CHAPTER XX.
HOLYDAY'S FURTHER ADVENTURES.
"O, when will this same year of night have end?" --_The Two Angry Women of Abington._
Master Holyday at first thought himself lucky to be left alive, thoughnaked to his shirt and bound to a tree by hempen cords which were tiedaround his wrists behind him, and around his ankles. But he soon beganto doubt the pleasures of existence, and the possibility of its longcontinuance, in his situation. There was a smarting pain between hiseyes, his face felt swollen all around those organs, his arms achedfrom their enforced position, the chill of the night assailed his nakedskin.
He bemoaned the inconveniences of a stationary condition, and for thefirst time in his life realised what it was to be a tree, rooted to onespot all its days. He no longer deemed it a happy fate that the godsbestowed on the old couple as a reward for their hospitality, in theMetamorphoses,--that of being turned, at their death, into oaks. And hebecame swiftly of opinion that the damsel who escaped the pursuit ofApollo by transforming herself into a laurel would have been wiser toendure the god's embraces. And yet, as an accession of dampness--mist,if one could have seen it in the blackness of the forest--set his barelegs trembling and shrinking, he envied the trees their bark; and aseach arm felt its cramped state the more intolerably, he coveted theirfreedom of waving their limbs about in the wind. At this, he strainedpetulantly to move his wrists apart, and, to his amazement, the cordyielded a little. He exerted his muscles again, and the hemp eased yetmore. A few further efforts enabled him to slip free his hands. Intheir haste his two despoilers had made their knots carelessly. Theyhad been more thorough in fastening his ankles. But, bending his knees,and lowering his body, he set to work with his fingers, and after manya scrape of his skin against the bark, many a protest of discomfort onthe part of his strained legs, he set himself at liberty. Surprisedat having been capable of so much, he stepped forward with the joy ofregained freedom, but struck his toe against a fallen bough, and wentheadlong into a brake of brambles.
Cursing the darkness, and his fate, with every one of the hundredscratches that gave him anguish of limb and body, he backed out of thethicket, and moved cautiously in the opposite direction, holding hishands before him, and feeling the earth with his toes before settingfoot in a new place.
"This is what it is to be a blind man," quoth he. Often, despite hisprecautions, he hurt his feet with roots and sticks, and cut them uponsharp-edged stones. He began to think he was doomed to a perpetuallabour of wandering through a pitch-dark forest; it seemed so longsince he had known peace of body and mind that he fancied he shouldnever again be restored to the knowledge. He knew not, in the darkness,which way he was going; he moved on mainly from a disinclination toremain in one place, lest he should experience again the feelings of arooted plant.
He began to speculate upon his chances of falling in with dangerousbeasts, and upon the probable outcome of such an encounter. He hadknown of a man upon whom a threatened buck had once wrought thevengeance so vastly overdue from its race to mankind; in his poachingexpeditions with Sir Nicholas the vicar he had often shuddered with atransient fear of a similar fate. In those expeditions he had alwayshad company, had been armed and clad; the strange sense of helplessnessthat besets an undressed man was a new feeling to him.
At last, to his temporary relief, he came out of the wood, as he knewby the less degree of darkness, the change of air, and the smooth turfwhich was delicious to his torn feet. But presently the turf becamespongy; water oozed out as it gave beneath his feet. He turned to theleft, thinking to avoid the marsh without entering the wood again; butthe ground became still softer; a few more steps brought him into sedgypools several inches deep.
"This is worse than the wood," he groaned, and put his face in whathe took to be the direction of the trees. But the farther he went,the deeper he sank in water. He now knew not which way to go in orderto find the wood, or even the comparatively solid turf on which hehad formerly been. So he stood, railing inwardly against the spitefuldestiny that had selected him for the butt of its mirth. He had asensation of being drawn downward; he remembered, with horror, thestories of people sucked under by the marshes, and he lifted first onefoot and then the other. He kept up this alternate motion, trying eachtime to set his foot in a fresh place, and yet fearing to move backwardor forward lest he find himself worse off. The dread of becoming afixture in the earth came over him again, as a greater probability thanbefore, and impelled him to move his legs faster.
"Would I were a morris-dancer now, with practice of this motion," hethought, as the muscles of his legs became more and more weary; andhe marvelled understandingly at Will Kempe's famous dance to pipe andtabor from London to Norwich. "Better, after all, to be a tree," hesighed, "and not have to toil thus all night lest the earth swallow me."
His legs finally rebelling against this monotonous exercise, heresolved to go forward whatever befall; and just at that moment he saw,at what distance he could not determine, a faint light. He uttered acry of satisfaction, supposing it to be a cottage window, or a lanternborne by some night-walking countryman. As it moved not at his cry, hedecided it was a cottage window, and he hastened toward it, through thetall grass, careless how far he sank into the marsh. But, as he drewnear, it started away from him; then he told himself it was a lantern,and he called out to its bearer not to be afraid, as he was but a poorscholar lost in the fen. The light fled all the faster. As he increasedhis pace, so did it. At last, out of breath, he stopped in despair. Thelantern stopped, also. He started again; it started, too.
"Oh, churl, boor, clodpate, whatever thou art!" he shouted. "To treata poor benighted traveller thus, that means thee no harm! These arecountry manners, sure enough. Go to the devil, an thou wilt. I'll nomore follow thee."
But as the light now came to a stand, he ran toward it, thinkingthe rustic had taken heart. He was almost upon it, when suddenlyit separated into three lights, which leaped in three differentdirections. Knowing not which to follow, he stood bewildered. Aftera moment, he made for the nearest light; it disappeared entirely. Heturned to watch the others; they had vanished.
"Oh, this is ridiculous!" he said. "This cannot be real. I perceivewhat it is. It is a dream I am having; a foolish, bad dream. It hasbeen a dream ever since--since when? I was writing a puppet play, andI must have fallen asleep; I wrought my mind into a poetic fever,and therefore my dream is so troubled and wild. My courtship of thatmaid,--but no, that was in bright day, 'tis certain, and 'tis neverbright day in dreams. Well, when I wake, I shall see where I am, andlearn where the dream began; perchance I am still at that horribletree. No; alas! these aches and scratches, this wretched marsh, are toopalpable. 'Tis no dream. Would it were. Perhaps those rascals killed mein the wood, and I am in hell. Well, I will on, then, till I meet thedevil; he may condescend to discourse with a poor scholar; he shouldhave much to tell worth a man's hearing; no doubt, if he cannot talk inEnglish, 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!" heejaculated, as he bumped against a tree. "Here is another wood. Or isit the same wood? I know not; but I will on."
A brief uncovering of the moon--the same which revealed to Millicentthe huddled roofs of Marshleigh Grange--gave Holyday a view of hissurroundings. Looking back across the fen, he saw what must be the woodfrom which he had come. He stood, therefore, on the border of a secondwood. He knew the wind was from the west; hence, noting the directionin which the clouds were flying, he perceived that his course had beensouthward 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, andhe 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 cameinto what might be a glade, or a space of heath, which he proceeded tocross. As he had been gradually ascen
ding in the past few minutes, hehad no fear of another bog at this place. He was by this time ready todrop with fatigue. Stumbling over a little mound, he fell upon softgrass. He lay there for some minutes, resting, till his body seemed tostiffen 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 abroadin this walk; I tell you I spied the candle in's window to light himhome."
"I'll have a shot at it, for all that," said another.
Poachers, thought Holyday; and they were speaking of him. He flunghimself down, just in time to hear the twang of a crossbow where thevoices were, and the whizz of a bolt through the air where his body hadbeen.
"'Fore God, thou hast laid the thing low," said a third voice.Recognising it, Holyday leaped up with a cry, and ran forward, callingout:
"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, withtrepidation.
"'Tis the devil come for you; he spoke your name," said theircompanion, affrightedly; and instantly came the sound of feet runningaway 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 toannounce his own death, were soon quite out of hearing.
Losing their direction, and knowing his wornout legs were no matchfor their fresher ones, Holyday sank to the earth, ready to weep withvexation.
"I see," he wailed. "'Tis a mockery devised to torment me. To lift meout of the mire of despair into the very arms of my friend, and thento 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 clearlyperceive. Was it indeed Sir Nick, or was it but an illusion of mineears? '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 furyat the outset. In a trice the scholar was drenched; the drops seemedto beat him down; there was no surcease of them. He ran for cover, andpresently gained that of another part of the wood. But even the treescould not keep out this downpour. Water streamed from the branches uponhis head and body. He was flung upon, buffeted, half-drowned. Neverhad he received such a castigation from man or nature. He thought theelements were arrayed against him, earth to trip and bruise him, air tochill him, fire to delude him, water to flog him to death. But on hewent, moved always by a feeling that any spot must be better than thatwhereon 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 whatthe poacher had said. This must be the keeper's lodge; if the candlewas still in the window, the keeper had not yet come home,--the rainhad caught him too. The keeper being still abroad, his door might notbe fastened. With a sense of having reached the limit of endurance ofthe rain's pelting,--for his thin shirt was no protection,--he dashedblindly 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, pushedthe door open, and stepped into a low, comfortable apartment, like thekitchen and living room of a yeoman's cottage. Out of the rain and windat last, his grateful legs bore him across the room to a bench. He satdown, nestling back to a great deer-skin that hung against the barewall of wood and plaster.
At one side of the room was a door to another apartment; at the backwas a ladder-like set of wooden steps leading to a trap-way in theceiling. Holyday had scarce observed these details by the candle inthe window, when a coarse female voice, as of one suddenly roused fromsleep, called out from the other room: "Is't thou, Jack? Time thou werthome!--hear the rain."
Holyday kept silence. Then he heard a bed creak as under the movementsof a heavy body. The woman was coming out to see what had made thenoise. And he, clad only in the briefest of shirts! A double terrorshook him; he sprang across the room and blew out the candle. The dooropened, and a heavy, unshod tread sounded upon the floor.
"Ecod, the light's out!" said the woman. "And the door open." She foundher way in the dark to the door which Holyday had neglected to closeupon entering. "'Twas the wind, I wis. Fool Jack, to leave the doorill-fastened! Well, he is served right, for the wind hath blown out hiscandle. I must make another light, forsooth."
Holyday, standing perfectly still near the window, heard the womangrumbling about the task of striking a light. He felt himself blushingterribly in the dark; he was surely undone. But with a timelyinspiration, and glad for once that his feet were bare, he went tiptoeback to where he had sat, stepped over the bench, and slipped behindthe deer-skin, flattening himself as much as possible against the wallas he stood.
The woman got the candle aflame, looked around the room, replaced thelight in the window, and went back to the other chamber. Hearing thebed creak again as it received her weight, Holyday came out from hishiding-place. What should he do in order to profit for the rest of thenight by the comforts of this abode without discovery? He knew who thiswoman was, and who Jack, her husband, was. He had fallen foul of thiskeeper before he had left for London, and the keeper was a fellow whowould take revenge when occasion offered. Pondering on the situation,Holyday was almost of a mind to face the stormy night again rather thanrisk capture by the man in such circumstances. Before he could make uphis 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 narrowstairs, through the open trap-door.
He was in a place of darkness. He forgot that the height of thecottage--which served but to house an under-keeper and his wife, andwas not the principal lodge pertaining to this chase--forbade thatthe upper story should be more than a mere loft; but of this he wasspeedily reminded by a bump of his head against a rafter. The loft waswarm and probably unoccupied, for Jack rarely had a guest. The rainupon the roof made a din in Holyday's ears. He felt his way to one endof the place, and lay down, near a small window. He heard Jack enteringbelow, swearing at the storm, fastening the door, and finally joininghis spouse in the sleeping-chamber. There was some conversation in lowtones, and then the house was still.
Holyday's foot struck against the end of a wooden chest. Crawling toit, he opened the top, and found what he had hoped for,--soft garmentsin which to lie. He tore off his wet shirt, rolled himself up in whatseemed to be a woman's gown,--Jack's wife required dresses of amplecapacity,--and sank away in sweetest comfort to oblivion.
He woke from a dream of delicious warmth and wondrous light, and foundthe sunshine in his face. His window was toward the south. The sun hadpassed the line of noon. Holyday gathered himself up; surveyed thegarment of russet wool he had slept in; and finally dressed himselfin it in proper manner. It hung loose upon him, but it covered hisnakedness.
A creak of the stairway drew his eyes toward the trap. There rose intoview the frowsy head and fat face of Jack's wife.
"Ecod, I knew I heard somebody!" she cried, staring at Holydayfiercely. "And dressed in my clothes, too! Oh, thou thief, I'll tearthy 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 casementbehind him, fell upon all fours, and backed out of the window, fromwhich he dropped as the woman reached it. He alighted on a bank offlowers, scrambled to his feet, and, holding his skirt above hisknees, trusted all to his bare legs. He heard the woman's furiousthreats from the window, but tarried not to answer. Plunging throughthe forest with the new strength derived from his long sleep, he wassoon far from the cottage. Easing into a walk, he crossed heath andfields till he came in sight of a pleasant mansion on a gre
en hill.Between him and the hill lay a road, which he must needs cross to reachSir 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.
Captain Ravenshaw; Or, The Maid of Cheapside. A Romance of Elizabethan London Page 23
