by Howard Pyle
“Only lightened him of these, lady,” said one of the twain, indicating a bundle of clothing under his arm.
“And left him tied safe to a tree, lest he roam about i’ the dark and do himself an injury,” quoth the other.
“Come,” said Tom, tightening his grasp on the girl’s arm. The guide moved on, and the party made haste through the forest.
“Whither are you taking me?” Millicent asked, tearfully, but got no reply. Wondering and appalled, scarce believing she was herself, oft doubting the reality of this strange journey, she walked as she was compelled.
At last they came out of the wood and made their way over a flat, heathy plain. It seemed to Millicent that they had worked back to the neighbourhood of the river. Cutting Tom grew impatient, muttered to himself, and presently asked: “How far now?”
“’Tis straight before us,” said the guide, in a voice muffled as if by the heavy beard that covered his face.
A narrow rift in the clouds let through a moment’s moonlight; Millicent had a brief vision of lonely country, with a little cluster of gables ahead; then all was blotted out in thicker darkness.
CHAPTER XVIII.
RAVENSHAW’S SLEEP IS INTERRUPTED.
“CAPTAIN, RALLY UP your rotten regiment, and begone.” — A King and No King.
Master Jerningham, having communicated his good hopes to Sir Clement Ermsby on the deck of his ship, considered that, as the maid was not to leave London till nightfall, and, as he was now between London and the Grange, he had ample time to reach his country-house and send away the captain ere she could be brought there by her escort. He therefore resolved to proceed with leisure and order. And first, as he had long fasted, and as he had a night’s business before him, he went ashore to his accustomed tavern at Deptford, and had supper with Sir Clement in a room where they were alone.
“We shall take one of our own boats and four of our men,” said Jerningham, “and row down to the old landing at the Grange. ’Tis but a short walk thence to the house. You and two of the men would best wait without the house, whilst I go in and send away Ravenshaw. If he saw you and so many men he might smell some extraordinary business, and have the curiosity to set himself against my orders.”
“If he should do so, nevertheless,” said Ermsby, “then, as you said awhile ago — You may want our help in that.”
“Then I must e’en call you. But I shall try to have him without his weapons.”
“What would Mistress Meg say to another ghost in the house?”
“Hang her, mad wench! Ay, she would be howling of murder and blood. I know not — she might fly to my lord bishop with the news. Well, I can tie her up and lock her in a chamber, at the worst. Yet she is a very devil. I think I’d best breed no more trouble at the last. I’ll not have the knave killed unless he cannot be got away otherwise.”
“An you send him away, will you leave some one in his place?”
“Ay, to keep Meg quiet till we are safe at sea. I’ll leave Meadows, and charge him not to tell her of our sailing. He is a trusty fool.”
“But what will she say to this goldsmith’s wench being housed overnight in the Grange?”
“Why, I’ll have a tale ready when we arrive: that I am saving the maid from a runaway marriage, to take back to her father; or that the maid is for you; or some such story.”
“Best say the maid is for me. Women who have gone that road are ever ready to push others into it.”
“Not always. But I shall contrive to make Meg tolerate the other’s presence for a few hours, e’en if I must do it with promises. I can offer to find her a husband, — this Ravenshaw, an she like his looks, or another that may be bought. I think she has grown out of her sulks, and into the hope of rehabilitation, by this time. As for the Cheapside maid, first I will try wooing; she may be compliant of her own accord. But if she hold out, there’s nothing for it but the sleeping potion. Gregory will fetch that with him; I bade him get it in Bucklersbury on his way to Friday Street.”
“May it give her pleasant dreams!”
“When she is fast asleep,” continued Jerningham, “I’ll leave Gregory to watch her, and we’ll come back to welcome my lord bishop in the morning. And to-morrow, when my lord has seen the last of us, and the tide is bearing us down the river, we need only put the ship to at the old landing, walk to the house, and carry her aboard. There will be none to see but Meg and old Jeremy, and they shall not know the ship is ours, or that we are farther bound than Tilbury.”
Sir Clement’s appetite, which had been less neglected of late, was satisfied before Jerningham’s, and the knight proposed that he should go and get the boat in readiness while the other finished eating. Jerningham consented, naming the men who were to be taken from the ship’s crew upon the night’s business.
“I will join you very soon,” said he, as Sir Clement left the room.
Jerningham brought his supper to an end, and bade a drawer fetch the reckoning. Waiting for the boy’s return, he flung himself on his back on a bench that stood against the wall. The knowledge that all was provided for, that his course was fully thought out, and that only action lay before him, brought to his mind a restfulness it had not lately known. The effect of his heavy meal acted with this to snare his senses; so long it was since sleep had overtaken him, he was not on guard against it. When the tavern lad came back with the score, the gentleman’s eyes were closed, his breathing was slow and deep. Knowing by experience that sleeping gentlemen sometimes resented disturbance, the drawer went away more quietly than he had entered; Master Jerningham was a good customer, and might as well pay last as first.
Sir Clement saw the boat ready, and then busied himself in the study of maps and charts by candle-light in the cabin, pending Jerningham’s appearance. In his preoccupation, he lost thought of the night’s affair, in which Jerningham bore all the responsibility. He took no observance of the increasing darkness outside, until at last he became wonderingly sensible of Jerningham’s delay. Hastening ashore, he found the sleeper in the tavern.
“Good God!” cried Jerningham, springing up at his friend’s call; “what’s the hour? How long have I slept? Death! is all lost?”
“Nay, there is time, if we bestir ourselves.”
“Then we must fly. My plans are all undone if she be there before I send away that captain.”
Learning what o’clock it was, Jerningham found he had yet time to write a short pretended letter, to serve as pretext for Ravenshaw’s journey. This done, he hastened to the boat.
Not until he was being rowed past Blackwall, did it occur to him that, in the haste of departure, he had not looked to the thorough arming of the party, and that there was not a firearm with the whole company.
“Oh, pish! there is steel enough among us to cut eight captains’ throats with a clean blade apiece, an it comes to throat-cutting,” said Ermsby.
“’Twould come to that soon enough, but for the storm Meg would raise. Plague take her! would I had the heart to quiet her the sure way! But I cannot steel myself to that. I must be led by circumstance; ’tis for this captain’s doings to say whether his throat need be cut. He had no pistol when he left me. As for his sword and dagger” — here Jerningham raised his voice and called to one of the men rowing: “Goodcole, thou hast some skill in sleights, and cutting purses, and the like, I have heard.”
“Ay, sir,” was the confident reply. “In my time I have been called the knave with the invisible fingers. My friends used to say I could filch a man’s shirt off his back while he stood talking to me in the street.”
“Poh!” growled another of the men; “I much doubt whether you can pick a pocket.”
“Here’s a handful of testers I picked from yours,” said Goodcole, resting his oar for a moment that he might return his comrade the coins.
There was a brief stoppage from rowing while the other men hastily investigated the condition of their own pockets.
“Excellent Goodcole!” quoth Sir Clement Ermsby. “Th
ou art a proficient in a most delicate craft.”
“Thou couldst take away a man’s sword and dagger ere he knew it, belike,” said Jerningham.
“I could take away his teeth, or the thoughts in the centre of his head,” promptly answered Goodcole.
“Perchance I shall put thee to the test by and by,” said Jerningham.
In good time they found the landing with their lights, made the boat fast, and hastened through the darkness to the country-house. The gate of the courtyard was not fastened. Jerningham first led the way to a small penthouse in one corner of the yard, where he desired that Sir Clement and two of the men should remain until he saw how the captain took the new commands.
“And e’en when the maid is brought,” he added, with a sudden afterthought, “best you be not seen at the first; wait till I try whether she is to be won softly. If she saw you she might remember that night, and be thrown into greater fear and opposition. I’ll call when I have need of you.”
He then went with Meadows and Goodcole to the door within the porch; finding it made fast inside, he gave two rapid double knocks, then two single ones. Soon a tiny wicket opened behind a little grating in the door. Jerningham held a lantern close to his face so that he might be quickly recognised. The door opened, and Jerningham found Mistress Meg alone in the hall, where the light of a single candle struggled with the darkness. The lantern and torch brought in by the newcomers were a welcome reinforcement. Jerningham set the lantern on the chimney shelf, and had the torch thrust into a sconce on the wall.
“Did the new steward come?” he asked.
“The new steward?” quoth Meg, with faint derision at the title. “Yes; am I not still here?”
“Where is he?” asked the master, ignoring the allusion to her threat.
“In his chamber. He arrived, ate, drank, went thither; and I have not seen him since.”
A sudden light came into Jerningham’s eyes. “Ten to one he sleeps. He had a laborious day of it ere he came hither. What weapons had he when he came?”
“Rapier and dagger,” answered Meg, looking surprised at the question.
“‘Twere a good jest now,” said Jerningham, pretending amusement, “to take them from him in his sleep, then come away and send Jeremy to wake him.”
“Is he the kind of man to see the mirth of that jest?” inquired Meg, with little interest.
“We shall see if he be. Goodcole, a chance to prove your mettle. Where’s Jeremy? Pray send him to me, mistress, and I’ll thank you.”
While Meg was at the kitchen door calling the old man-servant, Jerningham spoke quietly to Goodcole. Jeremy appeared, blinking and bowing; as he passed Meg, he chuckled, and said, in undertone, “A husband mends all, sooth!” Master Jerningham, ascertaining from Meg what chamber the captain lay in, bade the old man show Goodcole the way. The pair took a lantern, of which Goodcole concealed all but a small part in his jerkin.
During the absence of the two, Jerningham directed Meg’s attention to Meadows: “This is the man shall abide here for a time; I must send t’other on business that bears no delay, — him that lies up-stairs, I mean. ’Tis partly for that reason I have come here. And partly ’tis that I may, for an hour or so, play the host to a visitor that must perforce lodge here to-night, — a young woman.”
He paused; but Meg merely paid attention to him with eyes and ears, and displayed no emotion.
“She is daughter to a merchant I much esteem in London; she has been in some manner bewitched, or constrained, or seduced, to fly from her home to this neighbourhood with an unthrift knave. By chance the plot came to my ears, and for her father’s sake, and her honour’s, I have caused her to be stayed in her flight and fetched hither. To-morrow I will come and put her aboard a vessel that shall carry her to Tilbury, where her father hath gone upon his affairs. If it fall to you to comfort or serve her while she is here, take heed you talk nothing of the matter, for all she may say to you. And not a word of this before Captain Ravenshaw when he comes down.”
Whatever were Meg’s thoughts, she kept them to herself. Though she might fear ghosts and witches, she was not to be thrown out of composure by surprises and visits, even if they came thick in a few hours, after months of the still and solitary life that was the rule at the Grange.
Goodcole and Jeremy returned, the former carrying the rapier and dagger with a nonchalant, even contemptuous, air, as if his task had been too easy. Jerningham smiled approval; he took the weapons, thrust the dagger in his girdle, and laid the rapier behind him on the table, as his own scabbard was, of course, occupied. He then sent Jeremy back with a candle to summon the captain down to the hall.
When the captain came, it was he that held the candle; while with one hand he dragged Jeremy by the collar.
“Hell and furies!” he roared; “what nest of rogues, what den of thieves, what — what—” He paused, and stared open-mouthed at Jerningham, who was standing with folded arms and a look of amusement.
“How now, captain? What is ill with you?”
“My weapons, sir — my rapier, my dagger — angled, filched, stolen in my sleep! God’s death, is this the kind of a house you keep here? — Ah, you have them, I see.”
But Jerningham pleasantly raised his hand, so that the captain in mere courtesy stopped in the midst of a stride forward, and waited for the other’s words.
“A slight piece of mirth, captain, and a lesson for you, too. Coming hither upon a sudden business, and learning you were so sound a sleeper, I saw my chance of disarming you, and showing you what danger a man may be in asleep.”
“Why, sooth, I am not wont to sleep so sound,” said Ravenshaw, a little shamefacedly; “but, being come to this quiet and lone place, I allowed myself to slide, as one might say, and — so ’twas. But to take my weapons from me awake, that were a different business, sir, I think I may say.”
“All the world knows that, captain.”
“By your leave, sir, I’ll have them back again, I feel awkward without ’em.”
“A mere moment, I pray you, captain,” said Jerningham, with a smile of harmless raillery. “I would have you hear first the business I have come hither so late to send you upon. As it is so sudden a matter, and hath some discomfort in it, you might take it in choler; and then ‘twere best you had no steel to your hand.”
Ravenshaw thought that his master’s wit was of a very childish quality; but said, merely, as he summoned patience:
“What is the business?”
“Oh, a slight, simple matter in itself, but needing absolute sureness in the doing, and instant speed in the starting. This letter is to be carried to Dover, to him that is named upon it, and an answer brought to me at Winchester House. That is all.”
“Oh, pish! a slight, paltry journey; nothing to make me choleric. With the horse I rode to-day, I’ll go and come in four days.”
Which was very good time upon the horses and roads of that period.
“But there’s the pinch,” quoth Jerningham, “I must have the answer Monday morning ere the Exchange opens. You must know I take a gentleman’s part in a merchant’s venture or so, and if certain cargoes now due at Dover — In short, you must ride forth immediately, as soon as horse can be saddled.”
Ravenshaw, remembering his promise to pay Cutting Tom at the parson’s on the morrow noon, slowly shook his head.
“How now, captain? Would you shirk at the outset? Will you be continually failing me? This is no such matter as the other, man.”
“I do not shirk; but I will not start to-night. I will set forth to-morrow, and make what speed man and beast can.”
“Look you, captain; my commands are that you set forth now. If you choose to throw yourself out upon the world again—”
Jerningham paused. Now, in truth, Ravenshaw had felt he could be very comfortable for a time on this quiet estate; his body and his wits, both somewhat overtaxed in the struggle for existence he had so long maintained, plead for repose. He sighed, and fell back upon obvious ob
jections, not aware that Jerningham already knew of his engagement for the morrow with Cutting Tom.
“Why, bethink you, the darkness—” he blundered.
“A man may go a steady pace by lantern-light. I’ve ridden many a mile so,” said Jerningham.
“But how is a man to keep the right road, with none awake to tell him?”
“You must know the way to the highroad, for you came over it to-day; and you must know the highroad as far as to Canterbury, for you told me so when I directed you to this place. It will be daylight long before you come to Canterbury.”
The captain shook his head again.
Jerningham felt that time was passing rapidly. “If you are for disobedience, you are no longer for my service,” he said. “Take yourself from my house and my land forthwith.”
Ravenshaw laughed; and stood motionless, which was what Jerningham wished, in case the captain was determined against an immediate start for Dover, for it would not do to have him free in the neighbourhood, perchance to learn of the treachery concerning the maid in time to give trouble. It had occurred to Jerningham that a threatening step on the captain’s part, by affording excuse for a deed of blood, would lessen its horror and create in Meg, with less fear of retribution upon the house, less mood for turning accuser. So he resumed, with studied offensiveness of tone:
“Begone from my house, I bid you!” With which, he drew the captain’s dagger as if he forgot it was not his own.
Jerningham’s back was to the table; Ravenshaw faced him, three or four paces away; by the front door stood Meadows, with a long knife in his girdle; Goodcole, before the fireplace, was similarly armed. Meg and Jeremy, wondering spectators, were near the kitchen door. Ravenshaw noted all this in a single glance right and left; noted in the looks of the two men the habit of instant readiness to support their master.
“Pray, consider the hour,” said Ravenshaw, feeling it was a time for temporising.
“’Tis for you to consider; I command,” said Jerningham, taking the captain’s sword from the table behind him.
