The White Gauntlet

“Good! That’s the very direction in which I stand in need of a trusty messenger. I have others I can send towards the north and south, but none who know anything of the Oxford side. You will do. If you are familiar with the roads in that direction, then you must also be acquainted with most of the residences near them – I mean those of the gentry.”

“Oh! ye-e-s,” assented Gregory, in a thoughtful drawl. “I’ve heerd speak o’ most on ’em; an’ I dar say most o’ ’em’s heerd speak o’ me.”

“Could you deliver letters to H – L – , to Sir K. F – , to young M – , son of Lord S., to R – M – , of Cheveley Park, and to Master G. C., a magistrate of the borough of High Wycombe?”

The cavalier, in putting this question, gave the names in full.

“Well,” replied the ex-footpad, “I dare say I kud deliver letters to all the gents you’ve made mention o’ – that be in the order as you’ve named ’em. But if I war to begin whar you’ve left off, then I shud be obligated to leave off, just whar I hed begun.”

“What! I don’t understand you, Gregory.”

“Why, it be simple enough, Master Henry. War I to carry a letter to that old pot-guts Justice o’ High Wycombe, ’taint likely I shud bring back the answer, – much less get leave to go on to the tothers, as you’ve named.”

“How’s that, Garth?”

“Kase ye see Old Wyk an’ hae had a leetlish bit o’ a quarrel– oncest on a time; an’ if he war to see me agin, he might remember that ere diff’rence atween us, an’ jug me. I’ll take yer letters to the tothers; an’ him last o’ all, if ye insist on’t; but if ye do, Master Henry, I won’t promise to bring back any answers.”

“Never mind him, then,” said the cavalier, appearing to give up the idea of communicating with the Wycombe Justice. “You can safely visit all the others, I suppose?”

Gregory nodded assent.

“You must start at once. Ah! I did not think of it; you will stand in need of a horse?”

“No, I woant,” replied the footpad, with a significant smile, “I’ve got one.”

“Oh! the horse you – ”

The cavalier hesitated to finish the speech that had risen to his tongue.

“Why, ye-e-s,” drawled the ex-footpad, “it’s a anymal as has done the King sarvice; an’ I doant see why it shudn’t now be employed in the sarvice o’ the People. If I be allowed to ha’ my guess, Master Henry, I shud say, that’s the errand on which ye be sendin’ me.”

“It is,” assented the cavalier, with emphasis.

“I am glad o’ ’t,” exclaimed Garth, in a tone that betrayed a certain degree of enthusiasm. “Write yer letters, Master Henry; I’ll take ’em whar they’re directed – even if one o’ ’em be to the jailer o’ Newgate!”

The cavalier, gratified by this ebullition, turned smilingly to the table, and commenced preparing the epistles.

In less than an hour the ex-footpad was transformed into a postman; and, mounted upon the stolen steed of the King’s courier, was making his way along the main road that runs between the city of London and the city of Colleges.

At his departure the Indian attendant was called into the room.

“Oriole!” asked the cavalier. “Do you think you can find the way to the cottage of Dick Dancey – the woodman who comes here so frequently? You have been over to his wigwam, haven’t you?”

The Indian made a sign of assent.

“You know the way, then? The moon is still shining. I think you will have no difficulty in finding the place – although there’s not a very clear path to it.”

Oriole’s only rejoinder to this was a slight scornful curling of the lip, as much as to say, “Does the pale-face fancy that I am like one of his own race – a fool to lose my way in a forest?”

“All right, my red-skin!” continued the cavalier, in a jocular strain, “I see you can find the road to Dancey’s. But I want you to go beyond. In the same direction, only half a mile farther on, there is another hut inhabited by another woodman. You have seen him here also – the young man with the hay-coloured hair, and white eyebrows?”

Oriole signified that he had seen the individual; though a certain expression – just discernible in the Indian’s eye – betokened repugnance to the person so described.

“Very well,” continued the cavalier, without appearing to notice the expression. “I want both Dancey and the light-haired man to come to me – so soon as you can summon them. Go to Dancey’s first; and, if you think you cannot find the other, Dancey will go along with you. Tell both to come prepared for a journey of two days. What a pity you can’t talk, my poor fellow! But no matter for that: Dancey will understand your signs.”

The Indian, as if he either did not hear, or heeded not, this expression of sympathy, turned towards the door; and without either sign or ceremony made his spectral-like departure.

“The night of the 29th,” soliloquised Henry Holtspur, as he sate once more pen in hand before his writing-table. “Not much time have they given me. Dick and his prospective son-in-law must start at once. By-the-way, I don’t know whether it’s safe to trust this Walford – though the old deer-stalker believes in him. I’m always suspicions of white eyebrows. I’ve noticed something in his grey green eyes I don’t like; and this very day – after I had espoused the quarrel of his sweetheart too – I saw him looking at me with glances not altogether grateful! Jealous, perhaps, of the girl having given me those flowers? Ah! if he only knew how little her token was cared for, alongside that other token – if he knew how I myself was suffering – perhaps ’twould cure him of his spleen?

“After all he’s but a brutal fellow – far from worthy of being the favourite of this bold forest bird, Bet Dancey. I’faith she’s a hen-hawk, that deserves an eagle for her mate; and I might have given this rough rustic cause to be uncomfortable, but that his black beauty is eclipsed under the glare of that dazzling sunbeam. Ah! Marion! Marion! in thy presence – or absence either – all other faces seem ill-favoured. Charming, or ugly, to my eyes all are alike!

“Come!” continued the cavalier, as the train of his reflections was interrupted by some thought prompting him to the necessity of action. “I must get these letters ready against the arrival of my messengers. There are a dozen, and I’m but an indifferent scribe. Luckily, as they’re only ‘notes of invitation,’ a word to each will be sufficient.”

Saying this, he drew his chair nearer to the table; and proceeded to pen the epistles.

He did not desist from his task, until some ten or twelve letters – sealed and addressed to various individuals, all gentlemen of the county – lay on the table before him.

“These, I think, are all,” muttered he, as he ran his eye over the addresses. “Along with those, whom Garth has gone to summon, a goodly array they will make – all true friends to the cause of England’s liberty!”

This soliloquy was succeeded by the entrance of the Indian – whose dark form came stealing like a shadow under the light of the lamp.

By a pantomimic gesture, his master was told – that the two men, he had gone to fetch, had arrived along with him, and were waiting orders outside.

“Send them in here,” commanded the cavalier. “One at a time. First, Dancey; the other, after Dancey has gone out.”

Oriole instantly vanished; and soon after the tread of a heavily-shod foot was heard in the hall, outside.

There was a single knock, followed by the spoken permission to “Come in.”

The door opened; and the noted deer-stealer stepped into the apartment.

He was a man of immense body and large limbs, somewhat loosely put together; but from sheer size seemingly endowed with herculean strength.

About his face there was nothing to indicate any evil disposition. On the contrary, it had a cheerful honest look; which rather contradicted the character implied by the appellation of deer-stealer. As with his representative of modern days – the poacher – perhaps the stealing of a deer as the snaring of a pheasant, could scarce have been looked upon in the light of a positive theft. At all events, Dick Dancey, who was notorious in this line, was otherwise well regarded by those who had dealings with him.

He was no ordinary man – either in physical or mental conformation; and his huge muscular form, crowned by a capacious head – in which glanced a pair of dark brown eyes keen as an eagle’s – gave him an imposing, if not a fearful, aspect. He was dressed in a doublet of faded cotton velveteen, with trunks of coarser material reaching down to mid thigh. From the bottoms of these to the tops of his heavy cow-skin boots, his limbs were protected by thick woollen hose; while on his head appeared a full-crowned cap made out of the skin of a spotted dog, the long hair ruffing out around the rim.

The accoutrements of this formidable forester were of the simplest. A skin wallet, suspended by a belt passing over his shoulders, hung by his right side; while as if to balance it, a heavy hanger – half-sword, half-knife – dangled against his left hip. A large knotted stick, carried in hand, completed his equipment for the journey – of the nature of which he seemed to have had some previous acquaintance.

“Dancey!” said the cavalier, as soon as the deer-stealer was fairly inside the room, “I want you upon a matter of business. You are an accomplished traveller, I know. Have you any objection to play errand-boy for a couple of days?”

“To carry any message for you, sir,” rejoined the woodman, with a grotesque effort at a bow, “I’d esteem an honour, ’specially after what happened this day, sir; or I moat say yesterday – seein’ it be now near the morrow mornin’. My daughter, sir – I can answer for Bet – she’s a good-hearted gurl, sir, though may be a little too forrard, or that sort; but she be wonderful obleeged, sir, to you, sir.”

“Poh-poh, Dancey; I am not deserving of your daughter’s thanks. What I did in her behalf was only a duty; which I should equally have felt bound to perform for the humblest individual on the ground. Indeed your beautiful daughter did not seem to stand in need of my interference. She had already found a sufficiently chivalric champion in bold Robin Hood – ”

“Ah! sir,” interrupted the deer-stealer, bending down towards his patron, and speaking in a tone of serious confidence, “That’s just where the trouble be. She han’t thanked him; and the poor fellow’s beside hisself, because she won’t make more o’ him. I do all I can to get her take on to him; for I believe Wull Walford to be a worthy lad: an’ he mean well for my gurl. But ’taren’t no use, sir, ne’er a bit on’t. As the sayin’ be, one man may take a horse to the water, but forty can’t make the anymal drink, if he an’t a mind to.”

“I think, friend Dancey,” quietly rejoined the cavalier, “you’ll do well to leave your daughter free to follow her own inclinations – especially in a matter of the kind you speak of. Perhaps her instincts of what’s best for her, in that regard, may be more trustworthy than yours.”

“Ah! sir,” sighed the fond parent of the beautiful Betsey, “If I’d leave her free to foller her own ways, she’d go clear to the devil —she would. Not that she’s a bad sort, my Bet aren’t. No – no – she be a good-hearted gurl, as I’ve already sayed; but she’s too forrard, sir – too forrard, and proud enough to have inclinings for them as be far above her. That’s why she looks down upon Wull: because ye see, sir, he be only a poor woodman; tho’ that’s as much as I be myself.”

The cavalier might have suspected the beautiful Betsey of having other reasons for disliking “Wull Walford;” but it was not the time to talk upon such a theme; and, without further parley he changed the conversation to the business for which he had summoned the old woodman into his presence.

“Here are six letters I want you to deliver,” said he, taking that number from the table.

“You perceive,” he added, holding them up to the light of the lamp, “that I have numbered the letters – in the order in which you will arrive at the houses where you are to deliver them – so that there may be no mistake. I need not add, Dancey, that each is to be delivered with your own hand, or else not at all.”

“I understand what you mean, sir. I don’t part wi’ ere a one o’ ’em, ’cept to the party hisself. You can trust Dick Dancey for that.”

“I know it, Dick; and that’s why I’m giving you all this trouble. I only wish you could have taken these others; but it’s impossible. They’re for a different section of the county; and must go by another hand.”

“Wull Walford’s wi’ me, sir. Ye sent for him too, didn’t ye?”

“I did. You say he can be trusted, Dancey?”

“Oh sir! there’s no fear o’ him. He han’t no love for eyther Church, or King. He has been in the stocks once too often for that.”

“Ha! ha!” laughed the cavalier, “that is but slight recommendation of his trustworthiness. It don’t matter, however. He shall not know much of the nature of his errand; and, therefore there will be no great danger in his carrying the letters.”

Dancey saw that he was expected to take the road at once; and, without further parley, he started off on his distant round of delivery: before leaving the house, however, having fortified himself against the raw air of the night, by a stoup of strong ale – with which Oriole had been directed to supply him.

Will Walford – who among the dramatis personae of the morris dance had performed the rôle of Robin Hood – next presented himself to receive his chapter of instructions.

This worthy had doffed his tunic of Kendal green, and now figured in his proper costume – a jerkin of grey homespun russet, with wide petticoat breeches reaching to mid thigh. The green woollen stockings, in which he had personated the outlaw, still appeared upon his legs – with a pair of heavy hobnailed buskins on his feet. On his head was the high-crowned hat worn at the fête, with a portion of the plume of cock’s feathers still sticking behind its band of scarlet coloured tape.

Altogether the costume of the woodman was not inelegant; and the wearer affected a certain air of rustic dandyism, which showed him conceited of his personal appearance.

He had but slight reason for this vanity, however. At the fête he had proved himself but a poor representative of the chivalrous outlaw of Sherwood-Forest; and, now that he stood partially plucked of his borrowed feathers, he looked altogether unlike the man, whom the beautiful Bet Dancey would have chosen for her champion.

It was a countenance, though naturally of an evil aspect, more sullen than sinister; while the glance of a watery otter-like eye, along with a certain expression of cowardice, betrayed insincerity.

Will Walford was evidently a man not to be trusted – very far. He appeared like one who, to gratify a passion, would turn traitor upon a partisan.

It was just such a suspicion of his character that hindered Henry Holtspur from revealing to him the secret contained within those half-dozen letters – which he now entrusted to him for delivery, after giving him the names of the gentlemen for whom they were intended.

With a promise to perform the duty – apparently sincere – the woodman walked out of the room; but, as he turned off into the shadowy hall, a glance flung back over his shoulder betrayed some feeling towards his patron, anything but friendly.

Still more surly was the look cast upon the young Indian, as the latter – apparently with an unwilling grace – presented him with the parting cup.

There was no word spoken, no health drunk – neither of master, nor man. The ale vessel was emptied in sullen silence; and then thanklessly tossed back into the hands from which it had been received.

A gruff “good-night,” and Will Walford, striding off through the corridor, was soon lost to view.

Oriole turned back into the room occupied by his master; and, stopping near the door, stood waiting, for the latter to look round. On his doing so, the Indian elevated his right arm; and holding it horizontally, with the back of his hand upwards, he described a wide curve in an outward direction from his body.

“Good, you say? Who is good?”

The Indian made a motion, to signify that he had not completed his pantomime.

“Ah! you’ve something to add? Go on!”

The hand was again carried out from the body in a waving direction; but this time with the thumb turned upwards.

“No,” said the cavalier, translating the sign, “not good, you mean to say? He who has just gone off?”

Oriole nodded assent – at the same time placing his fore and middle fingers, joined together, over his mouth; and then separating them as he carried them away from his lips: – thus signifying, that the words of the woodman would proceed in two directions: otherwise, that he was double tongued.

“A liar – a deceiver, you think, Oriole? I have some suspicion of it myself. Do not be afraid; I shall not trust him too far. But come! my faithful red-skin; you must be tired sitting up? Close the door, to keep out the rats and robbers; and get to your bed. I hope we shall have no more visitors to trouble us, till we’ve both had a good night’s rest. Go sleep, my lad.”

So saying, the cavalier lifted up the lamp; stepped forth from the library; and betook himself to his own sleeping apartment.

Volume One – Chapter Twenty Five

On the bold brow of one of the central hills of Bulstrode Park, stood the dwelling – a palatial structure of red brick, with facings of white stone – the latter transported over the sea from the quarries of Caen.

The style of architecture was that known as “Norman” – with thick massive walls, having the circular Roman arch over the doors and windows.

In front was a space appropriated to the purposes of parterre and shrubbery; while to the rearward extended the stables and other offices – enclosing an extensive courtyard between them and the dwelling.

In rear of the outbuildings was the garden – approached through the courtyard by a strong iron wicket; while encircling all – grounds, garden, and houses – was a deep battlemented moat, which imparted to the mansion somewhat of the character of a fortified castle.

On the morning after the fête in Bulstrode Park, the courtyard of the dwelling presented an unusual spectacle. A stranger, entering through the great arched gateway, might have mistaken the square enclosure inside for the yard of a barrack. Horses were standing in rows around the walls – their heads tied up to hooks that had been freshly driven into the mason-work; while men in topped boots, wide hanging hose, and grogram shirts – with sleeves rolled up to the elbows – were engaged in grooming them.

Leathern buckets, containing water, stood by the heels of the horses – where the pavement appeared splashed and wet.

Other men, of similar appearance, might have been seen seated upon benches, or squatted upon the coarse woollen covers of their horses – occupying themselves with the cleaning of armour – furbishing steel cuirasses, cuisses, and helmets, to the sheen of silver, and then hanging them against the walls, under a sort of shed that had been specially erected for their reception.

Under the same shelter large demi-pique dragoon saddles had been placed in rows – astride of long trestles set up for the purpose.

Every available space upon the walls was occupied by a bridle, a pair of spurs, pistols, or holsters, a sword with its belt, or some piece either of offensive, or defensive, armour.

It is scarce necessary to say, that these horses and men – these saddles, bridles, arms, and armour – were the component parts of Captain Scarthe’s troop of cuirassiers, viewed en dishabille.

What with the neighing of steeds that did not belong to the place, the barking of dogs that did, and the swearing and gibbering of threescore men in half-a-dozen distinct languages, the usually quiet courtyard of Sir Marmaduke’s mansion had been transformed into a sort of Pandemonium: for, to say nothing of any other sounds, the conversation usually carried on among Scarthe’s cuirassiers was not unlike what might be heard – could one only penetrate into that mythical locality.

Notwithstanding their noted ruffianism, they appeared to be behaving better than was their wont – as if under some unusual restraint. They were merry enough – no doubt from being installed in such comfortable quarters – but they did not appear to exhibit any offensive attitude towards the inmates of the mansion.

If by chance a pretty housemaid tripped across the courtyard – on some errand to the garden, or elsewhere – she was sure of being saluted by a volley of jeux-d’esprit in French, Flemish, or English; but beyond this, the behaviour of the troopers was no worse than that of most soldiers similarly quartered.

Moreover, the men, instead of being permitted within the mansion, were contenting themselves to sleep in the outhouses: as testified by the straw beds scattered over the floors of the granary, and other offices, in which they had passed the night.

This semi-courteous tolerance, on the part of Captain Scarthe’s followers towards their involuntary host – unlike the character of the former, as it was unexpected by the latter – requires some explanation; which the conversation between Scarthe himself and his cornet, occurring at that very moment, will supply.

The two officers were in a large sitting-room, that had been assigned to them in the eastern wing of the dwelling. It is scarce necessary to say that the room was handsomely furnished: for the mansion of Sir Marmaduke Wade, besides being one of the oldest, was also one of the grandest of the time. The walls of the apartment specified were covered with Cordovan leather, stamped with heraldic devices; the huge bay window was hung with curtains of dark green velvet; while the pieces of massive furniture exhibited sculptural carvings not only elaborate, but perhaps of higher art than can be produced at the present time.

A massive round table in the middle of the floor was covered by a heavy cloth of rich Damascus pattern; while the floor itself, in lieu of Brussels or Turkey carpet, was hidden under a mattress of smooth shining rushes, neatly woven into a variety of patterns.

Scarthe was seated, or rather reclining on a fauteuil covered with crimson velvet; while his cornet, who had just entered the room, stood in front of him – as if in the reception, or delivery, of a message.

Neither of the officers was in armour. The steel plates had been laid aside; or not fastened on for that day.

Scarthe himself was habited in all the fantastic frippery fashionable at the time. A doublet of yellow satin, with trunk hose of the same – the latter fringed at the bottoms with silk ribbons, tipped with tags of gold. A broad Vandyke collar of point lace; cuffs to correspond; and a scarlet sash – also weighted with golden tags – adorned the upper part of his body; while boots of yellow Cordovan leather – with snow-white lawn puffing out at the ample tops – completed the list of his habiliments.

Despite his pale face; despite a certain sinister cast of his countenance – not always to be observed – Richard Scarthe was a handsome man. The eyes of many a courtly dame had deemed him more than interesting; and as he reclined against the back of the fauteuil in an attitude of perfect ease, he looked not the less interesting, that the scarlet scarf passed over his right shoulder was crossed by another of more sombre hue – acting as a sling, in which his right arm rested.

A wounded man – especially if the damage has been received in a duel – is a dangerous object for the eye of a sentimental young lady to rest upon. It might be that Captain Scarthe was acquainted with this not very recondite truth. It might be, that some such thought had been in his mind that very morning, while making his toilette before the mirror.

The cornet was neither so handsome as his captain, nor so daintily dressed; and yet one, previously acquainted with Stubbs’ rather slovenly habit, could not have failed to notice, on that particular morning, that more than ordinary pains had been taken with his “make-up.”

He was in a plain military suit of buff; but the collar and cuffs were clean; and so also his plump flesh-coloured face – a condition in which it was not always to be found.

His hay-coloured hair, too, exhibited something of a gloss – as though the brush had been recently and repeatedly passed through it.