by Howard Pyle
“Oh, churl, boor, clodpate, whatever thou art!” he shouted. “To treat a poor benighted traveller thus, that means thee no harm! These are country manners, sure enough. Go to the devil, an thou wilt. I’ll no more follow thee.”
But as the light now came to a stand, he ran toward it, thinking the rustic had taken heart. He was almost upon it, when suddenly it separated into three lights, which leaped in three different directions. Knowing not which to follow, he stood bewildered. After a moment, he made for the nearest light; it disappeared entirely. He turned to watch the others; they had vanished.
“Oh, this is ridiculous!” he said. “This cannot be real. I perceive what it is. It is a dream I am having; a foolish, bad dream. It has been a dream ever since — since when? I was writing a puppet play, and I must have fallen asleep; I wrought my mind into a poetic fever, and therefore my dream is so troubled and wild. My courtship of that maid, — but no, that was in bright day, ’tis certain, and ’tis never bright day in dreams. Well, when I wake, I shall see where I am, and learn where the dream began; perchance I am still at that horrible tree. No; alas! these aches and scratches, this wretched marsh, are too palpable. ’Tis no dream. Would it were. Perhaps those rascals killed me in the wood, and I am in hell. Well, I will on, then, till I meet the devil; he may condescend to discourse with a poor scholar; he should have much to tell worth a man’s hearing; no doubt, if he cannot talk in English, he can in Latin. Ah, what? I am again on terra firma: but terra incognita still. I’ll go on till something stops me. Oh!” he ejaculated, as he bumped against a tree. “Here is another wood. Or is it the same wood? I know not; but I will on.”
A brief uncovering of the moon — the same which revealed to Millicent the huddled roofs of Marshleigh Grange — gave Holyday a view of his surroundings. Looking back across the fen, he saw what must be the wood from which he had come. He stood, therefore, on the border of a second wood. He knew the wind was from the west; hence, noting the direction in which the clouds were flying, he perceived that his course had been southward and from the river. He ought to be on familiar ground now, which he had often scoured with the parson and their fellow poachers; but ere he could assure himself, moon and earth were blotted out, and he was again in a world of the black unknown.
Turning his back to the marsh, he traversed the second wood. A swift, loud wind raced over the tree-tops, bringing greater dampness. He came into what might be a glade, or a space of heath, which he proceeded to cross. As he had been gradually ascending in the past few minutes, he had no fear of another bog at this place. He was by this time ready to drop with fatigue. Stumbling over a little mound, he fell upon soft grass. He lay there for some minutes, resting, till his body seemed to stiffen with cold. Then he rose, and plunged wearily on in despair. Suddenly, to the joy of his heart, he heard voices ahead.
“I’ll take oath ’tis no deer,” said one. “Come on; the keeper is abroad in this walk; I tell you I spied the candle in’s window to light him home.”
“I’ll have a shot at it, for all that,” said another.
Poachers, thought Holyday; and they were speaking of him. He flung himself down, just in time to hear the twang of a crossbow where the voices were, and the whizz of a bolt through the air where his body had been.
“‘Fore God, thou hast laid the thing low,” said a third voice. Recognising it, Holyday leaped up with a cry, and ran forward, calling out:
“Sir Nicholas! oh, Sir Nick, thou poaching rascal, ’tis I!”
“God save us, ’tis a ghost; a human ghost!” cried the first speaker.
“’Tis a white thing on two legs, sure,” answered the vicar, with trepidation.
“’Tis the devil come for you; he spoke your name,” said their companion, affrightedly; and instantly came the sound of feet running away like mad.
Holyday pursued, shouting, “’Tis I, Ralph Holyday!” But the poachers, hearing the name, and thinking it to be the spirit of Holyday come to announce his own death, were soon quite out of hearing.
Losing their direction, and knowing his wornout legs were no match for their fresher ones, Holyday sank to the earth, ready to weep with vexation.
“I see,” he wailed. “’Tis a mockery devised to torment me. To lift me out of the mire of despair into the very arms of my friend, and then to fling me back deeper! A fine joke, no doubt, on the part of Heaven; but why one poor scholar should provide all the mirth, I do not clearly perceive. Was it indeed Sir Nick, or was it but an illusion of mine ears? ’Tis all the same. Well, I will sit shivering here till daylight; what else can I do?”
But suddenly came the rain, a wind-driven deluge, showing its full fury at the outset. In a trice the scholar was drenched; the drops seemed to beat him down; there was no surcease of them. He ran for cover, and presently gained that of another part of the wood. But even the trees could not keep out this downpour. Water streamed from the branches upon his head and body. He was flung upon, buffeted, half-drowned. Never had he received such a castigation from man or nature. He thought the elements were arrayed against him, earth to trip and bruise him, air to chill him, fire to delude him, water to flog him to death. But on he went, moved always by a feeling that any spot must be better than that whereon he was. At last he saw another light.
“Nay, nay,” said he; “I am not to be fooled so again. Go to, Jack-with-the-lantern! I chase no more will-o’-the-wisps.”
But he bethought him that such a rain would put out any false fire; moreover, he was in a wood, on high ground. And then, as he approached, the light took the form of a candle in a window. He remembered what the poacher had said. This must be the keeper’s lodge; if the candle was still in the window, the keeper had not yet come home, — the rain had caught him too. The keeper being still abroad, his door might not be fastened. With a sense of having reached the limit of endurance of the rain’s pelting, — for his thin shirt was no protection, — he dashed blindly for the window, which was on the leeward side of the lodge. He felt his way along the front of the house to the entrance, pushed the door open, and stepped into a low, comfortable apartment, like the kitchen and living room of a yeoman’s cottage. Out of the rain and wind at last, his grateful legs bore him across the room to a bench. He sat down, nestling back to a great deer-skin that hung against the bare wall of wood and plaster.
At one side of the room was a door to another apartment; at the back was a ladder-like set of wooden steps leading to a trap-way in the ceiling. Holyday had scarce observed these details by the candle in the window, when a coarse female voice, as of one suddenly roused from sleep, called out from the other room: “Is’t thou, Jack? Time thou wert home! — hear the rain.”
Holyday kept silence. Then he heard a bed creak as under the movements of a heavy body. The woman was coming out to see what had made the noise. And he, clad only in the briefest of shirts! A double terror shook him; he sprang across the room and blew out the candle. The door opened, and a heavy, unshod tread sounded upon the floor.
“Ecod, the light’s out!” said the woman. “And the door open.” She found her way in the dark to the door which Holyday had neglected to close upon entering. “’Twas the wind, I wis. Fool Jack, to leave the door ill-fastened! Well, he is served right, for the wind hath blown out his candle. I must make another light, forsooth.”
Holyday, standing perfectly still near the window, heard the woman grumbling about the task of striking a light. He felt himself blushing terribly in the dark; he was surely undone. But with a timely inspiration, and glad for once that his feet were bare, he went tiptoe back to where he had sat, stepped over the bench, and slipped behind the deer-skin, flattening himself as much as possible against the wall as he stood.
The woman got the candle aflame, looked around the room, replaced the light in the window, and went back to the other chamber. Hearing the bed creak again as it received her weight, Holyday came out from his hiding-place. What should he do in order to profit for the rest of the night by the comforts of this abo
de without discovery? He knew who this woman was, and who Jack, her husband, was. He had fallen foul of this keeper before he had left for London, and the keeper was a fellow who would take revenge when occasion offered. Pondering on the situation, Holyday was almost of a mind to face the stormy night again rather than risk capture by the man in such circumstances. Before he could make up his mind, he heard a gruff voice outside ordering a dog to its kennel. It was Jack’s voice. Master Holyday fled panic-stricken up the narrow stairs, through the open trap-door.
He was in a place of darkness. He forgot that the height of the cottage — which served but to house an under-keeper and his wife, and was not the principal lodge pertaining to this chase — forbade that the upper story should be more than a mere loft; but of this he was speedily reminded by a bump of his head against a rafter. The loft was warm and probably unoccupied, for Jack rarely had a guest. The rain upon the roof made a din in Holyday’s ears. He felt his way to one end of the place, and lay down, near a small window. He heard Jack entering below, swearing at the storm, fastening the door, and finally joining his spouse in the sleeping-chamber. There was some conversation in low tones, and then the house was still.
Holyday’s foot struck against the end of a wooden chest. Crawling to it, he opened the top, and found what he had hoped for, — soft garments in which to lie. He tore off his wet shirt, rolled himself up in what seemed to be a woman’s gown, — Jack’s wife required dresses of ample capacity, — and sank away in sweetest comfort to oblivion.
He woke from a dream of delicious warmth and wondrous light, and found the sunshine in his face. His window was toward the south. The sun had passed the line of noon. Holyday gathered himself up; surveyed the garment of russet wool he had slept in; and finally dressed himself in it in proper manner. It hung loose upon him, but it covered his nakedness.
A creak of the stairway drew his eyes toward the trap. There rose into view the frowsy head and fat face of Jack’s wife.
“Ecod, I knew I heard somebody!” she cried, staring at Holyday fiercely. “And dressed in my clothes, too! Oh, thou thief, I’ll tear thy skin from thee!”
She came up the steps as fast as her bulk allowed. But Master Holyday, with one glance at her great clenched fists, kicked open the casement behind him, fell upon all fours, and backed out of the window, from which he dropped as the woman reached it. He alighted on a bank of flowers, scrambled to his feet, and, holding his skirt above his knees, trusted all to his bare legs. He heard the woman’s furious threats from the window, but tarried not to answer. Plunging through the forest with the new strength derived from his long sleep, he was soon far from the cottage. Easing into a walk, he crossed heath and fields till he came in sight of a pleasant mansion on a green hill. Between him and the hill lay a road, which he must needs cross to reach Sir Nicholas’s house. He gained this road, and, seeing nobody about, walked along it some distance so as to skirt the base of the hill. Unexpectedly, from a lane he was passing, came a resonant voice:
“Well, God-’a’-mercy! what transformation have we here?”
Holyday turned, and beheld Captain Ravenshaw.
CHAPTER XXI.
THE CAPTAIN FORSWEARS SWAGGERING.
“MY FOLLIES AND my fancies have an end here.” — Wit without Money.
When Ravenshaw came to his senses, after losing them on the floor of the hall, he gazed around in wonder. He was in a soft bed, in a handsome room which he had never seen before. Bright sunlight streamed through an open casement which let in also the music of birds. Beside his bed lay his clothes, neatly arranged; his sword and dagger; and Master Holyday’s puppet-play, which he had carried in his doublet. At sight of the manuscript, full remembrance rushed upon his mind. Though his bodily craving was to sink back on his pillow, and a fierce ache was in his head, he leaped out of bed. There was too much to be learned and done.
He pounced upon the ewer and basin he saw at hand, and speedily soused himself into a more live and less fevered state. While putting on his clothes, wondering where on earth he was, he looked out of the window upon a sweet prospect of green hills, fields, a few distant sun-touched roofs, and a far-off steeple among trees. It was plain that he looked from a house on a low hill, and that noontime had arrived.
A door opened, and in was thrust the head of a man whose blue coat betokened a servant, and whose manner declared a rustic.
“Dod, then your worship be up!” said this fellow, awkwardly entering. “Young mistress did vow she heard somewhat stirring. I ask your worship’s pardon. If your worship had called—” He set about trussing the points of the captain’s doublet and hose.
“Who art thou?” asked Ravenshaw.
“Your servant, sir. To tell truth, sir, Master Etheridge’s servant, sir; but yours while you be here, your worship.”
“Master Etheridge? Master Bartlemy Etheridge, meanest thou?”
“Yes, sir, by your leave, sir. He bade me attend in the gallery here, sir, to serve your worship an you called.”
“This is his house, then?”
“Yes, sir; his country-seat, your worship, — not that he hath any town house, begging your pardon.”
“How came I here?”
“Dod, upon a stable door we found loose at Marshleigh Grange last night. I’fecks, I’ll never forget such rain; and to be roused out of bed in the black o’ the night, too! But as to fetching your worship hither, the young mistress wouldn’t come if you were left; so master must needs bid us seek somewhat to bear you hither upon. And never once you woke, e’en when me and Dick took off your clothes and put you to bed.”
A strange warmth glowed in the captain’s soul. Lost in his thoughts, he passed out to the gallery as soon as he was dressed. It was a wide, airy gallery, with doors along the sides, and a window at each end. In one of the windows sat a figure, which rose the instant he appeared. It was Millicent. For a second he paused, fearing she would meet him with her old scorn, or flee down the stairs. But she stood motionless, returning his look with some timidity, blushing and pensive.
“So,” said he, quietly, “you would not come if I were left.”
“I was much your debtor,” she faltered.
“And you, watching here, heard me stirring, and sent the manservant?”
“Why, I was watching here,” she replied, confusedly, “lest my father should come unawares. We were seen and followed, Master Holyday and I, and my uncle thinks my father would go first to Master Holyday’s house, and then come hither. But let him come what way he will, I can see him afar from this window.”
“And how if you see him?”
“There is an old chest in my aunt’s chamber that my uncle hath made ready, with holes bored in it for air. They will lock me in, and feign that the key is lost, and that the chest hath not been opened this year.”
“Your uncle hath stood your friend indeed in this.”
“Yes, he and — others, — more than I deserve. My uncle is no coward, in truth, — save to his wife, and when he is in London against her will and knowledge.” She smiled faintly.
“He must have shown courage enough to Master Jerningham to fetch you off safe — and me, too, when I was o’erthrown at last by their drug.”
“Why, of a truth, my uncle came to that place with so many men — every Jack on the estate, and all that could be roused quickly in the village — that Master Jerningham would have done ill to contest. The heart was taken out of him, I think; four of his men were killed, and of the rest, those that had come with me fled when they saw their leader slain.”
“Four men killed, troth!” said Ravenshaw, “of whom I shall be asked to give account.”
“But you will not be asked,” she replied, quickly. “’Twas in self-defence — and in defence of me. But there will be no question made of the affair. Master Jerningham seemed as much to desire that as — as my uncle. He hath his own reasons; he said he and his men would keep silence. So my uncle agreed to say nothing; those drunken beggars and the rascals that bet
rayed me will hold their tongues for their own sake; and Master Jerningham said he would dispose of the slain.”
“But the slain have friends, — that gentleman will surely be inquired after.”
“Master Jerningham said he could explain his disappearance, and the other men’s. I know not how, but I would warrant he spoke in good faith.”
“More false dealing, belike. I’ll go and see.”
“Nay! whither would you go?” Her face showed alarm.
“Back to that house. I must see how matters stand there. I must seek out the knaves that betrayed you, and learn what hath befallen Master Holyday. Where did they leave him?”
“Alas! I know not where ’twas. They beat him down in the wood, and left him, — tied to a tree, one said; and they robbed him of his clothes. I should not know where to look for the place.”
“Be of good cheer. I’ll find him, though I search the forest through; and, if he be alive, I’ll not eat or sleep till you are wed.”
“Then ’twas indeed your planning?” she queried, looking not too well pleased. “I had begun to think as much, after last night.”
“Why, troth, I — ah — did give the plan my countenance,” admitted the captain. “But we durst not let you know I was privy to it; you thought so ill of me — and rightly. But the bringing you to Marshleigh Grange was pure treason against us. I was too trustful; but I will undo my error if Holyday be alive.”
“I marvel why you should have plotted so for me.”
“To save you from wedding Sir Peregrine Medway; and to put you out of Master Jerningham’s ken, as well. You said any husband was better—”
“But why chose you Master Holyday?”
“Faith, is he not young, and a gentleman, and comely? And he will be well provided for upon his marriage, e’en though he bring a wife without dowry. And then I was pleased at the chance of benefiting him, too. I could think of no better remedy than a husband, and no better husband than he.”