by Howard Pyle
“What is amiss with his laughing?” spoke up the brunette, pressing Master Burney’s hand the more tightly.
“Oh,” replied the little gallant, “I find no fault that he laughs; but ’tis the manner of his laugh. If he but laughed like a Christian, I should not mind. But he laughs like a — like a—”
“Like a what?” persisted the brunette, defiantly.
“Like a pig,” said Lady Greensleeves, placidly.
The brunette’s eyes flashed at the fair woman, but the latter’s amiable, half-smiling look disarmed wrath, or seemed to put it in the wrong, and so for a moment nobody spoke. Meanwhile Ravenshaw had made these swift deductions: Here was one gentleman prone to laugh at anything; there was another gentleman quick to take offence at that laughter if it was directed against his mistress; neither gentleman was afraid of the other, but both were afraid of Ravenshaw, whose name gave him a fine isolation, making it as hard for him to find adversaries in fight as in gaming; and each gentleman was adored by his lady. In a flash, the captain saw what might be made out of the situation.
“How is it you knew who I was, Lady Greensleeves?” he asked. “I think, if I had ever met you, I should have remembered you.”
“Oh, lord! I would not for a thousand pound rub against all the scurvy stuff that’s in your memory! I was in Paris Garden the day you killed the bear that got loose among the people, and that is how I learned who you were. And oft since then I have seen you hanging about tavern doors, as I have gone about the town in my coach. I think I have seen you at prison windows, hanging down a box for pennies, but I’m not sure.”
This time Master Burney’s laugh was upon the captain, and all joined in it.
“No doubt,” said Ravenshaw; “and I think you once put a penny in the box, but when I drew it up I found it was a bad one.”
“Troth, then,” she said, “here’s a good coin to make up for it.” And she took up the smallest piece of gold from the pile in front of her, and threw it toward him. “Take it, and buy stale prunes to keep up your stale valour!”
“Nay,” he retorted, throwing it back; “keep it, and buy stale paint to keep up your stale beauty!”
Master Burney’s shout of mirth was cut short by a curse, and a slap in the face, both from Lady Greensleeves’s lover, who had leaped to his feet and was the picture of fury. The struck man, with a loud roar of anger, sprang up instantly; and both had their rapiers in hand in a moment.
The two other gentlemen and the brunette rushed in to keep the angry gallants asunder; Lady Greensleeves sat like one helpless, and began to scream like a frightened child; the fiddlers broke off their tune of a sudden; the hound fled to the empty fireplace, and barked. The two opponents struggled fiercely to shake off the would-be peacemakers, and were for killing each other straightway.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” shouted Ravenshaw above the tumult; “not before ladies! not indoors! There be the fields behind the tavern, and a good moonlight.”
With this, he caught the brunette by the wrists, and drew her from the fray. Holding her with his left arm, he pushed Master Burney’s enemy violently toward the door.
“To the fields, then!” cried the little gentleman. “To the fields an he dare follow!”
Master Burney’s reply was drowned by the cries of the ladies, as he dashed after the other. The two neutral gentlemen, yielding to the trend of the incident, accompanied the angry ones forth. The captain, instead of following, slammed the door after them, released the brunette, and stood with his back to the closed door to stop any one else from leaving the room. The brunette, shrieking threats, tried again and again to pass him, but he pushed her back each time until she sank exhausted on a chair by the table; and all the while poor Lady Greensleeves wailed as if her heart would break.
“’Tis not for ladies to interfere in these matters,” said Ravenshaw, when he could make himself heard. “A blow has been struck, and men of honour have but one course. Their friends will see all fitly done. Despair not, mistress: your gallant has great vantage in size and strength.”
“Then you think he will win?” cried the brunette. “Heaven be praised!”
“Oh, God! oh, God!” moaned Lady Greensleeves. “Then my dear servant is a dead man. Woe’s me! woe’s me! I’ll turn nun; nay, I’ll take poison, that I will!”
“Why, madam,” said Ravenshaw, “your gentleman will acquit himself well, be sure of it. He is so quick; and the other’s bulk is in your man’s favour.”
It was now the brown beauty’s turn to be dismayed.
“Oh, thank heaven!” cried Lady Greensleeves, smiling gratefully through her tears. “Yes, indeed, he is quick; he will give that big Burney a dozen thrusts ere the great fellow can move.”
At this the dark woman started up for another struggle with Ravenshaw, but he stayed her with the words:
“Nay, the small gentleman is too light to thrust hard. Think of Master Burney’s weight; when he does touch, ‘twill go home, no doubt of that.”
All this time the captain was on tenter-hooks lest the fight had really begun; a moment’s loss of time would be fatal to his purpose; he must bring matters to a point.
“In very truth,” he said, “as a man acquainted with these things, if I were to wager which of the two is like to be killed—”
“Which?” cried the women together, as he paused.
“Both!”
Even Greensleeves sprang up this time, and Ravenshaw found himself confronted by two desperate, sobbing creatures.
“Back, ladies!” he shouted, quickly. “I will stop their fighting!”
They stood still, regarding him with wondering inquiry.
“If you will stay in this room,” he continued.
“We will not stir a step,” cried Lady Greensleeves. “Make haste, for God’s sake!”
“And if you will give me a handful of those yellow boys yonder,” he added.
With a cry of joy, Greensleeves swept up a handful of the two little piles of gold, and held it out to him.
“Stay,” said the brown lady, closing her palm over the gold in the other’s hand. “He shall have it — when he brings the two gentlemen back to us, friends and unscathed.”
“That’s fair,” said Ravenshaw; “so that you give it to me privately, ere they take note.”
“Yes, yes!” panted the brunette; and “God’s name, haste!” cried Greensleeves; and the captain, without another word, dashed out of the room, and down the stairs.
He ran through the garden behind the tavern, and so by a gate, which the gentlemen had left open, to the fields, which stretched northward to Clerkenwell and Islington. He descried the four gallants near at hand, where they had chosen a clean, level piece of turf. Fortunately, the many noises in the tavern, noises of music, laughter, gaming, and singing, had kept attention from being drawn to the tumult of this affair, and so no one had followed the four gentlemen out. The two who had tried to make peace had now fallen naturally into the place of seconds, and were finishing the preliminaries of the fight, while the adversaries stood with their doublets off, waiting for the time to begin. Just as their weapons met, with a musical ring of steel, the captain dashed in and struck up the rapiers with his own.
“Gentlemen, I am defrauded here,” he said, as the combatants stood back in surprise. “I was the first to offend, in the house yonder, and the first to be offended. ’Tis my right to fight one of you first — I care not which — and, by this hand, you shall not proceed till my quarrel is settled!”
“Oh, pish, man!” said the little gallant; “we have no quarrel with you. Our fight is begun; I pray, stand aside, and let us have it out.”
“Upon one condition, then,” said Ravenshaw.
The two gallants raised their points, to rush at each other.
“That the survivor shall fight me afterward,” he finished.
The two gallants lowered their points, and hesitated.
“Troth, I have taken no offence of you, sir,” said Master Burney
; “and given none, I think.”
“But your ladies yonder gave me offence; and to whom shall I look for reparation, if not to you two?”
“Faith,” said the small gallant, “a man who undertook to give reparation for every foolish word a woman spoke, would have no time to eat, drink, or sleep.”
“I see how it is,” said Ravenshaw, with a shrug. “I may not hope for satisfaction unless I force you to self-defence; and that would be murder. But, by the foot of a soldier, if I must go without reparation, I’ll not be the only one! If I forego, so must you both. How like you that, Master Burney?”
“How can I? He struck me a blow.”
“Well, no doubt, if I pray him, he will withdraw the blow. Will you not, sir?”
“I do not like to,” answered the little man; “but if he will withdraw his laughter—”
“Why, forsooth, a man of known courage may withdraw anything, and no harm to his reputation,” said the captain. “To prove it I will withdraw all offence I have given, and will take it that you two, on behalf of the ladies, withdraw all offence they have done me. Saviolo himself, I swear, could not adjust a quarrel more honourably. What say you, shall we go back now in peace and friendship to bring joy to the hearts of the ladies who are dying of fear? Come, gentlemen, my sword is the first to be put up, look you.”
Somewhat sheepishly, the adversaries followed his example, to the amusement of the seconds, who would doubtless have acted with similar prudence had they been exposed to the risk of having to fight Captain Ravenshaw. The captain then took Master Burney and the little gentleman each by an arm, and started for the tavern, followed by the other two. The song of the three inns-of-court men returned to his mind, and he and the two fighters marched back to the ladies, singing at the top of their voices:
“For three merry men, and three merry men,
And three merry men we be.”
Lady Greensleeves folded the little gentleman in her arms till he grimaced with discomfort; the brown beauty leaped up and clung around Master Burney’s neck; but, as she did so, she dangled behind his back a purse, in the face of Captain Ravenshaw, to whose hand she relinquished it a moment later. The captain stepped out into the passage, made sure that the purse really contained a handful of gold, and then fled down the stairs ere any but the brunette knew he was gone.
The fiddlers, who had waited through all the suspense of the women, now struck up a merry love tune, and Master Burney bawled for a drawer to bring some more wine, declaring he must drink the health of Captain Ravenshaw; but the captain was hastening to his lodging in Smithfield, grinning to himself, and fingering the heavy round pieces in the purse.
“ONE HAND GESTICULATING, WHILE THE OTHER HELD HIS
NEW-WRITTEN MANUSCRIPT.”
CHAPTER XII.
MASTER HOLYDAY IN FEAR AND TREMBLING.
“If I know what to say to her now
In the way of marriage, I’m no graduate.”
— A Chaste Maid in Cheapside.
As Ravenshaw climbed the narrow stairs to his room in darkness, he heard the voice of his fellow lodger in loud and continued denunciation. Wondering at this, for the scholar was wont to speak little and never vehemently, the captain hastened his upward steps, thinking to rescue Master Holyday from some quarrel with the landlord or other person. But when he burst into the chamber he found the poet alone, pacing the floor in the flickering light of an expiring candle, his hair tumbled, his eyes wild, one hand gesticulating, while the other held his new-written manuscript.
At sight of Ravenshaw the poet stopped short a moment, then finished the passage he had been spouting, dropped the manuscript on the table, and, coming back to the present with a kind of tired shiver, sank exhaustedly upon a joint stool.
“Excellent ranting,” said the captain, “and most suitable to what I have to say.” He threw his hat and sword-girdle on a bed in a corner of the room, filled and lighted a pipe of tobacco, and took up his stand before the chimney as one who had weighty matters to propound.
“How suitable?” queried Master Holyday, with a languor consequent upon his long stretch of poetic fervour.
“As thus,” replied the captain, with a puff. “Your play there concerns the carrying away of a lady.”
“Of Helen by Paris; yes. But that is only a little part—”
“’Tis a part that you have conducted properly and well, no doubt.”
“Why, without boasting, I profess some slight skill in these matters.”
“Well, now, look you. Your carrying away this lady in the spirit is well; ’tis a fit preparation for your carrying away a lady in the flesh.”
Master Holyday broke off in the middle of a yawn and stared.
“You shall carry away this goldsmith’s daughter to-morrow night. Now mark how all is to be done—”
“God’s name, are you mad?” cried the scholar, roused from his lassitude into a great astonishment.
“No more mad than to have planned all this for the saving of that maid from dire calamities, and the making of your joy and fortune.”
“My joy?”
“Ay, indeed; for to possess that maid—”
“Oh, the maid — hang all maids!” exclaimed Holyday, with a kind of shudder, and falling into perturbation. “I’ll none of ’em!”
“And as to your fortune, how often have you told me what welcome and comfort wait you at your father’s house the day you come to him with a wife?”
“Wife!” echoed Master Holyday, and first paled with horror, and then gave forth a ghastly laugh.
“Ay,” said the captain, “and such a wife, your father will bless the day that made her his daughter! E’en though she come without dowry, he cannot choose but take her to his heart. Her father will not hold out for ever, perchance, when he finds her married to his old friend’s son. But if he does, she hath an uncle who is like to make her his heir, I take it. And so, man, there’s an end to this beggary for you. And now mark what is to be done—”
“No, no, no! I have not the stomach for it. I have not!”
“We must be stirring early in the morning,” went on the captain, “for all must be arranged ere I leave London at noon. And first, how you are to call upon the goldsmith’s family, and secretly get the girl’s consent.”
“Get her consent! Never, never! I’ll do no wooing; not I!”
“By God, and you will that, and ’tis I that say so!”
The scholar looked wildly at the captain a moment, then rose and made for the door, as if to escape a fearful doom. Ravenshaw quickly caught up the manuscript of the puppet-play, and held it ready to tear it across. The poet stopped, with a sharp cry of alarm, and came back holding out his hand for the freshly covered sheets of paper. But the captain pushed him to a seat, and retained the manuscript.
“I’ll tear it into fifty pieces, and burn ’em before your face,” said Ravenshaw, “if you listen not quietly to what you must do.”
Poor Holyday, keeping his eyes anxiously upon the precious work, gave a piteous groan, and sat limp and helpless.
“At daybreak,” began Ravenshaw, “we shall go together and bespeak the boat that shall carry you and the maid, and your attendants, down the river in the evening. It shall be your business next to visit the goldsmith as if you came newly to London from your father in the country. Tell Master Etheridge you intend to marry a lady in Kent, and that you will be purchasing jewels and plate.”
“But, God’s sake!” objected the scholar, dismally, and as if he partly doubted the captain’s sanity, “have you not passed yourself off to him as me? And how, then, will he believe that I am I?”
“Troth, I have been discovered to him as my true self.”
“Well, then, as he has been once imposed on, he will treat me as an impostor, too,” urged Holyday, desperately ready to find impediments.
“No, for if he makes any question, you need but stand upon your likeness to your mother. And then you can mention a thousand things that his memory must s
hare with yours, where I could mention but the few you told me. And there was a mistake I made, saying it was a terrier that bit him in the leg the last time he was at your house, whereas it was a water-spaniel, as you had told me. If you speak of the spaniel biting him, you will prove yourself the true Holyday, and confirm it that I was a false one.”
“Ne’ertheless,” moaned the scholar, in despair at the whole matter, “‘twill seem a dubious thing, two men appearing within three days’ time, both calling themselves Francis Holyday’s son.”
“’Tis easily made clear. Say that, travelling to London three days ago, you fell in with that rascal, Ravenshaw, but knew not what a knave he was. Say that he won upon your confidence, you being free of mistrust, so that you told him many things of yourself, and your intended marriage, and your purpose in coming to London, and of Master Etheridge. And say that you both took lodgings for the night at an inn in Southwark; when you woke in the morning you found yourself ill, and two nights and a day had passed while you slept, so that Ravenshaw must have given you a draught in your wine, and gone to counterfeit you in the goldsmith’s house, thinking to make some use of his freedom therein. Oh, they will swallow that without a sniff! And, look you, call me a thousand ill names, and say ’tis your dearest wish to kill the scurvy rogue that cozened you so.”
Holyday uttered a deep sigh, and shook his head lugubriously.
“And note this,” pursued Ravenshaw, “no word to any but the maid that she is the lady you came to marry. They are hot upon tying her to an old withered ass, a knight of Berkshire. That she may escape him, I have planned this good fortune for you; but all must be done to-morrow, for he is already in town for the wedding, and there is another danger threatens her, too, if she tarries in London. So, when you have been admitted to the family, you must find, or contrive, some time alone with Mistress Millicent, and speedily open the matter to her.”
Holyday visibly trembled, and was the picture of woe. “Good God!” he exclaimed; “how I shall find voice to speak to her, and words to say, I know not!”
