The White Gauntlet

He bent forward to catch any sound that might come from the road before him. He could hear none – at least, none of a character to make him uneasy. The soft monotone of the goatsucker fell upon his ear, mingled with the sharper note of the partridge, calling her young across the stubble. He heard, also, the distant barking of the watch-dog, and the sheep-bell tinkling in the fold; but these sounds, though characteristic of tranquil country life – and sweet to his ear, so long hindered from hearing them – were not inconsistent with the presence either of footpad or highwayman; who, lurking concealed among the trees, need not interrupt their utterance.

Walter Wade was far from being of a timid disposition; but no youth of eighteen could be accused of cowardice, simply because he did not desire an encounter with robbers.

It did not, therefore, prove poltroonery on his part, when, proceeding along the road, his heart beat slightly with apprehension, – no more, when on perceiving the figure of a horseman dimly outlined under the shadow of the trees, he suddenly came to a halt, and hesitated to advance.

The horseman was about a score of paces from where he had stopped – moving neither one way nor the other, but motionless in the middle of the road.

“A highwayman!” thought Walter, undecided whether to advance, or ride back.

“But no, it can scarce be that? A robber would not take stand so conspicuously. He would be more likely to conceal himself behind the trees – at least until – ”

While thus conjecturing, a voice fell upon his ear, which he at once recognised as the same he had late heard so emphatically pronouncing “The People!”

Reassured, the young traveller determined to advance. A man of such mien, as he who bestrode the black steed – and actuated by such a sentiment, as that he had so boldly announced – could scarcely be a disreputable person – much less a highwayman? Walter did not wrong him by the suspicion.

“If I mistake not,” said the stranger, after the preliminary hail, “you are the young gentleman I saw, a short while ago, in rather scurvy company?”

“You are not mistaken: I am.”

“Come on, then! If you are my only pursuer, I fancy I shall incur no danger, in permitting you to overtake me? Come on, young sir! Perhaps on these roads it may be safer for both of us, if we ride in company?”

Thus frankly solicited, the young courtier hesitated no longer; but, pricking his horse with the spur, rode briskly forward.

Together the horsemen continued the ascent of the hill.

Half way up, the road swerved towards the south-west. For a short distance the track was clear of trees, so that the moonlight fell full upon it. Here the two travellers, for the first time, obtained a distinct view of one another.

The stranger – who still retained his incognito– merely glanced towards his companion; and, seemingly satisfied with a slight inspection, allowed his eyes to wander elsewhere.

Perhaps during his halt before the hostelry, he had made a more elaborate examination of the young courtier.

Walter, on the other hand, had at the Inn caught only a glimpse of the black horseman. Now, though out of courtesy, looking furtively and askaunce, he proceeded to examine him more minutely.

The personal appearance of the latter was striking enough to court examination. Walter Wade was impressed with it – even to admiration.

He saw beside him, not a youth like himself, but a man in the full prime and vigour of manhood – perhaps over thirty years of age. He saw a figure of medium size, and perfect shape – its members knitted together, with a terseness that indicated true strength. He saw shoulders of elegant tuornure; a breast of swelling prominence; a full round throat, with jaws that by their breadth proclaimed firmness and decision. He saw dark brown hair, curling around a countenance, that in youth might have appeared under a fairer complexion, but was now slightly bronzed, as if stained with the tan of travel. He saw eyes of dark hazel hue – in the moonlight shining softly and mildly as those of a dove. But Walter knew that those same eyes could flash like an eagle’s: for he had seen them so fired, on first beholding them.

In short the young courtier saw by his side a man that reminded him of a hero of Middle Age romance – one about whom he had been lately reading; and whose character had made a deep impression upon his youthful fancy.

The dress of the cavalier was in perfect keeping with his fine figure and face. It was simple, although of costly material. Cloak, doublet, and trunks were of silk velvet of dark maroon colour. The boots were of the finest Spanish leather, and his hat a beaver – the brim in clasp coquettishly turned up, with a jewelled front holding a black ostrich feather that swept backward to his shoulder. A scarlet sash of China crape, looped around the waist – an embroidered shoulder-belt crossing the breast, from which dangled a rapier in richly-chased sheath; buff-coloured gloves, with gauntlets attached; cuffs of white lawn covering the sleeves of his doublet; and broad collar of the same extending almost to his shoulders. Fancy all these articles of costly fabric, fitted in the fashion of the time to a faultless manly figure, and you have a portrait of the cavalier whose appearance had won the admiration of Walter Wade.

The horse was in keeping with the rider – a steed of large size and perfect proportions – such as an ancient paladin might have chosen to carry him upon a crusade. He was of the true colour – a deep pure black, all except his muzzle where the velvet-like epidermis was tinged with yellowish red, presenting the hue of umber. Had his tail been suffered to droop, its tip would have touched the ground; but even while going into a walk it swung diagonally outward, oscillating at each step. When in the gallop, it floated upon the air spread and horizontal.

The spotted skin of a South American jaguar, with housings of scarlet cloth, caparisoned the saddle; over the pommel of which hung a pair of holsters, screened by the thick glossy fur of the North American beaver.

The bit was a powerful mameluke – about that time introduced from the Spanish peninsula – which, clanking between the teeth of the horse, constantly kept his mouth in a state of foam.

This beautiful steed had a name. Walter had heard it pronounced. As the young courtier rode up, the horse was standing – his muzzle almost in contact with the road – and pawing the dust with impatience. The short gallop had roused his fiery spirit. To tranquillise it, his rider was caressing him – as he drew his gloved hand over the smooth skin of the neck, talking to him, as if he had been a comrade, and repeating his name. It was “Hubert.”

After exchanging salutations, the two horse men rode side by side for some moments, without vouchsafing further speech. It was the silence consequent upon such an informal introduction. The rider of the black steed was the first to break it.

“You are Walter Wade – son to Sir Marmaduke, of Bulstrode Park?” said he, less by way of interrogative, than as a means of commencing the conversation.

“I am,” answered the young courtier, showing some surprise. “How learnt you my name, sir?”

“From your own lips.”

“From my own lips! When, may I ask?” inquired Walter, with a fresh scrutiny of the stranger’s countenance. “I don’t remember having had the honour of meeting you before.”

“Only within the last half-hour. You forget, young sir, having given your name in my hearing?”

“Oh! true – you overheard then – you were present – ?”

“I rode up just as you were declaring your identity. The son of Sir Marmaduke Wade has no need to conceal his name. It is one to be proud of.”

“In my father’s name I thank you. You know him, sir?”

“Only by sight and —reputation,” answered the stranger, musingly. “You are in the service of the Court?” he continued, after a pause.

“No longer now. I took leave of it this very morning.”

“Resigned?”

“It was my father’s wish I should return home.”

“Indeed! And for what reason? Pardon my freedom in asking the question.”

“Oh!” replied the young courtier, with an air of naïveté, “I should make you free to the reason, if I only knew it myself. But in truth, sir, I am ignorant of it. I only know that my father has written to the king, asking permission for me to return home; that the king has granted it – though, I have reason to think, with an ill grace: since his Majesty appeared angry with me at parting; or, perhaps, I should say, angry with my father.”

The intelligence thus communicated by the ci-devant courtier, instead of eliciting any expression of regret from his companion, seemed rather to gratify him.

“So far good!” muttered he to himself. “Safe upon our side. This, will secure him.”

Walter partially overheard the soliloquised phrases, but without comprehending their import.

“Your father,” continued the stranger, “is likely to have good reasons for what he has done. No doubt, Master Walter, he has acted for your best interests; though it may be rather unpleasant for you, to exchange the gay pleasures of a royal palace for a quiet life in the country.”

“On the contrary,” replied the youth, “it is just what I was desiring. I am fond of hawking and hunting; not in the grand ceremonious fashion we’ve been accustomed to at Court – with a crowd of squalling women to fright away the game – but by myself on the quiet, among the hills here, or with a friend or two to take part. That’s the sport for me!”

“Indeed!” said the strange horseman, smiling as he spoke. “These are heterodox sentiments for a courtier? It’s rather odd to hear one of your calling speak disparagingly of the sex, and especially the ladies of the Court. The maids of honour are very interesting, are they not? I have understood that our French queen affects being surrounded by beauties. She has a long train of them, it is said?”

“Painted dolls!” scornfully rejoined the ex-courtier, “tricked in French fashions. Give me a genuine English girl – above all one who keeps to the country, and’s got some colour. And some conscience besides; for, by my troth, sir, there’s not much of either about the Court – except what’s artificial!”

“Bravo!” exclaimed the stranger, “a Court satirist, rather than a courtier. Well! I’m glad to hear my own sentiments so eloquently expressed. Give me also the genuine English girl who breathes only the pure air of the country!”

“That’s the style for me!” echoed Walter in the warmth of youthful enthusiasm.

“Well! there are many such to be met with among these Chiltern Hills. No doubt, Master Wade, you know some; and perhaps you have one in particular before your mind’s eye at this very moment? Ha! ha! ha!”

The colour came to Walter’s cheeks as he stammered out a reply, which only partially repudiated the insinuation.

“Your pardon!” cried the cavalier, suddenly checking his laughter. “I don’t wish to confess you. I have no right to do so. I have given you reason to think me unmannerly.”

“Oh! not at all,” said Walter, himself too free of speech to be offended by that quality in another.

“Perhaps you will excuse the curiosity of a stranger,” continued the black horseman. “I have been only a short time resident in this part of the country; and one is naturally curious to know something of one’s neighbours. If you promise not to be offended, I shall make bold to ask you another question.”

“I shall not be offended at any question one gentleman may ask of another. You are a gentleman, sir?”

“I have been brought up as one; and, though I have parted with, or rather been deprived of, the fortune that attaches to such a title, I hope I have not forfeited the character. The question I am about to put, may appear rather trivial after so elaborate an introduction. I merely wished to ask, whether you are the only member of your father’s family?”

“Oh! dear no,” frankly responded the youth; “I have a sister – sister Marion.”

“Grown up, like yourself?”

“She should be by this. She wasn’t quite grown, when I saw her last; but that will be three years come Christmas. She’s older than I; and, i’faith I shouldn’t wonder if she be taller too. I’ve heard say she’s a great, big girl – nearly the head taller than Lora.”

“Lora?”

“Lora Lovelace – my cousin, sir.”

“’Tis his sister – ’tis Marion. I thought as much. Marion Wade! A noble name. It has a bold clarion sound – in keeping with the character of her who bears it. Marion! Now know I the name of her who for weeks I have been worshipping! Who for weeks – ”

“My cousin,” continued the candid young courtier, interrupting the silent reflections of his travelling companion, “is also a member of my father’s family. She has been staying at Bulstrode Park now for many years; and will remain, I suppose, until – ”

The heir of Bulstrode hesitated – as if not very certain of the time at which the stay of his cousin was to terminate.

“Until,” interrogated the cavalier, with a significant smile, “until when?”

“Really, sir,” said Walter, speaking rather confusedly, “I can’t say how long our cousin may choose to remain with us. When she comes to be of age, I dare say, her guardian will claim her. Papa is not her guardian.”

“Ah! Master Walter Wade, I’d lay a wager, that before Mistress Lora Lovelace be of age, she’ll choose her own guardian – one who will not object to her staying at Bulstrode for the remainder of her life. Ha! ha! ha!”

Instead of feeling indignant, the cousin of Lora Lovelace joined in the laugh. There was something in the insinuation that soothed and gratified him.

Conversing in this jocular vein, the two travellers reached the summit of the sloping declivity; and, continuing onward, entered upon a wild tract of country known as Jarret’s Heath.