Volume 1 Chapter 15 - The White Gauntlet by Mayne Reid
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.
They had arrived within a few paces of the spot where Marion was standing. Her face was averted: as if she knew not who was advancing. But her heart told her he was near. So, too, the whisperings of those who stood around. She dared not turn towards him. She dreaded to encounter his eye, lest it might look slightingly upon her.
That studied inattention could not continue. She looked towards him at last. Her gaze became fixed, not upon his face, but, upon an object which appeared conspicuous upon the brow of his beaver—a white gauntlet!
Joy supreme! Words could not have spoken plainer. The token had been taken up, and treasured. Love’s challenge had been accepted!