The White Gauntlet

He had his reasons for thus deviating.

“Holtspur in the park of Sir Marmaduke Wade!” muttered he, as he crept through the thicket with the cautious tread of a deer-stalker. “Where is Sir Marmaduke’s daughter?”

As the suspicion swept across his brain, it brought the blood scorching like fire through his veins. His limbs felt weak under him. He almost tottered, as he trod the sward!

His jealous agony was scarce more acute, when, on reaching the row of chestnuts that bordered the avenue, and craning his neck outward to get a view, he saw a man come out from among the trees, and step up to the side of the steed; while at the same instant a white object, like a lady’s coverchief or scarf, fluttered amid the foliage that overhung the path.

The man he recognised: Henry Holtspur! The woman, though seen less distinctly, could be only the one occupying his thoughts – only Marion Wade!

Though not a coward – and accustomed to encounters abrupt and dangerous – Scarthe was at that crisis the victim of both fear and indecision. In his chagrin, he could have rushed down the slope, and stabbed Holtspur to the heart, without mercy or remorse. But he had no intention of acting in this off-hand way. The encounter of the day before – of which the torture of his wounded arm emphatically reminded him – had robbed him of all zest for a renewal of the black horseman’s acquaintance. He only hesitated as to whether he should screen himself behind the trees, and permit the lady to pass on to the house, or remain in ambush till she came up, and then join company with her.

He was no longer uncertain as to who it was. The white-robed figure, that now stood out in the open avenue, was Marion Wade. No other could have shown that imposing outline under the doubtful shadow of the twilight.

It was not till the horseman had sprung into the saddle, turned his back upon the mansion, and was riding away, that Scarthe recovered from his irresolution.

He felt sensible of being in a state of mind to make himself ridiculous; and that the more prudent plan would be to remain out of sight. But the bitter sting was rankling in his breast – all the more bitter that he suspected an intrigue. This fell fancy torturing him to the heart’s core, stifled all thoughts of either policy or prudence; and impelled him to present himself.

With an effort such as his cunning, and the control which experience had given him over his passions, enabled him to make – he succeeded in calming himself – sufficiently for a pretence at courteous conversation.

At this moment, Marion came up.

She started on seeing Scarthe glide out from among the trees. The wild passion gleaming in his eyes was enough to cause her alarm though she made but slight exhibition of it. She was too highly bred to show emotion, even under such suspicious circumstances. Her heart, at that moment thrilling with supreme happiness, was too strong to feel fear.

“Good even, sir,” she simply said, in return to the salute, which Scarthe had made as he approached.

“Pardon my question, Mistress Wade,” said he, joining her, and walking by her side, “Are you not afraid to be out alone at this late hour – especially as the neighbourhood is infested with such ferocious footpads as your brother has been telling me of? Ha! ha! ha!”

“Oh!” said Marion – answering the interrogatory in the same spirit in which it appeared to have been put – “that was before Captain Scarthe and his redoubtable cuirassiers came to reside with us. Under their protection I presume there will no longer be anything to fear from footpads, or even highwaymen!”

“Thanks for your compliment, lady! If I could only flatter myself that our presence here would be considered a protection by Mistress Marion Wade, it would be some compensation for the unpleasantness of being forced as a guest upon her father.”

“You are gracious, sir,” said she, bowing slightly in return to the implied apology.

Then, casting a quick but scrutinising glance at the countenance of the speaker, she continued in thought – “If this man be honest, the devil’s a witch. If he be, I never saw look that so belies the heart.”

“Believe me, Mistress Wade,” proceeded the hypocrite, “I keenly feel my position here. I know that I cannot be regarded in any other light than that of an intruder. Notwithstanding the pleasure it may be, to partake of the hospitality of your noble house, I would gladly forego that happiness, were it in consonance with my duty to the King – which of course is paramount to everything else.”

“Indeed!”

“To an officer of his Majesty’s cuirassiers it should be.”

“In France, perhaps – or in Flanders, where I understand you’ve been campaigning. In England, sir, and in the eyes of an Englishwoman, there are higher duties than those owing to a king. Did it never occur to you that you owe a duty to the people; or, if you prefer the expression, to the State.”

“L’état est roi. L’état est moi! That is the creed of Richard Scarthe!”

“Even if your king be a tyrant?”

“I am but a soldier. It is not mine to question the prerogatives of royalty – only to obey its edicts.”

“A noble creed! Noble sentiments for a soldier! Hear mine, sir!”

“With pleasure, Mistress Wade!” replied Scarthe, cowering under her scornful glance.

“Were I a man,” she continued, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm, “rather would I shave my crown, and cover it with the cowl of a friar, than wear a sword to be drawn in no better cause than that of an unscrupulous king! Ha! There are men rising in this land, whose fame shall outlive the petty notoriety of its princes. When these have become obscured behind the oblivion of ages, the names of Vane and Pym, and Cromwell, and Hampden and Holt” – she but half pronounced the one she held highest – “shall be household words!”

“These are wild words, Mistress Wade!” rejoined Scarthe, his loyalty – along with a slight inclination towards anger – struggling against the admiration which he could not help feeling for the beautiful enthusiast; “I fear you are a rebel; and were I as true to the interests of my king as I should be, it would be my duty to make you a captive. Ah!” he continued, bending towards the proud maiden, and speaking in a tone of ambiguous appeal, “to make you a captive —my captive – that would indeed be a pleasant duty for a soldier – the recompense of a whole life.”

“Ho!” exclaimed Marion, pretending not to understand the innuendo, “since you talk of making me a captive, I must endeavour to escape from you. Good evening, sir.”

Flinging a triumphant smile towards the disappointed wooer, she glided rapidly beyond his reach; and, nimbly tripping over the footbridge, disappeared from his sight amid the shrubbery surrounding the mansion.

Volume Two – Chapter Four

On parting from Marion Wade, Henry Holtspur should have been the happiest of men. The loveliest woman in the shire– to his eyes, in the world– had declared to him her love, and vowed eternal devotion. Its full fruition could not have given him firmer assurance of the fact.

And yet he was not happy. On the contrary, it was with a heavy heart that he rode away from the scene of that interview with his splendid sweetheart. He knew that the interview should not have occurred – that Marion Wade ought not to be his sweetheart!

After riding half a dozen lengths of his horse, he turned in his saddle, to look back, in hopes that the sight of the loved form might tranquillise his conscience.

Happier for him had he ridden on.

If unhappy before, he now saw that which made him miserable. Marion had commenced ascending the slope. Her light-coloured garments rendered her easily recognisable through the dimness of the twilight. Holtspur watched her movements, admiring the queenly grace of her step – distinguishable despite the darkness and distance.

He was fast recovering composure of mind – so late disturbed by some unpleasant thought – and no doubt would have left the spot with contentment, but for an incident which at that moment transpired under his view.

Marion Wade had got half-way up the hill, and was advancing with rapid step. Just then some one, going at a quicker pace, appeared in the avenue behind her!

This second pedestrian must have passed out from among the trees: since but the moment before the receding form of the lady was alone in the avenue.

In a few seconds she was overtaken; and the two figures were now seen side by side. In this way they moved on – their heads slightly inclined towards each other, as if engaged in familiar conversation!

The dress of the individual who had thus sprung suddenly into sight was also of a light colour, and might have been a woman’s. But a red scarf diagonally crossing the shoulders – a high peaked hat with plume of ostrich feathers – and, more than all, the tallness of the figure, told Henry Holtspur that it was a man who was walking with Marion Wade.

The same tokens declared he was not her brother: Walter was not near so tall. It could not be her father: Sir Marmaduke was accustomed to dress in black.

The rows of chestnuts that bordered the walk came to a termination near the top of the hill. The figures had arrived there. Next moment they moved out from under the shadow of the trees, and could be seen more distinctly.

“’Tis neither her father, nor brother – ’tis Scarthe!”

It was Holtspur who pronounced these words, and with an intonation that betokened both surprise and chagrin.

“He has forced himself upon her! He came skulkingly out from the trees, as if he had been lying in wait for her! I shouldn’t wonder if ’twas so. What can I do? Shall I follow and interrupt the interview?”

“There is danger here,” he continued, after a pause. “Ah! villain!” he exclaimed, standing erect in his stirrups, and stretching out his clenched hand in the direction of the departing figures, “if you but dare – one word of insult – one ribald look, and I am told of it – the chastisement you’ve already had will be nothing to that in store for you!”

“O God!” he exclaimed, as though some still more disagreeable thought had succeeded to this paroxysm of spite, “a dread spectacle it is! The wolf walking by the side of the lamb!

“He is bowing and bending to her! See! She turns towards him! She appears complacent. O God! is it possible?”

Involuntarily his hand glided to the hilt of his sword – while the spurs were pressed against the ribs of his horse.

The spirited animal sprang forward along the path – his head turned towards the mansion; but, before he had made a second spring, he was checked up again.

“I’m a fool!” muttered his rider, “and you, too, Hubert. At all events I should have been thought so, had I ridden up yonder. What could I have said to excuse myself? ’Tis not possible. If it were so, I should feel no remorse. If it were so, there could be no ruin!

“Ha! they have reached the bridge. She is leaving him. She has hurried inside the house. He remains without, apparently forsaken!

“O Marion, if I’ve wronged thee, ’tis because I love thee madly – madly! Pardon! – pardon! I will watch thee no more!”

So saying, he wheeled his steed once more; and, without again looking back, galloped on toward the gateway.

Even while opening the gate and closing it behind him, he turned not his eyes towards the avenue; but, spurring into the public road, continued the gallop which the gate had interrupted.

The head of his horse was homeward – so far only as the embouchure of the forest path that opened towards Stone Dean. On reaching this point he halted; and instead of entering upon the by-way, remained out in the middle of the high-road – as if undecided as to his course.

He glanced towards the sky – a small patch of which was visible between the trees, on both sides overarching the road.

The purple twilight was still lingering amid the spray of the forest; and through the break opening eastward, he could perceive the horned moon cutting sharply against the horizon.

“Scarce worth while to go home now,” he muttered, drawing forth his watch, and holding the dial up to his eyes, “How swiftly the last hour has sped – ah! how sweetly! In another hour the men will be there. By riding slowly I shall just be in time; and you, Hubert, can have your supper in a stall at the Saracen’s Head. Aha! a woman in the window! ’Tis Marion!”

The exclamatory phrases were called forth, as turning towards the park, he caught sight of the mansion, visible through an opening between the chestnuts.

Several windows were alight; but the eye of the cavalier dwelt only on one – where under the arcade of the curtains, and against the luminous background of a burning lamp, a female form was discernible. Only the figure could be traced at that far distance; but this – tall, graceful and majestic – proclaimed it to be the silhouette of Marion Wade.

After a prolonged gaze – commencing with a smile, and terminating in a sigh – Holtspur once more gave Hubert the rein, and moved silently onward.

The ruined hut on Jarret’s Heath was soon reached, conspicuous under the silvery moonlight, as he had last viewed it: but no longer the rendezvous of Gregory Garth and his fierce footpads. The dummies had disappeared – even to the sticks that had served to support them – and nought remained to indicate, that in that solitary place the traveller had ever listened to the unpleasant summons: – “Stand and deliver!”

Holtspur could not pass the spot without smiling; and more: for, as the ludicrous incident came more clearly before his mind, he drew up his horse, and, leaning back in the saddle, gave utterance to a loud laugh.

Hubert, on hearing his master in such a merry mood, uttered a responsive neigh. Perhaps Hubert was laughing too; but man and horse became silent instantly, and from precaution.

More than one neigh had responded to that of Holtspur’s steed; which the cavalier knew were not echoes, but proceeded from horses approaching the spot.

Suddenly checking his laughter, and giving his own steed a signal to be still, he remained listening.

The neighing of the strange horses had been heard at a distance: as if from some cavalcade coming up the road by Red Hill. In time, there were other sounds to confirm the surmise: the clanking of sabres against iron stirrups, and the hoof-strokes of the horses themselves.

“A troop!” muttered Holtspur. “Some of Scarthe’s following, I suppose – from an errand to Uxbridge? Come, Hubert! They must not meet us.”

A touch of the spur, with a slight pull upon the bridle rein, guided the well-trained steed behind the hovel; where, under the shadow of some leafy boughs, he was once more brought to a stand.

Soon the hoof-strokes sounded more distinctly, as also the clank of the scabbards, the tinkling of the spur-rowels, and curb-chains.

The voices of men were also mingled with these sounds; and both they and their horses, soon after, emerged from the shadows of the thicket, and entered the opening by the hut.

There were seven of them; the odd one in advance of the others – who were riding two and two behind him.

A glance at their habiliments proclaimed them to be men of military calling – an officer accompanied by an escort.

As they arrived in front of the hovel, the leader halted – commanding the others to follow his example.

The movement was sudden – apparently improvised on the part of the officer – and unexpected by his following. It was evidently the appearance of the ruin that had caused it to be made.

“Sergeant!” said the leader of the little troop, addressing himself to one of the men who rode nearest to him, “this must be the place where the king’s courier was stopped? There’s the ruined hovel he spoke about: and this I take to be Jarret’s Heath. What say you?”

“It must be that place, major,” replied the sergeant, “It can’t be no other. We’ve come full four mile from Uxbridge, and should now be close to the park of Bulstrode. This be Jarret’s Heath for sure.”

“What a pity those rascals don’t show themselves to-night! I’d give something to carry them back with me bound hand and foot. It would be some satisfaction to poor Cunliffe, whom they stripped so clean: leaving him nothing but his stockings. Ha! ha! ha! I should like to have seen that noted court dandy, as he must have appeared just here – under the moonlight. Ha! ha! ha!”

“I fancy I heard the neighing of a horse in this direction?” continued the leader of the little troop. “If the fellows who plundered the courier hadn’t been footpads, we might have hoped to encounter them – ”

“You forget, major,” rejoined the sergeant, “that Master Cunliffe’s horse was taken from him. May be the captain of the robbers is no longer a footpad, but mounted?”

“No – no,” rejoined the officer, “the neighing we heard, was only from some farmer’s hack running loose in the pastures. Forward! we’ve already lost too much time. If this be Jarret’s Heath, we must be near the end of our errand. Forward!”

Saying this, the leader of the band, close followed by the treble file of troopers, dashed forward along the road – their accoutrements, and the hooves of their horses, making a noise that hindered them from hearing the scornful, half involuntary laugh sent after them from the cavalier concealed under the shadow of the hut.

“Another king’s courier for Scarthe!” muttered Holtspur, as he headed his horse once more to the road. “No doubt, the duplicate of that precious despatch! Ha! ha! His Majesty seems determined, that this time it shall reach its destination. An escort of six troopers! Notwithstanding all that, and the bravado of their leader, if I had only coughed loud enough for them to hear me, I believe they’d have, scampered off a little faster than they are now going. These conceited satellites of royalty – ‘cavaliers,’ as they affectedly call themselves – are the veriest poltroons: brave only in words. Oh! that the hour were come, when Englishmen may be prevailed upon to demand their lights at the point of the sword —the only mode by which they will ever obtain them! Then may I hope to see such swaggerers scattered like chaff, and fleeing before the soldiers of Liberty! God grant the time may be near! Hubert, let us on, and hasten it!”

Hubert, ever willing, obeyed the slight signal vouchsafed to him; and, spreading his limbs to the road, rapidly bore his master to the summit of Red Hill; then down its sloping declivity; and on through the fertile, far-stretching meadows of the Colne.

Volume Two – Chapter Five

The Saracen’s Head stood an exact half-mile from the Colne river and the end of Uxbridge town. To reach it from the latter it was necessary to cross over the quaint old bridge – whence the place derives its name.

It was a road-side inn, old as the bridge itself – perhaps ancient as the Crusades, from which its cognomen had come. It was the inn at which Scarthe and his cuirassiers had made their night halt, when proceeding to Bulstrode Park; the same afterwards known – as it is to the present day – by the appellation of Queen’s Head. The altered lettering on its sign-board was not the act of the honest Saxon Boniface, who held it in the time of the first Charles; but of a plush-clad proprietor, who succeeded him during the servile days of the Restoration.

While in Master Jarvis’s occupancy it might have borne a title equally as appropriate, and perhaps more significant than either – the King’s Head: since under its roof, this phrase was frequently whispered – sometimes loudly pronounced – with a peculiar significance – one very different from the idea usually attached to it. It may be, that words spoken, and thoughts exchanged, within the walls of the old hostelry led to a king’s losing his head; or, at all events, precipitated that just and proper event.

On the same night that Henry Holtspur was riding down Red Hill – with the Saracen’s Head as the declared goal of his journey – and about the same hour – a number of pedestrians, not all going together, but in scattered groups of two, three, and four, might have been seen crossing the Colne river at Uxbridge; who, after clearing the causeway of the bridge, continued on up the road, in the direction of the inn.

On reaching it – one group after the other – they were seen to enter; after giving a preliminary challenge or greeting to its host, who received them by the door as they came up.

This reception continued; until at least fifty men had glided inside the ivy-grown portico of the Saracen’s Head.

They were all men – nothing in woman’s shape, or apparel, appearing amongst them.

They were men in the humbler walks of life, though not the very humblest. Their dresses betokened them to be artisans; and of different callings, – as proclaimed by the various costumes: for in those days the costume told the trade.

Nor did they appear to be habited for any particular occasion. The butcher was in his tall leathern boots, redolent of suet; the miller, in white cap, hoary with the “stoor” of the mill; the blacksmith, with wide hose hidden under an apron of singed sheepskin; and the tailor’s jour, with his bowed legs encased in a covering of cotton velveteen.

In some of the groups there were individuals of a more pretentious appearance: men who wore beaver hats and doublets of superior quality, with sound russet boots, white linen cuffs, and collars. Still was there about their garments a certain commonness of cut, that proclaimed the wearers to be of the class of small shopkeepers – in modern days miscalled tradesmen.

On any evening – especially if the weather chanced to be fine – a few such individuals might have been seen seeking the hospitality of the Saracen’s Head: for its tap was one of the most popular, and attracted customers even from Uxbridge. On the night in question, however, the great number of guests – as well as the lateness of the hour at which they were seeking the noted rendezvous – told of some purpose more important than merely to imbibe Master Jarvis’s celebrated brewage.

There was an air of business about the men, as they marched along the road; and in their muttered conversations could be distinguished a tone of earnestness, that betokened some serious subject. They did not loiter, like men strolling out for an evening’s pastime; but walked briskly forward, as bent upon an errand, or keeping some preconcerted appointment.

As already stated, the landlord of the inn received the different groups. There was something mysterious in this wordless welcome – so unusual at the Saracen’s Head; the more so, as on the broad open countenance of its owner there was no trace of churlishness. Equally mysterious might have appeared a circumstance observed as the guests came up to the door: – each raising his right hand within a few inches of Master Jarvis’s nose, with the thumb bent inward; holding the hand a second or two, in that position, and then withdrawing it!

The mystery could only be explained, by presuming that this was a signal; and the slight assenting nod, with which it was answered, was simply a permission to enter.

It might have been observed, moreover: that the guests so signalling, instead of going towards the common or tap-room of the inn, proceeded through a long corridor – leading to the interior of the establishment – where a large and much better appointed apartment had been arranged to receive them.

Others who entered the house, without giving the thumb signal, greeted the landlord in a different way, and were shown towards the tap-room, or walked on, as was their wont, without invitation.

For more than an hour these groups of men continued to arrive up the road from Uxbridge. At the same time other men – though not in such numbers – might have been seen coming down the same road from the direction of Red Hill, and Denham; and also along bye-paths – from the villages of Harefield, and Iver.

Some difference might have been noticed between these and the men who came from Uxbridge – the former by their style of dress and general appearance being evidently denizens of the country – graziers or farmers – and not a few of them having the substantial look of independence that bespoke the freeholder.

All, however, were evidently moving towards the inn with a like motive – as each of them upon entering was seen to offer to its owner that silent masonic salute, which admitted them into the secret interior of the establishment.