The White Gauntlet

“One o’ the sogers!” muttered Dick in a tone that betrayed unpleasantness. “Dang it, that’s queery! Did he tell thee his errand?”

“Only that he wanted to see you.”

“Wanted to see me! Art sure o’ that, gurl?”

“He said so, father.”

“Thour’t sure he didn’t come to see thee?”

The woodman, as he asked the question, gazed scrutinisingly upon the countenance of his daughter.

“Oh, no, father!” replied Betsey without flinching from his gaze. “What could he want with me? He said he had a message for yourself; and that his captain wished to speak with you on some business.”

“Business wi’ his captain! Hech! Did he say nothin’ o’ what it be’ed about?”

“No.”

“Nor made no inquiries o’ any kind?”

“He only asked me, if I knew Mister Henry Holtspur, and where he lived.”

“What didst thee tell him?”

“I said that you knew him; and that he lived at the old house at Stone Dean.”

The beautiful Betsey did not think it necessary to inform her father, that the cuirassier had said a good deal more: since it was in the shape of gallant speeches, and related only to herself.

“Makin’ inquiries ’bout him!” muttered Dancey to himself. “I shudn’t wonder if theer be somethin’ afoot. Muster Holtspur must be told o’t, an’ at once. I’ll go over theer soon’s I’ve ate my breakfast. Wull’s been here too,” he continued, once more addressing himself to his daughter, though not interrogatively. “I see’d him last night, when I got to Muster Holtspur’s. He told me he’d been.”

“Yes —he has been twice. The last time he came was when the other was here. They had some angry words.”

“Angry words, eh! What beed they about, gurl?”

“I am sure I can’t tell, father. You know Will always gets out of temper, when any one speaks to me. Indeed, I can’t bear it; and won’t any longer. He taunted me that day; and said a many things he’d no right to.”

“I tell thee, gurl, Wull Walford have a right to talk to thee as he pleases. He is thy friend, gurl; an’ means it only for thy good. Thou be-est too short wi’ the lad; and say’st things – for I’ve heard thee myself – that would aggravate the best friend thee hast i’ the world. Thou wilt do well to change thy tone; or Wull Walford may get tired o’ thy tricks, an’ go a speerin’ som’ere else for a wife.”

“I wish he would!” was the reply that stood ready on the tip of Bet’s tongue; but which from a wholesome dread of the paternal temper – more than once terribly exhibited on this subject – was left unspoken.

“I tell thee, gurl, I’ve seed Wull Walford last night. I’ve talked wi’ him a bit; an’ I reckon as how he’ll ha’ somethin’ seerus to say to thee ’fore long.”

The dark cloud, that passed over the countenance of the girl, told that she comprehended the nature of the “something” thus conjecturally foreshadowed.

“Now, Bet,” added the woodman, having laid bare the roasted rib, and emptied the beer-mug, “bring me my old hat, an’ the long hazel staff. I be a gooin’ over to the Dean; an’ as that poor beest be well-nigh done up, I maun walk. Maybe Muster Holtspur moat coom here, while I be gone theer. I know he wants to see me early, an’ I ha’ overslept myself. He sayed he might coom. If he do, tell ’im I’ll be back in a giff – if I doant find ’im over theer, or meet ’im on the way.”

And with this injunction, the gigantic deer-stealer squeezed himself through the narrow doorway of his hovel; and, turning in the direction of Stone Dean, strode off under the shadowy boughs of the Wapsey’s Wood beeches.

He was scarce out of sight when Bet, stepping back from the door, glided into her little chamber; and, seizing the brush of bristles, began drawing it through the long tresses of her hair.

In that piece of broken glass – with a disc not bigger than a dinner-plate – was reflected a face with which the most critical connoisseur of female beauty could scarce have found fault.

The features were of the true gipsy type – the aquiline nose – the wild, hawk-like eye – the skin of golden brown – and thick crow-black hair overshadowing all. There was a form, too, beneath, which, though muscular almost as a man’s, and with limbs large and vigorous, was, nevertheless, of tempting tournure. It was no wonder that Marion Wade had deemed it worthy the admiration of Henry Holtspur – no wonder that Henry Holtspur had deemed Will Walford unworthy of possessing it.

“He coming here! And to find me in this drabby dress, with my hair hanging like the tail of father’s old horse! I should sink through the floor for very shame!

“I trust I shall be in time to titivate myself. Bother my hair! – it’s a yard too long, and a mile too thick. It takes as much trouble to plait as would weave a hank of homespun.

“It’ll do now. Stick where I stick you, ye ugly comb! Will’s gift. Little do I prize it, troth!

“Now for my Sunday gown – my cuffs and ruffs. They’re not quite so grand as those of Mistress Marion Wade; but I flatter myself they’re not amiss. If I were only allowed to wear gloves – pretty gauntlets, like those I’ve seen on her hands, small and white as the drifted snow! Ah! there, I’m far behind her: my poor hands are red and big; they’ve had to work and weave; while hers, I dare say, never touched a distaff. Oh! that I could wear gloves to cover these ugly fingers of mine. But no – I daren’t. The village girls would laugh at me, and call me a – . I won’t say the word. Never mind for the gloves. Should he come, I’ll keep my hands under my apron, so that he shan’t see a finger.”

Thus soliloquised Bet Dancey in front of her bit of broken looking-glass.

It was not Will Walford who had summoned up her ludicrous soliloquy; nor yet the cuirassier – he who had called twice. For neither of these was the dark-haired damsel arraying herself in her flaunting finery. The lure was being set for higher game – for Henry Holtspur.

“I hope father mayn’t meet him on the way. He’ll be sure to turn him back if he do: for father likes better to go to Stone Dean than for him to come here. Luckily there’s two paths; and father always takes the short cut – by which he never comes.

“Ha! the dog barks! ’Tis some one! Mercy on me! If’t be him I’m not half ready to receive him. Stay in, you nasty comb! It’s too short in the teeth. Will’s no judge of combs, or he’d a bought me a better. After all,” concluded she, bending down before the bit of glass, and taking a final survey of her truly beautiful face, “I think I’ll do. Perhaps I’m not so pretty as Mistress Marion Wade; but I’m sure I’m as good-looking as Mistress Dorothy Dayrell. The dog again! It must be somebody, I hope ’tis – ”

Leaving the name unpronounced, the girl glided back into the kitchen; and, crossing it with quick step, stood once more within the doorway.

As yet there was no one in sight. The dog was barking at something that had roused him either by scent or sound. But the girl knew that the animal rarely erred in this wise; and that something – either man or beast – must be approaching the hut.

She was not kept long in suspense, as to who was the coming visitor; though the hope, to which she had given thought, had well-nigh departed before that visitor came within view. The dog was making his demonstration towards the south. The path to Stone Dean led northward from the cottage. Henry Holtspur, if coming from home, should appear in the latter direction.

The girl knew of another visitor who might be expected by the southern path, and at any hour. In that direction dwelt Will Walford. It might be he?

A shadow of disappointment swept over her face, accompanying this conjecture. It seemed to say, how little welcome just then would Will Walford be.

Such must have been its signification: for at sight of this individual – the moment after advancing along the path – the shadow on her countenance sensibly deepened.

“How very provoking!” muttered she. “At such a time too – just as I had hopes of seeing him. If he should come too – even though his errand be to father – I shouldn’t wonder if Will was to make some trouble. He’s been jealous ever since he saw me give Master Holtspur the flowers – worse about him than any one. Will’s right there; though the other’s not to blame – no, no – only myself. I wish he were a little in fault. Then I shouldn’t mind Will’s jealousy; nor he, I’m sure. Oh! if he loved me, I shouldn’t care for aught, or anybody, in the wide world!”

Having made this self-confession, she stepped back into the doorway; and, standing upon the stoup, awaited the unwelcome visitor with an air of defiant indifference.

“Mornin’, Bet!” saluted her suitor in a curt, sulky fashion, to which “Bet” made an appropriate response. “Thou be-est stannin’ in the door as if thou wast lookin’ for some’un? I doan’t suppose it are for me anyhow.”

“No, indeed,” answered the girl, taking but slight pains to conceal her chagrin. “I neither expected you, nor do I thank you for coming. I told you so, when you were here last; and now I tell you again.”

“Wal, you consated thing!” retorted the lout, with a pretence at being indifferent; “how do thee know I be come to see thee? I may have business wi’ Mast’ Dancey, mayent I?”

“If you have, he’s not at home.”

“Where be he gone?”

“Over to Stone Dean. He’s only left here a minute ago. He went by the short cut across the woods. If you keep on, you’ll easily overtake him.”

“Bah!” ejaculated the woodman, “I beant in such a hurry. My bizness wi’ your father ’ll keep till he coom back; but I’se also got somethin’ to say to thyself as woan’t keep much longer. Thee be done up wonderful fine this mornin’! Be theer another fête to come off? ’Tan’t day o’ a fair, be it?”