Volume 3 Chapter 18 - The White Gauntlet by Mayne Reid
Scarthe stood for a time astounded—stupefied. Had Marion Wade gone mad? Her singular behaviour seemed to say so.
But no. There appeared to be method in the movement she had made. As she glided through the open casement, he had observed, that her eye was fixed upon something outside—something that must have influenced her to the making of that unexpected exit.
On recovering from his surprise, the cuirassier captain hastened towards the window; but, before reaching it, he heard sounds without, conducting him to alarming conjectures. They might have been unintelligible, but for the sight that came under his eyes as he looked forth.
A crowd was coming up the main avenue of the park—a crowd of men. They were not marching in order, and might have been called a “mob;” although it consisted of right merry fellows—neither disorderly nor dangerous. The individuals who composed it appeared to be of every condition in life, and equally varied as to their costumes. But the greater number of them could be identified as men of the farmer and mechanic class—the “bone and sinew” of the country.
The miller under his hoary hat; the butcher in his blood-stained boots; the blacksmith in grimy sheepskin; the small shopkeeper, and pale-faced artisan; the grazier and agriculturist of ruddy hue—alongside the tavern-keeper and tapster of equally florid complexion—could be distinguished in that crowd coming on towards the walls of Bulstrode mansion.
The cuirassier captain had seen such an assemblage before. It might have been the same, that saluted him with jeers—as he crossed the Colne bridge, returning from his unsuccessful pursuit of the black horseman. With slight exceptions, it was the same.
One of these exceptions was an individual, who, mounted on horseback, was riding conspicuously in front; and who appeared to occupy a large share of the attention of those who followed him. He was a man of mature age, dressed in dark velvet tunic, and with trunk-hose of a corresponding colour. A man with an aspect to inspire regard—even from a crowd to which he might have been a stranger.
But he was evidently no stranger to the men who surrounded him: for at every step of their progress, they could be heard vociferating in hearty hurrah, “Long live Sir Marmaduke Wade!”
It was the Knight of Bulstrode who headed that cheerful procession.
Though much-loved, Sir Marmaduke did not monopolise the enthusiasm of the assemblage. Mounted upon a magnificent horse—black as a coal fresh hoisted upon the windlass—rode by his side a cavalier of more youthful, but equally noble, aspect.
It did not need the cry, “Hurrah for the black horseman!” at intervals reaching his ears, to apprise Captain Scarthe, who was the second cavalier at the head of the approaching cortege. The images of both horse and rider were engraven upon his memory—in lines too deep ever to be effaced.
What the devil did it mean?
This was the thought in Scarthe’s mind—the identical expression that rose to his lips—as he looked forth from the opened casement.
Sir Marmaduke Wade, on horseback—unguarded—followed by a host of sympathising friends! The rebel Henry Holtspur riding by his side! Marion with her yellow tresses afloat behind her—like a snow-white avalanche under the full flood of a golden sunlight—gliding forward to meet them!
“What the devil can it mean?” was the interrogatory of Captain Scarthe repeatedly put to himself, as the procession drew near.
He was not allowed much time to speculate on a reply to his self-asked question. Before he had quite recovered from the surprise caused by the unexpected sight, the crowd had closed in to the walls; where they once more raised their voices in shouts of congratulation.
“Three cheers for John Hampden!” “Three more for Pym!” were proposed, and unanimously responded to. With equal unanimity were accepted two cries, of far more significance in the ear of the royalist officer: “Long live the Parliament!” “Death to the traitor Strafford!”
Though still unable to account for what appeared to him some strange travestie, Scarthe could endure it no longer. Strafford was his peculiar patron; and, on bearing him thus denounced, he sprang forth from the casement; and ran with all speed in the direction of the crowd.
The cuirassier captain was followed by a score of his troopers, who chanced to be standing near—like himself at a loss to make out the meaning of that unlooked-for invasion.
“Disloyal knaves!” shouted he, confronting the crowd, with his sword raised in a threatening manner, “Who is he that has dared to insult the noble Strafford? Let me hear that traitorous phrase once more; and I shall split the tongue that repeats it!”
“Not so fastish, Master!” cried a stalwart individual, stepping to the front, and whose black bushy whiskers, and fantastic fashion of dress, proclaimed him to be the ex-footpad, Gregory Garth—“doan’t a be so fastish wi’ your threets—you mayen’t be able to carry ’em out so easyish as you suppose. Ye can have a try, though. I’m one o’ them as cried: ‘Death to the treetur Strafford!’”
As he pronounced the challenging speech, Garth drew from its scabbard a huge broadsword—at the same time placing himself in an attitude of defence.
“Goo it, Gregory!” cried another colossal individual, recognisable as Dick Dancey, the deer-stealer. “Gooit like bleezes! I’ll stan’ to yer back.”
“And we!” simultaneously shouted a score of butchers, bakers, and blacksmiths, ranging themselves by the side of Garth, and severally confronting the cuirassiers—who had formed a phalanx in rear of their chief.
Scarthe hesitated in the execution of his threat. He saw that his adversaries, one and all of them, wielded ugly weapons; while his own men had only their light side-arms—some even without arms of any kind. The attitude of the opposing party—their looks, words, and gestures—told that they were in earnest in their resolution to resist. Moreover, it was stronger than his own; and constantly gaining accessions from the crowd in the rear.
With the quick perception of a skilled strategist, Scarthe saw that in a hand-to-hand fight with such redoubtable antagonists, his men would have the worst of it. This influenced him to pause in his purpose.
The unexpected opposition caused him to change his design. He suddenly resolved to retire from the contest; arm and mount his whole troop; sally forth again; and rout the rabble who had so flagrantly defied him.
Such was the project that had presented itself to his brain; but before he could make any movement, Sir Marmaduke had dismounted from his horse, and placed himself between the opposing parties.
“Captain Scarthe!” said he, addressing himself to the officer, and speaking in a calm tone—in which a touch of irony was perceptible; “In this matter, it appears to me, you overstep the limits of your duty. Men may differ in opinion about the merits of the ‘noble Strafford,’ as you have designated Thomas Wentworth. He is now in the hands of his judges; who will no doubt deal with him according to his deserts.”
“Judges!” exclaimed Scarthe, turning pale as he spoke; “Earl Strafford in the hand of judges?”
“It is as I have said. Thomas Wentworth as this moment occupies the same domicile which has been my dwelling for some days past; and from which I am not sorry to have been ejected. I know, Captain Scarthe, you could not have been aware of this change in the fortunes of your friend: since it was only yesterday he made his entrance into the Tower!”
“Strafford in the Tower!” gasped out the cuirassier captain, utterly astounded at the intelligence.
“Yes,” continued the knight; “and soon to stand, not before the Star Chamber—which was yesterday abolished—but a court that will deal more honestly with his derelictions—the High Court of Parliament. Thomas Wentworth appears in its presence—an attainted traitor to his country.”
“Long live the Parliament! Death to the traitor Strafford!” were the cries that responded to the speech of Sir Marmaduke—though from none to whom the announcement was new. The men, who accompanied the knight to his home, had already learnt the news of Strafford’s attainder; which, like a blaze of cheerful light, was fast spreading over the land.
For some seconds Scarthe seemed like a man bereft of reason. He was about to retire from the spot, when Sir Marmaduke again addressed him—speaking in the same calm voice, but with a more perceptible irony of tone—
“Captain Scarthe,” pursued he, “some time ago you were good enough to bring me a despatch from the king. It is my fortune to be able to reciprocate the compliment—and in kind. I am the bearer of one for you—also from his Majesty, as you may see by the seal.”
Sir Marmaduke, as he spoke, exhibited a parchment bearing the stamp of the royal signet.
“On that occasion,” continued he, “you were good enough to have it read aloud—so that the bystanders should have the benefit of its contents. In this, also shall I follow your example.”
On saying this the knightly bearer of the despatch broke open the seal, and read:—
“To ye Captain Scarthe, commanding ye King’s cuirassiers at Bulstrode Park.
“His Majestie doth hereby command ye Captain Scarthe to withdraw his troops from ye mansion of Sir Marmaduke Wade, and transfer ye same to quarters in our Royal Palace at Windsor; and His Majestie doth further enjoin on his faithful officer, ye said Captain Scarthe, to obey this order on ye instant of receipt thereof.
“Carolus Rex.
“Whitehall.”
The despatch of his “Majestie” was received with a vociferous cheer; though there was not a voice in the crowd to cry “Long live the King!” They knew that the amende, thus made to Sir Marmaduke Wade, was not a voluntary act on the part of the Royal cuckold, but had been wrung from his fears. It was the Parliament who had obtained that measure of justice; and once more rang out the cry:—
“Long live the Parliament!”
Scarthe’s chagrin had culminated to its climax. He was black in the face, as he strode off to make preparations for his departure; and the words “coward” and “poltroon,” muttered hissingly through his closed teeth, were not intended for the citizens who were jeering, but the sovereign who had exposed him to such overwhelming humiliation.
In less than ten minutes after, he was seen at the head of his troop galloping outward through the gates of Bulstrode Park, having left a few stragglers to look after the impedimenta.
He was not likely ever to forget the loud huzza, that rose ironically from the crowd, as his discomfited cuirassiers swept past on their departure.
At the moment of his dismounting, Marion had rushed into the arms of Sir Marmaduke.
“Father!” exclaimed she, joyfully, trembling in his embrace. “Saved! you are safe!”
“Safe, my child! Sure with such a brave following, I may feel safe enough!”
“And I am spared. Oh! to come at such a crisis! Just as I was on the eve of consenting to a sacrifice—painful as death itself.”
“What sacrifice, my daughter?”
“Myself—to him yonder. He promised to obtain your pardon; but only on the condition, I should become—”
Marion hesitated to pronounce the terms that Scarthe had proposed to her.
“I know them,” interposed Sir Marmaduke. “And you would have accepted them, noble girl! I know that too. Thank heaven! my pardon has been obtained, not through the favour of an enemy, but by friends—foremost among whom is this gallant gentleman by my side. But for him, the King’s grace might have come too late.”
Marion looked up. Holtspur, still seated in his saddle, was tenderly gazing upon her.
It was at this moment, that Sir Marmaduke was called upon to interfere between the cuirassiers of Scarthe, and his own enthusiastic escort. For an instant Marion and Holtspur were left alone.
“I thank you, sir,” said she, her voice trembling from a conflict of emotions—“I thank you for my father’s life. The happiness arising from that is some recompense—for—for the misery you have caused me.”
“Misery, Marion? I—I—”
“Oh, sir, let it pass. ’Tis better without explanation. You know what is meant—too well you know it. O Henry! Henry! I could not have believed you capable of such a deception—such cruelty.”
“Cruelty?”
“No more—go—go! Leave me to my sorrow—leave me to a life-long repentance!”
“I obey your commands,” said Holtspur, taking up his bridle-reins, as if with the intention of riding away. “Alas!” he added, in an accent of bitterness, “whither am I to go? For me there is no life—no happiness—where thou art not O God! whither am I to go?”
“To your wife,” muttered Marion, in a low reproachful tone, and with faltering accent.
“Ha! ’tis that! You have heard then?”
“All—all.”
“No—not all—I have no wife.”
“O sir! Henry! Why try to deceive me any longer? You have a wife! I have been told it, by those who know. It is true!”
“I have deceived you. That is true, that only. I had a wife. She is dead!”
“Dead!”
“Ay, dead.”
“I acknowledge my crime,” continued he, after a solemn pause. “I should have told you all. For my justification I can plead only my own wrongs, and your beauty. I loved you, while she was still living.”
“O, mercy! what is this? She is dead; and you love me no more?”
“No more? What mean you, Marion? Heart and hand, soul and body, I am yours. I swore it at our last interview. It cost no sacrifice to keep the oath: I could not break it if I would.”
“O Henry! This is cruel. ’Tis insulting! Have you not kept that promise? How, then, can you be true to your troth?”
“What promise?”
“Cruel—cruel! You are trifling with my misery; but you cannot make it more. Ah! the white gauntlet! When it was brought back—with your message that accompanied it—my dream of happiness came to an end. My heart was broken!”
“Brought back—the white gauntlet—message!”
“Marion!” cried Sir Marmaduke, who had by this time disposed of the pretty quarrel between Scarthe and his own following; “Indoors, my daughter! and see that your father’s house does not forfeit its character for hospitality. There’s dust upon the king’s highway; which somehow or other has got into the throats of our worthy friends from Uxbridge, Denham, and Iver. Surely there’s an antidote in the cellars of Bulstrode? Go find it, my girl!”
Promptly did Marion obey the commands of her father; the more promptly, from having been admonished, by the surprise exhibited in Holtspur’s countenance, that the return of her token would admit of a different interpretation, from that she had hitherto put upon it.
Time permitting, it would be a pleasant task to depict the many joyous scenes that took place in the precincts of Bulstrode Park, subsequent to the departure of Scarthe and his cuirassiers.
Lora, no longer subject to the tiresome importunities of Stubbs, found little else to do than listen to Walter’s pretty love prattlings—excepting to respond to them.
Near at hand were two hearts equally en rapport with one another—equally brimful of beatitude—trembling under a passion still more intense—the one paramount passion of a life, destined to endure to its ending.
It was no young love’s dream,—no fickle fondness—that filled the bosoms of Henry Holtspur and Marion Wade; but a love that burned with a bold, blazing flame—like a torch that no time could extinguish—such a love as may exist between the eagle and his majestic mate.
With all its boldness, it sought not notoriety. The scenes in which it was displayed lay not inside the walls of the proud mansion; nor yet within the enclosure of its park. A spot to Marion Wade reminiscent of the keenest pang she had ever experienced—was now the oft-repeated scene of earth’s purest pleasure—at least its supremest. Oft might the lovers have been seen in that solitary spot, under the spreading beech tree, not recumbent as Tityrus, but seated in the saddles, their horses in close approximation—the noble black steed curving his neck, not in proud disdain, but bent caressingly downward, till his velvet muzzle met in friendly contact with that of the white palfrey.
And yet there was scarce necessity for these clandestine meetings. The presence of Scarthe and his cuirassiers no longer interdicted the entrance of Henry Holtspur into the mansion of Sir Marmaduke Wade—who was ever but too happy to make his preserver welcome.
Why then did the lovers prefer the forest shade, for interviews, that no one had the right to interrupt? Perhaps it was caprice? Perhaps the mystic influence of past emotions—in which, to Marion at least, there was a co-mingling of pain with pleasure? Perhaps, and more probably, their choice was determined by that desire—or instinct—felt by all true lovers, to keep their secret unrevealed—to indulge in the sweetness of the stolen?
Whatever may have been their motive, they were successful in their measures. Oft,—almost daily,—did they meet under the spreading tree whose sombre shadow could not dim the bright colour of Marion’s golden hair, nor make pallid the roseate hue of her cheeks—always more radiant at parting!