Volume 1 Chapter 11 - The White Gauntlet by Mayne Reid
After seeing the two travellers ride off, the disappointed footpad stood listening, till the hoof-strokes of their horses died upon the distant road.
Then, flinging himself upon a bank of earth, and, having assumed a sitting posture—with his elbows resting upon his knees, and his bearded chin reposing between the palms of his hands—he remained for some moments silent as the Sphinx, and equally motionless.
His features betrayed a strange compound of expressions—not to be interpreted by any one ignorant of his history, or of the adventure that had just transpired. The shadow of a contrite sadness was visible upon his brow; while in his dark grey eye could be detected a twinkle of chagrin—as he thought of the pair of purses so unexpectedly extricated from his grasp.
Plainly was a struggle passing within his bosom. Conscience and cupidity had quarrelled—their first outfall for a long period of time. The contending emotions prevented speech; and, it is superfluous to say, his companions respected his silence.
In the countenance of Gregory Garth, despite his criminal calling—even in his worst moments—there were lines indicative of honesty. As he sate by the roadside—that roadside near which he had so often skulked—with the moon shining full upon his face, these lines gradually became more distinctly defined; until the criminal cast completely disappeared from his features, leaving only in its place an expression of profound melancholy. But for the mise en scène, and the dramatis personae surrounding him, any one passing at the moment might have mistaken him for an honest man, suffering from some grave and recent misfortune.
But as no one passed, he was left free to indulge, both in his sorrow and his silence.
At length the latter came to an end. The voice of the penitent footpad—no longer in the stern accents of menace and command, but in soft subdued tones—once more interrupted the stillness of the night.
“Oh lor—oh lor!” muttered he, “who’d a believed I shud ha’ holden my pike to the breast o’ young master Henry? Niver a thought had I to use it. Only bluster to make ’em yield up; but he’ll think as how I intended it all the same. Oh lor—oh lor! he’ll niver forgi’ me! Well, it can’t a’ be holp now; an’ here go to keep the promise I’ve made him. No more touchin’ o’ purses, or riflin’ o’ fine ladies on this road. That game be all over.”
For a moment the dark shadow upon his brow appeared to partake slightly of chagrin—as if there still lingered some regret, for the promise he had made, and the step he was about to take. The strife between conscience and cupidity seemed not yet definitively decided.
There was another interval of silence, and then came the decision. It was in favour of virtue. Conscience had triumphed.
“I’ll keep my word to him,” cried he, springing to his feet, as if to give emphasis to the resolve. “I’ll keep it, if I shud starve.”
“Disband!” he continued, addressing himself to the silent circle, and speaking in a tone of mock command. “Disband! ye beggars! Your captain, Greg’ry Garth, han’t no longer any need o’ your sarvices. Dang it meeats!” added he, still preserving his tone of mock seriousness, “I be sorry to part wi’ ye. Ye’ve been as true as steel to me; an’ ne’er a angry word as iver passed atween us. Well, it can’t be holp, boys—that it can’t. The best o’ friends must part, some time or other; but afore we sepperates, I’m a-goin’ to purvide for one an’ all on ye. I’ve got a friend over theer in Uxbridge, who keeps a biggish trade goin’ on—they call it panprokin’. It’s a money-making business. I dare say he can find places for o’ ye. Ye be sure o’ doin’ well wi’ him. Ye’ll be in good company, wi’ plenty o’ goold and jeweltry all round ye. Don’t be afeerd o’ what’ll happen to ye. I’ll take duppleickets for yer security; so that in case o’ my needin’ ye again—”
At this crisis the fantastic valedictory of the retiring robber was brought to a sudden termination, by his hearing a sound—similar to those for which his ear had been but too well-trained to listen. It was the footfall of a horse, denoting the approach of a horseman—a traveller. It was neither of those who had just passed over the Heath: since it came from the direction opposite to that in which they had gone—up the road from Redhill.
There was but one horseman—as the hoof-stroke indicated. From the same index it could be told, that he was coming on at a slow pace—a walk in fact—as if ignorant of the road, or afraid of proceeding at a rapid rate along a path, which was far from being a smooth one.
On hearing the hoof-stroke, Gregory Garth instinctively, as instantly, desisted from his farcical apostrophe; and, without offering the slightest apology to his well-behaved auditors, turned his face away from them, and stood listening.
“A single horseman?” muttered he to himself, “Crawlin’ along at snail pace? A farmer maybe, who’s tuk a drap too much at the Saracen’s Head, an’ ’s failed asleep in his saddle? Now I think o’t, it be market day in that thear town o’ Uxbridge.”
The instincts of the footpad—which had for the moment yielded before the moral shock of the humiliating encounter with his old master—began to resume dominion over him.
“Wonder,” continued he, in a muttered tone, “Wonder if the chaw-bacon ha’ got any cash about him? Or have he been, and drunk it all at the inn? Pish! what do it matter whether he have or no? Ha’nt I gone an’ promised Master Henry ’twould be my last night? Dang it! I must keep my word.
“Stay!” he continued, after reflecting a moment, “I sayed that it shud be my last night? That’s ’zactly what you sayed, an’ nothin’ else, Greg’ry Garth! It wouldn’t be breakin’ no promise if I—
“The night be yooung yet! ’Taint much after eleven o’ the clock? I’ve just heard Chaffont bells strikin’ eleven. A night arn’t over till twelve. That’s the ‘law o’ the land.’
“What’s the use o’ talkin’? Things can’t be wuss wi’ me than they is arready. I’ve stole the sheep; an’ if I’m to swing for’t, I moat as well goo in for the hul flock. After all, Master Henry ha’nt promised to keep me; an’ I may starve for my honest intentions. I ha’nt enough silver left to kiver a spittle with; an’ as for these rags, they arn’t goin’ to fetch me a fortune. Dash it! I’ll stop chaw-bacon, an’ see whether he ha’nt been a sellin’ his beests.
“Keep yeer places, lads!” continued he, turning once more to his dummies, and addressing them as if he really believed them to be “lads.”
“Keep yeer places; and behave jest the same, as if nuthin’ ’d been sayed about our separatin’!”
Concluding his speech with this cautionary peroration, the footpad glided back under the shadow of the hovel; and silently placed himself in a position to pounce upon the unwary wayfarer, whose ill-luck was conducting him to the crossing of Jarret’s Heath at that late hour of the night.