were in his own country who shared it with him!
Holtspur lived in a time when the wordrepublicwas scarcely ever heard; or, when heard, only ill-understood, and scoffed at as a dream of the enthusiast. Not that he had himself any doubt as to its true signification. Perfectly did he comprehend its import—awful—grand—including the whole theory of human happiness, and man’s misery. Even in those times of tyrannical persecution—when Laud lorded it over the souls, and Strafford over the bodies of men—or even, still later, when, with impunity, the Waldense Protestant could be impaled upon the spear of the Inquisition—there were men and minds who could not be coerced to deny the divine origin of democracy, and believe in the pseudo “divine right” of kings.
Not in those times alone, but in all ages: fortimecannot altertruth. A circle was a circle, before God made man to trace its curvature; and when God made men He intended them to govern themselves uncontrolled by tyrants.
That they have not done so does not prove an error in the intention. The circumference of the circle, imperfect by some interruption, does not argue the non-existence of the curve. No more in early ages—no more in mediaeval times—no morenow—does the non-existence of the pure republic prove that it is not the proper form. Itisthe proper form,—the only one recognised by the laws of right and truth. He who does not acknowledge this, must be the owner either of abad heador abad heart. On either horn of the dilemma does he hang, who denies therepublic!
Is there such a man, or thing in human shape? I cannot think there is. Thinking so, I could not avoid imitating my hero, in that scornful contempt, that expressed itself on his countenance, while reflecting how few there were who participated in his sentiments.
Ah! had he lived in the present time he would have witnessed strange proofs of their truth. He would have recognised—as I do—in what others call the failure of republican institutions, their proudest triumph. He would have seen thirty millions of men, comparatively with the rest of their race, transformed into giants, by the influence of less than a century of republican training! He would have seen them divided into two parties—warring against each other like Titans of the olden time; and seeing this, he could have come to no other conclusion, than that, united, these thirty millions of republican people would have been a match for the whole monarchical world!
Henry Holtspur did not need to dive into futurity for facts, to substantiate his belief in a republican form of government. His conviction came from the past—from the sources of eternal truth. The sarcasm expressed upon his features was caused by the contempt which a noble soul must naturally feel, for those things in human shape who believe, or pretend it, in the “divine right” of kings.
The cloud lingered, until he had turned into the forest road, and came in sight of the old beech—that tree whose umbrageous branches overshadowed—to him, the sweetest and most sacred spot upon Earth.
Once again he drew up under its canopy—once again gazed upon the white gauntlet, till love absorbed his every thought—even to the exclusion of that political passion—the republic.
Volume Two—Chapter Six.The domicile of Dick Dancey could scarce with correctness be called a house. Even cottage would be too dignified a name for the wooden hovel, in which the woodman and his family habitually found shelter from rain and wind.To the latter the house itself was but little exposed: for, when a tempest raged, before striking on the frail structure, its fury was expended upon the giant beeches of Wapsey’s Wood, that stretched their protecting arms over and around it.It was a cabin of rough logs, clayed between the chinks, and roofed with a thatch of rushes—such, excepting the roof, as might be seen at the present day in the backwoods of America.A narrow doorway, barely wide enough to admit the big body of the woodman himself; two or three small windows, with diminutive panes of glass set in lead; an enclosure of limited dimensions, girt with a flimsy paling—designed for a garden, but grown into a weed bed; a stack of fire faggots; a shed that gave occasional shelter to a scraggy cob; a clay-bedaubed kennel containing a large fierce-looking mongrel—the cross between sheep-dog and deer-hound; these were the principal features in the external aspect of Dick Dancey’s domicile.The interior view was equally rude, and equally simple. A kitchen with a clay floor, and clay-plastered walls—against which stood upon shelves, or hung upon pegs, a sparse collection of utensils; some dingy old prints on common paper, and in cheap frames; a string of onions; another of rabbit skins; and close by the freshly-flayed hide of a fallow deer. Traps, gins, nets, and other implements for taking forest game and fish, were visible in a corner by themselves; and in another corner lay a large wooden axe, the implement of the owner’s proper calling. On the floor stood a beechwood table, with half-a-dozen rush-bottomed chairs, and some culinary utensils of red earthenware; while in the cavity, representing a fire-place, two large stones did duty forandirons.The kitchen was everything—the two rooms, the only others in the house—were both bedchambers; and both of very limited divisions. Each contained only a single bed; but one of the rooms was furnished a little better than its fellow:—that is, the bed had sheets and a coverlet; while the other was only a shakedown of straw rushes, with some rags of coarse grogram, and a couple of deer-skins for bed-clothes.In the first chamber there was a chair or two, and a small table placed against the wait. Over this glistened a piece of broken mirror, attached to the plastered surface, by a couple of rusty nails bent against the edges of the glass. A cotton pincushion; two or three common side-combs for holding up the hair; a small brush of bristles; a pair of white linen cuffs, that showed signs of having been more than once worn since washing; with some minor articles of female apparel, all lying upon the table, told the occupant of the chamber to be a woman.It was the sleeping-room of Bet Dancey—the daughter of the deer-stalker, and the only member of his family. The other apartment was the dormitory of Dick himself.The bed-rooms, however, were of inferior importance: since both Dick and his daughter lived habitually in the kitchen. They were both to be found there on the fourth day after thefête, at which the beautiful Betsey had cut such a conspicuous figure.Dick was seated at the table, engaged in the agreeable occupation of eating. A mug of beer, the fragments of a loaf of bread, and some ribs of roast venison, were the viands before him.It was his breakfast; though the sun shining down through the tops of the beeches betokened it nearer dinner-time; and Bet had breakfasted some hours earlier. But Dick had returned home late the night before—fatigued after a long journey—and in consequence had snored upon his shakedown of straw, until the bells of Bulstrode were tolling twelve.From the conversation carried on between him and his daughter, it was evident that, up to that hour, not many words had passed between them since his coming home.“Ha’ theer be’d any un here, gurl?”“Yes. One of the soldiers from the Park has been here—twice.”“One o’ the sogers!” muttered Dick in a tone that betrayed unpleasantness. “Dang it, that’s queery! Did he tell thee his errand?”“Only that he wanted to seeyou.”“Wanted to see me! Art sure o’ that, gurl?”“He said so, father.”“Thour’t sure he didn’t come to seethee?”The woodman, as he asked the question, gazed scrutinisingly upon the countenance of his daughter.“Oh, no, father!” replied Betsey without flinching from his gaze. “What could he want with me? He said he had a message for yourself; and that his captain wished to speak with you on some business.”“Business wi’ his captain! Hech! Did he say nothin’ o’ what it be’ed about?”“No.”“Nor made no inquiries o’ any kind?”“He only asked me, if I knew Mister Henry Holtspur, and where he lived.”“What didst thee tell him?”“I said thatyouknew him; and that he lived at the old house at Stone Dean.”The beautiful Betsey did not think it necessary to inform her father, that the cuirassier had said a good deal more: since it was in the shape of gallant speeches, and related only to herself.“Makin’ inquiries ’bouthim!” muttered Dancey to himself. “I shudn’t wonder if theer be somethin’ afoot. Muster Holtspur must be told o’t, an’ at once. I’ll go over theer soon’s I’ve ate my breakfast. Wull’s been here too,” he continued, once more addressing himself to his daughter, though not interrogatively. “I see’d him last night, when I got to Muster Holtspur’s. He told me he’d been.”“Yes—hehas been twice. The last time he came was when the other was here. They had some angry words.”“Angry words, eh! What beed they about, gurl?”“I am sure I can’t tell, father. You know Will always gets out of temper, when any one speaks to me. Indeed, I can’t bear it; and won’t any longer. He taunted me that day; and said a many things he’d no right to.”“I tell thee, gurl, Wull Walford have a right to talk to thee as he pleases. He is thy friend, gurl; an’ means it only for thy good. Thou be-est too short wi’ the lad; and say’st things—for I’ve heard thee myself—that would aggravate the best friend thee hast i’ the world. Thou wilt do well to change thy tone; or Wull Walford may get tired o’ thy tricks, an’ go a speerin’ som’ere else for a wife.”“I wish he would!” was the reply that stood ready on the tip of Bet’s tongue; but which from a wholesome dread of the paternal temper—more than once terribly exhibited on this subject—was left unspoken.“I tell thee, gurl, I’ve seed Wull Walford last night. I’ve talked wi’ him a bit; an’ I reckon as how he’ll ha’ somethin’ seerus to say to thee ’fore long.”The dark cloud, that passed over the countenance of the girl, told that she comprehended the nature of the “something” thus conjecturally foreshadowed.“Now, Bet,” added the woodman, having laid bare the roasted rib, and emptied the beer-mug, “bring me my old hat, an’ the long hazel staff. I be a gooin’ over to the Dean; an’ as that poor beest be well-nigh done up, I maun walk. Maybe Muster Holtspur moat coom here, while I be gone theer. I know he wants to see me early, an’ I ha’ overslept myself. He sayed he might coom. If he do, tell ’im I’ll be back in a giff—if I doant find ’im over theer, or meet ’im on the way.”And with this injunction, the gigantic deer-stealer squeezed himself through the narrow doorway of his hovel; and, turning in the direction of Stone Dean, strode off under the shadowy boughs of the Wapsey’s Wood beeches.He was scarce out of sight when Bet, stepping back from the door, glided into her little chamber; and, seizing the brush of bristles, began drawing it through the long tresses of her hair.In that piece of broken glass—with a disc not bigger than a dinner-plate—was reflected a face with which the most critical connoisseur of female beauty could scarce have found fault.The features were of the true gipsy type—the aquiline nose—the wild, hawk-like eye—the skin of golden brown—and thick crow-black hair overshadowing all. There was a form, too, beneath, which, though muscular almost as a man’s, and with limbs large and vigorous, was, nevertheless, of temptingtournure. It was no wonder that Marion Wade had deemed it worthy the admiration of Henry Holtspur—no wonder that Henry Holtspur had deemed Will Walford unworthy of possessing it.“Hecoming here! And to find me in this drabby dress, with my hair hanging like the tail of father’s old horse! I should sink through the floor for very shame!“I trust I shall be in time to titivate myself. Bother my hair!—it’s a yard too long, and a mile too thick. It takes as much trouble to plait as would weave a hank of homespun.“It’ll do now. Stick where I stick you, ye ugly comb! Will’s gift. Little do I prize it, troth!“Now for my Sunday gown—my cuffs and ruffs. They’re not quite so grand as those of Mistress Marion Wade; but I flatter myself they’re not amiss. If I were only allowed to wear gloves—pretty gauntlets, like those I’ve seen on her hands, small and white as the drifted snow! Ah! there, I’m far behind her: my poor hands are red and big; they’ve had to work and weave; while hers, I dare say, never touched a distaff. Oh! that I could wear gloves to cover these ugly fingers of mine. But no—I daren’t. The village girls would laugh at me, and call me a —. I won’t say the word. Never mind for the gloves. Should he come, I’ll keep my hands under my apron, so that he shan’t see a finger.”Thus soliloquised Bet Dancey in front of her bit of broken looking-glass.It was not Will Walford who had summoned up her ludicrous soliloquy; nor yet the cuirassier—he who had called twice. For neither of these was the dark-haired damsel arraying herself in her flaunting finery. The lure was being set for higher game—for Henry Holtspur.“I hope father mayn’t meet him on the way. He’ll be sure to turn him back if he do: for father likes better to go to Stone Dean than for him to come here. Luckily there’s two paths; and father always takes the short cut—by whichhenever comes.“Ha! the dog barks! ’Tis some one! Mercy on me! If’t be him I’m not half ready to receive him. Stay in, you nasty comb! It’s too short in the teeth. Will’s no judge of combs, or he’d a bought me a better. After all,” concluded she, bending down before the bit of glass, and taking a final survey of her truly beautiful face, “I think I’ll do. Perhaps I’m not so pretty as Mistress Marion Wade; but I’m sure I’m as good-looking as Mistress Dorothy Dayrell. The dog again! It must be somebody, I hope ’tis—”Leaving the name unpronounced, the girl glided back into the kitchen; and, crossing it with quick step, stood once more within the doorway.As yet there was no one in sight. The dog was barking at something that had roused him either by scent or sound. But the girl knew that the animal rarely erred in this wise; and that something—either man or beast—must be approaching the hut.She was not kept long in suspense, as to who was the coming visitor; though the hope, to which she had given thought, had well-nigh departed before that visitor came within view. The dog was making his demonstrationtowards the south. The path to Stone Dean lednorthwardfrom the cottage. Henry Holtspur, if coming from home, should appear in the latter direction.The girl knew of another visitor who might be expected by the southern path, and at any hour. In that direction dwelt Will Walford. It might be he?A shadow of disappointment swept over her face, accompanying this conjecture. It seemed to say, how little welcome just then would Will Walford be.Such must have been its signification: for at sight of this individual—the moment after advancing along the path—the shadow on her countenance sensibly deepened.“How very provoking!” muttered she. “At such a time too—just as I had hopes of seeinghim. Ifheshould come too—even though his errand be to father—I shouldn’t wonder if Will was to make some trouble. He’s been jealous ever since he saw me give Master Holtspur the flowers—worse about him than any one. Will’s right there; though the other’s not to blame—no, no—only myself. I wish he were a little in fault. Then I shouldn’t mind Will’s jealousy; nor he, I’m sure. Oh! if he loved me, I shouldn’t care for aught, or anybody, in the wide world!”Having made this self-confession, she stepped back into the doorway; and, standing upon the stoup, awaited the unwelcome visitor with an air of defiant indifference.“Mornin’, Bet!” saluted her suitor in a curt, sulky fashion, to which “Bet” made an appropriate response. “Thou be-est stannin’ in the door as if thou wast lookin’ for some’un? I doan’t suppose it are for me anyhow.”“No, indeed,” answered the girl, taking but slight pains to conceal her chagrin. “I neither expected you, nor do I thank you for coming. I told you so, when you were here last; and now I tell you again.”“Wal, you consated thing!” retorted the lout, with a pretence at being indifferent; “how do thee know I be come to see thee? I may have business wi’ Mast’ Dancey, mayent I?”“If you have, he’s not at home.”“Where be he gone?”“Over to Stone Dean. He’s only left here a minute ago. He went by the short cut across the woods. If you keep on, you’ll easily overtake him.”“Bah!” ejaculated the woodman, “I beant in such a hurry. My bizness wi’ your father ’ll keep till he coom back; but I’se also got somethin’ to say to thyself as woan’t keep much longer. Thee be done up wonderful fine this mornin’! Be theer anotherfêteto come off? ’Tan’t day o’ a fair, be it?”“My doing up, as you call it, has nothing to do with eitherfête, or fair. I’m dressed no different from other days, I’m sure. I’ve only put on my new skirt and boddice—because—because—.”Notwithstanding her readiness, Mistress Betsey appeared a little perplexed to find an excuse for being habited in her holiday attire.“Because,” interrupted the woodman, noticing her confusion, “because thee wast lookin’ out for some ’un. That’s the because. Bet Dancey!” continued he, his increased jealousy stimulating him to bolder speech; “doant try to deceive me. I arn’t such a blind fool as you think I be. You’ve put on your finery to receive some ’un as you ha’ been expectin’. That swaggerin’ soger, I ’spose? May be the fine gentleman o’ Stone Dean hisself; or I wouldna’ wonder if’t mout be that ere Indyen dummy o’ his. You beeant partickler, Bet Dancey; not you. All’s fish as cooms to thy net—all’s one.”“Will Walford!” cried the girl, turning red under his taunts, “I shall not listen to such talk—either from you or any one. If you’ve nothing else to say to me, you may pass on.”“But I hev’ somethin’ else to say to thee; and I mean to say’t now, Bet.”“Say it, then, and have done with it,” rejoined the girl, as if desirous of hurrying the interview to an end. “What be it?”“It be this, then,” replied the woodman, moving a little nearer to her, and speaking in a more serious tone than he had yet assumed; “Bet Dancey, I needn’t be tellin’ thee how I be in love wi’ thee. Thou know’st it well enoo.”“You’ve told it me a hundred times. I don’t want to hear it again.”“But thou shalt. An’ this time, I tell thee, will be the last.”“I’m glad to hear that.”“What I be goin’ to say,” continued the suitor, without heeding her repeated interruptions, “be this, Bet Dancey, I see’d thy father last night; an’ he an’ me talked it over atween us. He’s gi’ed me his full consent.”“To what, pray?”“Why to ha’e thee for my wife.”“Indeed!” exclaimed the girl, with a scornful laugh. “Ha! ha! ha! That’s what you had to tell me, is it? Now, Will Walford, hear me in return. You’ve told me a hundred times that you loved me, and you’ve now promised that it will be the last time. I’ve said to you a hundred times it was no use; and I promise you this will bemylast saying it. Once for all then, I declare to you, that Ishall never be your wife—never I never!”The last words were pronounced with a stern emphasis, calculated to carry conviction; and the rustic suitor shrank under them, as if they had annihilated the last remnant of his hopes.Only for an instant did he preserve his cowering attitude. His was not a nature to be stung without turning; and the recoil soon came.“Then dang it!” cried he, raising his long axe, and winding it around his head in a threatening manner, “If thee doant be my wife, Bet Dancey, thou shall never be the wife o’ any other. I swear to thee, I’ll kill the man thee marriest; an’ thyself along wi’ him, if I ever live to see the day that makes two o’ ye one!”“Away, wretch!” cried the girl, half terrified, half indignant. “I don’t want to listen to your threats. Away, away!”And, saying this, she retreated inside the hut—as she did so, slamming the door in his face.“Dang thee, thou deceitful slut!” apostrophised the discarded suitor; “I’ll keep my threet, if I ha’ to swing for it!”As he gave utterance to this fell menace, he threw the axe over his shoulder; sprang across the broken palings; and strode off among the trees—once more muttering as he went: “I’ll keep my threet, if I ha’ to swing for it!”For some minutes the door of the cottage remained closed. It was also barred inside: for the girl had been a good deal frightened, and feared the fellow’s return. The wild look that had gleamed from under his white eyebrows would have caused fear within the bosom of any woman; and it had even terrified the heart of Bet Dancey.On barring the door, she glided up to one of the windows and watched. She saw him take his departure from the place.“He is gone, and I am glad of it fortworeasons,” soliloquised she. “What a wicked wretch! I always thought so. And yet my father wants me to marry that man! Never—never! I shall tell father what he has said. Maybe that may change him.“Heigho! I fearheis not coming to-day! and when shall I see him again? There’s to be another fête at Michaelmas; but that’s a long time; and its such a chance meeting him on the road—where one mayn’t speak to him, perhaps. Oh! if I could think of some errand to Stone Dean! I wish father would send me oftener. Ah me! what’s the use? Muster Holtspur’s too grand to think of a poor peasant girl.Marryme he could not, perhaps hewouldnot.—I don’t want that, if he’d onlyloveme!”The lurcher, that had kept silent during the stormy interview between Bet and her rustic admirer, now broke out in a freshbravuraof baying.“Is it Will again?” cried the girl, gliding back to the window and looking out. “No, it can’t be him: the dog looks the other way. It’s either father coming back, or—’Tis he! ’tis he!“What am I to do? I must open the door. If he sees it shut he may not think of coming in; I wish him to come in!”As she said this, she glided up to the doorway, and pushing back the bar, gently drew open the door.She did not show herself in the entrance. A quick instinct hindered her. Were she to do so, the visitor might simply make an inquiry; and, being answered that her father was not at home, might turn back or pass on. This would not suit her purpose:since she wished him to come in.He was afoot. That augured well. She watched him through the window as he drew near. She watched him with a throbbing bosom.
The domicile of Dick Dancey could scarce with correctness be called a house. Even cottage would be too dignified a name for the wooden hovel, in which the woodman and his family habitually found shelter from rain and wind.
To the latter the house itself was but little exposed: for, when a tempest raged, before striking on the frail structure, its fury was expended upon the giant beeches of Wapsey’s Wood, that stretched their protecting arms over and around it.
It was a cabin of rough logs, clayed between the chinks, and roofed with a thatch of rushes—such, excepting the roof, as might be seen at the present day in the backwoods of America.
A narrow doorway, barely wide enough to admit the big body of the woodman himself; two or three small windows, with diminutive panes of glass set in lead; an enclosure of limited dimensions, girt with a flimsy paling—designed for a garden, but grown into a weed bed; a stack of fire faggots; a shed that gave occasional shelter to a scraggy cob; a clay-bedaubed kennel containing a large fierce-looking mongrel—the cross between sheep-dog and deer-hound; these were the principal features in the external aspect of Dick Dancey’s domicile.
The interior view was equally rude, and equally simple. A kitchen with a clay floor, and clay-plastered walls—against which stood upon shelves, or hung upon pegs, a sparse collection of utensils; some dingy old prints on common paper, and in cheap frames; a string of onions; another of rabbit skins; and close by the freshly-flayed hide of a fallow deer. Traps, gins, nets, and other implements for taking forest game and fish, were visible in a corner by themselves; and in another corner lay a large wooden axe, the implement of the owner’s proper calling. On the floor stood a beechwood table, with half-a-dozen rush-bottomed chairs, and some culinary utensils of red earthenware; while in the cavity, representing a fire-place, two large stones did duty forandirons.
The kitchen was everything—the two rooms, the only others in the house—were both bedchambers; and both of very limited divisions. Each contained only a single bed; but one of the rooms was furnished a little better than its fellow:—that is, the bed had sheets and a coverlet; while the other was only a shakedown of straw rushes, with some rags of coarse grogram, and a couple of deer-skins for bed-clothes.
In the first chamber there was a chair or two, and a small table placed against the wait. Over this glistened a piece of broken mirror, attached to the plastered surface, by a couple of rusty nails bent against the edges of the glass. A cotton pincushion; two or three common side-combs for holding up the hair; a small brush of bristles; a pair of white linen cuffs, that showed signs of having been more than once worn since washing; with some minor articles of female apparel, all lying upon the table, told the occupant of the chamber to be a woman.
It was the sleeping-room of Bet Dancey—the daughter of the deer-stalker, and the only member of his family. The other apartment was the dormitory of Dick himself.
The bed-rooms, however, were of inferior importance: since both Dick and his daughter lived habitually in the kitchen. They were both to be found there on the fourth day after thefête, at which the beautiful Betsey had cut such a conspicuous figure.
Dick was seated at the table, engaged in the agreeable occupation of eating. A mug of beer, the fragments of a loaf of bread, and some ribs of roast venison, were the viands before him.
It was his breakfast; though the sun shining down through the tops of the beeches betokened it nearer dinner-time; and Bet had breakfasted some hours earlier. But Dick had returned home late the night before—fatigued after a long journey—and in consequence had snored upon his shakedown of straw, until the bells of Bulstrode were tolling twelve.
From the conversation carried on between him and his daughter, it was evident that, up to that hour, not many words had passed between them since his coming home.
“Ha’ theer be’d any un here, gurl?”
“Yes. One of the soldiers from the Park has been here—twice.”
“One o’ the sogers!” muttered Dick in a tone that betrayed unpleasantness. “Dang it, that’s queery! Did he tell thee his errand?”
“Only that he wanted to seeyou.”
“Wanted to see me! Art sure o’ that, gurl?”
“He said so, father.”
“Thour’t sure he didn’t come to seethee?”
The woodman, as he asked the question, gazed scrutinisingly upon the countenance of his daughter.
“Oh, no, father!” replied Betsey without flinching from his gaze. “What could he want with me? He said he had a message for yourself; and that his captain wished to speak with you on some business.”
“Business wi’ his captain! Hech! Did he say nothin’ o’ what it be’ed about?”
“No.”
“Nor made no inquiries o’ any kind?”
“He only asked me, if I knew Mister Henry Holtspur, and where he lived.”
“What didst thee tell him?”
“I said thatyouknew him; and that he lived at the old house at Stone Dean.”
The beautiful Betsey did not think it necessary to inform her father, that the cuirassier had said a good deal more: since it was in the shape of gallant speeches, and related only to herself.
“Makin’ inquiries ’bouthim!” muttered Dancey to himself. “I shudn’t wonder if theer be somethin’ afoot. Muster Holtspur must be told o’t, an’ at once. I’ll go over theer soon’s I’ve ate my breakfast. Wull’s been here too,” he continued, once more addressing himself to his daughter, though not interrogatively. “I see’d him last night, when I got to Muster Holtspur’s. He told me he’d been.”
“Yes—hehas been twice. The last time he came was when the other was here. They had some angry words.”
“Angry words, eh! What beed they about, gurl?”
“I am sure I can’t tell, father. You know Will always gets out of temper, when any one speaks to me. Indeed, I can’t bear it; and won’t any longer. He taunted me that day; and said a many things he’d no right to.”
“I tell thee, gurl, Wull Walford have a right to talk to thee as he pleases. He is thy friend, gurl; an’ means it only for thy good. Thou be-est too short wi’ the lad; and say’st things—for I’ve heard thee myself—that would aggravate the best friend thee hast i’ the world. Thou wilt do well to change thy tone; or Wull Walford may get tired o’ thy tricks, an’ go a speerin’ som’ere else for a wife.”
“I wish he would!” was the reply that stood ready on the tip of Bet’s tongue; but which from a wholesome dread of the paternal temper—more than once terribly exhibited on this subject—was left unspoken.
“I tell thee, gurl, I’ve seed Wull Walford last night. I’ve talked wi’ him a bit; an’ I reckon as how he’ll ha’ somethin’ seerus to say to thee ’fore long.”
The dark cloud, that passed over the countenance of the girl, told that she comprehended the nature of the “something” thus conjecturally foreshadowed.
“Now, Bet,” added the woodman, having laid bare the roasted rib, and emptied the beer-mug, “bring me my old hat, an’ the long hazel staff. I be a gooin’ over to the Dean; an’ as that poor beest be well-nigh done up, I maun walk. Maybe Muster Holtspur moat coom here, while I be gone theer. I know he wants to see me early, an’ I ha’ overslept myself. He sayed he might coom. If he do, tell ’im I’ll be back in a giff—if I doant find ’im over theer, or meet ’im on the way.”
And with this injunction, the gigantic deer-stealer squeezed himself through the narrow doorway of his hovel; and, turning in the direction of Stone Dean, strode off under the shadowy boughs of the Wapsey’s Wood beeches.
He was scarce out of sight when Bet, stepping back from the door, glided into her little chamber; and, seizing the brush of bristles, began drawing it through the long tresses of her hair.
In that piece of broken glass—with a disc not bigger than a dinner-plate—was reflected a face with which the most critical connoisseur of female beauty could scarce have found fault.
The features were of the true gipsy type—the aquiline nose—the wild, hawk-like eye—the skin of golden brown—and thick crow-black hair overshadowing all. There was a form, too, beneath, which, though muscular almost as a man’s, and with limbs large and vigorous, was, nevertheless, of temptingtournure. It was no wonder that Marion Wade had deemed it worthy the admiration of Henry Holtspur—no wonder that Henry Holtspur had deemed Will Walford unworthy of possessing it.
“Hecoming here! And to find me in this drabby dress, with my hair hanging like the tail of father’s old horse! I should sink through the floor for very shame!
“I trust I shall be in time to titivate myself. Bother my hair!—it’s a yard too long, and a mile too thick. It takes as much trouble to plait as would weave a hank of homespun.
“It’ll do now. Stick where I stick you, ye ugly comb! Will’s gift. Little do I prize it, troth!
“Now for my Sunday gown—my cuffs and ruffs. They’re not quite so grand as those of Mistress Marion Wade; but I flatter myself they’re not amiss. If I were only allowed to wear gloves—pretty gauntlets, like those I’ve seen on her hands, small and white as the drifted snow! Ah! there, I’m far behind her: my poor hands are red and big; they’ve had to work and weave; while hers, I dare say, never touched a distaff. Oh! that I could wear gloves to cover these ugly fingers of mine. But no—I daren’t. The village girls would laugh at me, and call me a —. I won’t say the word. Never mind for the gloves. Should he come, I’ll keep my hands under my apron, so that he shan’t see a finger.”
Thus soliloquised Bet Dancey in front of her bit of broken looking-glass.
It was not Will Walford who had summoned up her ludicrous soliloquy; nor yet the cuirassier—he who had called twice. For neither of these was the dark-haired damsel arraying herself in her flaunting finery. The lure was being set for higher game—for Henry Holtspur.
“I hope father mayn’t meet him on the way. He’ll be sure to turn him back if he do: for father likes better to go to Stone Dean than for him to come here. Luckily there’s two paths; and father always takes the short cut—by whichhenever comes.
“Ha! the dog barks! ’Tis some one! Mercy on me! If’t be him I’m not half ready to receive him. Stay in, you nasty comb! It’s too short in the teeth. Will’s no judge of combs, or he’d a bought me a better. After all,” concluded she, bending down before the bit of glass, and taking a final survey of her truly beautiful face, “I think I’ll do. Perhaps I’m not so pretty as Mistress Marion Wade; but I’m sure I’m as good-looking as Mistress Dorothy Dayrell. The dog again! It must be somebody, I hope ’tis—”
Leaving the name unpronounced, the girl glided back into the kitchen; and, crossing it with quick step, stood once more within the doorway.
As yet there was no one in sight. The dog was barking at something that had roused him either by scent or sound. But the girl knew that the animal rarely erred in this wise; and that something—either man or beast—must be approaching the hut.
She was not kept long in suspense, as to who was the coming visitor; though the hope, to which she had given thought, had well-nigh departed before that visitor came within view. The dog was making his demonstrationtowards the south. The path to Stone Dean lednorthwardfrom the cottage. Henry Holtspur, if coming from home, should appear in the latter direction.
The girl knew of another visitor who might be expected by the southern path, and at any hour. In that direction dwelt Will Walford. It might be he?
A shadow of disappointment swept over her face, accompanying this conjecture. It seemed to say, how little welcome just then would Will Walford be.
Such must have been its signification: for at sight of this individual—the moment after advancing along the path—the shadow on her countenance sensibly deepened.
“How very provoking!” muttered she. “At such a time too—just as I had hopes of seeinghim. Ifheshould come too—even though his errand be to father—I shouldn’t wonder if Will was to make some trouble. He’s been jealous ever since he saw me give Master Holtspur the flowers—worse about him than any one. Will’s right there; though the other’s not to blame—no, no—only myself. I wish he were a little in fault. Then I shouldn’t mind Will’s jealousy; nor he, I’m sure. Oh! if he loved me, I shouldn’t care for aught, or anybody, in the wide world!”
Having made this self-confession, she stepped back into the doorway; and, standing upon the stoup, awaited the unwelcome visitor with an air of defiant indifference.
“Mornin’, Bet!” saluted her suitor in a curt, sulky fashion, to which “Bet” made an appropriate response. “Thou be-est stannin’ in the door as if thou wast lookin’ for some’un? I doan’t suppose it are for me anyhow.”
“No, indeed,” answered the girl, taking but slight pains to conceal her chagrin. “I neither expected you, nor do I thank you for coming. I told you so, when you were here last; and now I tell you again.”
“Wal, you consated thing!” retorted the lout, with a pretence at being indifferent; “how do thee know I be come to see thee? I may have business wi’ Mast’ Dancey, mayent I?”
“If you have, he’s not at home.”
“Where be he gone?”
“Over to Stone Dean. He’s only left here a minute ago. He went by the short cut across the woods. If you keep on, you’ll easily overtake him.”
“Bah!” ejaculated the woodman, “I beant in such a hurry. My bizness wi’ your father ’ll keep till he coom back; but I’se also got somethin’ to say to thyself as woan’t keep much longer. Thee be done up wonderful fine this mornin’! Be theer anotherfêteto come off? ’Tan’t day o’ a fair, be it?”
“My doing up, as you call it, has nothing to do with eitherfête, or fair. I’m dressed no different from other days, I’m sure. I’ve only put on my new skirt and boddice—because—because—.”
Notwithstanding her readiness, Mistress Betsey appeared a little perplexed to find an excuse for being habited in her holiday attire.
“Because,” interrupted the woodman, noticing her confusion, “because thee wast lookin’ out for some ’un. That’s the because. Bet Dancey!” continued he, his increased jealousy stimulating him to bolder speech; “doant try to deceive me. I arn’t such a blind fool as you think I be. You’ve put on your finery to receive some ’un as you ha’ been expectin’. That swaggerin’ soger, I ’spose? May be the fine gentleman o’ Stone Dean hisself; or I wouldna’ wonder if’t mout be that ere Indyen dummy o’ his. You beeant partickler, Bet Dancey; not you. All’s fish as cooms to thy net—all’s one.”
“Will Walford!” cried the girl, turning red under his taunts, “I shall not listen to such talk—either from you or any one. If you’ve nothing else to say to me, you may pass on.”
“But I hev’ somethin’ else to say to thee; and I mean to say’t now, Bet.”
“Say it, then, and have done with it,” rejoined the girl, as if desirous of hurrying the interview to an end. “What be it?”
“It be this, then,” replied the woodman, moving a little nearer to her, and speaking in a more serious tone than he had yet assumed; “Bet Dancey, I needn’t be tellin’ thee how I be in love wi’ thee. Thou know’st it well enoo.”
“You’ve told it me a hundred times. I don’t want to hear it again.”
“But thou shalt. An’ this time, I tell thee, will be the last.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“What I be goin’ to say,” continued the suitor, without heeding her repeated interruptions, “be this, Bet Dancey, I see’d thy father last night; an’ he an’ me talked it over atween us. He’s gi’ed me his full consent.”
“To what, pray?”
“Why to ha’e thee for my wife.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed the girl, with a scornful laugh. “Ha! ha! ha! That’s what you had to tell me, is it? Now, Will Walford, hear me in return. You’ve told me a hundred times that you loved me, and you’ve now promised that it will be the last time. I’ve said to you a hundred times it was no use; and I promise you this will bemylast saying it. Once for all then, I declare to you, that Ishall never be your wife—never I never!”
The last words were pronounced with a stern emphasis, calculated to carry conviction; and the rustic suitor shrank under them, as if they had annihilated the last remnant of his hopes.
Only for an instant did he preserve his cowering attitude. His was not a nature to be stung without turning; and the recoil soon came.
“Then dang it!” cried he, raising his long axe, and winding it around his head in a threatening manner, “If thee doant be my wife, Bet Dancey, thou shall never be the wife o’ any other. I swear to thee, I’ll kill the man thee marriest; an’ thyself along wi’ him, if I ever live to see the day that makes two o’ ye one!”
“Away, wretch!” cried the girl, half terrified, half indignant. “I don’t want to listen to your threats. Away, away!”
And, saying this, she retreated inside the hut—as she did so, slamming the door in his face.
“Dang thee, thou deceitful slut!” apostrophised the discarded suitor; “I’ll keep my threet, if I ha’ to swing for it!”
As he gave utterance to this fell menace, he threw the axe over his shoulder; sprang across the broken palings; and strode off among the trees—once more muttering as he went: “I’ll keep my threet, if I ha’ to swing for it!”
For some minutes the door of the cottage remained closed. It was also barred inside: for the girl had been a good deal frightened, and feared the fellow’s return. The wild look that had gleamed from under his white eyebrows would have caused fear within the bosom of any woman; and it had even terrified the heart of Bet Dancey.
On barring the door, she glided up to one of the windows and watched. She saw him take his departure from the place.
“He is gone, and I am glad of it fortworeasons,” soliloquised she. “What a wicked wretch! I always thought so. And yet my father wants me to marry that man! Never—never! I shall tell father what he has said. Maybe that may change him.
“Heigho! I fearheis not coming to-day! and when shall I see him again? There’s to be another fête at Michaelmas; but that’s a long time; and its such a chance meeting him on the road—where one mayn’t speak to him, perhaps. Oh! if I could think of some errand to Stone Dean! I wish father would send me oftener. Ah me! what’s the use? Muster Holtspur’s too grand to think of a poor peasant girl.Marryme he could not, perhaps hewouldnot.—I don’t want that, if he’d onlyloveme!”
The lurcher, that had kept silent during the stormy interview between Bet and her rustic admirer, now broke out in a freshbravuraof baying.
“Is it Will again?” cried the girl, gliding back to the window and looking out. “No, it can’t be him: the dog looks the other way. It’s either father coming back, or—’Tis he! ’tis he!
“What am I to do? I must open the door. If he sees it shut he may not think of coming in; I wish him to come in!”
As she said this, she glided up to the doorway, and pushing back the bar, gently drew open the door.
She did not show herself in the entrance. A quick instinct hindered her. Were she to do so, the visitor might simply make an inquiry; and, being answered that her father was not at home, might turn back or pass on. This would not suit her purpose:since she wished him to come in.
He was afoot. That augured well. She watched him through the window as he drew near. She watched him with a throbbing bosom.
Volume Two—Chapter Seven.Richard Scarthe, Captain of the King’s Cuirassiers, and confidant of the Queen, was seated in his apartment in the mansion of Sir Marmaduke Wade.A small table stood within reach of his hand, on which was a decanter containing wine, and a silver goblet. He had thrice filled the latter and thrice drained its contents, to the last drop. But the intoxicating fluid, even thus liberally imbibed, had failed to give solace to the chagrin with which his spirit was affected.It was now the third day of his residence under the roof of Sir Marmaduke Wade; and he had made scarce any progress in the programme he had sketched out—of ingratiating himself with the knight and his family.On the part of these a rigorous etiquette continued to be kept up; and it appeared probable that, beyond what necessity demanded of them, only the slightest intercourse might ever occur between them and their uninvited guests.Of these circumstances, however, the soldier made not much account. He might expect in time to smooth over the unpleasant occurrences that had inaugurated his introduction. He knew himself to have a tongue that could wheedle with the devil; and with this he hoped, at no distant day, to remove the hostile impression, and establish an intimacy—if not altogether friendly—that would at least give him the opportunities he desired. Indeed, he even flattered himself that he had already made some progress in this direction; and it was not that was causing the extreme acerbity of spirit, he now strove to soothe with copious libations from the wine cup.His chagrin sprang from a different cause. What at first was only a suspicion, had now become almost a certainty: that he was forestalled in the affections of a beautiful woman, whom he already loved with an indescribable ardour; forestalled, and by the very man who, in her eyes, had so horribly humiliated him!Notwithstanding this belief he had not abandoned hope. Richard Scarthe was a courtier, of too much confidence in his own prowess, to yield easily to despair. He had succeeded oft before in the estrangement of hearts, already prepossessed; and why should he not again?As the wine mounted to his brain, his mind began to contend against the conviction with which his late act of espionage had so unhappily supplied him. The evidence of the glove was, after all, inconclusive. The one he had picked up was no doubt the glove of Marion Wade; but what reason was there for believing that it was its fellow he had seen in the hat of Henry Holtspur? A glove of white doeskin leather was a fashion of the time—so, too, the gold and lace ornaments upon the gauntlet. The daughter of Sir Marmaduke Wade was not the only lady who wore white gloves. Why should it be hers?Every reason had he to arrive at the contrary conclusion. He had ascertained that his antagonist was a stranger to the family; introduced to Marion scarce an hour before the combat: and not speaking to her afterwards.Thus in his own mind would Scarthe have disposed of the circumstance of the two gloves, deeming it an accidental coincidence.But then there was the interview in the park—that interview of which he had been a witness. Couldithave been accidental? Or for some other purpose than that of a love meeting?There was but little probability in these conjectures. For all that the jealous Scarthe, under the influence of the wine, earnestly indulged in them, until he began to feel a sort of hope of their being true. It was but for a moment—short and evanescent—and again did his mind relapse into a doubting condition.Henry Holtspur had, by this time, become thebête noireof his existence—against whom his bitterest hostility was henceforth to be directed. He had already taken some steps to inform himself of the position and character of his rival; but in this he had met with only slight success. A mystery surrounded the movements of theblack horseman; and all that Scarthe could learn in relation to him was: that he was a gentleman of independent means, who had lately taken up his residence in the neighbourhood—his domicile being an old mansion known by the quaint appellation of “Stone Dean.”Scarthe ascertained, also, that Holtspur was a stranger to most, if not all, the distinguished families of the neighbourhood; though it was believed that he associated with others at a greater distance; and that he had hitherto stood aloof from those near him, not from any want of the opportunity of being introduced, but rather from the absence, on his part, of the inclination.It was rumoured that he had spent a portion of his life in the colonies of America; and the fact that he was occasionally seen accompanied by a young Indian, in the capacity of body-servant, gave confirmation to the rumour.Scarthe had learnt nothing more in relation to his conqueror—excepting that two men of the neighbourhood were occasionally employed by him in matters of service. These were a woodman of the name of Dancey, and another of the like ilk—a younger man, called Walford.The cuirassier captain had not taken the trouble to collect this information without some glimmering of a design; though, as yet, he saw not very clearly in what way he could benefit by the knowledge. In fact, Captain Scarthe had never in his life felt more powerless, to rid himself of a rival who had so rudely crossed his path.To challenge his late antagonist, and fight him again, was not to be thought of—after such a termination to the first combat. The life of Scarthe had been conceded to him; and the laws of honour would have precluded him from seeking a second affair—had he been so inclined. But the touch of the cavalier’s steel had taught him its sharp quality; and he had not the slightest inclination to tempt it again. Though yearning fiercely for vengeance, he had no thought of seeking it in that way; and in what fashion he was to find it, he had as yet conceived no distinct idea.Theséancewith his own thoughts had been protracted for more than an hour; and the cloud that still sate upon his brooding brow betokened that it had been unsuccessful. The wine, quaffed spasmodically, had been quaffed in vain. His vengeance, even so stimulated, had failed to suggest a scheme for its satisfaction.At length an idea seemed to occur to him, that called for the presence of some second personage. He rose to his feet; and, striding to the door, passed rapidly out of the room.In a few seconds he re-entered, followed by one of his troopers—a young fellow, whose countenance might have appeared pleasing enough, but for an expression of softness, almost silliness, that marked it.“Well, Withers?” inquired the officer, as soon as the two had got fairly within the room, “have you seen the two woodmen?”“Only one, captain. The old one, Dancey, han’t come home yet; but his daughter said she was expectin’ him the night.”“And the other?”“Wull Walford. Yes, captain, I seen him; and delivered your message.”“Well; he’s coming to see me, is he not?”“I’m afeard not, captain.”“Why not?”“He’s a queery sort, is Wull Walford. I knew him ’fore I left the county to list in the troops. He’s a ill-tempered cur; that’s whatheis.”“But why should he show temper with me? He don’t know, but that I may intend kindness to him?”“After what’s happened he’s afeard to see you, captain. That’s why I think he won’t come.”“After what’s happened! And whathashappened? You mystify me, my man!”“I mean, captain, the little affair as occurred between you and him—in the old camp over there.”“Between me, and him? Who are you talking of, Withers? Not the ‘black horseman,’ as the rustics call this—”“No, captain; Wull Walford, I mean.”“And pray what has occurred between MasterWullWalford and myself? I remember no individual of the name.”“You remember Robin Hood, captain—he as had the audacity to strike at your honour with his bow?”“O-o-h! that’s the difficulty, is it. So-so—” continued Scarthe, in a half-soliloquy. “Wull Walford of Wapsey’s Wood, and the bold outlaw of Sherwood Forest, are identical individuals, are they? No wonder the fellow has some scruples about seeing me again. Ha! ha! I dare say I shall be able to overcome them. A crown or two will no doubt suffice to satisfy Master Walford, for what he may have considered a slight to his sweetheart; and, as to the blow over my own crown, I can the more easily pardon that, since I believe he broke the stock of his weapon in dealing it. So, Robin Hood it is. Well! if I’m not mistaken, he and I may be fast friends yet. At all events, from what I observed on that occasion, he is not likely to be on the friendliest terms with my enemy. Withers!”“Captain!” said the trooper, making a fresh salute to his officer, as if in the expectation of receiving some order.“I shall want you to guide me to the domicile of this Walford. I suppose he has a house somewhere; or does he, like his prototype, roam anywhere and everywhere, and sleep under the shadow of the greenwood tree?”“He lives in a poor sort o’ cottage, captain—not very far from that of Dick Dancey.”“Then we may visit both at once; and, as the older woodman is expected to return home to-night, I shall not go until to-morrow. How far is it to this Wapsey’s Wood?”“Scant two miles, captain. It’s up the road in the direction of Beaconsfield.”“Enough. I shall go on horseback. After morning parade, see that you have the grey horse saddled, and your own as well. Now, be off to your quarters, and say nothing to any of your comrades what duty you are going on—nor to any of your country acquaintances neither—else you may get yourself in trouble. Go!”The trooper, making a salute, expressive of assent to the caution thus delivered, betook himself from the presence of his commanding officer.“He’s but a silly fellow, this Withers,” muttered the latter, as the soldier had gone out of hearing. “Not the man for my purpose. His knowledge of the neighbourhood—the only one of my vagabonds who has ever been in it before—makes it a necessity to employ him in this matter. Perhaps in Wull Walford I may find a more intelligentaide-de-camp. Nous verrons!”And with this conjectural reflection, Scarthe threw himself back in his chair; and once more gave way to the gloomy surmises that had already tormented his unhappy mind.Again did they torment him as before; and it was a relief to him when the door once more turned upon its hinges, and his subaltern stepped into the room.Not that Stubbs had any cheering news to communicate; nor was there just then anything encouraging in his countenance. On the contrary, the cornet looked but little less lugubrious than his captain; and he had been in that mood ever since morning.Lora Lovelace would scarce condescend to exchange a word with him; and when by chance he had twice or thrice been thrown into her company, it was only to find himself the subject of a slight or a satire, and the next moment to receive the cold shoulder. All this, too, so delicately done, that Stubbs could find no opportunity for retaliation; unless by allowing licence to his vulgar spite, which Scarthe had cautioned him against. In fact, the cornet felt that the young lady, on more than one occasion, had made a butt of him—he did, by Ged!He had, at an earlier hour, communicated to his captain the ill success of his wooing; but the latter was too much absorbed in his own schemes, to offer him either advice or assistance.The entrance of his subaltern turned the thoughts of Scarthe into a new channel—as testified by his speech.“So, then, there’s no one arrived from London yet?” he said, interrogatively, as he saw the cornet proceeding to seat himself.A simple negative was the reply.“’Tis very odd that the message—whatever it was—has not been delivered in duplicate before this time?”“Very odd!—’tis, by Ged!”“I shouldn’t wonder if the fellow, frightened as he was by those precious footpads, has taken leave of his senses altogether; and, instead of carrying back my letter, has climbed into a tree, and hanged himself thereon!”“Like enough, by Ged!”“Had I only slipped in a postscript, giving the king a hint about the character of the rascals to whom his courier so tamely surrendered, perhaps the best thing he could have done would have been to string himself up. I haven’t the slightest doubt about its being the band of scarecrows that stopped the son of Sir Marmaduke. Of course, it must have been: since it was on the same night, and in the same spot. Ha! ha! ha! In all my campaigns I never heard of a more clever bit of strategy! Ha! ha! ha!”“Nor I,” said Stubbs, joining in the laugh.“I’d give a month’s pay to get hold of the comical villain that planned it. If he felt inclined to join our cuirassiers, I’d make a corporal of him, without asking a question.”“He’d make a first-rater. He would, by Ged!”“I should like, also, to get hold of him for another reason,” continued Scarthe, changing to a more serious tone. “We might recover the lost despatches—which, no doubt, are still in the doublet he stripped from the chicken-hearted courier. Ha! ha! ha! What a pickle we found him in! A pigeon completely plucked and trussed! Oh! how the queen will laugh when she reads my report to her. I hope she won’t tell it to the king. If she do blab, it’ll be no laughing matter for the poor devil of a messenger!”“It won’t, by Ged!”“Particularly if the despatches contained anything of importance. I wonder what they were about—sent so soon after us! Hope it wasn’t a countermand.”“By Ged! I hope not.”“I’m not tired of our country quarters just yet: and won’t be, till I’ve tried them a little longer. Rather icy these girls are, Stubbs? Don’t repine, lad. Perhaps they’ll thaw, by and by.”“I hope so,” said Stubbs, his stolid face brightening up at the idea. “If it wasn’t for that young sop of a cousin ’twould be all right. I believe it would, by Ged!”“Pooh! pooh! Don’t make your mind uneasy about him. It appears to be only kittenly affection that’s between them. He’s just come home, after a three years’ absence from her apron-string; and it’s natural she should like to play with him a bit. Only as a toy, Stubbs. She’ll soon tire of him, and want another. Then will be your turn, my killing cornet.”“Do you think so, captain?”“Think so! Sure of it. Ha! if it were my game, I shouldn’t want an easier to play. Mine’s a different affair—very different. It will require all the skill of—of Captain Scarthe to win in that quarter. Ho! Who’s there? Come in!”The interrogatory had been called forth by a knock heard outside. At the command to enter, the door was opened, showing a cuirassier standing upon the stoop, with his hand raised to his helmet.“Your business, sergeant?” demanded the captain.“A messenger has arrived, escorted by three files of dragoniers.”“Whence?”“From London.”“Show him in; and see that his escort are taken care of outside.”The sergeant disappeared to execute the order.“This should be the bearer of the duplicate despatch?” said Scarthe conjecturally; “and, if it contains a countermand, I hope it has been also lost.”“I doubt it,” rejoined the cornet; “the three files of dragoniers ought to have been a match for the dozen dummies!” and, as Stubbs said this, he smiled conceitedly at the pretty speech he had perpetrated.The courier came in—a cavalier by his costume and bearing; but of a type very different from the one rifled by the robber. He was a grizzled old veteran, armed from the toes to the teeth; and his steel-grey eye, shining sagely through the bars of his helmet, betokened a character not likely to have been duped by Gregory Garth and his scarecrows. Had this individual been bearer of the original despatch, instead of the copy, in all likelihood the repentant footpad would have committed no other crime on that memorable night; and would have been saved the sin of breaking the promise he had made to his master.“A courier from the king?” said Scarthe, bowing courteously as the cavalier came forward.“A despatch from his Majesty,” returned the messenger, with an official salute, at the same time holding out the document. “It is the copy of one sent three days ago, and lost upon the road. Captain Scarthe, I believe, is already acquainted with the circumstance.”A slight twinkling in the steel-grey eye of the speaker, while making the concluding remark, told that he had heard of the adventure, and was not insensible to its ludicrous nature.“Oh, yes!” assented Scarthe. “I hope the bearer of the original has not come to grief through his misadventure.”“Dismissed the service,” was the formal rejoinder.“Ah! I am sorry for that. The fright he had was I should think punishment enough; to say nothing of the loss of his horse, purse, watch, and love locket. Ha! ha! ha!”The hearty laugh in which the captain indulged, chorused by Stubbs, sanctioned only by a grim smile on the part of grey eye, told that the sympathy of the latter for the disgraced courtier was not very profound.“Cornet Stubbs,” said Scarthe, turning to his subaltern, and waving his hand towards the messenger, “see that this gentleman does not die of hunger and thirst. Excuse me, sir, while I peruse the king’s despatch. Perhaps it requires an answer.”The comet, inviting the courier to follow him, passed out of the room; while Scarthe, stepping into the embayment of the window, broke open the royal seal, and read:“His Majestie the King to Captain Scarthe, commanding ye Cuirassiers in the County of Bucks.“In addition to ye orders already given, Captain Scarthe is hereby commanded to raise by recruit in ye county of Bucks as many men as may be disposed to take service in his Maiestie’s regiment of cuirassiers; and he is by these same presents empowered with ye king’s authority to offer to each and every recruit a bounty as prescribed in if accompanying schedule.“Furthermore, it having come to ye ear of his Majestie, that divers disloyal citizens of said shire of Bucks have of late shown symptoms of disaffection to his Majestie’s Government, in the holding of secret meetings, and divers other and like unlawful acts, and by speeches containing rebellious doctrines against his Majesty’s Government, and person as likewise against the well-being of ye state and ye church; therefore, his Majestie do command his loyal and trusted servant, ye Captain Scarthe aforesaid, to search, discover, and take cognisance of all such dissentious persons; and if he find good and substantial proof of their disloyalty, then is he hereby enjoined and commanded to communicate ye same to ye Secretary of his Majestie’s Council of State, in order that such rebellious subjects be brought to trial before ye Star Chamber, or ye High Commission Court, or such other court or courts as may conform to the nature of their offence and punishment.“Given at our palace of Whitehall.“Signed Carolus Rex.”“Pish!” exclaimed Scarthe, as he concluded reading the despatch. “That’s a pretty duty to putmeon! Making a spy of me! The king forgets that I am a gentleman!”“I shall obey the first command readily enough. My troop wants recruiting; and I suppose, along with the increased numbers, I may get that colonelcy I ought to have had long ago. As to my eavesdropping about inns, and listening for every silly speech that Jack makes to Jem, and Jem repeats to Colin—with the usual embellishments of the rural fancy—I’ll do nothing of the sort;—unless,” added he, with a significant smile, “unless thequeen commands me. To gratify her sweet grace, I’ll turn potboy, and wait upon the gossips of the tap. Ho! what’s this?—more writing;—a postscript! Perhaps, as in the letters of ladies, the most important part of the epistle?”“Since writing the above dispatch, his Majesty hath been further informed that one of his Majestie’s subjects—by name Holtspur—and bearing the Christian name of Henry, hath more than any other been of great zeal in promoting the subversive doctrines aforementioned; and it is believed that the said Holtspur is an active instrument and coadjutor among the enemies of his Majesties government. Therefore Captain Scarthe is directed and enjoined to watch the goings and comings of ye said Holtspur, and if anything do appear in his conduct that may be deemed sufficient for a charge before ye Star Chamber, then is Captain Scarthe directed to proceed against and arrest the said individual. His Majestie in ye matter in question will trust to the discretion of Captain Scarthe to do nothing on slight grounds,—lest the arrest of a subject of his Majesty, who might afterwards be proven innocent, bring scandal on ye name and government of his Majestie.“C.R.”“Spy!” exclaimed Scarthe, starting to his feet as he finished reading the postscript, “Spy, you say? I thank you for the office. Fear me not, kind king! I’ll play the part to perfection.“Did I not say so?” he continued, striding to and fro across the floor, and waving the paper triumphantly over his head. “The women are wise. They keep their best bit for the last. Henceforth of a letter give me the postscript!“So, Master Henry Holtspur, I thought there was something not sound about you—ever since you drank that toast to taunt me. Aha! If I don’t have you on the hip—as Will Shakespeare says—then I’m not Dick Scarthe, captain of the king’s cuirassiers!“Stay! I must go gently about this business—gently and cautiously. The king counsels it so. No fear for my rashness. I know when to be stormy, and when to be tranquil. Proofs are required. That won’t be difficult, I ween—where a red rebel stands before the bar. I’ll find proofs. Never fear, your Majesty. I’ll find, orframethem—proofs that will satisfy that scrupulous tribunal—the Star Chamber! ha! ha! ha!”And, as he gave utterance to the satirical laugh, he passed rapidly out of the room—as if starting off in search of those proofs he so confidently expected to obtain.
Richard Scarthe, Captain of the King’s Cuirassiers, and confidant of the Queen, was seated in his apartment in the mansion of Sir Marmaduke Wade.
A small table stood within reach of his hand, on which was a decanter containing wine, and a silver goblet. He had thrice filled the latter and thrice drained its contents, to the last drop. But the intoxicating fluid, even thus liberally imbibed, had failed to give solace to the chagrin with which his spirit was affected.
It was now the third day of his residence under the roof of Sir Marmaduke Wade; and he had made scarce any progress in the programme he had sketched out—of ingratiating himself with the knight and his family.
On the part of these a rigorous etiquette continued to be kept up; and it appeared probable that, beyond what necessity demanded of them, only the slightest intercourse might ever occur between them and their uninvited guests.
Of these circumstances, however, the soldier made not much account. He might expect in time to smooth over the unpleasant occurrences that had inaugurated his introduction. He knew himself to have a tongue that could wheedle with the devil; and with this he hoped, at no distant day, to remove the hostile impression, and establish an intimacy—if not altogether friendly—that would at least give him the opportunities he desired. Indeed, he even flattered himself that he had already made some progress in this direction; and it was not that was causing the extreme acerbity of spirit, he now strove to soothe with copious libations from the wine cup.
His chagrin sprang from a different cause. What at first was only a suspicion, had now become almost a certainty: that he was forestalled in the affections of a beautiful woman, whom he already loved with an indescribable ardour; forestalled, and by the very man who, in her eyes, had so horribly humiliated him!
Notwithstanding this belief he had not abandoned hope. Richard Scarthe was a courtier, of too much confidence in his own prowess, to yield easily to despair. He had succeeded oft before in the estrangement of hearts, already prepossessed; and why should he not again?
As the wine mounted to his brain, his mind began to contend against the conviction with which his late act of espionage had so unhappily supplied him. The evidence of the glove was, after all, inconclusive. The one he had picked up was no doubt the glove of Marion Wade; but what reason was there for believing that it was its fellow he had seen in the hat of Henry Holtspur? A glove of white doeskin leather was a fashion of the time—so, too, the gold and lace ornaments upon the gauntlet. The daughter of Sir Marmaduke Wade was not the only lady who wore white gloves. Why should it be hers?
Every reason had he to arrive at the contrary conclusion. He had ascertained that his antagonist was a stranger to the family; introduced to Marion scarce an hour before the combat: and not speaking to her afterwards.
Thus in his own mind would Scarthe have disposed of the circumstance of the two gloves, deeming it an accidental coincidence.
But then there was the interview in the park—that interview of which he had been a witness. Couldithave been accidental? Or for some other purpose than that of a love meeting?
There was but little probability in these conjectures. For all that the jealous Scarthe, under the influence of the wine, earnestly indulged in them, until he began to feel a sort of hope of their being true. It was but for a moment—short and evanescent—and again did his mind relapse into a doubting condition.
Henry Holtspur had, by this time, become thebête noireof his existence—against whom his bitterest hostility was henceforth to be directed. He had already taken some steps to inform himself of the position and character of his rival; but in this he had met with only slight success. A mystery surrounded the movements of theblack horseman; and all that Scarthe could learn in relation to him was: that he was a gentleman of independent means, who had lately taken up his residence in the neighbourhood—his domicile being an old mansion known by the quaint appellation of “Stone Dean.”
Scarthe ascertained, also, that Holtspur was a stranger to most, if not all, the distinguished families of the neighbourhood; though it was believed that he associated with others at a greater distance; and that he had hitherto stood aloof from those near him, not from any want of the opportunity of being introduced, but rather from the absence, on his part, of the inclination.
It was rumoured that he had spent a portion of his life in the colonies of America; and the fact that he was occasionally seen accompanied by a young Indian, in the capacity of body-servant, gave confirmation to the rumour.
Scarthe had learnt nothing more in relation to his conqueror—excepting that two men of the neighbourhood were occasionally employed by him in matters of service. These were a woodman of the name of Dancey, and another of the like ilk—a younger man, called Walford.
The cuirassier captain had not taken the trouble to collect this information without some glimmering of a design; though, as yet, he saw not very clearly in what way he could benefit by the knowledge. In fact, Captain Scarthe had never in his life felt more powerless, to rid himself of a rival who had so rudely crossed his path.
To challenge his late antagonist, and fight him again, was not to be thought of—after such a termination to the first combat. The life of Scarthe had been conceded to him; and the laws of honour would have precluded him from seeking a second affair—had he been so inclined. But the touch of the cavalier’s steel had taught him its sharp quality; and he had not the slightest inclination to tempt it again. Though yearning fiercely for vengeance, he had no thought of seeking it in that way; and in what fashion he was to find it, he had as yet conceived no distinct idea.
Theséancewith his own thoughts had been protracted for more than an hour; and the cloud that still sate upon his brooding brow betokened that it had been unsuccessful. The wine, quaffed spasmodically, had been quaffed in vain. His vengeance, even so stimulated, had failed to suggest a scheme for its satisfaction.
At length an idea seemed to occur to him, that called for the presence of some second personage. He rose to his feet; and, striding to the door, passed rapidly out of the room.
In a few seconds he re-entered, followed by one of his troopers—a young fellow, whose countenance might have appeared pleasing enough, but for an expression of softness, almost silliness, that marked it.
“Well, Withers?” inquired the officer, as soon as the two had got fairly within the room, “have you seen the two woodmen?”
“Only one, captain. The old one, Dancey, han’t come home yet; but his daughter said she was expectin’ him the night.”
“And the other?”
“Wull Walford. Yes, captain, I seen him; and delivered your message.”
“Well; he’s coming to see me, is he not?”
“I’m afeard not, captain.”
“Why not?”
“He’s a queery sort, is Wull Walford. I knew him ’fore I left the county to list in the troops. He’s a ill-tempered cur; that’s whatheis.”
“But why should he show temper with me? He don’t know, but that I may intend kindness to him?”
“After what’s happened he’s afeard to see you, captain. That’s why I think he won’t come.”
“After what’s happened! And whathashappened? You mystify me, my man!”
“I mean, captain, the little affair as occurred between you and him—in the old camp over there.”
“Between me, and him? Who are you talking of, Withers? Not the ‘black horseman,’ as the rustics call this—”
“No, captain; Wull Walford, I mean.”
“And pray what has occurred between MasterWullWalford and myself? I remember no individual of the name.”
“You remember Robin Hood, captain—he as had the audacity to strike at your honour with his bow?”
“O-o-h! that’s the difficulty, is it. So-so—” continued Scarthe, in a half-soliloquy. “Wull Walford of Wapsey’s Wood, and the bold outlaw of Sherwood Forest, are identical individuals, are they? No wonder the fellow has some scruples about seeing me again. Ha! ha! I dare say I shall be able to overcome them. A crown or two will no doubt suffice to satisfy Master Walford, for what he may have considered a slight to his sweetheart; and, as to the blow over my own crown, I can the more easily pardon that, since I believe he broke the stock of his weapon in dealing it. So, Robin Hood it is. Well! if I’m not mistaken, he and I may be fast friends yet. At all events, from what I observed on that occasion, he is not likely to be on the friendliest terms with my enemy. Withers!”
“Captain!” said the trooper, making a fresh salute to his officer, as if in the expectation of receiving some order.
“I shall want you to guide me to the domicile of this Walford. I suppose he has a house somewhere; or does he, like his prototype, roam anywhere and everywhere, and sleep under the shadow of the greenwood tree?”
“He lives in a poor sort o’ cottage, captain—not very far from that of Dick Dancey.”
“Then we may visit both at once; and, as the older woodman is expected to return home to-night, I shall not go until to-morrow. How far is it to this Wapsey’s Wood?”
“Scant two miles, captain. It’s up the road in the direction of Beaconsfield.”
“Enough. I shall go on horseback. After morning parade, see that you have the grey horse saddled, and your own as well. Now, be off to your quarters, and say nothing to any of your comrades what duty you are going on—nor to any of your country acquaintances neither—else you may get yourself in trouble. Go!”
The trooper, making a salute, expressive of assent to the caution thus delivered, betook himself from the presence of his commanding officer.
“He’s but a silly fellow, this Withers,” muttered the latter, as the soldier had gone out of hearing. “Not the man for my purpose. His knowledge of the neighbourhood—the only one of my vagabonds who has ever been in it before—makes it a necessity to employ him in this matter. Perhaps in Wull Walford I may find a more intelligentaide-de-camp. Nous verrons!”
And with this conjectural reflection, Scarthe threw himself back in his chair; and once more gave way to the gloomy surmises that had already tormented his unhappy mind.
Again did they torment him as before; and it was a relief to him when the door once more turned upon its hinges, and his subaltern stepped into the room.
Not that Stubbs had any cheering news to communicate; nor was there just then anything encouraging in his countenance. On the contrary, the cornet looked but little less lugubrious than his captain; and he had been in that mood ever since morning.
Lora Lovelace would scarce condescend to exchange a word with him; and when by chance he had twice or thrice been thrown into her company, it was only to find himself the subject of a slight or a satire, and the next moment to receive the cold shoulder. All this, too, so delicately done, that Stubbs could find no opportunity for retaliation; unless by allowing licence to his vulgar spite, which Scarthe had cautioned him against. In fact, the cornet felt that the young lady, on more than one occasion, had made a butt of him—he did, by Ged!
He had, at an earlier hour, communicated to his captain the ill success of his wooing; but the latter was too much absorbed in his own schemes, to offer him either advice or assistance.
The entrance of his subaltern turned the thoughts of Scarthe into a new channel—as testified by his speech.
“So, then, there’s no one arrived from London yet?” he said, interrogatively, as he saw the cornet proceeding to seat himself.
A simple negative was the reply.
“’Tis very odd that the message—whatever it was—has not been delivered in duplicate before this time?”
“Very odd!—’tis, by Ged!”
“I shouldn’t wonder if the fellow, frightened as he was by those precious footpads, has taken leave of his senses altogether; and, instead of carrying back my letter, has climbed into a tree, and hanged himself thereon!”
“Like enough, by Ged!”
“Had I only slipped in a postscript, giving the king a hint about the character of the rascals to whom his courier so tamely surrendered, perhaps the best thing he could have done would have been to string himself up. I haven’t the slightest doubt about its being the band of scarecrows that stopped the son of Sir Marmaduke. Of course, it must have been: since it was on the same night, and in the same spot. Ha! ha! ha! In all my campaigns I never heard of a more clever bit of strategy! Ha! ha! ha!”
“Nor I,” said Stubbs, joining in the laugh.
“I’d give a month’s pay to get hold of the comical villain that planned it. If he felt inclined to join our cuirassiers, I’d make a corporal of him, without asking a question.”
“He’d make a first-rater. He would, by Ged!”
“I should like, also, to get hold of him for another reason,” continued Scarthe, changing to a more serious tone. “We might recover the lost despatches—which, no doubt, are still in the doublet he stripped from the chicken-hearted courier. Ha! ha! ha! What a pickle we found him in! A pigeon completely plucked and trussed! Oh! how the queen will laugh when she reads my report to her. I hope she won’t tell it to the king. If she do blab, it’ll be no laughing matter for the poor devil of a messenger!”
“It won’t, by Ged!”
“Particularly if the despatches contained anything of importance. I wonder what they were about—sent so soon after us! Hope it wasn’t a countermand.”
“By Ged! I hope not.”
“I’m not tired of our country quarters just yet: and won’t be, till I’ve tried them a little longer. Rather icy these girls are, Stubbs? Don’t repine, lad. Perhaps they’ll thaw, by and by.”
“I hope so,” said Stubbs, his stolid face brightening up at the idea. “If it wasn’t for that young sop of a cousin ’twould be all right. I believe it would, by Ged!”
“Pooh! pooh! Don’t make your mind uneasy about him. It appears to be only kittenly affection that’s between them. He’s just come home, after a three years’ absence from her apron-string; and it’s natural she should like to play with him a bit. Only as a toy, Stubbs. She’ll soon tire of him, and want another. Then will be your turn, my killing cornet.”
“Do you think so, captain?”
“Think so! Sure of it. Ha! if it were my game, I shouldn’t want an easier to play. Mine’s a different affair—very different. It will require all the skill of—of Captain Scarthe to win in that quarter. Ho! Who’s there? Come in!”
The interrogatory had been called forth by a knock heard outside. At the command to enter, the door was opened, showing a cuirassier standing upon the stoop, with his hand raised to his helmet.
“Your business, sergeant?” demanded the captain.
“A messenger has arrived, escorted by three files of dragoniers.”
“Whence?”
“From London.”
“Show him in; and see that his escort are taken care of outside.”
The sergeant disappeared to execute the order.
“This should be the bearer of the duplicate despatch?” said Scarthe conjecturally; “and, if it contains a countermand, I hope it has been also lost.”
“I doubt it,” rejoined the cornet; “the three files of dragoniers ought to have been a match for the dozen dummies!” and, as Stubbs said this, he smiled conceitedly at the pretty speech he had perpetrated.
The courier came in—a cavalier by his costume and bearing; but of a type very different from the one rifled by the robber. He was a grizzled old veteran, armed from the toes to the teeth; and his steel-grey eye, shining sagely through the bars of his helmet, betokened a character not likely to have been duped by Gregory Garth and his scarecrows. Had this individual been bearer of the original despatch, instead of the copy, in all likelihood the repentant footpad would have committed no other crime on that memorable night; and would have been saved the sin of breaking the promise he had made to his master.
“A courier from the king?” said Scarthe, bowing courteously as the cavalier came forward.
“A despatch from his Majesty,” returned the messenger, with an official salute, at the same time holding out the document. “It is the copy of one sent three days ago, and lost upon the road. Captain Scarthe, I believe, is already acquainted with the circumstance.”
A slight twinkling in the steel-grey eye of the speaker, while making the concluding remark, told that he had heard of the adventure, and was not insensible to its ludicrous nature.
“Oh, yes!” assented Scarthe. “I hope the bearer of the original has not come to grief through his misadventure.”
“Dismissed the service,” was the formal rejoinder.
“Ah! I am sorry for that. The fright he had was I should think punishment enough; to say nothing of the loss of his horse, purse, watch, and love locket. Ha! ha! ha!”
The hearty laugh in which the captain indulged, chorused by Stubbs, sanctioned only by a grim smile on the part of grey eye, told that the sympathy of the latter for the disgraced courtier was not very profound.
“Cornet Stubbs,” said Scarthe, turning to his subaltern, and waving his hand towards the messenger, “see that this gentleman does not die of hunger and thirst. Excuse me, sir, while I peruse the king’s despatch. Perhaps it requires an answer.”
The comet, inviting the courier to follow him, passed out of the room; while Scarthe, stepping into the embayment of the window, broke open the royal seal, and read:
“His Majestie the King to Captain Scarthe, commanding ye Cuirassiers in the County of Bucks.
“In addition to ye orders already given, Captain Scarthe is hereby commanded to raise by recruit in ye county of Bucks as many men as may be disposed to take service in his Maiestie’s regiment of cuirassiers; and he is by these same presents empowered with ye king’s authority to offer to each and every recruit a bounty as prescribed in if accompanying schedule.
“Furthermore, it having come to ye ear of his Majestie, that divers disloyal citizens of said shire of Bucks have of late shown symptoms of disaffection to his Majestie’s Government, in the holding of secret meetings, and divers other and like unlawful acts, and by speeches containing rebellious doctrines against his Majesty’s Government, and person as likewise against the well-being of ye state and ye church; therefore, his Majestie do command his loyal and trusted servant, ye Captain Scarthe aforesaid, to search, discover, and take cognisance of all such dissentious persons; and if he find good and substantial proof of their disloyalty, then is he hereby enjoined and commanded to communicate ye same to ye Secretary of his Majestie’s Council of State, in order that such rebellious subjects be brought to trial before ye Star Chamber, or ye High Commission Court, or such other court or courts as may conform to the nature of their offence and punishment.
“Given at our palace of Whitehall.
“Signed Carolus Rex.”
“Pish!” exclaimed Scarthe, as he concluded reading the despatch. “That’s a pretty duty to putmeon! Making a spy of me! The king forgets that I am a gentleman!”
“I shall obey the first command readily enough. My troop wants recruiting; and I suppose, along with the increased numbers, I may get that colonelcy I ought to have had long ago. As to my eavesdropping about inns, and listening for every silly speech that Jack makes to Jem, and Jem repeats to Colin—with the usual embellishments of the rural fancy—I’ll do nothing of the sort;—unless,” added he, with a significant smile, “unless thequeen commands me. To gratify her sweet grace, I’ll turn potboy, and wait upon the gossips of the tap. Ho! what’s this?—more writing;—a postscript! Perhaps, as in the letters of ladies, the most important part of the epistle?”
“Since writing the above dispatch, his Majesty hath been further informed that one of his Majestie’s subjects—by name Holtspur—and bearing the Christian name of Henry, hath more than any other been of great zeal in promoting the subversive doctrines aforementioned; and it is believed that the said Holtspur is an active instrument and coadjutor among the enemies of his Majesties government. Therefore Captain Scarthe is directed and enjoined to watch the goings and comings of ye said Holtspur, and if anything do appear in his conduct that may be deemed sufficient for a charge before ye Star Chamber, then is Captain Scarthe directed to proceed against and arrest the said individual. His Majestie in ye matter in question will trust to the discretion of Captain Scarthe to do nothing on slight grounds,—lest the arrest of a subject of his Majesty, who might afterwards be proven innocent, bring scandal on ye name and government of his Majestie.
“C.R.”
“Spy!” exclaimed Scarthe, starting to his feet as he finished reading the postscript, “Spy, you say? I thank you for the office. Fear me not, kind king! I’ll play the part to perfection.
“Did I not say so?” he continued, striding to and fro across the floor, and waving the paper triumphantly over his head. “The women are wise. They keep their best bit for the last. Henceforth of a letter give me the postscript!
“So, Master Henry Holtspur, I thought there was something not sound about you—ever since you drank that toast to taunt me. Aha! If I don’t have you on the hip—as Will Shakespeare says—then I’m not Dick Scarthe, captain of the king’s cuirassiers!
“Stay! I must go gently about this business—gently and cautiously. The king counsels it so. No fear for my rashness. I know when to be stormy, and when to be tranquil. Proofs are required. That won’t be difficult, I ween—where a red rebel stands before the bar. I’ll find proofs. Never fear, your Majesty. I’ll find, orframethem—proofs that will satisfy that scrupulous tribunal—the Star Chamber! ha! ha! ha!”
And, as he gave utterance to the satirical laugh, he passed rapidly out of the room—as if starting off in search of those proofs he so confidently expected to obtain.