The White Gauntlet
- -
- 100%
- +
“Ah! if they would, what a happy, comfortable world we’d have o’t! But they woan’t – they woant – dang seize ’em! they woant!”
After giving utterance to this somewhat old-fashioned reflection, Gregory remained for a time in a state of moody silence – as if labouring under some regret which the thought had called up.
“You have some business with father?” said Bet, interrogatively.
“Well – that,” replied Garth, appearing to hesitate about what he was going to say – “that depends. Sartin the old un don’t look much like doin’ business just now – do he?”
“I fear not,” was Bet’s simple reply.
“May be, Mistress Betsey,” continued Garth, giving a glance of scrutiny into the face of the girl. “May be you might do for the business I have on hand – better, maybe, than thy father? I want – ”
“What is it you want?” inquired Betsey, too impatient to wait for the words, that were spoken by Garth with some deliberation.
“A friend. Not for myself; but for one that be in danger.”
“Who – who’s in danger?” asked the girl, with an eagerness of manner, that did not escape the quick eye of him to whom the interrogatory was addressed.
“A gentleman – a real gentleman. You ought to know who I mean?”
“I ought to know! How sir?”
“You han’t heerd, then, what hae’ happened at Stone Dean, this mornin’?”
Bet made no answer. Her look, while proclaiming a negative, told the presentiment with which the question had inspired her.
“You han’t heerd as how Master Holtspur ha’ been tuk a prisoner, and carried away by the kewreseers o’ Captain Scarthe? You han’t heerd that, eh?”
“Oh!” cried Bet, adding a somewhat more emphatic form of ejaculation. “That then is what he meant. I might have known it. O God – it was that!”
“Who meant? What?”
“Walford, Will Walford, oh! – the villain!”
“Thee callest him a villain. Do thy father think him one?”
“When he hears this, he will. Oh! Master Holtspur a prisoner! and to that man who is his deadly enemy! ’Tis Will Walford’s doings – I am sure it is.”
“What makes thee think that, gurl?”
“He said he had done something – this very hour – something to bring it about.”
“Did he say so to thy father?”
“No; only out of spite to me – just as he was going off. My father heard him, but he was too – too sleepy to understand him. If he had – ”
“He would ha’ been angry wi’ him – as thou art?”
“I’m sure he would.”
“All right. I thought as much.”
“A prisoner! Oh, sir! where have they taken him to? What will they do to him? Tell me – tell me!”
“I’ll tell thee, when I know myself; and that, gurl, be just the errand ha’ brought me over here. I see it be no use wakin’ up the old ’un just now. Them Hollands’ll keep him a prisoner, till well-nigh sundown. I’ the meanwhile, somethin’ must be done ’ithout him. Maybe you can sarve my purpose, as well, or better’n him – if thee be that way disposed.”
“What purpose? If it be anything I can do for – for – Master Holtspur! Oh, I shall be only too glad.”
“That be just what I want. Thee must know I’m a friend o’ Master Holtspur – an old retainer o’ his family; and I’ll lay down my life, or a’most that, to get him out o’ the clutches o’ these kewreseers. I know theer captain’ll try to get him beheaded. Ah! an’ he’ll get it done too; if we can’t find some way o’ escape for him. It’s to find that, I wants thy help, Mistress Betsey.”
“Tell me how I can help thee – I am ready for anything?” responded the girl.
As she said this, both her air and attitude betokened the truthfulness of her words.
“There be no time to lose, then; else I mout ha’ waited for yer father to go snacks wi’ us. No matter. We can take the first steps without him. It will be for you to go up to Bulstrode – that’s where they’ve taken Master Henry just now; an’ get inside the house. You be known there, beant ye?”
“Oh, yes; I can go in or out when I like. They won’t suspect anything in that.”
“It be more than I could do, wi’ that an’ a good many other houses,” said Garth, smiling significantly, “else I mout ha’ gone myself. But you’ll do better than me – better than anybody, mayhap. Find out, if ye can, first – whether the prisoner be goin’ to be taken up to London; then, what time they’re goin’ to take him; then, what part o’ the house they’ve put him in: for he’s sure to be shut up somewhere. Find out that; an’ as much more as you can; and fetch the whole story back here to me. Maybe by the time you gets back, the old un’ll be awake, an’ ha’ his noddle clear enough to help us think o’ something.”
“I shall go at once,” said Bet, moving in the direction of the door.
“Ay, start right off. The minutes be preecious for Master Henry. Stay! I’ll go with thee a bit. I’ve got another errand out this direction, that’ll just about take up my time, till ye get back. We may as well go thegither – so far as our roads agree. Good-bye, Dick Dancey! Snore on, old un; an’ sleep it off as quick’s ye can: we may want ye badly bye-an’-bye.”
And with this jocular leave-taking, the retired footpad stepped out of the house, and followed the girl – who, eager upon the errand that had summoned her forth, had already advanced some distance along the path.
Their routes did not correspond for any great length. At a distance of two or three hundred yards from the cottage, the path parted into two; one, the plainer one, running towards the rearward of Bulstrode Park; the other – which appeared as if used by only a few individuals – trending in the direction of Will Walford’s domicile.
The daughter of Dick Dancey faced into the former; and, stepping out nimbly, soon disappeared behind the hanging boughs of the beeches.
The ex-footpad, lingering a little to look after her, as soon as she was out of sight, turned into the other path; which would conduct him to the hut of the woodman.
Before going far in this new direction, he once more came to a stop, alongside a big bush of holly, that grew near the path. Drawing a clasp knife from his pocket, he proceeded to cut off one of its largest branches.
Having severed the sapling from its parent stem, he continued to ply his blade upon it, until it had assumed the shape and dimensions of a stout cudgel. The purpose for which this weapon was designed may already have been guessed at. If not, the mutterings which escaped from the lips of Gregory Garth will make clear his intent.
“I don’t want,” said he, paring off some of the more prominent knots with his knife. “I don’t want to kill the brute outright – though he desarve that much, an’ more too. I’ll gie ’im a dose, howsomever, as ’ll keep ’im in-doors, an’ out o’ further mischief – as long as I’m likely to stay in this sogerin’ neighbourhood. He han’t got much o’ a picter to spoil no how; or I’d make his ugly mug that his own mother if he ha’ one, wouldn’t like to swear to it. Next time he goo to play spy, or help others to do’t eyther, he’ll be apt to remember Gregory Garth. Won’t he?
“A tydish bit o’ stick,” he continued, holding up the piece of trimmed holly, and surveying it with an air of satisfaction, “and if I’d let them knots stay on, I shouldn’t like to ha’ answered for the skull case o’ Mister Wull Walford, thick as that be. I dare say it’ll do now, and I maun keep on to his house. Ha! theers his paltry stye, I suppose? I hope the pig’s in o’ it.”
Saying this, he advanced stealthily a few paces, and then stopped to listen.
“Good!” he exclaimed, “the brute be inside: I hear his gruntin’. Dang seize it, it’s a snore! They be all a-sleepin’ this Wapsey’s Wood! Well, I’ll wake him out o’ that, wi’ a heigh an’ a ho; and here goo to begin it!”
On giving utterance to this threat, he started forward at a quick pace. He was soon inside the hut, and standing over the prostrate form of the slumbering woodchopper.
The latter was lying upon a low bed – the true truckle of the peasant’s cottage – a stout structure of beechen timber, with short legs raising it about a foot from the floor.
The occupant of this coarse couch was upon his back, with arms and legs extended to their full length – as if he had been spread out on purpose to dry. But the liquid that had placed him in that attitude was not water. It was a fluid that had been administered internally: as could be told by the stone jar of hollands that stood upon the floor, within reach of his hand; and which his uninvited visitor upon examination found to be empty.
“He’s stolen it from the cellar o’ Stone Dean,” remarked the latter, after smelling the jar, and otherwise scrutinising it. “I know by the sniff o’ the liquor it’s that same; an’ I could sweer to them Dutch bottles afore a full quorum o’ justices. Poor Master Henry! He’s not only been betrayed, but robbed by this ugly rascal. Well, here goo to gie him his reward!”
As Garth uttered the words, he seized his fresh-cut cudgel; and was about to come down with it upon the carcase of the slumbering woodman, when some thought suddenly stayed his hand.
“No!” he exclaimed; “I’ll wake him first, and gie him a bit o’ my mind. If he ha’ the feeling o’ a human creeture, I’ll first punish him i’ the moral way– as the Vicar o’ Giles’s Chaffont ’ud call it.”
“Hee up!” he shouted aloud, poking the sleeper with the point of his stick. “Roust thee, thou sluggart, and see what’s time o’ day! Twelve by the sun, if it’s an hour. Hee up, I say!”
Another poke of the stick, administered still more sharply than before, like its predecessor, produced no effect – or only the slightest. The inebriate rustic continued to snore; and only a low grunt declared his consciousness of having been disturbed; though it seemed more the mechanical action of the cudgel, that had been pushed rather forcibly into the pit of his stomach.
“Hee up!” cried Garth, once more giving him a taste of the holly stick. “Rouse thyself, I say! If ye don’t, I’ll wallop ye in your sleep. Roust! roust!”
At each summons the poke was repeated; but with no better success than before. The deeper gave forth a series of spasmodic grunts; but still continued to snore on.
“But for his snorin’, I’d think he wur gone dead,” said Garth, desisting from his attempts to awake him. “If not dead, however, he be dead drunk. That’s clear enough!”
“It be no use trying to bring him to his senses?” continued he, after appearing to reflect. “And what’s worse, ’twill be no use beatin’ him in that state. The unfeelin’ brute as I may well call him wouldn’t feel it no how. I mout as well strike my stick against that theer bundle o’ faggots. It’s danged disappointin’! What be the best thing to do wi’ him?”
The puzzled footpad stood for a while reflecting; then continued: —
“’Twoan’t do to ha’ tuk the trouble o’ comin’ here for nothin’ – beside the cuttin’ o’ this cudgel. If I lay it into him now, he woan’t feel it, till after he gets sober. That an’t the satisfaction I want. I want to see him feel it.”
Again the speaker paused to consider.
After a moment or two his eyes began to wander around the walls – as if some design had suggested itself, and he was searching for the means to carry it into execution.
Presently an object came under his gaze that appeared to fix it.
It was a coil of rope, or thick cord – that had been thrown over one of the couplings of the roof, and was hanging within reach of his hand.
“That be the best way, I take it,” said he, resuming his soliloquy, “an’ I dar say this’ll do. It appear a stoutish piece, o’ string,” he continued, dragging the cord from off the coupling, and trying its strength between hand and heel. “Yes; it be strong enough to hold a bull on his back – let alone a pig like him; and just long enough to make four ties o’t. It’s the very identical.”
Once more taking out his knife, he cut the cord into four nearly equal pieces. He then proceeded to carry out the design that had shaped itself in his mind; and which, judging by his satisfied air as he set about it, appeared as if it promised to extricate him from his dilemma.
This was simply to strap the drunken man to his truckle; and leave him there – until his restoration to a state of sobriety should render him sensible of the chastisement which he, Garth, intended to return and administer!
As the woodchopper lay with arms and limbs stretched out to their full length, his inviting attitude appeared to have suggested to Garth this mode of dealing with him.
Chuckling over his work, with the quickness of an expert in the handling of ropes, the footpad now proceeded to the accomplishment of his task.
In a few minutes’ time, he had fastened the wrists and ankles of the sleeper to the trestles of his couch. This done, he stepped back to take a survey; and as he stood over the unconscious captive, with arms-a-kimbo, he broke forth into a fit of uproarious laughter.
“An’t he a beauty, as he lays theer?” said he, as if interrogating some unseen individual. “A reglar babe o’ the woods! Only wants the Robin-redbreasts to kiver him wi’ a scattering o’ beech leaves! Now,” added he, apostrophising the fast-bound sleeper, “you stay theer till I coom back! I don’t say it ’ll be inside the twenty-four hours; but if ’tan’t, don’t be impatient, an’ fret yourself ’bout my absence. I’ve promised I’ll coom; an’ you may be sure o’t. For the present, Master Wull Walford, I’ll bid you a good mornin’!”
Saying this, and placing his cudgel in a corner – where he might readily lay hands upon it again – Garth stepped forth from the hut; carefully closed the door behind him; and took the back track towards the cottage in which he had left the other inebriate Dancey. Him he now hoped to find in a more fit state, for acting as his co-partner in a scheme, he had partially conceived for the rescue of his imprisoned patron.
Volume Two – Chapter Sixteen
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.