Captain Ravenshaw 4

Captain Ravenshaw 4

The next morning they rose before their hostess, and took leave of her house without troubling her with farewells. They found new quarters in a shoemaker's house in St. Martin's-le-Grand, and avoided their old haunts for fear of arrest. The question of meals now grew difficult. Ravenshaw had become so well known that possible adversaries at the gaming-tables shunned him. What little credit he could still compass at ordinaries and taverns soon prepared the way for new threats of arrest. Sometimes the two companions contrived to eat once a day, sometimes once in two days. After a time, the captain agreed that Holyday might barter his clothes. The scholar speedily appeared in a suit of modest black, as if he were his gallant companion's secretary; and for awhile the two feasted daily. But anon they were penniless again, and went hungry. The captain swore he would not part with his fine raiment; though he should starve, it would be as a swaggering gallant still. No Lent was ever better kept than was the latter part of that year's Lent (though to no profit of the fishmongers) by those two undone men. Their cheeks became hollow, their bellies sank inward, they could feel their ribs when they passed their hands over their chests. They went feverish and gaunt, with parched mouths and griped stomachs. As hunger gnawed him, and the fear of sheriff's officers beset him at every corner, and hope grew feeble within him, the captain became subject to alternations of grim resignation and futile rage. The scholar starved with serenity, as became a master of the liberal arts, being visited in his sleep by dreams of glorious banquets, upon which in his waking hours he made sonnets. In May the patience of the shoemaker in St. Martin's-le-Grand was exhausted, and the two penniless men had other lodgings to seek. They spent much of their time now in St. Paul's Church. Here employment was like to offer, and here was comparative safety from arrest, certain parts of the church being held sanctuary for debtors. To St. Paul's, therefore, they went on the morning that found them again roofless; keeping a lookout on the way thither for any sheriff's men who might with warrant be in quest of them. It was fortunate that none waylaid them, for the captain was in such mood that he would have gone near slaying any that had. Neither he nor Holyday had eaten for two days. They took their station against a pillar in the middle aisle of the great church, and watched with sharp eyes the many-coloured crowd of men, of every grade from silken gallants to burden-bearing porters, that passed up and down before them, making a ceaseless noise of footfalls and voices, and sometimes giving the pair scant room for their famished bodies. The St. Paul's of that time was larger than the present cathedral. It covered three and a half acres, and was proportionately lofty. Thanks to its great doors and wide aisles, it afforded a short way through for those foot-goers in whose route it lay,--porters, labourers, and citizens going about their business. But its wide aisles served better still as a covered lounging-place for those on whose hands time hung heavy,--gentlemen of fashion, men who lived by their wits, fellows who sought service, and the like. These were the true "Paul's walkers." It was a meeting-place, too, for those who had miscellaneous business to transact; a great resort for the exchange of news, in a day when newspapers did not exist. Certain of the huge pillars supporting the groined arches of the roof were used to post advertising bills upon. The services, in which a very fine organ and other instruments were employed, were usually held in the choir only, and the crowd in the nave and transepts did not much disturb itself on account of them. The time of most resort was the hour before the midday dinner; and it was then that Ravenshaw and Holyday took their stand before the pillar on this May morning. "There walks a poet that hath found a patron," said the scholar. "Yet 'tis ten to one the verses he is showing are no better than these sonnets in my breeches pocket here." "If you had a capon's leg or two in your breeches pocket it were more to the purpose," replied the captain. "'Troth, my sonnets are full of capon's legs and all other things good to eat," sighed Holyday. "I've conceived rare dishes lately; I have writ of nothing else." "If we could but eat the dishes out of thy sonnets!" muttered Ravenshaw. "How can you write sonnets while you are hungry?" "Why, your born poet finds discomfort a spur. There was the prophet Jonas writ a sonnet in the whale's belly." "Faith, I'd rather undertake to write one with a whale in my belly! I feel room for a whale there. Who the devil comes here?" 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 second-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." "With all my heart," said Holyday, glad to escape the risk of meeting women. CHAPTER VII. MISTRESS MILLICENT.   "'Tis a pretty wench, a very pretty wench,--nay, a very, very, very   pretty wench."--_The Wise-woman of Hogsdon._ The house of Thomas Etheridge, goldsmith, was near facing the great gilt cross in Cheapside, the images around whose base--especially that of the Virgin--were chronically in a state of more or less defacement. A few doors east of Master Etheridge's, and directly opposite the cross, was the western end of Goldsmith's Row, described by Stow as "the most beautiful frame of fair houses and shops that be within the walls of London, or elsewhere in England." It consisted of "ten fair dwelling-houses and fourteen shops, all in one frame, uniformly built four stories high, beautified toward the street with the Goldsmiths' arms and the likeness of woodmen, ... riding on monstrous beasts, all ... cast in lead, richly painted over and gilt." Master Etheridge's house, thrusting out an iron arm from which hung a blue-painted square board with a great gilt acorn, was quite as tall and "fair" as any of the ten in the neighbouring "frame." Its upper stories were bright with the many small panes of wide projecting windows. The shop, whose front was usually open to the street by day, occupied the full width, and a good part of the depth, of the ground floor. Behind the shop was a "gallery" or passage, with a private entrance from the side street, and with a stairway; beyond this passage was the kitchen; and over that, the dining-room, which looked down upon a back yard that was really a small garden. Upon the low plastered ceiling of the dining-room was moulded a curious design of golden acorns. The walls were hung with tapestry representing a chase of deer. The floor was covered with rushes, which crackled under the feet of the boys that waited upon the family at supper. Captain Ravenshaw, with face clean-shaven all but for the skilfully up-turned moustaches and the tiny lip-tuft, leaned back in his carven chair after a comforting draught of his host's canary, drew his foot away from the dog that was pretending to mistake it for a bone under the table, and thought how lucky were those who supped every day at the board of Thomas Etheridge. "Yes," said Master Etheridge, who was a man square-faced, square-bodied, hard-eyed, hard-voiced, looking and sounding as if he should deal rather in iron than in the softer, sunnier metal, a man with a shrewd mouth and a keen glance; but just now, for once, a little mellowed by the recollections of youth which his visitor had stirred; "your father was ever a man to have his will or raise a storm else. He led your poor mother many a mad dance. Be thankful all husbands are not as obstinate as Frank Holyday, Jane." Jane, the goldsmith's wife, looked as if she could tell a tale or two of husband's obstinacy, that would match any to be told of the elder Holyday; but she sweetly refrained. She was a plump, handsome woman, who filled her velvet bodice and white stomacher to the utmost on the safe side of bursting; she was the complete housewife, precise about the proper starching of the ruffs and collars, nice in her dress, of an even temper, choosing serenity rather than supremacy. So she merely beamed the more placidly upon the visitor, and said: "I warrant this young gentleman will not copy his father in that. His looks show the making of a kind husband. I wish you joy, Master Holyday." For the pretended Holyday had told the goldsmith in the shop that he was about to marry a young lady of Kent, wherefore he wished presently to buy plate and jewelry. This news had turned the cool reception of an uninvited caller into the cordial welcome of a possible customer. And, as it was a guarantee against his wooing the daughter of the house, for whom a man of the Holydays' moderate estate was no acceptable suitor, it had removed the paternal objection to his presence in the family circle. Hence the goldsmith had honoured the claims of hospitality, and invited his old friend's supposed son to supper. On being introduced to the ladies, Ravenshaw had promptly recognised the maid of that February night. On her part, his voice had seemed to touch her memory distinctly, but the transformation wrought by the razor had puzzled her as to his face. At supper, sitting opposite him in silence, she had listened alertly while he had continued deluding her father with anecdotes of the elder Holyday; and she had shyly scrutinised his face. He had covertly noticed this. No doubt she was racking her brain in efforts to identify him. Why not enlighten her? The knowledge that he was in the secret of her attempted flight would give him a power over her. So he had said, to her father: "Oh, pardon my forgetting, sir. I was wrong when I told you I had not been in London except in passing to Cambridge and back. I was here over night last February." At this he had brought his eyes to bear full on Mistress Millicent. "I was in this neighbourhood, too. But the hour was so late, I durs'n't intrude on you. Indeed, no one was abroad in the streets but roysterers, and brawlers, and runaways, and such." The girl's face had turned of a colour with her lips, her eyes had flashed complete recognition, had met his for an instant in a startled plea for silence, then had hid themselves under their long lashes. Ravenshaw, feeling as if he had struck a blow at something helpless, had glanced quickly at her parents. They had been busy with their knives and spoons, fingers and napkins, and had observed nothing. Curiosity and fear, the captain had thought, would now make her grant, if not seek, a word with him alone. After that, he had not rested his look upon her again during the supper. He had met her father's eyes readily enough, and her mother's, and those of the ladies' woman, the head shopman, and the other dependents at the lower part of the table, but not hers. For, of a truth, she was not the vain and affected hussy, or the stiff and supercilious minx, or the bold and impudent hoyden, he had expected to find as the only daughter of a purse-proud citizen. Every movement of her slim young figure, encased in a close blue taffeta gown, seemed to express innocence and gentleness; her oval face, rich in the colour of blushes, lips, and blue eyes, had a most ineffable softness; even her hair, brown and fine, parting across her brow without too many waves, gave an impression of grace and tenderness; and over her countenance, whose natural habit was one of kindly cheerfulness, there now lay something plaintive. Ravenshaw found it not easy to face her, knowing for what purpose he had lied himself into her presence. And now, the trenchers being nearly bare, and mouths having more leisure to talk than the voracious custom of that day allowed them during meals, Master Etheridge was minded for further reminiscence of his old friend. "Ay, ay, many's the quart of wine we've drunk together after supper, in my rash days. Your father would have all drink that were about him. Even his dogs he would make drunk. A great man for dogs. I mind me of a prick-eared cur he had, would drink sack with the best of us, and sit on a stool at table with us, and howl with us when we sang our ballads. And there was a terrier, too; I have my reason not to forget him." "Yes," quoth Ravenshaw; "he bit you in the calf o' the leg the last time you were at our house." "Nay, that was a water-spaniel did that," said the goldsmith. Ravenshaw remembered now that Holyday had said a water-spaniel; but he thought it would appear the more natural if he should seem to be in this point tricked by memory, as, in some detail or other, people often are. "Nay," said he, "I am sure it was the terrier; I remember it as well--" "Oh, no, never, never the terrier; 'twas the water-spaniel, on my word. Why, I never see the spaniels diving for ducks in the ponds at Islington but I think of it." But Ravenshaw feigned to be unconvinced, and when, after some further talk, he yielded the point, it was as if merely out of courtesy. When the supper party rose from the table, the captain was for a pipe of tobacco, which he forthwith produced. But Master Etheridge said he was no tobacconist, and that the smoke made his lady ill. Ravenshaw replied that, by their leave, he would then take a turn or two, and a whiff or two, in the garden, whose beauty, observed by him from the window, invited closer acquaintance. Etheridge liked to hear his garden commended before his wife, as its implied sufficiency saved him the expense of a garden with a summer-house in the suburbs, which many a citizeness compelled her husband to possess. So he went cheerfully ahead to show the way. "When you return, you shall find us in the withdrawing room, across the passage," said Mistress Etheridge. Ravenshaw bowed to the ladies; in doing which, he met Mistress Millicent's eyes with a look that said as plainly as spoken words: "I have something for your ears." This intimation, in view of the circumstances of their former meeting, could not fail to engage her interest. The goldsmith led him down-stairs to the ground floor passage, whence a door opened to a narrow way running past the rear of the house to the little garden. This comprised a square of green turf, in the centre of which was an apple-tree, now in blossom; a walk led to and around this tree, and another walk enclosed the whole square. This latter walk was flanked on the outer side by rosemary and various shrubbery, banks of pinks and other flowers; which screened the garden walls except where a gate gave entrance from Friday Street. The farther side of the garden was sheltered by a small arbour of vines; beneath this was a bench, and another bench stood out upon the turf, so that one might sit either in sun or in shade. It was still daylight; the regular household supper was taken early in those times, and English days are long in May. Yet an early star or two showed themselves in the clear sky. The scent of the pinks and apple-blossoms was in the air. "A sweet night toward," said the goldsmith, manifesting an inclination to remain with his guest in the garden. But this was what Ravenshaw did not desire. The captain, therefore, as soon as he had lighted his pipe, took Master Etheridge's arm so as to have the greater pretext for walking close to him, and blew such volumes of smoke in the poor man's direction that, for the sake of his eyes and nostrils, being no "tobacconist," he was soon glad to make excuse for returning into the house, and to hasten back, coughing and blinking. "If she is a woman," mused the captain, left alone, "she will come to hear what I may tell her. She has been on pins and needles. By this light, what a piece of chance!--that this maid should be that one! What shall I say to her? I must open upon the matter of that night. Tut, has she not yet observed I am alone here now? Or has she not the freedom of the house? or the wit to devise means of coming hither? Well, I will give her the time of this pipeful. What a sweet evening!" But the sweetness of the evening made him only sigh uneasily, and feel more out of sorts with himself. Several minutes passed, and he was thinking he might have to resort to some keen stroke of wit to get private speech with her, after all; when suddenly she appeared, with ghostlike swiftness, at the corner where the passage along the kitchen wing gave into the garden. He was, at the moment, scarce ten feet from that spot. She was blushing and perturbed. She cast a look up at the dining-room window, then glanced at him, and, instantly dropping her eyes, sped over the turf to the farther side of the apple-tree. He quickly followed her; and when, thereupon, they stood together, the tree screened them from the house. Without looking at him, and tremblingly plucking the apple-blossoms to hide her confusion, she said, quickly: "Sir, I thank you for what you did that night. You will not tell them, will you?" He thought that, by promising unconditionally, he should lose a possible means of controlling her actions; so he must, for the moment, evade. "Then they know not?" he queried. "Nay; I got in, and to my chamber, without waking any one." "And had you no further molestation in the streets? One of those men tricked me, and followed you. I learned it after." She looked at him with a little surprise. "Nay, I saw him not, nor heard him. I had no trouble. But you will not tell?" Her wide-open eyes, round and large and of the deepest blue, were turned straight upon his face, as if they meant to leave him not till they should have a direct answer. [Illustration: "'SIR, I THANK YOU FOR WHAT YOU DID THAT NIGHT.'"] "Why--mistress," he blundered, and then dropped his own gaze to where he was beginning to scrape the gravel awkwardly with his shoe, "why need you ask? Did I not protect your secret that night?" "Then why do you hesitate now?" she demanded, with a sudden unconcealed mistrust. "Oh, Master Holyday, what is in your mind? Why have you drawn me hither to speak with you alone? Why do you make a doubt of promising not to betray me? Come, sir, I have little time; they will soon be wondering where I am; either promise me, or I myself will tell them, and then, by St. Anne, I care not--" There was a threat of weeping in her voice and face, and Ravenshaw impulsively threw up his hand, and said: "Nay, fear not. I will not tell. I give my word." Trouble fled from her face, and a smile of gratitude made her appear doubly charming. Ravenshaw cleared his throat, without reason, and tried to meet her glance without seeing her, if that had been possible. "You are a happy maid," quoth he, settling down to a disagreeable business. "'Tis proven that you may play the runaway for an hour or two, when you wish, and none be the wiser. There's many a maid would give her best gown thrice over, for that assurance." "Troth, it serves me nothing," she said, with a forlornness he could not understand. "An I were to play the runaway again, whither should I run?" He thought for an instant of going into the mystery of her former desire to run away; but he decided that, as time pressed, it were better to hold to the present design. "Whither, indeed?" quoth he. "Faith, London has no lack of pleasant bowers, where beauty may hear itself praised by the lips of love. Sure, you look as if I talked Greek to you. Certainly you are wont to hear yourself admired?" "Oh!" she murmured, at a loss, with a smile, and a blush of confusion. "Troth, now," said he; "confess you enjoy to be admired." "Oh, pray," she faltered, "talk not of such things. I know not how to answer." "Yet you take pleasure in hearing them? Come, the truth, mistress. Faith, 'tis but a simple question." "Oh--why--I do--and I do not." "I warrant," quoth he, softly, "there would be no 'I do not,' if the right gentleman spoke them." The captain's tone seemed lightly gay and bantering; but, though she knew it not, his throat was dry, and he was trembling from head to foot like a shivering terrier. "I am sure I know not," she answered, embarrassedly, but still smiling. "Put it to the test," he whispered, huskily. "Give him the occasion to speak--one that adores you--hear him utter your praises--hear him vow his devotion--give him the occasion." "Methinks--you take the occasion now," said she, in a voice scarce above the rustle of the air among the leaves. "Nay--heaven's light!--I mean not myself!" he said, dismayed. "Why, wha--? What then? What mean you?" Her smile had fled in a breath, and in its place was a look of suddenly awakened horror that smote him like a whip's blow across the eyes. "Oh, nothing," he stammered. "I mean--'tis not myself that's worthy to praise you. I know not--I am out of my wits--forget--" Just then a woman's voice was heard calling from the house, "Mistress Millicent, where art thou?" "'Tis Lettice, my mother's woman," whispered the girl, quickly. "I must in. I have come out for this bunch of apple-blossoms. Some other time we'll talk--perhaps." Without another word she ran from the garden.