Captain Ravenshaw 5

Captain Ravenshaw 5

The captain snapped his pipe in two, and flung the pieces to the ground; then turned toward the evening sky, in which a numerous company of stars now twinkled, a face bitter with self-loathing. "I am a beast," he hissed; "a slave, a scavenger, a raker of rags, fit company for the dead curs in Houndsditch. Foh! but, by God's light and by this hand, I swear--" He raised his hand toward the stars, and finished his oath, whatever it was, in thought, not in speech. Then, suddenly resuming his former mien, he turned and walked rapidly into the house. CHAPTER VIII. SIR PEREGRINE MEDWAY.                             "How the roses,   That kept continual spring within her cheeks,   Are withered with the old man's dull embraces!"     --_The Night-Walker._ As the captain entered, he heard some little bustle, as of an arrival. In the lower passage, at the door leading to the kitchen, was a strange serving-man, already on terms of banter with the cook and maids. He was provided with a torch, as yet unlighted; evidently the guest he attended would stay till after dark. Ravenshaw climbed the narrow stairs to the withdrawing-room, of which the door was open. This was a fine large room, with an oaken ceiling and oaken panelling; with veiled pictures and veiled statues in niches; with solid chairs, carved chests and coffers, tables covered with rich Eastern "carpets;" with a wide window bulging out over Cheapside, and with a great, handsome chimneypiece. The floor was strewn with clean rushes. Some boughs burning in the fireplace gave forth a pleasant odour. A boy was lighting the candles in the sconces. Ravenshaw's glance took in these details at the same moment in which it embraced the group of people in the room. The goldsmith and his wife stood beaming, and the woman Lettice looked on at a respectful distance, while in the centre of the room was Mistress Millicent in the grasp of a tall, lean old gentleman in gorgeous raiment, who very gallantly kissed both her cheeks and then both her hands. "Sweet, sweet," this ancient gallant lisped to her, "I can see how thou hast pined. But all is well now; I am with thee again; my leg is mended. Thou wert not fated to lose thy Sir Peregrine for all the ramping horses in England. So cheerily, cheerily now. Smooth thy face; I see how thou'st grieved, and I love thee the better for it." Mistress Millicent certainly looked far from happy; but her dejection at that moment seemed to proceed less from any past apprehension for the visitor's safety than from a present antipathy to his embraces. She was pale and red by turns, and she drew back from him with much relief the instant he released her. Her eyes met those of Ravenshaw, and she blushed exceedingly, and looked as if she would sink out of observation. "Come in, Master Holyday," said the goldsmith seeing the captain in the doorway. "Come in and be known to Sir Peregrine Medway. Master Holyday's father is an old friend of mine, that was my neighbour in Kent." "Holyday, Holyday," repeated Sir Peregrine, with indifferent thoughtfulness, looking at the captain carelessly. "My first wife had a cousin that was a Holyday, or some such name, but not of Kent. Sir, I crave your better acquaintance," to which polite expression the old knight gave the lie by turning from the captain as if he dismissed him for ever from his consciousness, and offering his hand to Mistress Etheridge to lead her to a chair. "What withered reed of courtesy, what stockfish of gallantry, may this be?" mused Ravenshaw, striding to a corner where he might sit unregarded. "You should have come hither straightway, bag and baggage," said Master Etheridge to the old fop. "What need was there to go to the inn first?" "Need? Oh, for shame, sir! Would you have me seen in the clothes I travelled in? Good lack, I trow not! Thinkst thou we that live in Berkshire know not good manners?" The knight spoke in pleasantry; it was clear he accounted himself the mirror of politeness. "What sayst thou, mother?" "Oh, what you do is ever right, Sir Peregrine," replied Mistress Etheridge, placidly. But Ravenshaw, in his corner, was almost startled into mirth at hearing the wrinkled old visitor address the youthful-looking matron as mother. What did it mean? Sir Peregrine bowed, with his hand on his heart; in which motion his eye fell upon a speck of something black upon the lower part of his stocking. Stooping further to remove it, and striving not to bend his knees in the action, he narrowly escaped overbalancing; and came up red-faced and panting. Ravenshaw thought he detected in Mistress Millicent's face a flash of malicious pleasure at the old fellow's discomfiture. She had taken a seat by the chimneypiece, where she seemed to be nursing a kind of suppressed fury. The knight, after his moment of peril, dropped into a chair in rather a tottering fashion, and sat complacently regarding his own figure and attire. The figure was shrugged up, and as spare as that of Don Quixote--a person, at that time, not yet known to the world. It was dressed in a suit of peach-colour satin, with slashes and openings over cloth of silver; with wings, ribbons, and garters. His shoes were adorned with great rosettes; a ribbon was tied in the love-lock hanging by his ear; and a huge ruff compelled him to hold high a head naturally designed to sink low between his sharp shoulders. His face, a triangle with the forehead as base, was pallid and dried-up; the eyes were small and streaky, the nose long and thin, the chin tipped with a little pointed beard, which, like the up-turned moustaches and the hair of the head, was dyed a reddish brown. On this countenance reposed a look of the utmost sufficiency, that of a person who takes himself seriously, and who never dreams that any one can doubt his greatness or his charms. From the subsequent talk, it became known to Ravenshaw that Sir Peregrine had, a few months before, been thrown by a horse on his estate in Berkshire, and had but now recovered fully from the effects. The knight described the accident with infinite detail, and with supreme concern for himself, repeating the same circumstances over and over again. He was equally particular and reiterative in his account of his slow recovery. His auditors, making show of great attention and solicitude, punctuated his narrative with many yawns and frequent noddings; but on and on he lisped and cackled. "Good lack," said he, "there was such coming and going of neighbours for news of how I did! I never knew so much ado made in Berkshire; faith, I lamented that I should be the cause on't, such disturbance of the public peace, and I a justice. And what with the ladies coming in dozens to nurse me!--troth, that they all might have a share on't, and none be offended, I must needs be watched of three at a time--What, sweet?" He was casting a roguish look at Mistress Millicent. "Art vexed? Art cast down? Good lack! see how jealous it is! Fie, fie, sweetheart! Am I to blame if the ladies would flock around me? Comfort thyself; I am all thine." Mistress Millicent, despite her vexation, of which the cause was other than he assumed, could not help laughing outright. The captain began to see how matters stood. But old Sir Peregrine was untouched by her brief outburst of mirth, and continued to shake a finger of raillery at her. "Sweet, sweet, ye're all alike, all womankind. My first wife was so, and my second wife was so; and now my third that is to be." The girl's face blazed like a poppy with fury, and her blue eyes flashed with rebellion. She looked all the more young, and fresh, and warm with life, for that; and when Ravenshaw glanced from her to the colourless, shrivelled old knight--from the humid rose in its first bloom, to the withered rush--he felt for an instant a choking sickness of disgust. But the girl's parents remained serenely callous, and the old coxcomb, with equal insensibility, prattled on, putting it to the blame of nature that he should be, without intent, so much the desire of ladies and the jealousy of his wives past and to come. Meanwhile Mistress Etheridge, having silently left the room with the woman Lettice, returned alone, and begged Sir Peregrine to come and partake of a little supper. From the knight's alacrity in accepting, it was plain he had honoured the family doubly,--first by tarrying to change his clothes for his call, and then by not tarrying to eat before coming to them, an additional honour that Mistress Etheridge had divined. With courtly bows and flourishes, he followed her toward the dining-chamber; whither he was followed in turn, for politeness' sake, by the goldsmith, who apologised to Ravenshaw for leaving him. Whatever were the captain's feelings, Mistress Millicent seemed glad, or at least relieved, to be alone with him. "I wish you joy of your coming marriage," said Ravenshaw, tentatively. "You would as well wish me joy of my death," she replied, with a mixture of anger and forlornness. He rose and walked over to the fireplace, near her. "Why, 'tis true," quoth he; "when the bride is young, the arms of an old husband are a grave." "Worse! When one is dead in one's grave, one knows nothing; but to be alive in those arms--foh!" "Your good parents will have you take this husband, I trow, whether you will or no?" "Yes; and I shall love them the less for it," she replied, sadly. "Has a contract passed between you?" "Not on my part, I can swear to that! Before Sir Peregrine went back to Berkshire the last time, they tried to have a betrothal before witnesses; but I let fall both the ring he wished to force upon me and the ring I was to give him; I would not open my lips either to speak, or to return his kiss; I held my hand back, closed tight, and he had to take it of his own accord. And all this the witnesses noted, for they laughed and spoke of it among themselves." "Is the wedding-day set?" "It may be any day, now that Sir Peregrine is well and in London. No doubt they will get a license, to save thrice asking the banns. I hope I may die in my sleep ere the time comes!" "'Twere pity if that hope came true," said Ravenshaw, smiling. "I dare not hope for a better escape. I'm not like to be favoured again as I was the other time Sir Peregrine was coming to town for the marriage. Then his horse threw him, and gave me a respite--but for only three months. Now he is well again, and safe and sound in London." "What, were you in this peril three months ago?" "Yes. 'Twas that which made me try to run away, the night you first saw me. The next day, instead of him, came news of his accident." "Whither would you have run?" "To my Uncle Bartlemy's, in Kent. You know him of course; he lives near your father." "Oh, yes, yes, certainly," replied the supposed Holyday. "And you saw him that night; at least, you told me the watch had let him go." "What, was that your Uncle Bartlemy?--the old gentleman you were to have met--the man my friends and I rescued from the watch!" "I knew not 'twas you had rescued him; but 'twas he I went to meet at the Standard. Nay, then, if 'twas Uncle Bartlemy you rescued, you would have known him!" "Oh, as for that," blundered Ravenshaw, realising how nearly he had betrayed himself, "no doubt 'twas your Uncle Bartlemy, now I think on't; but I recognised him not that night. For, look you, he took pains to keep unknown; and all was darkness and haste; and though we are neighbours, I see but little of him; and he is the last man I should expect to meet in London abroad in the streets after curfew." "That is true enough," she said, with a smile; "and I hope you will not play the telltale upon him. If his wife knew he had been to London, there would be an end of all peace. Sure, you must promise me not to tell; for 'twas my pleading brought him to London." "Oh, trust me. I give my word. So he came to help you run away from being married to this old knight?" "Yes. You know there's no love lost betwixt Uncle Bartlemy and my father. But mine uncle hath doted upon me from the first, the more, perchance, because he hath no child of his own. And I think he loves me doubly, for the quarrel he has with my father." "And so he had not the heart to refuse when you begged him to come and carry you away to his house," conjectured Ravenshaw. "'Tis so. 'Twas the only way I could devise to escape the marriage. I thought, if all could be done by night, I might be concealed in mine uncle's house; and even if my father should think of going there to seek me, he could be put off with denials." "But what would your uncle's wife have said to this?" "Oh, Aunt Margaret is bitter against my father; she would delight to hoodwink him. The only doubt was how mine uncle might come and take me, without her knowing of his visit to London. For, of a truth, she would never consent to his setting foot inside London town; and there was no one else I dared trust to conduct me. And so we had it that Uncle Bartlemy should feign to go to Rochester, and then, on his way home, to have happened upon me in my flight." "And so your aunt be none the wiser? Well, such folly deserves to be cozened--the folly of forbidding her husband coming to London." "Oh," replied Mistress Millicent, blushing a little as she smiled, "my dear aunt is, in truth, as jealous as Sir Peregrine would have us believe his wives were. There is a lady in London that Uncle Bartlemy played servant to before he was married, and Aunt Margaret made him promise never to come within sight of the town." "I marvel how you laid your plans with him, without discovery of your people or his." "There was a carrier's man that goes betwixt London and Rochester, who used to come courting one of our maids. We passed letters privately by means of him, till he fell out with the maid, and now comes hither no more. The last word I had of my uncle was after that night. He told me of his mishap with the watch, and of his getting free--though he said not how. And he vowed he must leave me to my fate, for he would never venture for me again as he had done. So I was left without hope. When I recognised you to-day as my preserver that night, and remembered that the Holydays were my uncle's neighbours, I thought--mayhap--you might have some message from him; but, alas--!" "And that is why you followed me to the garden?" said the captain, carelessly, though inwardly he winced. "Ay. Your look seemed to promise--but woe's me! And yet you spoke of my running away again?" "Oh, I talked wildly. I know not what possessed me. Some things I said must have been very strange." "Why, forsooth," said she, smiling again, and colouring most sweetly, "they seemed not so strange at the time, for I had forgot you are to be married; but now that I remember that--Belike you imagined for a moment you were speaking to the lady you are to marry?" "Belike that is so. But touching this marriage: what is to hinder your running away to your uncle's now, with a trusty person to conduct you?" "My uncle, in his letter, said he washed his hands of my affairs. He counselled me to make the best of Sir Peregrine's estate; he gave me warning he would not harbour me if I came to him." "A most loving uncle, truly!" "Nay, his love had not altered. But what befell him in London that night gave him such a fright of meddling in the matter." "Perchance his warning was only to keep you from some rash flight. And, mayhap, now that his fears have passed away, he would receive you." "I know not. If I might try!--hush, they are coming back!" Ravenshaw could hear Sir Peregrine's cracked voice in the passage; but he ventured, quickly: "I'd fain talk more of this--alone with you. When?" "When you will," she replied, hurriedly. "I know not your plans." "In your garden, then," he said at a hazard; "to-morrow at nightfall. Let the side gate be unlocked." "I'll try. But do not you fail." "Trust me; and meanwhile, if they turn sudden in the matter, and resolve to have the marriage forthwith, find shift to put it off, though you must e'en fall ill to hinder it." "I'll vex myself into a fever, if need be!" Ravenshaw was on his feet when the elder people came in; he advanced toward them as if he had waited impatiently that he might take his leave. As for Mistress Millicent, at sight of Sir Peregrine her face took on at once the petulant, rebellious look it had worn at his departure; no one would have supposed she had conversed during his absence. When the captain had dismissed himself, he looked back for a moment from the threshold. The limping old coxcomb, more than ever self-satisfied after his supper, was bestowing a loverlike caress upon Mistress Millicent, who shrank from him as if she were a flower whose beauty might wither at his touch. With this vision before him, Ravenshaw was let out, by the side door, into Friday Street, and made his way eastward along Cheapside to meet the scholar by appointment among the evening idlers in the Pawn of the Exchange. He thought industriously, as he went. CHAPTER IX. THE PRAISE OF INNOCENCE. "He keeps his promise best that breaks with hell."--_The Widow._ The Royal Exchange, or Gresham's Bourse, formed an open quadrangle, where the merchants congregated by day, which was surrounded by a colonnade; the roofed galleries over the colonnade made up the Pawn, where ladies and gentlemen walked and lounged in the evening, among bazaars and stalls. Naturally the uses of such a resort were not lost upon Captain Ravenshaw and Master Holyday, who had reasons for knowing all places where a houseless man might keep warm or dry in bad weather without cost. When Ravenshaw entered, on this particular May evening, he found the Pawn crowded, and lighted in a manner brilliant for those days. The scholar was leaning, pensive, against a post. "God save you, man, why look you so disconsolate? Is it the sight of so many ladies?" "No. I heed 'em not, when I am not asked to speak to 'em," replied Holyday, listlessly. "How fared you?" "Oh,--so so. The trick served. Faith, I e'en began to think myself I was Master Holyday. But what's the matter?" It was evident the captain did not wish to talk of his own affair. The scholar was not the man to poke his nose into other people's matters. But neither was he one to make any secret of his own concerns when questioned. "Oh, 'tis not much. I have been commissioned to write a play." "What?" cried the captain, eagerly. "For which playhouse?--the Globe?--the Blackfriars?--the Fortune?" "Nay," said the scholar, sedately; "for Wat Stiles's puppet-show." "Oh!--well, is not that good news? Is there not money in it? Why should it make you down i' the mouth?" "Oh, 'tis not the writing of the play--but I have no money to buy paper and ink, and no place to write in." "What, did the rascal showman give you no earnest money?" "Yes; but I forgot, and spent it for supper. I knew you would make shift to sup at the goldsmith's." "Ay, marry, 'twould have gone hard else. Well, I am glad thou hast eaten. It saves our shifting for thy supper. Troth, we shall come by ink and paper. The thing is now to find beds for the night. Would I had appointed to meet my gentleman this evening." But suddenly, at this, the captain's face lengthened. "When are you to meet him?" "At ten to-morrow, in the Temple church," said the captain, dubiously. After a moment's silence, he added, "And to think that the fat of the land awaits you in Kent whenever you choose to take a wife to your father's house there! Well, well, it must come to your getting the better of that mad bashfulness--it must come to that in time." "Why," quoth Holyday, surprised, "have you not assured me that women are vipers?" "Ay, most of them, indeed--but not all; not all." The captain spoke thoughtfully. "Well," said Holyday, after a pause, "I think I shall lodge in Cold Harbour first, ere I take one home to my father." Cold Harbour was a house in which vagabonds and debtors had sanctuary; but the two friends had so far steered clear of it, the captain not liking the company or the management thereof. 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. 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. [Illustration: "BADE HIS VISITOR BE SEATED UPON A STONE BENCH, AND FACED HER SULLENLY."] "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 with 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!"