by Howard Pyle
“Stand back, knave; she is not for your eyes.”
The captain had already thought of the inequality between this fragile damsel and her persecutors; despite his account against womankind, her looks and attitude had struck within him a note of compassion; and now her chief tormentor had called him a knave. He remembered the purpose with which he had arrived upon the scene.
“Knave in your teeth, thou villain, thou grinning Lucifer, thou — thou — !” The captain was at a loss for some word of revilement that might be used against so fine a gentleman without seeming ridiculously misapplied. “Thou beater of the streets for stray fawns, thou frighter of delicate wenches!”
“Why, what motley is this?” replied the velvet gallant. “What mummer that is whole-clad above the girdle, and rags below? what mongrel, what patch, what filthy beggar in a stolen cloak? Avaunt, thing!”
The gentleman grasped the gilded hilt of his rapier, as if to enforce his command if need be.
“Ay, draw, and come on!” roared the captain. “You’ll find me your teacher in that.”
At the same moment a restraining clutch was put upon the gentleman’s sleeve by one of his companions, who now muttered some quick words of prudence in his ear. Whether it was due to this, or to the captain’s excellent flourish in unsheathing, he of the double-pointed beard paused in the very movement of drawing his weapon, and a moment later slid the steel back into its velvet scabbard. In his desistance from a violent course, there was evidently some consideration private to himself and his friend, some secret motive for the avoidance of a brawl.
“Say you so?” quoth the gentleman, blandly, as if no untoward words had passed. “Well, if you can be my teacher, you must be as good a rapier-and-dagger man as any in the kingdom, and there’s an end on’t. Are you that?”
“Sir, you might have tried me, and found out,” said the captain, considerably mollified at the other’s unexpected politeness, and putting up his sword.
“Why, marry, another time I may have occasion to see your skill — nay, I mean not a challenge; I should enjoy to see you fight any man.”
“But what of this gentlewoman, sir?” said the captain, interrogatively.
“Why, you will not dispute, it is my prize, by right of discovery. You a swordman, and not know the laws of war? Faith, we men of the sea are better learned.”
“Nay, but is she of the breed to make a prize of? Methinks she looks it not.”
“Pish, man, a pretty thing or so; a citizen’s filly, mayhap, that hath early slipped the halter; she will not tell her name; but what we find loose in the streets after curfew, we know what it is, whatsoever it may look.”
The girl now spoke for the first time since the captain had seen her. Her voice, though disturbed by her feelings, was not shrill like a child’s, but had the fulness of blossoming womanhood, and went with the smoothness common to well-bred voices.
“I was never in the streets at night before,” she said, sobbingly. “There was one I was to meet, who was waiting for me at the Standard in Cheapside.”
“Eh!” quoth the captain, with a suddenly increased interest.
“Some gallant ‘prentice, belike,” said the gentleman in velvet, with his singular smile of gaiety and cruelty. “Some brave cavalier of the flat cap, whom we frighted off.”
“’Twas not so!” cried the girl. “He was not frighted off. I was going to him, and was near the place, but I could not see him yet, ’twas so dark. And then the watch came, with their lanterns, and I stood still, so they might not observe me. But I saw them go to the Standard, and take my — my friend that waited for me. I knew not what to do, and so I stayed where I was, all dismayed. And then, but not till the watch had gone away with him, came you cruel gentlemen and found me. So he was not frighted by you. Alas, if he had but seen me, and come to meet me!”
“But he was soon free of the watch,” said the captain, wondering what such a damsel should have to do in surreptitiously meeting such a worshipful old married gentleman. “Came he not back to the place? ’Tis a good while since.”
“How know you about him?” queried the girl, with wonder.
“’Tis no matter,” said the captain, forgetting for the nonce to brag of an exploit. “He ought to have come back to the place to seek you; he was no true man, else.”
“Belike he did, then,” said the girl, quickly, with hope suddenly revived.
“Nay, ’tis certain he waits not at the Standard; we came from there but now. Doubtless his taking up by the watch gave him his fill of waiting there. He seemed a man with no stomach for night risks.”
“Then,” said the girl, mournfully, “he must have come back after I had run from these gentlemen. Then he would think I could not meet him; ’twas past the time we had set. Oh, villains, that I should run from you, and miss my friend, and yet be caught at last! He would give all up, and go to his inn, and back to the country at daybreak. All’s over with me! Oh, ye have much to answer for!”
“How prettily it cries!” quoth the handsome gentleman.
“Faith, sir,” said the captain, good-humouredly, “let’s see an ‘twill laugh as prettily. How if we led this dainty weeper to her friend’s inn, and roused him out? Perchance then we shall have smiles for these showers. Where does he lie, little mistress?”
“Alas, I know not. ’Twould be near the river, I think.”
“Oho, that he might take boat quicker,” said the gentleman. “And now will he fly without thee at daybreak, say’st thou? Never sorrow, sweetheart; I’ll boat thee to Brentford myself to-morrow.”
“There be scores of inns near the river,” said the captain to the girl. “But we might make trial at some of them, an we knew by what name to call for your friend.”
“Nay, that I’ll never tell! I know not if he would give his true name at the inn. Alas, what shall I do?”
“Why, come to the tavern and make merry,” said Velvet Suit, “as we have been inviting you this half-hour.”
“I’ll freeze in the streets sooner!”
“Is there need of that, then?” asked the captain. “Hast no place in London to go to? Came you not from some place to meet your friend?”
“From my father’s house, of course.”
“Then why not go back to it? What’s to fear? ’Twas late when you came forth, was it not? I’ll wager thy people were abed. Did they know you meant to play the runaway?”
“’Tis not like they know it yet,” she replied, a little relieved from complete dismay, but still downhearted.
“And sure the way you came by must be open still,” went on the captain.
“I locked the door behind me; but I left the key where I can find it, if you gentlemen will let me go. You will, sirs; I’ll thank ye so much! I am undone every way, else.”
“Of course we’ll let you go,” said the captain, decisively, with an oblique eye upon the velvet gallant. “We’ll be thy body-guard, forsooth; we’ll attend thee to thy door.”
“Nay, let me go alone, I beg!”
“Why, would you risk more dangers?”
“I have not far to go. Pray, pray, follow me not! Pray, let me be unknown to ye, good sirs! Think, if my mishap this night were noised about, and my name known — think, if my father were to hear it!”
“Ay, true,” said the captain. “Go alone, but on condition, if you see harm ahead, you turn back to us; you must cry for help, too. And so we give our words of honour not to—”
“Softly, softly, Master Meddler,” broke in the handsome gentleman. “Be not so free with your betters’ words of honour. I know not what hath allowed you to live so long after thrusting in upon this company—”
But again he was checked by the man at his elbow. This was a broad-breasted man of medium height, who seemed, as well as his plain dark cloak would show, to be of solid, heavy build; as for his face, its lower part was so covered by a thick, spade-shaped beard, and the upper part so concealed by the brim of a great Spanish hat, purposely pulled down over the
eyes, that one could not have obtained a sufficient glimpse for future recognition. He spoke to his gay companion in a brief whisper, but his words had instant weight.
“Tush! ’tis not worth bloodshed,” said the gay gentleman, having heard him. “Let the wench go; what is one fawn among so many? But on condition. I crave more of your acquaintance, Sir Swordman; we may come to a fight yet, with better reason; so my friends and I will let the girl go hang, an you and your party come drink with us.”
“We are your men there,” replied the captain, warming up within, at such a happy issue; “but the taverns are barricaded at this hour.”
“I know where the proper knock will open doors to us. ’Tis agreed, then. Wench, go your ways; good night!”
He moved aside to let her pass, and the girl, stepping from the doorway, with a single look of thanks to the captain, ran swiftly toward Cheapside. She was out of the range of the torchlight in a moment. As soon as her figure was invisible in the night, the gentleman in velvet left his companion, and, taking the captain fraternally by the arm, started toward Knightrider Street.
Ravenshaw, yielding in spite of an inclination to stay and listen for any distant sign of alarm from the girl, strode mechanically along; he heard his own followers and the gentleman’s friends coming close behind, and starting up conversations. Lighted by the two link-boys and the other torch-bearer, the party at length stopped before a tavern door in Thames Street.
The handsome gallant knocked a certain number of times, and, while he waited for answer, the party huddled into a close group before the door. Every face was now in the torchlight, and the captain cast a glance over the little company. Suddenly a strange look came into his face.
“What’s this?” he said to the gentleman, quickly. “Where’s your other friend — he with the hat pulled over his eyes?”
For answer, the gentleman gave a curious smile, showing white teeth; and his eyes sparkled mockingly.
“Death and hell! Gods and devils!” cried the captain, roaring in earnest, and whipping out his sword. “He slunk back and followed the maid, did he? Ye’d trick me, would ye? Now, by the belly of St. George—” At this point, though the velvet gallant had swiftly drawn in turn, the group having opened a clear space at the captain’s first exclamation, Ravenshaw broke off to another thought. “Nay, we’ll go after that hound first; the scent’s warm yet; and then we’ll look to you. Come, lads of mine!”
He dashed through the group, and headed for Cheapside; his four pupils and the two link-boys tarried not from following him. The other gentlemen looked to their leader for direction; whereupon he, as the tavern door opened, put up his sword and, laughing quietly, led them into the house.
“They’ll be rare dogs an they catch Jerningham,” quoth he. “The fools! their noise would warn him even if they should chance upon his track.”
The captain and his companions found Bread Street and Cheapside black, silent of human sounds, and, wherever they carried their lights, empty of human forms. They traversed two or three of the side streets, and listened at the corners of others, but without result. Where, in this night-wrapped London, did the two objects of their search now draw breath?
If the girl had indeed not had far to go, she was probably safe; and if she were safe the man’s doings mattered little. So, and as the gallants were beginning to show signs of weariness, the inspiriting effect of their last wine having died out, the captain piloted them back to the tavern at whose door he had left his quarrel scarce begun.
He found the tavern door barred; and no amount of knocking and shouting sufficed to open it. The tired gallants were yawning, leaning against one another (they dared not lean against the tavern, lest something might be dropped upon them from an upper window), and talking of bed. Therefore the captain drew off to a safe distance from the tavern, and thus addressed his following:
“Ye have had but a poor lesson in swaggering to-night, masters. To be true roaring boys, we should have forced a brawl on those gallants — rather for the brawl’s sake than for the girl’s. To help the helpless hath nought to do with true swaggering, save where it may be a pretext. But this lambkin looked so tender, I forgot myself, and behaved discreetly, seeing her cause was best served that way. The essence of roaring is not in concern for the cause, but in putting down the enemy. If you be in the wrong, so much the greater your credit as a bully. And now, if we wait for those cozeners to come forth—”
“Oh, let ’em come forth and be damned,” said Master Clarington, sleepily. “I’m for bed. Light me to my lodging, boy. Who’ll keep me company to Coleman Street?”
As the three other young gentlemen had, at the time, their city lodgings in that direction, they were quite ready to avail themselves of Master Clarington’s initiative in yielding to the claims of fatigue. The captain was not such a fool as to risk their favour by opposing their decision, seeing how their zest for adventure had oozed out of them. He therefore accompanied them northward through Bow Lane with outward cheerfulness. On the way, he considered within himself whether or not to fish for an invitation to a night’s lodging, or for the loan of money to pay for a bed himself. He bethought him that man was fickle, particularly in the case of would-be daredevils who soon grew sleepy on their wine; if he would retain the patronage of these four, he must not go too far upon it at first. He had too much experience to sacrifice to-morrow’s pound for to-night’s shilling. So, when he came to Cheapside, where his companions should turn eastward, he stopped, and said:
“I must wish ye good night here, gentlemen. You will be at the Windmill again to-morrow, mayhap?”
“What?” said Master Maylands, carelessly. “Go you no farther our way? Where lodge you, then?”
“Oh, I lodge out Newgate way,” replied the captain, vaguely. “A good night to ye all! Ye’ll find me at the Windmill after dinner. Merry dreams, lads! Faith, I shall be glad to get under cover; the wind is higher, methinks.”
A chorus of good nights answered him drowsily, and he was left in darkness, the link-boys going with the four gentlemen, who hung upon one another’s arms as they plodded unsteadily along.
The captain trudged westward in Cheapside, in mechanical obedience to the suggestion pertaining to his lie.
“I should better have got myself taken up of the watch,” he mused, as he gathered his new cloak about him, and made himself small against the wind. “Then I should have lain warm in the Counter. That scholar is a lucky fellow. But that would have lost me the opinion of my four sparks. Well, it shall go hard but they continue bountiful. Cloak, doublet, and bonnet already — a good night’s booty. ’Tis well I found ’em in the right degree of drink. As for that wench — I was an ass, I should have let those roysterers have their way of her; ’twould have served my grudge against the sex. But such a child — ! Hey! What fellow comes here with the lantern and the wide breeches? An it be a constable, I’ll vilify him, and be lodged in the Counter yet. How now, rascal! — what, Moll, is it thou, up to thy vixen tricks again?”
The newcomer, who now faced Ravenshaw and held up a lantern to see him the better, wore a man’s doublet and hose, and a sword; but a careful scrutiny of the bold features would have revealed to any one that they were those of a sturdy young woman, of the lower class. The daughter of Frith, the shoemaker of Aldersgate, had yet to immortalise herself as Moll Cutpurse, but she had some time since run away from domestic service and taken to wearing men’s clothes.
“Good even, Bully Ravenshaw,” quoth she, in a hoarse, vigorous voice. “Why do you walk the night, old roaring boy?”
“For want of a lodging, young roaring girl.”
“Is it so? Look ye, then; I’m abroad for the night, on matters of mine own. Here’s my key; ’tis to the back yard gate of the empty house in Foster Lane, where the spirit walks. Dost fear ghosts?”
“Fear ghosts? Girl, I make ’em!”
“Then you’ll find in that yard a penthouse, wherein is a feather-bed upon boards. ’Tis a good bed — I stole it
from a brewer’s widow.”
And so the captain lodged that night in a coal-house, thankfully.
CHAPTER III.
MASTER JERNINGHAM’S MADNESS.
“I MUST AND will obtain her; I am ashes else.” — The Humourous Lieutenant.
Now it happened that while Captain Ravenshaw and his companions were speeding up Bread Street toward Cheapside, the Spanish-hatted gentleman of whom they were in quest was plodding down Friday Street toward the tavern at whose door they had left his friends. When he arrived there, he gave a knock similar to that which had served to open the house to the handsome gallant of the double-pointed beard; and presently, after being inspected through a small grating in the door, he was admitted.
“Is Sir Clement Ermsby above?” he asked the sleepy menial who had let him in.
“Yes, your worship. An’t please you, he and his friends came in but a little while ago. They’re in the Neptune room. A cold night, your worship.”
“How many of his friends?”
“Three, sir. There were e’en five or six more with him outside, at first; but they went their ways. Methinks there was some quarrel, but I know not.”
The gentleman pushed his hat back from his brow, and looked a trifle relieved. He stood for a moment with his eye on the servant, as if to see that the man barred the door properly, and then he went up-stairs to a room at the rear of the tavern. The tapestry of this chamber represented the sea, with the ocean god and a multitude of other marine figures. Around the fire sat the newcomer’s friends, smoking pipes; they greeted him with laughter.
“Ho, ho!” cried the handsome gallant. “She ‘scaped you, after all! The pinnace was too fleet!”
“I gained all I wished,” said the broad-breasted gentleman, coolly, speaking in curt syllables. “I had no mind to close in combat. I did not even let her know I was giving chase. But I saw what port she made into; I know where to seek her when the time is propitious.”