“I have but slight claim to your gratitude,” replied the cavalier. “In truth not any, Master Wade. By the merest accident have we been thrown together as compagnons de voyage.”
“Your modesty, sir,” rejoined the young courtier – as he spoke bending gracefully towards his companion, “claims my admiration equally with that courage, of which I have now witnessed more than one display. But you cannot hinder me from feeling gratitude; nor yet from expressing it. If you deny me the privilege of knowing your name, I can at least tell my friends, how much I am indebted to Sir Henry the Unknown.”
“Sir Henry! Ah! Garth styled me so. The old forester is fond of bestowing titles. My father was so called; and honest Gregory, in his luck of heraldic skill, thinks the title must be hereditary. It is not so, however. I have not received the honour of knighthood from the sword of sacred majesty. What’s more, it’s not likely I ever shall. Ha! ha!”
The words that concluded this speech – as well as the laugh that followed – were uttered in a tone of defiant bitterness: as if the speaker held such royal honours in but slight estimation.
The young courtier thus baulked in obtaining the name of his protector, remained for a moment without making rejoinder. He was thinking whether in the matter of names he could not claim a fair exchange of confidence – since he had freely given his own, – when the cavalier, as if divining his thoughts, again accosted him.
“Pardon me,” resumed the latter, in a tone of apology. “Pardon me, Master Wade, for my apparent want of courtesy. You honour me by asking my name; and, since you have treated me so frankly, I have neither the right nor the wish to conceal it from you. It is plain Henry Holtspur – not Sir Henry, as you have just heard me designated. Furthermore, Master Wade; if you know anything of a rather dilapidated dwelling yclept ‘Stone Dean,’ – situated in the heart of the forest, some three miles from here – and think you could find your way thither, I can promise you a welcome, a mouthful of venison, a cup of Canary to wash it down; and – not much more, I fear. During most mornings I am at home, if you will take your chance of riding over.”
“Nay, you must visit me first,” rejoined Walter, “I should ask you in now; but for the lateness of the hour. I fear our people have retired for the night. You will come again; and permit me to introduce you to my father. I am sure he would like to thank you for the service you have done me; and my sister Marion too.”
A thrill of sweet secret pleasure shot through the heart of Henry Holtspur, as he listened to the last words. Thanks from Marion! A thought from her – even though it were but given in gratitude!
Love! love! sweet art thou in the enjoyment; but far more delicious is the dream of thy anticipation!
Had the young courtier been closely observing, he might, at that moment, have detected upon the countenance of Henry Holtspur, a peculiar expression – one which he appeared endeavouring to conceal.
The brother of his mistress is the last man, to whom a lover cares to confide the secret of his bosom. It may not be a welcome tale – even when the fortunes are equal, the introduction en règle, and the intentions honourable. But if in any of these circumstances there chance to be informality, then becomes the brother the bête noire of the situation.
Was some thought of this kind causing Henry Holtspur a peculiar emotion – prompting him to repress, or conceal it from the brother of Marion Wade? On returning thanks for the promised introduction, why did he speak with an air of embarrassment? Why upon his countenance, of open manly character, was there an expression almost furtive?
The young courtier, without taking note of these circumstances, continued to urge his request.
“Well – you promise to come?”
“Sometime – with pleasure.”
“Nay, Master Holtspur, ‘sometime’ is too indefinite; but, indeed, so has been my invitation. I shall alter it. You will come to-morrow? Father gives a fête in our park. ’Tis my birthday; and the sports, I believe, have been arranged on an extensive scale. Say, you will be one of our guests?”
“With all my heart, Master Wade. I shall be most happy.”
After exchanging a mutual good-night, the two travellers parted – Walter entering the gate of the park – while the cavalier continued along the highway, that ran parallel to its palings.
Volume One – Chapter Eleven
After seeing the two travellers ride off, the disappointed footpad stood listening, till the hoof-strokes of their horses died upon the distant road.
Then, flinging himself upon a bank of earth, and, having assumed a sitting posture – with his elbows resting upon his knees, and his bearded chin reposing between the palms of his hands – he remained for some moments silent as the Sphinx, and equally motionless.
His features betrayed a strange compound of expressions – not to be interpreted by any one ignorant of his history, or of the adventure that had just transpired. The shadow of a contrite sadness was visible upon his brow; while in his dark grey eye could be detected a twinkle of chagrin – as he thought of the pair of purses so unexpectedly extricated from his grasp.
Plainly was a struggle passing within his bosom. Conscience and cupidity had quarrelled – their first outfall for a long period of time. The contending emotions prevented speech; and, it is superfluous to say, his companions respected his silence.
In the countenance of Gregory Garth, despite his criminal calling – even in his worst moments – there were lines indicative of honesty. As he sate by the roadside – that roadside near which he had so often skulked– with the moon shining full upon his face, these lines gradually became more distinctly defined; until the criminal cast completely disappeared from his features, leaving only in its place an expression of profound melancholy. But for the mise en scène, and the dramatis personae surrounding him, any one passing at the moment might have mistaken him for an honest man, suffering from some grave and recent misfortune.
But as no one passed, he was left free to indulge, both in his sorrow and his silence.
At length the latter came to an end. The voice of the penitent footpad – no longer in the stern accents of menace and command, but in soft subdued tones – once more interrupted the stillness of the night.
“Oh lor – oh lor!” muttered he, “who’d a believed I shud ha’ holden my pike to the breast o’ young master Henry? Niver a thought had I to use it. Only bluster to make ’em yield up; but he’ll think as how I intended it all the same. Oh lor – oh lor! he’ll niver forgi’ me! Well, it can’t a’ be holp now; an’ here go to keep the promise I’ve made him. No more touchin’ o’ purses, or riflin’ o’ fine ladies on this road. That game be all over.”
For a moment the dark shadow upon his brow appeared to partake slightly of chagrin – as if there still lingered some regret, for the promise he had made, and the step he was about to take. The strife between conscience and cupidity seemed not yet definitively decided.
There was another interval of silence, and then came the decision. It was in favour of virtue. Conscience had triumphed.
“I’ll keep my word to him,” cried he, springing to his feet, as if to give emphasis to the resolve. “I’ll keep it, if I shud starve.”
“Disband!” he continued, addressing himself to the silent circle, and speaking in a tone of mock command. “Disband! ye beggars! Your captain, Greg’ry Garth, han’t no longer any need o’ your sarvices. Dang it meeats!” added he, still preserving his tone of mock seriousness, “I be sorry to part wi’ ye. Ye’ve been as true as steel to me;