The Golden Age of Science Fiction Novels Vol 02

by Anthology

  "Nay, then," Bacon exclaimed, eagerly, "I'll give you a writing, Master Droop, certifying that the clothes were sold to you for a consideration. That will hold you blameless. What say you?"

  "What about the horse and the saddle and bridle?"

  "These are borrowed from a friend, Master Droop," said Bacon. "These rascals know this, else had they seized them in execution."

  "Ah, but won't they seize your clothes, Brother Bacon?" said Droop, slyly.

  "Nay--that were unlawful. A man's attire is free from process of execution."

  "I'll tell ye wherein I'll go ye," said Droop, with sudden animation. "You give me that certificate, that bill of sale, you mentioned, and also a first-class letter to some lord or political chap with a pull at the Patent Office, an' I'll change clothes with ye an' fool them bailiff chaps."

  "I'll e'en take your former offer, then," said Bacon, with a sigh. "One fourth part of all profits was the proposal, was it not?"

  "Oh, that's all off!" said Droop, grandly, with a wave of the hand. "If I go out an' risk my neck in them skin-tight duds o' yourn, I get the hull profits an' you get to London safe an' sound in these New Hampshire pants."

  "But, good sir----"

  "Take it or leave it, friend."

  "Well," said Bacon, angrily, after a few moments' hesitation, "have your will. Give me ink, pen, and paper."

  These being produced, the barrister curiously examined the wooden penholder and steel pen.

  "Why, Master Droop," he said, "from what unknown bird have you plucked forth this feather?"

  "Feather!" Droop exclaimed. "What feather?"

  "Why this?" Bacon held up the pen and holder.

  "That ain't a feather. It's a pen-holder an' a steel pen, man. Say!" he exclaimed, leaning forward suddenly. "Ye hain't ben drinkin', hev ye?"

  To this Bacon only replied by a dignified stare and turned in silence to the table.

  "Which you agoin' to write first," said Droop, considerately dropping the question he had raised.

  "The bill of sale."

  "All right. I'd like to have ye put the one about the patent real strong. I don't want to fail on the fust try, you know."

  Bacon made no reply, but dipped his pen and set to work. In due time the two documents were indited and carefully signed.

  "This letter is addressed to my uncle, Lord Burleigh," said Bacon. "He is at the Palace at Greenwich, with the Queen."

  "Shall I hev to take it to him myself?"

  "Assuredly."

  "Might hev trouble findin' him, I should think," said Droop.

  "Mayhap. On more thought, 'twere better you had a guide. I know a worthy gentleman--one of the Queen's harbingers. Take you this letter to him, for which purpose I will e'en leave it unsealed that he may read it. He will conduct you to mine uncle, for he hath free access to the court."

  "What's his name?"

  "Sir Percevall Hart. His is the demesne with the high tower of burnt bricks, near the west end of Tower Street. But stay! 'Twere better you did seek him at the Boar's Head Tavern in Eastcheap."

  "Sir Percevall Hart--Boar's Head--Eastcheap. That's in London City, I s'pose."

  "Yes--yes," said Bacon, impatiently. "Any watchman or passer-by will direct you. Now, sir, 'tis for you to fulfil your promise."

  "All right," said Droop. "It's my innin's--so here goes."

  In a few minutes the two men had changed their costumes and stood looking at each other with a very evident disrelish of their respective situations.

  Droop held his chin high in the air to avoid contact with the stiff ruff, while his companion turned up the collar of his nineteenth-century coat and held it together in front as though he feared taking cold.

  "Why, Master Droop," said Bacon, glancing down in surprise at his friend's nether extremities, "what giveth that unwonted spiral look to your legs? They be ribbed as with grievous weals."

  Droop tried to look down, but his wide ruff prevented him. So he put one foot on the table and, bringing his leg to the horizontal, gazed dismally down upon it.

  "Gosh all hemlock--them's my underdrawers!" he exclaimed. "These here ding-busted long socks o' yourn air so all-fired tight the blamed drawers hez hiked up in ridges all round! Makes me look like a bunch o' bananas in a bag!" he said, crossly.

  "Well--well--a truce to trivial complaints," said Bacon, hurriedly, fearful that Droop might withdraw his consent to the rescue. "Here are my cloak and hat, friend; and now away, I pray you, and remember--ride to southward, that I may have a clear field to London."

  Droop donned the hat and cloak and gazed at himself sorrowfully in the glass.

  "Darned ef I don't look like a cross 'tween a Filipino and a crazy cowboy!" he muttered.

  "And think you I have not suffered in the exchange, Master Droop?" said Bacon, reproachfully. "In very truth, I were not worse found had I shrunken one half within mine own doublet!"

  After some further urging, Droop was induced to descend the stairs, and soon the two men stood together at the breach in the brick wall. They heard the low whinnying of a horse close at hand.

  "That is my steed," Bacon whispered. "You must mount with instant speed and away with all haste to the south, Master Droop."

  "D'ye think I won't split these darned pants and tight socks?" said Droop.

  "Hush, friend, hush!" Bacon exclaimed. "The bailiffs must not know we are here till they see you mount and away. Nay--nay--fear not. The hose and stockings will hold right securely, I warrant you."

  "Well, so long!" said Droop, and the next moment he was in the saddle. "G'lang there! Geet ap!" he shouted, slapping the horse's neck with his bridle.

  With a snort of surprise, the horse plunged forward dashing across the moonlit field. A moment later, Bacon saw two other horses leap forward in pursuit from the dark cover of a neighboring grove.

  "Good!" he exclaimed. "The lure hath taken!"

  Then leaning over he rubbed his shins ruefully.

  "How the night wind doth ascend within this barbarous hose!" he grumbled.

  CHAPTER IX

  PHOEBE AT THE PEACOCK INN

  While Copernicus Droop was acquiring fame and fortune as a photographer, Rebecca and Phoebe were leading a quiet life in the city.

  Phoebe was perfectly happy. For her this was the natural continuation of a visit which her father, Isaac Burton, had very unwillingly permitted her to pay to her dead mother's sister, Dame Goldsmith. She was very fond of both her aunt and uncle, and they petted and indulged her in every possible way.

  Her chief source of happiness lay in the fact that the Goldsmiths favored the suit of Sir Guy Fenton, with whom she found herself deeply in love from the moment when he had so opportunely arrived to rescue the sisters from the rude horse-play of the Southwark mob.

  Poor Rebecca, on the other hand, found herself in a most unpleasant predicament. She had shut herself up in her room on the first day of her arrival on discovering that her new hosts were ale drinkers, and she had insisted upon perpetuating this imprisonment when she had discovered that she would only be accepted on the footing of a servant.

  Phoebe, who remembered Rebecca both as her nineteenth-century sister and as her sixteenth-century nurse and tiring-woman, thought this determination the best compromise under the circumstances, and explained to her aunt that Rebecca was subject to recurring fits of delusion, and that it was necessary at such times to humor her in all things.

  On the very day of the visit of Francis Bacon to the Panchronicon, the two sisters were sitting together in their bed-room. Rebecca was at her knitting by the window and Phoebe was rereading a letter for the twentieth time, smiling now and then as she read.

  "'Pears to amuse ye some," said Rebecca, dryly, looking into her sister's rosy face. "How'd it come? I ain't seen the postman sence we've ben here. Seems to me they ain't up to Keene here in London. We hed a postman twice a day at Cousin Jane's house."

  "No, 'twas the flesher's lad brought it," said Phoebe.

  Rebecca
grunted crossly.

  "I wish the land sake ye'd say 'butcher' when ye mean butcher, Phoebe," she said.

  "Well, the butcher's boy, then, Miss Particular!" said Phoebe, saucily.

  Rebecca's face brightened.

  "My! It does sound good to hear ye talk good Yankee talk, Phoebe," she said. "Ye hevn't dropped yer play-actin' lingo fer days and days."

  "Oh, 'tis over hard to remember, sis!" said Phoebe, carelessly. "But tell me, would it be unmaidenly, think you, were I to grant Sir Guy a private meeting--without the house?"

  "Which means would I think ye was wrong to spark with that high-falutin man out o' doors, eh?"

  "Yes--say it so an thou wilt," said Phoebe, shyly.

  "Why, ef you're goin' to keep comp'ny with him 'tall, I sh'd think ye'd go off with him by yerself. Thet's the way sensible folks do--at least, I b'lieve so," she added, blushing.

  "Aunt Martha hath given me free permission to see Sir Guy when I will," Phoebe continued. "But she hath been full circumspect, and ever keepeth within ear-shot."

  "Humph!" snapped Rebecca. "Y'ain't got any Aunt Martha's fur's I know, but ef ye mean that fat, beer-drinkin' woman downstairs, why, 'tain't any of her concern, an' I'd tell her so, too."

  Phoebe twirled her letter between her fingers and gazed pensively smiling out of the window. There was a long pause, which was finally broken by Rebecca.

  "What's the letter 'bout, anyway?" she said. "Is it from the guy?"

  "You mean Sir Guy," said Phoebe, in injured tones.

  "Oh, well, sir or ma'am! Did he write it?"

  "Why, truth to tell," said Phoebe, slipping the note into her bosom, "'Tis but one of the letters I read to thee from yon carved box, Rebecca."

  "My sakes--that!" cried her sister. "How'd the butcher's boy find it? You don't s'pose he stole it out o' the Panchronicle, do ye?"

  "Lord warrant us, sis, no! 'Twas writ this very day. What o'clock is it?"

  She ran to the window and looked down the street toward the clock on the Royal Exchange.

  "Three i' the afternoon," she muttered. "The time is short. Shall I? Shall I not?"

  "Talkin' o' letters," said Rebecca, suddenly, "I wish'd you take one down to the Post-Office fer me, Phoebe." She rose and went to a drawer in the dressing-table. "Here's one 't I wrote to Cousin Jane in Keene. I thought she might be worried about where we'd got to, an' so I've written an' told her we're in London."

  "The Post-Office--" Phoebe began, laughingly. Then she checked herself. Why undeceive her sister? Here was the excuse she had been seeking.

  "Yes; an' I told her more'n that," Rebecca continued. "I told her that jest's soon as the Panchronicle hed got rested and got its breath, we'd set off quick fer home--you an' me. Thet's so, ain't it, Phoebe?" she concluded, with plaintive anxiety in her voice.

  "I'll take the letter right along," said Phoebe, with sudden determination.

  But Rebecca would not at once relax her hold on the envelope.

  "That's so, ain't it, dearie?" she insisted. "Won't we make fer home as soon's we can?"

  "Sis," said Phoebe, gravely, "an I be not deeply in error, thou art right. Now give me the letter."

  Rebecca relinquished the paper with a sigh of relief, then looked up in surprise at Phoebe, who was laughing aloud.

  "Why, here's a five-cent stamp, as I live!" she cried. "Where did it come from?"

  "I hed it in my satchel," said Rebecca. "Ain't that the right postage?"

  "Yes--yes," said Phoebe, still laughing. "And now for the Post-Office!"

  She donned her coif and high-crowned hat with silver braid, and leaned over Rebecca, who had seated herself, to give her a good-by kiss.

  "Great sakes!" exclaimed Rebecca, as she received the unaccustomed greeting. "You do look fer all the world like one o' the Salem witches in Peter Parley's history, Phoebe."

  With a light foot and a lighter heart for all its beating, Phoebe ran down the street unperceived from the house.

  "Bishopsgate!" she sang under her breath. "The missive named Bishopsgate. He'll meet me within the grove outside the city wall."

  Her feet seemed to know the way, which was not over long, and she arrived without mishap at the gate.

  Here she was amazed to see two elderly men, evidently merchants, for they were dressed much like her uncle the goldsmith, approach two gayly dressed gentlemen and, stopping them on the street, proceed to measure their swords and the width of their extravagant ruffs with two yardsticks.

  The four were so preoccupied with this ceremony that she slipped past them without attracting the disagreeable attention she might otherwise have received.

  As she passed, the beruffled gentlemen were laughing, and she heard one of them say:

  "God buy you, friends, our ruffs and bilbos have had careful measurement, I warrant you."

  "Right careful, in sooth," said one of those with the yardsticks. "They come within a hair's breadth of her Majesty's prohibition."

  Phoebe had scant time for wonder at this, for she saw in a grove not a hundred yards beyond the gate the trappings of a horse, and near by what seemed a human figure, motionless, under a tree.

  Making a circuit before entering the grove, she came up behind the waiting figure, far enough within the grove to be quite invisible from the highway.

  She hesitated for some time ere she felt certain that it was indeed Sir Guy who stood before her. He was dressed in the extreme of fashion, and she fancied that she could smell the perfumes he wore, as they were borne on the soft breeze blowing toward her.

  His hair fell in curls on either side from beneath a splendid murrey French hat, the crown of which was wound about with a gold cable, the brim being heavy with gold twist and spangles. His flat soft ruff, composed of many layers of lace, hung over a thick blue satin doublet, slashed with rose-colored taffeta and embroidered with pearls, the front of which was brought to a point hanging over the front of his hose in what was known as a peascod shape. The tight French hose was also of blue satin, vertically slashed with rose. His riding-boots were of soft brown Spanish leather and his stockings of pearl-gray silk. A pearl-gray mantle lined with rose-colored taffeta was fastened at the neck, under the ruff, and fell in elegant folds over his left arm, half concealing the hand resting upon the richly jewelled hilt of a sword whose scabbard was of black velvet.

  "God ild us!" Phoebe exclaimed in low tones. "What foppery have we here!"

  Then, slipping behind a tree, she clapped her hands.

  Guy turned his head and gazed about in wonder, for no one was visible. Phoebe puckered her lips and whistled softly twice. Then, as her lover darted forward in redoubled amazement, she stepped into view, and smiled demurely upon him with hands folded before her.

  The young knight leaped forward, and, dropping on one knee, carried her hand rapturously to his lips.

  "Now sink the orbed sun!" he exclaimed. "For behold a fairer cometh, whose love-darting eyes do slay the night, rendering bright day eternate!"

  Smiling roguishly down into his face, Phoebe shook her head and replied:

  "You are full of pretty phrases. Have you not been acquainted with goldsmiths' wives, and conned them out of rings?"

  For an instant the young man was disconcerted. Then rising, he said:

  "Nay, from the rings regardant of thine eyes I learned my speech. What are golden rings to these?"

  "Why, how much better is thy speech when it ringeth true," said Phoebe. "Thy speech of greeting was conned with much pains from the cold book of prior calculation, and so I answered you from a poet's play. I would you loved me!"

  "Loved thee, oh, divine enchantress--too cruel-lovely captress of my dole-breathing heart!"

  "Tut--tut--tut!" she broke in, stamping her foot. "Thou dost it badly, Sir Guy. A truce to Euphuistic word-coining and phrase-shifting! Wilt show thy love--in all sadness, say!"

  "In any way--or sad or gay!"

  "Then prithee, good knight, stand on thy head by yonder tree."

  The ca
valier stepped back and gazed into his lady's face as though he thought her mad.

  "Stand--on--my--head!" he exclaimed, slowly.

  Phoebe laughed merrily and clapped her hands.

  "Good my persuasion!" she rippled. "See how thou art shaken into thyself, man. What! No phrase of lackadaisical rapture! Why, I looked to see thee invert thine incorporate satin in an airy rhapsody--upheld and kept unruffled by some fantastical twist of thine imagination. Oh, Fancy--Fancy! Couldst not e'en sustain thy knight cap-à-pie!" and she laughed the harder as she saw her lover's face grow longer and longer.

  "Why, mistress," he began, soberly, "these quips and jests ill become a lover's tryst, methinks----"

  "As ill as paint and scent and ear-rings--as foppish attire and fantastical phrases do become an honest lover," said Phoebe, indignantly. "Dost think that Mary Burton prizes these weary labyrinthine sentences--all hay and wool, like the monstrous swelling of trunk hose? Far better can I read in Master Lilly's books. Thinkest thou I came hither to smell civet? Nay--I love better the honest odor of cabbages in mine aunt's kitchen! And all this finery--this lace--this satin and this pearl embroidery----"

  "In God His name!" the knight broke in, stamping his foot. "Dost take me for a little half-weaned knave, that I'll learn how to dress me of a woman? An you like not my speech, mistress----"

  Phoebe cut him short, putting her hand on his mouth.

  Then she leaned her shoulder against a tree, and looking up saucily into his face:

  "Now, don't get mad!" she said.

  "Mad--mad!" said Sir Guy, with a puzzled look. "An this be madness, mistress, then is her Majesty's whole court a madhouse."

  "Well, young man," Phoebe replied, with her prim New England manner, "if you want to marry me, you'll have to come and live in a country where they don't have queens, and you'll work in your shirt-sleeves like an honest man. You might just's well understand that first as last."