Chapter Nineteen.How I was concerned in Treason and Love.The first words of the letter left me in no doubt as to who the writer might be.“To a certain Hollander, once my servant, and honoured still to live in my memory. Know, my son of Neptune, fledgeling of the Nymphs, and half-brother to the Tritons, that he whom thou knewest once in Parnassus’ grove (whither he himself led thy halting feet), respireth still in sighs for beauty and exhalations of sweet verse. Know, too, that he hath of late composed a notable and admirable epic in praise of the Sun, which, if it please Heaven to bring him, ere the year fall, to London, thou mayest have the high honour of setting in print, thereby assisting at the birth of an immortal.“Know further, that after many bufferings from the jade Fortune, and tossing, such as ships ne’er endured on thy brawling element, my Hollander, I am here in Chester, beloved of the Muse, yet ill-beholden to the men of the place, who, as the Mantuans their Maro, clapped me in ward because forsooth I stirred the rabble with my moving measures. The moon hath not kissed the golden locks of Galatea four times since I was let out. Now is no zephyr freer than I—or emptier. Yet hath heaven need of her needy sons, and the meanest of Olympus, denizens hath his part to play amidst the earthlings. Know, then, that on the second day after I had ceased to eat my bread at her Majesty’s cost, I met, in eager haste, a certain Irish Achilles who knoweth more of war than verse, and whose arm is more terrible with the sword than is my hand with the pen. This Sir Ludar—such is gratitude and reverence!—O tempora! O mores!—would have given me the go-by, had I not stood boldly in his way, that he might at least see how great an honour he avoided. When he saw me, to be brief, my Hollander, he honoured himself by seeing in me the god Mercury, who beareth messages to the dim regions of the earth. He bade me tell thee, by a means the receipt hereof will apprise thee, that the cause goeth perilously. What cause, I know not; but, be it what it may, it taketh him hence, on what, perchance, may be his last journey. He biddeth you remember your oath, and would have me advertise you that one Merriman hath been heard of in these parts, travelling for London, with a party, of whom one is the lady of the castle on the river, with her ward. He is a dark mysterious man, this Irish wolf-hound of thine, my Hollander, and, did I not suspect him to have a secret tooth for the olives of Parnassus, I had not thus condescended to act as go between you. When I enquired of him concerning her, that incomparable swan, that bright and shining star, that white snowflake, that Cupid’s elder sister, my lady-love—to serve whom I counted as nought the perils of a certain fell voyage you wot of—when I enquired him of her, he asked me back, Did I desire to flounder in the castle moat? By which talk it appeared to me much care hath weakened his mind, and I misdoubt me his present journey bodes no good. My Hollander, I beg not any man’s bread, yet am I hard put to it to show the world that heaven doth not desert her favourites. If the pity of a ’prentice can reach from you to Chester, lend it me, I pray you, as I sit here gazing into the empyrean for my next meal. If I may, I shall shorten the space betwixt us. Meanwhile, count for thyself a lodging in at least one poetic breast, which is that of thy patron and friend, Thomas Graves.“Post Scriptum: I have overtook my messenger—a poor country carrier—to tell thee strange news. This Ludar hath returned suddenly from his journey in the custody of a troop. I saw him marched through the streets but just now, amid cries of ‘Treason!’ ‘Away with him!’ ‘Hang him!’ sad to hear. The talk runneth that he is party in some great conspiracy against her glorious Majesty, whose foes may Heaven confound! If it be true, then is our Achilles wounded in the heel, and is like enough to journey from here to Tyburn free of charges. Farewell, from thy well-wisher.”This letter cast me into terrible woe; for it was plain by it that Ludar was in mortal peril, and without a friend to help him. I could do naught, for I knew not where he was taken, or if I did, what could I, outside a stone wall, do for him within? Besides, the message about the maiden put a service on me I was bound to fulfil. Yet what could I do?Jeannette saw my trouble and shared it; and, being a shrewd lass, advised me to go to Will Peake and hear what was this news of a new-discovered treason, and who were in it?So I went and found the Bridge (Sunday as it was), in a flutter. Will Peake I could not see, but from another gossip I heard that news was come of a terrible plot to murder her sacred Majesty and place on her throne, with the help of Spanish rogues, the upstart Mary of Scotland. Many wild stories were afloat concerning the business. One, that not a few of her Majesty’s trusted advisers were mixed in it; others, that the Scotchwoman herself was prime mover; another, that it was the work of the Spanish king, whose armies were on the coast waiting the signal to land.But as we stood, there came a mighty shouting from the Tower Hill, and, running thither, we saw a man in a cart being conducted by twenty horsemen to the prison. He was clad as a papist priest—yet, when I looked at him, I seemed to know his face.“Who goes there?” I asked of one who stood near.“The head and front of it all,” said he; “a renegade priest, Ballard by name.”“Who hath travelled,” said another, “on this accursed business in the garb of a soldier by the name of Captain Fortescue.”“Fortescue!” cried I. “Why, to be sure, it was he! I knew I had seen him.”“You saw him, where? what know you of this?” asked several persons round, suspiciously. “If you be a friend of his, get you up on the cart beside him.”I had a mind to make a rush that way, if haply I might get a single word with the traitor as to where Ludar was. But I might as soon have tried to get within hail of the Scotch Queen herself, so closely was he fenced in.“He is no friend,” growled I, “but a vile enemy and traitor, whom I would to God I had run through the body when I had the chance at Carlisle, months since.”Then to avoid more questions and get away from the rabble, I hastened back and told all to Jeannette. She was very grave. “What think you now?” she asked.“I can think nothing,” said I, “save that, whatever has befallen Ludar, he could not knowingly be guilty of plotting against the life of a woman, even if she be the Queen herself. Jeannette,” said I, “I could no more believe that than I would believe you to be unkind or untrue.”She smiled at that and said she, too, could not think so ill of this Ludar of mine.As the days passed, news came in thick and fast. The plot, we heard, was a devilish one to murder the Queen and her ministers, and give England up to the heretic Spaniard. Men stood aghast as they heard of it. Presently came word that the worst of the traitors were in hiding in London, being mostly young gentlemen of the Court, who had fed at the table of the very Lady they plotted to slay. Try all I would, I could hear nothing of Ludar. Nor durst I name him to my comrades, for fear I should bring him mischief thereby.One day in the middle of August it was, a man came into our shop in hot haste to tell Master Walgrave that the company had been taken, hidden in a barn in Harrow. Never shall I forget the joy of the City as the news spread like wildfire through the wards. No work did we ’prentices do that day. We marched shouting through the streets, calling for vengeance on the Queen’s enemies, and waiting till they should be brought in, on their way to the Tower.As for me, my joy was mingled with strange trouble; for, if Ludar should be among them—“The leader of them is one Babington,” said Will Peake, “and besides him are half-a-dozen dogs as foul—English, all of them.”“Save one,” said another, “who I hear is Irish.”“Irish!” cried I, as white as paper. “What is his name?”“Not Dexter,” said the fellow, looking at me in amaze. “Why, man, what ails you?”“Tell me his name, as you love me,” said I.“How should I know the name of every cowardly hound that walks the streets? Go and ask them that can tell you.”I walked away miserable, and waited at the Aldersgate to see the prisoners come by.When at last the cry was raised, I scarcely durst look up, for fear that among them should tower the form of Ludar. But when I lifted my eyes and saw only six hang-dog men, who held their hands to their ears to keep out the yelling of the mob, and shrunk closer to their guards to save them from a worse fate than the hangman’s, the beating of my heart eased. For he was not amongst them. So joyful was I that I could even lend my voice for a while to the general cry, and, when night fell, bring my torch to the flaming barrels that blazed on Finsbury Fields.Yet I came home that night ill at ease. Fresh news had arrived already that other men had been taken in the country—amongst them, certain who had been in attendance on the Scotch Queen. Yet, ask all I would, never once could I hear of Ludar by name, or of any man resembling him.A month later we ’prentices had another holiday, this time to witness the end of that terrible business on Tyburn Hill. ’Twas a horrible sight—I would I could forget it—to see those traitors die, foul as their crime had been. Yet what sickened me the most was to think that Ludar perchance might presently follow to the same fate, if indeed he had not already shared it.But no news came. The weeks slipped by. Men ceased to talk of Babington, and spoke rather of the coming trial of the Scotch Queen for her life. And presently a time came when they even ceased to speak of that. And all the while, never a whisper came to me of Ludar.Now you are not to think that all this time I had forgot the message contained in the poet’s letter concerning Captain Merriman and the maiden. Far from it. I haunted Whitehall after work hours in the hope of seeing or hearing something of them. But all in vain. It would have been easier to hear of Ludar, I think, than to get any news of an Irish maiden and her step-dame at Court, or of a swaggering captain.“What is that to thee?” said most whom I asked; and others pricked me out of their company with their swords.But late in the year, chance put in my way what all my pains had failed to procure.I remember, it was that same day that the news came to town that Mary Queen of Scots was condemned to die. London went mad with joy at the news. For our pity of the woman was swallowed up in joy that the evil destiny of our country was mastered, and that our gracious Queen was to be freed at one stroke from all her enemies. Be that as it may, we burned bonfires that night in Moorfields, and I had my mistress’ leave to take Jeannette with me to see the sport. For by this time the sweet maid’s lameness was nearly cured, and, like a prisoner newly uncaged, she loved to spread her wings a bit and go abroad.Had the arm she leaned on been that of Peter Stoupe instead of mine, I wondered if she would have mended as fast as she did? I was a vain coxcomb those days, and thought, no. Yet, for anything she said to me or I to her, we were still ’prentice and young mistress. Only, the duty I owed her was my great joy; and the service she had a right to claim of me, she sometimes prettily asked as a gift.’Twas a wild, weird scene—those hundreds of citizens lit up by the fierce glare of the bonfires, whose roar mingled with the shoutings, and whose heat was less than the loyal fires which blazed in our bosoms. I could feel Jeannette’s hand tighten on my arm as the rabble surged closer round; and presently, seeing her tired and frightened, I made a way for her through the crowd.As we reached the skirts there reeled against us a drunken man who, had I not caught him in my arm, would have fallen against my young mistress and done her some hurt. He was not so drunk but that, when I set him on his feet and gave him a kick or two, he was able to stand upright and talk. And at the first word he uttered, I recognised the voice of my old acquaintance, Tom Price, the Captain’s man; whom I had seen last with his master the day Alexander McDonnell fell outside Dunluce.So dark was it away from the fire, that but for his voice I might not have known him. Certainly he, as he then was, could hardly know me.“Patience,” whispered I to Jeannette, “here is a man can give us some news. He shall not hurt you; only I must speak with him. Hold close to me.”And to guard her better, I put an arm around her, while I parleyed with the sergeant.“Come, comrade,” said I, concealing my voice as best I could, “’tis time you were in quarters. The Captain will be calling for thee.”“Captain me no captains. Stand thee still, steady—when came he—ugh?”“He’ll be here to look for thee I warrant, an thou go not home.”“Got back? what for? when came— Harkee, comrade—keep it snug—he’ll not find her—he, he! he’ll not find her.”“Not he,” said I, making a guess. “We know where she is, though. Eh, Tom?”“He, he! do we! So doth that other varlet. But, keep it mum, comrade—the wall is none too high, but my Captain may climb it.”“Ay,” said I, “but he must needs find it first. Eh? That will trouble him, eh? honest Tom.”“Honest! thou art right, comrade. Ere he learn where she be I’ll—I’ll—harkee, friend I like not that other varlet. What needs she with two of us? Am not I man enough? eh? thou and I, without him? By my soul, comrade, I will slay him.”“So, he is there, too, where she is?”“Ho, he! Jack Gedge in a convent? ho, he! Ne’er such luck for him, or thee, or me; eh? ho, ho! Jack in a convent? No, but, comrade,” here he took my arm and whispered, “he ne’er quitteth the city, and no man can get at her but he knows it. ’Tis a very bulldog. Hang him, comrade, hang him, I say.”“Ay, I am with you there,” said I. “What right hath he to stand betwixt her and honest folk like you and me?”“Harkee, friend. This varlet, they say, was appointed to the service by one—hang the name of him—an Irish knave that made eyes at her. You know him—”“Ay, ay,” said I. “Lubin, or Ludar, or some such name.”“Thou hast it. Ludar. Well, as I told thee, this varlet is appointed to the charge by this Lu— Say it again, comrade.”“Ludar,” said I.“Ay, Ludar. Well, this varlet, as I—”“And where is the villain now?”“Why, as I told thee, dullard, he lurks in Canterbury city hard by the convent—and though ’twas I helped her there—I or thou, I forget if thou didst assist—I say, though ’twas I—or I or thou—or I and thou—helped her there, this dog now keepeth guard like a very bulldog.”“Well,” said I, trembling to have so much news, “may be he doeth no harm. The lady oweth more to thee than him.”“Ay—’twas a deft trick, spiriting her thither—and the Captain little knows ’twas honest Tom Price baulked him. Not but—harkee,”—here he whispered again—“not but the lady did not make it worth the while, eh? I have a noble of it left still, comrade. As I told thee, the Captain knoweth naught. He! he! he hath followed her hither and thither. But, mercy on us, he’d as soon look in the Fleet Ditch as in Canterbury. Harkee, comrade, that other varlet is a knave. Hang him, I say. ’Twas thou and I helped her there—he knew naught till—how a plague found he us out? Honest friend, I pray thee slay me this dog.”“Where in Canterbury shall I find him?” said I.“Thou knowest a certain tavern, or inn, or hostel by the sign of the Oriflame, neighbour. Well, ’tis but a stone’s-throw from the convent; and I warrant the sot will be not far away. Fetch me his head, comrade; and I vow thou shalt share my noble. Get thee gone.”That moment Jeannette gripped my arm and pointed to a figure which slouched away from us towards the fire. I got but one glimpse of him. He may have been anyone; for the crowd was spreading fast. Yet Jeannette and I both fancied the form was like that of Peter Stoupe, whom we had already seen once in the crowd that evening.“Poor Peter,” said I, “no doubt he envies me my charge of you, Jeannette.”She disengaged herself from my arm, and put her hand on my sleeve.“Let us begone,” said she, uneasily. “I am sorry I came here.”So I left Tom Price sitting on the grass, singing to himself; and full of my great news, yet troubled at Jeannette’s speech I walked with her silently homewards.As we neared Temple Bar, I could not refrain from questioning her.“You are silent, Jeannette?” said I.“The better company for you,” said she.“Are you tired?”“Yes.”“And vexed?”“Yes.”“Because Peter—if it was Peter—saw me with my arm around thee?”“He would not know that it was only because I feared the drunken man,” said she.“He would suspect me, instead, of being thy sweetheart?” asked I.“Ay,” said she, “Peter hath a long tongue.”“What if he suspect me aright, Jeannette?”I felt the hand on my arm give a little start, as she dropped her eyes, and quickened her flagging steps.She said nothing. But you might have heard the beating of my heart, as I looked down at her, and laid my hand on hers.“If Peter guessed aright,” repeated I, “what then, Jeannette?”This time her hand lay very quiet, and her footsteps grew slower, till at last they stood still.Then she lifted her head and looked me in the face.“Then, Humphrey, I should not mind what anybody said.”So all was peace betwixt us two; and we were sorry when our walk was ended.
The first words of the letter left me in no doubt as to who the writer might be.
“To a certain Hollander, once my servant, and honoured still to live in my memory. Know, my son of Neptune, fledgeling of the Nymphs, and half-brother to the Tritons, that he whom thou knewest once in Parnassus’ grove (whither he himself led thy halting feet), respireth still in sighs for beauty and exhalations of sweet verse. Know, too, that he hath of late composed a notable and admirable epic in praise of the Sun, which, if it please Heaven to bring him, ere the year fall, to London, thou mayest have the high honour of setting in print, thereby assisting at the birth of an immortal.
“Know further, that after many bufferings from the jade Fortune, and tossing, such as ships ne’er endured on thy brawling element, my Hollander, I am here in Chester, beloved of the Muse, yet ill-beholden to the men of the place, who, as the Mantuans their Maro, clapped me in ward because forsooth I stirred the rabble with my moving measures. The moon hath not kissed the golden locks of Galatea four times since I was let out. Now is no zephyr freer than I—or emptier. Yet hath heaven need of her needy sons, and the meanest of Olympus, denizens hath his part to play amidst the earthlings. Know, then, that on the second day after I had ceased to eat my bread at her Majesty’s cost, I met, in eager haste, a certain Irish Achilles who knoweth more of war than verse, and whose arm is more terrible with the sword than is my hand with the pen. This Sir Ludar—such is gratitude and reverence!—O tempora! O mores!—would have given me the go-by, had I not stood boldly in his way, that he might at least see how great an honour he avoided. When he saw me, to be brief, my Hollander, he honoured himself by seeing in me the god Mercury, who beareth messages to the dim regions of the earth. He bade me tell thee, by a means the receipt hereof will apprise thee, that the cause goeth perilously. What cause, I know not; but, be it what it may, it taketh him hence, on what, perchance, may be his last journey. He biddeth you remember your oath, and would have me advertise you that one Merriman hath been heard of in these parts, travelling for London, with a party, of whom one is the lady of the castle on the river, with her ward. He is a dark mysterious man, this Irish wolf-hound of thine, my Hollander, and, did I not suspect him to have a secret tooth for the olives of Parnassus, I had not thus condescended to act as go between you. When I enquired of him concerning her, that incomparable swan, that bright and shining star, that white snowflake, that Cupid’s elder sister, my lady-love—to serve whom I counted as nought the perils of a certain fell voyage you wot of—when I enquired him of her, he asked me back, Did I desire to flounder in the castle moat? By which talk it appeared to me much care hath weakened his mind, and I misdoubt me his present journey bodes no good. My Hollander, I beg not any man’s bread, yet am I hard put to it to show the world that heaven doth not desert her favourites. If the pity of a ’prentice can reach from you to Chester, lend it me, I pray you, as I sit here gazing into the empyrean for my next meal. If I may, I shall shorten the space betwixt us. Meanwhile, count for thyself a lodging in at least one poetic breast, which is that of thy patron and friend, Thomas Graves.
“Post Scriptum: I have overtook my messenger—a poor country carrier—to tell thee strange news. This Ludar hath returned suddenly from his journey in the custody of a troop. I saw him marched through the streets but just now, amid cries of ‘Treason!’ ‘Away with him!’ ‘Hang him!’ sad to hear. The talk runneth that he is party in some great conspiracy against her glorious Majesty, whose foes may Heaven confound! If it be true, then is our Achilles wounded in the heel, and is like enough to journey from here to Tyburn free of charges. Farewell, from thy well-wisher.”
This letter cast me into terrible woe; for it was plain by it that Ludar was in mortal peril, and without a friend to help him. I could do naught, for I knew not where he was taken, or if I did, what could I, outside a stone wall, do for him within? Besides, the message about the maiden put a service on me I was bound to fulfil. Yet what could I do?
Jeannette saw my trouble and shared it; and, being a shrewd lass, advised me to go to Will Peake and hear what was this news of a new-discovered treason, and who were in it?
So I went and found the Bridge (Sunday as it was), in a flutter. Will Peake I could not see, but from another gossip I heard that news was come of a terrible plot to murder her sacred Majesty and place on her throne, with the help of Spanish rogues, the upstart Mary of Scotland. Many wild stories were afloat concerning the business. One, that not a few of her Majesty’s trusted advisers were mixed in it; others, that the Scotchwoman herself was prime mover; another, that it was the work of the Spanish king, whose armies were on the coast waiting the signal to land.
But as we stood, there came a mighty shouting from the Tower Hill, and, running thither, we saw a man in a cart being conducted by twenty horsemen to the prison. He was clad as a papist priest—yet, when I looked at him, I seemed to know his face.
“Who goes there?” I asked of one who stood near.
“The head and front of it all,” said he; “a renegade priest, Ballard by name.”
“Who hath travelled,” said another, “on this accursed business in the garb of a soldier by the name of Captain Fortescue.”
“Fortescue!” cried I. “Why, to be sure, it was he! I knew I had seen him.”
“You saw him, where? what know you of this?” asked several persons round, suspiciously. “If you be a friend of his, get you up on the cart beside him.”
I had a mind to make a rush that way, if haply I might get a single word with the traitor as to where Ludar was. But I might as soon have tried to get within hail of the Scotch Queen herself, so closely was he fenced in.
“He is no friend,” growled I, “but a vile enemy and traitor, whom I would to God I had run through the body when I had the chance at Carlisle, months since.”
Then to avoid more questions and get away from the rabble, I hastened back and told all to Jeannette. She was very grave. “What think you now?” she asked.
“I can think nothing,” said I, “save that, whatever has befallen Ludar, he could not knowingly be guilty of plotting against the life of a woman, even if she be the Queen herself. Jeannette,” said I, “I could no more believe that than I would believe you to be unkind or untrue.”
She smiled at that and said she, too, could not think so ill of this Ludar of mine.
As the days passed, news came in thick and fast. The plot, we heard, was a devilish one to murder the Queen and her ministers, and give England up to the heretic Spaniard. Men stood aghast as they heard of it. Presently came word that the worst of the traitors were in hiding in London, being mostly young gentlemen of the Court, who had fed at the table of the very Lady they plotted to slay. Try all I would, I could hear nothing of Ludar. Nor durst I name him to my comrades, for fear I should bring him mischief thereby.
One day in the middle of August it was, a man came into our shop in hot haste to tell Master Walgrave that the company had been taken, hidden in a barn in Harrow. Never shall I forget the joy of the City as the news spread like wildfire through the wards. No work did we ’prentices do that day. We marched shouting through the streets, calling for vengeance on the Queen’s enemies, and waiting till they should be brought in, on their way to the Tower.
As for me, my joy was mingled with strange trouble; for, if Ludar should be among them—
“The leader of them is one Babington,” said Will Peake, “and besides him are half-a-dozen dogs as foul—English, all of them.”
“Save one,” said another, “who I hear is Irish.”
“Irish!” cried I, as white as paper. “What is his name?”
“Not Dexter,” said the fellow, looking at me in amaze. “Why, man, what ails you?”
“Tell me his name, as you love me,” said I.
“How should I know the name of every cowardly hound that walks the streets? Go and ask them that can tell you.”
I walked away miserable, and waited at the Aldersgate to see the prisoners come by.
When at last the cry was raised, I scarcely durst look up, for fear that among them should tower the form of Ludar. But when I lifted my eyes and saw only six hang-dog men, who held their hands to their ears to keep out the yelling of the mob, and shrunk closer to their guards to save them from a worse fate than the hangman’s, the beating of my heart eased. For he was not amongst them. So joyful was I that I could even lend my voice for a while to the general cry, and, when night fell, bring my torch to the flaming barrels that blazed on Finsbury Fields.
Yet I came home that night ill at ease. Fresh news had arrived already that other men had been taken in the country—amongst them, certain who had been in attendance on the Scotch Queen. Yet, ask all I would, never once could I hear of Ludar by name, or of any man resembling him.
A month later we ’prentices had another holiday, this time to witness the end of that terrible business on Tyburn Hill. ’Twas a horrible sight—I would I could forget it—to see those traitors die, foul as their crime had been. Yet what sickened me the most was to think that Ludar perchance might presently follow to the same fate, if indeed he had not already shared it.
But no news came. The weeks slipped by. Men ceased to talk of Babington, and spoke rather of the coming trial of the Scotch Queen for her life. And presently a time came when they even ceased to speak of that. And all the while, never a whisper came to me of Ludar.
Now you are not to think that all this time I had forgot the message contained in the poet’s letter concerning Captain Merriman and the maiden. Far from it. I haunted Whitehall after work hours in the hope of seeing or hearing something of them. But all in vain. It would have been easier to hear of Ludar, I think, than to get any news of an Irish maiden and her step-dame at Court, or of a swaggering captain.
“What is that to thee?” said most whom I asked; and others pricked me out of their company with their swords.
But late in the year, chance put in my way what all my pains had failed to procure.
I remember, it was that same day that the news came to town that Mary Queen of Scots was condemned to die. London went mad with joy at the news. For our pity of the woman was swallowed up in joy that the evil destiny of our country was mastered, and that our gracious Queen was to be freed at one stroke from all her enemies. Be that as it may, we burned bonfires that night in Moorfields, and I had my mistress’ leave to take Jeannette with me to see the sport. For by this time the sweet maid’s lameness was nearly cured, and, like a prisoner newly uncaged, she loved to spread her wings a bit and go abroad.
Had the arm she leaned on been that of Peter Stoupe instead of mine, I wondered if she would have mended as fast as she did? I was a vain coxcomb those days, and thought, no. Yet, for anything she said to me or I to her, we were still ’prentice and young mistress. Only, the duty I owed her was my great joy; and the service she had a right to claim of me, she sometimes prettily asked as a gift.
’Twas a wild, weird scene—those hundreds of citizens lit up by the fierce glare of the bonfires, whose roar mingled with the shoutings, and whose heat was less than the loyal fires which blazed in our bosoms. I could feel Jeannette’s hand tighten on my arm as the rabble surged closer round; and presently, seeing her tired and frightened, I made a way for her through the crowd.
As we reached the skirts there reeled against us a drunken man who, had I not caught him in my arm, would have fallen against my young mistress and done her some hurt. He was not so drunk but that, when I set him on his feet and gave him a kick or two, he was able to stand upright and talk. And at the first word he uttered, I recognised the voice of my old acquaintance, Tom Price, the Captain’s man; whom I had seen last with his master the day Alexander McDonnell fell outside Dunluce.
So dark was it away from the fire, that but for his voice I might not have known him. Certainly he, as he then was, could hardly know me.
“Patience,” whispered I to Jeannette, “here is a man can give us some news. He shall not hurt you; only I must speak with him. Hold close to me.”
And to guard her better, I put an arm around her, while I parleyed with the sergeant.
“Come, comrade,” said I, concealing my voice as best I could, “’tis time you were in quarters. The Captain will be calling for thee.”
“Captain me no captains. Stand thee still, steady—when came he—ugh?”
“He’ll be here to look for thee I warrant, an thou go not home.”
“Got back? what for? when came— Harkee, comrade—keep it snug—he’ll not find her—he, he! he’ll not find her.”
“Not he,” said I, making a guess. “We know where she is, though. Eh, Tom?”
“He, he! do we! So doth that other varlet. But, keep it mum, comrade—the wall is none too high, but my Captain may climb it.”
“Ay,” said I, “but he must needs find it first. Eh? That will trouble him, eh? honest Tom.”
“Honest! thou art right, comrade. Ere he learn where she be I’ll—I’ll—harkee, friend I like not that other varlet. What needs she with two of us? Am not I man enough? eh? thou and I, without him? By my soul, comrade, I will slay him.”
“So, he is there, too, where she is?”
“Ho, he! Jack Gedge in a convent? ho, he! Ne’er such luck for him, or thee, or me; eh? ho, ho! Jack in a convent? No, but, comrade,” here he took my arm and whispered, “he ne’er quitteth the city, and no man can get at her but he knows it. ’Tis a very bulldog. Hang him, comrade, hang him, I say.”
“Ay, I am with you there,” said I. “What right hath he to stand betwixt her and honest folk like you and me?”
“Harkee, friend. This varlet, they say, was appointed to the service by one—hang the name of him—an Irish knave that made eyes at her. You know him—”
“Ay, ay,” said I. “Lubin, or Ludar, or some such name.”
“Thou hast it. Ludar. Well, as I told thee, this varlet is appointed to the charge by this Lu— Say it again, comrade.”
“Ludar,” said I.
“Ay, Ludar. Well, this varlet, as I—”
“And where is the villain now?”
“Why, as I told thee, dullard, he lurks in Canterbury city hard by the convent—and though ’twas I helped her there—I or thou, I forget if thou didst assist—I say, though ’twas I—or I or thou—or I and thou—helped her there, this dog now keepeth guard like a very bulldog.”
“Well,” said I, trembling to have so much news, “may be he doeth no harm. The lady oweth more to thee than him.”
“Ay—’twas a deft trick, spiriting her thither—and the Captain little knows ’twas honest Tom Price baulked him. Not but—harkee,”—here he whispered again—“not but the lady did not make it worth the while, eh? I have a noble of it left still, comrade. As I told thee, the Captain knoweth naught. He! he! he hath followed her hither and thither. But, mercy on us, he’d as soon look in the Fleet Ditch as in Canterbury. Harkee, comrade, that other varlet is a knave. Hang him, I say. ’Twas thou and I helped her there—he knew naught till—how a plague found he us out? Honest friend, I pray thee slay me this dog.”
“Where in Canterbury shall I find him?” said I.
“Thou knowest a certain tavern, or inn, or hostel by the sign of the Oriflame, neighbour. Well, ’tis but a stone’s-throw from the convent; and I warrant the sot will be not far away. Fetch me his head, comrade; and I vow thou shalt share my noble. Get thee gone.”
That moment Jeannette gripped my arm and pointed to a figure which slouched away from us towards the fire. I got but one glimpse of him. He may have been anyone; for the crowd was spreading fast. Yet Jeannette and I both fancied the form was like that of Peter Stoupe, whom we had already seen once in the crowd that evening.
“Poor Peter,” said I, “no doubt he envies me my charge of you, Jeannette.”
She disengaged herself from my arm, and put her hand on my sleeve.
“Let us begone,” said she, uneasily. “I am sorry I came here.”
So I left Tom Price sitting on the grass, singing to himself; and full of my great news, yet troubled at Jeannette’s speech I walked with her silently homewards.
As we neared Temple Bar, I could not refrain from questioning her.
“You are silent, Jeannette?” said I.
“The better company for you,” said she.
“Are you tired?”
“Yes.”
“And vexed?”
“Yes.”
“Because Peter—if it was Peter—saw me with my arm around thee?”
“He would not know that it was only because I feared the drunken man,” said she.
“He would suspect me, instead, of being thy sweetheart?” asked I.
“Ay,” said she, “Peter hath a long tongue.”
“What if he suspect me aright, Jeannette?”
I felt the hand on my arm give a little start, as she dropped her eyes, and quickened her flagging steps.
She said nothing. But you might have heard the beating of my heart, as I looked down at her, and laid my hand on hers.
“If Peter guessed aright,” repeated I, “what then, Jeannette?”
This time her hand lay very quiet, and her footsteps grew slower, till at last they stood still.
Then she lifted her head and looked me in the face.
“Then, Humphrey, I should not mind what anybody said.”
So all was peace betwixt us two; and we were sorry when our walk was ended.
Chapter Twenty.How there came Visitors to Master Walgrave’s House.So occupied was I with my new joy, that for a day or two what I had heard from drunken Tom Price in Moorfields slipped me. Or, if I thought of it, it seemed all was well. For I gathered from his wild talk that the maiden—left no doubt by her harsh step-dame to fight her own battles—had fled from the Captain’s persecutions with the help of Tom, to Canterbury, where (as I knew), was the convent school in which she had been brought up. Here she was safe from his clutches, even if he knew where she was, which Tom took care he should not. And, to make all surer, there was that English soldier—Ludar’s prisoner, whom he had charged to protect her—hovering near, true to his trust and ready to defend her from all and every foe that should assail her.Therefore, I felt easy in my mind to leave her thus secure, and set myself to win my mistress’ and master’s good-will for my match with the sweet Jeannette.’Twas no easy task. For my mistress said the child was over young; and my master told me I had somewhat else to think of than such tomfoolery. Howbeit, when I told them that, say what they pleased, Jeannette was mine, and that so soon as my time was up two years hence I should take her to myself with leave or without, they thought better of it, and yielded somewhat.My mistress said, two years hence we should all be grown older, and if we were then of the same mind perchance she might be of another. My master, too, counting to retain me in his service as a son-in-law, said there was time enough betwixt now and then. And thus it came to pass Jeannette and I were left to our hopes, and needed no sweeter comfort to make the weeks fly.But, one day early in February, as I walked on my master’s business near Charing, I saw a sight which made me uneasy on another’s behalf. For there, at the road corner as you go to Whitehall, I perceived a man who pulled out a purse and gave it to another; and when I looked closer, I saw that he who gave was Captain Merriman, and he who received was my old fellow-apprentice, Peter Stoupe.Instantly, although I heard not a word, and there might have been a hundred other considerations, I took it into my head that this business meant mischief to Ludar. And, cudgelling my brains further, I called to mind how, that memorable night in Moorfields, while I talked with the drunken sergeant, Peter had sneaked past us, and put my sweet little mistress in a flutter.What if, instead of heeding us, he had been listening to what the soldier said? He knew or guessed enough of the maiden’s story—having heard me tell it often—to put two and two together. What if he, as well as I, had learned the soldier’s secret; and, to despite me and profit himself, had sold it to the one man from whom it was by all means to be kept?I cursed my wickedness, who, lapped in my own happy fortune, had thus neglected my absent master’s interest and let this knave get beforehand with me. For, be Ludar alive or dead, I owed it to him to save the maiden from the Captain, even if it cost me my life.So, as I say, this vision of the passing of the purse woke me out of my dream, and warned me that there was danger in the wind.That afternoon, the same Providence which gave me the alarm put into my way a means of acting upon it.My master I found in a sore state of vexation because a certain book he was printing, from which he expected some profit, was refused a licence by the Stationers’ Company. They liked it not, said the clerk, and had sent it on to his Grace, who had other matters to think of, and was, besides, away in Canterbury on a visitation.At this my ears pricked.“By your leave, Master Walgrave,” said I, “here is a matter that presses. If we get not his Grace’s licence now, the occasion for the book will be gone by. How if you let me go to Canterbury, to wait upon him?”Master Walgrave shrugged his shoulders.“Have you forgot your last journey for me?” said he. “For if you have, I have not.”“Oh,” said I, rather sheepish, “I am older than that now. Besides, I know what I go for this time, and have not my business sewn up in my cloak’s lining.”“’Tis bad weather for so long a journey,” said my mistress.“I heed not that,” said I, like a hypocrite, “so I get my master his licence.”“Beside,” said Jeannette, who knew what was afoot, “Humphrey likes to travel, and he pines, I know, to be freed a day or so from my apron strings.”I vowed she wronged me there; but between us all, my master yielded and said I should start next day to see his Grace.“Nay,” said I, “I will start to-night. There is no time to lose.”But they would not hear of that, and for fear of betraying myself, I forbore to press it, and went betimes to bed, promising to be away before daybreak on the morrow.Early as I was next morning, Jeannette was astir to bid me God-speed and give me my breakfast.“Humphrey,mon ami,” said she. “I should not grudge to see thee go on so good an errand. Yet, I shall be glad to see thee home.”“Perhaps,” said I, “it is all for nothing, and Ludar’s maiden may be safe from harm. Yet, something tells me she needs my help.”“You may tell that maiden,” said Jeannette, “that I lend you to her; and if she need shelter, she shall have it here.”I thanked her for that brave speech, and tore myself away. By dint of hard walking—for I had no nag to carry me this time—I arrived late that night at Rochester, where I was glad enough to turn into the first inn I met, and sleep.I know not how it was. I dreamed all night that Ludar was calling to me to turn back, while the maiden was bidding me go forward; and betwixt them I was torn in two, and lay kicking all night, listening to the clatter of hoofs that went past, and fancying that while I tarried there, his Grace of Canterbury was carrying off my sweet Jeannette, I know not whither. It must have been towards morning when at last I shook off my nightmares and fell asleep. And thus it happened that, instead of being far on my road, at ten of the clock I still lay snoring, with all my day’s work before me to reach Canterbury that night.As it fell out, I did not even do that. For close by Feversham I met a parcel of knaves who laid hold of me and rifled me of all I had, save one noble that I had hid in my hat. And because I showed fight, and ran two of them through, they wanted to hang me at the roadside and so end my travelling days for ay. But as they must needs find a tall tree, which was not to be had at the roadside, they hauled me away to the wood to make an end of me there. And since I walked meekly with my head hung down, they slackened their guard of me, so that presently I was able to make a dash away from them, and hide myself in the forest.I escaped them, but it cost me a whole afternoon. For I lost myself among the trees; and daring not to show myself, must needs lie low while the hue and cry lasted, and afterwards find my road under shelter of night as best I could.You may guess if I chafed not under this delay; specially as the way from there to Canterbury was too hard to be walked in the dark. Halt where I was, I must; but I did it, feeling that I might be too late, and that each moment lost to me was a gain to that foul Captain.At early dawn I was afoot, and before mid-day stood in the city of Canterbury. As in duty bound, I asked my way first of all to his Grace’s palace (which was hard by the great Church), where I longed to have my master’s business disposed of.Alack! his Grace was not to be seen, being away on a visitation; and his Grace’s secretary had other matters to attend to, and sent word to me to enquire again to-morrow about the same time. So I was forced to let the business wait, much to my sorrow, and meanwhile seek to hear some news of Ludar’s maiden.I remembered what Tom Price in his drunken speech had said of the nunnery, hard by which was a certain tavern by name of the “Oriflame,” where I was like to hear of the English soldier, Jack Gedge. Thither, accordingly, I went, being told I should find it outside the walls on the Dover road.’Twas a low, mean house, with little accommodation for man or beast, being, indeed, as much farmhouse as hostel, with naught but the flaming sign to tell me I might wade through the muck and litter to the door and there call for refreshment.The host was a civil, stupid fellow, who eyed me like one from whom he suspected mischief, and seemed impatient till I had drained my pot and was gone.But I had no thought of going, and bade him, since business kept me that night in Canterbury, get me a bed.He declared he had none to spare, and that I might get better quarters in the town. But I replied I wanted no better quarters than the “Oriflame,” and if it came to a lack of beds, he and I could do with one betwixt us.“Or,” said I, “if, as I am told, my old friend and comrade Jack Gedge, once a soldier, lodgeth here, he and I will not quarrel over our share of a crib.”At that he looked uneasy and said Jack Gedge was not there. He would have me believe at first he knew no man of the name; but I wormed it out of him that a month back a fellow had come and taken service with him as drawer and labourer, calling himself plain Gedge. But only a week ago, as this same fellow was bringing in the pigs, a handful of men had set upon him, with a magistrate’s warrant, and arrested him as a deserted soldier, skulking to avoid her Majesty’s service, and had carried him away to Rochester gaol. I questioned him as to who his captors were, but he said he knew them not, but supposed them to be men in the company of the Captain whose colours the fellow had abandoned.Knowing what I did, I guessed this was so, and that it had been part of a plan against the maiden thus to get one of her protectors out of the way.“And have you had much company here of late,” I asked, “that your house is so full?”He looked queerly at me, for he knew as well as I there was no guest but myself beneath the roof.“By your leave,” said he, “I am ill prepared to make any guest welcome, and pray you do me the favour to seek entertainment elsewhere.”“Nay,” said I, “I like the place. And if you suspect me, let me tell you I am a plain London printer’s ’prentice, come to seek my Grace’s licence for a book, which I hope to receive to-morrow.”“I hope you say true,” said he, “for I have had trouble enough with guests here lately, not as honest as you. Why, sir,” said he, filling my mug, “only yesterday there came here such a surly-faced varlet as you never saw, who whined and sang psalms as he drank my ale; and then when the time came to pay, told me to score it to one Captain Merriman, in whose sendee he was, and who would come and pay it presently. I ask you, sir, how would you like that at your inn?”“Thank Heaven I have no inn; but tell me, landlord, this varlet, was he a long pale fellow, with straight hair, and eyes half shut; and was this the tune he whined?” And I hummed Peter’s favourite tune.“The very man,” said my landlord, rising to his feet with a start. “You have hit him to a point. And be you then this Captain Merriman that is to pay my score?”“Not so,” said I, laughing, “and you may bid farewell to your money if you are to look for it to him. I know the villain, landlord, and if I saw him here, I warrant you this sword of mine would not be lying thus in its sheath. But tell me. This surly-faced rogue, what did he do? What was his business?”“Indeed, I know not. Save to ogle all the women that came this way, not sparing the Popish nuns in yonder convent.”And he pointed to a plain building close at hand, peeping from among the trees, and walled all round with a high wall.“He asked so many questions of the place, and was so curious to see the sisters and their scholars walk abroad, that had I a daughter in keeping there, I would be glad to get her safe back under my roof.”“And did he see them?”“I warrant you, yes. For while he was questioning me the bell sounded, and they walked across to the Popish Chapel in the wood. And there was my gentleman, turned Papist all of a sudden, and must needs go and worship images too.”“And where has he gone now?” I asked.“I know not, neither do I care, so I am rid of him. But come, guest, if you must stay, get you to bed; for we be early folk here.”I slept not a wink that night, and before daylight was astir and out of doors. For I, too, was curious concerning this nunnery and its inmates; and was minded to turn Catholic too for occasion, and see if, amongst the ladies, might appear the stately form of her whose fate had been so oddly woven with mine own.But ill fortune attended me. For early as I was, matins had been sung an hour ago; nor was there another service till noon, and that only for the sisters. I must wait till evensong, to satisfy myself, and, with much misgiving at the delay, dragged myself back to the “Oriflame.”Just as I turned off from the Dover road, there passed me in haste two men habited as priests, travel-stained, as coming off a long journey, yet apparently familiar enough with the path which led to the friendly shelter of the convent. I saw neither of their faces, for both were bent over the books they read; but I marked that one of them was tall and lean, while the other, who walked with more of a swagger, was shorter and better fed. I doubt if either of them saw me. But somehow I liked not the sight of them, or the path they took. It seemed to me to bode ill to the maiden; and I longed to have my business with his Grace ended that I might return and be near the place where she was.For three mortal hours, that forenoon, was I kept kicking my heels in his Grace’s ante-chamber; and in the end was told curtly his Grace had no leisure at present for such business, and that I must come again on the morrow. I own I spake disrespectfully of his Grace when they gave me this message, and was fain, on that account, to retreat from the precincts more hastily than most suitors are wont to do. Here was another day wasted, and who was to say that the same put-off did not await me to-morrow?It was late in the afternoon when I found myself again at the “Oriflame,” and there I found mine host in a monstrous flutter, thinking I, too, had given him the slip without paying my account. I made him happy on that score with the moiety of my gold piece, and thereby bound him to me for ever and a day. For he seemed a man whose wont it was never to get his due.I was solacing my impatience as I waited for vespers, by pacing to and fro in the wood which divided the road to Dover from the convent wall; when I was startled to come suddenly upon a horse, saddled and bridled, tied up in a covert. It had a pillion on its back; and seemed like the beast on which a farmer and his wife might ride together to market. So, indeed, I thought it to be, when, looking about me, I perceived in the saddle-bow a knife, the hilt of which I had seen before. It was, in fact, a knife I had myself given to Peter, one day two years ago, when I had won a new one at Finsbury Fields, and when my fellow ’prentice and I were better friends than we became later on.The sight of this knife suddenly brought the blood to my head with a mighty rush. For it showed that this horse waited here for Peter; and if for Peter, for what lady was the pillion provided? I had wit enough, without a moment’s delay, to hide myself among the trees; assured that whatever mischief was in the air, it would come at length to this trysting place. And so it fell out.I heard the chapel bell begin to toll ere long, and pictured in my mind the sisters and their wards crossing devoutly from the convent garden to the little chapel in the wood. No doubt the sleek Peter would be there to eye them as they glided in; and when the service was done, perchance, he would seek to make his wicked swoop on that poor, unsuspecting lamb, and carry her off to his foul paymaster. In an hour—What was that? I suddenly heard close to me staggering footsteps and a stifled groan, accompanied by the hard panting of a man who laboured with a heavy load. That they were coming my way was evident by the crackling of the underwood and the impatience of the horse. What a year did those two minutes seem as I waited there, sword in hand!Then there broke into the covert a man, dragging on his arm the fainting form of her whom, though I had not seen her for a long year, I knew in a moment to be Rose O’Neill, my master Ludar’s maiden. But what amazed me most was the man who carried her. I had looked for Peter Stoupe to a certainty; but instead of him I saw the taller of the two priests whom I had passed only that morning on the way to the convent. The delusion lasted only a moment. For as he turned his head, I saw beneath the cowl the well-known, cadaverous, hungry visage of my masquerading ’prentice, and knew that I was right after all.He flung his senseless burden to the ground with a curse, and was turning to the horse, when I stepped out, sword in hand, and faced him. I gave him no time for parley or excuse. I heeded not the yell he sent up as he saw who I was, and felt nothing of the one savage blow he aimed at me with his knife. Time was short. At any moment that other masquerading priest, whose name I guessed shrewdly enough now, might be here on the top of us. So I had at him and ran him through the carcase, and without waiting to look twice to see if he lived or no, or to restore his fainting victim, I lifted her on to the horse in front of me, and dashed, in the gathering night, through the forest roads.Two days later, as the snow fell thick in the London streets, I stood with the maiden at my master’s door without Temple Bar. There were crowds in the Strand, I remember, talking over some notable news which had just come in; and so full was every one of the same, that we passed unheeded, and not a man had time to recognise me or wonder who was my companion. Even my master and mistress were abroad gossiping; so that, to my vast relief, when I opened the door and walked in, there was Jeannette to meet us and no one else.“Thee art welcome, dear Humphrey,” said she, coming forward; “and so is this lady.”And she dropped a curtsey as she turned to my companion. But seeing her pale face and sad looks, she went to her and, taking her hand, kissed her on the cheek. I think that sisterly welcome put new life into the maiden, for the colour came again to her face, and a smile to her lips, as she said—“We are not strangers, sweet Jeannette. It does me good to see thee now.”And somehow I was overlooked in the talk that ensued betwixt those two, and so left them and went out to the street to hear what this great news might be.It was indeed great news. Yesterday, in the early morning, the Scotch Queen had paid the penalty of her grievous treasons, and had been beheaded at Fotheringay Castle. Men seemed half dazed by the news. To many it had seemed that the dangers of which she was the author were to trouble England’s peace for ever; and now that, by a single blow, the cloud had been lifted, some of us fetched a great sigh of relief and had time to pity the fate of the fair woman, whose name we had so lately hated. So there was not much shouting or burning of bonfires. But every one felt something wonderful had happened, and rubbed their eyes, like those awakened out of some long drawn nightmare.When I returned my master and mistress were still abroad. Jeannette, I found, had carried the maiden to her own bed, and having left her there to rest—and indeed she needed it, for we had travelled hard two days by long and tiresome roads—awaited me with a grave face.“All this is passing strange,” said she, “and I love this maiden. But, my Humphrey, I have sad news to tell you since you left. Twas the evening of the very day you went; as I was helping the father draw his charges, there came suddenly into the shop a man, tall, haggard, but noble to look at, and seeming like a hunted lion. He looked round him wildly, and then asked, was this the printer’s house outside Temple Bar? The father answered shortly, yes. ‘Then,’ said he ‘is there one here, Humphrey Dexter by name?’ ‘No,’ said the father, who, I thought, mistrusted the fellow’s looks, and wanted to be rid of him. Without a word, then, he turned and left us; before I could so much as cry to him that you would be back anon. Where he went I know not, but that this was Sir Ludar, and that he goes in peril of his life I am as sure as that I speak now to thee.”Now, I understood why, as I lay dreaming that night at Rochester, I had heard my master’s voice calling me back, while that of the maiden urged me forward. To think he had been here, in this very spot, calling for me, and I not at hand to answer! It was too bitter a cup; and late as it was, I rushed out once again into the street, in the foolish hope of seeing or hearing of him. But it was all too late!
So occupied was I with my new joy, that for a day or two what I had heard from drunken Tom Price in Moorfields slipped me. Or, if I thought of it, it seemed all was well. For I gathered from his wild talk that the maiden—left no doubt by her harsh step-dame to fight her own battles—had fled from the Captain’s persecutions with the help of Tom, to Canterbury, where (as I knew), was the convent school in which she had been brought up. Here she was safe from his clutches, even if he knew where she was, which Tom took care he should not. And, to make all surer, there was that English soldier—Ludar’s prisoner, whom he had charged to protect her—hovering near, true to his trust and ready to defend her from all and every foe that should assail her.
Therefore, I felt easy in my mind to leave her thus secure, and set myself to win my mistress’ and master’s good-will for my match with the sweet Jeannette.
’Twas no easy task. For my mistress said the child was over young; and my master told me I had somewhat else to think of than such tomfoolery. Howbeit, when I told them that, say what they pleased, Jeannette was mine, and that so soon as my time was up two years hence I should take her to myself with leave or without, they thought better of it, and yielded somewhat.
My mistress said, two years hence we should all be grown older, and if we were then of the same mind perchance she might be of another. My master, too, counting to retain me in his service as a son-in-law, said there was time enough betwixt now and then. And thus it came to pass Jeannette and I were left to our hopes, and needed no sweeter comfort to make the weeks fly.
But, one day early in February, as I walked on my master’s business near Charing, I saw a sight which made me uneasy on another’s behalf. For there, at the road corner as you go to Whitehall, I perceived a man who pulled out a purse and gave it to another; and when I looked closer, I saw that he who gave was Captain Merriman, and he who received was my old fellow-apprentice, Peter Stoupe.
Instantly, although I heard not a word, and there might have been a hundred other considerations, I took it into my head that this business meant mischief to Ludar. And, cudgelling my brains further, I called to mind how, that memorable night in Moorfields, while I talked with the drunken sergeant, Peter had sneaked past us, and put my sweet little mistress in a flutter.
What if, instead of heeding us, he had been listening to what the soldier said? He knew or guessed enough of the maiden’s story—having heard me tell it often—to put two and two together. What if he, as well as I, had learned the soldier’s secret; and, to despite me and profit himself, had sold it to the one man from whom it was by all means to be kept?
I cursed my wickedness, who, lapped in my own happy fortune, had thus neglected my absent master’s interest and let this knave get beforehand with me. For, be Ludar alive or dead, I owed it to him to save the maiden from the Captain, even if it cost me my life.
So, as I say, this vision of the passing of the purse woke me out of my dream, and warned me that there was danger in the wind.
That afternoon, the same Providence which gave me the alarm put into my way a means of acting upon it.
My master I found in a sore state of vexation because a certain book he was printing, from which he expected some profit, was refused a licence by the Stationers’ Company. They liked it not, said the clerk, and had sent it on to his Grace, who had other matters to think of, and was, besides, away in Canterbury on a visitation.
At this my ears pricked.
“By your leave, Master Walgrave,” said I, “here is a matter that presses. If we get not his Grace’s licence now, the occasion for the book will be gone by. How if you let me go to Canterbury, to wait upon him?”
Master Walgrave shrugged his shoulders.
“Have you forgot your last journey for me?” said he. “For if you have, I have not.”
“Oh,” said I, rather sheepish, “I am older than that now. Besides, I know what I go for this time, and have not my business sewn up in my cloak’s lining.”
“’Tis bad weather for so long a journey,” said my mistress.
“I heed not that,” said I, like a hypocrite, “so I get my master his licence.”
“Beside,” said Jeannette, who knew what was afoot, “Humphrey likes to travel, and he pines, I know, to be freed a day or so from my apron strings.”
I vowed she wronged me there; but between us all, my master yielded and said I should start next day to see his Grace.
“Nay,” said I, “I will start to-night. There is no time to lose.”
But they would not hear of that, and for fear of betraying myself, I forbore to press it, and went betimes to bed, promising to be away before daybreak on the morrow.
Early as I was next morning, Jeannette was astir to bid me God-speed and give me my breakfast.
“Humphrey,mon ami,” said she. “I should not grudge to see thee go on so good an errand. Yet, I shall be glad to see thee home.”
“Perhaps,” said I, “it is all for nothing, and Ludar’s maiden may be safe from harm. Yet, something tells me she needs my help.”
“You may tell that maiden,” said Jeannette, “that I lend you to her; and if she need shelter, she shall have it here.”
I thanked her for that brave speech, and tore myself away. By dint of hard walking—for I had no nag to carry me this time—I arrived late that night at Rochester, where I was glad enough to turn into the first inn I met, and sleep.
I know not how it was. I dreamed all night that Ludar was calling to me to turn back, while the maiden was bidding me go forward; and betwixt them I was torn in two, and lay kicking all night, listening to the clatter of hoofs that went past, and fancying that while I tarried there, his Grace of Canterbury was carrying off my sweet Jeannette, I know not whither. It must have been towards morning when at last I shook off my nightmares and fell asleep. And thus it happened that, instead of being far on my road, at ten of the clock I still lay snoring, with all my day’s work before me to reach Canterbury that night.
As it fell out, I did not even do that. For close by Feversham I met a parcel of knaves who laid hold of me and rifled me of all I had, save one noble that I had hid in my hat. And because I showed fight, and ran two of them through, they wanted to hang me at the roadside and so end my travelling days for ay. But as they must needs find a tall tree, which was not to be had at the roadside, they hauled me away to the wood to make an end of me there. And since I walked meekly with my head hung down, they slackened their guard of me, so that presently I was able to make a dash away from them, and hide myself in the forest.
I escaped them, but it cost me a whole afternoon. For I lost myself among the trees; and daring not to show myself, must needs lie low while the hue and cry lasted, and afterwards find my road under shelter of night as best I could.
You may guess if I chafed not under this delay; specially as the way from there to Canterbury was too hard to be walked in the dark. Halt where I was, I must; but I did it, feeling that I might be too late, and that each moment lost to me was a gain to that foul Captain.
At early dawn I was afoot, and before mid-day stood in the city of Canterbury. As in duty bound, I asked my way first of all to his Grace’s palace (which was hard by the great Church), where I longed to have my master’s business disposed of.
Alack! his Grace was not to be seen, being away on a visitation; and his Grace’s secretary had other matters to attend to, and sent word to me to enquire again to-morrow about the same time. So I was forced to let the business wait, much to my sorrow, and meanwhile seek to hear some news of Ludar’s maiden.
I remembered what Tom Price in his drunken speech had said of the nunnery, hard by which was a certain tavern by name of the “Oriflame,” where I was like to hear of the English soldier, Jack Gedge. Thither, accordingly, I went, being told I should find it outside the walls on the Dover road.
’Twas a low, mean house, with little accommodation for man or beast, being, indeed, as much farmhouse as hostel, with naught but the flaming sign to tell me I might wade through the muck and litter to the door and there call for refreshment.
The host was a civil, stupid fellow, who eyed me like one from whom he suspected mischief, and seemed impatient till I had drained my pot and was gone.
But I had no thought of going, and bade him, since business kept me that night in Canterbury, get me a bed.
He declared he had none to spare, and that I might get better quarters in the town. But I replied I wanted no better quarters than the “Oriflame,” and if it came to a lack of beds, he and I could do with one betwixt us.
“Or,” said I, “if, as I am told, my old friend and comrade Jack Gedge, once a soldier, lodgeth here, he and I will not quarrel over our share of a crib.”
At that he looked uneasy and said Jack Gedge was not there. He would have me believe at first he knew no man of the name; but I wormed it out of him that a month back a fellow had come and taken service with him as drawer and labourer, calling himself plain Gedge. But only a week ago, as this same fellow was bringing in the pigs, a handful of men had set upon him, with a magistrate’s warrant, and arrested him as a deserted soldier, skulking to avoid her Majesty’s service, and had carried him away to Rochester gaol. I questioned him as to who his captors were, but he said he knew them not, but supposed them to be men in the company of the Captain whose colours the fellow had abandoned.
Knowing what I did, I guessed this was so, and that it had been part of a plan against the maiden thus to get one of her protectors out of the way.
“And have you had much company here of late,” I asked, “that your house is so full?”
He looked queerly at me, for he knew as well as I there was no guest but myself beneath the roof.
“By your leave,” said he, “I am ill prepared to make any guest welcome, and pray you do me the favour to seek entertainment elsewhere.”
“Nay,” said I, “I like the place. And if you suspect me, let me tell you I am a plain London printer’s ’prentice, come to seek my Grace’s licence for a book, which I hope to receive to-morrow.”
“I hope you say true,” said he, “for I have had trouble enough with guests here lately, not as honest as you. Why, sir,” said he, filling my mug, “only yesterday there came here such a surly-faced varlet as you never saw, who whined and sang psalms as he drank my ale; and then when the time came to pay, told me to score it to one Captain Merriman, in whose sendee he was, and who would come and pay it presently. I ask you, sir, how would you like that at your inn?”
“Thank Heaven I have no inn; but tell me, landlord, this varlet, was he a long pale fellow, with straight hair, and eyes half shut; and was this the tune he whined?” And I hummed Peter’s favourite tune.
“The very man,” said my landlord, rising to his feet with a start. “You have hit him to a point. And be you then this Captain Merriman that is to pay my score?”
“Not so,” said I, laughing, “and you may bid farewell to your money if you are to look for it to him. I know the villain, landlord, and if I saw him here, I warrant you this sword of mine would not be lying thus in its sheath. But tell me. This surly-faced rogue, what did he do? What was his business?”
“Indeed, I know not. Save to ogle all the women that came this way, not sparing the Popish nuns in yonder convent.”
And he pointed to a plain building close at hand, peeping from among the trees, and walled all round with a high wall.
“He asked so many questions of the place, and was so curious to see the sisters and their scholars walk abroad, that had I a daughter in keeping there, I would be glad to get her safe back under my roof.”
“And did he see them?”
“I warrant you, yes. For while he was questioning me the bell sounded, and they walked across to the Popish Chapel in the wood. And there was my gentleman, turned Papist all of a sudden, and must needs go and worship images too.”
“And where has he gone now?” I asked.
“I know not, neither do I care, so I am rid of him. But come, guest, if you must stay, get you to bed; for we be early folk here.”
I slept not a wink that night, and before daylight was astir and out of doors. For I, too, was curious concerning this nunnery and its inmates; and was minded to turn Catholic too for occasion, and see if, amongst the ladies, might appear the stately form of her whose fate had been so oddly woven with mine own.
But ill fortune attended me. For early as I was, matins had been sung an hour ago; nor was there another service till noon, and that only for the sisters. I must wait till evensong, to satisfy myself, and, with much misgiving at the delay, dragged myself back to the “Oriflame.”
Just as I turned off from the Dover road, there passed me in haste two men habited as priests, travel-stained, as coming off a long journey, yet apparently familiar enough with the path which led to the friendly shelter of the convent. I saw neither of their faces, for both were bent over the books they read; but I marked that one of them was tall and lean, while the other, who walked with more of a swagger, was shorter and better fed. I doubt if either of them saw me. But somehow I liked not the sight of them, or the path they took. It seemed to me to bode ill to the maiden; and I longed to have my business with his Grace ended that I might return and be near the place where she was.
For three mortal hours, that forenoon, was I kept kicking my heels in his Grace’s ante-chamber; and in the end was told curtly his Grace had no leisure at present for such business, and that I must come again on the morrow. I own I spake disrespectfully of his Grace when they gave me this message, and was fain, on that account, to retreat from the precincts more hastily than most suitors are wont to do. Here was another day wasted, and who was to say that the same put-off did not await me to-morrow?
It was late in the afternoon when I found myself again at the “Oriflame,” and there I found mine host in a monstrous flutter, thinking I, too, had given him the slip without paying my account. I made him happy on that score with the moiety of my gold piece, and thereby bound him to me for ever and a day. For he seemed a man whose wont it was never to get his due.
I was solacing my impatience as I waited for vespers, by pacing to and fro in the wood which divided the road to Dover from the convent wall; when I was startled to come suddenly upon a horse, saddled and bridled, tied up in a covert. It had a pillion on its back; and seemed like the beast on which a farmer and his wife might ride together to market. So, indeed, I thought it to be, when, looking about me, I perceived in the saddle-bow a knife, the hilt of which I had seen before. It was, in fact, a knife I had myself given to Peter, one day two years ago, when I had won a new one at Finsbury Fields, and when my fellow ’prentice and I were better friends than we became later on.
The sight of this knife suddenly brought the blood to my head with a mighty rush. For it showed that this horse waited here for Peter; and if for Peter, for what lady was the pillion provided? I had wit enough, without a moment’s delay, to hide myself among the trees; assured that whatever mischief was in the air, it would come at length to this trysting place. And so it fell out.
I heard the chapel bell begin to toll ere long, and pictured in my mind the sisters and their wards crossing devoutly from the convent garden to the little chapel in the wood. No doubt the sleek Peter would be there to eye them as they glided in; and when the service was done, perchance, he would seek to make his wicked swoop on that poor, unsuspecting lamb, and carry her off to his foul paymaster. In an hour—
What was that? I suddenly heard close to me staggering footsteps and a stifled groan, accompanied by the hard panting of a man who laboured with a heavy load. That they were coming my way was evident by the crackling of the underwood and the impatience of the horse. What a year did those two minutes seem as I waited there, sword in hand!
Then there broke into the covert a man, dragging on his arm the fainting form of her whom, though I had not seen her for a long year, I knew in a moment to be Rose O’Neill, my master Ludar’s maiden. But what amazed me most was the man who carried her. I had looked for Peter Stoupe to a certainty; but instead of him I saw the taller of the two priests whom I had passed only that morning on the way to the convent. The delusion lasted only a moment. For as he turned his head, I saw beneath the cowl the well-known, cadaverous, hungry visage of my masquerading ’prentice, and knew that I was right after all.
He flung his senseless burden to the ground with a curse, and was turning to the horse, when I stepped out, sword in hand, and faced him. I gave him no time for parley or excuse. I heeded not the yell he sent up as he saw who I was, and felt nothing of the one savage blow he aimed at me with his knife. Time was short. At any moment that other masquerading priest, whose name I guessed shrewdly enough now, might be here on the top of us. So I had at him and ran him through the carcase, and without waiting to look twice to see if he lived or no, or to restore his fainting victim, I lifted her on to the horse in front of me, and dashed, in the gathering night, through the forest roads.
Two days later, as the snow fell thick in the London streets, I stood with the maiden at my master’s door without Temple Bar. There were crowds in the Strand, I remember, talking over some notable news which had just come in; and so full was every one of the same, that we passed unheeded, and not a man had time to recognise me or wonder who was my companion. Even my master and mistress were abroad gossiping; so that, to my vast relief, when I opened the door and walked in, there was Jeannette to meet us and no one else.
“Thee art welcome, dear Humphrey,” said she, coming forward; “and so is this lady.”
And she dropped a curtsey as she turned to my companion. But seeing her pale face and sad looks, she went to her and, taking her hand, kissed her on the cheek. I think that sisterly welcome put new life into the maiden, for the colour came again to her face, and a smile to her lips, as she said—
“We are not strangers, sweet Jeannette. It does me good to see thee now.”
And somehow I was overlooked in the talk that ensued betwixt those two, and so left them and went out to the street to hear what this great news might be.
It was indeed great news. Yesterday, in the early morning, the Scotch Queen had paid the penalty of her grievous treasons, and had been beheaded at Fotheringay Castle. Men seemed half dazed by the news. To many it had seemed that the dangers of which she was the author were to trouble England’s peace for ever; and now that, by a single blow, the cloud had been lifted, some of us fetched a great sigh of relief and had time to pity the fate of the fair woman, whose name we had so lately hated. So there was not much shouting or burning of bonfires. But every one felt something wonderful had happened, and rubbed their eyes, like those awakened out of some long drawn nightmare.
When I returned my master and mistress were still abroad. Jeannette, I found, had carried the maiden to her own bed, and having left her there to rest—and indeed she needed it, for we had travelled hard two days by long and tiresome roads—awaited me with a grave face.
“All this is passing strange,” said she, “and I love this maiden. But, my Humphrey, I have sad news to tell you since you left. Twas the evening of the very day you went; as I was helping the father draw his charges, there came suddenly into the shop a man, tall, haggard, but noble to look at, and seeming like a hunted lion. He looked round him wildly, and then asked, was this the printer’s house outside Temple Bar? The father answered shortly, yes. ‘Then,’ said he ‘is there one here, Humphrey Dexter by name?’ ‘No,’ said the father, who, I thought, mistrusted the fellow’s looks, and wanted to be rid of him. Without a word, then, he turned and left us; before I could so much as cry to him that you would be back anon. Where he went I know not, but that this was Sir Ludar, and that he goes in peril of his life I am as sure as that I speak now to thee.”
Now, I understood why, as I lay dreaming that night at Rochester, I had heard my master’s voice calling me back, while that of the maiden urged me forward. To think he had been here, in this very spot, calling for me, and I not at hand to answer! It was too bitter a cup; and late as it was, I rushed out once again into the street, in the foolish hope of seeing or hearing of him. But it was all too late!
Chapter Twenty One.How a Certain Man was hanged at Tyburn.Months passed, and the Irish maiden became one of Master Walgrave’s ordinary household. And she and my Jeannette were as sisters.It was not without a struggle that my master and mistress were prevailed upon to open their home to the fair stranger. At first, my master, being sorely wroth with the miscarriage of my errand to his Grace, vowed so roundly that he would turn both me and my papist wench—so he called her—out of doors, that it seemed likely there would be broken heads as well as hearts over this business. For it was hard to keep my temper even with Jeannette’s step-father, when he talked like that.But I deemed it wise to leave the management of the matter to daintier hands than mine; and when Jeannette, clinging to her father’s knees, besought him with tears at least to let the maiden stay a few days till she could find a shelter, he surlily yielded so much, provided she stayed in a chamber by herself, and brought not her papist blasphemy within earshot of any in the house. Then, when a day after, my mistress, being won over by her sweet daughter, saw how ill and withal how gentle the maiden was, it was even permitted her to walk in the garden and exchange civilities with the two ladies of the house. Soon after, yet another event served to put my master in humour. For a message came from his Grace’s secretary permitting the printing of the book. And that evening, as I observed, Master Walgrave even condescended to speak to the maiden himself. And last of all, when she told him prettily that she was rich enough to recompense him for his hospitality, and begged him take charge of her purse so long as she lodged with him, he had no more to say, but let her go in and out as she pleased, pledging her only to speak not a word of her religion to Jeannette or anyone else in his house.It was not much I saw of her; for, despite her liberty, she never strayed beyond the little garden, and many a day kept close to her chamber. Yet often I heard of her from Jeannette, and now and again she herself enquired for me, and asked me to walk with her.I soon learned what little she had to tell of her own adventures. After leaving Dunluce she had been kept close prisoner in Toome Castle by her old step-dame, despite her father’s protest, who had no more voice in his own house than a dog and was not sorry to escape from it to Castleroe. The English soldier who had been sent to guard her was not admitted within the walls, but paced—faithful fellow—outside, within sight of her window, the only reminder she had of the happiness she had lost. Presently rumours came that Ludar had been slain in battle; and after a while Captain Merriman came on a visit. Happily, this time, he returned not to the violence with which he had persecuted her at Castleroe, but tried to win her by civilities which were scarcely less loathsome to her than his old rudenesses. Amongst other things, he told her Ludar had cursed her for being his brother’s murderess; and that he believed it was true, as had been reported, that the young McDonnell was slain. And two days after, to confirm this, an officer came to the Castle with news that Ludar’s head was set on a pole above the gate at the Bridge of Dublin.After that, the maiden said, she wished no longer to live. For she knew not what to believe; or how much was a wicked plot to deceive her into yielding to the Captain. Presently her father came home, and she begged him on her knees to send her to England. He consented; but when my Lady heard of it, she took the whim to go to Court too, and invited the Captain to be their escort. So nothing was gained by that move—or nothing would have been gained, had not Providence directed that Captain Merriman and my Lady should grievously fall out on the journey about some act of disrespect to herself, such as the neglecting to see her lifted to her horse before he assisted the maiden. Whatever the cause was, it saved the maiden much trouble during the journey; for the Captain was kept thereby at arm’s length and never permitted to come near. And, to add to her comfort, she had espied among the men who formed the escort the same English fellow who had escorted her from Dunluce to Toome, and who, it was clear, was still true to his trust.But as they neared London, my Lady, feeling in need of some little pomp to make good her entry, took the Captain back once more into favour; and with that the maiden’s troubles began again. For the Captain bargained, as a price of his good-will, that he should wed the maiden so soon as they reached town. To this my Lady seemed to consent, and told her step-daughter, sternly enough, to prepare herself for what was no longer to be avoided.Thus made desperate, on a certain morning about a day’s ride from London, the maiden made some pretence of her saddle being broken, and beckoned to the English fellow to come and attend to it. But instead of him, for his head was turned, came Tom Price the Captain’s sergeant. And while he made good the straps she took heart of grace and begged him, for pity’s sake, help her, and slipped into his hand some gold pieces. And he, having no liking to see his master married and himself, perhaps, cast out of service, willingly offered to help her when the time came. So she bade him be ready with a horse at midnight of the very day they reached London, and to bring the other English fellow, if needs be, also.The rest of the story I knew. How Tom Price had carried her to her old nunnery school at Canterbury; and how the fellow Gedge (though Tom had no mind to share the reward with him), discovered what was afoot and went to Canterbury too. And how Peter Stoupe, having heard the secret from the drunken sergeant, had found out the Captain, and sold the same to him; and, finally, after getting the honest watchdog out of the way, how, disguised as priests, those two villains had invaded the convent and, but for the Providence which took me thither, might have had her across seas and at their mercy long since.“So, my good Humphrey,” said the maiden, “once more I owe you more than my life. I cannot repay you, but Heaven will. Nay it is doing so already, in giving you this sweetest little Jeannette to love you.”And then, as her eyes grew dim, and her bosom heaved, I could guess whither her thoughts had flown, and how my happy lot contrasted with her own.I had told her all I knew of Ludar, up to the time of the poet’s letter. But for a long time I durst not tell her of his visit to my master’s house that evening while I was at Canterbury. At last, however, I summoned up courage, with Jeannette’s help, to tell her that; and it was pitiful to see how it moved her.“Talk of it no more,” said she. “He will not return; or if he does, the sight of me—to whom he owes all these troubles, who tempted him to desert his duty and ruined his life—will drive him hence. Jeannette,” said she, taking my little mistress’ hand in hers, “why must one live when it would be so happy to die?”“Maiden,” said Jeannette, boldly, “you do wrong to talk so, and I shall love you less if you say it again. Of course he will come, and of course he loves you, and of course all will be happy yet. Is the God you pray to less kind and strong than ours?”The maiden said nothing, but her cheeks flushed as she lifted Jeannette’s little hand to her lips. And after that we seldom spoke together of Ludar. Yet he was in all our thoughts.As for me, I wandered about the town night by night for many a week, hoping to hear of him. But never a word could I hear. And in time people ceased even to talk of the Scotch Queen and all the troublous times which had ended at her death. And a leaden weight was falling on my heart, as I wondered if I was never again to hold my friend’s hand in mine; when one day I chanced to stumble on news of him in the strangest way.It was near midsummer that a journeyman came urgently one day to my master from Master Barker’s, her Majesty’s printer, desiring his aid in the setting up in type of certain matter which was to be printed forthwith, but which Master Barker (being crowded with other work), must needs hire out to be done. My master, who desired by all means to keep the good graces of the Queen’s printer, undertook to give the help asked for, and handed to me the paper to put in type. I opened it, and found it headed thus:—“A List of Persons who in these late grievous times have suffered punishment for treasonable acts against the state and person of her Most Gracious Majesty. To wit—”Then followed a goodly list of names of persons suffering death in the ill cause; headed by that of the Scotch Queen herself. Afterwards came the names of certain persons imprisoned, together with a note of the place where each was imprisoned, and the term of his punishment.Amongst these, towards the end, was a line which made my blood suddenly run cold, and set the stick a trembling in my hand. It ran thus:—“One, Ludar, an Irishman, who carried certain Letters abroad. He lieth in ye Tower of London, waiting Her Majesty’s pleasure.”The summer passed, and each week the maiden’s cheek grew paler. She had said little when Jeannette showed her the name on the proof which I had kept. But she quietly took the paper and hid it in her bosom, and for a day kept herself to her chamber.After that she rarely mentioned Ludar’s name, and when we spoke of him to her, she always changed the talk to something else. Once or twice, in the late summer evenings, I took her and Jeannette to row on the river. And on each occasion we dropped on the tide to below London Bridge, where standing out in the gloom of twilight we could see the great frowning Tower which held still, as we hoped, a life dear to us all.But as the weeks sped by, with one consent we let go even that hope; and on the last evening, when we rowed, the maiden said—“Humphrey, row us some other way to-night.”And as she spoke, her face looked to me scarcely less white than the shivering moonbeams on the water.About the middle of the autumn, I met Will Peake one day, who told me that there had been of late not a few men hanged at Tyburn and elsewhere; some for recent treasons, and others whose sentence had been overhanging ever since the conspiracies concerning the Scotch Queen.When I pressed him closer, he said he had been present at one hanging at Tyburn, but that was of a debaser of coins. But a friend of his, said he, had seen four traitors hanged, drawn, and quartered; of whom he knew the names of three. But the other, thought to be a Scotchman or Irishman, no one knew his name.I begged Will to take me to his friend that I might hear more, and plainly told him my reason. Whereat he drew a very long face, and said he thought better of me than to consort with such vile carrion as these traitors to her Majesty. Nevertheless he took me to his friend to hear what he had to say.His friend sickened me with a long story of the horrible death of these men, whereby he thought to entertain me as he had entertained not a few other idle fellows during the past month.“Oh,” said he, “pity on us you saw not the fourth rogue dangle—be hanged to him that he had no name! I tell you, Master Dexter, it almost made me creep to see all they did to make an end of him. First of all—”“Hold thy peace, beast!” roared I. “Keep it to thyself. But tell me, what was he like?”“If I be a beast,” said he, mightily offended, “thou art like to hear that better from anyone else.”“Your pardon,” said I, “but my imagination is quick, and your horrible story well-nigh made me ill.”He took this as a mighty compliment, and smoothed down forthwith.“Ay, ay,” said he, “some stomachs are squeamish, but I thought you one of the stout ones. This fourth fellow, say you? Marry, by the build of him he might be a brother of yours, for his feet dangled a foot nearer the ground than the others; and when it came to—”“Was he dark or fair?” I asked hurriedly, frightened lest he should turn again to his horrible relation.“Why, he had a shock of hair as like straw for colour as anything I saw. I tell you no man knew his name. Some said he was a Highlander. And he looked it, though I never saw one. But a wilder, more bold-face, shameless villain I ne’er set eyes on. Ay, and he kept it up to the end, too; after the hanging and when they—”“Have done!” cried I, angrily, “no more of that. But tell me one last thing. Said he anything, before he died?”“Never a word. But there was a curl on his lip as if it were we who had the rope round our necks and not he; and when the chaplain came to exhort him, he swung round on his heel and pulls me out his papist crucifix and kisses it before all the people. What think you of that for a stubborn dog? The others died with their tails betwixt their legs, I tell you; but this notable ruffler, from the moment he swung aloft to the moment—”I could stand him no more, and left him telling his horrible story to the church steeple; while I crawled back, scarce daring to think, to my master’s house, I told this news neither to Jeannette nor the maiden. For it might be false, as former panics had been. And if it were not false, what good could it do to break that gentle heart a day sooner than Heaven ordained?So the year ended miserably, in doubt and gloomy foreboding; and Jeannette and I, as we looked at the maiden’s white cheek and suffering brow, dare scarcely claim as our own the happiness which came of the love that grew daily betwixt us.Now, I grieve to say that early in the new year, my master, who had of late seemed docile and obedient to the orders of the worshipful the Stationers’ Company, fell once more into his evil practices of secret printing. I know not how or why it was, but more than once he was absent visiting the minister at Kingston; and once, that same Welshman, Master Penry, whom I had met in Oxford, came to our house and had a long conference there, and left behind him certain papers which my master carefully locked away.And one night, after I had been late out, when I came back, I spied a light in the cellar below, and heard the rumble of a press there, and knew that, cost what it would, my master was once more risking his liberty and fortune at the bidding of his bishop-hating employers.“Master,” said I, boldly marching below, to where he stood busily working his press, “since I am to be your son-in-law, I may as well share your peril. Have I your leave?”He looked half-vexed and half-contented; and declared that what he did, though it might be against the rules, was yet a righteous thing, and he wanted not my help unless I thought the same. This tract, said he, could it but get abroad, would save God’s Church from much evil that threatened her; and to that end he was willing to risk his liberty in printing it.Now, whether he was right or wrong, I was not scholar enough to understand all the tract said concerning the state of the Church. But since no one wished to see the Church improved more than I, I was ready to believe my master’s cause a righteous one, and told him as much.And having once lent myself to the work, it suited my humour to carry it on without question, though not without sundry misgivings as to how far it sorted with my loyalty to my Queen to be thus flying in the face of a decree of her honourable Star Chamber.But before this labour was done, a new task fell into my hands. For one day, as I worked at my case, I heard a voice at the door say:“Is it here I find my Hollander, like Pegasus clipped of his wings, yet giving wings to the thoughts of the wise, so that they may fly abroad, as, in sooth, shall presently mine own burning numbers? Salute me, my once servant, now honoured to be called my friend, and the goal of my muse-sped wanderings.”It was the poet. But how changed from the gay popinjay I knew on theMiséricorde!He was so lean that the skin scarce held together over his bones; his face was shrunk and nipped with hunger; a ragged beard hung from his chin. His attire was the same as he had worn when last I saw him, but so tattered and dirty and threadbare that it was a marvel to me it did not fall to pieces before my eyes. The great ruff drooped brown and dank upon his shoulders. The gay shirt and doublet hung like grey sackcloth on his limbs. His shoes flapped in fragments about his feet, and the empty scabbard at his belt swung like the shreds of a worn rope between his legs.He was a sorry spectacle in truth, and but for his unchanged speech I might have looked at him long ere I knew him.“I am come,” said he, when I had greeted him and bidden him sit and rest, “like a dove from the ends of the earth, yet with not so much as an olive leaf to fill my mouth withal. My Hollander, even the poet, friend of the immortals, can eat. Even the honey on Mount Athos satisfieth not; and nectar leaveth its void. As a sign of peace and good-will, my humble comrade, I will eat whatsoever bread and meat you may place before me; for in truth my teeth have lost their cunning, and he who late warbled elegiacs hath almost forgot how to swallow a cup of vulgar sack.”’Twas not long before with Jeannette’s aid I set before him a meal the very sight of which filled his eyes with tears, and set his hand a trembling. It seemed kinder not to stand by while he devoured it; yet even in the adjoining room we could hear him, betwixt his mouthfuls, talk of Hebe and Ganymede, and utter brave speeches about Venus who ever haunted his wandering steps, and in mortal guise waited on her favoured servant. By which I understood he was struck with the beauty of my sweet Jeannette; for the which I forgave him much.But when, after a little, we returned to see how he fared, he was fallen forward on the table in a deep sleep, from which it never even roused him when I lifted him in my arms and laid him on a clean straw bed in the corner of the office. And for twenty hours by the clock did he sleep there, never turning a limb, till it seemed a charity to rouse him and give him more food.Then when he found himself refreshed and filled, he gave us his news; which, shorn of all its flourishes, was shortly this.After he had written his letter from Chester, he was detained many a week in custody as a vagabond and a lunatic. And at last, shaking the dust of that city from his feet, he tramped to the next, where a like fate awaited him. And so, tossed about, like a drift log on the unpitying ocean, he had found himself cast up at last in London; where, remembering me, he had with many a rebuff sought me out, and here he was.When he discovered that the maiden—his once mistress and incomparable swan—was of our household, he fell into strange raptures concerning the indulgences of the gods towards their favourites—meaning himself. And the sight of her, and her goodness to him—for with her own purse she found him a lodging not far off—called up from him many a burst of poetic fire, such as it grieves me to think cannot now be recovered. More than that, he told us a little of Ludar, whom, as has been said, he encountered at Chester.More yet, he had one piece of news which was of no little import to the maiden and us all, as you shall hear.
Months passed, and the Irish maiden became one of Master Walgrave’s ordinary household. And she and my Jeannette were as sisters.
It was not without a struggle that my master and mistress were prevailed upon to open their home to the fair stranger. At first, my master, being sorely wroth with the miscarriage of my errand to his Grace, vowed so roundly that he would turn both me and my papist wench—so he called her—out of doors, that it seemed likely there would be broken heads as well as hearts over this business. For it was hard to keep my temper even with Jeannette’s step-father, when he talked like that.
But I deemed it wise to leave the management of the matter to daintier hands than mine; and when Jeannette, clinging to her father’s knees, besought him with tears at least to let the maiden stay a few days till she could find a shelter, he surlily yielded so much, provided she stayed in a chamber by herself, and brought not her papist blasphemy within earshot of any in the house. Then, when a day after, my mistress, being won over by her sweet daughter, saw how ill and withal how gentle the maiden was, it was even permitted her to walk in the garden and exchange civilities with the two ladies of the house. Soon after, yet another event served to put my master in humour. For a message came from his Grace’s secretary permitting the printing of the book. And that evening, as I observed, Master Walgrave even condescended to speak to the maiden himself. And last of all, when she told him prettily that she was rich enough to recompense him for his hospitality, and begged him take charge of her purse so long as she lodged with him, he had no more to say, but let her go in and out as she pleased, pledging her only to speak not a word of her religion to Jeannette or anyone else in his house.
It was not much I saw of her; for, despite her liberty, she never strayed beyond the little garden, and many a day kept close to her chamber. Yet often I heard of her from Jeannette, and now and again she herself enquired for me, and asked me to walk with her.
I soon learned what little she had to tell of her own adventures. After leaving Dunluce she had been kept close prisoner in Toome Castle by her old step-dame, despite her father’s protest, who had no more voice in his own house than a dog and was not sorry to escape from it to Castleroe. The English soldier who had been sent to guard her was not admitted within the walls, but paced—faithful fellow—outside, within sight of her window, the only reminder she had of the happiness she had lost. Presently rumours came that Ludar had been slain in battle; and after a while Captain Merriman came on a visit. Happily, this time, he returned not to the violence with which he had persecuted her at Castleroe, but tried to win her by civilities which were scarcely less loathsome to her than his old rudenesses. Amongst other things, he told her Ludar had cursed her for being his brother’s murderess; and that he believed it was true, as had been reported, that the young McDonnell was slain. And two days after, to confirm this, an officer came to the Castle with news that Ludar’s head was set on a pole above the gate at the Bridge of Dublin.
After that, the maiden said, she wished no longer to live. For she knew not what to believe; or how much was a wicked plot to deceive her into yielding to the Captain. Presently her father came home, and she begged him on her knees to send her to England. He consented; but when my Lady heard of it, she took the whim to go to Court too, and invited the Captain to be their escort. So nothing was gained by that move—or nothing would have been gained, had not Providence directed that Captain Merriman and my Lady should grievously fall out on the journey about some act of disrespect to herself, such as the neglecting to see her lifted to her horse before he assisted the maiden. Whatever the cause was, it saved the maiden much trouble during the journey; for the Captain was kept thereby at arm’s length and never permitted to come near. And, to add to her comfort, she had espied among the men who formed the escort the same English fellow who had escorted her from Dunluce to Toome, and who, it was clear, was still true to his trust.
But as they neared London, my Lady, feeling in need of some little pomp to make good her entry, took the Captain back once more into favour; and with that the maiden’s troubles began again. For the Captain bargained, as a price of his good-will, that he should wed the maiden so soon as they reached town. To this my Lady seemed to consent, and told her step-daughter, sternly enough, to prepare herself for what was no longer to be avoided.
Thus made desperate, on a certain morning about a day’s ride from London, the maiden made some pretence of her saddle being broken, and beckoned to the English fellow to come and attend to it. But instead of him, for his head was turned, came Tom Price the Captain’s sergeant. And while he made good the straps she took heart of grace and begged him, for pity’s sake, help her, and slipped into his hand some gold pieces. And he, having no liking to see his master married and himself, perhaps, cast out of service, willingly offered to help her when the time came. So she bade him be ready with a horse at midnight of the very day they reached London, and to bring the other English fellow, if needs be, also.
The rest of the story I knew. How Tom Price had carried her to her old nunnery school at Canterbury; and how the fellow Gedge (though Tom had no mind to share the reward with him), discovered what was afoot and went to Canterbury too. And how Peter Stoupe, having heard the secret from the drunken sergeant, had found out the Captain, and sold the same to him; and, finally, after getting the honest watchdog out of the way, how, disguised as priests, those two villains had invaded the convent and, but for the Providence which took me thither, might have had her across seas and at their mercy long since.
“So, my good Humphrey,” said the maiden, “once more I owe you more than my life. I cannot repay you, but Heaven will. Nay it is doing so already, in giving you this sweetest little Jeannette to love you.”
And then, as her eyes grew dim, and her bosom heaved, I could guess whither her thoughts had flown, and how my happy lot contrasted with her own.
I had told her all I knew of Ludar, up to the time of the poet’s letter. But for a long time I durst not tell her of his visit to my master’s house that evening while I was at Canterbury. At last, however, I summoned up courage, with Jeannette’s help, to tell her that; and it was pitiful to see how it moved her.
“Talk of it no more,” said she. “He will not return; or if he does, the sight of me—to whom he owes all these troubles, who tempted him to desert his duty and ruined his life—will drive him hence. Jeannette,” said she, taking my little mistress’ hand in hers, “why must one live when it would be so happy to die?”
“Maiden,” said Jeannette, boldly, “you do wrong to talk so, and I shall love you less if you say it again. Of course he will come, and of course he loves you, and of course all will be happy yet. Is the God you pray to less kind and strong than ours?”
The maiden said nothing, but her cheeks flushed as she lifted Jeannette’s little hand to her lips. And after that we seldom spoke together of Ludar. Yet he was in all our thoughts.
As for me, I wandered about the town night by night for many a week, hoping to hear of him. But never a word could I hear. And in time people ceased even to talk of the Scotch Queen and all the troublous times which had ended at her death. And a leaden weight was falling on my heart, as I wondered if I was never again to hold my friend’s hand in mine; when one day I chanced to stumble on news of him in the strangest way.
It was near midsummer that a journeyman came urgently one day to my master from Master Barker’s, her Majesty’s printer, desiring his aid in the setting up in type of certain matter which was to be printed forthwith, but which Master Barker (being crowded with other work), must needs hire out to be done. My master, who desired by all means to keep the good graces of the Queen’s printer, undertook to give the help asked for, and handed to me the paper to put in type. I opened it, and found it headed thus:—“A List of Persons who in these late grievous times have suffered punishment for treasonable acts against the state and person of her Most Gracious Majesty. To wit—”
Then followed a goodly list of names of persons suffering death in the ill cause; headed by that of the Scotch Queen herself. Afterwards came the names of certain persons imprisoned, together with a note of the place where each was imprisoned, and the term of his punishment.
Amongst these, towards the end, was a line which made my blood suddenly run cold, and set the stick a trembling in my hand. It ran thus:—
“One, Ludar, an Irishman, who carried certain Letters abroad. He lieth in ye Tower of London, waiting Her Majesty’s pleasure.”
The summer passed, and each week the maiden’s cheek grew paler. She had said little when Jeannette showed her the name on the proof which I had kept. But she quietly took the paper and hid it in her bosom, and for a day kept herself to her chamber.
After that she rarely mentioned Ludar’s name, and when we spoke of him to her, she always changed the talk to something else. Once or twice, in the late summer evenings, I took her and Jeannette to row on the river. And on each occasion we dropped on the tide to below London Bridge, where standing out in the gloom of twilight we could see the great frowning Tower which held still, as we hoped, a life dear to us all.
But as the weeks sped by, with one consent we let go even that hope; and on the last evening, when we rowed, the maiden said—
“Humphrey, row us some other way to-night.”
And as she spoke, her face looked to me scarcely less white than the shivering moonbeams on the water.
About the middle of the autumn, I met Will Peake one day, who told me that there had been of late not a few men hanged at Tyburn and elsewhere; some for recent treasons, and others whose sentence had been overhanging ever since the conspiracies concerning the Scotch Queen.
When I pressed him closer, he said he had been present at one hanging at Tyburn, but that was of a debaser of coins. But a friend of his, said he, had seen four traitors hanged, drawn, and quartered; of whom he knew the names of three. But the other, thought to be a Scotchman or Irishman, no one knew his name.
I begged Will to take me to his friend that I might hear more, and plainly told him my reason. Whereat he drew a very long face, and said he thought better of me than to consort with such vile carrion as these traitors to her Majesty. Nevertheless he took me to his friend to hear what he had to say.
His friend sickened me with a long story of the horrible death of these men, whereby he thought to entertain me as he had entertained not a few other idle fellows during the past month.
“Oh,” said he, “pity on us you saw not the fourth rogue dangle—be hanged to him that he had no name! I tell you, Master Dexter, it almost made me creep to see all they did to make an end of him. First of all—”
“Hold thy peace, beast!” roared I. “Keep it to thyself. But tell me, what was he like?”
“If I be a beast,” said he, mightily offended, “thou art like to hear that better from anyone else.”
“Your pardon,” said I, “but my imagination is quick, and your horrible story well-nigh made me ill.”
He took this as a mighty compliment, and smoothed down forthwith.
“Ay, ay,” said he, “some stomachs are squeamish, but I thought you one of the stout ones. This fourth fellow, say you? Marry, by the build of him he might be a brother of yours, for his feet dangled a foot nearer the ground than the others; and when it came to—”
“Was he dark or fair?” I asked hurriedly, frightened lest he should turn again to his horrible relation.
“Why, he had a shock of hair as like straw for colour as anything I saw. I tell you no man knew his name. Some said he was a Highlander. And he looked it, though I never saw one. But a wilder, more bold-face, shameless villain I ne’er set eyes on. Ay, and he kept it up to the end, too; after the hanging and when they—”
“Have done!” cried I, angrily, “no more of that. But tell me one last thing. Said he anything, before he died?”
“Never a word. But there was a curl on his lip as if it were we who had the rope round our necks and not he; and when the chaplain came to exhort him, he swung round on his heel and pulls me out his papist crucifix and kisses it before all the people. What think you of that for a stubborn dog? The others died with their tails betwixt their legs, I tell you; but this notable ruffler, from the moment he swung aloft to the moment—”
I could stand him no more, and left him telling his horrible story to the church steeple; while I crawled back, scarce daring to think, to my master’s house, I told this news neither to Jeannette nor the maiden. For it might be false, as former panics had been. And if it were not false, what good could it do to break that gentle heart a day sooner than Heaven ordained?
So the year ended miserably, in doubt and gloomy foreboding; and Jeannette and I, as we looked at the maiden’s white cheek and suffering brow, dare scarcely claim as our own the happiness which came of the love that grew daily betwixt us.
Now, I grieve to say that early in the new year, my master, who had of late seemed docile and obedient to the orders of the worshipful the Stationers’ Company, fell once more into his evil practices of secret printing. I know not how or why it was, but more than once he was absent visiting the minister at Kingston; and once, that same Welshman, Master Penry, whom I had met in Oxford, came to our house and had a long conference there, and left behind him certain papers which my master carefully locked away.
And one night, after I had been late out, when I came back, I spied a light in the cellar below, and heard the rumble of a press there, and knew that, cost what it would, my master was once more risking his liberty and fortune at the bidding of his bishop-hating employers.
“Master,” said I, boldly marching below, to where he stood busily working his press, “since I am to be your son-in-law, I may as well share your peril. Have I your leave?”
He looked half-vexed and half-contented; and declared that what he did, though it might be against the rules, was yet a righteous thing, and he wanted not my help unless I thought the same. This tract, said he, could it but get abroad, would save God’s Church from much evil that threatened her; and to that end he was willing to risk his liberty in printing it.
Now, whether he was right or wrong, I was not scholar enough to understand all the tract said concerning the state of the Church. But since no one wished to see the Church improved more than I, I was ready to believe my master’s cause a righteous one, and told him as much.
And having once lent myself to the work, it suited my humour to carry it on without question, though not without sundry misgivings as to how far it sorted with my loyalty to my Queen to be thus flying in the face of a decree of her honourable Star Chamber.
But before this labour was done, a new task fell into my hands. For one day, as I worked at my case, I heard a voice at the door say:
“Is it here I find my Hollander, like Pegasus clipped of his wings, yet giving wings to the thoughts of the wise, so that they may fly abroad, as, in sooth, shall presently mine own burning numbers? Salute me, my once servant, now honoured to be called my friend, and the goal of my muse-sped wanderings.”
It was the poet. But how changed from the gay popinjay I knew on theMiséricorde!
He was so lean that the skin scarce held together over his bones; his face was shrunk and nipped with hunger; a ragged beard hung from his chin. His attire was the same as he had worn when last I saw him, but so tattered and dirty and threadbare that it was a marvel to me it did not fall to pieces before my eyes. The great ruff drooped brown and dank upon his shoulders. The gay shirt and doublet hung like grey sackcloth on his limbs. His shoes flapped in fragments about his feet, and the empty scabbard at his belt swung like the shreds of a worn rope between his legs.
He was a sorry spectacle in truth, and but for his unchanged speech I might have looked at him long ere I knew him.
“I am come,” said he, when I had greeted him and bidden him sit and rest, “like a dove from the ends of the earth, yet with not so much as an olive leaf to fill my mouth withal. My Hollander, even the poet, friend of the immortals, can eat. Even the honey on Mount Athos satisfieth not; and nectar leaveth its void. As a sign of peace and good-will, my humble comrade, I will eat whatsoever bread and meat you may place before me; for in truth my teeth have lost their cunning, and he who late warbled elegiacs hath almost forgot how to swallow a cup of vulgar sack.”
’Twas not long before with Jeannette’s aid I set before him a meal the very sight of which filled his eyes with tears, and set his hand a trembling. It seemed kinder not to stand by while he devoured it; yet even in the adjoining room we could hear him, betwixt his mouthfuls, talk of Hebe and Ganymede, and utter brave speeches about Venus who ever haunted his wandering steps, and in mortal guise waited on her favoured servant. By which I understood he was struck with the beauty of my sweet Jeannette; for the which I forgave him much.
But when, after a little, we returned to see how he fared, he was fallen forward on the table in a deep sleep, from which it never even roused him when I lifted him in my arms and laid him on a clean straw bed in the corner of the office. And for twenty hours by the clock did he sleep there, never turning a limb, till it seemed a charity to rouse him and give him more food.
Then when he found himself refreshed and filled, he gave us his news; which, shorn of all its flourishes, was shortly this.
After he had written his letter from Chester, he was detained many a week in custody as a vagabond and a lunatic. And at last, shaking the dust of that city from his feet, he tramped to the next, where a like fate awaited him. And so, tossed about, like a drift log on the unpitying ocean, he had found himself cast up at last in London; where, remembering me, he had with many a rebuff sought me out, and here he was.
When he discovered that the maiden—his once mistress and incomparable swan—was of our household, he fell into strange raptures concerning the indulgences of the gods towards their favourites—meaning himself. And the sight of her, and her goodness to him—for with her own purse she found him a lodging not far off—called up from him many a burst of poetic fire, such as it grieves me to think cannot now be recovered. More than that, he told us a little of Ludar, whom, as has been said, he encountered at Chester.
More yet, he had one piece of news which was of no little import to the maiden and us all, as you shall hear.