by Howard Pyle
Millicent was silent a moment, her brows a little bent as if she would say something she knew not how to say; then seeing him move, as if to depart, she resumed:
“You spoke of Master Jerningham as well as Sir Peregrine.”
“Yes; I knew of his intent toward you. What I said last night was true. He employed me to — what will you think of me?”
“But you did not,” she said, holding his glance.
“No,” he answered, in a low voice.
“Why did you not?”
“Faith, I cannot tell — I was formerly a gentleman — and you were — troth, when I talked with you in the garden, I could not. And when I came again, though I kept my false name, knowing how people held my true one, ’twas indeed to plan your escape from that old knight.”
“I know not how I can ever prove my gratitude, — and for last night.” She paused, and dropped her eyes; her heart beat fast while she awaited his answer.
“You have put the debt on my side,” he said. “You would not come from that place if I were left. And but now you were attentive to my waking.”
Evidently the answer fell short of her hopes.
“Oh,” she said, a little pettishly, “I am on the watch here lest my father come, as I told you. As for your waking, yonder clodpate is a stupid fool. My uncle thought, being drugged, you might sleep all day and longer; but I said you were no ordinary man.”
“Troth,” said Ravenshaw, smiling, “I somewhat broke the drug’s power by resisting till your uncle came. And now that I am so soon awake, the sooner may I seek your husband that shall be.” He turned toward the stair-head.
“But hear me, I pray! If you go back there, you hazard your life again.”
He touched his sword and dagger, which he had girded on in the bedchamber. “I still carry these,” quoth he; “and I must thank you for recovering them.”
“Nay,” said she, blushing again; “the sword never left your hand. There was but your dagger to seek. But go not back there, I beg of you!” She could scarce conceal the depth of her solicitude.
“Why, why, mistress, fear not for me. There is no danger.”
“I entreat you not to go.”
“Nay, the more you concern yourself for my safety, the more am I bound to go and serve you.”
“Take men with you, then.”
“Nay, your uncle must keep his men here to protect you. But one to show me the way, — the old beggar that summoned your uncle last night, — perchance he came hither with us.”
“No, he stayed with his comrades; my uncle paid him for his service.”
“I must e’en thank your uncle for that; and for his care of me.”
“I will take you to him, and my aunt,” she replied, eagerly, seeing a chance of delaying his departure and gaining time for dissuasions.
But he seemed to read her thought; he took a sudden resolution, and said: “Nay, I’ll thank him when I return. Farewell, and—”
“You will return — soon?” she said, with quivering lip.
“Ay, with Master Holyday — or news of him,” he answered, and turned to the servant: “Show me the way to Marshleigh Grange, and make haste.”
Avoiding her glance, he hurried down the stairs ere she could frame a further objection. The servant, wonder-eyed, followed him. When he was out of the house, he shook his head, and said within himself: “Another minute in her presence, and ’twould have been she that bade me go, I that begged to stay.”
He dared not look back; had he done so, as he hastened down the hillside, he might have seen that she had changed her window for one which looked toward his road. When he disappeared in the lane to which his man conducted him, she dropped her face upon her arms.
The lonely plain whereon the Grange stood was nearer than he had supposed. When he reached the house, there was no sign of life about it. He called and knocked; and finally was admitted to the hall by Jeremy. The old man was its only occupant, living or dead. He was engaged in washing out sundry stains that reddened the floor.
“Hath your master taken them away?” asked Ravenshaw, bluntly, nodding toward the stained places.
“Ay, but a short while since,” said the old man, unconcernedly. “I trow they are to have sea burial. He came and had them carried aboard a ship. He and they are e’en now bound seaward.”
“That is strange. Where is the woman, Mistress Meg?”
“He hath ta’en her along on the ship. Troth, she swore she would not stay another night under this roof. There was much talk atwixt ’em. She is to be a queen on an island where ’tis always summer.”
Wondering if the old man had lost his wits, the captain asked, “And you are alone here?”
“Ay, and well enough, too. I have no mind to go a-voyaging. I shall have all the milk, now, and all the eggs; and no foolish woman prating ever of ghosts and witches. I’ll have some peace and quiet now.”
“The beggars have gone, then?”
“Ay; when they came sober, and saw slain men upon the floor, they fled as if the hangman were after ’em. Ha! I knew enough to hide the chickens over night.” The old man chuckled triumphantly.
From what further information he could draw, the captain made out that Jerningham’s own men had embarked with him, and that Cutting Tom’s followers had gone their way unheeded. Not till days afterward was he assured that Jerningham had indeed set sail for some far country. To the bishop and others, the voyager had accounted for the absence of Ermsby and Gregory by a tale of their having preceded the vessel to Gravesend, where they were to come aboard. He and his ship were never heard of again.
The captain left the Grange, thinking next to inquire of Sir Nicholas the vicar. If Holyday had not contrived to find his way to his old friend’s abode, the parson would doubtless help search the woods for him. Ravenshaw’s attendant knew where Sir Nicholas lived. The way passed near his master’s house. The captain made him lead at a rapid pace. It was when they were emerging from a lane into the road that Ravenshaw came upon Master Holyday, attired in the loose-hanging garb of the keeper’s wife.
The captain, after the briefest salutations, grasped the scholar’s arm, and ran with him up the hill toward Master Etheridge’s house. Millicent, seeing them coming, and recognising only Ravenshaw, made haste to join her aunt and uncle, who had gone to discuss her situation out of her presence. She found them in the orchard at the rear of the house.
To that place, having inquired of the first servant he met, the captain dragged the breathless and protesting scholar. Millicent’s wonder, at sight of Holyday’s distressed face, was almost equal to that of her portly uncle and his stately, angular spouse.
“Good-morrow, madam,” said Ravenshaw, with a bow which at once surprised the dame’s severity into fluttering graciousness. “And to you, sir.” He then turned to Millicent. “Know you not Master Holyday, mistress? I met him by chance; he was hastening hither for news of you.”
But Millicent’s astonishment at the poor scholar’s appearance had given place to a look of decided disapproval. Holyday himself stood red-faced and sullen.
“You are welcome, sir,” said Master Bartlemy Etheridge, in an uneasy voice. His countenance was worked into a painful attempt to convey something to the captain’s mind privately; in his concern upon that score, he paid no heed to Master Holyday, whom his wife greeted with a curtsey.
“I am much bounden to you, sir,” said Ravenshaw. “For your care of me, and your hospitality, my gratitude shall balance my want of desert. At our last meeting—”
“Meeting, sir?” broke in Uncle Bartlemy, in despair at the evident failure of his facial exertions. “I’ll take oath I never met you before; it must have been some other gentleman of my appearance.”
“Our meeting last night, sir, I meant,” said Ravenshaw, with a smile; “though, indeed, ’twas a brief matter on my part.”
“Oh, last night, forsooth; oh, yes, yes, yes,” said the old gentleman, with a look of infinite relief. “Troth, yes, certainly, ind
eed. And you, Master Holyday, God save you. ’Tis long since I have seen you; you have changed much.”
As Uncle Bartlemy’s gaze was upon the scholar’s dress, Holyday’s assumption was that the remark was concerned therewith.
“Faith, sir,” said he, resentfully, “’tis fine manners in you to jeer; my wearing this gown comes of my willingness to marry your niece.”
“Oh, indeed!” quoth Millicent.
“Troth,” went on the poet, miserably, “it hath been ill upon ill, e’er since I ran away with her. If such a night be the beginning of our marriage, what shall be the end of it, in God’s name?”
“There shall be no end of it,” retorted Millicent; “and no beginning, either. Last night, say you? Ay, you showed bravely then. You are well suited in a woman’s gown, I think. A fine husband you would be, to protect a wife!”
The scholar’s face cleared somewhat; turning to Ravenshaw, he said:
“Give me my puppet-play. I’ll go back to London. You see she will not have me.”
“Softly, softly!” cried the captain. “Would you mar all at the last, mistress? Reflect, I pray; your only true safety lies in marriage ere your father finds you. You will not bring all my plans to nothing? I do entreat you—”
He stopped at a sudden parting of her lips; he looked around to see what alarmed her. There, coming from the house to the orchard, were Master Etheridge the goldsmith, Sir Peregrine Medway, and a ruddy, irascible-looking country gentleman.
“Plague take it!” muttered Uncle Bartlemy to Millicent; “this comes of not watching.”
As Sir Peregrine was the embodiment of lagging weariness, and the goldsmith was himself well fagged, their companion was first within speaking distance. With scant greeting for the elderly couple, he turned fierce eyes on the scholar.
“How now?” he burst out. “Thou unthrift! thou ne’er-do-well! thou good-for-naught! Wouldst run away with my old friend’s daughter? I’ll teach thee, knave!”
But the captain stepped between the elder Holyday and the son, for he felt the quarrel to be his own, and saw his painfully reared structure of events ready to fall about him.
“Sir,” he said, “he did it for your behoof; he marries to perpetuate your stock.”
“Sir,” replied Holyday the father, “I can attend to that myself. I am taking a wife next Thursday; my rascal son would not seek one when I bade him; so I sent him packing; but now he shall come home and be kept out of mischief.”
The goldsmith, coming up, ignored his brother, bowed stiffly to the latter’s wife, and stood before Millicent, his hands open as if he would fain clutch her.
“Thou baggage, thou’rt caught in time! Thou shalt not sleep till thou’rt tied in marriage to Sir Peregrine.” He made to grasp her by the arm.
“Touch me not!” she cried, with a sudden thought. “You have no power over me; I am married!”
Her father stared. Master Holyday, taken by surprise, said, emphatically:
“Not to me, that I’ll take oath; so I am a free man, of a surety!”
Ravenshaw could have struck him down. But Millicent, after one crestfallen moment, said, quietly:
“Not to Master Holyday, certainly; but to this gentleman.” And she went to the captain’s side.
There was a moment’s general silence, during which Sir Peregrine, overcome by his long exertion, leaned limply against a tree.
“To this villain?” cried the goldsmith; “this cozener, this notable rascal, this tavern-cheat. ’Tis not possible; there hath not been time; not even for a license.”
Millicent looked up at Ravenshaw’s face, whereby he knew she desired him to take up the ruse.
“Sir,” quoth he, “there hath been more time than you wot of; we have all been in the plot together for three days now.”
“A pack of knaves!” shouted the goldsmith. “An there hath been a marriage, ‘twill not hold. She was bound by pre-contract.”
“’Tis not true,” cried Millicent. “Sir Peregrine knows I would not receive his tokens.”
“Oh, good lack!” quoth the old knight, faint of voice; “’tis all as well. I am glad your daughter hath released me, Master Etheridge. She is much inclined to jealousy, I see that; belike I should give her cause, too. I thank her for my liberty.”
The goldsmith cast on the old knight a look of wrathful disgust, and walked precipitately from the place, breathing out plagues, murrains, and poxes. Sir Peregrine laboriously followed him. But Holyday’s father dragged the scholar aside to talk with him privily.
Ravenshaw turned to Millicent. “The device served well. But the truth must out in time. Your father will have his revenge then.”
“Alas, I have told a great falsehood,” said she, braving her blushes. “I know not how to clear my soul of it — unless you—” She hesitated.
“I, mistress? What can I do?”
“Make it the truth,” she faltered, dropping her eyes.
For a time he could not speak.
“Oh, mistress!” he said, at last, with unsteady voice; “would to God I might — But think you of my reputation.”
“You will amend that; ’tis no great matter.”
“I am no worthy mate for you.”
“You have fought for me.”
“You will learn to hate me again; you hated me but yesterday.”
“’Twas because I had loved you the day before; else I should not have heeded.”
“You are a world too good for me.”
“Troth, I am not good in all eyes. Sir Peregrine is glad to be rid of me, and Master Holyday will not have me.”
“I am penniless.”
“My uncle hath said he would provide for me.”
Ravenshaw looked at Uncle Bartlemy, who had been calming his wife’s wonder. The old gentleman, with a fine attempt at hidden meaning, thus delivered himself:
“Sir, I owe you much upon the score of our first meeting — whereof you spoke awhile ago. If you can be content here in the country, with a wing of our poor house, while we live— ‘twill all be Millicent’s when we are buried—”
Ravenshaw felt her hand steal into his; he turned and took her gently in his arms.
Master Holyday, having come to an adjustment with his father, callously interrupted this embrace with the words, “Give me back my puppet-play now, and I’ll wish you joy, and pardon all my calamities, even this dress.”
Ravenshaw drew forth the manuscript from his doublet, saying: “If you return to your father’s house, we are like to be your neighbours. And your friend Sir Nicholas shall earn a fee in spite of you.”
“Troth, then, I’ll write your nuptial hymn,” said the poet, tenderly handling his puppet-play. “‘Twill have a rare sound,— ‘Epithalamium to the Beauteous Maid of Cheapside and the Roaring Captain.’”
“Nay, the roaring captain is no more,” said Ravenshaw. “I am a gentleman again. Believe it, sweet.”
“I care not what you are only that you are mine,” quoth Millicent.
THE END
Illustrations from ‘Chivalry’ (1901) by James Branch Cabell
Please note: the text of Chivalry cannot appear in this edition due to copyright restrictions.
“‘I SING OF DEATH’”: Frontispiece
“THEY WERE OVERTAKEN BY FALMOUTH HIMSELF”
“SHE HAD VIEWED THE GREAT CONQUEROR”
“‘MY PRISONER!’ SHE SAID”
“‘HAIL YE THAT ARE MY KINSMEN!’”
“IN THE LIKENESS OF A FAIR WOMAN”
“YOU DESIGN MURDER? RICHARD ASKED”
“SO FOR A HEARTBEAT SHE SAW HIM”
“NICOLAS: À SON LIVRET”
The Island of Enchantment (1905) by Justus Miles Forman
Illustrated by Howard Pyle
CONTENTS
I. Young Zuan Gradenigo
II. The Woman of Abomination
The original frontispiece: THE DOGE SAT ALONE IN A GREAT CARVEN CHAIR
I. Young Zuan Gradenigo
EV
IL TIDINGS HAVE their own trick of spreading abroad. You cannot bury them. The news which had come secretly to Venice was known from the Giudecca to Madonna dell’Orto in two hours. Before noon it was in Murano.
Young Zuan Gradenigo, making his way on foot from the crowded Merceria into the Piazza di San Marco, ran upon his friend, the young German captain, whom men called Il Lupo — his name was Wölfart — and learned, what almost every other man in the city already knew, how Lewis of Hungary, taking excuse of a merchant ship looted in Venetian waters, was on his way to a second invasion, and had given over the Dalmatian towns to the ban of Bosnia to ravage.
The two men were still eagerly discussing the matter and its probable outcome, half an hour later, standing beside one of the gayly painted booths which, at this time — the spring of 1355 — were clustered about the foot of the great Campanile, when a servant in the livery of the doge touched young Zuan’s arm and, in a low tone, gave him a message.
Gradenigo turned back to the German.
“My uncle wishes to see me at once in the palace,” he said. “If you are not pressed, go to my house and wait for me there. I may have important news for you.” Then, with a parting wave of the hand, he went quickly across the Piazzetta and under the gateway to the right of St. Mark’s.
At the head of the great stair two men were awaiting him, and they led him at once through a narrow passage with secret sliding-doors to an inner cabinet of the private apartments of the newly elected doge, his uncle, Giovanni Gradenigo.
The doge sat alone in a great carven chair before a table which was littered with papers and with maps and with writing-materials. From a high window at one side colored beams of light slanted down and rested in crimson and blue splashes upon the dark oak of the table and what lay there, and upon the rich velvet of the doge’s robe, and upon his peculiar cap of office. He was not a very old man, but he was far from strong. Indeed, even at this time he was slowly wasting away with the disease which carried him off a year later, but as he sat there, bowed before the table, he looked old and very worn and tired. His face had no color at all. It was like a dead man’s face — cold and damp.
