Майн Рид
The White Gauntlet
Volume One – Chapter Thirteen
Were the Chiltern Hills stripped of the timber, to this day screening a considerable portion of their surface, they would present a striking resemblance to those portions of the great North American Steppe, known in trapper-parlance as “rolling prairies.” With equal truthfulness might they be likened to the Ocean, after a great storm, when the waves no longer carry their foaming crests, and the undulations of the swell have, to a certain extent, lost their parallelism. If you can fancy the liquid element then suddenly transformed into solid earth, you will have a good idea of the “shape” of the Chilterns.
From time immemorial have these hills enjoyed a peculiar reputation. In the forward march of England’s agriculture, it was long ere their sterile soil tempted the touch of the plough; and even at this hour vast tracts of their surface lie unreclaimed – in “commons” covered with heath, furze, or forests of beechwood.
At various periods of our history, their fame has not been of the fairest. Their wild woods, while giving shelter to the noble stag, and other creatures of the chase, also served as a choice retreat for the outlaw and the robber; and in past times, it became necessary to appoint a “steward or warden,” with a body of armed attendants, to give safe-conduct to the traveller, passing through their limits. Hence the origin of that noted office – now happily a sinecure; though, unhappily, not the only sinecure of like obsolete utility in this grievously taxed land.
Near the eastern verge of the Chiltern country, is situated the noble park of Bulstrode. It is one of the most ancient inclosures in England – older than the invasion of the Norman; perhaps as old as the evacuation of the Roman. In the former epoch it was the scene of strife – as the remains of a Saxon encampment lying within its limits – with a singular legend attached – will testify.
Extending over an area of a thousand acres, there is scarce a rood of Bulstrode Park that could be called level ground – the camp enclosure, already mentioned, forming the single exception. The surface exhibits a series of smooth rounded hills, and undulating ridges, separated from each other by deep valley-like ravines – the concavities of the latter so resembling the convexities of the former, as to suggest the idea that the hills have been scooped out of the valleys, and placed in an inverted position beside them. The park itself offers a fair specimen of the scenery of the Chilterns – the ocean swell suddenly brought to a stand, the waves, and the “troughs” between, having lost their parallelism. The valleys traverse in different directions, here running into each other; there shallowing upward, or ending abruptly in deep romantic dells, thickly copsed with hawthorn, holly, or hazel – the favourite haunts of the nightingale. The ridges join each other in a similar fashion; or rise into isolated hills, so smoothly coped as to seem artificial. Belts of shrubbery and clumps of gigantic trees – elm, oak, beech, and chestnut – mottle the slopes, or crown their summits; while the spaces between exhibit a sward of that vivid verdure – only to be seen in the pastures and parks of England. Such was Bulstrode Park in the seventeenth century; such with but slight change, is it at the present day – a worthy residence for the noblest family in the land.
It is the morning of the fête arranged by Sir Marmaduke Wade – to celebrate the anniversary of his son’s birthday, and at the same time to commemorate his return to the paternal mansion.
The red aurora of an autumnal morning has given promise of a brilliant day; and as if to keep that promise, a golden sun, already some degrees above the horizon, is gradually mounting into a canopy of cloudless blue.
His beams striking obliquely through the foliage of the forest, fall with a subdued light upon the earth; but in the more open undulations of the park they have already kissed the dew from the grass; and the verdant turf seems to invite the footstep – like some vast carpet spread over the arena of the expected sports.
It is evident that the invitation of Sir Marmaduke had been extensively circulated, and accepted. On every road and path tending in the direction of his residence, and from a distance of many miles, groups of rustics in their gayest holiday dresses, have been seen from an early hour in the morning, proceeding towards the scene of the fête – old and young, fair and dark, comely and common-looking, all equally joyous and gleeful.
Within the lines of the old Saxon encampment a large company has assembled. There are thousands in all – some roaming over the ground, some seated under shady trees on the summit of the turf-grown moat. Here and there may be seen large numbers forming a “ring” – the spectators of some sport that is progressing in their midst.
Of sports there are many kinds carried on at the same time. Here is played the game of “balloon:” a huge leathern ball, inflated with hot air, and bandied about amidst a circle of players – the game being to keep the ball passing from one to the other.
There you may see another party engaged in a game of “bowls,” fashionable as the favourite of Royalty; and further on, a crowd clustered around a contest of “single-stick,” where two stout fellows are cudgelling one another, as if determined upon a mutual cracking of skulls – a feat, however, not so easy of accomplishment.
Not far off you may behold the gentler sport of “kiss in the ring,” where blue-eyed Saxon girls are pursued by their rustic beaux, and easily overtaken.
At other places you may witness a wrestling match, a game of foot-ball, or quoits, with “pitching the stone,” racing, leaping, and vaulting.
At a short distance off, and outside the encampment, may be seen an al fresco kitchen, on an extensive scale; where the servants of Sir Marmaduke are engaged in roasting immense barons of beef, and huge hogs cleft lengthwise. An hour or two later, and this spot will be the roost attractive of all.
Not alone does the peasant world appear in the park of Sir Marmaduke Wade. Cavaliers picturesquely attired, in the splendid costumes of the time, along with high-born dames, are seen standing in groups over the ground. Some are spectators of the sports, though not a few of both sexes occasionally take part in them. The fête champètre is a fashionable mode of amusement where rank is, for the time, surrendered to the desire for simple enjoyment; and it is not altogether outré for the mistress of the mansion to mingle with her maidens in the “out-door dance,” nor the squire to take a hand at “single-stick,” or “bowls,” with his rustic retainer.
Even Royalty, in those days was accustomed to such condescension!
Such was the gay spectacle exhibited in the park of Sir Marmaduke Wade, to celebrate the anniversary of that happy day that had given him a son and heir.
Volume One – Chapter Fourteen
The bells of Uxbridge were tolling the hour of noon. Scarthe’s Cuirassiers were still by the roadside inn, though in full armour, and each trooper standing by the side of his horse, ready to take saddle.
It was a late hour to begin their march; but they had been detained. The freshly rasped hoofs of the horses might declare the cause of the detention. The forges of Uxbridge had been called into requisition, for the shoeing of the troop.
There was no special need for haste. They had not far to go; and the duty upon which they were bent, could be entered into at any hour. At twelve they were all ready for the route.
“To horse!” was uttered in the usual abrupt tone of command; and at the same instant, the two officers were seen issuing from the doorway of the inn.
The clattering of steel, as the cuirassiers sprang to their saddles, could be heard on the calm air of the autumn noon, to the distance of a mile. The shopkeepers of Uxbridge heard it; and were only too glad when told its interpretation. All night long Scarthe’s royal swashbucklers had been swaggering through the streets, disturbing the tranquillity of their town, and leaving many a score unsettled.
No wonder they rejoiced, when that clinking of sabres, and clashing of cuisses, declared the departure of Captain Scarthe and his following from the hostelry of the Saracen’s Head.
Their men having mounted, the two officers betook themselves to their saddles, though with less alertness. The cornet seemed to have a difficulty in finding his stirrup; and, after he had succeeded in getting into his seat, it appeared an open question whether he should be able to keep it. Stubbs was intoxicated.
His superior officer was affected in a similar fashion, though to a less degree. At all events he did not show his tipsiness so palpably. He was able to mount into the saddle, without the hand of a helper; and when there, could hold himself upright. Habit may have given him this superiority over his comrade: for Scarthe was an old soldier, and Stubbs was not.
The carouse of the preceding night had commenced at the roadside inn – early in the evening.
The incident that had there occurred – not of the most comforting nature, either to Scarthe or his subaltern – had stimulated them to continue at their cups – only transferring the scene to the inns of Uxbridge. A stray cavalier or two, picked up in the town, had furnished them with the right sort of associates for a midnight frolic; and it was not till the blue light of morn was breaking over the meadows of the Colne, that the wearied roisterers staggered across the old bridge, and returned to their temporary quarters at the roadside inn.
While the horses of the troop were in the hands of the farriers, the two officers had passed an hour or two, tossing upon a brace of the best beds the inn afforded; and it was close upon twelve at noon when Scarthe awoke, and called for a cup of burnt sack to steady his nerves – quivering after the night’s carouse.
A slight breakfast sufficed for both captain and cornet. This despatched, they had ordered the troop to horse, and were about to continue their march.
“Comrades!” cried Scarthe, addressing himself to his followers, as soon as he felt fairly fixed in the saddle. “We’ve been spending the night in a nest of rebels. This Uxbridge is a town of traitors – Quakers, Dissenters and Puritans – alike disloyal knaves.”
“They are by Gec-gec-ged!” hiccuped Stubbs, trying to keep himself upright on his horse.
“They are; you speak true, captain – they’re all you say,” chorussed several of the troopers, who had come away without settling their scores.
“Then let them go to the devil;” muttered Scarthe, becoming alike regardless of Uxbridge and its interests. “Let’s look to what’s before us. No – not that. First what’s behind us. No pretty girls in the inn here. Ah! that’s a pity. Never mind the women, so long as there’s wine. Hillo, Old Boniface! Once more set your taps a-flowing. What will you drink, vagabonds? Beer?”
“Ay, ay – anything you like, noble captain.”
“Beer, Boniface; and for me more sack. What say you, Stubbs?”
“Sack, sa-a-ck!” stammered the cornet. “Burnt sa-a-ck. Nothing like it, by Ge-ged!”
“Who pays?” inquired the landlord, evidently under some apprehension as to the probability of this ultimate order being for cash.
“Pays, knave!” shouted Scarthe, pulling a gold piece from his doublet, and shieing it in the landlord’s face. “Do you take the king’s cuirassiers for highway robbers? The wine – the wine! Quick with it, or I’ll draw your corks with the point of my sword.”
With the numerous staff, which an inn in those times could afford to maintain, both the beer and the more generous beverage were soon within reach of the lips of those intended to partake of them. The national drink was brought first; but out of deference to their officers, the men refrained partaking of it, till the sack was poured into the cups.
Scarthe seized the goblet presented to him and raising it aloft, called out: —
“The King!”
“The King, by Ge-ged,” seconded Stubbs.
“The King – the King!” vociferated the half hundred voices of their followers – the bystanders echoing the phrase only in faint murmuring.
“Goblets to the ground!” commanded the captain – at the same time tossing his own into the middle of the road.
The action was imitated by every man in the troop – each throwing away his empty vessel, till the pavement was thickly strewn with pots of shining pewter.
“Foorward – ma-r-ch!” cried Scarthe, giving the spur to his charger; and with a mad captain at their head, and a maudlin cornet in the rear, the cuirassiers filed out from the inn; and took the road in the direction of Red Hill.
Despite the wine within him, the captain of the cuirassiers, was at that moment, in a frame of mind, anything but contented. One of his reasons for having drunk so deeply, was to drown the recollection – yet rankling in his bosom – of the insult he fancied himself to have suffered on the preceding night, and which he further fancied to have lowered him in the estimation of his followers. Indeed, he knew this to be the case; for as he rode onward at the head of his troop, his whole thoughts were given to the black horseman, and the mode by which he might revenge himself on that mysterious individual.
Scarthe was on the way to country quarters – near which he had been told, the black horseman had his home – and he comforted himself with the thought, that should these prove dull, he would find amusement, in the accomplishment of some scheme, by which his vengeance might be satisfied.
Could his eye at that moment have penetrated the screen of foliage rising above the crest of Red Hill, he might have seen behind it, the man he meant to injure – mounted on that sable steed from which he derived his sobriquet. He might have seen him suddenly wheel back from the bushes, and gallop off in the direction in which he and his cuirassiers were marching – towards Bulstrode Park – the residence of Sir Marmaduke Wade.
Though Scarthe saw not this, his midday march was not performed without his meeting with an incident – one worth recording, even for its singularity; though it was otherwise of significant interest to the cuirassier captain.
In front of a dilapidated hovel upon Jarret’s Heath, both he and his troop were brought to a sudden stand, on hearing a strange noise which appeared to proceed from the ruin. It was a groan – or rather a series of groans – now and then varied by a sharp scream.
On entering the hut, the cause of this singular fracas was at once discovered: a man lying upon the floor – stripped to his shirt, and bound hand and foot! This semi-nude individual informed them, that he had just awakened from a horrid dream; which he now feared was no dream, but a reality! He proclaimed himself a courier of the King, bound to Bulstrode Park, with a despatch for Captain Scarthe! But the despatch was lost, with everything else he had borne upon his body – even to the horse that had borne him!
After the full explanation had been given, Scarthe’s chagrin at the failure of the King’s message, was counterbalanced by the amusement caused by the misadventure of the messenger; and, after remounting the unfortunate man, and sending him whence he had come, he continued his march, making the wild waste of Jarret’s Heath ring with a loud and long continued cachinnation.
Volume One – Chapter Fifteen
The great clock in the tower of Bulstrode mansion, was tolling the hour of noon. The sports were in full progress – both actors and spectators at the maximum of enjoyment.
Here and there a knot of sturdy yeomen might be seen, standing close together – so that their conversation might not be overheard – discussing among themselves some late edict of royalty; and generally in tones of condemnation.
The arbitrary exactions, of which one and all of them had of late been victims, the tyrannous modes of taxation – hitherto unheard of in England —ship, coat, and conduct money – forced loans under the farcical title of benevolences; and, above all, the billeting of profligate soldiers in private houses – on individuals, who by some slight act or speech had given offence to the king, or some of his satellites – these were the topics of the time.
Conjoined with these grievances were discussed the kindred impositions and persecutions of that iniquitous council, the Court of High Commission, which for cruel zeal rivalled even the Inquisition – and the infamous Star Chamber, that numbered its victims by thousands.
These truculent tools of tyranny had been for ten years in the full performance of their flagitious work; but, instead of crushing out the spirit of a brave people – which was their real aim and end – they had only been preparing it for a more determined and effective resistance.
The trial of Hampden – the favourite of Buckinghamshire – for his daring refusal to pay the arbitrary impost of “ship money,” had met with the approbation of all honest men; while the judges, who condemned him, were denounced on all sides as worse than “unjust.”
To its eternal glory be it told, nowhere was this noble spirit more eminently displayed than in the shire of Bucks – nowhere, in those days, was the word liberty so often, or so emphatically, pronounced. Shall I say, alas! the change?
True, it was yet spoken only in whispers – low, but earnest – like thunder heard far off over the distant horizon – heard only in low mutterings, but ready, at any moment, to play its red lightnings athwart the sky of despotism.
Such mutterings might have been heard in the park of Sir Marmaduke Wade. In the midst of that joyous gathering, signs and sounds of a serious import might have been detected – intermingling with scenes of the most light-hearted hilarity.
It may be wondered why those sentiments of freedom were not more openly declared. But that is easy of explanation. If among the assemblage who assisted at the birthday celebration, there were enemies to Court and King, there were also many who were not friends to the cause of the People. In the crowd which occupied the old camp, there was a liberal sprinkling of spies and informers – with eyes sharply set to see, and ears to catch, every word that might be tainted with treason. No man knew how soon he might be made the victim of a denunciation – how soon he might stand in the awe-inspiring presence of the “Chamber.”
No wonder that men expressed their sentiments with caution.
Among the gentlemen present there was a similar difference of opinion upon political matters – even among members of the same family! But such topics of discussion were studiously avoided, as unbecoming the occasion; and no one, carelessly contemplating the faces of the fair dames and gay cavaliers grouped laughingly together, could have suspected the presence of any sentiment that sprang not from the most contented concordance.
There was one countenance an exception to this general look of contentment – one individual in that brilliant throng that had as yet taken no pleasure in the sports. It was Marion Wade.
She, whose smile was esteemed a blessing wherever it fell, seemed herself unblessed.
Her bosom was a chaos of aching unrest. There was wanting in that concourse one whose presence could have given it peace.
Ever since entering the enclosure of the camp, had the eye of Marion Wade been wandering over the heads of the assembled spectators; over the fosse, and toward the gates of the park – where some late guests still continued to straggle in.
Evidently was she searching for that she failed to find: for her glance, after each sweeping tour of inquiry, fell back upon the faces around her, with an ill-concealed expression of disappointment.
When the last of the company appeared to have arrived, the expression deepened to chagrin.
Her reflections, had they been uttered aloud, would have given a clue to the discontent betraying itself on her countenance.
“He comes not – he wills not to come! Was there nothing in those looks? I’ve been mad to do as I have done! And what will he think of me? What can he? He took up my glove – perhaps a mere freak of curiosity, or caprice – only to fling it down again in disdain? Now I know he cares not to come – else would he have been here. Walter promised to introduce him – to me– to me! Oh! there was no lure in that. He knows he might have introduced himself. Have I not invited him? Oh! the humiliation!”
Despite her painful reflections, the lady tried to look gay. But the effort was unsuccessful. Among those standing near there were some, who did not fail to notice her wan brow and wandering glance; dames envious of her distinction – gallants, who for one smile from her proud, pretty lips, would have instantly sacrificed their long love-locks, and plucked from their hats those trivial tokens, they had sworn so hypocritically to wear.
There was only one, however, who could guess at the cause; and that one could only guess at it. Her cousin alone had any suspicion, that the heart of Marion was wandering, as well as her eyes. A knowledge of this fact would have created surprise – almost wonder – in the circle that surrounded her. Marion Wade was a full-grown woman; had been so for more than a year. She had been wooed by many – by some worshipped almost to idolatry. Wealth and title, youth and manhood, lands and lordships, had been laid at her feet; and all alike rejected – not with the proud flourish of the triumphant flirt, but with the tranquil dignity of a true woman, who can only be wed after being won.
Among the many aspirants to her hand, there was not one who could tell the tale of conquest. More than once had that tale been whispered; but the world would not believe it. It would have been a proud feat for the man who could achieve it – too proud to remain unproclaimed.
And yet it had been achieved, though the world knew it not. She alone suspected it, whose opportunities had been far beyond those of the world. Her cousin, Lora Lovelace, had not failed to feel surprise at those lonely rides – lonely from choice – since her own companionship had been repeatedly declined. Neither had she failed to observe, how Marion had chafed and fretted, at the command of Sir Marmaduke, requiring their discontinuance. There were other circumstances besides: the lost glove, and the bleeding wrist – the fevered sleep at night, and the dreamy reveries by day. How could Lora shut her eyes to signs so significant?
Lora was herself in love, and could interpret them. No wonder that she should suspect that her cousin was in a like dilemma; no wonder she should feel sure that Marion’s heart had been given away; though when, and to whom, she was still ignorant, as any stranger within the limits of the camp.
“Marion!” said she, drawing near to her cousin, and whispering so as not to be overheard, “you are not happy to-day?”
“You silly child! what makes you think so?”
“How can I help it? In your looks – ”
“What of my looks, Lora?”
“Dear Marion, don’t mind me. It’s because I dread that others may notice them. There’s Winifred Wayland has been watching you; and, more still, that wicked Dorothy Dayrell. She has been keeping her eyes on you like a cat upon a mouse. Cousin! do try to look different, and don’t give them something to talk about: for you know that’s just what Dorothy Dayrell would desire.”
“Look different! How do I look, pray?”
“Ah! I needn’t tell you how? You know how you feel; and from that you may tell how you look.”
“Ho! sage counsellor, you must explain. What is it in my appearance that has struck you? Tell me, chit!”
“You want me to be candid, Marion?”
“I do – I do!”
The answer was given with an eagerness, that left Lora no wish to withhold her explanation.
“Marion,” said she, placing her lips close to the ear of her who was alone intended to hear it, “you are in love?”
“Nonsense, Lora. What puts such a thought into your silly little head?”
“No nonsense, Marion; I know it by your looks. I don’t know who has won you, dear cousin. I only know he’s not here to-day. You’ve been expecting him. He hasn’t come. Now!”
“You’re either a great big deceiver, or a great little conjuror, Lora. In which of these categories am I to class you?”
“Not in the former, Marion; you know it. Oh! it needs no conjuring for me to tell that. But pray don’t let it be so easy for others to read your secret, cousin! I entreat you – .”
“You are welcome to your suspicions,” said Marion, interrupting her. “And now I shall relieve you from them, by making them a certainty. It is of no use trying any longer to keep that a secret, which in time you would be sure to discover for yourself – I suppose. I am in love. As you’ve said, I’m in love with one who is not here. Why should I feel ashamed to tell it you? Nay, if I only thought he loved me as I do him, I’d care little that the whole company knew it – and much less either Winifred Wayland, or Dorothy Dayrell. Let them – ”
Just then the voice of this last-mentioned personage was heard in animated conversation – interspersed with peals of laughter, in which a large party was joining.
It was nothing new for Dorothy to be the centre of a circle of laughing listeners: for she was one of the wits of the time. Her talk might not have terminated the dialogue between the cousins, but for the mention of a name – to Marion Wade of all-absorbing interest.
Walter had just finished relating his adventure of the preceding night.
“And this wonderful cavalier,” asked Dorothy, “who braved the bullying captain, and frightened the fierce footpads – did he favour you with his name, Master Wade?”
“Oh yes!” answered Walter, “he gave me that – Henry Holtspur.”
“Henry Holtspur! Henry Holtspur!” cried several in a breath, as if the name was not new to them, but had some peculiar signification.
“It’s the cavalier who rides the black horse,” explained one. “The ‘black horseman,’ the people called him. One lately come into this neighbourhood. Lives in the old house of Stone Dean. Nobody knows him.”
“And yet everybody appears to be talking of him! Mysterious individual! Some troubadour returned from the East?” suggested Winifred Wayland.
“Some trader from the West, more like,” remarked Dorothy Dayrell, with a sneer, “whence, I presume, he has imported his levelling sentiments, and a savage for his servant, too, ’tis said. Did you see aught of his Indian, Master Wade?”
“No,” said the youth, “and very little of himself: as our ride together was after night. But I have hopes of seeing more of him to-day. He promised to be here.”
“And is not?”
“I think not. I haven’t yet encountered him. ’Tis just possible he may be among the crowd over yonder; or somewhere through the camp. With your permission, ladies, I shall go in search of him.”
“Oh! do! do!” exclaimed half a score of sweet voices. “By all means, Master Wade, find the gentleman. You have our permission to introduce him. Tell him we’re all dying to make his acquaintance.”
Walter went off among the crowd; traversed the camp in all directions; and came back without the object of his search.
“How cruel of him not to come!” remarked the gay Dayrell, as Walter was seen returning alone. “If he only knew the disappointment he is causing! We might have thought less of it, Master Walter, if you hadn’t told us he intended to be here. Now I for one shall fancy your fête very stupid without him.”
“He may still come,” suggested Walter. “I think there are some other guests who have not arrived.”
“You are right, Master Wade,” interposed one of the bystanders; “yonder’s somebody – a man on horseback – on the Heath, outside the palings of the park. He appears to be going towards the gate?”
All eyes were turned in the direction indicated. A horseman was seen upon the Heath outside, about a hundred yards distant from the enclosure; but he was not going towards the gate.
“Not a bit of it,” cried Dorothy Dayrell. “He’s changed his mind about that. See! He heads his horse at the palings! Going to take them? He is in troth! High – over! There’s a leap worth looking at!”
And the fair speaker clapped her pretty hands in admiration of the feat.
There was one other who beheld it with an admiration, which, though silent, was not less enthusiastic. The joy that had shone sparkling in the eyes of Marion Wade, as soon as the strange horseman appeared in sight, was now heightened to an expression of proud triumph.
“Who is he?” asked half a score of voices, as the bold horseman cleared the enclosure.
“It is he – the cavalier we have just been speaking of,” answered Walter, hurrying away to receive his guest, who was now coming on at an easy gallop towards the camp.
“The black horseman! – the black horseman!” was the cry that rose up from the crowd; while the rustics rushed up to the top of the moat to give the new comer a welcome.
“The black horseman! huzza!” proclaimed a voice, with that peculiar intonation that suggests a general cheer – which was given, as the cavalier, riding into their midst, drew his steed to a stand.
“They know him, at least,” remarked the fair Dayrell, with a toss of her aristocratic head. “How popular he appears to be! Can any one explain it?”
“It’s always the way with new people,” said a sarcastic gentleman who stood near, “especially when they make their débût a little mysteriously. The rustic has a wonderful relish for the unknown.”
Marion stood silent. Her eye sparkled with pride, on beholding the homage paid to her own heart’s hero. The sneering interrogatories of Dorothy Dayrell she answered only in thought.
“Grand and noble!” was her reflection. “That is the secret of his popularity. Ah! the instincts of the people rarely err in their choice. He is true to them. No wonder they greet him as their God!”
For Marion, herself, a sweet triumph was in store.
The curiosity of the crowd, that had collected on the arrival of the black horseman, was passing away. The people had returned to their sports; or, with admiring looks, were following the famous steed to his stand under the trees. From an instinct of delicacy, peculiar to the country people, they had abandoned the cavalier to the companionship of his proper host – who was now conducting him towards the promised presentation.
