CHAPTER VIII.
SIR PEREGRINE MEDWAY.
"How the roses, That kept continual spring within her cheeks, Are withered with the old man's dull embraces!" --_The Night-Walker._
As the captain entered, he heard some little bustle, as of an arrival.In the lower passage, at the door leading to the kitchen, was a strangeserving-man, already on terms of banter with the cook and maids. Hewas provided with a torch, as yet unlighted; evidently the guest heattended would stay till after dark. Ravenshaw climbed the narrowstairs to the withdrawing-room, of which the door was open.
This was a fine large room, with an oaken ceiling and oaken panelling;with veiled pictures and veiled statues in niches; with solid chairs,carved chests and coffers, tables covered with rich Eastern "carpets;"with a wide window bulging out over Cheapside, and with a great,handsome chimneypiece. The floor was strewn with clean rushes. Someboughs burning in the fireplace gave forth a pleasant odour. A boy waslighting the candles in the sconces.
Ravenshaw's glance took in these details at the same moment in whichit embraced the group of people in the room. The goldsmith and hiswife stood beaming, and the woman Lettice looked on at a respectfuldistance, while in the centre of the room was Mistress Millicent inthe grasp of a tall, lean old gentleman in gorgeous raiment, who verygallantly kissed both her cheeks and then both her hands.
"Sweet, sweet," this ancient gallant lisped to her, "I can see howthou hast pined. But all is well now; I am with thee again; my legis mended. Thou wert not fated to lose thy Sir Peregrine for all theramping horses in England. So cheerily, cheerily now. Smooth thy face;I see how thou'st grieved, and I love thee the better for it."
Mistress Millicent certainly looked far from happy; but her dejectionat that moment seemed to proceed less from any past apprehension forthe visitor's safety than from a present antipathy to his embraces. Shewas pale and red by turns, and she drew back from him with much reliefthe instant he released her. Her eyes met those of Ravenshaw, and sheblushed exceedingly, and looked as if she would sink out of observation.
"Come in, Master Holyday," said the goldsmith seeing the captain inthe doorway. "Come in and be known to Sir Peregrine Medway. MasterHolyday's father is an old friend of mine, that was my neighbour inKent."
"Holyday, Holyday," repeated Sir Peregrine, with indifferentthoughtfulness, looking at the captain carelessly. "My first wife hada cousin that was a Holyday, or some such name, but not of Kent. Sir,I crave your better acquaintance," to which polite expression the oldknight gave the lie by turning from the captain as if he dismissed himfor ever from his consciousness, and offering his hand to MistressEtheridge to lead her to a chair.
"What withered reed of courtesy, what stockfish of gallantry, maythis be?" mused Ravenshaw, striding to a corner where he might situnregarded.
"You should have come hither straightway, bag and baggage," said MasterEtheridge to the old fop. "What need was there to go to the inn first?"
"Need? Oh, for shame, sir! Would you have me seen in the clothes Itravelled in? Good lack, I trow not! Thinkst thou we that live inBerkshire know not good manners?" The knight spoke in pleasantry; itwas clear he accounted himself the mirror of politeness. "What saystthou, mother?"
"Oh, what you do is ever right, Sir Peregrine," replied MistressEtheridge, placidly. But Ravenshaw, in his corner, was almoststartled into mirth at hearing the wrinkled old visitor address theyouthful-looking matron as mother. What did it mean?
Sir Peregrine bowed, with his hand on his heart; in which motion hiseye fell upon a speck of something black upon the lower part of hisstocking. Stooping further to remove it, and striving not to bendhis knees in the action, he narrowly escaped overbalancing; and cameup red-faced and panting. Ravenshaw thought he detected in MistressMillicent's face a flash of malicious pleasure at the old fellow'sdiscomfiture. She had taken a seat by the chimneypiece, where sheseemed to be nursing a kind of suppressed fury.
The knight, after his moment of peril, dropped into a chair in rathera tottering fashion, and sat complacently regarding his own figure andattire.
The figure was shrugged up, and as spare as that of Don Quixote--aperson, at that time, not yet known to the world. It was dressed in asuit of peach-colour satin, with slashes and openings over cloth ofsilver; with wings, ribbons, and garters. His shoes were adorned withgreat rosettes; a ribbon was tied in the love-lock hanging by his ear;and a huge ruff compelled him to hold high a head naturally designedto sink low between his sharp shoulders. His face, a triangle with theforehead as base, was pallid and dried-up; the eyes were small andstreaky, the nose long and thin, the chin tipped with a little pointedbeard, which, like the up-turned moustaches and the hair of the head,was dyed a reddish brown. On this countenance reposed a look of theutmost sufficiency, that of a person who takes himself seriously, andwho never dreams that any one can doubt his greatness or his charms.
From the subsequent talk, it became known to Ravenshaw that SirPeregrine had, a few months before, been thrown by a horse on hisestate in Berkshire, and had but now recovered fully from the effects.The knight described the accident with infinite detail, and withsupreme concern for himself, repeating the same circumstances over andover again. He was equally particular and reiterative in his accountof his slow recovery. His auditors, making show of great attentionand solicitude, punctuated his narrative with many yawns and frequentnoddings; but on and on he lisped and cackled.
"Good lack," said he, "there was such coming and going of neighboursfor news of how I did! I never knew so much ado made in Berkshire;faith, I lamented that I should be the cause on't, such disturbance ofthe public peace, and I a justice. And what with the ladies coming indozens to nurse me!--troth, that they all might have a share on't, andnone be offended, I must needs be watched of three at a time--What,sweet?" He was casting a roguish look at Mistress Millicent. "Artvexed? Art cast down? Good lack! see how jealous it is! Fie, fie,sweetheart! Am I to blame if the ladies would flock around me? Comfortthyself; I am all thine."
Mistress Millicent, despite her vexation, of which the cause was otherthan he assumed, could not help laughing outright. The captain began tosee how matters stood. But old Sir Peregrine was untouched by her briefoutburst of mirth, and continued to shake a finger of raillery at her.
"Sweet, sweet, ye're all alike, all womankind. My first wife was so,and my second wife was so; and now my third that is to be."
The girl's face blazed like a poppy with fury, and her blue eyesflashed with rebellion. She looked all the more young, and fresh, andwarm with life, for that; and when Ravenshaw glanced from her to thecolourless, shrivelled old knight--from the humid rose in its firstbloom, to the withered rush--he felt for an instant a choking sicknessof disgust. But the girl's parents remained serenely callous, and theold coxcomb, with equal insensibility, prattled on, putting it to theblame of nature that he should be, without intent, so much the desireof ladies and the jealousy of his wives past and to come.
Meanwhile Mistress Etheridge, having silently left the room with thewoman Lettice, returned alone, and begged Sir Peregrine to come andpartake of a little supper. From the knight's alacrity in accepting,it was plain he had honoured the family doubly,--first by tarryingto change his clothes for his call, and then by not tarrying to eatbefore coming to them, an additional honour that Mistress Etheridge haddivined. With courtly bows and flourishes, he followed her toward thedining-chamber; whither he was followed in turn, for politeness' sake,by the goldsmith, who apologised to Ravenshaw for leaving him.
Whatever were the captain's feelings, Mistress Millicent seemed glad,or at least relieved, to be alone with him.
"I wish you joy of your coming marriage," said Ravenshaw, tentatively.
"You would as well wish me joy of my death," she replied, with amixture of anger and forlornness.
He rose and walked over to the fireplace, near her.
"Why, 'tis true," quoth he; "when the bride is young, the arms of anold husband are a gra
ve."
"Worse! When one is dead in one's grave, one knows nothing; but to bealive in those arms--foh!"
"Your good parents will have you take this husband, I trow, whether youwill or no?"
"Yes; and I shall love them the less for it," she replied, sadly.
"Has a contract passed between you?"
"Not on my part, I can swear to that! Before Sir Peregrine went backto Berkshire the last time, they tried to have a betrothal beforewitnesses; but I let fall both the ring he wished to force upon me andthe ring I was to give him; I would not open my lips either to speak,or to return his kiss; I held my hand back, closed tight, and he had totake it of his own accord. And all this the witnesses noted, for theylaughed and spoke of it among themselves."
"Is the wedding-day set?"
"It may be any day, now that Sir Peregrine is well and in London. Nodoubt they will get a license, to save thrice asking the banns. I hopeI may die in my sleep ere the time comes!"
"'Twere pity if that hope came true," said Ravenshaw, smiling.
"I dare not hope for a better escape. I'm not like to be favouredagain as I was the other time Sir Peregrine was coming to town for themarriage. Then his horse threw him, and gave me a respite--but for onlythree months. Now he is well again, and safe and sound in London."
"What, were you in this peril three months ago?"
"Yes. 'Twas that which made me try to run away, the night you first sawme. The next day, instead of him, came news of his accident."
"Whither would you have run?"
"To my Uncle Bartlemy's, in Kent. You know him of course; he lives nearyour father."
"Oh, yes, yes, certainly," replied the supposed Holyday.
"And you saw him that night; at least, you told me the watch had lethim go."
"What, was that your Uncle Bartlemy?--the old gentleman you were tohave met--the man my friends and I rescued from the watch!"
"I knew not 'twas you had rescued him; but 'twas he I went to meet atthe Standard. Nay, then, if 'twas Uncle Bartlemy you rescued, you wouldhave known him!"
"Oh, as for that," blundered Ravenshaw, realising how nearly he hadbetrayed himself, "no doubt 'twas your Uncle Bartlemy, now I thinkon't; but I recognised him not that night. For, look you, he took painsto keep unknown; and all was darkness and haste; and though we areneighbours, I see but little of him; and he is the last man I shouldexpect to meet in London abroad in the streets after curfew."
"That is true enough," she said, with a smile; "and I hope you will notplay the telltale upon him. If his wife knew he had been to London,there would be an end of all peace. Sure, you must promise me not totell; for 'twas my pleading brought him to London."
"Oh, trust me. I give my word. So he came to help you run away frombeing married to this old knight?"
"Yes. You know there's no love lost betwixt Uncle Bartlemy and myfather. But mine uncle hath doted upon me from the first, the more,perchance, because he hath no child of his own. And I think he loves medoubly, for the quarrel he has with my father."
"And so he had not the heart to refuse when you begged him to come andcarry you away to his house," conjectured Ravenshaw.
"'Tis so. 'Twas the only way I could devise to escape the marriage. Ithought, if all could be done by night, I might be concealed in mineuncle's house; and even if my father should think of going there toseek me, he could be put off with denials."
"But what would your uncle's wife have said to this?"
"Oh, Aunt Margaret is bitter against my father; she would delight tohoodwink him. The only doubt was how mine uncle might come and take me,without her knowing of his visit to London. For, of a truth, she wouldnever consent to his setting foot inside London town; and there wasno one else I dared trust to conduct me. And so we had it that UncleBartlemy should feign to go to Rochester, and then, on his way home,to have happened upon me in my flight."
"And so your aunt be none the wiser? Well, such folly deserves to becozened--the folly of forbidding her husband coming to London."
"Oh," replied Mistress Millicent, blushing a little as she smiled,"my dear aunt is, in truth, as jealous as Sir Peregrine would have usbelieve his wives were. There is a lady in London that Uncle Bartlemyplayed servant to before he was married, and Aunt Margaret made himpromise never to come within sight of the town."
"I marvel how you laid your plans with him, without discovery of yourpeople or his."
"There was a carrier's man that goes betwixt London and Rochester, whoused to come courting one of our maids. We passed letters privately bymeans of him, till he fell out with the maid, and now comes hither nomore. The last word I had of my uncle was after that night. He told meof his mishap with the watch, and of his getting free--though he saidnot how. And he vowed he must leave me to my fate, for he would neverventure for me again as he had done. So I was left without hope. When Irecognised you to-day as my preserver that night, and remembered thatthe Holydays were my uncle's neighbours, I thought--mayhap--you mighthave some message from him; but, alas--!"
"And that is why you followed me to the garden?" said the captain,carelessly, though inwardly he winced.
"Ay. Your look seemed to promise--but woe's me! And yet you spoke of myrunning away again?"
"Oh, I talked wildly. I know not what possessed me. Some things I saidmust have been very strange."
"Why, forsooth," said she, smiling again, and colouring most sweetly,"they seemed not so strange at the time, for I had forgot you are to bemarried; but now that I remember that--Belike you imagined for a momentyou were speaking to the lady you are to marry?"
"Belike that is so. But touching this marriage: what is to hinder yourrunning away to your uncle's now, with a trusty person to conduct you?"
"My uncle, in his letter, said he washed his hands of my affairs. Hecounselled me to make the best of Sir Peregrine's estate; he gave mewarning he would not harbour me if I came to him."
"A most loving uncle, truly!"
"Nay, his love had not altered. But what befell him in London thatnight gave him such a fright of meddling in the matter."
"Perchance his warning was only to keep you from some rash flight. And,mayhap, now that his fears have passed away, he would receive you."
"I know not. If I might try!--hush, they are coming back!"
Ravenshaw could hear Sir Peregrine's cracked voice in the passage; buthe ventured, quickly:
"I'd fain talk more of this--alone with you. When?"
"When you will," she replied, hurriedly. "I know not your plans."
"In your garden, then," he said at a hazard; "to-morrow at nightfall.Let the side gate be unlocked."
"I'll try. But do not you fail."
"Trust me; and meanwhile, if they turn sudden in the matter, andresolve to have the marriage forthwith, find shift to put it off,though you must e'en fall ill to hinder it."
"I'll vex myself into a fever, if need be!"
Ravenshaw was on his feet when the elder people came in; he advancedtoward them as if he had waited impatiently that he might take hisleave. As for Mistress Millicent, at sight of Sir Peregrine her facetook on at once the petulant, rebellious look it had worn at hisdeparture; no one would have supposed she had conversed during hisabsence.
When the captain had dismissed himself, he looked back for amoment from the threshold. The limping old coxcomb, more than everself-satisfied after his supper, was bestowing a loverlike caressupon Mistress Millicent, who shrank from him as if she were a flowerwhose beauty might wither at his touch. With this vision before him,Ravenshaw was let out, by the side door, into Friday Street, and madehis way eastward along Cheapside to meet the scholar by appointmentamong the evening idlers in the Pawn of the Exchange. He thoughtindustriously, as he went.
Captain Ravenshaw; Or, The Maid of Cheapside. A Romance of Elizabethan London Page 11