Volume 2 Chapter 16 - The White Gauntlet by Mayne Reid
It yet wanted some minutes of midnight, on that same day, when three individuals were seen issuing out through the narrow doorway of Dick Dancey’s cottage, and starting off along the path towards Bulstrode Park.
They were two men and a woman—the last so shrouded in cloak and hood, that her age could not be guessed at, except from her lithe form and agile step—both proclaiming her to be young.
The cloak, of a deep crimson colour, was the property of Bet Dancey; and it was Bet’s bold figure it enveloped.
Her companions were her own father, and Gregory Garth.
As the narrow path prevented them from walking side by side, they proceeded in single file—the ex-footpad in the lead, Dancey close following upon his heels, and Bet bringing up the rear.
This arrangement was not favourable to conversation in a low tone of voice; and, as the errand, on which they were going abroad at that late hour of night, might be supposed to require secrecy, by a tacit understanding between them, all three preserved silence, throughout the whole time they were travelling along the forest path.
Wapsey’s Wood was separated from the park by a tract of pasture—interspersed with patches of gorse and heather. Through this the path ran direct to a rustic stile—which permitted a passage over, the palings. Inside the enclosure was a broad belt of heavy timber—oak, elm, and chestnut—through which the track continued on towards the dwelling.
It was the south-western wing of Sir Marmaduke’s mansion that was thus approached; and, the timber once traversed, a portion of the building might be seen—with the walls enclosing the courtyard at the back. The garden, with its fruit trees and ornamental shrubbery, extended in this direction—with its encircling fence; but this being constructed in the style of a moat, and, of course, sunk below the surface of the general level, was not visible from a distance.
After passing silently over the stile, the trio of night promenaders forsook the ordinary path; and kept on towards the house in a circuitous direction.
Having traversed the belt of timber—with the same cautious silence as they had hitherto observed—they arrived upon its edge, opposite the rear of the mansion, and at a point some hundred yards distant from the moated wall. There, as if by mutual agreement, they came to a stop—still keeping under the shadow of the trees.
If this precaution was for the purpose of concealment, it was superfluous: for the night was pitch dark—like that which had preceded it—and in the sky above there were similar indications of a storm. It was in effect a repetition of that electric congestion, that had disturbed the atmosphere on the previous night—to be in like manner dispersed by a deluge of rain.
Between the timber and the shrubbery that surrounded the dwelling, lay a piece of open pasture—with tall trees standing over it, at wide intervals apart. Had it been daylight, or even moonlight, from the point where they had paused, a view of the dwelling-house—comprising the buildings at the back, and a portion of its western façade—could have been distinctly obtained. As it was, they could only make out a sombre pile, dimly outlined against the dark leaden canopy of heaven; though at intervals, as the lightning shot across the sky, the walls and windows, glancing under its momentary glare, could be traced as distinctly as by day.
After arriving at their post of observation, the three individuals, who had come from Dancey’s cottage, continued for a time to preserve a silence that spoke of some important design. The eyes of all three were turned towards the dwelling; and, as the electric blaze illumined their faces, it disclosed the features of all set in a serious expression.
No light could be seen in any of the windows looking westward; and, at that hour, it might have been supposed that the inmates of the mansion had all retired to rest. But there were also windows in the outbuildings; and a faint gleam flickering from one or two of these told, that, either some of the domestics of the establishment, or the troopers quartered upon it, were still burning the midnight oil.
The great gateway, that gave entrance into the courtyard, was visible from this point. When the lightning flashed, they could distinguish the huge oaken folding doors, and see that they were shut; but, while darkness was on, a tiny stream of yellowish light projecting through an aperture underneath, told, that a lamp was burning behind it, inside the archway.
There was no sound to indicate that any one was stirring within the establishment. Occasionally a horse could be heard neighing in the stables, in answer to one that wandered over the pastures of the park—and a dog or two, taking their cue from the king of the domestic quadrupeds, would for some seconds keep awake the hollow echoes of the courtyard with their resonant baying.
While Garth and his two coadjutors were still listening, the great clock—from the tower that overtopped the mansion—tolled the hour of twelve.
“Thee be quite sure, gurl,” said the former, breaking silence, for the first time since leaving the domicile of Dancey, “thee be quite sure about the hour?”
“Quite sure,” replied Bet, repeating the words of her interrogator. “He said twelve. He said he would be on guard all the night; but from twelve till two would be his turn as sentry over the prisoner. The room is just yonder, inside the archway—where you see the light coming through.”
“The old storeroom it be,” put in Dancey. “I know it well. Many’s the fat buck I hae carried in theer, afore Sir Marmaduke took a notion I stealed his deer, an’ gied me the sack from lookin’ after them. Gad! them were better times for Dick Dancey!”
“Did he say you was to come exact at twelve?” pursued Garth, without heeding the interpolation of the discharged keeper.
“No,” replied Bet, “not exact at twelve, but soon after. He told me not to come near, until the guard had been changed awhile, and the men relieved—I think he called it—should go back into the courtyard.”
“How war ye to know that?”
“He said he would set the lamp down upon the pavement, close to the big door. When I should see the light shining out at the bottom, I was to tap at the wicket, and he’d open it.”
“Well, it be shinin’ out at the bottom now, and has been for some time—before the clock struck. Is that the way he meant it?”
“No. There’s a hole—where the cats go out and in. He’s to put the lamp there.”
“Then it han’t been sot there yet. We must keep a sharp look out for’t. ’Twon’t do to lose a preecious minnit. Thee be sure he sayed, he’d let thee speak wi’ Master Henry?”
“He did; he promised me faithfully—I had to give him a promise.”
“What did thee promise him, my gull?” demanded Dancey, in a serious tone.
“Oh, nothing much, father,” replied Bet, “nothing much; considering what I did it for.”
“Never mind your daughter, Dancey. She be old enough to take care o’ herself. The gurl ’ll do what’s right, I warrant her.”
“Ay, and that wouldn’t have been any good,” pursued Bet, “he’d never have consented to let me in, but that he believes I’m sent by a great lady. I had to tell him that story, God forgive me!”
“It be only a white lie, gurl,” said Garth, in a tone of encouragement. “If every lie as be told war in as good a cause, they’d all be forgiven up yonder, I dar say.”
As Garth said this, he turned his eyes reverently upward. “Ho!” cried he, lowering them suddenly; and directing his glance towards the gateway, “Yonner it be! The lamp’s in the cat-hole!”
Under one of the folds of the great oaken door—conspicuous through the aperture already spoken of—a disc of dull yellowish light was now visible; which on scrutiny could be seen to be burning inside a lamp of not very translucent glass. It was one of the common stable lanthorns of the establishment—now doing guard duty in the quarters of the cuirassier troop.
The signal was too marked to be mistaken.
The girl, on perceiving it, only waited for some farther instructions—given in a hurried manner by her two companions; and which were but the impressive repetition of those already imparted, previous to sallying forth from the cottage.
As soon as she had received them, she drew her cloak closely round her; and, gliding across the stretch of open pasture, arrived in front of the great gateway—inside of which was imprisoned the man, for whose sake she was about to risk moral shame, and perhaps personal punishment!
In front of the wicket, she paused for some minutes—partly to recover her breath lost, in the hurried traverse across the pasture—and partly to strengthen her resolution of carrying through the task she had undertaken.
Bold as was the heart of the deer-stealer’s daughter, it was not without misgivings at that moment. Might not the soldier have summoned her thither to betray her? Might he not have contrived some design to get her within his power? Perhaps accuse her of treason to the king; or, by the threat of such accusation, endeavour to procure her compliance with some love proposals he had already half-hinted to her?
On the other hand, these proposals were not exactly of an insulting nature. There had been a certain degree of soldierly honour in the intercourse that had passed between herself and Withers—for Withers it was who had invited her to share his hours of guard.
She had slightly known the young man, previous to his enlistment into the corps of cuirassiers; and although he had since passed through a malignant school, she could scarcely believe him so bad as those with whom he was associating.
At that crisis, however, it mattered little how bad he might be. She had gone too far to think of withdrawing from the danger. She was too near the man she loved—with the full, fierce ardour of her outcast heart—too near to go back, without making an effort to see, and, if possible, save him. As the thought of his danger came once more before her mind, she threw aside all regard for consequences; and, advancing with fearless step, she knocked gently, but resolutely, against the door.
Close succeeding this preconcerted signal, the tread of a trooper’s boot was heard on the pavement inside, and with a subdued sound that denoted caution. Some one was approaching the wicket.
On reaching the door, the footfall ceased to be heard; and the wicket was opened with a silence, that bespoke expectancy, on the part of him who drew back the bolt.
Very different from the salutation of a sentry—the bold brusque “Who goes there?”—was the soft whisper that fell upon the ears of the person claiming admission.
“Is it you, sweet Betsey?” asked the soldier; and then, without waiting for a verbal answer to his interrogatory, he continued: “Come in, dear girl! I have been so longing for twelve o’clock, I thought it would never strike up there. I believe the old timepiece be out o’ tune. It an’t often I’m so weary for my turn o’ the night guard. Come in!”
The girl having got over the slight shiver of timidity—that had temporarily possessed her—accepted the invitation; and, stepping over the threshold of the wicket, stood inside the arched entrance which formed a covered passage between the gate and the courtyard beyond.
This passage was only illuminated by the lanthorn; which, from its position at the bottom of the door—where it had been placed to effect the signal—gave out but a feeble light. As Withers, at that moment, had no wish for a better, the lamp was allowed to remain where he had placed it.
There was enough light proceeding from it to show the side door conducting into the storeroom—the improvised prison of Henry Holtspur—which was the chief point the sentry had been instructed to guard. Upon this door the eyes of his visitor became directed, as soon as she had entered under the archway; and to it her glance kept constantly returning—despite the efforts of Withers to fix it upon himself.
He could not help observing the air of abstraction with which his supposed sweetheart listened to his protestations of love. He noticed her glance repeatedly directed towards the door of the storeroom, with an eagerness that caused him some chagrin; though he was only annoyed, that so little attention was being paid to his own blandishments.
Had he suspected the true cause of Bet Dancey’s indifference, the door of Holtspur’s prison would not have turned upon its hinges that night—at least not during Withers’ tour of guard.
“Come, Mistress Betsey!” said he, in his endeavours to secure a greater share of the girl’s attention. “Don’t talk about that affair just yet. You can deliver your message to the gentleman bye-and-bye. ’Twon’t take long, I suppose?”
“Only a minute,” replied Bet, “and that’s just why I want to have it over.”
“Ah! that,” said Withers, beginning to flatter himself that his sweetheart was impatient to get through with the more disagreeable part of her errand, so as to have it off her hands. “Ah! well; of course. Mistress Betsey—”
“You know,” interrupted the girl, “one should always do their business first? Business first, and pleasure afterwards.”
“Bah!” muttered Withers, “that an’t always the best way; leastwise, not to you or me. Let the business stand over a bit.”
“Oh! no, no!” answered Betsey with increasing impatience. “If the lady who sent me only knew that I was trifling in this way, there would be a trouble. I’d not get the reward she has promised me. You can’t believe how impatient she’ll be, till she hears the answer I’m to take back to her!”
“Oh! bother her impatience! Let her wait, charming Betsey!”
“Nay, Master Withers; listen to reason. Suppose it was you who were in prison; and some one wanted to hear from you: myself for instance. Would you say, ‘let her wait,’ then? I pray you, don’t detain me now: you can see me to-morrow. Come to the cottage; and stay as long as you like. Father will be from home; and you may talk as much nonsense as you have a mind to.”
“What a seducing Syren!” said her suitor, evidently gratified at the pretty programme thus sketched out for him, “Well! I agree to it. But you must give me a kiss before you go in; and promise me another on, you’re coming out.”
“With all my heart!” readily responded the representative of Maid Marian, “You’re welcome to a kiss. Take it.”
And, without waiting for Withers to fling his arms around her, or even meet her half-way, she craned her neck forward, and pressed her protruded lips against the rough cheek of the trooper!
“There now!” was the ejaculation that accompanied the loud smacking noise caused by the contact, “will that satisfy you?”
“No, dear Betsey; nor a hundred thousand of the same. With such sweetness a man would never be satisfied; but always awantin’ more. Ah! they may talk about them girls in Flanders. Gi’ me the kiss o’ an English lass. It’s got the jiniwine flavour about it.”
“All flattery! Come now! keep your promise—if you expect me to keep mine, when I come out again.”
“I’ll do it, sweet. But hark’ee! Don’t make no noise inside. If the guard corporal should come round and find what’s goin’ on, he’d change me from a sentry to a prisoner—in less time than it ’ud take to tell what’s o’clock. Ah! now; one more afore you go in?”
The girl, without hesitation, a second time delivered her cheek to be kissed by the ready lips of her soldier lover; and then, muttering something like a promise—to permit more than one repetition of the dose when she should come out again—the storeroom door was opened to her; and, without further interruption, she was admitted within the precinct of Holtspur’s prison.