by Howard Pyle
“You should give me my weapons before you bid me depart,” said the captain, in as light a tone as he could assume.
“When you are gone, I will throw them after you.”
Ravenshaw dashed forward with a growl; but stopped short in time, with the point of his own sword at his breast. He had an impulse to grasp the blade; but he knew, if he were quick enough for that, there was yet the dagger to be reckoned with, besides the two men, who drew their knives at that moment. Jerningham seemed to brace himself for a spring; he held the captain’s sword and dagger as in sockets of iron; a dark gleam shone in his eyes. Ravenshaw knew the look; time and again he had worn it himself; he knew also when, as player in a game, he was within a move of being checkmated.
“Well,” quoth he, with a grin of resignation, “you hold all the good cards. I will carry your letter.” He suddenly bethought him of a friend or two in Rochester, which he would pass through early in the morning if he made the journey, by whom he might send Cutting Tom’s money to the parson. Contemplating the life of ease he had promised himself in his new service, he was not sorry a good pretext had occurred for withdrawing his refusal.
“You will set out immediately?” asked Jerningham.
“The sooner the better, now.”
Jerningham sent the old man out with a lantern to saddle the captain’s horse and bring it to the door. He then handed the letter to the captain, and gave particular instructions, such as would be necessary in a genuine errand. Jeremy reappeared, at the front door, and announced that the horse was ready. Jerningham surrendered the captain’s rapier and dagger with grace, and gave him money for the journey. Ravenshaw then examined the lantern which Jeremy brought him, waved a farewell to Jerningham and Meg, and strode to the door.
Jerningham breathed softly, lest even a sigh of satisfaction might betray his sense of triumph. “She is mine!” sang his heart.
The door, left slightly ajar by the old man, opened wide as if by a will of its own, just as the captain was about to grasp it. A white-bearded, ruddy-faced man, dressed in rags and upheld by one leg and a crutch, stood grinning at the threshold.
“God save your worship!” said he to the captain. “We come late; but first our affairs hindered us, and then we mistook the way. By good chance, we find you awake; else had we passed the night under some penthouse or such, hereabouts, and come to drink your health in the morning.”
Ravenshaw having mechanically stepped back, the old beggar hobbled in, followed by several other maimed ragamuffins, with whom came the two women Ravenshaw had seen in the afternoon, and a pair of handsome frowsy young hussies who had not appeared in the road. The legless dwarf still rode upon a comrade’s shoulders. As the motley gang trooped in, there was a great clatter and thud of crutches, wooden legs, and staves.
“God’s death! who are these?” cried Jerningham, in petulant astonishment.
“Some poor friends of mine I met on the way hither,” said Ravenshaw, apologetically. “I asked them to sup with me here. I had well-nigh forgot.”
“Sup with you! By what right — well, no matter for that. Where did you think to find provender for all those mouths?”
“I was to find drink only; they were to find meat.”
“Ay,” said the chief beggar, “chickens; and here they be, young and plump.” He thrust his hand into a sack another fellow carried, and drew out a cold roast pullet. The captain gazed at this specimen with admiring eyes, and unconsciously licked his lips.
“By your leave,” said he to Jerningham, “I’ll tarry but a half-hour to play the host to my invited guests; and then away. I can make up the time; a half-hour, more or less—”
“’Tis not to be thought of!” cried Jerningham. “There has been too much time lost already.”
“Nay, I’ll make it up, I tell you. I am bound to these people by my invitation; they have come far out of their way.”
“Oh, as for that, they need not go away thirsty. Jeremy, take these — good people — to the kitchen, and broach a cask.” Master Jerningham, in his desire for Ravenshaw’s departure, could force himself to any concession; he considered that, left to themselves, these beggars would be no obstacle to his design; they could be kept at their ale in the kitchen.
“Why, to tell the truth,” interposed the captain, “’tis not so much their thirst troubles me; ’tis my hunger.” And he leaned a little toward the fowl, sniffing, and feasting on it with his eyes.
“Take it with you, man, and eat as you ride,” said Jerningham, still restraining his impatience.
“Why, that’s fair enough,” replied Ravenshaw. “I’ll just drink one cup with these my guests, and then leave ’em to your hospitality.” Without more ado, he walked to the kitchen door, where Jeremy was standing, and motioned the beggars to follow. They filed into the kitchen, seven men and four women, not a whole body in the gang save the two robust wenches.
“A bare minute or so, sir,” said Ravenshaw to Jerningham, and went after them, taking the lantern with him. Soon there came from the kitchen the noise of loosened tongues chattering in the gibberish of the mendicant profession.
“THERE ... WAS THE MAID OF CHEAPSIDE, PALE AND
BEWILDERED.”
Master Jerningham, knowing that opposition would only cause further delay, controlled himself as best he could, and waited in silence, pacing the hall, while the captain had his humour. Meg, with housewifely instinct, betook herself to the kitchen to keep an eye on matters there. Presently the captain reappeared, with a pullet in one hand, his lantern in the other, Meg having meanwhile lighted candles in the kitchen.
“And now to horse!” cried he, closing the kitchen door after him.
“And God save us from any more delays!” said Jerningham, with a pretence of jocularity.
“So say I,” quoth Ravenshaw, stalking forward.
In the centre of the hall he stopped, with a cry of astonishment, which made Jerningham turn swiftly toward the open front door.
There in the porch, which was suddenly lighted up with rays of torch and lantern, was the maid of Cheapside, pale and bewildered, held on either side by Cutting Tom and one of his comrades.
CHAPTER XIX.
KNAVE AGAINST GENTLEMAN.
“Who shall take your word?
A whoreson, upstart, apocryphal captain,
Whom not a Puritan in Blackfriars will trust
So much as for a feather.”
— The Alchemist.
Cutting Tom was struck motionless at sight of the captain; but, after a moment, reassuring himself by a look at Jerningham, he led his captive into the hall. His men followed. The group came to a halt ere any one found voice.
Ravenshaw, recovering a little from his surprise, was about to hurl a question at Cutting Tom, when his tongue was stayed by his seeing the maid’s eyes turn with blazing indignation upon himself, and her lips open to speak.
“So, then, it is your work!” she said.
“My work?” quoth the captain, in a maze, dropping his chicken.
“No doubt you spied upon poor Master Holyday, and corrupted these rogues he trusted in,” she went on; and then, giving way, she wept: “Oh, God! into whose hands have I fallen!”
Ravenshaw quailed at her tears; but suddenly stiffened himself, set down his lantern, and said wrathfully to Cutting Tom:
“What means this, knave? Why came you here? Where is — the gentleman you serve? Speak, thou slave, or by—”
But Millicent, coming swiftly out of her tears, cried, scornfully:
“Think not to blind me, thou villain! The gentleman is where you bade these wretches leave him, — in the woods, robbed, — mayhap slain! Alas, having seen his fate, what may I expect for myself!” And again she fell into lamentations.
“I understand this not,” said Ravenshaw. “Cutting Tom, thou blundering hound, why bring you this maid to this place, and to me?”
“Oh, out upon pretense!” cried Millicent. “Thinkst thou I am so great a fool as not to see? G
od send I were Sir Peregrine’s wife rather than such a villain’s captive!”
“Mistress, I know not why you are here, nor what hath befallen Master Holyday. There is some mistake or falseness, which I shall worm out of this tongue-tied knave; but first assure yourself you are not my captive.”
“Oh, peace! As if this fellow, whom you call by name, and who cringes before you, had not turned treacherous!”
“Ten to one he hath turned treacherous, and dear he shall pay for it; but he hath not turned so at my instigation.”
“Oh, no more, I pray. Even this fellow is not bold-faced enough to deny it is for you he has betrayed us. God knows what is to become of me, a prisoner in your hands, without a soul that knows my whereabouts to protect me!”
At this, Master Jerningham, who had kept still while an inspiration perfected itself in his mind, stepped courteously forward, and said, with grave sympathy:
“Not so, mistress. I, the master of this house, will protect you in it.”
She looked at him in surprise. His was a face she recalled vaguely as having seen, or faces more or less resembling it, in the streets of London, or in churches, or other public places; but it was not a face she had ever had reason to note carefully. Whatever were the forgotten occasions upon which she may have observed it, as she had observed ten thousand faces worth a careless second glance, the night of her adventure in February was not one of them; for on that night, besides keeping himself in shadow, and leaving all talk to Sir Clement Ermsby, Jerningham had hidden his countenance under the brim of a great Spanish hat. So his face at this moment, appearing as that of a stranger, awakened in her mind no association either pleasant or unpleasant; in itself, it wore so serious and sweet a smile, and the manner of its owner was so quietly chivalrous, that Millicent’s feelings promptly declared in its favour. A sudden sense of safety came over her, depriving her for a moment of speech. Then she murmured, unsteadily:
“Master of this house, say you?”
“Ay, mistress, but no conspirator in your being brought here. I am not often at the place; this man hath newly arrived as steward; I came to-night without warning, no more expecting to see strangers in my house than he expected to see me. I know not what hath been afoot; but Heaven must have sent me here, if my coming has saved you from a mischief.”
He offered her his hand. Cutting Tom had already released her arm. After a moment, she took the hand, and allowed Jerningham to lead her to a seat by the table. As she scanned his features, an increasing trustfulness appeared in her own.
“Sir,” she faltered, deeply relieved and grateful, “I must thank Heaven for my deliverance. To find a gentleman — after these rascals—”
She cast a glance at Ravenshaw, and trembled to think what manner of man she had escaped; for indeed at that instant the captain looked like the very devil.
“He deliver you!” exclaimed Ravenshaw, as soon as his feelings permitted him to speak calmly. “Why, he is of all men the one you most need deliverance from!”
Jerningham smiled with tolerant contempt. “I scarce think you will believe that, mistress,” said he, lightly, “seeing how completely I am a stranger to you.”
“Believe him?” she replied, scornfully. “He is the prince of cozeners; he is all made of lies and shifts. I know not how he hath come to be steward to a gentleman; belike you know not of him; perchance he hath passed upon you by another name, as he did upon us; he is Captain Ravenshaw.”
“To say truth, mistress, I knew him; but I little thought—”
“Knew me?” said Ravenshaw, with a laugh. “Ay, indeed. Well enough for me in turn to know his designs against yourself, mistress; from which, as from marriage with that old dotard, I had hoped to see you saved. As for your being brought here, ask these men. Find your tongue, Cutting Tom, and explain this.”
“Why, of a truth,” said Cutting Tom, slowly, finding courage in a significant glance from Jerningham, “I know not what you would have me explain. I am but a dull-witted man; if you had only told me beforehand what to say—”
“’Tis too clear these knaves acted by your orders, captain,” interrupted Jerningham.
“Why, yes, so we did, and that’s the hell of it,” said Cutting Tom.
“Liar and slave!” cried Ravenshaw, half drawing his sword; but he controlled himself, and said: “’Tis plain that you, Master Jerningham, have bought this knave, though ’tis beyond my ken how you learned what he was to be about to-night. Mistress, I swear to you, the man who intends you harm is he that you put your trust in; the man who would save you is he that you revile and disbelieve.”
“Mistress,” said Jerningham, ignoring this speech, “wherever you have come from, wherever you would go, ’tis now too late in the night to leave this house. Shall I conduct you to a chamber where you will be safe and alone? Your ears need not then be assailed by the rude talk of this man. Surely you will not doubt me upon his wild words?”
“Nay,” said she, rising compliantly, “I heed not his words.”
“For proof of them,” said the captain, “let me tell you that this gentleman employed me to be his go-between with you.”
She blushed. Jerningham said: “Oh, villain! You have the devil’s invention, I think. You would make yourself out a worse knave, that you might make her distrust me. Mistress, if you have the smallest fear—”
“Sir, God forbid I should doubt a gentleman on the word of a known rascal!”
Jerningham led her by the hand toward the corridor at the right. But the captain, not delayed by his momentary reflection upon the occasional inconvenience of a bad reputation, sprang ahead of them, and took his place at the corridor entrance, grasping his sword. Master Jerningham instantly drew back with the maid, in a manner implying that the captain’s threatening action was as much directed against her as him. He hastened with her toward the opposite passage, but Ravenshaw was again beforehand. Jerningham thereupon conducted her to the front part of the hall. It was not his desire to release her hand, as he must needs do if he himself fought Ravenshaw at this juncture. He did not wish to call in Ermsby yet, fearing the effect her recognition of that gallant might have upon her confidence in himself. His own two followers in the hall were armed only with knives. Cutting Tom, the disguised Gregory, and their three companions, were his men in reality; but he must seemingly win them over before using them, lest she perceive they indeed acted for him in giving this direful turn to her elopement.
“Thou whom he calls Cutting Tom,” said Jerningham, “thou and thy fellows, — ye have done a dangerous thing for your necks in conveying this lady hither against her will.”
“Sir, I know it,” replied Tom. “But I was led by my needs, and these my followers knew nothing of the business. I take you to be a gentleman that has power in the world. I beg of you, now that the villainy has failed, deal not too hardly with us.”
“It lies with yourselves. If you be minded to undo the villainy, to serve me in my protection of this maid—”
“We will, we will! and thank your good worship!” said Tom, quickly, and turned to his men with a look which elicited from them a chorus of confirmatory “ayes,” supported by a variety of oaths.
“Then seize that man, till I pass with this lady,” said Jerningham, in a decided tone. “To him, all of ye, — Meadows and Goodcole, too!”
Cutting Tom and his men drew their swords; having first attached their lanterns and torch to wall-sconces, and dropped the bundle of Holyday’s clothes. The party advanced upon Ravenshaw, being joined by Meadows and Goodcole, which twain preferred wisely that the bearers of longer weapons should precede them into the captain’s immediate neighbourhood. Tom himself went rather shufflingly, doubtless willing to give opportunity for any more impetuous comrade to be more forward in the matter. But the other men were no more eager than he to be first; and so the movement, beginning with some show of a fearless rush, deteriorated in a trice to a hesitating shamble. At two steps from the captain, the party came to a stop.
“Ho, dogs, will ye come dancing up to me so gaily?” cried Ravenshaw. “Dance back again as fast!” His rapier leaped out, and sang against three of their own blades in the time of a breath.
All seven of the men, appalled at his sudden onslaught, stepped hastily back. The captain strode forward. The fellows increased their backward pace. He followed. They turned in a kind of panic, and ran pell-mell for the front door. Laughing loudly at their retreat, Ravenshaw stopped, as he was in no mind to be drawn outside while Millicent remained within. At sound of his laugh, the fellows turned and stood about the doorway with their weapons in defence.
“Sir,” said Ravenshaw, turning to Master Jerningham, “I pray you, look upon this maid; consider her youth and her innocence. Will you mar such an one a lifetime, to pleasure yourself an hour? As you are a gentleman, I ask you, give her up.”
“Do not give me up to him!” she said, affrightedly, clinging closer to Jerningham.
Ravenshaw shook his head in sorrow. “Ah, mistress, that you should think I would harm you! If you but knew — but for what you think of me, no matter. ’Tis a cruel twist of circumstance that you should oppose him that would save you, and cleave to him that would destroy you. You would know how the affair stands, if there were a spark of truth to be found among these knaves and traitors. Oh, for a gleam of honesty! How foul falsehood looks when it has the whole place to itself!”
A whinny of impatience was heard from the horse waiting outside.
“’Tis high time you were in the saddle, captain,” said Jerningham. “Come, man; I will forget your attempt upon this maid, since no harm has followed. And she, too, will forget it, if she take my counsel. Will you trust your welfare in this matter to me, mistress?”
“Entirely,” answered Millicent, in a low voice.
“Oh, mistress, how you are deceived!” said Ravenshaw. “What can I do to save you?”
She shrank back from his look.