by Howard Pyle
It was none other than Master Maylands, and following him were Clarington, Dauncey, and Hawes, the four being attended by a footman and a page. These gallants, in coming down the aisle, had espied the captain before he had seen them. They had stopped and held a brief colloquy.
“Pish! who’s afeard?” Maylands had said. “He won’t fight in the church.”
“And if he will,” said Clarington, “we can ‘scape in the crowd.”
“Hang him, hedgehog!” said Dauncey. “I think the spirit has gone out of him, by his looks.”
“It makes me boil,” said Hawes, “to see the dog dressed out like a gentleman in clothes of our giving.”
The gallants advanced, therefore, looking as supercilious and impudent as they could.
“God save you, dog of war!” said Maylands.
“God lose you, pup of peace!” replied the captain.
“Faith, I had thought ’twas a warm day,” said Maylands, “but for seeing you wear a heavy cloak. Or is it that you durs’n’t leave it home, lest it be seized in pawn for debt?”
“You are merry,” quoth the captain, briefly; for the gallant had mentioned the true reason.
“It shows your regard for us,” put in Hawes, “that you always wear our clothes, to avoid their being seized.”
“A finger-snap for your clothes!” said the captain, his ire engendered by their daring to make so free of speech with him.
“Nay, you value ’em more than that,” said Clarington. “They’re all you have.”
“Is it so?” said the captain.
“Ay,” said Maylands, “you must needs wear our livery still, whether you will or no.”
“Your livery, curse ye!” cried Ravenshaw, observing that some in the crowd had halted to see what game of banter was going on. “Why, monkeys, I’ve worn these clothes about the town in hope of meeting ye, that I might give ’em back. Since I did ye the honour to take your gifts, I’ve heard things of ye that make it a shame to have known ye. I’ve sought ye everywhere; but the fear of a beating has kept ye indoors. Now that I meet ye, for God’s sake take back your gifts, and clear me of all beholding to such vermin! Your cloak, say you? Yes, lap-dog, there’s for you. I thank God I’m free of it!” Acting on the impulse which had come with the inspiration for his retort, and wrought up beyond all thought of expediency, he had flung the cloak in the astonished gallant’s face. “This bonnet will better fit an empty head,” and he tossed his cap to Clarington. “Here’s a doublet, too; I’ve long ached to be rid of it,” he cried, divesting himself of that garment as fast as he could, to hurl it at the head of Master Hawes. “This ruff has choked me of late; I pray you, hang yourself with it; there’ll be an ass the less. The shoes are yours, coney; take ’em, and walk to hell in ’em!” He threw them one after another at their former owner, and began drawing off his stockings. “I’ll be more careful in accepting gifts hereafter; a gift is a tie, and a man should make no tie with those he may come to hear foul reports of. Your stockings, sir! The breeches, — nay, I must take them off at home, and send ’em to you later; them and the shirt, and sundry linen and such, that are with the laundress. Take these gloves, though, and this handkerchief; and you your hanger and scabbard, and the rest. Take ’em, I bid ye, or — And now, whelps, you’ve got what’s yours. Thank God, the sword and dagger are my own! My weapons may go naked while my body does. Vanish, with your gifts! I scorn ye!”
His voice and looks were such that the four gentlemen thought best to obey. Hastily entrusting the captain’s cast raiment to the footman and page, who closely followed them, they pushed through the grinning crowd that had witnessed the scene; and the captain was left in his shirt and breeches, with his sword and dagger in his hands, to the amused gaze of the assembly, and the somewhat rueful contemplation of Master Holyday.
CHAPTER VI.
REVENGE UPON WOMANKIND.
“Get me access to th’ Lady Belvidere,
But for a minute.” — Women Pleased.
Among newcomers who at that moment pressed forward to see what was the matter, were Master Jerningham and Sir Clement Ermsby. Followed by Gregory and the page, they had but then entered the church upon the quest we know of. By standing upon their toes, they got a view of the half-naked man. At the same time they heard the name, “Roaring Ravenshaw,” passed about.
“Ravenshaw?” said Ermsby to his friend. “So ’tis. And your very man.”
“What, for such an affair? A swaggering cast soldier?”
“Ay, indeed. The last man in the world to be suspected in your particular case.”
“But can he compass it?”
“Trust these brawlers, these livers by their wits, for a thousand shifts. They get their bread by tricks.”
“But will he undertake it?”
“For pay? Look at him.”
“But he was her champion that night.”
“A mere show, to cross us. Should they know each other again, ‘twill gain him her confidence the sooner. Go; make use of his present need.”
“Shall you come with me?”
“He might remember me as his adversary that night. He saw you not well enough to recognise you. Better he shouldn’t know you are my friend. I’ll be gone, ere he see us together. Meet me at Horn’s ordinary when you have done with him. To him straight.”
Beckoning his page, Sir Clement hastened from the church, while Jerningham, with Gregory at his heels, elbowed imperiously forward till he was face to face with the captain. Ravenshaw had, in the meantime, been bandying jests with the crowd, though inwardly wondering what he should do next.
“When a soldier of your ability comes to this plight,” said Jerningham, in a courteous, kindly tone, “’tis plain the fault’s not so much his own as it is the world’s.”
Ravenshaw gazed at the speaker; manifestly without recognition.
“Sir,” said the captain, “whatever faults the world hath done me, I dare yet put my dagger to the world’s throat, and cry ‘Deliver!’”
“Still the swaggerer,” quoth Jerningham, with his soft smile.
“Ever the swaggerer,” replied Ravenshaw. “’Tis my policy. This craven world will give nothing out of love or pity; ‘twill give only out of fear; and so I bully out of it a living.”
Jerningham went close to him, and spoke in tones not to be heard by the crowd, which presently, seeing that no more amusement was to be afforded, began to melt into the usual stream of saunterers.
“I take it,” said Jerningham, “you are as good at cozening as at bullying.”
“I am not such a coward as to deny it. There be some so tame, the fiend couldn’t find it in his heart to bully them; at the same time, their lack of wit must needs tempt me to cozen them.”
“You have a persuasive speech at will, too, I see.”
“Seest thou?”
“Look you: I could mend your fortunes if you could persuade, or cozen, or bully, to a certain end for me.”
“Prove you’ll mend my fortunes, and I’m your man,” said the captain, jumping at the hope.
Jerningham regarded him for a moment thoughtfully, then said:
“Perhaps I’d best prove it first, ere I tell you what service I require.”
“I care not what the service is. Anything that a man can do, I can do.”
“And will do?”
“And will do — if it be not too black. I’ll not murder.”
“Oh, the business has no murder in it. Here’s proof I’ll mend your fortune — all such proof that is in my purse, as you see. Meet me here after dinner, dressed so as not to draw everybody’s eyes upon us as we talk. You shall hear then what the service is. And there shall be more pay when it is done.”
The captain took the money with unconcealed avidity, betraying his feelings by the readiness with which he promised good faith and promptitude. Seizing Holyday’s arm, he then hastened off to Smithfield, reckless alike of the appearance he made in the streets, and of the risk of meeting sergeants. In the secon
d-hand shops of Long Lane he remedied his nakedness at a price which left sufficient for his dinner and the scholar’s at Mother Walker’s three-halfpenny ordinary. When he reappeared in St. Paul’s, which was now comparatively empty between hours of resort, he wore a suit of faded maroon with orange-tawny stockings and a brown felt hat.
Meanwhile, Jerningham, glad to have committed the swaggerer to the business before the latter knew its nature, had told the news to Sir Clement at dinner, and was already back in the church. The faithful Gregory still attended him, more disgruntled than ever, for he considered that he might have had some of the money his master had bestowed, and would yet bestow, upon this swaggering captain. Gregory regarded the captain blackly; he viewed this new engagement as a thing most unnecessary, most injurious to himself; and he found his wrath increase each time he looked upon the interloper. Jerningham bade him wait out of hearing, and beckoned the captain into a darkish corner of the church, whither Master Holyday did not follow.
“Well,” said Ravenshaw, with after-dinner joviality, “what’s the business? What is it you would have me bully, or cozen, or persuade for you?”
“In plain words, a certain wench’s consent to a meeting,” was the reply.
“What the devil!” cried the captain, aflame. “Do you take me for a ring-carrier?”
Jerningham was silent a moment; then said:
“I take you for no better — and no worse — than any disbanded soldier that lives upon his wits about the town here.”
“What others do, is not for me to be judged by. I am Ravenshaw.”
“I never heard any reason why Ravenshaw should be thought more tender of women than his comrades are.”
“Tender of women! A plague on ’em! I owe them nothing but injuries. ’Tis not that.”
“What is it, then, offends you?”
“’Tis that you should think me a scurvy fellow that you dare affront with the offer of such an errand.”
“Why, ’tis no scurvy errand. I only ask you to persuade her to meet me. I would approach her myself, but I am suspected and cannot come at her without her connivance. I need one whom her people have not marked, to speak to her for me. I take it you have the wit to reach her ear. I would have you carry her my praises, and vows, and solicitations for a meeting; and describe me to her as you see me, as a liberal, well-inclined gentleman.”
“Ay, in short, you ask me to play the go-between.”
“Oh, pshaw, man! stumble not at mere names.”
“The names for such business are none too sweet, in troth!”
“They are but names. And sweet names may be coined for it. Love’s ambassador, Cupid’s orator, heart’s emissary, — call yourself so, and the business becomes honourable.”
“Faith, I have long known things are odious or honourable in accordance with the names they’re called by. But I am not for your business.”
“Why, you have no choice. You are bound to it by the clothes you wear, bought with my money—”
“I can e’en doff these clothes, as I have doffed others,” said the captain, though somewhat disconsolately.
“By the very dinner you have eaten,” went on Jerningham.
“I can scratch up the money to pay you for that.”
“And by the further service I intend for you. Beshrew me, man, you may find yourself nested for life if you keep my favour. No more nakedness and starvation.” Jerningham, on the eve of his long voyage, could afford any promise; besides, ’twas not impossible this redoubtable fellow might really be useful to him indefinitely, one way or another.
Ravenshaw glared at him with the tortured look of a man sorely tempted.
“Moreover,” added Jerningham, “what profit can you have in any kind of virtue, when your reputation is so villainous?”
“Hang my reputation! I’ll not be taken for a love-messenger. I’ll help no man to any woman.”
“You are an ass, then. For aught you know, my love may be honest enough.”
“If it were, you would go about it otherwise.”
“You know not the world, to say so. Does honest love always work openly? Hath not every case its peculiar circumstances? Because you fear, without known grounds, that you may be a means of harm to a wench, will you go hungry to-morrow? You are fed now, but will you be fed then? Troth, I ne’er knew a craving stomach to have nice scruples.”
“Oh, faith, I know that want is an evil counsellor.”
“Evil or not, it speaks so loud as to silence all others. Is it not so? Come, captain, be not a fool. If I mean no harm to the girl, ’tis no harm in your bringing us together.”
“But if you do mean harm?”
“Can I do her harm against her will? She shall name the place and time of meeting. Is it for grown men to be qualmish merely because a petticoat is concerned?”
“Petticoats to the devil! I owe no kindness to women, I say. ’Twas a woman’s wiles upon my father robbed me of my patrimony. ’Twas a woman’s treason to my love poisoned my heart, deprived me of my friend, changed the course of my fortunes, and made me what I am. Calamities fall upon the whole she-tribe, say I!”
“Why, then, if at the worst chance I should be the cause of harm to this one, ’twould be so much amends to you on the part of the sex.”
A sudden baleful light gleamed in Ravenshaw’s eyes.
“By God, that were some revenge!” he muttered. “Who is the woman?”
“A goldsmith’s daughter, in Cheapside.”
“A goldsmith’s daughter — some vain minx, no doubt; deserving no better fate, and desiring no better. As for the goldsmith — they are cheaters all, these citizens that keep shops; overchargers, falsifiers of accounts; they rob by ways that are most despicable because least dangerous. And they call me knave! And their women, that flaunt in silks and jewels bought with their cheatings— ’twas such a woman cozened me! ’Twas such that made a rogue of me; if I were e’en to pay back my roguery upon such! — I’ll do it! By my faith, I’ll do it! I’ll be your knave in this, your rascal; I take it, a knave is better than a starveling, a rascal is choicer company than a famished man. And ’tis time I settled scores with the race of wenches! Let’s hear the full business.”
Jerningham set forth exactly the situation. He laid stress on his requirement that the meeting should occur within the next two days. But he said nothing of the projected voyage; nor did he mention the circumstances in which he had first seen the girl. When he told her name and abode, he looked for any possible sign of recognition on the captain’s part. But none came; Ravenshaw had never learned who was the heroine of that February night’s incident.
When Jerningham took his departure, the captain strode over to where Holyday awaited him.
“Rogue’s work,” said Ravenshaw; “but a rogue am I, and there’s an end. I must get access to a rich man’s house, and to the private ear of a wench; and move her to meet secretly a gentleman she knows not; and all within two days. How is it to be done?”
“Is the rich man a gentleman — of the true gentry, I mean — or is he a citizen here, a man of trade?” queried Holyday. “If a man of trade, the way to his house, or his anything, is to make him think there’s money to be got out of you.”
“He is a goldsmith in Cheapside.”
“Why, then, let me see. There is a goldsmith lives there, somewhere, knows my father. They were friends together in their youth, in Kent. I haven’t met him since I was a small lad; but I might go to him as straight from my father; and then introduce you as a country gentleman; and so he might be got to commend you to the goldsmith you seek.”
“There’s no time for roundabout ways. Yet your father’s friend may serve us one way or another. What’s his name?”
“Thomas Etheridge. As I remember, my father—”
“What? Why, death of my life! ’tis my very goldsmith; the one whose daughter I must have speech with. Faith, here’s a miracle to help us — of the devil’s working, no doubt. This Etheridge knows not you are at odds
with your father?”
“’Tis hardly possible he should. I have never sought him since I came to town. He never would go back to Kent, and so he could not see my father. He has an elder brother lives near my father; but ‘twixt that brother and the goldsmith there was an old quarrel, which kept the goldsmith from coming to visit our part of the country; ’twould keep the brothers from communicating, as well.”
“Have you means of assuring him you are your father’s son? Can he doubt?”
“He would believe me for my likeness to my mother. He knew her.”
“Then you shall carry him your father’s good words this hour; and you shall commend me to him as — but I must change my looks first. I’ll to the barber’s, and cast my beard, all but a small wit-tuft under the lip; and have my moustaches pointed toward the sky. This goldsmith may have seen Roaring Ravenshaw in his time; I’ll be another man then.”
“But the daughter — it must be managed so I shall not have to meet her — or any women o’ the family.”
“Oh, the devil, man! if you be not introduced to the ladies, how shall your mere friend be? But stay; at best, will the friend be? These citizens are wary with their hospitality. The son of your father might be invited to the table, the son’s friend bowed out with a cool ‘God be wi’ ye, sir!’ ’Tis all too roundabout still. Body o’ Jupiter, I have it! He hath not seen you since you were a lad, say you?”
“Not since a day my water-spaniel bit him in the calf o’ the leg, the last time he came to see my father. I was twelve years old or so.”
“Good. I shall remember the water-spaniel; and as we go to the barber’s, you shall tell me other things I may recall to his mind; things none but you and your father could have known.”
“Certainly; but how shall these serve you?”
“Why, I have neither letters nor likeness, to bear out my word. But the barber shall make me look the right age; and these old remembrances, with some further knowledge of matters at your home, and my assurance, — all these shall make me pass with Master Etheridge as Ralph Holyday, son of his old friend; and you need take no hand in the business — that is, if you’ll allow this.”