Volume 2 Chapter 15 - The White Gauntlet by Mayne Reid
The parting speech of her resentful lover had not fallen upon the ears of Bet Dancey without producing an effect.
It was not the opprobrious epithet concluding it that had caused the red to forsake her cheeks—leaving them, with her lips, blanched and bloodless. It was not the vilifying phrase, but the hint that preceded it, which caused her to start to her feet, and stand for some time gasping with suspended breath.
“Maybe thee hast seen thy fine fancy for the last time. Ha! I’ve did that this night ’ll put iron bars atween thee and him.”
Such were Walford’s exact words.
Between her and whom? Holtspur? Who else? Who but Holtspur was in her mind? And who but he could be in the mind of Walford?
She knew that Walford was fiercely jealous of the black horseman. Glad would she have been for the latter to have given him cause. Alas! she alone had exhibited the signs that had conducted Walford to this jealousy.
Iron bars—a prison—for him—the man who in her own wild way she almost adored!
What did it mean? Was it in prospect, this threatened prison for Holtspur? Or might it mean that he was already incarcerated?
The latter could scarce be—else something relating to it would have escaped from the lips either of her father or his guest, during their babble over the bottle of Hollands?
They had been at Stone Dean throughout the whole night. The girl knew it, and knew how they had been employed; knew also something of the character of the company convened there—enough to convince her that it was some sort of a secret assemblage, dangerous to be held under the light of day.
The unlettered, but intelligent maiden, knew, moreover, that the cavalier was a man of peculiar inclinings—that is, one who was suspected of not being loyal to the king. She had heard all this in whispers, and from the lips of her father—who was accustomed to make no secret of his own disloyalty.
Bet regarded not the republican leanings of the man she admired. Perhaps on this account she admired him all the more? Not because they were in consonance with the professions of her own father; but from the courage required to avow such sentiments in such times; and courage was just the virtue to challenge the admiration of this bold-hearted beauty.
If there was aught to interfere with her approval of Holtspur’s political proclivities, it was a vague sense of his being in danger from holding them. This, from time to time, had rendered her uneasy on his account.
The words of Walford had changed this uneasiness into a positive anxiety.
True, he appeared to have uttered them in spite; but not the less likely was his conditional threat to have a foundation in some fact about transpiring, or that had already transpired.
“There is danger,” muttered the maiden, as Walford went off. “Master Holtspur must be warned of it—if I have to go myself. I shall go,” she added, as she saw her father sink helplessly into his chair, “and this very instant.”
She whipped her hooded cloak from its peg, flung it loosely over her shoulders; and, casting another glance towards the sleeper in the chair, was about to set forth on her half-spoken errand; when, just at that moment, the lurcher gave out his note of alarm.
The intoxicated deer-stealer heard the bark; stirred slightly on his seat; muttered some incoherent syllables; and wandered off into a fresh maze of drunken dreaming.
“If it should be Will coming back?” said Bet, moving on tiptoe towards the door; “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised.”
“Thank the stars, it’s not! Some one from the direction of Stone Dean! Oh! if it should be—”
An exclamation of disappointment interrupted the speech, as a tall, motley-clad figure, a dark-skinned face, and black bushy whiskers presented themselves a short distance off, under the branches of the trees.
“It’s that new friend of father’s—his friend, too,” muttered the girl. “I heard them say he was at the Dean last night. Perhaps he can tell? Maybe he comes—”
“Morrow, my gurl!” saluted Gregory Garth, interrupting Bet’s speculations as to the object of his visit. “Niceish weather. Old bird back to his roost yet?”
“My father, you mean?” rejoined Bet, not showing any displeasure at the bizarre style, either of the salute, or the interrogatory.
“Why, sartin, I means him. Theer an’t no other old bird as belongs to this nest, be there? At home, eh?”
“He is. He’s asleep in his chair. You see him there?”
“Well, he do appear to be somethin’ o’ that sort, sureish enough. Asleep, eh? He snorts like a good un! An’t he a leetlish bit more than sleepin’?” continued the interrogator, seeing that Bet hesitated to make reply to this last interrogatory. “Eh, gurl?”
“Well! I won’t ask ye to answer the question—seein’ he be thy father. But theer sartinly be a strongish smell here. Ah! it be coomin’ from these cups, I suppose.”
Garth, as he said this, lifted one of the drinking vessels from the table; and held it up to his nose.
“That’s been Hollands in that ’ere. Same in t’other,” he added, smelling the second cup. “Got the exact bokay—as the French say ’bout their wines—o’ some o’ them spirits over at the Dean. But surely the old un don’t need both cups to drink out o’. There’s been another un at it? It wan’t thyself?”
“No!” replied Bet, pronouncing the denial with a slightly indignant emphasis.
“Doant be ’fended, gurl! I war only a jokin’ thee. But who war the other jovial?”
“A friend of father’s. You know him, master? Will Walford it was.”
“A friend o’ your father’s, eh? A great friend o’ yer father’s, aint he?”
“Father thinks a deal of him—more than he ought to, may be.”
“Then it’s not true, Mistress Betsey, that you be so sweet upon this Wull Walford?”
“Sweet upon him! Who said I was?”
“Well, nobody as I knows on; but everybody say he be that way about you.”
“I can’t help that; nor people’s tongues, neither. If people would only mind their own business—”
“Ah! if they would, what a happy, comfortable world we’d have o’t! But they woan’t—they woant—dang seize ’em! they woant!”
After giving utterance to this somewhat old-fashioned reflection, Gregory remained for a time in a state of moody silence—as if labouring under some regret which the thought had called up.
“You have some business with father?” said Bet, interrogatively.
“Well—that,” replied Garth, appearing to hesitate about what he was going to say—“that depends. Sartin the old un don’t look much like doin’ business just now—do he?”
“I fear not,” was Bet’s simple reply.
“May be, Mistress Betsey,” continued Garth, giving a glance of scrutiny into the face of the girl. “May be you might do for the business I have on hand—better, maybe, than thy father? I want—”
“What is it you want?” inquired Betsey, too impatient to wait for the words, that were spoken by Garth with some deliberation.
“A friend. Not for myself; but for one that be in danger.”
“Who—who’s in danger?” asked the girl, with an eagerness of manner, that did not escape the quick eye of him to whom the interrogatory was addressed.
“A gentleman—a real gentleman. You ought to know who I mean?”
“I ought to know! How sir?”
“You han’t heerd, then, what hae’ happened at Stone Dean, this mornin’?”
Bet made no answer. Her look, while proclaiming a negative, told the presentiment with which the question had inspired her.
“You han’t heerd as how Master Holtspur ha’ been tuk a prisoner, and carried away by the kewreseers o’ Captain Scarthe? You han’t heerd that, eh?”
“Oh!” cried Bet, adding a somewhat more emphatic form of ejaculation. “That then is what he meant. I might have known it. O God—it was that!”
“Who meant? What?”
“Walford, Will Walford, oh!—the villain!”
“Thee callest him a villain. Do thy father think him one?”
“When he hears this, he will. Oh! Master Holtspur a prisoner! and to that man who is his deadly enemy! ’Tis Will Walford’s doings—I am sure it is.”
“What makes thee think that, gurl?”
“He said he had done something—this very hour—something to bring it about.”
“Did he say so to thy father?”
“No; only out of spite to me—just as he was going off. My father heard him, but he was too—too sleepy to understand him. If he had—”
“He would ha’ been angry wi’ him—as thou art?”
“I’m sure he would.”
“All right. I thought as much.”
“A prisoner! Oh, sir! where have they taken him to? What will they do to him? Tell me—tell me!”
“I’ll tell thee, when I know myself; and that, gurl, be just the errand ha’ brought me over here. I see it be no use wakin’ up the old ’un just now. Them Hollands’ll keep him a prisoner, till well-nigh sundown. I’ the meanwhile, somethin’ must be done ’ithout him. Maybe you can sarve my purpose, as well, or better’n him—if thee be that way disposed.”
“What purpose? If it be anything I can do for—for—Master Holtspur! Oh, I shall be only too glad.”
“That be just what I want. Thee must know I’m a friend o’ Master Holtspur—an old retainer o’ his family; and I’ll lay down my life, or a’most that, to get him out o’ the clutches o’ these kewreseers. I know theer captain’ll try to get him beheaded. Ah! an’ he’ll get it done too; if we can’t find some way o’ escape for him. It’s to find that, I wants thy help, Mistress Betsey.”
“Tell me how I can help thee—I am ready for anything?” responded the girl.
As she said this, both her air and attitude betokened the truthfulness of her words.
“There be no time to lose, then; else I mout ha’ waited for yer father to go snacks wi’ us. No matter. We can take the first steps without him. It will be for you to go up to Bulstrode—that’s where they’ve taken Master Henry just now; an’ get inside the house. You be known there, beant ye?”
“Oh, yes; I can go in or out when I like. They won’t suspect anything in that.”
“It be more than I could do, wi’ that an’ a good many other houses,” said Garth, smiling significantly, “else I mout ha’ gone myself. But you’ll do better than me—better than anybody, mayhap. Find out, if ye can, first—whether the prisoner be goin’ to be taken up to London; then, what time they’re goin’ to take him; then, what part o’ the house they’ve put him in: for he’s sure to be shut up somewhere. Find out that; an’ as much more as you can; and fetch the whole story back here to me. Maybe by the time you gets back, the old un’ll be awake, an’ ha’ his noddle clear enough to help us think o’ something.”
“I shall go at once,” said Bet, moving in the direction of the door.
“Ay, start right off. The minutes be preecious for Master Henry. Stay! I’ll go with thee a bit. I’ve got another errand out this direction, that’ll just about take up my time, till ye get back. We may as well go thegither—so far as our roads agree. Good-bye, Dick Dancey! Snore on, old un; an’ sleep it off as quick’s ye can: we may want ye badly bye-an’-bye.”
And with this jocular leave-taking, the retired footpad stepped out of the house, and followed the girl—who, eager upon the errand that had summoned her forth, had already advanced some distance along the path.
Their routes did not correspond for any great length. At a distance of two or three hundred yards from the cottage, the path parted into two; one, the plainer one, running towards the rearward of Bulstrode Park; the other—which appeared as if used by only a few individuals—trending in the direction of Will Walford’s domicile.
The daughter of Dick Dancey faced into the former; and, stepping out nimbly, soon disappeared behind the hanging boughs of the beeches.
The ex-footpad, lingering a little to look after her, as soon as she was out of sight, turned into the other path; which would conduct him to the hut of the woodman.
Before going far in this new direction, he once more came to a stop, alongside a big bush of holly, that grew near the path. Drawing a clasp knife from his pocket, he proceeded to cut off one of its largest branches.
Having severed the sapling from its parent stem, he continued to ply his blade upon it, until it had assumed the shape and dimensions of a stout cudgel. The purpose for which this weapon was designed may already have been guessed at. If not, the mutterings which escaped from the lips of Gregory Garth will make clear his intent.
“I don’t want,” said he, paring off some of the more prominent knots with his knife. “I don’t want to kill the brute outright—though he desarve that much, an’ more too. I’ll gie ’im a dose, howsomever, as ’ll keep ’im in-doors, an’ out o’ further mischief—as long as I’m likely to stay in this sogerin’ neighbourhood. He han’t got much o’ a picter to spoil no how; or I’d make his ugly mug that his own mother if he ha’ one, wouldn’t like to swear to it. Next time he goo to play spy, or help others to do’t eyther, he’ll be apt to remember Gregory Garth. Won’t he?
“A tydish bit o’ stick,” he continued, holding up the piece of trimmed holly, and surveying it with an air of satisfaction, “and if I’d let them knots stay on, I shouldn’t like to ha’ answered for the skull case o’ Mister Wull Walford, thick as that be. I dare say it’ll do now, and I maun keep on to his house. Ha! theers his paltry stye, I suppose? I hope the pig’s in o’ it.”
Saying this, he advanced stealthily a few paces, and then stopped to listen.
“Good!” he exclaimed, “the brute be inside: I hear his gruntin’. Dang seize it, it’s a snore! They be all a-sleepin’ this Wapsey’s Wood! Well, I’ll wake him out o’ that, wi’ a heigh an’ a ho; and here goo to begin it!”
On giving utterance to this threat, he started forward at a quick pace. He was soon inside the hut, and standing over the prostrate form of the slumbering woodchopper.
The latter was lying upon a low bed—the true truckle of the peasant’s cottage—a stout structure of beechen timber, with short legs raising it about a foot from the floor.
The occupant of this coarse couch was upon his back, with arms and legs extended to their full length—as if he had been spread out on purpose to dry. But the liquid that had placed him in that attitude was not water. It was a fluid that had been administered internally: as could be told by the stone jar of hollands that stood upon the floor, within reach of his hand; and which his uninvited visitor upon examination found to be empty.
“He’s stolen it from the cellar o’ Stone Dean,” remarked the latter, after smelling the jar, and otherwise scrutinising it. “I know by the sniff o’ the liquor it’s that same; an’ I could sweer to them Dutch bottles afore a full quorum o’ justices. Poor Master Henry! He’s not only been betrayed, but robbed by this ugly rascal. Well, here goo to gie him his reward!”
As Garth uttered the words, he seized his fresh-cut cudgel; and was about to come down with it upon the carcase of the slumbering woodman, when some thought suddenly stayed his hand.
“No!” he exclaimed; “I’ll wake him first, and gie him a bit o’ my mind. If he ha’ the feeling o’ a human creeture, I’ll first punish him i’ the moral way—as the Vicar o’ Giles’s Chaffont ’ud call it.”
“Hee up!” he shouted aloud, poking the sleeper with the point of his stick. “Roust thee, thou sluggart, and see what’s time o’ day! Twelve by the sun, if it’s an hour. Hee up, I say!”
Another poke of the stick, administered still more sharply than before, like its predecessor, produced no effect—or only the slightest. The inebriate rustic continued to snore; and only a low grunt declared his consciousness of having been disturbed; though it seemed more the mechanical action of the cudgel, that had been pushed rather forcibly into the pit of his stomach.
“Hee up!” cried Garth, once more giving him a taste of the holly stick. “Rouse thyself, I say! If ye don’t, I’ll wallop ye in your sleep. Roust! roust!”
At each summons the poke was repeated; but with no better success than before. The deeper gave forth a series of spasmodic grunts; but still continued to snore on.
“But for his snorin’, I’d think he wur gone dead,” said Garth, desisting from his attempts to awake him. “If not dead, however, he be dead drunk. That’s clear enough!”
“It be no use trying to bring him to his senses?” continued he, after appearing to reflect. “And what’s worse, ’twill be no use beatin’ him in that state. The unfeelin’ brute as I may well call him wouldn’t feel it no how. I mout as well strike my stick against that theer bundle o’ faggots. It’s danged disappointin’! What be the best thing to do wi’ him?”
The puzzled footpad stood for a while reflecting; then continued:—
“’Twoan’t do to ha’ tuk the trouble o’ comin’ here for nothin’—beside the cuttin’ o’ this cudgel. If I lay it into him now, he woan’t feel it, till after he gets sober. That an’t the satisfaction I want. I want to see him feel it.”
Again the speaker paused to consider.
After a moment or two his eyes began to wander around the walls—as if some design had suggested itself, and he was searching for the means to carry it into execution.
Presently an object came under his gaze that appeared to fix it.
It was a coil of rope, or thick cord—that had been thrown over one of the couplings of the roof, and was hanging within reach of his hand.
“That be the best way, I take it,” said he, resuming his soliloquy, “an’ I dar say this’ll do. It appear a stoutish piece, o’ string,” he continued, dragging the cord from off the coupling, and trying its strength between hand and heel. “Yes; it be strong enough to hold a bull on his back—let alone a pig like him; and just long enough to make four ties o’t. It’s the very identical.”
Once more taking out his knife, he cut the cord into four nearly equal pieces. He then proceeded to carry out the design that had shaped itself in his mind; and which, judging by his satisfied air as he set about it, appeared as if it promised to extricate him from his dilemma.
This was simply to strap the drunken man to his truckle; and leave him there—until his restoration to a state of sobriety should render him sensible of the chastisement which he, Garth, intended to return and administer!
As the woodchopper lay with arms and limbs stretched out to their full length, his inviting attitude appeared to have suggested to Garth this mode of dealing with him.
Chuckling over his work, with the quickness of an expert in the handling of ropes, the footpad now proceeded to the accomplishment of his task.
In a few minutes’ time, he had fastened the wrists and ankles of the sleeper to the trestles of his couch. This done, he stepped back to take a survey; and as he stood over the unconscious captive, with arms-a-kimbo, he broke forth into a fit of uproarious laughter.
“An’t he a beauty, as he lays theer?” said he, as if interrogating some unseen individual. “A reglar babe o’ the woods! Only wants the Robin-redbreasts to kiver him wi’ a scattering o’ beech leaves! Now,” added he, apostrophising the fast-bound sleeper, “you stay theer till I coom back! I don’t say it ’ll be inside the twenty-four hours; but if ’tan’t, don’t be impatient, an’ fret yourself ’bout my absence. I’ve promised I’ll coom; an’ you may be sure o’t. For the present, Master Wull Walford, I’ll bid you a good mornin’!”
Saying this, and placing his cudgel in a corner—where he might readily lay hands upon it again—Garth stepped forth from the hut; carefully closed the door behind him; and took the back track towards the cottage in which he had left the other inebriate Dancey. Him he now hoped to find in a more fit state, for acting as his co-partner in a scheme, he had partially conceived for the rescue of his imprisoned patron.