The White Gauntlet Part 4

"I wonder why I'm summoned home? Father don't say in his letter; but I suppose he'll tell me when I arrive there. No matter. I'm only too glad to get back to dear old Bulstrode. I hope that inveterate deer-stealer, d.i.c.k Dancey, hasn't killed off all our deer. I mean to go in for some grand stalking this winter--that do I."

"Let me see! Three years--no; it will be three come Christmas--since I took service at Court. I shouldn't be surprised if cousin Lora is grown a big girl by this, and sister Marion too? Ah! Marion was big enough when I left. Lora won't be as tall as she. No: she wasn't the make for that Lora would be what the queen calls _pet.i.te_. For all that, I dare say she's got to be a grown woman. She was just my own age; and I think I may say, that I'm now a man. Heigho! how time pa.s.ses!"

And, as if the reflection had suggested the necessity of making as much of the time as possible, the young horseman gave the whip to his steed; shot out from between the parapet walls of the bridge; and pa.s.sed on at a canter.

Though Walter Wade had p.r.o.nounced himself a man--somewhat modestly it must be admitted--the statement was scarcely correct; and the error must be attributed to a very common and pardonable weakness of boyhood, ambitious of entering upon manhood.

He was still only a stripling--a youth of nineteen--though well grown for his age; and in point of size might have pa.s.sed muster among men. A slight moustache already appeared upon his upper lip. It was light-coloured, like his hair--neither of which was red, but of that Saxon "yellow" so often a.s.sociated with eyes of blue, and which, when met with in woman, presents the fairest type of female beauty.

The Greeks--themselves a dark people, above all others skilled in feminine charms--have acknowledged this truth; though, by that acknowledgment, ignoring the claims of their own race.

To the spume of the sea was the Cyprian G.o.ddess indebted for the whiteness of her skin--to the blue sky for the colour of her eyes--to the golden sun for the hue of her hair. Among the cla.s.sic ancients, the dark-haired Venus elicited but little admiration.

And not very different is the _partiality_ of the moderns. The belle of the ball-room is invariably a _blonde_; and even the _nymphe du pave_, who trails golden pennants from under the rim of her coquettish hat, looks scornfully askance at the darker tresses of her sister in sin!

It is odd that blue eyes do not admire blue eyes--that light-coloured tresses do not wish to be interwoven with those of a like hue. Is there an instinct of approximation between extremes? Do contrasts possess an innate desire for contiguity? If so, it would explain the _penchant_ of the dark Athenians for the fair-skinned Cytherea.

There are fair-haired youths whom man may admire, and woman love.

Walter Wade was such an one.

A forehead of fine expanse, crested with curling hair--a nose sufficiently aquiline to exhibit the true aristocratic breed--a chin prominent--lips typical of contempt for aught that was mean. Such were his features.

Gazing upon his face, you might not p.r.o.nounce it handsome. For a man, it might appear too feminine. But if you were at all skilled in Saxon physiognomy, on seeing such a face, and knowing that the owner of it had a sister, you might safely set _her_ down as a being of incomparable beauty.

It was not necessary to have overheard his soliloquy, to tell that he who made it was the scion of some distinguished house. The good steed he bestrode, caparisoned in costly fas.h.i.+on; the rich costume he wore; his sharply chiselled features, and aristocratic bearing--all betokened the _filius n.o.bilis_.

He was, in effect, the son of Sir Marmaduke Wade, of Bulstrode Park; who could point to an ancestry older than the Conquest; and whose Saxon sires--along with the Bulstrodes, the Hampdens, and the Penns--had so doughtily defended their beechen woods and broad fields against the Norman invader, that the great Conqueror was pleased to compound with them for a continuance of their tenure. It was a family with whom kings had never been favourites. It had figured among the barons, who had forced the tyrant John to set his signature to the celebrated Charter of English liberty; and elsewhere have its representatives been found in the front rank of the champions of Freedom.

It may be wondered why young Walter Wade had been in the service of the Court--as declared in his soliloquy. That, however, is easily explained. An ambitious mother, of queenly inclinings--an uncle in high office near the throne--these will account for the son of Sir Marmaduke having stood as a page in the Presence.

But the mother's influence was now at an end. She was no more. And that of her brother--the uncle--was not strong enough to prevent Sir Marmaduke recalling his son from a Court--whose immorality had become the theme of every tongue; and whose contamination the fond father but too justly dreaded.

This was why the stripling was on his return to the paternal mansion; and why the king had shown displeasure at parting with him. It was a bold act on the part of the knight; and it might need all the influence of his official brother-in-law, to avert from him the vengeance of Charles--that most contemptible of tyrants.

It was not upon these things that Walter Wade was reflecting, as he rode onward. A pleasanter theme was the subject of his thoughts--his cousin Lora.

It was love's young dream--by some deemed the sweetest in life; is, perhaps, the most evanescent.

With Walter, it had not been so very fleeting. Starting at sixteen, it was now nearly three years old. It had stood the test of a long absence, and under circ.u.mstances most unfavourable to love's endurance: amid smiling maids of honour, and dames of high degree. Yes; Walter's heart had n.o.bly repelled the blandishments of more than one belle; and this too in a Court famed for its _fair_.

That kiss, somewhat coyly granted by his cousin, "deep in a forest dell," where they had wandered in search of wild flowers--that soft pressure of Lora's little hand--those thrilling words, "Dear Walter,"

that on the same occasion had fallen from Lora's pretty lips--all were remembered, as if they had been incidents of yesterday.

Did _she_ remember them with equal interest? This was the thought upon which Walter Wade had been dwelling, ever since parting from the portals of Whitehall Palace.

During his two years of absence, he had not been left altogether uninformed of what was pa.s.sing at Bulstrode. Though in those days letters were written at long intervals--and then only on matters of grand importance--Walter had kept up a correspondence with Marion; with whom epistles had been exchanged regularly once a month. He dared not write to Lora--nor even _about_ her. He knew what he said to his sister would be communicated to his little mistress; and he feared to show himself too solicitous. Every word in his letters, relating to his cousin, had been carefully studied--as to the impression it might produce--for in this sort of strategy, young love is as cunning as that of older hearts. At times the boy courtier even affected indifference about his cousin's affairs; and more than once there was danger of a quarrel--or at least a coolness. This was more especially the case, when his sister--ignorant of the pain she was producing--spoke of Lora's great beauty, and the havoc it was making among the hearts of the county beaux.

Perhaps had Marion pa.s.sed these pretty compliments upon herself, she would have said nothing beyond what was true: for although Walter's cousin was beautiful and a belle, his sister was at that time the acknowledged "belle of the s.h.i.+re."

Volume One, Chapter VI.

For the first half-mile after crossing the Colne, the thoughts of the young courtier had been given exclusively to his cousin. He recalled the old time--that scene in the silent dell--the kiss among the wild flowers--that proved her partiality for him. He remembered all these occurrences with a strong confidence in Lora's loyalty.

His fanciful reflections were suddenly, and somewhat rudely, interrupted.

On arriving at an inn that stood by the roadside, a spectacle was presented to his eyes which turned his thoughts into a different channel.

In a wide open s.p.a.ce in front of the hostelry was a troop of hors.e.m.e.n.

By their armour and equipments, Walter knew them to be _cuira.s.siers_, in the service of the king.

There were about fifty in the troop; and from the movements of the men, and the condition of their horses--still smoking from the march--it was evident they had come to a halt only a few minutes before.

The troopers had dismounted. Some of them were still occupied with their horses, helping them to provender; while others, who had already performed this duty, were seated under a huge old elm tree--joyously, as well as noisily, regaling themselves with such cheer as the hostelry afforded.

A glance at these roisterers told the young cavalier who and what they were:--a troop of the returned army from the north, that had been lately, and somewhat clandestinely, brought southward by the king.

This corps had originally been recruited in the Low Countries, and among them were several foreigners. Indeed, the smaller number were Englishmen; while there were many countenances of the true Gallic type, and a still larger proportion of those famed hirelings--who figured so largely in the wars of the time--the _Walloons_.

Amid the clamour of voices, with which the ears of the young courtier were a.s.sailed, he could hear French and Flemish commingled with his native tongue; while the oaths peculiar to all three nations, thickly interlarding the conversation, told him that he was in the presence of a remnant of that army that "swore so terribly in Flanders."

A crowd of the neighbouring rustics had collected around the inn; and stood with mouths agape, and countenances expressing unlimited astonishment at the sayings and doings of the strange steel-clad cavaliers who had dismounted in their midst.

To Walter Wade there was nothing either new or surprising in the spectacle. He had seen the like in London; and often of late. He had been expecting such a sight--partly from having heard, in pa.s.sing through Uxbridge, that a troop of horse was before him; and partly from having observed their tracks along the dusty road upon which he had been travelling.

He did not know why they were going down into Buckinghams.h.i.+re; but that was the king's business, not his. In all likelihood they were on their way to Oxford, or some garrison town in the west; and were making their night halt at the inn.

Giving but a moment's thought to some such conjecture, the young courtier was about riding past--without taking notice of the coa.r.s.e jests flung towards him by the rough troopers under the tree--when a voice of very different intonation, issuing from the door of the hostelry, commanded him to halt.

Almost simultaneous with the command, two cavaliers stepped forth out of the inn; and one of them, having advanced a few paces towards him, repeated the command.

Partly taken by surprise at this rude summons--and partly believing it to proceed from some old Court acquaintance--Walter drew bridle, and stopped.

It was easy to tell that the two men, who had so brusquely brought themselves under his notice, were the officers in command of the troop.

Their silken doublets--only partially concealed by the steel armour-- their elegant Spanish leather boots, with lace ruffles at the tops; the gold spun upon their heels; the white ostrich plumes waving above their helmets; and the richly-chased scabbards of their swords--all indicated rank and authority. This was further made manifest, by the tone of command in which they had spoken, and their bearing in presence of the troopers.

The latter, on seeing them come forth from the house, desisted from their jargon; and, though they continued to pa.s.s their beer cans, it was in a constrained and respectful silence.

The two officers wore their helmets; but the visors of both were open; and Walter could see their faces distinctly.

He now perceived that neither of them was known to him; though one of them he thought he had seen before, a few days before--only for a moment, and in conference with the queen!

This was the older of the two, and evidently the senior in rank--the captain of the troop. He was a man of thirty, or thereabouts; with a face of dark complexion, and not unhandsome; but with that rakish expression that drink, and the indulgence of evil pa.s.sions, will imprint upon the n.o.blest features. His had once been of the n.o.blest--and still were they such that a gentleman need not have been ashamed of--had it not been for a cast half-cynical, half-sinister, that could be detected in his eyes, sadly detracting from a face otherwise well favoured.

Altogether it was a countenance of that changing kind, that, smiling, might captivate the heart, but scowling could inspire it with fear.

The younger man--who from the insignia on his shoulder was a _cornet_-- presented a very different type of physiognomy. Though still only a youth, his countenance was repulsive in the extreme. There was no need to scan it closely, to arrive at this conclusion. In that reddish round face, shaded by a scant thatch of straight hay-coloured hair, you beheld at a glance a kindred compound of the stupid, the vulgar, and the brutal.

Walter Wade had never looked on that countenance before. It inspired him with no wish to cultivate the acquaintance of its owner. If left to his own inclinations, the young courtier would not have desired ever to look upon it again.