Volume 1 Chapter 5 - The White Gauntlet by Mayne Reid
Autumn was still in the sky; but it had passed its mid time, and the beechen forests of Bucks were enrobed in their livery of yellow green. The cuckoo had forsaken the copse; and the swallows were making rendezvous on the spire of the village church. The ringdove sate silent in the dell; and the wood-quests were gathering into groups. The pheasant ventured with her young brood beyond the cover-edge; the partridge carried her chicks across the stubble; and finch, sparrow, and linnet were forming their respective families into full-fledged cohorts—in preparation for those dark, chill days, when they should need such companionship to cheer them.
In truth, it is a right fair land, this same shire of Bucks—lovely in its spring-tide, fair in its summer bloom, and fairer still in its October. You may travel far, without beholding a spot more bewitching than the land of the beechen “weed;” and embosomed within the undulating arms of the Chilterns is many a spot worthy of wider renown. The mountain you meet not; the lake is rare; but the softly-swelling hill, and deep romantic dale, are ever before and around you; and the eye of traveller, or tourist, is continually attracted to scenes of sylvan beauty, upon which it long delights to linger.
So thought a youthful stripling, astride a stout steed, as, emerging from the town-end of Uxbridge, he rode over the old bridge crossing the Colne.
The sun was just sinking behind the Chiltern hills, whose forest-clad spurs stretched down into the plain—as if to meet and welcome him.
It was a fair landscape that unfolded itself before his eyes. Upon the ridge of Red Hill the rays of the descending sun slanted among the leaves of the beeches, heightening their yellow sere to the hue of gold. Here and there the wild cherry tree, of more radiant foliage, the green oak, and the darker green of the holly, mottled the slope; while on either flank, lying low among the hills, the valleys of Alderbourne and Chalfont were gradually becoming shrouded under the purple shadows of the twilight.
Right and left meandered the Colne, through meadows of emerald verdure—its broad unrippled surface reflecting the sapphire sky; while on its banks appeared herds of sleek kine, slowly lounging along the grassy sward, or standing motionless in the stream—as if placed there to give the last touch to a scene typical of tranquillity and contentment.
It was a scene worthy of Watteau or Cuyp—a picture calculated to create a quiet joy even in the breast of a stranger. So might have thought Walter Wade, who, after long absence from this his native shire, now, gazing on its wood-embowered hills and valleys recognised the mise en scène of his boyhood’s home!
The young traveller felt such a happiness. On cresting the high causeway of the old bridge—which brought the Chilterns full before his view—he reined up his horse in the middle of the road; while at the same time an ejaculation escaped from his lips, indicative of the pleasure which the sight afforded.
“Dear old Chilterns!” he exclaimed. “Friends you seem, with arms outstretched to receive me! How bright and fresh you look to one coming from that sooty London! What a pity I did not start an hour earlier—so that I might have enjoyed this fine sunset from the summit of Red Hill! No matter. There will be moonlight anon; and that will do just as well. Sunlight or moonlight, give me a ride through the beechen woods of Bucks. Charming at all hours!”
“I ’faith, I wonder,” continued he, becoming more reflective in his soliloquy, “how any one can fancy a city life! I’m sure, I’ve been well enough placed to enjoy it. The queen has been very kind—very kind indeed. She has twice kissed me. And the king, too, has complimented me on my service—only at parting he was very angry with me. I don’t know why. I did nothing to anger him.
“I wonder why I’m summoned home? Father don’t say in his letter; but I suppose he’ll tell me when I arrive there. No matter. I’m only too glad to get back to dear old Bulstrode. I hope that inveterate deer-stealer, Dick Dancey, hasn’t killed off all our deer. I mean to go in for some grand stalking this winter—that do I.”
“Let me see! Three years—no; it will be three come Christmas—since I took service at Court. I shouldn’t be surprised if cousin Lora is grown a big girl by this, and sister Marion too? Ah! Marion was big enough when I left. Lora won’t be as tall as she. No: she wasn’t the make for that Lora would be what the queen calls petite. For all that, I dare say she’s got to be a grown woman. She was just my own age; and I think I may say, that I’m now a man. Heigho! how time passes!”
And, as if the reflection had suggested the necessity of making as much of the time as possible, the young horseman gave the whip to his steed; shot out from between the parapet walls of the bridge; and passed on at a canter.
Though Walter Wade had pronounced himself a man—somewhat modestly it must be admitted—the statement was scarcely correct; and the error must be attributed to a very common and pardonable weakness of boyhood, ambitious of entering upon manhood.
He was still only a stripling—a youth of nineteen—though well grown for his age; and in point of size might have passed muster among men. A slight moustache already appeared upon his upper lip. It was light-coloured, like his hair—neither of which was red, but of that Saxon “yellow” so often associated with eyes of blue, and which, when met with in woman, presents the fairest type of female beauty.
The Greeks—themselves a dark people, above all others skilled in feminine charms—have acknowledged this truth; though, by that acknowledgment, ignoring the claims of their own race.
To the spume of the sea was the Cyprian goddess indebted for the whiteness of her skin—to the blue sky for the colour of her eyes—to the golden sun for the hue of her hair. Among the classic ancients, the dark-haired Venus elicited but little admiration.
And not very different is the partiality of the moderns. The belle of the ball-room is invariably a blonde; and even the nymphe du pavé, who trails golden pennants from under the rim of her coquettish hat, looks scornfully askance at the darker tresses of her sister in sin!
It is odd that blue eyes do not admire blue eyes—that light-coloured tresses do not wish to be interwoven with those of a like hue. Is there an instinct of approximation between extremes? Do contrasts possess an innate desire for contiguity? If so, it would explain the penchant of the dark Athenians for the fair-skinned Cytherea.
There are fair-haired youths whom man may admire, and woman love. Walter Wade was such an one.
A forehead of fine expanse, crested with curling hair—a nose sufficiently aquiline to exhibit the true aristocratic breed—a chin prominent—lips typical of contempt for aught that was mean. Such were his features.
Gazing upon his face, you might not pronounce it handsome. For a man, it might appear too feminine. But if you were at all skilled in Saxon physiognomy, on seeing such a face, and knowing that the owner of it had a sister, you might safely set her down as a being of incomparable beauty.
It was not necessary to have overheard his soliloquy, to tell that he who made it was the scion of some distinguished house. The good steed he bestrode, caparisoned in costly fashion; the rich costume he wore; his sharply chiselled features, and aristocratic bearing—all betokened the filius nobilis.
He was, in effect, the son of Sir Marmaduke Wade, of Bulstrode Park; who could point to an ancestry older than the Conquest; and whose Saxon sires—along with the Bulstrodes, the Hampdens, and the Penns—had so doughtily defended their beechen woods and broad fields against the Norman invader, that the great Conqueror was pleased to compound with them for a continuance of their tenure. It was a family with whom kings had never been favourites. It had figured among the barons, who had forced the tyrant John to set his signature to the celebrated Charter of English liberty; and elsewhere have its representatives been found in the front rank of the champions of Freedom.
It may be wondered why young Walter Wade had been in the service of the Court—as declared in his soliloquy. That, however, is easily explained. An ambitious mother, of queenly inclinings—an uncle in high office near the throne—these will account for the son of Sir Marmaduke having stood as a page in the Presence.
But the mother’s influence was now at an end. She was no more. And that of her brother—the uncle—was not strong enough to prevent Sir Marmaduke recalling his son from a Court—whose immorality had become the theme of every tongue; and whose contamination the fond father but too justly dreaded.
This was why the stripling was on his return to the paternal mansion; and why the king had shown displeasure at parting with him. It was a bold act on the part of the knight; and it might need all the influence of his official brother-in-law, to avert from him the vengeance of Charles—that most contemptible of tyrants.
It was not upon these things that Walter Wade was reflecting, as he rode onward. A pleasanter theme was the subject of his thoughts—his cousin Lora.
It was love’s young dream—by some deemed the sweetest in life; is, perhaps, the most evanescent.
With Walter, it had not been so very fleeting. Starting at sixteen, it was now nearly three years old. It had stood the test of a long absence, and under circumstances most unfavourable to love’s endurance: amid smiling maids of honour, and dames of high degree. Yes; Walter’s heart had nobly repelled the blandishments of more than one belle; and this too in a Court famed for its fair.
That kiss, somewhat coyly granted by his cousin, “deep in a forest dell,” where they had wandered in search of wild flowers—that soft pressure of Lora’s little hand—those thrilling words, “Dear Walter,” that on the same occasion had fallen from Lora’s pretty lips—all were remembered, as if they had been incidents of yesterday.
Did she remember them with equal interest? This was the thought upon which Walter Wade had been dwelling, ever since parting from the portals of Whitehall Palace.
During his two years of absence, he had not been left altogether uninformed of what was passing at Bulstrode. Though in those days letters were written at long intervals—and then only on matters of grand importance—Walter had kept up a correspondence with Marion; with whom epistles had been exchanged regularly once a month. He dared not write to Lora—nor even about her. He knew what he said to his sister would be communicated to his little mistress; and he feared to show himself too solicitous. Every word in his letters, relating to his cousin, had been carefully studied—as to the impression it might produce—for in this sort of strategy, young love is as cunning as that of older hearts. At times the boy courtier even affected indifference about his cousin’s affairs; and more than once there was danger of a quarrel—or at least a coolness. This was more especially the case, when his sister—ignorant of the pain she was producing—spoke of Lora’s great beauty, and the havoc it was making among the hearts of the county beaux.
Perhaps had Marion passed these pretty compliments upon herself, she would have said nothing beyond what was true: for although Walter’s cousin was beautiful and a belle, his sister was at that time the acknowledged “belle of the shire.”