Volume 1 Chapter 25 - The White Gauntlet by Mayne Reid
On the bold brow of one of the central hills of Bulstrode Park, stood the dwelling—a palatial structure of red brick, with facings of white stone—the latter transported over the sea from the quarries of Caen.
The style of architecture was that known as “Norman”—with thick massive walls, having the circular Roman arch over the doors and windows.
In front was a space appropriated to the purposes of parterre and shrubbery; while to the rearward extended the stables and other offices—enclosing an extensive courtyard between them and the dwelling.
In rear of the outbuildings was the garden—approached through the courtyard by a strong iron wicket; while encircling all—grounds, garden, and houses—was a deep battlemented moat, which imparted to the mansion somewhat of the character of a fortified castle.
On the morning after the fête in Bulstrode Park, the courtyard of the dwelling presented an unusual spectacle. A stranger, entering through the great arched gateway, might have mistaken the square enclosure inside for the yard of a barrack. Horses were standing in rows around the walls—their heads tied up to hooks that had been freshly driven into the mason-work; while men in topped boots, wide hanging hose, and grogram shirts—with sleeves rolled up to the elbows—were engaged in grooming them.
Leathern buckets, containing water, stood by the heels of the horses—where the pavement appeared splashed and wet.
Other men, of similar appearance, might have been seen seated upon benches, or squatted upon the coarse woollen covers of their horses—occupying themselves with the cleaning of armour—furbishing steel cuirasses, cuisses, and helmets, to the sheen of silver, and then hanging them against the walls, under a sort of shed that had been specially erected for their reception.
Under the same shelter large demi-pique dragoon saddles had been placed in rows—astride of long trestles set up for the purpose.
Every available space upon the walls was occupied by a bridle, a pair of spurs, pistols, or holsters, a sword with its belt, or some piece either of offensive, or defensive, armour.
It is scarce necessary to say, that these horses and men—these saddles, bridles, arms, and armour—were the component parts of Captain Scarthe’s troop of cuirassiers, viewed en dishabille.
What with the neighing of steeds that did not belong to the place, the barking of dogs that did, and the swearing and gibbering of threescore men in half-a-dozen distinct languages, the usually quiet courtyard of Sir Marmaduke’s mansion had been transformed into a sort of Pandemonium: for, to say nothing of any other sounds, the conversation usually carried on among Scarthe’s cuirassiers was not unlike what might be heard—could one only penetrate into that mythical locality.
Notwithstanding their noted ruffianism, they appeared to be behaving better than was their wont—as if under some unusual restraint. They were merry enough—no doubt from being installed in such comfortable quarters—but they did not appear to exhibit any offensive attitude towards the inmates of the mansion.
If by chance a pretty housemaid tripped across the courtyard—on some errand to the garden, or elsewhere—she was sure of being saluted by a volley of jeux-d’esprit in French, Flemish, or English; but beyond this, the behaviour of the troopers was no worse than that of most soldiers similarly quartered.
Moreover, the men, instead of being permitted within the mansion, were contenting themselves to sleep in the outhouses: as testified by the straw beds scattered over the floors of the granary, and other offices, in which they had passed the night.
This semi-courteous tolerance, on the part of Captain Scarthe’s followers towards their involuntary host—unlike the character of the former, as it was unexpected by the latter—requires some explanation; which the conversation between Scarthe himself and his cornet, occurring at that very moment, will supply.
The two officers were in a large sitting-room, that had been assigned to them in the eastern wing of the dwelling. It is scarce necessary to say that the room was handsomely furnished: for the mansion of Sir Marmaduke Wade, besides being one of the oldest, was also one of the grandest of the time. The walls of the apartment specified were covered with Cordovan leather, stamped with heraldic devices; the huge bay window was hung with curtains of dark green velvet; while the pieces of massive furniture exhibited sculptural carvings not only elaborate, but perhaps of higher art than can be produced at the present time.
A massive round table in the middle of the floor was covered by a heavy cloth of rich Damascus pattern; while the floor itself, in lieu of Brussels or Turkey carpet, was hidden under a mattress of smooth shining rushes, neatly woven into a variety of patterns.
Scarthe was seated, or rather reclining on a fauteuil covered with crimson velvet; while his cornet, who had just entered the room, stood in front of him—as if in the reception, or delivery, of a message.
Neither of the officers was in armour. The steel plates had been laid aside; or not fastened on for that day.
Scarthe himself was habited in all the fantastic frippery fashionable at the time. A doublet of yellow satin, with trunk hose of the same—the latter fringed at the bottoms with silk ribbons, tipped with tags of gold. A broad Vandyke collar of point lace; cuffs to correspond; and a scarlet sash—also weighted with golden tags—adorned the upper part of his body; while boots of yellow Cordovan leather—with snow-white lawn puffing out at the ample tops—completed the list of his habiliments.
Despite his pale face; despite a certain sinister cast of his countenance—not always to be observed—Richard Scarthe was a handsome man. The eyes of many a courtly dame had deemed him more than interesting; and as he reclined against the back of the fauteuil in an attitude of perfect ease, he looked not the less interesting, that the scarlet scarf passed over his right shoulder was crossed by another of more sombre hue—acting as a sling, in which his right arm rested.
A wounded man—especially if the damage has been received in a duel—is a dangerous object for the eye of a sentimental young lady to rest upon. It might be that Captain Scarthe was acquainted with this not very recondite truth. It might be, that some such thought had been in his mind that very morning, while making his toilette before the mirror.
The cornet was neither so handsome as his captain, nor so daintily dressed; and yet one, previously acquainted with Stubbs’ rather slovenly habit, could not have failed to notice, on that particular morning, that more than ordinary pains had been taken with his “make-up.”
He was in a plain military suit of buff; but the collar and cuffs were clean; and so also his plump flesh-coloured face—a condition in which it was not always to be found.
His hay-coloured hair, too, exhibited something of a gloss—as though the brush had been recently and repeatedly passed through it.
There was a flush on Stubbs’ cheek, with a soft subdued light in his eye, that betokened some unusual emotion in his mind—some thought more refined than ordinarily held dominion there. In short, Stubbs had the look of a man who had been so unfortunate, as to fall in love!
As we have said, the cornet was standing. He was silent also; as if he had already delivered his report, and was awaiting the reply.
“I’m glad they’re taking it so quietly,” said the captain, in rejoinder to whatever communication his cornet had made. “Our fellows are not used to sleeping in stables—with a fine house standing close by. But we’re in England now, Stubbs; and it won’t do to keep up the fashions of Flanders. By so doing, we might get our good king into disgrace.”
“We might, by Ged!” stiffly assented Stubbs.
“Besides,” continued the captain, speaking rather to himself than to his subaltern, “I’ve another reason for not letting them forage too freely, just now. The time may come, when it will be more profitable to put the screw on. The cat plays with the mouse, before killing it. Did the vagabonds grumble at my order?”
“Not a bit. No, by Ged! They’re too fond of you for that.”
“Well, cornet; next time you go among them, you can promise them plenty of beef and beer. They shall have full rations of both, and double ones too. But no pickings and stealings. Tell them that the eighth commandment must be kept; and that nothing short of hanging will satisfy me if it be broken. They must be given to understand, that we’re no longer engaged in a campaign; though the Lord knows how soon we may be. From what I heard, and saw, yesterday among that rabble, I shouldn’t wonder if the king sets us to cutting their throats before spring.”
“Like enough,” quietly assented Stubbs.
“I don’t care how soon,” continued the cuirassier captain, musing as he spoke. “I shouldn’t care how soon—but—that, if it come to blows, we’ll be called away from here; and after the infernal marchings and countermarchings we’ve had for the last six months, I feel inclined for a little rest. I think I could enjoy the dolce far niente devilish well down here—that is, for a month or so. Nice quarters, a’nt they?”
“Are, by Ged!”
“Nice girls too—you’ve seen them, haven’t you?”
“Just a glimpse of them through the window, as I was dressing. There were two of them out on the terrace.”
“There are only two—a daughter, and a niece. Come, cornet; declare yourself! Which?”
“Well, the little un’s the one to my taste. She’s a beauty, by Ged!”
“Ha! ha! ha! I might have known it?” cried the captain. “Well—well—well!” he continued speaking to himself in a careless drawl. “I believe, as I always did, that Nature has formed some souls utterly incapable of appreciating her highest works. Now here is a man, who actually thinks that dapper little prude more beautiful than her queenlike cousin; a woman that to me—a man of true taste and experience—is known to possess qualities—ah! such qualities! Ha! ha! ha! Stubbs sees but the bodice and skirt. I can perceive something more—never mind what—the soul that is concealed under them. He sees a pretty lip—a sparkling eye—a neat nose—a shining tress; and he falls over head and ears in love with one or other of these objects. To me ’tis neither lip, glance, nor tress: ’tis the tout ensemble—lips, nose, eyes, cheeks, and chevelure—soul and body all combined!”
“By Ged! that would be perfection,” cried Stubbs, who stood listening to the enraptured soliloquy.
“So it would, cornet.”
“But where will you find such? Nowhere, I should say?”
“You are blind, cornet—stone-blind, or you might have seen it this morning.”
“I admit,” said the cornet, “I’ve seen something very near it—the nearest it I ever saw in my life. I didn’t think there was a girl in all England as pretty as that creature. I didn’t, by Ged.”
“What creature?”
“The one we’ve been speaking of, the little one—Mistress Lora Lovelace is her name. I had it from her maid.”
“Ha! ha! ha! You’re a fool, Stubbs; and it’s fortunate you are so. Fortunate for me, I mean. If you’d been gifted with either taste or sense, we might have been rivals; and that, my killing cornet, would have been a great misfortune for me. As it is, our roads lie in different directions. You see something—I can’t, nor can you tell what—in Mistress Lora Lovelace. I see that in her cousin which I can, and do, comprehend. I see perfection. Yes, Stubbs, this morning you have had before your eyes not only the most beautiful woman in the shire of Bucks, but, perhaps, the loveliest in all England. And yet you did not know it! Never mind, worthy cornet. Chacun a son goût. How lucky we don’t all think alike!”
“Is, by Ged!” assented the cornet, in his characteristic fashion. “I like the little ’un best.”
“You shall have her all to yourself. And now, Stubbs, as I can’t leave my room with this wounded wing of mine, go and seek an interview with Sir Marmaduke. Smooth over the little rudenesses of yesterday; and make known to him, in a roundabout way—you understand—that we had a cup of sack too much at the inn. Say something of our late campaign in Flanders, and the free life we had been accustomed to lead while there. Say what you like; but see that it be the thing to soften him down, and make him our friend. I don’t think the worthy knight is so disloyal, after all. It’s something about this young sprig’s being recalled from Court, that has got him into trouble with the king. Do all you can to make him friendly to us. Remember! if you fail, we may get no nearer to that brace of beauties, than looking at them through a window, as you did this morning. It would be of no use forcing ourselves into their company. If we attempt that, Sir Marmaduke may remove his chicks into some other nest; and then, cornet, our quarters would be dull enough.”
“I’ll see Sir Marmaduke at once?” said the subaltern interrogatively.
“The sooner the better. I suppose they have breakfasted ere this. These country people keep early hours. Try the library. No doubt you’ll find him there: he’s reported to be a man of books.”
“I’ll go there, by Ged!”
And with this characteristic speech, the cornet hastened out of the room.
“I must win this woman,” said Scarthe, rising to his feet, and striding across the floor with an air of resolution: “‘I must win her, if I should lose my soul!’ Oh! beauty! beauty! the true and only enchanter on earth. Thou canst change the tiger into a tender lamb, or transform the lamb into a fierce tiger. What was I yesterday but a tiger? To-day subdued—tamed to the softness of a suckling. ’Sdeath! Had I but known that such a woman was watching—for she was there no doubt—I might have avoided that accursed encounter. She saw it all—she must have seen it! Struck down from my horse, defeated—’Sdeath!”
The exclamation hoarsely hissing through his teeth, with the fierce expression that accompanied it, showed how bitterly he bore his humiliation. It was not only the pain of his recent wound—though that may have added to his irritation—but the sting of defeat that was rankling in his soul—defeat under such eyes as those of Marion Wade!
“’Sdeath!” he again exclaimed, striding nervously to and fro. “Who and what can the fellow be? Only his name could they tell me—nothing more—Holtspur! Not known to Sir Marmaduke before yesterday! He cannot, then, have been known to her? He cannot have had an opportunity for that? Not yet—not yet!”
“Perhaps,” he continued after a pause, his brow once more brightening, “they have never met? She may not have witnessed the unfortunate affair? Is it certain she was on the ground? I did not see her.
“After all the man may be married? He’s old enough. But, no: the glove in his hat—I had forgotten that. It could scarcely be his wife’s! Ha! ha! ha! what signifies? I’ve been a blessed Benedict myself; and yet while so, have worn my beaver loaded with love-tokens. I wonder to whom that glove belonged. Ha! Death and the devil!”
Scarthe had been pacing the apartment, not from side to side, but in every direction, as his wandering thoughts carried him. As the blasphemous exclamation escaped from his lips, he stopped suddenly—his eyes becoming fixed upon some object before him!
On a small table that stood in a shadowed corner of the apartment, a glove was lying—as if carelessly thrown there. It was a lady’s glove—with gauntlet attached, embroidered with gold wire, and bordered with lace. It appeared the very counterpart of that at the moment occupying his thoughts—the glove that had the day before decorated the hat of Henry Holtspur!
“By heaven, ’tis the same!” he exclaimed, the colour forsaking his cheeks as he stood gazing upon it. “No—not the same,” he continued, taking up the glove, and scrutinising it with care. “Not the same; but its mate—its fellow! The resemblance is exact; the lace, the embroidery, the design—all. I cannot be mistaken!”
And as he repeated this last phrase, he struck his heel fiercely upon the floor.
“There’s a mystery!” he continued, after the first painful pulsations of his heart had passed; “Not known to Sir Marmaduke until yesterday! Not known to Sir Marmaduke’s daughter! And yet wearing her gauntlet conspicuously in the crown of his hat! Was it hers? Is this hers? May it not belong to the other—the niece? No—no—though small enough, ’tis too large for her tiny claw. ’Tis the glove of Marion!”
For some seconds Scarthe stood twirling the piece of doeskin between his fingers, and examining it on all sides. A feeling far stronger than mere curiosity prompted him to this minute inspection, as would be divined by the dark shadows rapidly chasing each other over his pallid brow.
His looks betrayed both anguish and anger, as he emphatically repeated the phrase—“Forestalled, by heaven!”
“Stay there!” he continued, thrusting the glove under the breast of his doublet. “Stay there, thou devilish tell-tale—close to the bosom thou hast filled with bitter thoughts. Trifle as thou seemest, I may yet find thee of serious service.”
And with a countenance in which bitter chagrin was blended with dark determination, he continued to pace excitedly over the floor of the apartment.
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End of Volume One.