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The White Gauntlet

He was not disappointed. In that congregation Henry Holtspur was not expected to be silent. Though regarded more in the light of an actor than an orator, there were those who waited to hear him with that silent eagerness that tells of a truer appreciation, than the mere ebullition of a noisy enthusiasm. As the host of the house he had hitherto modestly remained in the background, until forced to take his turn; and his turn at length came.

In a speech which occupied more than an hour, Pym had set before the assembly a full list of the grievances under which the nation groaned – a sort of epitome of the famous oration that afterwards ushered in the attainder of Stafford. Its effect upon all, was to strengthen them in the determination to oppose – with greater energy than ever – the usurpations of the Court; and many of the gentlemen present declared their willingness to make any sacrifice, either personal or pecuniary, rather than longer submit to the illegal exactions of the monarch.

“Why,” said Holtspur, rising to his feet and standing conspicuously before his guests, “why should we continue to talk in enigmas? I, for one, am tired of keeping up this pretence of hostility towards the subordinates, whilst the real enemy is allowed to escape all accusations of criminality. It is not Stafford, nor Laud, nor Finch, nor Mainwaring, nor Windebank, who are the oppressors of the people. These are but the tools of the tyrant. Destroy them to-day, and to-morrow others will be found to supply their place – as fitting and truculent as they. To what end, then, are our protests and prosecutions? The hydra of despotism can only be crushed by, depriving it of its head. The poisonous tree of evil is not to be destroyed, by here and there lopping off a branch. It can be rendered innoxious only by striking at its roots!

“Some gentlemen here seem to think, that, by surrounding the king with good counsellors, we may succeed in bringing him to rule with justice. But good counsellors, under the influence of an unscrupulous Court, may any day change their character; and then the work will have to be done over again. Look at Stafford himself! Ten years ago, had we met as we meet to-night, Thomas Wentworth would have been with us – foremost in our councils – See the baneful effects of Royal favour! It will ever be so – as long as men set up an idol, call it a king, and fall down upon their faces to worship it!

“For my own part I scorn to palter with words. I see but one criminal worthy our accusations; and he is neither councillor, nor secretary, nor bishop; but the master of all three. In my mind, gentlemen, it is no longer a question of whether we are to be ruled by a good king, or a bad king; but whether we are to have a king at all!”

“My sentiments!” cried Henry Martin, and several others of the younger and bolder spirits; while a general murmur of approbation was heard throughout the room.

These were wild words – even within that secret assemblage. The question of king or no king, had begun to shape itself in the minds of a few men; but this was the first time it had risen to the lips of any one. It was the first spoken summons invoking the dark shadow that hovered over the head of Charles Stuart, until his neck lay bleeding on the block!

“Enough!” gasped out Scarthe, in an almost inaudible whisper, as he recovered his long suspended breath, “enough for my purpose. You heard it, Stubbs?”

“I did, by Ged!” replied the subordinate spy, taking care to imitate his superior in the low tone in which he made answer.

“We may go now,” said Scarthe. “There’s nothing more to be seen or done – at least nothing I need care for. Ha! who’s speaking now? That voice? Surely I’ve heard it before?”

As he said this, he placed his eye once more to the disc of cleared glass.

Suddenly drawing himself back, and clutching his associate by the arm, he muttered:

“Who do you think is there?”

“Can’t guess, captain.”

“Listen, then!” and, placing his lips close to the ear of his companion, he whispered in slow syllables, “Sir Mar-ma-duke Wade.”

“Do you say so?”

“Look for yourself: look and listen! Do both well: for the words you hear, may yet win you your sweetheart.”

“How, captain?”

“Don’t question me now,” hurriedly replied the latter, at the same time returning to his attitude of attention.

It was in truth Sir Marmaduke Wade, who was addressing the assembly. But his speech was a very short one: for the worthy knight was no orator; and it was nearly finished by the time Scarthe and the cornet had succeeded in placing themselves in a position to have heard him.

Enough reached the ears of the former to give him all that he required for a fell purpose; which even at that moment had commenced taking shape in his diabolical brain.

In the few words that dropped from the lips of his host, Scarthe could discover sufficient evidence of disloyalty. Indeed, the presence of Sir Marmaduke in that place – coupled with, perhaps, something more than suspicion which the king already entertained towards him – would be proof enough to satisfy the Star Chamber.

“We may go now,” whispered Scarthe, stealing towards the door, and drawing his subaltern gently after him. “Softly, cornet!” continued he, as hand-in-hand they retraced the dark passage. “Those boots of yours creak like a ship in a swell! Fancy you are treading on eggs!”

As he made this facetious remark, they emerged into the open air; and, whispering mutual congratulations, went skulking onward, like a brace of felons making their escape from the confinement of a prison.

“If this fellow,” said Scarthe, “can only succeed in extricating our horses, I think we may flatter ourselves, that we have made a successful job of it. Come on.”

And Scarthe led the way along the wall, towards the front of the dwelling.

They proceeded with as much caution as ever. Though outside, they were not yet safe from having their presence discovered, and their purpose suspected. The sky was clearer than when they had last looked upon it: for the thunderstorm, now over, had scattered the clouds, and deluged the earth with rain.

At the angle of the building they could make out the figure of a man, standing under the shadow of a tree. It was Walford. On seeing them, he stepped forth, and advanced to meet them.

“Theer be nobody by the front door,” he muttered, when near enough to be heard. “Stay by the steps, but don’t show yer faces. I’ll ha’ the horses round in a twinkle.”

Saying this, the traitor left them, and disappeared in the direction of the stables.

Obedient to his instructions, they took their stand; and, still conversing in whispers, awaited his return.

True to his promise almost in an instant the two horses were brought round – one led by himself, the other by Dancey.

The latter was too much occupied by the gold piece, glistening within his palm, to think of scrutinising the countenance of the giver.

“Odds luck, Wull!” said he, turning to his comrade, after the two horsemen had ridden off; “stable keepin’ appear to be a better bisness than windin’ the woodaxe! If they be all as liberal as these ’uns we shall ha’ a profitable night o’t.”

Walford assented with a shrug of his shoulders, and a significant grin – which in the darkness was not noticed by the unsuspicious deer-stealer.

Just then, Gregory Garth coming up armed with a tankard of ale – perhaps surreptitiously drawn from the cellar – interrupted the conversation, or rather changed it into a different channel: for it was still carried on to the accompaniment of a copious imbibing of the homebrew.

Volume Two – Chapter Eleven

The two spies moved silently away – neither speaking above his breath, till they had regained the road, outside the gates of Stone Dean, then, no longer fearing to be overheard, they talked in louder tone.

“What a grand coup it would be!” observed Scarthe, partly in soliloquy, and partly addressing himself to his companion.

“What, captain?” inquired Stubbs.

“To capture this whole nest of conspirators.”

“It would, by Ged!”

“It would get me that colonelcy – true as a trivet; and you, my worthy cornet, would become Captain Stubbs!”

“Zounds! why not try to take ’em then?”

“Simply because we can’t. By the time we should get our vagabonds in their saddles, and ride back, every knave of them would be gone. I saw they were about to break up; and that’s why I came so quickly away. Yes – yes!” continued he, reflectingly, “they’d be scattered to the four winds, before we could get back. Besides – besides —he might slip off through the darkness, and give trouble to find him afterwards! What matters to me about the others? I must make sure of him; and that will be best done in the daylight. To-morrow he shall be mine; the day after, the lieutenant of the Tower shall have him; and then the Star Chamber; and then —the scaffold!”

“But, captain,” said Stubbs, in answer to the soliloquised speech, only a portion of which he had heard. “What about our worthy host, Sir Marmaduke? Can’t you take him?”

“At any time – ha! ha! ha! And hark you, Stubbs! I’ve a word for you on that delicate subject. I’ve promised you promotion. The queen, on my recommendation, will see that you have it. But you get my endorsement, only on conditions – on conditions, do you hear?”

“I do. What conditions, captain?”

“That you say nothing – either of where you’ve been, what you’ve heard, or what you’ve seen this night – till I give you the cue to speak.”

“Not a word, by Ged! I promise that.”

“Very well. It’ll be to your interest, my worthy cornet, to keep your promise, if you ever expect me to call you captain. In time you may understand my reasons for binding you to secrecy, and in time you shall. Meanwhile, not a whisper of where we’ve been to-night – least of all to Sir Marmaduke Wade. Ah! my noble knight!” continued the captain, speaking to himself, “I’ve now got the sun shining that will thaw the ice of your aristocratic superciliousness! And you, indifferent dame! If I mistake not your sex and your sort, ere another moon has flung its mystic influence over your mind, I shall tread your indifference in the dust, make you open those loving arms, twine them around the neck of Richard Scarthe, and cry – ‘Be mine, dearest! mine for ever!’”

The speaker rose exultingly in his stirrups, as if he had already felt that thrilling embrace; but, in a moment after, sank back into his saddle, and sate in a cowed and cowering attitude.

It was but the natural revulsion of an over-triumphant feeling – the reaction that succeeds the indulgence of an unreal and selfish conceit.

His sudden start upward had roused afresh the pain in his wounded arm. It recalled a series of circumstances calculated to humiliate him; – his defeat – the finding of the glove – his suspicion of a rival – that assignation scene, that almost made it a certainty.

All these remembrances, suggested by the sting of the still unhealed sword-wound, as they came simultaneously rolling over his soul, swept it clear of every thought of triumph; and, despite the success of his strategy, he re-entered the park of Sir Marmaduke Wade, as heavy in heart, and perhaps poorer in hope, than any tramping mendicant that had ever trodden its tree-shaded avenues.

He knew the situation of Marion’s sleeping chamber. He had made it his business to ascertain that. He gazed upon the window as he rode forward. He fancied he saw a form receding behind the curtain, like some white nymph dissolving herself into the world of ether.

He checked his steed; and for a long time kept his eyes fixed upon the casement: but nothing appeared to impart consolation. There was no light in the chamber; the cold glitter of the glass was in consonance with the chill that had crept over his spirits; and he moved on, convinced that his imagination had been mocking him.

And yet it was not so. It was a real form, and no illusion, that he had seen receding from the window – the form of Marion Wade, that more than once had appeared there since his departure.

The lamp, so opportunely extinguished, had not been re-lit. The cousins, groping their way through the darkness, had betaken themselves to bed.

What else could they do? Even though what they had seen might forbode evil to some one, what power had they to avert it?

Had there been a certainty of danger, it is true, – and to him who was the chief subject of her apprehensions, – Marion Wade could not have gone tranquilly to sleep.

Neither did she: for, although the midnight excursion of the cuirassier captain and his comet might have no serious significance, coupled with the presentiment from which she was already suffering, she could not help fancying that it had.

The hour was too late for an adventure, either of gaiety or gallantry, in a rural neighbourhood, where all the world – even the wicked – should have long ago retired to rest.

For more than an hour the cousins had lain side by side – conferring on the incident that had so unexpectedly transpired. Of other confidences they had before unbosomed themselves – though much of what they intended to have said remained unspoken: on account of the distraction caused to their thoughts by this new circumstance.

Both had been perplexed, – alike unable to discover a clue to the mysterious movement of Scarthe and his comet.

After more than an hour spent in shaping conjectures, and building hypotheses, they had arrived no nearer to a rational belief, than when commencing their speculations on the subject.

Finally, Lora, less interested in the event or its consequences, laid her head complacently on the pillow, and fell off into a sleep – determined, no doubt, to dream of Walter.

For Marion there was no such solace; no rest for her that night – with the image of Henry Holtspur hovering over her heart; and her bosom filled with vague apprehensions about his safety.

She had not tried to sleep. She had not even kept to her couch; but stealing gently from the side of her unconscious cousin, she had repeatedly sought the window; and gazed forth from it.

After going several times to and fro, she had at length stationed herself by the casement; and there crouching in its embayment – her form shrouded by the silken tapestry – had she remained for hours, eagerly listening to every sound – listening to the rain, as it plashed heavily on roof, terrace, and trees – watching the lightning’s flash – straining her eyes, while it glared, adown that long arcade between the chestnuts, that bordered the path by which the nocturnal excursionists might be expected to reappear.

Her vigil was not unrewarded. They came back at length – as they had gone – Scarthe and Stubbs, together and by themselves.

“Thank Heaven!” muttered Marion, as she caught sight of the two forms returning up the avenue, and saw that they were alone. “Thank Heaven! Their errand, whatever it may have been, is ended. I hope it had no reference to him!”

Holding the curtain, so as to screen her form, she stayed in the window until the two horsemen had ridden up to the walls. But the darkness outside – still impenetrable except when the lightning played – prevented observation; and she only knew by the sound of their horses’ hooves, that they had passed under her window towards the rear of the mansion, and entered the courtyard – whose heavy gate she could hear closing behind them.

Then, and not till then, did she consent to surrender herself to that god, puissant as love itself; and, gently extending her white limbs alongside those of Lora, she entered upon the enjoyment of a slumber – perhaps not so innocent, as that of her unconscious cousin – but equally profound.

Little did Scarthe suspect, that the snow-white vision, so suddenly fading from his view, was the real form of that splendid woman, now weirdly woven around his heart. Had he suspected it, he would scarce have retired to his couch; which he did with embittered spirit, and a vile vow, instead of a prayer, passing from his lips. It was but the repetition of that vow, long since conceived to win Marion Wade – to win and wed her, by fair means or by foul.

He besought his couch, but not with the intention of going to sleep.

With a brain, so fearfully excited, he could not hope to procure repose.

Neither did he wish it. He had not even undressed himself; and his object in stretching his limbs upon a bed, was that he might the more effectually concentrate his thoughts upon his scheme of villainy.

In his homeward ride he had already traced out his course of immediate action; which, in its main features, comprehended the arrest of Henry Holtspur, and sending him under guard to the Tower of London. It was only the minor details of this preliminary design that now occupied his mind.

Before parting with his subaltern, he had given orders for thirty of his troopers to be ready to take saddle a little before daybreak; the order being accompanied by cautionary injunctions – that the men were to be aroused from their slumbers without any noise to disturb the tranquillity of the mansion – that they were to “boot and saddle” without the usual signal of the bugle; in short, that they were to get ready for the route with as much secrecy and silence as possible.

There would be just time for the cornet to have these commands executed; and, knowing the necessity of obedience to his superior, Stubbs had promptly proceeded to enforce them.

One by one, the men were awakened with all the secrecy enjoined in the order; the horses were saddled in silence; and a troop of thirty cuirassiers, armed cap-à-pied, ready to mount, stood in the courtyard, just as the first streak of grey light – denoting the approach of dawn – became visible above the eastern horizon.

Meanwhile, Scarthe, stretched along his couch, had been maturing his plan. He had but little apprehension of failure. It was scarce probable that his enemy could escape capture. So adroitly had he managed the matter of the espionage, that Henry Holtspur could have no suspicion of what had occurred.

Scarthe had become sufficiently familiar with Walford and his ways, to know that this traitor would be true to the instincts of jealousy and vengeance. There was no fear that Holtspur would receive warning from the woodman; and from whom else could he have it? No one.

The arrest would be simple and easy. It would be only necessary to surround the house, cut off every loophole of escape, and capture the conspirator – in all probability in his bed. After that the Tower – then the Star Chamber; and Scarthe knew enough of this iniquitous tribunal, to feel sure that the sentence it would pass would for ever rid not only Walford, but himself, of a hated rival. It would also disembarrass the king of a dangerous enemy; though of all the motives, inspiring Scarthe to the act, this was perhaps the weakest.

His hostility for Holtspur – though of quick and recent growth – was as deeply rooted, as if it had existed for years. To be defeated in the eyes of a multitude – struck down from his horse – compelled to cry “quarter” – he, Richard Scarthe, captain of the King’s cuirassiers – a preux chevalier– a noted champion of the duello – this circumstance was of itself sufficient to inspire him with an implacable hostility towards his successful antagonist. But to suffer this humiliation in the presence of high-born women – under the eye of one whom he now loved with a fierce, lustful passion – worse still; one whom he had reason to believe was lovingly inclined towards his adversary – all this had embittered his heart with more than a common hatred, and filled his bosom with a wild yearning for more than a common vengeance.

It was in planning this, that he passed the interval upon his couch; and his actions, at the end of the time, along with his muttered words, proved that he had succeeded in devising a sure scheme of retaliation.

“By heavens!” he exclaimed aloud, springing to his feet, and measuring the floor of his chamber with quick, nervous strides; “it will be a sweet revenge! She shall look upon him in his hour of humiliation. Stripped of his fine feathers, shall he appear under her window, under her aristocratic eyes – a prisoner – helpless, bayed, and brow-beaten. Ha! ha! ha!”

The exulting laugh told how pleasant was his anticipation of the spectacle his fancy had conjured up.

“Shall he wear the white gauntlet in his beaver?” he continued, pondering over new modes of humiliating his adversary. “There would be something sweet in such a sublime mockery? No: better not – he will appear more ridiculous with his head bare – bound like a felon! Ha! ha! ha!”

Again he gave way, unchecked, to his exultant laugh, till the room rang with his fierce cachinnations.

“Zounds!” exclaimed he, after an interval, during which the shadow of some doubt had stolen over his face. “If she should smile upon him in that hour, then my triumph would be changed to chagrin! Oh! under her smile he would be happier than I!”

“Aha!” he ejaculated, after another pause, in which he appeared to have conceived a thought that chased away the shadow. “Aha! I have it now. She shall not smile. I shall take precautions against it. Phoebus! what a splendid conception! He shall appear before her, not bareheaded, but with beaver on – bedecked with a bunch of flowers!”

“Let me see! What sort were those the girl gave him? Red, if I remember aright, – ragged robin, corn poppies, or something of the kind. No matter about that, so long as the colour be in correspondence. In the distance, Marion could scarce have distinguished the species. A little faded, too, they must be: as if kept since the day of the fête. She will never suspect the ruse. If she smile, after beholding the flowers, then shall I know that there is nothing between them. A world to see her smile? To see her do the very thing, which but an instant ago, I fancied would have filled me with chagrin!”

“Ho!” he again ejaculated, in a tone of increasing triumph. “Another splendid conception! My brain, so damnably dull all through the night, brightens with the coming day. As our French queen is accustomed to exclaim, ‘une pensée magnifique!’ ’Twill be a home thrust for Holtspur. If he love her– and who can doubt it – then shall his heart be wrung, as he has wrung mine. Ha! ha! The right hand glove shall triumph over the left!”

As Scarthe said this, he strode towards the table on which lay his helmet; and, taking from the breast of his doublet the gauntlet of Marion Wade – the one she had really lost – he tied it with a piece of ribbon to the crest; – just under the panache of plumes.

“Something for him to speculate upon, while inside the walls of his prison! Something to kill time, when he is awake, and dream of, when asleep! Ha! ha! A sweet revenge ’twill be – one worthy the craft of an inquisitor!”

A footstep coming along the corridor put a period to his changing soliloquy.

It was the footstep of Stubbs; and in the next instant the flat face of the cornet presented itself in the half-opened door.

“Thirty in armour, captain – ready for the road,” was the announcement of the subaltern.

“And I am ready to head them,” answered his superior officer – setting his helmet firmly upon his head, and striding towards the door, “Thirty will be more than we need. After all, ’tis best to make sure. We don’t want the fox to steal away from his cover; and he might do so, if the earths be not properly stopped. We’re pretty sure to find him in his swaddling clothes at this hour. Ha! ha! ha! What a ludicrous figure our fine cavalier will cut in his nightcap! Won’t he, Stubbs?”

“Ought to, by Ged!”

And, with this gleeful anticipation, Scarthe, followed by his subaltern, stepped lightly along the passage leading towards the courtyard – where thirty troopers, armed cap-à-pied– each standing on the near side of his steed – awaited the order to spring into their saddles.

In two seconds’ time the “Mount and forward!” was given – not by signal-call of the bugle, but by word of command, somewhat quietly pronounced. Then, with captain and cornet at its head, the troop by twos, filed out through the arched entrance – directing their march towards the gateway that opened upon the Oxford Road, treading in the direction of Beaconsfield.

It was by this same entrance the two officers had come in only a short while before. They saw the hoof-prints of their horses in the dust – still saturated with the rain that had fallen. They saw also the track of a third steed, that had been travelling the same direction: towards the house.

They found the gate closed. They had left it open. Some less negligent person had entered the park after them!

“Our host has got safe home!” whispered Scarthe to his subaltern.

“So much the better,” he – added with a significant smile, “I don’t want to capture him– at least, not now; and if I can make a captive of his daughter – not at all. If I succeed not in that, why then – then – I fear Sir Marmaduke will have to accept the hospitality of his Majesty, and abide some time under the roof of that royal mansion that lies eastward of Cheap – erst honoured by the residence of so many distinguished gentlemen. Ha! ha! ha!”

Having delivered himself of this jocular allusion to the Tower, he passed through the park gate; and at the head of his troopers continued briskly, but silently, along the king’s highway.

On went the glittering phalanx – winding up the road like some destroying serpent on its way to wickedness – the pattering of their horses’ feet, and the occasional clink of steel scabbards, striking against stirrups and çuisses, were the only sounds that broke upon the still air of the morning – to proclaim the passage of armed and mounted men.