Volume 3 Chapter 19 - The White Gauntlet by Mayne Reid
To bring our drama to a dénouement, only two more scenes require to be described.
Two scenes were they, antagonistic in character,—though oft coupled together, like their emblematical deities in the pagan Pantheon.
Over the first, presided Mars. The god called cruel—and not always just—on this occasion, gave the victory to the side that deserved it.
For three years had the trumpet of war been braying loudly over the land: and England’s best blood, marshalled into the field, was arrayed on both sides of the fraternal strife. The combatants had become known as royalist and republican: for the latter phrase—first breathed by Holtspur in the secret conference at Stone Dean—was no longer a title to be concealed. On the contrary, it had become openly avowed—proclaimed as a thing to be proud of—as it ever will and must among enlightened and noble men.
There were heard also the words “Cavalier” and “Roundhead;” but these were only terms of boasting and reproach—proceeding principally from the lips of ribald royalists, humiliated by defeat, and giving way to the ferocious instincts that have distinguished “Toryism” in all times; alas! still rife at the present day, both in the tax-paying shires of England, and the slave-holding territories outré the Atlantic.
The “Cavalier” of Charles’s time—so specifically styled—was a true sham; in every respect shabby as his modern representative, the swell—distinguished only by his vanity and his vices; with scarce a virtue: for, even in the ordinary endowment of courage, he was not equal to his “Roundhead” antagonist. His title of “cavalier,” and his “chivalry,” like that of the Southern slave-driver, were simply pseudonyms—a ludicrous misapplication of terms, self-appropriated by a prurient conceit.
It had come to the meeting on Marston Moor—that field ever to be remembered with pride by the lovers of liberty. The rash swaggerer Rupert, disregarding the counsels of a wiser head, had sallied forth from York, at the head of one of the largest armies ever mustered on the side of the king. He had already raised the siege, so gallantly protracted by the Marquis of Newcastle; and, flushed with success, he was in haste to crush the ci-devant besiegers; who, it must be confessed, with some dispirit were retiring—though slowly, and with the sulky reluctance of wounded lions.
Rupert overtook them upon Marston Moor; where, to his misfortune, they had determined on making stand.
It is not our purpose to describe that famous fight—which for a time settled the question between Throne and Tribune. Of the many thrilling episodes witnessed on Marston Moor, one only can be of interest in this narrative; and it alone is given.
Among the followers of the impetuous prince was one Richard Scarthe—late promoted to be a colonel, and commanding a “colour” of cuirassier horse. On the opposite side, among the following of Fairfax, was an officer of like rank—a colonel of cavalry—by name Henry Holtspur.
Was it destiny, or mutual design, that brought these two men together, face to face, in the middle of the fight? It may have been chance—a simple coincidence—but whether or no, of a certain they so met upon Marston Moor.
Scarthe rode at the head of his glittering troop. Holtspur astride his sable charger, gallantly conducted into the field the brave yeomen of Bucks clad in cloth doublets of forest green,—each bestriding a horse he had led from his own stable, to figure in this glorious fight for freedom.
While still a hundred yards separated the opposing parties, their leaders recognised one another. There was also a mutual recognition among their men: for many of those commanded by Scarthe were the cuirassiers who had been billeted at Bulstrode mansion; while many of the “green coats” in the following of the black horseman had figured conspicuously in that crowd who had jeered the soldiers on their departure from its park.
On identifying each other as old antagonists there was a general desire on both sides to be led forward. This impulse, however, was stronger in the breasts of the two leaders; who, without waiting to give the word to their men, put spurs to their horses, and galloped across the intervening space. In a second’s time, both had separated from the general line of battle, and were fast closing upon each other.
Their followers taken by surprise at this unexpected action, for a moment remained without imitating their rapid advance. Two young officers only—one from each side—had ridden after their respective chiefs; not as if stirred by their example, but to all appearance actuated by an analogous hostility.
The action of these youths,—known to their comrades as the cornets Stubbs and Wade—did not attract any particular attention. The eyes of all were upon the two chiefs—Scarthe and Holtspur—each exhibiting that mien that proclaimed him determined upon the death of his adversary.
In the breast of Scarthe raged the fires of a long enduring rancour—fed by the remembrance of former defeats—stimulated to a fiendish fierceness by never-dying jealousy.
In the bosom of Holtspur burned a nobler flame—an impulse altogether unselfish—though not less impelling him towards the destruction of his antagonist.
The proud republican saw before him a true type of the Janizary—one of those minions who form the protecting entourage of tyrants—ready to ride over and oppress the peoples of the Earth—ready even to die in their infamous harness—on the battle-field breathing with their last breath that senseless, as contradictory declaration; that they die for king and country!
Holtspur had no personal antipathy to Scarthe—at least none like that by which he was himself regarded.
Notwithstanding the wrongs which the latter had attempted to inflict upon him, his antagonism to the royalist officer was chiefly of a political character—chiefly the sublime contempt which a republican must needs feel for a partisan of monarchy—whether simpleton or villain: since one of the two he must be. It was sufficient, however, to stimulate him to a keen desire to kill Scarthe—such as the shepherd may feel for destroying the wolf that has been preying upon his innocent fold, or the game-keeper the “vermin” that has been spoiling his master’s preserves.
Nerved by noble thoughts—confident in a holy cause—sure of the thanks of millions yet to be—did the soldier of liberty charge forward upon his adversary.
The action was instantaneous; the event quick as the killing of a stoat, crushed beneath the heel of the irate keeper. In less than a score of seconds—after the commencement of the encounter—Scarthe lay motionless upon the turf of Marston Moor—doubled up in his steel equipments, like a pile of mediaeval armour!
By this time the two comets were crossing swords; but before either could give the other a death wound, the royalist bugles brayed the “Retreat;” and the gallant “green coats,” sweeping over the field, put the discomfited cuirassiers to flight; who from that moment, with the rest of Rupert’s army, made more use of their spurs, than their sabres.
One more act, and the curtain must close upon our drama.
The mise en scène of this act has been already presented; and, as often on the stage, it is again repeated; with but little change in the dramatis personae.
Bulstrode Park is once more enlivened by a fête champètre—as before, the old Saxon camp being its arena.
An occasion, even more joyful than then, has called together the friends of Sir Marmaduke Wade; in which category might be comprised every honest man in the shire of Bucks.
The camp enclosure is capable of containing many thousands. It is full: so full, that there is hardly room for the sports of wrestling and single stick, bowls, and baloon—which are, nevertheless, carried on with zealous earnestness by their respective devotees.
What is the occasion? Another son come of age? It cannot be that: since there is but one heir to Sir Marmaduke’s estate; and his majority has been already commemorated?
It is not that. An event of still greater interest has called together the concourse in question. A double event it might be designated: since upon this day the knight of Bulstrode has given away two brides; one to his own son—the other to an “adventurer,” formerly known as Henry Holtspur, the “black horseman,” but of late recognised as Sir Henry —, a colonel in the Parliamentary army, and a member of the Parliament itself.
I have told who are the bridegrooms. I need not name the brides: you have already guessed them!
Behold the two couples, as they stand upon the green-tufted bank—overlooking the sports—pleased spectators of the people’s enjoyment.
For a short while your eyes will rest upon the more youthful pair—the pretty Lora Lovelace, and her cousin-husband Walter.
’Tis well you have first looked upon them: for your eye will scarce care to return to them. Once bent upon Marion Wade, it will not wish to wander away. There you will behold all those hues most distinguished in nature—the blue of the sky—the gold scattered by the sun—the radiance of the rose. Shapes, too, of divine ideal corresponding to such fair colours: the oval of the forehead; the arched outline of the nose; the spiral curving of the nostrils; the hemisphere expressed in two contiguous bosoms; and the limitless parabola passing downward from her lithesome waist—are all conspicuous proofs that, in the construction of Marion Wade, Nature has employed the most accomplished architects—in her adornment, the most skilful of artists.
The crowd has eyes for no one else. She is alike the cynosure of gentle and simple. It is only when these reflect on their late acquired privileges, that they gaze with grateful pride upon the man who stands by her side,—recognised by all present as one of the patriot heroes who has helped them to their liberty.
On this day of the double marriage, as on that of Walter’s majority, there are morris-dancers; and, as before, are personated the “merry men” of Sherwood Forest. But, with some unnoticeable exceptions, the individuals who now figure as the representatives of the outlawed fraternity are not the same. The huge bearded man, who in grotesque attire personifies Little John, can be recognised as the ex-footpad Gregory Garth. No wonder he plays the part to perfection! The representative of Robin Hood is different; and so also she who performs the métier of Maid Marian.
The latter is a girl with golden hair; and the outlaw chief is the ex-cuirassier Withers—long since transformed into a staunch supporter of the Parliament.
Why is Bet Dancey not there as of yore? And where is the woodman Walford?
There are few upon the ground who could not answer these questions: for the sad tragedy, that will account for the absence of both, is still fresh in the minds of the multitude.
A middle-aged man of herculean frame, leaning against a tree, looks sadly upon the sports. All knew him to be old Dick Dancey the deer-stealer. His colossal form is bowed more than when last seen; for he has not been abroad for months. He has come forth to the marriage fête for the first time—from his lone forest hut; where for months he has been mourning the loss of his only child—daughter. There is sadness in his glance, and sorrow in his attitude. Even the ludicrous sallies of his friend and confederate, Garth, cannot win from him a smile; and, as he looks upon the timid fair-haired representative of Maid Marian, and remembers his own brave, and brown, and beautiful Betsey, a tear, telling of a strong heart’s despair, can be seen trickling down his rudely furrowed cheek.
Ah! the brave and beautiful Betsey—for she was both—well may her father sorrow for her fate: for it was one of the saddest. Her love—her wild passion—for Henry Holtspur, however unholy in its aim, was hallowed by truth, and ennobled by generous unselfishness. It should be regarded with the tear of pity—not the smile of contempt. It led to her untimely end. She died by the hand of the lurching ruffian, who had laid presumptuous claim to her love—by the weapon he had threatened to wield—but dared not—against the man he foolishly believed his rival.
His own end was more just and appropriate. That with which, during all his life, he had been warring, was called into requisition to expedite his exit from the world. He terminated his existence upon a tree!
The fête celebrating the double marriage—unlike its predecessor, came to a conclusion, without being interrupted by any unpleasant incident. Everybody on the ground seemed happy; excepting, perhaps, the bereaved father, Dick Dancey, and one other who was present—almost without a purpose—Dorothy Dayrell.
If she had come with a purpose, it must have been to criticise.
But her piquant satire had now lost its point; and no one seemed to sympathise with her, when in allusion to the love-token that appeared conspicuously in the hat of Marion’s husband, she made these somewhat fast observations:—
“A white glove! In truth, a true symbol of a woman just become wife! Now spotless as snow—soon to be soiled—perchance cast away in contempt! Nous verrons!”
The hypothetical prophecy found no supporters, among those to whom it was addressed. Perhaps no one—save the spiteful prophetess—either believed, or wished, that such should be the fate of The White Gauntlet.
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The End.