Майн Рид
The White Gauntlet

Volume Two – Chapter Nine

It was Michaelmas night over merry England; but at that late hour when the rustic – weary with the revels incidental to the day – had retired to rest and dream. In other words, it was midnight.

Though at a season of the year when a clear sky might be expected, the night in question chanced to be an exception. The canopy of bright blue, usually smiling over the Chiltern Hills, was obscured by black cumulus clouds, that hung in motionless masses – completely shrouding the firmament. Not a ray of light, from either moon or stars, was shed upon the earth; and the narrow bridle-path, as well as the wider highway, could with difficulty be discerned under the hoof of the traveller’s horse.

Notwithstanding the almost complete opacity of the darkness, it was not continuous. Gleams of lightning at intervals flashed over the sward; or, in fitful coruscation, illumined the deep arcades of the forest – the beeches, for a moment, appearing burnished by the blaze. Though not a breath of air stirred among the trees, nor a drop of rain had as yet fallen upon their leaves, those three sure foretellers of the storm – clouds, lightning, and thunder – betokened its proximity. It was such a night as a traveller would have sought shelter at the nearest inn, and stayed under its roof, unless urged upon an errand of more than ordinary importance. Despite the darkness of the paths, and the lateness of the hour – despite the tempest surely threatening in the sky – some such errand had tempted forth at least two travellers on that very night.

As Marion Wade and Lora Lovelace sate conversing in their chamber, on the eve of retiring to rest, two horsemen, heavily cloaked, might have been been passing out from under the windows, and heading towards the high-road, as if bent upon a journey.

It was Marion’s sleeping apartment, that was occupied by the brace of beautiful maidens – whose intention it was to share the same couch.

It had not been their habit to do so: for each had her separate chamber. But an event had occurred making it desirable that, on that particular night, they should depart from their usual custom. Lora required the confidence of her cousin – older than herself – and her counsel, as well – in a matter so serious as to demand the privacy of a sleeping apartment.

Indeed, two events had happened to her on the day preceding, both of which called for the interposition of a friend. They were matters too weighty to be borne by a single bosom.

They were somewhat similar in character – if not altogether so: both being avowals of love, ending in offers of marriage.

There was, however, a considerable dissimilarity in the individuals from whom the tender declarations had proceeded. One was her own cousin – Walter Wade – the other, it is scarce necessary to say, being Cornet Stubbs.

Lora had not hesitated as to the reply she should make to either. It was not for this she was seeking the counsel of her cousin. The answers had been given frankly and freely – on the same instant as the asking. To Walter an affirmative; to Stubbs a negative, if not indignant, at least final and emphatic.

That point had been settled before the sun went down; and Marion’s advice was only sought in order that the little Lora – her junior in years, as well as womanly experience – might become better acquainted with the details relating to that most important ceremony of a woman’s life – the nuptial.

Alas, for Lora; her cousin proved but a poor counsellor. Instead of being able to give advice, Marion needed rather to receive it; and it was from a vague hope, that Lora might suggest some scheme to alleviate her own unpleasant reflections, that she had so gladly listened to the proposal of their passing the night together.

What had occurred to disquiet the thoughts of Marion Wade?

Nothing – at least nothing but what is known already; and from that, some may think she should have been very happy. She had met the man she loved – had received from his own lips the assurance that her love was reciprocated – had heard it in passionate speech, sealed and confirmed by a fervent kiss, and a close rapturous embrace.

What more wanted she to confirm her in the supremest happiness that can be enjoyed – outside the limits of Elysium?

And yet Marion Wade was far from being happy!

What was the cause of her disquietude?

Had aught arisen to make her jealous? Did she doubt the fidelity of her lover?

A simple negative will serve as the answer to both questions.

She felt neither jealousy, nor doubt. The mind of Marion Wade was not easily swayed by such influences. Partly from a sense of self rectitude; partly from a knowledge of her own beauty – for she could not help knowing that she was beautiful – and partly, perhaps, from an instinctive consciousness of the power consequent on such a possession – hers was not a love to succumb readily to suspicion. Previous to that interview with her lover – the first and last properly deserving the name – she had yielded a little to this unpleasant emotion. But that was while she was still uncertain of Holtspur’s love – before she had heard it declared by himself – before she had listened to his vows plighted in words, in all the earnestness of eternal truth.

Since that hour no doubt had occurred to her mind. Suspicion she would have scorned as a guilty thing. She had given her own heart away – her heart and soul – wholly, and without reserve; and she had no other belief than that she had received the heart of Henry Holtspur in return.

Her unhappiness sprang from a different cause – or rather causes: for she had three sources of disquietude.

The first was a consciousness of having acted wrongly – of having failed in filial duty; and to a parent whose generous indulgence caused the dereliction to be all the more keenly felt.

The second was a sense of having transgressed the laws of social life – the unwritten, but well understood statutes of that high-class society, in which the Wades had lived, and moved, since the Conquest – and in all likelihood long before that hackneyed era of historic celebrity.

To have challenged the acquaintance of a stranger – perhaps an adventurer – perhaps a vagabond – ah! more than challenged his acquaintance – provoked the most powerful passion of his soul —thrown down the gauntlet to him– token of love as of war – when did ever Wade – a female Wade – commit such an indiscretion?

It was a bold act – even for the bold and beautiful Marion. No wonder it was succeeded by an arrière pensée, slightly unpleasant.

These two causes of her discomfort were definite – though perhaps least regarded.

There was a third, as we have said; which, though more vague, was the one that gave her the greatest uneasiness. It pointed to peril – the peril of her lover.

The daughter of Sir Marmaduke Wade was not indifferent to the events of the time – nor yet to its sentiments. Though separated from the Court – and well that she was so – she was not ignorant of its trickery and corruption. In the elevated circle, by which she was surrounded, these were but the topics of daily discourse; and from the moderate, yet liberal, views held by her father, she had frequent opportunities of hearing both sides of the question. A soul highly gifted as hers – could not fail to discern the truth; and, long before that time, she had imbibed a love for true liberty in its republican form – a loathing for the effete freedom to be enjoyed under the rule of a king. In political light she was far in advance of her father; and more than once had her counsel guided his wavering resolves; influencing him – perhaps, even more than the late outrage, of which he had been the object – to that determination to which he had at last yielded himself; to declare for the Parliament and People.

Marion had been gratified by the resolve – joyed to see her father surrendering to the exigencies of the times, and becoming one of the popular party, that had long owned her admiration.

A heart thus attuned could not fail to perceive in Henry Holtspur its hero – its immaculate idol; and such to the mind of Marion Wade did he seem. Differing from all the men she had ever known – unlike them in motives, action, and aspect – in joys and griefs, passions and powers – contrasting with those crawling sycophants – pseudo-cavaliers who wore long love-locks, and prated eternally of Court and King – in him she beheld the type of a heroic man, worthy of a woman’s love – a woman’s worship!

She saw, and worshipped!

Notwithstanding the fervour of her admiration, she did not believe him immortal; nor yet invulnerable. He was liable to the laws of humanity – not its frailties, thought she, but its dangers.

She suspected that his life was in peril. She suspected it, from the rumours, that from time to time had reached her – of his bold, almost reckless, bearing, on matters inimical to the Court. Only in whispers had she heard these reports – previous to the day of the fête in her father’s park; but then had she listened to that loud proclamation from his own lips, when charging upon Scarthe, he had cried out “For the people!”

She loved him for that speech; but she had done so even before hearing it; and she could not love him more.

“Cousin Lora!” said she, while both were in the act of disrobing, “you ought to be very happy. What a fortunate little creature you are!”

“Why, Marion!”

“To be admired by so many; and especially by the man you yourself admire.”

“Dear me! If that be all, I am contented. So should you, Marion, for the same reason. If I’m admired by many, all the world pays homage to you. For my part, I don’t want the world to be in love with me – only one.”

“And that’s Walter. Well, I think you’re right, coz. Like you, I should never care to be a coquette. One heart well satisfies me – one lover.”

“And that’s Henry Holtspur.”

“You know too much, child, for me to deny it.”

“But why should I be happier than you? You’ve your cavalier as well as I. He loves you, no doubt, as much as Walter does me; and you love him – I dare say, though I can’t be certain of that – as much as I love Walter. What then, Marion?”

“Ah, Lora! your lover is sure – safe – certain to become yours for life. Mine is doubtful, and in danger.”

“Doubtful? What mean you by that, Marion?”

“Suppose my father refuse to acknowledge him – then – ”

“Then I know what his daughter would do.”

“What would she do?”

“Run away with him; – I don’t mean with the venerable parent – the knight – but with the lover, the black horseman. By the way, what a romantic thing it would be to be abducted on that splendid steed! Troth, Marion! I quite envy you the chance.”

“For shame, you silly child! Don’t talk in such foolish fashion!”

Marion coloured slightly as she uttered the admonition. The thought of an elopement was not new to her. She had entertained it already; and it was just for this reason she did not desire her cousin to dwell upon it, even in jest. With her it had been considered in serious earnest; and might be again – if Sir Marmaduke should prove intractable.

“But you spoke of danger?” said Lora, changing the subject. “What danger?”

“Hush!” exclaimed Marion, suddenly starting back from the mirror, with her long yellow hair sweeping like sunbeams over her snow-white shoulders; “Did you hear something?”

“The wind?”

“No! it was not the wind. There is no wind; though, indeed, it’s dark enough for a storm. I fancied I heard horses going along the gravel-walk. Extinguish the light, Lora – so that we may steal up to the window, and see.”

Lora protruded her pretty lips close up to the candle, and blew it out.

The chamber was in utter darkness.

All unrobed as she was, Marion glided up to the casement; and, cautiously drawing aside the curtain, looked out into the lawn.

She could see nothing: the night was dark as pitch.

She listened all the more attentively – her hearing sharpened by the idea of some danger to her lover – of which, during all that day, she had been suffering from a vague presentiment.

Sure enough, she had heard the hoof-strokes of horses on the gravelled walk: for she now heard them again – not so loud as before – and each instant becoming more indistinct.

This time Lora heard them too.

It might be colts straying from the pastures of the park? But the measured fell of their feet, with an occasional clinking of shod hoofs, proclaimed them – even to the inexperienced ears that were listening – to be horses guided, and ridden.

“Some one going out! Who can it be at this hour of the night? ’Tis nearly twelve!”

“Quite twelve, I should think,” answered Lora. “That game of lansquenet kept us so long. It was half-past eleven, before we were through with it. Who should be going abroad so late, I wonder?”

Both maidens stood in the embayment of the window – endeavouring, with their glances, to penetrate the darkness outside.

The attempt would have been vain, had the obscurity continued; but, just then, a vivid flash of lightning, shooting athwart the sky, illuminated the lawn; and the park became visible to the utmost limit of its palings.

The window of Marion’s bedchamber opened upon the avenue leading out to the west. Near a spot – to her suggestive of pleasant memories – she now beheld, by the blaze of the electric brand, a sight that added to her uneasiness.

Two horsemen, both heavily cloaked, were riding down the avenue – their backs turned towards the house, as if they had just taken their departure from it. They looked not round. Had they done so at that instant, they might have beheld a tableau capable of attracting them back.

In a wide-bayed window, whose low sill and slight mullions scarce offered concealment to their forms, were two beautiful maidens – lovely virgins – robed in the negligent costume of night – their heads close together, and their nude arms mutually encircling one another’s shoulders, white as the chemisettes draped carelessly over them.

Only for an instant was this provoking tableau exhibited. Sudden as the recession of a dissolving view, or like a picture falling back out of its frame, did it disappear from the sight – leaving in its place only the blank vitreous sheen of the casement.

Abashed by that unexpected exposure – though it was only to the eye of heaven – the chaste maidens had simultaneously receded from the window, before the rude glare that startled them ceased to flicker against the glass.

Sudden, as was their retreating movement, previous to making it, they had recognised the two-cloaked horsemen, who were holding their way along the avenue.

“Scarthe!” exclaimed Marion.

“Stubbs!” ejaculated Lora.

Volume Two – Chapter Ten

The astonishment of the cousins, at seeing two travellers starting forth so late, and upon such a dismal night, might have been increased, could they have extended their vision beyond the palings of the park, and surveyed the forest-covered country for a mile or two to the north-west of it.

On the ramifications of roads and bridle-paths – that connected the towns of Uxbridge and Beaconsfield with the flanking villages of Fulmer, Stoke, Hedgerley, and the two Chalfonts – they might have seen, not two, but twenty travellers; all on horseback, and riding each by himself – in a few instances only two or three of them going together.

Though upon different roads – and heading in different directions – they all appeared to be making for the same central bourne; which, as they neared it, could be told to be the old house of Stone Dean.

One by one they kept arriving at this point of convergence; and, passing through the gate of the park, one after another, they rode silently on to the dwelling – where they as silently dismounted.

There, delivering up their horses to three men – who stood ready to take them – the visitors stepped unbidden within the open doorway; and, following a dark-skinned youth – who received them without saying a word – were conducted along the dimly-lighted corridor, and ushered into an inner apartment.

As they passed under the light of the hall lamp – or had been seen outside during the occasional flashes of the lightning – the costume and bearing of these saturnine guests proclaimed them to be men of no mean degree; while their travel-stained habiliments told that they had ridden some distance, before entering the gates of Stone Dean.

It might have been remarked as strange, that such cavaliers of quality were thus travelling unattended – for not one of them was accompanied by groom, or servant of any sort. It was also strange, that no notice was taken of this circumstance by the men who led off their horses towards the stables – all three performing their duty without the slightest exhibition either of curiosity or surprise.

None of the three wore the regular costume of grooms or stable-servants; nor had any of them the appearance of being accustomed to act in such capacity. The somewhat awkward manner in which they were fulfilling their office, plainly proclaimed that it was new to them; while their style of dress, though different in each, declared them to belong to other callings.

Two were habited in the ordinary peasant garb of the period – with a few touches that told them to be woodmen; and as the lightning flashed upon their faces it revealed these two personages to be – Dick Dancey and his coadjutor, Will Walford.

The dress of the third was not characteristic of any exact calling; but appeared rather a combination of several styles: as though several individuals had contributed a portion of their apparel to his make-up. There was a pair of buff-leather boots, which, in point of elegance, might have encased the feet and ankles of a cavalier – the wide tops turned down over the knees, showing a profusion of white lining inside. Above these dangled the legs of a pair of petticoat breeches, of coarse kersey, which strangely contrasted with the costly character of the boots. Over the waistband of the breeches puffed out a shirt of finest linen – though far from being either spotless or clean; while this was again overtopped by a doublet of homespun woollen cloth, of the kind known as “marry-muffe” – slashed along the sleeves with the cheapest of cotton velveteen. Surmounting this, in like contrast, was the broad lace collar band of a cavalier, with cuffs to correspond – both looking, as if the last place of deposit had been the buck-basket of a washerwoman, and the wearer had taken them thence, without waiting for their being submitted to the operations of the laundry.

Add to the above-mentioned habiliments a high-crowned felt hat – somewhat battered about the brim – with a tarnished tinsel band, but without any pretence at a plume; and you have the complete costume of the third individual who was acting as an extemporised stable-helper at the dwelling of Stone Dean.

Had there been light enough for the travellers to have scrutinised his features, no doubt they would have been somewhat astonished at this queer-looking personage, who assisted in disembarrassing them of their steeds. Perhaps some of them, seeing his face, might have thought twice before trusting him with the keeping of a valuable horse: for, in the tall stalwart figure, that appeared both peasant and gentleman, in alternate sections, they might have recognised an old, and not very trustworthy acquaintance – the famed footpad, Gregory Garth.

In the darkness, however, Gregory ran no risk of detection; and continued to play his improvised part, without any apprehension of an awkward encounter.

By the time that the great clock in the tower of Chalfont Church had ceased tolling twelve, more than twenty of the nocturnal visitors to Stone Dean had entered within the walls of that quaint old dwelling; and still the sound of shod hooves, clinking occasionally against the stones upon the adjacent road, told that an odd straggler had yet to arrive.

About this time two horsemen, riding together, passed in through the gate of the park. Following the fashion of the others, they continued on to the front of the house – where, like the others, they also dismounted, and surrendered their horses to two of the men who stepped forward to receive them.

These animals, like the others, were led back to the stables; but their riders, instead of entering the house by the front door – as had been done by all those who had preceded them – in this respect deviated slightly from the programme.

As soon as the two grooms, who had taken their horses, were fairly out of sight, they were seen to act in obedience to a sign given by the third; who, whispering to them to follow him, led the way, first along the front of the house, and then around one of its wings, towards the rear.

Even had there been moonlight, it would have been difficult to identify these new comers, who were so mysteriously diverted from making entrance by the front door. Both were muffled in cloaks – more ample and heavy – than the quality of the night seemed to call for. Scarcely could the threatening storm account for this providence on their part?

On rounding the angle of the building, the man preceding them made a stop – at the same time half-facing about.

A gleam of lightning disclosed the countenance of their conductor. It was the woodman – Walford.

His face was paler than wont – of that ghastly hue that denotes the consciousness of crime – while his deep-set watery eyes shining from beneath his white eyebrows and hay-coloured hair, gave to his ill-favoured features an expression almost demoniac.

The countenances of the two cavaliers were also for an instant illuminated. One was the handsome face of Captain Scarthe – appearing like that of the guide – unnaturally pale under the unearthly glare of the electric light. The other was the stolid, but rubicund, countenance of his subaltern, Stubbs.

While the light lasted, Walford was seen beckoning them to follow fester.

“Coom on, masters!” muttered he, in an earnest, hurried tone, “There’s ne’er a minute to be lost. That ’ere dummy o’ an Indyen has got his eyes everywhere. If he sees ye, he’ll want to take ye inside among the rest; an’ that won’t answer yer purpose, I reckon.”

“No! that would never do,” muttered Scarthe, hastening his steps; “our presence inside would spoil this pretty pie. Go on, my good fellow! We’ll follow you – close as the skirt of your doublet.”

Without another word the trio moved on – the guide keeping a pace or two in advance, Stubbs clumsily staggering in the rear.

In this order they continued around the right wing of the house – all three making their way with as much silence and caution, as if they had been a band of burglars about to enter upon the ceremony of “cracking a crib.”

The almost amorphous darkness would have hindered them from being observed, even had there been any one in the way. But there was not – no one to see them stealing along that sombre-coloured wall – no eye to witness their entrance within the private side door that admitted them by a narrow passage into the unused apartments of the house – no eye to behold them as they stood within that small dark chamber, that communicated by a window of dingy glass with the large hall in which the guests of Henry Holtspur were assembled.

“Just the place!” whispered Scarthe, as, glancing through the glass, he saw the forms of men, moving confusedly over the floor of a well-lit apartment, and listened to the murmur of voices. “The very observatory I wished for. Now go, my good fellow!” he continued, transferring his whisper to the ear of Walford. “In twenty minutes from this time steal our horses out of the stables, and have them ready. We shall go back by the front entrance. Your worthy confrères will never know but that we’ve issued from the hive inside there. If they should suspect anything, I’ve got two sorts of metal upon my person – one or other of which will be sure to keep them quiet.”

Half pushing his late conductor bade into the passage, Scarthe quietly closed the door behind him; and drew Stubbs up to the cobweb-covered window. Behind it both silently took their stand – crouching like a pair of gigantic spiders, that had placed themselves in expectation of prey!

Neither made the slightest stir. They no longer talked to each other even in whispers. They were well aware of the danger they would incur – if detected in their eavesdropping – aware that they might have to pay for it with their lives, or at the very least, suffer severe punishment, by a castigation upon the spot, and the consequent disgrace due to their dastardly conduct. The act they were committing was of no trifling character – no child’s play of hide and seek; but a bold and dangerous game of espionage, in which not only the personal liberty, but even the lives of many individuals might be placed in peril – these, too, among the highest in the land.

Scarthe was conscious of all this; and, but that he was impelled to the act by the most powerful passion of man’s nature – the promptings of a profound jealousy – he might have hesitated before placing himself in such a position. His mere political proclivities would never have tempted him to the committal of such an imprudent act. Much as he inclined towards the king, he was not the man to play spy over a conference of conspirators – such as he believed this assembly to be, from motives of mere loyalty. The thought stimulating him was stronger by far.

He had not placed himself in that position blindly trusting to chance. Like a skilled strategist, as he was, he had well reconnoitred the ground before entering upon it. His coadjutor, Walford, acting under a somewhat similar motive, had freely furnished him with all the information he required. The woodman – from an acquaintance with the old “caretaker,” who had held charge of the house previous to Holtspur’s occupation – had a thorough knowledge of the dwelling of Stone Dean – its ins and its outs – its trap-doors and sliding panels – every stair and corner, from cellar to garret. Walford had assured the spies, that the chamber in which he secreted them was never entered by any one; and that the glass door communicating with the larger apartment could not be opened, without breaking it to pieces. Not only was its lock sealed with the rust of time, but the door itself was nailed fast to the post and lintels.

There was no fear of their being seen. The cobwebs precluded the possibility of that. As to their being heard, it would depend upon their own behaviour; and under the circumstances, neither captain nor cornet were likely to make any noise that might attract attention.

For the rest the affair had been easy enough. Among a crowd of unknown guests arriving at the house – even under the supervision of a staff of regular domestics – it was not likely that a distinction should be made between the invited and those unasked; much less under the outré circumstances foreseen and well understood by Scarthe and his companion.

Neither Dancey nor Garth were supposed to know the persons of either. Nor had Oriole ever seen them; though Walford was far more concerned about the instincts of the Indian, than the observations of his fellow-helpers.

So far, however, he had succeeded in baffling both.

Scarthe commenced by wiping off enough of the cobwebs, to give him a clear disc of vision, of about the size of a crown piece.

With his eye close to the glass he commanded a view of the adjoining apartment, as well as the company it contained.

As to hearing, there was no difficulty about that. Even the ordinary conversation could be heard plainly through the panes; but, when any one spoke louder than the rest, every word could be distinguished.

Scarthe had not been very long occupied in his surveillance, before perceiving that he was playing the spy upon a company of gentlemen. None present were of the peasant type.

Soon also did he become acquainted with the general tenour of the discourse, and convinced of the correctness of his conjecture: that the meeting was an assembly of conspirators. This was the name given to it by the royalist captain; though rather did it merit to be called a conference of patriots – perhaps the purest that ever assembled on the earth.

The subjects discussed were various, but all relating to two matters of chief moment: – the liberty of the subject, and the encroachments of the sovereign. Out of doors, or inside, these were the topics of the time.

Three or four of the speakers appeared to be regarded above the rest; and when one or other of these stood up, an air of silent respect pervaded the assembly.

Scarthe had no personal knowledge of these distinguished individuals. He little suspected, when that man of noble mien rose up – he for whom the hum of conversation became suddenly hushed – and upon whom every eye was turned with a regard that seemed that of a brotherly affection – little suspected the sneaking spy of a Court, that he was listening to the most disinterested patriot England has ever produced – that glorious hero of the Chilterns – John Hampden.

As little knew he that in the speaker who followed – a man of mature age, and perhaps of more eloquent tongue – he beheld the future accuser of Stafford, – the bold prosecutor who successfully brought this notorious renegade to the block.

Neither did Scarthe recognise in that young but grave gentleman, who spoke so enthusiastically in favour of a nonconformist religion, the self-denying nobleman, Sir Harry Vane; nor in him who had a quick answer for every opponent, and a jest for every occasion, the elegant, whose appearance of superficial dandyism concealed a heart truly devoted to the interests of English liberty – Harry Martin of Berks.

From his concealment Scarthe saw all these noble and heroic men, without identifying them. He cared not for one or the other – what they did, or what they said. His eye was set, and his ear bent, to see one who had not yet presented himself – to hear one who had not yet spoken.

The host of the house – he who had summoned these guests together – was the man whom Scarthe desired to see and hear. Though the Royalist spy felt satisfied, that what had passed already would be proof sufficient against Holtspur, he wanted one speech from his own mouth – one word that would more surely convict him.