The night of the day on which the officers of the Sheriff's court of
Carlisle visited Shoulthwaite, the night of Simeon Stagg's departure
from Wythburn in pursuit of Ralph, the night of Rotha's sorrow and her
soul's travail in that solitary house among the mountains, was a night
of gayety and festival in the illuminated streets of old Lancaster.
The morning had been wet and chill, but the rain-clouds swept
northward as the day wore on, and at sundown the red bars belted the
leaden sky that lay to the west of the towers of the gray castle on
the hill.
A proclamation by the King had to be read that day, and the ancient
city had done all that could be done under many depressing conditions
to receive the royal message with fitting honors. Flags that had lain
long furled, floated from parapet and pediment, from window and
balcony, from tower and turret. Doors were thrown open that had not
always swung wide on their hinges, and open house was kept in many
quarters.
Towards noon a man mounted the steps in the Market Place, and read
this first of the King's proclamations and nailed it to the Cross.
A company of red-coated soldiers were marched from the Castle Hill to
the hill on the southwest, which had been thrown up six years before
by the russet-coated soldiery who had attacked and seized the castle.
Then they were marched back and disbanded for the night.
When darkness fell over highway and byway, fires were lit down the
middle of the narrow streets, and they sent up wide flakes of light
that brightened the fronts of the half-timbered houses on either side,
and shot a red glow into the sky, where the square walls of the
Dungeon Tower stood out against dark rolling clouds. Little knots of
people were at every corner, and groups of the baser sort were
gathered about every fire. Gossip and laughter and the click of the
drinking-horn fell everywhere on the ear. But the night was still
young, and order as yet prevailed.
The Market Place was the scene of highest activity. Numbers of men and
boys sat and stood on the steps of the Cross, discussing the
proclamation that had been read there. Now and again some youth of
more scholarship than the rest held a link to the paper, and lisped
and stammered through its bewildering sentences for the benefit of a
circle of listeners who craned their necks to hear.
The proclamation was against public vice and immorality of various
sorts which were unpunishable by law. It set forth that there were
many persons who had no method of expressing their allegiance to their
Sovereign but that of drinking his health, and others who had so
little regard for morality and religion as to have no respect for the
virtue of the female sex.
The loyaly of the Lancasterians might be unimpeachable, but their
amusement at the proclamation was equally beyond question.
“That from Charles Stuart!” said one, with a laugh; and he added, with
more familiarity of affection for his King than reverence for his
august state, “What a sly dog he is, to be sure!”
“Who is that big man in the long coat?” said another, who had not
participated in the banter of his companions on the Puritanical
devices of Charles and his cronies. He was jerking his head aside to
where a man whom we have known in other scenes was pushing his way
through the crowd.
“Don't know; no one knows, seemingly,” answered the politician whose
penetration had solved the mystery of the proclamation against vice
and all loose livers.
“He's been in Lancaster this more nor a week, hasn't he?”
“Believe he has; and so has the little withered fellow that haunts him
like his shadow. Don't seem over-welcome company, so far as I can
see.”
“Where's the little one now?”
“I reckon he's nigh about somewhere.”
Ralph Ray borrowed a link from a boy who was near, and stood before
the paper that was posted upon the Cross. Just then a short,
pale-faced, elderly man, with quick eyes beneath shaggy brows, elbowed
his way between the people and came up close at Ray's side.
It was clearly not his object to read the proclamation, for after a
glance at it his eyes were turned towards Ralph's face. If he had
hoped to catch the light of an expression there he was disappointed.
Ralph read the proclamation without changing a muscle of his
countenance. He was returning the link to its owner, when the little
man reached out his long finger, and, touching the paper as it hung on
the Cross, looked up into Ralph's eyes with a cunning leer, and said,
“Unco' gude, eh?”
Ralph made no reply. As though determined to draw him into converse,
the little man shrugged his shoulders, and added, “Clarendon's work
that, eh?”
There was still no response, so the speaker continued: “It'll deceive
none. It's lang sin' the like of it stood true in England--worse
luck!”
The dialect in which this was spoken was of that mongrel sort which in
these troublous days was sometimes adopted by degenerate Scotchmen
who, living in England, had reasons of their own for desiring to
conceal their nationality.
“I'll wager it's all a joke,” added the speaker, dropping his voice,
but still addressing Ralph, and ignoring the people that stood around
them.
Ralph turned about, and, giving but a glance to his interlocutor,
passed out of the crowd without a word.
The little man remained a moment or two behind, and then slunk down
the street in the direction which Ralph had taken.
There was to be a performance at the theatre that night, and already
the people had begun to troop towards St. Leonard's Gate. Chairs were
being carried down the causeway, with link-boys walking in front of
them, and coaches were winding their way among the fires in the
streets. Scarlet cloaks were mingling with the gray jerkins of the
townspeople, and swords were here and there clanking on the pavement.
The theatre was a rude wooden structure that stood near the banks of
the river, on a vacant plot of ground that bordered the city on the
east and skirted the fields. It had a gallery that sloped upwards from
the pit, and the more conspicuous seats in it were draped in crimson
cloth. The stage, which went out as a square chamber from one side of
the circular auditorium, was lighted by lamps that hung above the
heads of the actors.
Before the performance began every seat was filled. The men hailed
their friends from opposite sides of the house, and laughed and
chaffed, and sang snatches of Royalist and other ballads. The women,
who for the most part wore veils or masks, whispered together, flirted
their fans, and returned without reserve the salutations that were
offered them.
Ralph Ray, who was there, stood at the back of the pit, and close at
his left was the sinister little man who had earlier in the evening
been described as his shadow. Their bearing towards each other was the
same as had been observed at the Cross: the one constantly
interrogating in a low voice; the other answering with a steadfast
glance or not at all.
When the curtain rose, a little butterfly creature, in the
blue-and-scarlet costume of a man,--all frills and fluffs and lace and
linen,--came forward, with many trips and skips and grimaces, and
pronounced a prologue, which consisted of a panegyric on the King and
his government in their relations to the stage.
It was not very pointed, conclusive, or emphatic, but it was rewarded
with applause, which rose to a general outburst of delighted approval
when the rigor of the “late usurpers” was gibbeted in the following
fashion:--
Affrighted with the shadow of their rage,
They broke the mirror of the times, the Stage;
The Stage against them still maintained the war,
When they debauched the Pulpit and the Bar.
“Pretty times, forsooth, of which one of that breed could be the
mirror,” whispered the little man at Ralph's elbow.
The play forthwith proceeded, and proved to be the attempt of a
gentleman of fashion to compromise the honor of a lady of the Court
whom he had mistaken for a courtesan. The audience laughed at every
indelicate artifice of the libertine, and screamed when the demure
maiden let fall certain remarks which bore a double significance.
Finally, when the lady declared her interest in a cage of birds, and
the gentleman drew from his pocket a purse of guineas, and, shaking
them before her face, asked if those were the dicky-birds she wished
for, the enjoyment of the audience passed all bounds of ordinary
expression. The men in lace and linen lay back in their seats to give
vent to loud guffaws, and the women flirted their fans coquettishly
before their eyes, or used them to tap the heads of their male
companions in mild and roguish remonstrance.
“Pity they didn't debauch the stage as well as the pulpit and bar, if
this is its condition inviolate,” whispered the little man again.
The intervals between the acts were occupied by part of the audience
in drinking from the bottles which they carried strapped about their
waists, and in singing snatches of songs. One broad-mouthed roysterer
on the ground proposed the King's health, and supported the toast by a
ballad in which “Great Charles, like Jehovah,” was described as
merciful and generous to the foes that would unking him and the vipers
that would sting him. The chorus to this loyal lyric was sung by the
“groundlings” with heartiness and unanimity:--
Let none fear a fever,
But take it off thus, boys;
Let the King live forever,
'Tis no matter for us, boys.
Ralph found the atmosphere stifling in this place, which was grown
noisome now to wellnigh every sense. He forced his way out through the
swaying bodies and swinging arms of the occupants of the pit. As he
did so he was conscious, though he did not turn his head, that close
behind him, in the opening which he made in the crowd, his inevitable
“Shadow” pursued him.
The air breathed free and fresh outside. Ralph walked from St.
Leonard's Gate by a back lane to the Dam Side. The river as well as
the old town was illuminated. Every boat bore lamps to the masthead.
Lamps, too, of many colors, hung downwards from the bridge, and were
reflected in their completed circle in the waters beneath them.
The night was growing apace, and the streets were thronged with
people, some laughing, some singing, some wrangling, and some
fighting. Every tavern and coffee-house, as Ralph went by, sent out
into the night its babel of voices. Loyal Lancasterians were within,
doing honor to the royal message of that day by observing the spirit
while violating the letter of it.
Ralph had walked up the Dam Side near to that point at which the Covel
Cross lies to the left, when a couple of drunken men came reeling out
of a tavern in front of him. Their dress denoted their profession and
rank. They were lieutenants of the regiment which had been newly
quartered at the castle. Both were drunk. One was capering about in a
hopeless effort to dance; the other was trolling out a stave of the
ballad that was just then being sung at the corner of every street:--
The blood that he lost, as I suppose
(Fa la la la),
Caused fire to rise in Oliver's nose
(Fa la la la).
This ruling nose did bear such a sway,
It cast such a heat and shining ray,
That England scarce knew night from day
(Fa la la la).
The singer who thus described Cromwell and his shame was interrupted
by a sudden attack of thirst, and forthwith applied the unfailing
antidote contained in a leathern bottle which he held in one hand.
Ralph stepped off the pavement to allow the singer the latitude his
condition required, when that person's companion pirouetted into his
breast, and went backwards with a smart rebound.
“What's this, stopping the way of a gentleman?” hiccuped the man,
bringing himself up with ludicrous effort to his full height, and
suspending his capering for the better support of his soldierly
dignity.
Then, stepping closer to Ralph, and peering into his face, he cried,
“Why, it's the man of mystery, as the sergeant calls him. Here, I say,
sir,” continued the drunken officer, drawing with difficulty the sword
that had dangled and clanked at his side; “you've got to tell us who
you are. Quick, what's your name?”
The man was flourishing his sword with as much apparent knowledge of
how to use it as if it had been a marlin-spike. Ralph pushed it aside
with a stout stick that he carried, and was passing on, when the
singing soldier came up and said, “Never mind his name; but whether he
be Presbyter Jack or Quaker George, he must drink to the health of the
King. Here,” he cried, filling a drinking-cup from the bottle in his
hand, “drink to King Charles and his glory!”
Ralph took the cup, and, pretending to raise it to his lips, cast its
contents by a quick gesture over his shoulder, where the liquor fell
full in the face of the Shadow, who had at that moment crept up behind
him. The soldiers were too drunk to perceive what he had done, and
permitted him to go by without further molestation. As he walked on he
heard from behind another stave of the ballad, which told how--
This Oliver was of Huntingdon
(Fa la la la),
Born he was a brewer's son
(Fa la la la),
He soon forsook the dray and sling,
And counted the brewhouse a petty thing
Unto the stately throne of a king
(Fa la la la).
“What did the great man himself say?” asked the Shadow, stepping up to
Ralph's side. “He said, 'I would rather have a plain, russet-coated
captain who knows what he fights for, and loves what he knows, than
what you call a gentleman.' And he was right, eh?”
“God knows,” said Ralph, and turned aside.
He had stopped to look into the middle of a small crowd that had
gathered about the corner of the Bridge Lane. A blind fiddler sat on a
stool there and played sprightly airs. His hearers consisted chiefly
of men and boys. But among them was one young girl in bright ribbons,
who was clearly an outcast of the streets. Despite her gay costume,
she had a wistful look in her dark eyes, as of one who was on the
point of breaking into tears.
The dance tunes suddenly came to an end, and were followed by the long
and solemn sweeps of a simple old hymn such as had been known in many
an English home for many an age. Gradually the music rose and fell,
and then gently, and before any were aware, a sweet, low, girlish
voice took up the burden and sang the words. It was the girl of the
streets who sang. Was it the memory of some village home that these
chords had awakened? Was it the vision of her younger and purer days
that came back to her amid the gayeties of this night--of the hamlet,
the church, the choir, and of herself singing there?
The hymn melted the hearts of many that stood around, and tears now
stood in the singer's downcast eyes.
* * * * *
At that hour of that night, in the solitary homestead far north, among
the hills, what was Rotha's travail of soul?
* * * * *
Ralph dropped his head, and felt something surging in his throat.
At the same instant a thick-lipped man with cruel eyes crushed through
the people to where the girl stood, and, taking her roughly by the
shoulder, pushed her away.
“Hand thy gab,” he said, between clinched teeth; “what's _thy_
business singing hymns in t'streets? Get along home to bed; that's
more in thy style, I reckon.”
The girl was stealing away covered with shame, when Ralph parted the
people that divided him from the man, and, coming in front of him,
laid one hand on his throat. Gasping for breath, the fellow would have
struggled to free himself, but Ralph held him like a vise.
“This is not the first time we have met; take care it shall be the
last.”
So saying, Ralph flung the man from him, and he fell like an infant at
his feet.
Gathering himself up with a look compounded equally of surprise and
hatred, the man said, “Nay, nay; do you think it'll be the last? don't
you fear it!”
Then he slunk out of the crowd, and it was observed that when he had
gained the opposite side of the street, the little, pale-faced elderly
person who had been known as Ralph's Shadow, had joined him.
* * * * *
“Is it our man?”
“The same, for sure.”
“Then it must be done the day. We've delayed too long already.”