Complete Works of Howard Pyle

by Howard Pyle

  Leaving the Exchange, they found the streets alive with people; not only had the fine weather brought out the citizens, but the town was full of countryfolk up for the Trinity law term.

  “‘Odslid,” a rustic esquire was overheard by the captain to say to another, “I looked to lie at the Bell to-night, but not a bed’s to be had there. ‘Twill go hard if all the inns—”

  “Excellent,” whispered Ravenshaw to the scholar. “We shall sleep dry of the dews to-night — else I’m a simple parish ass. Come.”

  They went at once to the sign of the Bell, where the captain applied, with an important air, for a chamber. On hearing that the house was full, he made a great ado, saying he and his friend wished to leave early in the morning in Hobson’s wagon starting from that inn; being late risers by habit, they durst not trust themselves to sleep elsewhere, lest they miss the wagon. Finally, going into the inn yard, the captain stated his case to one of Hobson’s men, and suggested that he and his companion might lie overnight in the tilt-wagon itself, so as to make sure of not being left behind in the morning. The carrier, glad to get two fares for the downward journey at a season when all the travel was up to town, thought the idea a good one. And so the two slept roomily that night on straw, well above ground, sheltered by the canvas cover of the huge wagon. In the morning, pretending they went for a bottle of wine, they did not return; and the carrier, whipping up his horses at the end of a vain wait of fifteen minutes, was provided with a subject of thought which lasted all the way to Edmonton.

  Meanwhile, the captain and the scholar, postponing their breakfast, whiled away the time till ten o’clock. At that hour, having left his friend to loiter round Temple Bar, Ravenshaw stepped across the venerable threshold of the church of the Temple.

  This church, too, was a midday gathering-place, as was also Westminster Abbey. But ten o’clock was too early for the crowd, and the captain found himself almost alone among the recumbent figures, in dark marble, of bygone knights of the Temple in full armour. Not even the lawyers, in any considerable number, had yet taken their places by the clustered Norman pillars at which they received clients. The gentleman whom Ravenshaw had come to meet, to report the outcome of his attempt with the goldsmith’s daughter, was not there.

  Master Jerningham, indeed, had cause to be late. He had cause also for his mind to be, if not upset, at least tumbled about. In the first place, though he did not try to resist it, he cursed his unreasonable passion for this girl, which took so much time and thought from his final preparations for the voyage on which he had set so heavy a stake. He had been compelled to leave many things to his companion gentlemen-adventurers, which he ought to have overseen himself. And even as matters were, he was not clear as to what he would be about, concerning the girl. Suppose he won her to a meeting, could such a passion as his be cooled in the few hours during which he might be with her before sailing? Or should he indeed, as he had hinted to Sir Clement, set himself to carry her off on his voyage by persuasion or force? He knew not; events must decide; only two things were certain — he must behold her a yielding conquest in his arms; and he must sail at the time set or as soon after as weather might permit.

  Upon leaving Ravenshaw in St. Paul’s, the day before, he had gone to see a cunning man by whom his nativity had been cast with relation to the voyage. The astrologer had foretold an obstacle to be encountered at the last moment, and to be avoided only by great prudence. This had darkened Master Jerningham’s thoughts for awhile, but he had forgotten it in the busy cares of the afternoon at Deptford, whither he had hastened to see the bestowal of stores upon the ship. He had already got his men down from London and Wapping, all taking part in the work, some living aboard, some at the inns; so as to risk no desertions. He had returned late to Winchester House, passed a restless night, slept a little after daylight, and set forth in good time before ten for his appointment.

  BADE HIS VISITOR BE SEATED UPON A STONE BENCH, AND FACED HER SULLENLY.

  Just as he was going down the water-stairs, a small craft shot in ahead of the boat his man Gregory had hailed; a woman sprang up from the stern and, gaining the stairs with a fearless leap, stood facing him. She was a tall, finely made, ruddy-faced creature, in her twenties, attired in the shabby remains of a country gentlewoman’s gown, and wearing a high-crowned, narrow-brimmed hat.

  “Name of the fiend!” muttered Master Jerningham, starting back in anger and confusion. “What the devil do you here?”

  “Peace,” said the woman, in a low voice. “Have no fear. If your virtuous kinsman sees me, say I’m old Jeremy’s niece come to tell you what men he’ll need for the farm work.” Her voice befitted her tall and goodly figure, being rich and full; the look upon her handsome countenance was one of mingled humiliation and scorn.

  “I am in haste,” said Jerningham, in great vexation.

  “You must hear me first,” she replied, resolutely.

  Jerningham, stifling his annoyance, motioned Gregory to keep the waterman waiting; then led the way up the stairs to the terrace, bade his visitor be seated upon a stone bench, and faced her sullenly.

  “Is this how you keep your promise?” he said, rebukingly.

  “Oh, marry, I put you in no danger. I might have walked boldly to the doors and asked for you. But I lay off yonder in the boat till you came forth; it put me to the more cost, but you are shielded.”

  “Well, why in God’s name have you come?”

  “Because you would not come to the Grange, and I must needs have speech with you. You forbade messages.”

  “Then have speech with me, and make an end. But look you, Meg, I have no money. I have kept my word with you; I have given you a home at the Grange; ’twas all I promised.”

  “’Tis all I ask. But the place must be a home, not a hell. ’Tis well enough by day, and I mind not the loneness — troth, I’m glad to hide my shame. But by night ’tis fearful, with none but old Jeremy for protection, and he so feeble and such a coward. You must send a man there, you must! — a man that is able to use a sword and pistol, and not afraid.”

  “Why, who would go so far from the highroad to rob such a rotten husk of a house?”

  “’Tis not robbers,” she said, sinking her voice to a terrified whisper. “’Tis ghosts, and witches.”

  Jerningham laughed in derision of the idea.

  “I tell you it’s true. I know what I say,” she went on. “Spirits walk there every night; there are such sounds — !”

  “Poh!” he interrupted. “The creaking of the timbers; the moving of the casements in the wind; the flapping of the arras; the gnawing and running of rats and mice.”

  “’Tis more than that. There be things I see; forms that pass swiftly; they appear for a moment, then melt away.”

  “’Tis in your dreams you see them.”

  “I know when I am awake; besides, often I see them when I am not abed.”

  “They are the tricks of moonlight, then; or of rays that steal in at cracks and crevices; or they are the moving of arras and such in a faint breeze.”

  “I know better. Think not to put me off so. I’ll not stay there alone with old Jeremy. I cannot bear it — such fright! Good God, what nights I’ve passed!”

  Jerningham quieted her with a gesture of caution, as he looked fearfully around to see if her excited manner was observed.

  “Then there are witches,” she went on, more calmly. “They slink about the house and the garden in the shape of cats. Terrible noises they make at night.”

  “Why, they are cats, like enough; they seek the rats and mice. Troth, for horrible noises—”

  “Nay, but I know better. T’other evening Jeremy was late fetching home the cow from the field, and so when I had done milking ’twas near nightfall. As I was crossing the yard with the milk, what did I see but an old woman leaning on her stick, by the corner of the house. She was chewing and mumbling, and looking straight at me. I saw ’twas old Goody Banks, whom the whole countryside knows to be a witch.”
>
  “Foh! a poor crazy beldame, no doubt come to beg or steal a crust or a cup of milk.”

  “I thought so too, at first, after I had got over the fright of seeing her — for ’tis rare we ever see any one at the Grange. But as I was going to speak to her, she looked at me so evilly I remembered what the countryfolk say of her, and such a fright came over me again, I cried out, ‘Avaunt in the name of Jesus!’ and flung the pail of milk at her. I heard a kind of whisk, — for I had closed my eyes as I threw, — and when I opened them, there, instead of the old woman, stood a great cat, staring at me with the very same evil eyes! So I knew she must be a witch — turning into a cat before my very eyes!”

  “But your eyes were closed, you say.”

  “Ay, she had bewitched me to close ’em, no doubt, so I might not see how she transformed herself.”

  “Why, ’tis all clear. The whisk you heard was of the old woman’s running away from the milk-pail. The cat had been there all the while, belike, but you had not seen it for the old woman.”

  “I tell you I know what I saw,” she replied, growing vehement again. “You need not think to fool me, and turn me off. Sith you have no other place for me to live, I am content to live at the Grange; but you must send a man there to guard the place against ghosts and witches. You must do it, — a stout, strong man afraid of nothing; no shivering old dotard like Jeremy, who durs’n’t stick his nose out of his bedclothes between dusk and daybreak. You promised to give me a home, and I to keep silent and unseen; but a house of spirits and witches is no fit home, and so what becomes of our agreement? So best send a man.”

  “Why, if it be not possible?”

  “Then I shall hold myself freed of my promise, and if you cannot make one place a home for me, you shall make another. I shall tell the bishop all that is between us — oh, I shall get word to him, doubt it not! — and I know what so good a man will do. He will make you marry me, that is what he will! My birth—”

  “Oh, peace! I was jesting. I will send a man. Is that all?”

  “Ay, and little enough. There’s much a man can do there, for the good of the place itself. Will you send him to-day?”

  “Why, faith, if I can find him — a man fit for the place, I mean. I have much to do to-day.”

  “But I cannot endure another night there, with none but Jeremy in the house. You must send him to-day; else I swear I will come—”

  “Nay, give me a little time,” pleaded Jerningham, thinking that if he could but hold her off with promises for two days, her disclosure would matter little, as by that time he would be afloat — unless weather should hinder the sailing. At this “unless,” he frowned, and remembered the fortune-teller’s prediction. Without doubt, what Mistress Meg might do was the obstacle in the case. He entertained a morbid fear of an impediment arising at the last moment. The woman was capable of keeping her threat; and the bishop was capable of staying him at the very lifting of the anchor, capable even of having him pursued and brought back as long as he was in home waters. Meg knew nothing of his voyage. He must keep that from her, as well as satisfy her in the matter of her request. The wise man had said that “prudence” might avoid the obstacle; Jerningham must deal prudently with her. “I will send a man next week,” quoth he.

  “I will give you till to-morrow to find a fit man,” she replied, resolutely. “To-night I can sit up with candles lit. But if your man be not there to-morrow at four o’clock in the afternoon, I shall start for London; if I come a-horseback I can be here by eight.”

  Jerningham fetched a heavy sigh. He knew this woman, and when she meant what she said, and how impossible it was to move her on those occasions. He thought what a close player his adverse fiend was, to set the time of her possible revelation upon the very eve of his departure. Durst he hazard some very probable hitch of her causing? No; that would not be “prudence.” He must not only promise her; he must also send the man. After all, that was no difficult matter; once the master was safe away on the seas, destined to come back rich enough to defy bishop and all, or come back never at all, let the man look where he might for his wage. It was but palming off upon her the first ruffian to be hired, who might behave decently for a week or so.

  Jerningham’s face lightened, therefore; he gave his word, slipped the woman a coin to pay her boatman, saw her to the boat by which she had come, and then took his seat in the one awaiting him, and bade the waterman make haste to the Temple stairs.

  As he and Gregory walked into the Temple church, he did not immediately know the man who hastened up to meet him; for the up-turned moustaches, and the bareness of chin, except for the little tuft beneath the lip, gave the captain a somewhat spruce and gallant appearance, notwithstanding his plain attire.

  “God save you, sir. I thought you had changed your mind.”

  “By my soul, sir — oh, ’tis Ravenshaw! ‘Faith, ’tis you have changed your face. I was detained, against my will. Let’s go behind that farthest pillar. Troth, this transformation—” He broke off and eyed the captain narrowly, with a sudden suspicion.

  “A man’s face is his own,” said Ravenshaw, bluffly.

  “One would think you had set yourself to charm the ladies.”

  “Fear not. I have no designs upon the lady you wot of. And now let me speak plain words. When I undertook your business yesterday, ’twas left in doubt between us whether your desire of this maid meant honestly.”

  “‘Slight, it shall remain in doubt, as far as your knowledge is concerned,” replied Jerningham, quickly, nettled at the other’s tone.

  “It was left in doubt, as far as speech went,” continued Ravenshaw. “But there was little doubt in my mind. And yet I bound myself to the service because I was at war with womankind. I thought all women bad — nay, in my true heart I knew better, but I lost sight of that knowledge, and chose to think them so.”

  “Wherein does your opinion of the sex concern me?”

  “But I was wrong,” pursued the captain. “I have met one who proves they are not all bad. I were a fool, then, to hold myself at feud with the sex; and the greater fool to pay back my grudge, if I must pay it, upon one that is innocent.”

  “Why, thou recreant knave! Do you mean you have failed in the business and would lay it to your virtue?”

  “Softly, good sir! I will tell you this: I can win the maid to meet you, if I will.”

  “Then what the devil — ? How much money — ? Come to an end, that I may know whether to use you or—”

  “I will win the maid to meet you — if you will pledge yourself—”

  “Go on; what price?”

  “If you will pledge yourself to make her your wife at the meeting, and acknowledge her openly as such.”

  Jerningham stared for a moment in amazement. Then he gave a harsh laugh.

  “A rare jest, i’ faith! The roaring captain, desiring a city maid for his mistress, offers to get her a gentleman husband! A shrewd captain! Belike, a shrewd maid, rather!”

  “By this hand, I ought to send you to hell! But for her sake, I will rather explain. She seeks no husband. But I conceived you might be a fit man for such a maid. You are young and well-favoured, — a fitter man than some that might be forced upon her. I thought a marriage with such a mate might save — But to the point: if you love her, why not honestly? And if honestly, why not in marriage? You will behold few maids as beautiful, none more innocent. As to her portion, the marriage must needs be against her father’s knowledge, by license and bond; but when he finds his son is so likely a gentleman, I warrant—”

  “Come, come, an end of this; I am not to be coney-catched. Shall I meet the wench through your mediation, or shall I not?”

  “You shall not. And I tell you this: she is not to be won to such a meeting as you are minded for; not by the forms of gods, the treasures of kings, or the tongues of poets!”

  Jerningham shrugged his shoulders.

  “It is the truth,” said the captain. “Virtue beats in her heart, modesty courses wit
h her blood, purity shines in her eyes, she is the mirror of innocence. Should you find means to try her, I swear to you the attempt would but mar her peace, and serve you nothing. Nay, even if that were not so, — if there were a chance of your enticing her, — black curses would fall upon the man by whose deed that stainless flower were smirched. Innocence robed in beauty — there’s too little of it walks the world, that gentlemen should take a hand in spoiling it!”

  “Man, you waste my time prating,” said Jerningham, who had been thinking swiftly, and imagining many possibilities, and hence saw reason for calm speaking. “I see you are stubborn against the business I bespoke you for. When I want an orator to recommend me a wife, I may seek you. If I wish to hear sermons out of church, I can go to Paul’s Cross any day.”

  The two looked at each other searchingly. The captain sought to find why Jerningham, after his exceeding desire, should show but a momentary anger, and speedily turn indifferent. Had his desire melted at a single disappointment? Perhaps; but affairs would bear watching. On Jerningham’s part, he was wondering what the other would really be at, concerning the maid; what had passed between them, and how far the captain stood in the way of Jerningham’s possessing her by such desperate means as might yet be used. If the man could only be kept unsuspecting, and got out of London for a few days! Jerningham had a thought.

  “So let us say no more of this maid,” he resumed, “and if you forget her as soon as I shall, she will be soon forgot. No doubt you remember I spoke of other employments I might have for you. Of course I meant if you served me well with the goldsmith’s wench. You proved a frail staff to lean upon in that matter, but I perceive ’tis no fair test of you where a woman is in the case. So, as you are a man to my liking, I will try you in another business. By the foot of a soldier, it cuts my heart to see men of mettle hounded by ill fortune!”