The Golden Age of Science Fiction Novels Vol 02

by Anthology

  "Nay--nay!" said a gruff but kindly voice at her side. "Here, gi'e us your hand, dame, step on my foot, and up behind you go."

  Sir Guy's horse was turning to go, and in her panic Rebecca awaited no second bidding, but scrambled quickly though clumsily to a seat behind the serving-man.

  They were all four soon free of the crowd and out of danger, thanks to the universal respect for rank and the essential good nature of the May-day gathering.

  The horses assumed an easy ambling gait, a sort of single step which was far more comfortable than Rebecca had feared she would find it.

  The relief of deliverance from the rude mob behind her gave Rebecca courage, and she gazed about with some interest.

  On either side of the street the houses, which hitherto had stood apart with gardens and orchards between them, were now set close together, with the wide eaves of their sharp gables touching over narrow and dark alleyways. The architecture was unlike anything she had ever seen, the walls being built with the beams showing outside and the windows of many small diamond-shaped panes.

  They had only proceeded a few yards when Rebecca saw the glint of sunbeams on water before them and found that they were approaching a great square tower, surmounted by numberless poles bearing formless round masses at their ends.

  With one arm around her companion to steady herself, she held her umbrella and bag tightly in her free hand. Now she pointed upward with her umbrella and said:

  "Do you mind tellin' me, mister, what's thet fruit they're a-dryin' up on thet meetin'-house?"

  The horseman glanced upward for a moment and then replied, with something of wonder in his voice:

  "Why, those are men's heads, dame. Know you not London Bridge and the traitors' poles yet?"

  "Oh, good land!" said the horrified woman, and shut her mouth tightly. Evidently England was not the sort of country she had pictured it.

  They rode into a long tunnel under the stones of this massive tower and emerged to find themselves upon the bridge. Again and again did they pass under round-arched tunnels bored, as it were, through gloomy buildings six or seven stories high. These covered the bridge from end to end, and they swarmed with a squalid humanity, if one might judge from the calls and cries that resounded in the vaulted passageways and interior courts.

  As they finally came out from beneath the last great rookery, the sisters found themselves in London, the great and busy city of four hundred thousand inhabitants.

  They were on New Fish Street, and their nostrils gave them witness of its name at once. Farther up the slight ascent before them they met other and far worse smells, and Rebecca was disgusted.

  "Where are we goin'?" she asked.

  "Why, to your mistress' residence, of course."

  Rebecca was on the point of objecting to this characterization of her sister, but she thought better of it ere she spoke. After all, if these men had done all this kindness by reason of a mistake, she needed not to correct them.

  The street up which they were proceeding opened into Gracechurch Street, leading still up the hill and away from the Thames. It was a fairly broad highway, but totally unpaved, and disgraced by a ditch or "kennel" into which found their way the ill-smelling slops thrown from the windows and doors of the abutting houses.

  "Good land o' Goshen!" Rebecca exclaimed at last. "Why in goodness' name does all the folks throw sech messes out in the street?"

  "Why, where would you have them throw them, dame?" asked her companion, in surprise. "Are ye outlandish bred that ye put me such questions?"

  "Not much!" she retorted, hotly. "It's you folks that's outlandish. Why, where I come from they hev sewers in the city streets an' pavements an' sidewalks an' trolley cars. Guess I've ben to Keene, an' I ought to know."

  She tossed her head with the air of one who has said something conclusive.

  The man held his peace for a moment, dumfounded. Then he laughed heartily, with head thrown back.

  "That's what comes of a kittenish hoyden for a mistress. Abroad too early, dame, and strong ale before sunrise! These have stolen away your wits and made ye hold strange discourse. Sewers--side-walkers forsooth--troll carries, ho--ho!"

  Rebecca grew red with fury. She released her hold to thump her companion twice on the arm and nearly fell from the horse in consequence.

  "You great rascal!" she cried, indignantly. "How dare ye talk 'bout drinkin' ale! D'you s'pose I'd touch the nasty stuff? Me--a member of the Woman's Christian Temperance Union! Me--a Daughter of Temperance an' wearin' the blue ribbon! You'd ought to be ashamed, that's what you ought!"

  But the servant continued to laugh quietly and Rebecca raged within. Oh how she hated to have to sit thus close behind a man who had so insulted her! Clinging to him, too! Clinging for dear life to a man who accused her of drinking ale!

  They turned to the left into Leadenhall Street and Bucklesbury, where the two women sniffed with delighted relief the spicy odor of the herbs exposed on every hand for sale. They left Gresham's Royal Exchange on the right, and shortly afterward stopped before the door of one of the many well-to-do houses of that quarter.

  Sir Guy and the two women dismounted, and, while the groom held the horses, the others approached the building before which they had paused.

  Rebecca was about to address Phoebe, whose blushing face was beaming with pleasure, when the door was suddenly thrown open and a happy-looking buxom woman of advanced middle age appeared.

  "Well--well--well!" she cried, holding up her fat hands in mock amazement. "Out upon thee, Polly, for a light-headed wench! What--sneaking out to an early tryst! Fie, girl!"

  "Now, good mine aunt," Phoebe broke in, with a smile and a curtsey, "no tryst have I kept, in sooth. Sir Guy is my witness that he found me quite by chance."

  "In very truth, good Mistress Goldsmith," said the knight, "it was but the very bounteous guerdon of fair Dame Fortune that in the auspicious forthcoming of my steed I found the inexpressible delectancy of my so great discovery!"

  He bowed as he gave back one step and kissed his hand toward Phoebe.

  "All one--all one," said Dame Goldsmith, laughing as she held out her hand to Phoebe. "My good man hath a homily prepared for you, mistress, and the substance of it runneth on the folly of early rising on a May-day morning."

  Phoebe held forth her hand to the knight, who kissed it with a flourish, hat in hand.

  "Shall I hear from thee soon?" she said, in an undertone.

  "Forthwith, most fairly beautiful--most gracious rare!" he replied.

  Then, leaping on his horse, he dashed down the street at a mad gallop, followed closely by his groom.

  Rebecca stood stupefied, gazing first at one and then at the other, till she was rudely brought to her senses by no other than Dame Goldsmith herself.

  "What, Rebecca!" she exclaimed. "Hast breakfasted, woman--what?"

  "Ay, aunt," Phoebe broke in, hurriedly. "Rebecca must to my chamber to tire me ere I see mine uncle. Prithee temper the fury of his homily, sweet aunt."

  Taking the dame's extended hand, she suffered herself to be led within, followed by Rebecca, too amazed to speak.

  On entering the street door they found themselves in a large hall, at the farther end of which a bright wood fire was burning, despite the season. A black oak table was on one side of the room against the wall, upon which were to be seen a number of earthen beakers and a great silver jug or tankard. A carved and cushioned settle stood against the opposite wall, and besides two comfortable arm-chairs at the two chimney-corners there were two or three heavy chairs of antique pattern standing here and there. The floor was covered with newly gathered fresh-smelling rushes.

  A wide staircase led to the right, and to this Phoebe turned at once as though she had always lived there.

  "Hast heard from my father yet?" she asked, pausing upon the first stair and addressing Dame Goldsmith.

  "Nay, girl. Not so much as a word. I trow he'll have but little to say to me. Ay--ay--a humorous limb, thy father,
lass."

  She swept out of the room with a toss of the head, and Phoebe smiled as she turned to climb the stairs. Immediately she turned again and held out one hand to Rebecca.

  "Come along, Rebecca. Let's run 'long up," she said, relapsing into her old manner.

  She led the way without hesitation to a large, light bedroom, the front of which hung over the street. Here, too, the floor was covered with sweet rushes, a fact which Rebecca seemed to resent.

  "Why the lands sakes do you suppose these London folks dump weeds on their floors?" she asked. "An' look there at those two beds, still unmade and all tumbled disgraceful!"

  "Why, there's where we slept last night, Rebecca," said Phoebe, laughing as she dropped into a chair. "As for the floors," she continued, "they're always that way when folks ain't mighty rich. The lords and all have carpets and rugs."

  Rebecca, stepping very high to avoid stumbling in the rushes, moved over to the dressing-table and proceeded to remove her outer wraps, having first deposited her bag and umbrella on a chair.

  "I don't see how in gracious you know so much about it," she remarked, querulously. "'Pon my word, you acted with that young jackanapes an' that fat old lady downstairs jest's ef you'd allus known em."

  "Well, so I have," Phoebe replied, smiling. "I knew them all nearly three hundred years before you were born, Rebecca Wise."

  Rebecca dropped into a chair and looked helplessly at her sister with her arms hanging at her sides.

  "Phoebe Wise--" she began.

  "No, not now!" Phoebe exclaimed, stopping her sister with a gesture. "You must call me Mistress Mary. I'm Mary Burton, daughter of Isaac Burton, soon to be Sir Isaac Burton, of Burton Hall. You are my dear old tiring-woman--my sometime nurse--and thou must needs yield me the respect and obedience as well as the love thou owest, thou fond old darling!"

  The younger woman threw her arms about the other's neck and kissed her repeatedly.

  Rebecca sat mute and impassive, making no return.

  "Seems as though I ought to wake up soon now," she muttered, weakly.

  "Come, Rebecca," Phoebe exclaimed, briskly, stepping to a high, carved wardrobe beside her bed, "this merry-making habit wearies me. Let us don a fitter attire. Come--lend a hand, dearie--be quick!"

  Rebecca sat quite still, watching her sister as she proceeded to change her garments, taking from wardrobe and tiring chest her wide skirts, long-sleeved jacket, and striped under-vest with a promptitude and readiness that showed perfect familiarity with her surroundings.

  "There," thought Rebecca, "I have it! She's been reading those old letters and looking at that ivory picture so long she thinks that she's the girl in the picture herself, now. Yes, that's it. Mary Burton was the name!"

  When Phoebe was new-dressed, her sister could not but acknowledge inwardly that the queer clothes were mightily becoming. She appeared the beau ideal of a merry, light-hearted, healthy girl from the country.

  On one point, however, Rebecca could not refrain from expostulating.

  "Look a-here, Phoebe," she said, in a scandalized voice, as she rose and faced her sister, "ain't you goin' to put on somethin' over your chest? That ain't decent the way you've got yerself fixed now!"

  "Nonsense!" cried Phoebe, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "Wouldst have me cover my breast like a married woman! Look to thine own attire. Come, where hast put it?"

  Rebecca put her hands on her hips and looked into her sister's face with a stern determination.

  "Ef you think I'm agoin' to put on play-actor clothes an' go round lookin' indecent, Phoebe Wise, why, you're mistaken--'cause I ain't--so there!"

  "Nay, nurse!" Phoebe exclaimed, earnestly. "'Tis the costume thou art wearing now that is mummer's weeds. Come, sweet--come! They'll not yield thee admittance below else."

  She concluded with a warning inflection, and shook her finger affectionately at her sister.

  Rebecca opened her mouth several times and closed it again in despair ere she could find a reply. At length she seated herself slowly, folded her arms, and said:

  "They can do jest whatever they please downstairs, Phoebe. As fer me, I'd sooner be seen in my nightgown than in the flighty, flitter-scatter duds the women 'round here wear. Not but you look good enough in 'em, if you'd cover your chest, but play-actin' is meant for young folks--not fer old maids like me."

  "Nay--but----"

  "What the lands sakes d'ye holler neigh all the time fer? I'm not agoin' to neigh, an' you might's well make up your mind to't."

  Phoebe bit her lips and then, after a moment's hesitation, turned to the door.

  "Well, well! E'en have it thy way!" she said.

  Followed by Rebecca, the younger woman descended the stairs. As she reached the entrance hall, she stopped short at sight of a tall, heavy man standing beside the table across the room with his face buried in a great stone mug.

  He had dropped his flat round hat upon the table, and his long hair fell in a sort of bush to his wide, white-frilled ruff. He wore a long-skirted, loose coat of green cloth with yellow fringe, provided with large side-pockets, but without a belt. The sleeves were loose, but brought in tightly at the wrists by yellow bands. His green hose were of the short and tight French pattern, and he wore red stockings and pointed shoes of Spanish leather.

  As he removed the cup with a deep sigh of satisfaction, there was revealed a large, cheerful red face with a hooked nose between bushy brows overhanging large blue eyes.

  Phoebe stood upon the lowest stair in smiling silence and with folded hands as he caught her eye.

  "Ha, thou jade!" cried Master Goldsmith, for he it was. "Wilt give me the slip of a May-day morn!"

  He set down his cup with a loud bang and strode over to the staircase, shaking his finger playfully at his niece.

  Rebecca had just time to notice that his long, full beard and mustache were decked with two or three spots of froth when, to her great indignation, Phoebe was folded in his arms and soundly kissed on both cheeks.

  "There, lass!" he chuckled, as he stepped back, rubbing his hands. "I told thy aunt I'd make thee do penance for thy folly."

  Phoebe wiped her cheeks with her handkerchief and tipped her head impudently at the cheerful ravisher.

  "Now, God mend your manners, uncle!" she exclaimed. "What! Bedew my cheeks with the froth of good ale on your beard while my throat lacks the good body o't! Why, I'm burned up wi' thirst!"

  "Good lack!" cried the goldsmith, turning briskly to the table. "Had ye no drink when ye first returned, then?"

  He poured a smaller cupful of foaming ale from the great silver jug and brought it to Phoebe.

  Rebecca clutched the stair-rail for support, and, with eyes ready to start from her head, she leaned forward, incredulous, as Phoebe took the cup from the merchant's hand.

  Then she could keep silence no longer.

  "Phoebe Wise!" she screamed, "be you goin' to drink ALE!"

  No words can do justice to the awful emphasis which she laid upon that last dread word.

  Phoebe turned and looked up roguishly at her sister, who was still half-way up the stairs. The young girl's left hand leaned on her uncle's arm, while with her right she extended the cup in salutation.

  "Here's thy good health, nurse--and to our better acquaintance," she laughed.

  Rebecca uttered one short scream and fled up to their bed-room. She had seen the impossible. Her sister Phoebe with her face buried in a mug of ale!

  CHAPTER VIII

  HOW FRANCIS BACON CHEATED THE BAILIFFS

  It was at about this time that Copernicus Droop finally awakened. He lay perfectly still for a minute or two, wondering where he was and what had happened. Then he began to mutter to himself.

  "Machinery's stopped, so we're on dry land," he said. Then, starting up on one elbow, he listened intently.

  Within the air-ship all was perfect silence, but from without there came in faintly occasional symptoms of life--the bark of a dog, a loud laugh, the cry of a child.
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  Droop slowly came to his feet and gazed about. A faint gleam of daylight found its way past the closed shutters. He raised the blinds and blinked as he gazed out into a perfect thicket of trees and shrubbery, beyond which here and there he thought he could distinguish a high brick wall.

  "Well, we're in the country, anyhow!" he muttered.

  He turned and consulted the date indicator in the ceiling.

  "May 1, 1598," he said. "Great Jonah! but we hev whirled back fer keeps! I s'pose we jest whirled till she broke loose."

  He gazed about him and observed that the two state-room doors were open. He walked over and looked in.

  "I wonder where them women went," he said. "Seems like they were in a tremendous hurry 'bout gettin' way. Lucky 'tain't a city we're in, 'cause they might'v got lost in the city."

  After an attempt to improve his somewhat rumpled exterior, he made his way down the stairs and out into the garden. Once here, he quickly discovered the building which had arrested the attention of the two women, but it being now broad daylight, he was able thoroughly to satisfy himself that chance had brought the Panchronicon into the deserted garden of a deserted mansion.

  "Wal, we'll be private an' cosy here till the Panchronicon hez time to store up more force," he said out loud.

  Strolling forward, he skirted the high wall, and ere long discovered the very opening through which the sisters had passed at sunrise.

  Stepping through the breach, he found himself, as they had done, near the main London highway in Newington village. The hurly-burly of sunrise had abated by this time, for wellnigh all the villagers were absent celebrating the day around their respective May-poles or at bear or bull-baiting.

  With his hands behind him, he walked soberly up and down for a few minutes, carefully surveying the pretty wooden houses, the church in the distance, and the stones of the churchyard on the green hill-slope beyond. The architecture was not entirely unfamiliar. He had seen such in books, he felt sure, but he could not positively identify it. Was it Russian, Japanese, or Italian?

  Suddenly a distant cry came to his ears.

  "Hi--Lizzie--Lizzie, wench! Come, drive the pig out o' the cabbages!"