Volume 2 Chapter 8 - The White Gauntlet by Mayne Reid
We left the beautiful Bet Dancey, with her eyes fixed on the man she admired—waiting his entrance into her father’s cottage, and with a throbbing bosom.
Hers were not the only eyes that were watching Henry Holtspur—nor the only bosom throbbing at his approach. There was one other beating as wildly as hers, though with emotions of a far different kind. It was that of her discarded suitor.
On parting with his cruel sweetheart, Will Walford had walked on among the trees, not caring what direction he took. The horoscope of a happy life, as the husband of Bet Dancey—which he had been long contemplating—had become dim and dark by the very decided dismissal he had just received; and the young woodman’s world, circumscribed though it might be, was now, to his view, a vast chaos.
For a time he could find no other occupation for either thought or speech, than to repeat the revengeful phrase with which he had signalised his departure.
Only for a short time, however, did he continue in this reckless mood. The fact of his sweetheart being done up in her holiday dress, once more recurred to him—along with the suspicion that she must be expecting some one.
This thought checked his steps—bringing him to an instantaneous halt.
Despite his ungracious dismissal—despite the hopelessness of his own suit—he determined on discovering who was the happy rival—who it was for whom that boddice had been buttoned on.
That there was such an individual he could scarce have a doubt. The girl’s manner towards himself—her air of anxiety while he stayed in her presence—the desire she had expressed for him to follow, and overtake her father—and finally the banging of the door in his face—all pointed to a wish on her part to get rid of him as soon as possible. Even the dull brain of the brute was quick enough to be convinced of this.
If he had any doubting hope upon the subject, it was determined by the baying of the lurcher, which at this moment broke upon his ear. The dog could no longer be barking at him? Some other arrival must have engaged the animal’s attention; and who could that other be, but the man for whom Bet’s black tresses had been so coquettishly coifed?
The jealous rustic faced round and commenced returning towards the hut—as if the bark of the dog had been a command for him to do so.
Very different, however, was the attitude exhibited on his backward march. Instead of the reckless devil-me-care swagger with which he had taken his departure, he now made approach with the instinctive caution of one accustomed to the woods; sheltering himself behind the trunks of the trees, and gliding from one to the other—as if afraid of being shot at, by somebody lying in wait within the cottage.
After arriving upon the edge of the open ground, that extended some yards outside the enclosure—he came to a final stop—crouching down behind a bush of holly, whose thick dark foliage appeared sufficient to screen him from the observation of any one—either in the cottage or in front of it.
The first glance which he gave, after getting into position, discovered to him the individual whose arrival had set the dog to barking. Had it been the coarse cuirassier—Bet’s latest conquest—or even the officer who at the fête had made so free with her lips, Will Walford would have been pained by the presence of either. But far more dire were his thoughts, on perceiving it was neither one nor the other—but a rival infinitely more to be dreaded—his own patron—the protector of Maid Marian.
Had it been any other who was making approach Will Walford might have sprung from his hiding-place, and shown himself upon the instant—perhaps commanded their instantaneous departure. But after witnessing that combat in the Saxon camp—combined with other knowledge he possessed of the character and qualities of the “black horseman”—a wholesome fear of this individual counselled him to keep his place.
The dog soon ceased his angry demonstrations; and, springing gleefully upon his chain, commenced wagging his tail in friendly recognition of the new arrival. It was evident the cavalier was not coming to the cottage of Dick Dancey for the first time!
As Walford reasoned thus, the cloud upon his countenance became darker—the agony in his heart more intense. Still more agonising were his emotions when he saw Henry Holtspur step inside the hut, and heard his voice in free conversation with that of the girl. The tones appeared to be of two persons who had talked in confidence—who understood one another!
The shadow of a fell intent showed itself on the beetling brow of Will Walford. Despite his dread of such a powerful adversary, jealousy was fast urging him to a dark deed—to do, or dare it. No doubt, in another instant, it would have stimulated him to the wielding of that terrible woodaxe, but for an unexpected incident that turned him from his intention.
The dog again gave out his howling note of alarm; but soon changed it into a yelp of recognition—on perceiving that it was his own master who was coming along the path.
At the same instant Walford recognised the old woodman. Instead of showing himself, he crept closer in among the glabrous leaves of the holly, and lay crouching there—more like a man who feared being detected, than one bent on detection.
It was not till the cavalier had stepped forth from the cottage, and, apparently entering into serious conversation with its owner, walked off with him into the woods, that Walford stole out from his hiding-place under the holly.
Then, shaking his axe in the direction in which they had gone—with a gesture that seemed to signify only the adjournment of his fiendish design—and, still keeping the bush between his own body and the windows of the hovel, he sneaked sulkily away.
He did not go in silence, but kept muttering as he went; at intervals breaking out into louder enunciations—as some thought especially exasperating struck into his excited brain.
Again he repeated the menace made on his first departure from the cottage.
“Ees, dang me! I’ll keep my threet, if I shud ha’ to hang for’t!”
This time, however, the “threet” applied to a special victim—Holtspur. It is true that he still mentally reserved a condition; and that was, should his suspicions prove correct. He was determined to play the spy upon his sweetheart by day and by night; and, should he discover good grounds for his jealousy, nothing should then stay his hand from the fell purpose already declared—to kill.
This purpose—fully resolved upon as he walked through the wood—had some effect in tranquillising his spirit; though it was far from giving it complete contentment.
His steps were turned homeward; and soon brought him to a hut standing only a few hundred yards from that of Dick Dancey—of even humbler aspect than the domicile of the deer-stealer. It looked more like a stack of faggots than a house. It had only one door, one window, and one room; but these were sufficient for its owner, who lived altogether alone.
The “plenishing” was less plentiful, and of a commoner kind than that in the cottage of the deer-stealer; and the low truck-bed in the corner, with its scanty clothing, looked as if the hand of woman had never spread sheet, or coverlet, upon it.
This appearance of poverty was to some extent deceptive. However obtained, it was known that Walford possessed money—and his chalk score in the tap-room of the “Packhorse” was always wiped out upon demand. No more did his dress betray any pecuniary strait. He went well habited; and could even afford a fancy costume when occasion called for it—to represent Robin Hood, or any other popular hero of the peasant fancy.
It was this repute of unknown, and therefore indefinite, wealth, that in some measure sanctioned his claim to aspire to the hand of the beautiful Bet Dancey—the acknowledged belle of the parish; and though his supposed possession of property had failed to win over the heart of the girl herself, it had a deal to do in making him the favourite of her father.
Already slightly suspicious of Bet’s partiality for the black horseman, what he witnessed that morning rendered him seriously so. It is true there was still nothing ascertained—nothing definite. The cavalier might have had some object, in visiting Dancey’s cottage, other than an interview with Bet; and Walford was only too willing to think so.
But the circumstances were suspicious—sufficiently so to make sad havoc with his happiness; and, had Dancey not returned at the time he did, there is no knowing what might have been the dénouement of the interview he had interrupted.
On entering his unpretentious dwelling, Walford flung his axe into a corner, and himself into a chair—both acts being performed with an air of recklessness, that betokened a man sadly out of sorts with the world.
His thoughts, still muttered aloud, told that his mind dwelt on the two individuals whose names constantly turned up in his soliloquy—Bet Dancey and Henry Holtspur. Though Bet was at intervals most bitterly abused, the cavalier came in for the angrier share of his denunciations.
“Dang the interloper!” he exclaimed, “Why doan’t he keep to his own sort? Ridin’ about wi’ his fine horse an’ his fine feathers, an’ pokin’ hisself into poor people’s cottages, where he have no business to be? Dang him!
“What’s brought him into this neighbourhood anyhow? I shud like to know that. An’ what’s he doin’ now? I should like to know that. Gatherin’ a lot o’ people to his house from all parts o’ the country, an’ them to come in the middle o’ the night! I shud just like to know that.
“Theer be somethin’ in it he don’t want to be know’d: else why shud those letters I carried—ay, an’ opened an’ read ’em too—why shud they have told them as I tuk ’em to, to come ’ithout bringin’ theer own grooms, an’ at that late hour o’ the night? Twelve o’clock the letters sayed—one an’ all o’ them!
“I shud like to know what it’s all about. That’s what I shud.
“Ay; an’ may be I know some’un else as wud like to know. That fellow as fought wi’ him at the feeat. I wish he’d run him through the ribs, instead o’ gettin’ run through hisself. Dang it! what can he be wantin’ wi’ me? Can’t be about that thwack I gin him over the skullcap? If’t are anything consarnin’ that, he wouldn’t a’ sent after me as he’s done? No, he’ a sent a couple o’ his steel-kivered sogers, and tuk me at once. Withers sayed he meeant well by me; but that Withers an’t to be depended on. I never knew him tell the truth afore he went sogerin’; an’ it an’t like he be any better now. Maybe this captain do meean well, for all that? I’d gie somethin to know what he be wantin’.
“Dang it!” he again broke forth, after pondering for a while, “It mout be somethin’ about this very fellow—this black horseman? I shud say that ’ere captain’ll be thinkin’ o’ him, more’n about anybody else. If he be—ha!”
The last ejaculation was uttered in a significant tone, and prolonged, as if continuing some train of thought that had freshly started into his brain.
“If’t be that;—it may be? Dang me! I’ll know! I’ll go an’ see Master Captain Scarthe—that’s what they call him, I b’lieve. I’ll go this very minnit.”
In obedience to the resolve, thus suddenly entered upon, the woodman rose to his feet; seized hold of his hat; and made direct for the door.
Suddenly he stopped, looking outward upon some sight, that seemed to cause him both surprise and gratification.
“I’ve heerd say,” he muttered, “that when the devil be wanted he beeant far off. Dang it; the very man I war goin’ to see be comin’ to see me! Ees—that be the captain o’ the kewreseers, an’ that’s Withers as be a-ridin’ ahint him!”
Walford’s announcement was but the simple truth. It was Captain Scarthe, and his confidant Withers, who were approaching the hovel.
They were on horseback; but did not ride quite up to the house. When within a hundred yards of the door the officer dismounted; and, having given his bridle to the trooper, advanced on foot and alone.
There was no enclosure around the domicile of Will Walford—not even a ditch; and his visitor, without stopping, walked straight up to the door—where the woodman was standing on the stoup to receive him.
With the quick eye of an old campaigner, Scarthe saw, that on the ugly face of his late adversary there was no anger. Whatever feeling of hostility the latter might have entertained at the fête, for some reason or other, appeared to have vanished; and the captain was as much surprised as gratified at beholding something like a smile, where he expected to have been favoured with a frown.
Almost intuitively did Scarthe construe this circumstance. The man before him had an enemy that he knew to be his also—one that he hated more than Scarthe himself.
To make certain of the justness of this conjecture was the first move on the part of the cuirassier captain.
“Good morrow, my friend!” began he, approaching the woodman with the most affable air, “I hope the little incident that came so crookedly between us—and which I most profoundly regret—I hope it has been equally forgotten and forgiven by you. As I am an admirer of bravery, even in an adversary, I shall feel highly complimented if you will join me in a stoup of wine. You see I always go prepared—lest I should lose my way in these vast forests of yours, and perhaps perish of thirst.”
As he approached the conclusion of this somewhat jocular peroration, he held up a flask—suspended by a strap over his shoulders—and unconcernedly commenced extracting the stopper.
His ci-devant adversary—who seemed both surprised and pleased at this brusque style of soldering a quarrel—eagerly accepted the proffered challenge; and, after expressing consent in his rough way, invited the cavalier to step inside his humble dwelling, and be accommodated with a seat.
Scarthe gave ready assent; and in another second had planted himself, on one of the two dilapidated chairs which the hovel contained.
The wine was soon decanted into a pair of tin cups, instead of silver goblets; and in less than ten minutes’ time Captain Scarthe and Will Walford were upon as friendly terms, as if the former had never touched the lips of Maid Marian, nor the latter broken a cross-bow over his head.
“The fact is, my bold Robin!” said Scarthe, by way of a salvo, “I and my companion, the cornet, had taken a little too much of this sort of stuff on that particular morning; and you know when a man—”
“Dang it, yes!” rejoined the rustic, warming to his splendid companion, who might likely become a powerful patron, “when one has got a drap too much beer i’ the head, he arn’t answerable for every bit o’ mischief in that way. I know ’twas only in sport ye kissed the lass. Dang it! I’d ha’ done the same myself. Ay, that I would.”
“Ah! and a pretty lass she is, this Maid Marian. Your sweetheart, I take it, Master Walford?”
“Oh! e-es;—Betsey be somethin’ o’ that sort,” replied the woodman, rather vain of the avowal.
“A fortunate fellow you are! I dare say you will soon be married to her?”
Walford’s reply to this interrogatory was ambiguous and indistinct.
“As one,” continued the captain, “who has a good deal of experience in marrying matters—for I’ve had a wife, or two, myself—I’d advise you—that is, after the fair Betsey becomes Mistress Walford—not to permit any more presents of flowers.”
“Dang it!” ejaculated the jealous lover, “what do you mean by that, master?”
“Why, only that I was witness to that little affair in the old camp; and, to say the troth, was not a little surprised. If any one deserved those flowers from Maid Marian, it was surely the man who first took up her quarrel. That was yourself, Master Walford: as my skull case—which still aches at the remembrance—can truly testify.”
“Dang me, if I didn’t! The black horseman had no business to interfere, had he?”
“Not a bit! You and I could have settled our little difference between ourselves; and I was just upon the eve of asking your forgiveness—for I felt I had been foolish—when this fellow stepped in. He interfered, for no other reason, than to figure well in the eyes of the girl. I could see plain enough it was that; though I knew nothing of either party at the time. But I’ve learnt something since, that puts the matter beyond dispute.”
“Learnt somethin’ since—you have?” gasped Walford, springing up from his chair, and earnestly stooping towards the speaker. “If thee know’st anything anent Maid Marian—Bet Dancey, I mean, an’ him—tell it me, Master! tell it me, an’—”
“Keep cool, Walford! Resume your seat, pray. I’ll tell you all I know; but, before I can make sure that I have been correctly informed, it is necessary for me to know more of this person, whom you style the Black Horseman. Perhaps you can tell me something, that will enable me to identify him with the individual whose name I have heard, in connection with that of Maid Marian, or Bet Dancey—as you say the beauty is called.”
“What do you want to know o’ him?” asked Walford, evidently ready to impart all the intelligence regarding Holtspur of which he was himself possessed.
“Everything,” replied Scarthe, perceiving that he need not take trouble to keep up even a show of reserve. “As for myself, I know only his name. After all, it may not have been him—who—”
“Who what?” quickly inquired the impatient listener.
“I’ll tell you presently, Master Walford; if you’ll only have a little patience. Where does this black horseman hold out?”
“Hold out?”
“Ay, where’s his hostelry?”
“I’ve seed him oftener than anywhere else at the Saracen’s Head—down the road nigh on to Uxbridge.”
“Zooks! my brave Robin, that isn’t what I mean. Where does he live?”
“Where’s his own home?”
“Ah! his home.”
“’Tain’t very far off from here—just a mile t’other side o’ Wapsey’s Wood—in a big hollow i’ the hills. Stone Dean the place be called. It be a queery sort o’ a old dwellin’—and a good lot out o’ repairs, I reckon.”
“Does he see any company?”
“Wal, if you mean company—sich as fine ladies an’ the like—I doan’t think he ever do hev that sort about him. And not much o’ any sort, whiles the sun be a-shinin’. After night—”
“Ah! his friends generally visit him by night,” interrupted Scarthe, with a glance that betokened satisfaction. “Is that your meaning, Master Walford?”
“No, not gen’rally—ye mout say altogether. I have been to Stone Dean more’n twenty times, since he coomed to live at the old house—at all hours I’ve been—an’ I never seed a soul theer i’ the day time, ’cepting myself an’ Dick Dancey. Theer be a’ odd sort o’ a sarvint he brought wi’ him—a Indyen they calls him.”
“But Master Holtspur has visitors in the night time, you think?”
“Ay! that he have—lots o’ ’em.”
“Who are they?”
“Doan’t know neer a one o’ ’em. They be all strangers to these parts—leastwise they appear so—as they come ridin’, kivered wi’ mud an’ dust, like after makin’ a goodish bit o’ a journey. There’ll be a big gatherin’ o’ ’em theer nex’ Sunday night—considerin’ the letters that’s gone. I took six myself, an’ Dick Dancey as many more—to say nothing o’ a bunch carried to the west end o’ the county by a fellow I doan’t know nothin’ about. It be a meeting o’ some sort, I take it.”
“On next Sunday night, you say?”
The question was evidently asked with a keen interest: for the revelations which Will Walford was making had all at once changed the jocular air of his interrogator into one of undisguised eagerness.
“Next Sunday night?”
“At what hour?”
“Twelve o’ the clock.”
“You are sure about the hour?”
“I ought to be; since I ha’ got to be theer myself, along wi’ Dick Dancey, to look to the gentlemen’s horses. A big crowd o’ ’em there’ll be for the two o’ us to manage: as the gentlemen be comin’ without theer grooms. But what was it, Master?” inquired the woodman, returning to the torturing thought that was still uppermost; “You sayed you knowed somethin’ as happened atween Bet Dancey an’ him? If he’s been an’ done it, then, dang me—I’ll keep my threet, if I shud ha’ to swing for it!”
“Done what?”
“Made a fool o’ Bet—that’s what I meean. What is it ’t ye know, Mister Captain? Please to tell me that!”
“Well, then,” replied the tempter, speaking slowly and deliberately—as if to find time for the concoction of some plausible tale. “For myself, I can’t say I know anything—that is, for certain—I have only heard—altogether by accident, too—that your Maid Marian was seen—out in the woods with a gentleman—and at a very unreasonable hour of the night.”
“What night?” gasped the woodman.
“Let me see! Was it the night of the fête? No. It was the next after—if I remember aright.”
“Damn her! The very night I war gone over to Rickmans’orth wi’ them letters. Augh!”
“I shouldn’t have known it was this fellow Holtspur: as the person who gave me the information didn’t say it was him. It was only told me that the man—whoever he might be—was dressed in fine velvet doublet, with a beaver and black plumes; but from what I’ve seen myself, and what you’ve just now told me, I think it very likely that the black horseman was the individual. It was in the woods—near Stone Dean—where they were seen. You say he lives there. It looks suspicious, don’t it?”
“’Twar him! I know it—I be sure o’t. Augh! If I don’t ha’ revenge on him, and her too! Dang the deceitful slut! I will! I will!”
“Perhaps the girl’s not so much to blame. He’s a rich fellow—this Holtspur, and may have tempted her with his money. Gold goes a great way in such matters.”
“Oh! if’t were only money, I could abear it better. No! It an’t that, master, it an’t that! I’m a’most sure it an’t. She’s done it, damn her!”
“Perhaps we may be mistaken. Things may not have gone so far as you think. At all events, I should advise you to let the girl alone; and confine your revenge to the villain who has wronged her.”
“Him first—him first! And then, if I find she’s let herself be made a fool o’—”
“Whether or not, he deserves no thanks from you for having made the attempt.”
“I’ll thank him!—I will, whenever I gets the chance. Wait till I gets the chance.”
“If I am not mistaken, you may have that—without waiting long.”
Misinterpreting these words, the woodman glanced towards his axe with a significant and savage leer, that did not escape the keen eye of Scarthe.
“True,” said the latter, in a tone of disapproval, “you might have that chance almost at any hour. But there would also be a chance of failure, with a considerable risk of your getting run through the ribs. If what you’ve told me be as I suspect, there will be no need to resort to such extreme measures. Perhaps I may be able to point out a surer and safer method for you to rid yourself of this rival.”
“Oh! Mister Captain! If you would only do that—only tell me how—I’ll—I’ll—”
“Have patience! Very likely I may be able to assist you,” interrupted Scarthe, rising to take his departure. “I’ve something in my mind will just suit, I think. But it requires a little reflection—and—some preliminary steps that must be taken elsewhere. I shall return here to-night, after sunset. Meanwhile, stay at home; or, if you go abroad, keep your tongue behind your teeth. Not a word to any one of what has passed between us. Take another pull at the flask, to keep up your spirits. Now, Walford, good day to you!”
Having pronounced these parting words, the officer walked out of the hut; and, returning to his horse, leaped lightly into the saddle, and rode off—followed by his attendant Withers.
He did not communicate to the latter aught of what had transpired between him and the woodman. The muttered words that escaped him, as he trotted off among the trees, were spoken in a slow, measured soliloquy.
“No doubt one of the very meetings of which his Majesty has spoken so opportunely in his despatch? Richard Scarthe shall make one at this midnight assembly—uninvited though he be. Ah! if I can only find a fair opportunity to play eavesdropper, I promise Master Holtspur a more substantial dwelling than he now inhabits! Ho! have no fear, kind King Carolus! Right willingly shall I play the spy! Ha! ha! ha!”
Elated by the high hope with which his new-gained knowledge had inspired him, he gave the spur to his grey, while Wapsey’s Wood gave back the echoes of his joyous laughter.