The White Gauntlet. Reid Mayne
was the creature who stood by the horse of Henry Holtspur.
But for their blackness, her eyes might have been likened to those of an eagle; but for its softness, her hair resembled the tail of his own steed – equally long and luxuriant; and her teeth – there could have been nothing whiter, even among the chalk of the Chilterns – her native hills.
Robed in silk, satin, or velvet, it was a form that would have done no discredit to a queen. Encircled with pearls or precious diamonds, it was a face of which a princess might have been proud. Even under the ordinary homespun of a rustic gown, that form looked queenly – beneath those glossy plaits of crow-black hair – bedecked with some freshly-plucked flowers – that face might have inspired envy in a princess.
In the glance bestowed upon her by the cavalier there was no sign – either of surprise or admiration. It was simply a look of recognition, accompanied by a nod, acknowledging her presence.
In the eye of the maiden there was no such indifference. The most careless observer could have told, that she was in love with the man upon whom she was now gazing.
The horseman took no heed of her admiring glances. Perhaps he noticed them not. His attention was altogether given to an object, which the girl held in her outstretched hand, and which was instantly transferred to his. It was a letter, sealed and directed to himself.
“Thanks!” said he, breaking open the seal. “Your father has brought this from Uxbridge, I suppose?”
“He has, sir. He sent me with it; and bid me ask you if there be an answer to go back. As you were not at the house, I brought it here. I hope I have done right, sir?”
“Oh, certainly! But how did you know where to find me? My tongueless attendant, Oriole, could not have told you?”
“He made sign, sir, that you had taken this road. I thought I should meet you here; and father said it might be important for you to have the letter at once.”
The red blood mantled higher upon the girl’s cheeks, as she offered this explanation. She knew she had exceeded her father’s instructions; which had been, simply, to leave the letter at “Stone Dean,” the residence of Henry Holtspur.
The cavalier, occupied with the epistle, noticed neither her blushes nor embarrassment.
“’Tis very considerate of you,” said he, turning gratefully towards the girl, as he finished reading the letter. “Your father has guessed correctly. It is of the greatest importance that I should have had this letter in good time. You may tell him that it needs no reply. I must answer it in person, and at once. But say, Mistress Betsey; what return can I make you for this kind service? You want a ribbon for your beautiful black hair? What colour is it to be? I think blue – such as those flowers are – does not so well become you. Shall it be a red one?”
The words, though courteously intended, fell with an unpleasant effect upon the ear of her to whom they were addressed. They were not the speeches to which she would fain have listened.
“Thanks, sir,” said she, in a tone that betrayed pique, or some other unlooked-for emotion. “A fine ribbon would scarce suit my coarse common hair. These flowers are good enough for it!”
“Ah! Mistress Betsey! Your beautiful tresses can bear this disparagement: you know they are neither coarse nor common. Nay; if you refuse the ribbon, you must accept the price of one. I cannot allow, that the essential service you have done me should go unrewarded. Take this piece of gold; and make purchase with it to suit yourself – scarf, gown, or gloves – whichever you please.”
Somewhat to the cavalier’s surprise, his liberal largess was rejected – not with scorn, but rather with an air of sadness – sufficiently marked to have been noticed by him, had he not been altogether unsuspicious of the cause.
“Well – well,” said he, putting back the coin into his purse, “I am sorry you will not permit me to make some amends for your kindness. Perhaps I may find an opportunity on some future occasion? Meanwhile I must be gone. The letter you have delivered summons me hence, – without delay. Many thanks, Mistress Betsey, and a fair good morning to you!”
A touch of the spur caused his chafing steed to spring out into the middle of the road; and the rider, heading him for the highway that conducted towards Uxbridge, soon swept round the corner – at the same instant, becoming lost to the sight of the dark-eyed damsel – whose glance, full of passion and disappointment, had followed him to the point of his disappearance.
Volume One – Chapter Three
The girl listened awhile to the departing hoof-strokes, as they came back with clear resonance from the hard causeway. Then, dropping her eyes to the ground, she stood silent under the tree – her swarth complexion still further darkened by sombre shadows, now overspreading every feature of her face.
Not long did she continue in this silent attitude.
“I would have taken the ribbon,” muttered she, “as a gift – if he had meant it that way. But it wasn’t so. No. It was only as wages he offered it to me; and his money – that was worse. Had it been a lock of his hair. Ah! I would rather he gave me that than all the gold coins in his purse, or all the silk in the shops of Uxbridge.”
“He called my hair beautiful: twice he said so!”
“Did he mean it? Or was it only mocking of me? I am sure I do not think so myself, though others have told me the same. I wish it were fair, instead of dark, like that of Mistress Marion Wade. Then perhaps, it would be beautiful?
“Blue don’t become me, he says. Lie there despised colour! Never more shall blue blossom be seen in the hair of Bet Dancey.”
As she said this she plucked the bunch of hare-bells from behind her comb, and flung the flowers at her feet.
“It was Will that gave them to me,” she continued. “He only gathered them an hour ago. What if he were to see them now? Ah! what care I? What should I care? I never gave him reason – not the least bit. They were worn to-day, not to please him; but in hopes of pleasing one I do care for. Had I thought that that one liked not blue, there were plenty of red ones in the old garden of Stone Dean. I might have gathered some as I came through it. What a pity I didn’t know the colour he likes best!”
“Ha!” she exclaimed, starting forward upon the path, and bending down over the spot where the flowers had fallen – and where the dust shewed signs of having been recently disturbed. “That is not the track of his horse. That little shoe – I know it – Mistress Marion Wade!”
For a second or two, the speaker preserved her stooping attitude, silently regarding the tracks. She saw they were fresh – that they had been made that morning – in fact, within the hour.
Her father was a forester – a woodman by calling – at times, a stealer of deer. She had been born in the forest – brought up under the shadow of its trees. She was capable of interpreting that sign – too capable for the tranquillity of her spirit.
“Mistress Marion has been here!” she muttered. “Of late, often have I seen these tracks; and twice the lady herself. What brings her along this lonely road? What has she been doing here this morning? – Could it be to meet him?”
She had no time to conjecture a response to this self-asked interrogatory. As the words passed from her lips, her attention was attracted to the sound of hoofs – a horse moving at a gallop along the main road.
Could it be the cavalier coming back?
No. It was a peasant, on a sorry steed – the same who had passed the other way scarcely an hour before – the same who had given chagrin to Mistress Marion Wade.
It was the woodman, Will Walford.
The girl appeared desirous of shunning him; but he had caught sight of her crimson cloak, and an encounter was unavoidable.
“Aw, Bet! be it thee, girl?” he cried out, as he came within speaking distance. “Why it beeant all o’ an hour since I left thee at thy hum! What’s brought thee this way?”
“Father