The White Gauntlet

“He’s stolen it from the cellar o’ Stone Dean,” remarked the latter, after smelling the jar, and otherwise scrutinising it. “I know by the sniff o’ the liquor it’s that same; an’ I could sweer to them Dutch bottles afore a full quorum o’ justices. Poor Master Henry! He’s not only been betrayed, but robbed by this ugly rascal. Well, here goo to gie him his reward!”

As Garth uttered the words, he seized his fresh-cut cudgel; and was about to come down with it upon the carcase of the slumbering woodman, when some thought suddenly stayed his hand.

“No!” he exclaimed; “I’ll wake him first, and gie him a bit o’ my mind. If he ha’ the feeling o’ a human creeture, I’ll first punish him i’ the moral way– as the Vicar o’ Giles’s Chaffont ’ud call it.”

“Hee up!” he shouted aloud, poking the sleeper with the point of his stick. “Roust thee, thou sluggart, and see what’s time o’ day! Twelve by the sun, if it’s an hour. Hee up, I say!”

Another poke of the stick, administered still more sharply than before, like its predecessor, produced no effect – or only the slightest. The inebriate rustic continued to snore; and only a low grunt declared his consciousness of having been disturbed; though it seemed more the mechanical action of the cudgel, that had been pushed rather forcibly into the pit of his stomach.

“Hee up!” cried Garth, once more giving him a taste of the holly stick. “Rouse thyself, I say! If ye don’t, I’ll wallop ye in your sleep. Roust! roust!”

At each summons the poke was repeated; but with no better success than before. The deeper gave forth a series of spasmodic grunts; but still continued to snore on.

“But for his snorin’, I’d think he wur gone dead,” said Garth, desisting from his attempts to awake him. “If not dead, however, he be dead drunk. That’s clear enough!”

“It be no use trying to bring him to his senses?” continued he, after appearing to reflect. “And what’s worse, ’twill be no use beatin’ him in that state. The unfeelin’ brute as I may well call him wouldn’t feel it no how. I mout as well strike my stick against that theer bundle o’ faggots. It’s danged disappointin’! What be the best thing to do wi’ him?”

The puzzled footpad stood for a while reflecting; then continued: —

“’Twoan’t do to ha’ tuk the trouble o’ comin’ here for nothin’ – beside the cuttin’ o’ this cudgel. If I lay it into him now, he woan’t feel it, till after he gets sober. That an’t the satisfaction I want. I want to see him feel it.”

Again the speaker paused to consider.

After a moment or two his eyes began to wander around the walls – as if some design had suggested itself, and he was searching for the means to carry it into execution.

Presently an object came under his gaze that appeared to fix it.

It was a coil of rope, or thick cord – that had been thrown over one of the couplings of the roof, and was hanging within reach of his hand.

“That be the best way, I take it,” said he, resuming his soliloquy, “an’ I dar say this’ll do. It appear a stoutish piece, o’ string,” he continued, dragging the cord from off the coupling, and trying its strength between hand and heel. “Yes; it be strong enough to hold a bull on his back – let alone a pig like him; and just long enough to make four ties o’t. It’s the very identical.”

Once more taking out his knife, he cut the cord into four nearly equal pieces. He then proceeded to carry out the design that had shaped itself in his mind; and which, judging by his satisfied air as he set about it, appeared as if it promised to extricate him from his dilemma.

This was simply to strap the drunken man to his truckle; and leave him there – until his restoration to a state of sobriety should render him sensible of the chastisement which he, Garth, intended to return and administer!

As the woodchopper lay with arms and limbs stretched out to their full length, his inviting attitude appeared to have suggested to Garth this mode of dealing with him.

Chuckling over his work, with the quickness of an expert in the handling of ropes, the footpad now proceeded to the accomplishment of his task.

In a few minutes’ time, he had fastened the wrists and ankles of the sleeper to the trestles of his couch. This done, he stepped back to take a survey; and as he stood over the unconscious captive, with arms-a-kimbo, he broke forth into a fit of uproarious laughter.

“An’t he a beauty, as he lays theer?” said he, as if interrogating some unseen individual. “A reglar babe o’ the woods! Only wants the Robin-redbreasts to kiver him wi’ a scattering o’ beech leaves! Now,” added he, apostrophising the fast-bound sleeper, “you stay theer till I coom back! I don’t say it ’ll be inside the twenty-four hours; but if ’tan’t, don’t be impatient, an’ fret yourself ’bout my absence. I’ve promised I’ll coom; an’ you may be sure o’t. For the present, Master Wull Walford, I’ll bid you a good mornin’!”

Saying this, and placing his cudgel in a corner – where he might readily lay hands upon it again – Garth stepped forth from the hut; carefully closed the door behind him; and took the back track towards the cottage in which he had left the other inebriate Dancey. Him he now hoped to find in a more fit state, for acting as his co-partner in a scheme, he had partially conceived for the rescue of his imprisoned patron.

Volume Two – Chapter Sixteen

It yet wanted some minutes of midnight, on that same day, when three individuals were seen issuing out through the narrow doorway of Dick Dancey’s cottage, and starting off along the path towards Bulstrode Park.

They were two men and a woman – the last so shrouded in cloak and hood, that her age could not be guessed at, except from her lithe form and agile step – both proclaiming her to be young.

The cloak, of a deep crimson colour, was the property of Bet Dancey; and it was Bet’s bold figure it enveloped.

Her companions were her own father, and Gregory Garth.

As the narrow path prevented them from walking side by side, they proceeded in single file – the ex-footpad in the lead, Dancey close following upon his heels, and Bet bringing up the rear.

This arrangement was not favourable to conversation in a low tone of voice; and, as the errand, on which they were going abroad at that late hour of night, might be supposed to require secrecy, by a tacit understanding between them, all three preserved silence, throughout the whole time they were travelling along the forest path.

Wapsey’s Wood was separated from the park by a tract of pasture – interspersed with patches of gorse and heather. Through this the path ran direct to a rustic stile – which permitted a passage over, the palings. Inside the enclosure was a broad belt of heavy timber – oak, elm, and chestnut – through which the track continued on towards the dwelling.

It was the south-western wing of Sir Marmaduke’s mansion that was thus approached; and, the timber once traversed, a portion of the building might be seen – with the walls enclosing the courtyard at the back. The garden, with its fruit trees and ornamental shrubbery, extended in this direction – with its encircling fence; but this being constructed in the style of a moat, and, of course, sunk below the surface of the general level, was not visible from a distance.

After passing silently over the stile, the trio of night promenaders forsook the ordinary path; and kept on towards the house in a circuitous direction.

Having traversed the belt of timber – with the same cautious silence as they had hitherto observed – they arrived upon its edge, opposite the rear of the mansion, and at a point some hundred yards distant from the moated wall. There, as if by mutual agreement, they came to a stop – still keeping under the shadow of the trees.

If this precaution was for the purpose of concealment, it was superfluous: for the night was pitch dark – like that which had preceded it – and in the sky above there were similar indications of a storm. It was in effect a repetition of that electric congestion, that had disturbed the atmosphere on the previous night – to be in like manner dispersed by a deluge of rain.

Between the timber and the shrubbery that surrounded the dwelling, lay a piece of open pasture – with tall trees standing over it, at wide intervals apart. Had it been daylight, or even moonlight, from the point where they had paused, a view of the dwelling-house – comprising the buildings at the back, and a portion of its western façade – could have been distinctly obtained. As it was, they could only make out a sombre pile, dimly outlined against the dark leaden canopy of heaven; though at intervals, as the lightning shot across the sky, the walls and windows, glancing under its momentary glare, could be traced as distinctly as by day.

After arriving at their post of observation, the three individuals, who had come from Dancey’s cottage, continued for a time to preserve a silence that spoke of some important design. The eyes of all three were turned towards the dwelling; and, as the electric blaze illumined their faces, it disclosed the features of all set in a serious expression.

No light could be seen in any of the windows looking westward; and, at that hour, it might have been supposed that the inmates of the mansion had all retired to rest. But there were also windows in the outbuildings; and a faint gleam flickering from one or two of these told, that, either some of the domestics of the establishment, or the troopers quartered upon it, were still burning the midnight oil.

The great gateway, that gave entrance into the courtyard, was visible from this point. When the lightning flashed, they could distinguish the huge oaken folding doors, and see that they were shut; but, while darkness was on, a tiny stream of yellowish light projecting through an aperture underneath, told, that a lamp was burning behind it, inside the archway.

There was no sound to indicate that any one was stirring within the establishment. Occasionally a horse could be heard neighing in the stables, in answer to one that wandered over the pastures of the park – and a dog or two, taking their cue from the king of the domestic quadrupeds, would for some seconds keep awake the hollow echoes of the courtyard with their resonant baying.

While Garth and his two coadjutors were still listening, the great clock – from the tower that overtopped the mansion – tolled the hour of twelve.

“Thee be quite sure, gurl,” said the former, breaking silence, for the first time since leaving the domicile of Dancey, “thee be quite sure about the hour?”

“Quite sure,” replied Bet, repeating the words of her interrogator. “He said twelve. He said he would be on guard all the night; but from twelve till two would be his turn as sentry over the prisoner. The room is just yonder, inside the archway – where you see the light coming through.”

“The old storeroom it be,” put in Dancey. “I know it well. Many’s the fat buck I hae carried in theer, afore Sir Marmaduke took a notion I stealed his deer, an’ gied me the sack from lookin’ after them. Gad! them were better times for Dick Dancey!”

“Did he say you was to come exact at twelve?” pursued Garth, without heeding the interpolation of the discharged keeper.

“No,” replied Bet, “not exact at twelve, but soon after. He told me not to come near, until the guard had been changed awhile, and the men relieved – I think he called it – should go back into the courtyard.”

“How war ye to know that?”

“He said he would set the lamp down upon the pavement, close to the big door. When I should see the light shining out at the bottom, I was to tap at the wicket, and he’d open it.”

“Well, it be shinin’ out at the bottom now, and has been for some time – before the clock struck. Is that the way he meant it?”

“No. There’s a hole – where the cats go out and in. He’s to put the lamp there.”