Volume 1 Chapter 23 - The White Gauntlet by Mayne Reid
The purport of the King’s missive to Scarthe did not appear to take Henry Holtspur much by surprise. His bearing betokened, that part of what it contained was known to him already; and the other part he might have been expecting. Enough, however, appeared, in his manner, to convince Gregory Garth, that he had given no offence to his old master in having stripped the courier of his despatch.
Whilst Holtspur was still pouring over the paper, the Indian youth entered; and after standing a moment or two in solemn silence—as if to see whether he was required for any particular purpose—he took a lamp from the table. Having alighted it at the blaze of the fire, he again withdrew. He departed as silently as he had entered; leaving Gregory Garth gaping in true Saxon astonishment, and wondering what part of the world had given birth to this wordless foreigner!
The cavalier after reading the despatch folded it up; and deposited it under the breast of his doublet, as something to be carefully kept. Then turning to the ex-footpad, and pointing significantly to some viands that appeared upon the shelf, he strode out into the corridor, and took his way towards the library—into which Oriole, with the lamp, had already preceded him.
This was a large room, plainly and somewhat scantily furnished. An oaken table stood in the centre, with some chairs of like construction, set scatteringly around the sides. Against the walls were suspended a number of paintings—their subjects scarce distinguishable under an envelope of long neglected dust. Here and there stood bookcases, their shelves close-packed with huge antique tomes, equally the victims of long neglect. Other objects, lying negligently around, appeared to have seen more recent service. There were arms, accoutrements, riding gear, travelling valises, and such like paraphernalia—placed sans façon on chairs, tables, or the floor, and giving evidence that the house was tenanted by one who contemplated only a temporary sojourn.
There was no one in the room as the cavalier entered it. The Indian, after depositing his lamp on the table, had gone out again; and was now seen standing on the stoup of the front entrance—silent and statue-like, as at the moment of his master’s return.
“So, so,” muttered the cavalier, seating himself by the table, and once more perusing the despatch. “Scarthe sent down to recruit! And for what purpose? Not for a new campaign against the Scots? I think his Majesty has had enough of that enemy. There’s another may soon claim his attention—nearer home. Perhaps he is growing suspicious; and this may explain his instructions to the cuirassier captain. Well, let him obey them, if he can. As to recruiting, I fancy I’ve been before him in that work. He’ll not add many files to his troop in this county—if peasants’ promises are worth relying upon. Hampden’s persecution and popularity have secured Buckinghamshire for the good cause,—the yeomanry to a man; and as for the peasantry, I have got them into the right way of thinking. The gentry, one after another, come round to us. This day has decided Sir Marmaduke Wade; converting him from a passive spectator to an active partisan—conspirator, if the name rings better. Ah! Sir Marmaduke! henceforth I shall love you, almost as much as I love your daughter. No, no, no! That is a love which passes all comparison; for which I would sacrifice everything upon earth—ay, even the cause!
“No one hears me: I am speaking to my own heart. It is idle to attempt deluding it. I may disguise my love from the world, but not from myself—no, nor from her. She must know it ere this? She must have read it in my looks and actions? Not an hour passes that she is not in my mind,—not a minute. Even in my dreams do I behold her image—as palpably before me, as if she were present—that glorious image of feminine grace, crowned with red roses and yellow gold!
“Can it be an illusion? Could it have been all accident? Have these encounters been fortuitous—on my side only designed? And the last and dearest of all,—when was suffered to fall to the ground that snow-white souvenir, I have pinned so proudly to my beaver—tell me, ye spirits who preside over the destinies of Love—say that I am not the victim of a fancy false, as it would be fatal to my happiness!
“I saw her—I spoke to her—I dared not ask herself. Though yearning for the truth—as the soul yearns for a knowledge of hereafter—I dared not trust myself to demand it. I dreaded the answer, as one building castles in the air, may dread the tempest that in an instant may destroy them.
“O God! I feel, that if this structure be destroyed—this last love of my life—I shall perish amid the ruins!”
The cavalier paused, a deep sigh causing his bosom to heave upward—as if in terror at the contemplation of such a contingency.
After a moment he resumed the thread of his reflections.
“She must have seen her glove so conspicuously placed? She could not fail to recognise it? She could not mistake the motive of my wearing it? If, after all, her act was not intentional—if the gauntlet was really lost—then am I lost. I shall pass in her eyes as an impertinent—a presumptive trickster. Instead of her love I shall be the object of her contempt—not pitied, but scorned! Even Scarthe, despite his defeat, will be thought worthier than I!
“I am mad to think of her! More than mad to hope she should think of me! Worse than wicked to wish it. Even if she should love me, how can it end? Only in her undoing! Heaven keep me from the crime!
“As Heaven is my judge, I have endeavoured to avoid it. I have tried not to love her; at times wished she should not love me. This was at first; but alas! no longer can I resist the sweet fascination. My heart has leaped beyond my control; and both soul and body must now obey its inclinings. Without the love of Marion Wade, I care not how soon my life may come to an end—not much either in what way—an ignominious gallows, or an honoured grave.
“Sir Marmaduke I must speak to in person. Even a letter might not now reach him. ’Tis monstrous this act of his Gracious Majesty!” The cavalier pronounced the last words with a scornful emphasis. “Monstrous, as on the King’s part, stupidly foolish. It cannot fail to effect good service for our side; and I should rejoice were it any other than Sir Marmaduke. But, to think of this man, in his house—Richard Scarthe—the wily courtier—the notorious profligate—under the same roof with Marion Wade—in the same room—seated by the same table—in her presence at all hours, by night as by day—wielding that dangerous power that springs from an attitude of authority. O Heavens!”
The painful thoughts which this train of reasoning produced, caused the cavalier to start to his feet, and rapidly pace the room—in hope of allaying his agitation.
“Will Sir Marmaduke remain at Bulstrode?” he continued, after a time. “He cannot help himself? To go elsewhere would only bring down upon him the wrath of this queen-ridden tyrant—perhaps subject him to some still more severe infliction? But will he keep his family there—exposed among the swaggering soldiery—perhaps to be insulted—perhaps—?
“Surely he will send them away—somewhere, anywhere until a better time? Thank Heaven, there is hope of a better! I shall see Sir Marmaduke to-morrow. I promised him I should. With her, too, shall I seek an interview; although it may end in giving me chagrin—even if it should be the last.”
Having muttered this somewhat reckless resolve, the cavalier once more threw himself into a chair; and with his elbows resting upon the table, and the palms of his hands crossed over his forehead, he seemed to give way to some profound and painful reflection.
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Whatever it was, he was not allowed long to indulge in it. The entrance of Oriole would scarce have aroused him from his reverie—for the mocassined foot of the Indian made no sound upon the floor—but at the same instant a noise of another kind was heard within the apartment—the grinding of a horse’s hoof on the gravel scattered outside the entrance door.
Oriole, after entering, had stopped in an attitude that told he had something to communicate.
“What is it, Oriole? Another visitor?”
The Indian nodded in the affirmative.
“On horseback? I need not ask: I hear the tread of his horse. A stranger?”
With the same pantomime, as he had used when interrogated before, the Indian made reply—adding also, by a repetition of his former signs, that the visitor had come from a distance.
“Show him in here; see to his horse, and find stabling for him. The gentleman may perhaps make stay for the night.”
Without any other acknowledgment that he understood the instructions, than by proceeding to obey them, the taciturn attendant turned on his heel, and glided out of the apartment.
The arrival of a guest at that, or any other hour, caused but little surprise to the host of Stone Dean. There was nothing unusual in the circumstance. On the contrary, more than a moiety of his visitors were accustomed to make their calls after midnight—not unfrequently taking their departure before morning. Hence the “perhaps” in the orders given to Oriole.
“Who can he be?” was Holtspur’s self-interrogation, as his attendant passed out of the room. “I expected no one to-night.”
The grave sonorous voice, at this moment interrogating the Indian, furnished no clue to the speaker’s identity. Holtspur did not recognise it.
There was no reply on the part of Oriole; but his silent gesticulation must have proved sufficient: for, shortly after, the tread of a heavy boot, accompanied by a slight tinkling of rowelled spurs, sounded within the hall. In another moment a tall dark man made his appearance in the doorway; and without waiting further invitation, or even taking off his hat, stepped resolutely into the room.
The individual, thus freely presenting himself, was a man of peculiar—almost rude—aspect. He was dressed in a suit of coarse brown cloth, a felt hat without any feather, and strong trusset boots—the heels of which were furnished with iron spurs, exceedingly rusty. Instead of lace, he wore a band of plain linen of the narrowest cut; which, with the closely-trimmed hair above it, betokened an affectation of the Puritan costume, whatever may have been the religious proclivities of the wearer.
Notwithstanding the commonness of his attire, there was nothing, either in his countenance or demeanour, that proclaimed him a mere messenger, or servant. On the contrary, the slight salute which he vouchsafed to the cavalier, the non-removal of his hat, and the air of cool confidence which he continued to preserve, after entering the room, bespoke a man, who, whatever his rank in life, was not accustomed to cringe in the presence of the proudest.
The face was rather serious than sour. The hair was dark—the skin slightly cadaverous—though the features were not disagreeable to look upon. Though far from cheerful in their expression, they were interesting from a certain cast denoting calmness and courage; traits of character further confirmed by the determined glance of a penetrating coal-black eye.
“By the dust upon your doublet, Master,” said Holtspur, after returning the salutation of his visitor, “you have left some miles of road behind you, since setting foot in the stirrup?”
“Twenty-five.”
“That is just the distance to London. Thence, I presume?”
“From London.”
“May I ask your errand?”
“I come from John,” replied the stranger, laying a significant emphasis on the name.
“You have a message for me?”
“I have.”
There was a pause—Holtspur remaining silent—as if awaiting the delivery of the message.
“Before declaring my errand,” pursued the stranger, “I want a word, to make sure you are he for whom it is intended.”
“The John who sent you, is the same who nobly resisted payment of the ship money.”
“Enough!” assented the messenger, taking a despatch from under the breast of his doublet, and, without farther hesitancy, handing it to his host.
There was no superscription upon the folded paper; but, as the cavalier broke it open under the light of the lamp, at the head of the page could be seen something that resembled an address—written in hieroglyphics.
The body of the despatch was in plain English, and as follows:
“A cuirassier captain—Scarthe by name—has gone down with the skeleton of a troop to your neighbourhood. It is believed he has a commission to recruit. He is to be quartered on Sir Marmaduke Wade; but you will know all this before our messenger reaches you. It is well. Sir Marmaduke will surely hold out no longer? Make some excuse to see him, and ascertain how this benevolence acts. Do all you can, without compromising yourself to make the recruiting unpopular. Call the friends together at the old rendezvous on the night of the 20th. Pym, and Martin, and I will be down, and perhaps young Harry Vane. If you could get Sir Marmaduke to attend, it would be a point. See that your invitations are conveyed with due secrecy, and by trusty hands. I give you but little time. Act with caution: for this cuirassier captain, who is a courtier of some note, is doubtless entrusted with other commissions, besides that of raising recruits. Keep your eye upon him; and keep his as much as may be off yourself. My Messenger returns here at once. Feed his horse, and despatch him. You may trust the man. He has suffered in the cause: as you may convince yourself by glancing under the brim of his beaver. Don’t be offended if he insist on wearing it in your presence. It’s a way he has. He will himself tell you his name, which for certain reasons may not be written here. The good work goes bravely on.”
So ended the despatch.
There was no name appended. None was needed; for although the handwriting was not that of the great patriot, Henry Holtspur well knew that the dictation was his. It was not the first communication of a similar kind that had passed between him and Hampden.
The first thing which he did, after reading the despatch, was to cast a stealthy glance at the individual who had been its bearer; and directed towards that portion immediately under his hat.
Holtspur could observe nothing there—at least nothing to explain the ambiguous allusion in the letter of his correspondent. One circumstance, however, was singular. On both sides, the brim of the beaver was drawn down, and fastened in this fashion by a strap of leather passing under the chin: as if the wearer had caught cold in his ears, and wished to protect them from the night air.
The oddness of the style did not remain long a puzzle. He who had adopted it noticed the furtive scrutiny of the cavalier, and answered it with a grim smile.
“You perceive that I wear my hat rather slouchingly—not to say ill-manneredly,” said he. “It has been my fashion of late. Why I’ve taken to it would be explained by my uncovering; but perhaps it would save trouble, if I tell you my name. I am William Prynne.”
“Prynne!” exclaimed the cavalier, starting forward and eagerly grasping the Puritan by the hand. “I am proud to see you under my poor roof; and such hospitality as I can show—”
“Henry Holtspur need not declare these sentiments to William Prynne,” said the earless Puritan, interrupting the complimentary speech. “The friend of the oppressed is well-known to all who have suffered; and I am of that number. I thank you for a hospitality which I can partake of for but a few minutes. Then I must bid you adieu, and be gone. The work of the Lord must not tarry. The harvest is fast ripening; and it behoves the reapers to get their sickles in readiness.”
The cavalier was too much alive to the necessity of the times, to spend a moment in idle speech. Directing the messenger’s horse to be fed—a duty which the ex-footpad took upon himself to perform—he ordered Oriole to place a repast before his visitor.
To this the hungry Puritan, notwithstanding his haste, proceeded to do ample justice; while Holtspur, throwing open his desk, hurriedly indited an answer to the letter of his correspondent.
Like the despatch, it was neither directed nor signed by any name, that could compromise either the writer or him for whom it was intended. The greatest danger would be to him who was to be entrusted with its delivery. But the staunch partisan of religious liberty recked little of the risk. The great cause, glowing in his zealous heart, rendered him insensible to petty fears; and, after finishing his hurried meal, he once more betook himself to the saddle; shook the hand of his host with cold yet fraternal grasp; bade adieu to Stone Dean; and rode swiftly and silently away.