Volume 1 Chapter 22 - The White Gauntlet by Mayne Reid
It was late at night when Henry Holtspur passed between the ivy-mantled piers, that supported the dilapidated wooden gate of Stone Dean Park. The massive door of the old mansion was standing open, as he rode forward to it. A light, faintly flickering within the hall, showed in dim outline the wide doorway, with its rounded arch of Norman architecture.
Midway between the jambs could be distinguished the figure of a man—standing motionless—as if awaiting his approach.
The moon was shining upon this individual with sufficient clearness to show: that he was a young man of medium stature, straight as a lance, and habited in a sort of tunic, of what appeared to be dressed deerskin. His complexion was a reddish brown—darker from the shadowing of a shock of jet-black hair; while a pair of eyes, that glistened against the moonlight, like two circular discs of highly-polished ebony, exhibited no appearance of surprise at the approach of the horseman.
Something resembling a turban appeared upon the young man’s head; while his legs were wrapped in leggings of similar material to that which composed the tunic, and his feet were also encased in a chaussure of buckskin. A belt around his waist showed a pattern of coloured embroidery; with a short knife stuck behind it, resting diagonally over the region of the heart.
Up to the moment that the horseman made halt in front of the doorway, this individual had neither spoken nor moved—not even as much as a finger; and with the moonlight full upon his face, and revealing his dusky complexion, it would not have been difficult for a stranger to have mistaken him for a statue of bronze—the stoop of the doorway appearing as its pedestal, and the arch above answering to the alcove in which it had been placed. It was only after the horseman had fairly checked his steed to a stand, that the statue condescended to step down from its niche!
Then, gliding forward with the stealthy tread of a cat, the Indian—for such was this taciturn individual—caught hold of the bridle-rein, and stood waiting for his master to dismount.
“Walk Hubert about for five minutes,” said the latter, as he leaped out of the saddle. “That ruined stable’s too damp for him after the exercise he has had. See that he’s well rubbed down, and freely fed, before you leave him.”
To these directions, although delivered in his own native language, the copper-coloured groom made no verbal response.
A slight motion of the head alone indicated that he understood, and consented to obey them.
His master, evidently looking for no other sort of reply, passed on towards the doorway.
“Has any one been after me, Oriole?” inquired he, pausing upon the steps.
Oriole raised his right arm into a horizontal position, and pointed towards the open entrance.
“Some one inside?”
The interrogatory was answered by a nod in the affirmative.
“Only one, or more?”
The Indian held up his hand with all the fingers closed except one.
“One only. Did he come a-foot, or on horseback?”
Oriole made answer, by placing the fore and middle fingers of his right hand astride of the index finger of the left.
“A horseman!” said the cavalier, translating the sign; “’Tis late for a visitor—especially as I did not expect any one to-night. Is he a stranger, Oriole?”
The Indian signalled an affirmative, by spreading his fingers, and placing them so as to cover both his eyes.
“Does he appear to have come from a distance?”
The pantomimic answer to this was the right arm extended to its full length, with the fore finger held in a vertical position—the hand being then drawn slowly in towards the body.
The horseman had come from a distance—a fact that the Indian had deduced from the condition of his horse.
“As soon as you have stalled Hubert, show the stranger into my sitting-room. Be quick about it: he may not intend to stay.”
Oriole, leading off the steed, passed out of sight as silently as if both had been the images of a dissolving view.
“I hope it is one from London,” soliloquised the cavalier, as he entered the house. “I want a messenger to the City, and cannot spare either Dancey or Walford. Likely enough Scarthe’s coming down is known there before this; but Sir Marmaduke’s accession to the cause will be news, and good news, both to Pym and Hampden.”
“I shall not wait for Oriole to show him into my room,” he continued, after a moment’s reflection. “He will be in the old dining-hall, I suppose. I shall go to him at once.”
So reflecting, the cavalier entered the room where he expected to salute his nocturnal visitor.
Finding it empty, he proceeded to explore another apartment, into which Oriole might have ushered the stranger; and then another; and at last the library—the apartment habitually used by himself, and where he had desired his guest to be shown in to him.
The library was also found untenanted. No visitor was there.
The cavalier was beginning to feel surprised; when a light glimmering in the kitchen, and a sound heard from it, led him to proceed in that direction.
On entering this homely apartment, he beheld the individual, who had done him the honour to await his coming home at such a late hour of the night. A glance inside betrayed the presence of Gregory Garth.
The ex-footpad was stretched along a large beechwood bench, in front of the fire; which, though originally a good one, was now in a somewhat smouldering condition—the half-burnt fagots having parted in twain, and tumbled down on each side of the andirons.
There was no lamp; but from the red embers, and the blaze that intermittently twinkled, there came light enough to enable the cavalier to identify the form and features of his visitor.
Their owner was as sound asleep, as if in his own house, and reclining under the coverlet of his own couch; whilst a stentorian snore, proceeding from his spread nostrils, proclaimed a slumber from which it would require a good shaking to arouse him.
“So Gregory Garth!” muttered the cavalier, bending over the sleeper, and gazing with a half-quizzical expression, into the countenance of his quondam retainer. “It’s you, my worthy sir, I have the honour of entertaining?”
A prolonged snore—such as might proceed from the nostrils of a rhinoceros—was the only response.
“I wonder what’s brought him here to-night, so soon after—. Shall I awake him, and ask; or leave him to snore away till the morning?”
Another trumpet-like snort seemed intended to signify the assent of the sleeper to the latter course of proceeding.
“Well,” continued the cavalier, “I’m rather pleased to find him here. It looks as if he had kept his promise, and disbanded those terrible brigands of his. I trust he has done so. There’s a spark of good in the rascal, or used to be, though who knows whether it hasn’t been trampled out before this. Judging from the soundness of that slumber, one can scarcely think there’s anything very heavy upon his conscience. Whatever he has done, it’s to be hoped he has kept clear of—”
The cavalier hesitated to pronounce the word that had come uppermost in his thoughts.
“Holding a ten-foot pike within twelve inches of a man’s breast, is ugly evidence against him. Who knows what might have been the result, if I hadn’t identified those features in time?”
“Shall I let him sleep on? It’s rather a hard couch; though I’ve often slept upon no better myself; and, I dare say, Gregory hasn’t been accustomed to the most luxurious style of living. He’ll take no harm where he is. I shall leave him till the morning.”
Gregory’s former master was about turning away—with the intention of retiring to his own chamber—when something white in the hand of the sleeper caught his eye, causing him to step nearer and examine it.
Touching up the embers with the toe of his boot, and starting a blaze, he saw that the white object was a piece of paper, folded in the form of a letter.
It was one of goodly dimensions, somewhat shrivelled up between the fingers of the ex-footpad, that were clutching it with firm muscular grasp. A large red seal was visible on the envelope which the cavalier—on scrutinising it more closely—could perceive to bear the impress of the Royal Arms.
“A letter from the King!” muttered he, in a tone of surprise. “To whom is it directed, I wonder? And how comes this worthy to have been so suddenly transformed, from a robber on the King’s highway into a King’s courier?”
The first question might have been answered by reading the superscription; but this was hidden by the broad horny palm against which the back of the letter rested.
To obtain the solution to either mystery it would be necessary to arouse the sleeper; and this the cavalier now determined upon doing.
“Gregory Garth!” cried he, in a loud voice, and placing his lips within an inch of the footpad’s ear, “Gregory Garth! Stand and deliver!”
The well-known summons acted upon the sleeper like an electric shock—as when often pronounced by himself it had upon others—though perhaps with a different significance.
Starting into an erect attitude—and nearly staggering into the fire, before he could get upon his legs—Garth instinctively repeated the phrase:
“Stand and deliver!”
Then, in the confusion of his half-awakened senses, he continued his accustomed formula:—“Your money or your life! Keep your ground, comrades! They won’t resist. They’re civil gents—”
“Ha! ha! ha!” interrupted the cavalier, with a shout of laughter, as he seized his ci-devant servitor by the shoulder, and pushed him back upon the bench. “Be quiet, Gregory; or you’ll scare the rats out of the house.”
“O Lor—O Lord! Master Henry—you it be! I war a dreamin’—I arn’t awake yet—a thousand pardons, Master Henry!”
“Ha! ha! ha! Well, Gregory—Fortunately there’s nothing but the rats to listen to these dreams of yours; else you might be telling tales upon yourself that would lead to the losing of your new commission.”
“My new commission! What mean ye by that, Master Henry?”
“Why, from that which you carry in your hand,” replied the cavalier, nodding significantly towards the letter. “I take it, you’ve turned King’s courier?”
“Ah I now I understan’ ye. Master Henry, King’s cooreer ’ideed! That ’ud be a tidyish bizness for Gregory Garth. If I beant that myself tho’, I’ve been and met one as is. It war all ’bout this bit o’ a letter I coomed over here the night—else I’d a made my call at a more seezonable hour.”
“Is it for me?”
“Well, Master Henry, it aint ’zactly ’dressed to you, nor written to ye neyther; but, as far as I’m able to make out the meenin’ o’ ’t, I think as how there be somethin’ in’t you oughter know about. But ye can tell better after you ha’ read it.”
Gregory handed the letter to the cavalier; who now perceived, that, although the seal was intact, the envelope had been torn open at the edges.
“A king’s despatch! And you’ve opened it, Gregory?”
“Ye-es, Master Henry,” drawled the footpad. “It coomed somehow apart atween my fingers. May be I’ve done wrong? I didn’t know it war a king’s despatch. And may be if I had know’d,” he added in an under tone, “I should a opened it all the same.”
The cavalier looked at the superscription:—
For
Ye Captain Scarthe, Command: H.M. Royal Cuirassiers,
Bulstrode Park, Shire of Buckingham.
“This is not for me, Garth. It is addressed to—”
“I know all that, Master Henry; though I didn’t last night when I got the thing. I heerd o’ their coomin’ up the road this mornin’, but—”
“But how came you by the despatch?”
“How coomed I by it?”
“Yes, who gave it to you?”
“Well—Master Henry—I got it—a gentleman I met last night—he—he gin it me.”
“Last night you say? At what hour?”
“Well, it was lateish—considerably lateish i’ the night.”
“Was it before, or after—?”
“I met you, Master Henry? That be what ye would be askin’? Well, it war a—leetlish bit arter.”
Gregory hung his head, looking rather sheepish, as he made the stammering acknowledgment. He evidently dreaded further cross-questioning.
“What sort of gentleman was he?” inquired the cavalier, with an air of interest, that had something else for its cause than the backslidings of the footpad.
“He was wonderful fine dressed, an’ rode a smartish sort o’ beast—he did. ’Ceptin’ that ere black o’ yours Master Henry, I han’t seed a better hoss for some time to coom. As for the gent hisself, he sayed he war jest what ye ha’ been a callin’ me—a King’s cooreer.”
“And so you took this from the King’s courier?”
“Oh! Master Hen—”
“I am sure he did not give it to you?”
“Well, Master Henry, it’s no use my telling you a lie ’bout it. I acknowledge I tuk the letter from him.”
“And something else, no doubt. Come, Garth! no beating about the bush. Tell the whole truth!”
“Good lor! Master; must I tell ye all?”
“You must; or you and I never exchange words again.”
“Lor—O Lord! I’ll tell you, then everything that happened atween us. Ye see, Master Henry,” continued he, disposing himself for a full confession, “you see, the gent had such fine things about him—as a king’s cooreer oughter have, I suppose—a watch an’ chain, and fine clothes, an’ a goold pencil, an’ a thing he called a locket, to say nothin’ o’—”
“I don’t want the inventory, Garth,” interrupted the cavalier. “I want to know what you did to him. You stripped him of all these fine things, I suppose?”
“Well, Master Henry, since I must tell ye the truth o’t, I woant deny but I tuk some on ’em from him. He didn’t need ’em, nigh as much as myself—that hedn’t got nothin’ in the world, but them old duds as ye seed stuck up on sticks. I eased him o’ his trumpery; that I confess to.”
“What more did you do to him?”
This question was asked in a tone of stern demand.
“Nothing more—I declare it, Master Henry—only—to make sure against his follerin’ o’ me—I tied him, hand and foot; and left ’im in the old hut by the roadside—whar there would be less danger o’ his catchin’ cold i’ the night air.”
“How considerate of you! Ah, Gregory Garth! Gregory Garth! All this after what you promised me, and so emphatically too!”
“I swar, Master Henry, I han’t broke my promise to ye. I swar it!”
“Haven’t broken your promise! Wretch! you only make matters worse by such a declaration. Didn’t you say just now, that it was after parting with me, you met this messenger?”
“That’s true; but you forgot, Master Henry, I promised to you that night should be my last upon the road: an’ it has been, an’ will be.”
“What mean you by this equivocation?”
“’Twar jest eleven, when you an’ yer young friend rode off. Thear war still an hour o’ the night to the good; and, as ill-luck would have it, jest then the feller kim ridin’ up, glitterin’ all over in spangles an’ satin, like a pigeon, as kep’ sayin’ ‘Come an’ pluck me!’ What cud I do? He wanted pluckin’, and I hadn’t the heart to refuse him. I did it; but I swar to ye Master Henry—an’ I swar it, as I hope for mercy hereafter—that I had him stripped afore it struck twelve. I heard the bells o’ Peters Chaffont a ringin’ that hour, jest as I was ridin’ away from the ruin.”
“Riding away! You took his horse then?”
“Sure, Master Henry, you wouldn’t a had me to walk, with a beest standin’ ready, saddled on the road afore me? He couldn’t a been no use howsomedever to the cooreer: as he warn’t a’ goin’ any furrer that night. Beside ye see, I had all them clothes to carry. I couldn’t leave them behind: not knowin’ as they mightn’t some day betray me—after I had turned honest.”
“Garth! Garth! I doubt that day will never come. I fear you are incorrigible.”
“Master Henry!” cried the ex-footpad, in a tone in which serious sincerity was strangely blended with the ludicrous. “Did you iver know o’ me to break a promise? Did ye iver in yer life?”
“Well, in truth,” answered the cavalier, responding to the earnest appeal which his old servitor had addressed to him, “in the letter I do not remember that I ever have. But in the spirit—alas! Gregory,—”
“Oh! Master; doan’t reproach me no more. I can’t abear it from you! I made that promise the t’other night, an’ ye’ll see if I don’t keep it. Ah! I’ll keep it if I shud starve. I will by—”
And the ex-footpad uttering an emphatic phrase, as if more fixedly to clinch his determination, struck his right hand forcibly against his ribs—his huge chest giving out a hollow sound—as though it had received the blow of a trip-hammer.
“Gregory Garth,” said the cavalier speaking in a serious tone, “if you would have me believe in the sincerity of your conversion, you must answer me one question, and answer it without evasion. I do not ask it either out of idle curiosity, or with any wish to use the answer, whatever it be, to your prejudice. You know me, Gregory; and you will not deceive me?”
“Trust me for that, Master Henry—niver, niver! Ask your question. Whatsomever it be, I’ll gie ye a true answer.”
“Answer it, only if ye can say, Yes. If your answer must be in the negative, I don’t want to hear it. Your silence will be sufficient.”
“Put it, Master Henry; put it: I aint afeerd.” The cavalier bent forward, and whispered the interrogatory:—
“Is your hand clear of—murder?” “O Lord!” exclaimed the footpad, starting back with some show of horror, and a glance half reproachful. “O lor, Master Henry! Could you a suspeecioned me o’ such a thing? Murder—no—no—never! I can swar to ye, I never thort o’ doin’ such a thing; and my hands are clear o’ blood as them o’ the infant in its kreddle. I’ve been wicked enough ’ithout that. I’ve robbed as ye know—war a’ goin’ to rob yourself an’ yer friend—”
“Stay, Garth! what would you have done, had I not recognised you?”
“Run, Master Henry! run like the old Nick! I’d a tuk to my heels the next minnit, after I see’d ye war in earnest; and if yer pistol hadn’t a put a stop to me, I’d a left my comrades to yer mercy. Oh! Master Henry; there aint many travellers as would have behaved like you. It be the first time I ever had to do more than threeten, an’ bluster a bit; an’ that war all I intended wi’ you an’ yer friend.”
“Enough, Gregory!” said the cavalier, apparently satisfied that his old henchman had never shed innocent blood.
“And now,” continued he, “I hope you will never have even threatening to reproach yourself with in the future—at least so far as travellers are concerned. Perhaps ere long I may find you adversaries more worthy of your redoubtable pike. Meanwhile, make yourself comfortable here, till the morning. When my attendant returns from the stable, he will see to getting you some supper, and a better bed than you’ve just been roused from.”
“Oh! Master Henry!” cried Garth, seeing that Holtspur was about to retire. “Doant go! please doant, till you’ve read what’s inside that ere dokyment. It consarns weighty matters, Master Henry; an’ I’m sure it must be you among others as is spoken o’ in it.”
“Concerns me, you think? Is my name mentioned in it?”
“No, not your name; but thar’s some orders about somebody; and from what I know o’ ye myself, I had a suspeecion, as soon as I read it,—it mout be you.”
“Gregory,” said the cavalier, drawing nearer to his old servant, and speaking in a tone that betrayed some anxiety as to the effect of his words, “What you know of me, and mine, keep to yourself. Not a word to any one of my past history, as you expect secrecy for your own. Here my real name is not known. That I go by just now is assumed for a time, and a purpose. Soon I shall not care who knows the other; but not yet, Gregory, not yet. Remember that!”
“I will, Master Henry.”
“I shall read this despatch, then,” continued the cavalier, “since you say that it contains something that may interest me; and, especially, since I do not commit the indiscretion of breaking it open. Ha! ha! Your imprudence, worthy Garth, will save my conscience the reproach of that.”
With a smile playing upon his countenance, the cavalier spread out the despatch; and, holding it down to the light of the blazing logs, soon made himself master of its contents.