THE YOUNG MAN IN THE CLOAK OF AMBER SATIN,
Guess, any of you, if these events disturbed my rest that night. ’Twas
four o’clock before I dropp’d asleep in my bed in Trinity, and my last
thoughts were still busy with the words I had heard. Nor, on the morrow,
did it fair any better with me: so that, at rhetoric lecture, our
president—Dr. Ralph Kettle—took me by the ears before the whole
class. He was the fiercer upon me as being older than the gross of my
fellow-scholars, and (as he thought) the more restless under discipline.
“A tutor’d adolescence,” he would say, “is a fair grace before meat,”
and had his hourglass enlarged to point the moral for us. But even
a rhetoric lecture must have an end, and so, tossing my gown to the
porter, I set off at last for Magdalen Bridge, where the new barricado
was building, along the Physic Garden, in front of East Gate.
The day was dull and low’ring, though my wits were too busy to heed
the sky; but scarcely was I past the small gate in the city wall when a
brisk shower of hail and sleet drove me to shelter in the Pig Market
( or _Proscholium_) before the Divinity School. ’Tis an ample vaulted
passage, as I dare say you know; and here I found a great company of
people already driven by the same cause.
To describe them fully ’twould be necessary to paint the whole state of
our city in those distracted times, which I have neither wit nor time
for. But here, to-day, along with many doctors and scholars, were
walking courtiers, troopers, mountebanks, cut-purses, astrologers,
rogues and gamesters; together with many of the first ladies and
gentlemen of England, as the Prince Maurice, the lords Andover, Digby
and Colepepper, my lady Thynne, Mistress Fanshawe, Mr. Secretary
Nicholas, the famous Dr. Harvey, arm-in-arm with my lord Falkland (whose
boots were splash’d with mud, he having ridden over from his house
at Great Tew), and many such, all mix’d in this incredible tag-rag.
Mistress Fanshawe, as I remember, was playing on a lute, which she
carried always slung about her shoulders: and close beside her, a fellow
impudently puffing his specific against the _morbus campestris_, which
already had begun to invade us.
“_Who’ll buy?_” he was bawling. “_’Tis from the receipt of a famous
Italian, and never yet failed man, woman, nor child, unless the heart
were clean drown’d in the disease: the lest part of it good muscadine,
and has virtue against the plague, smallpox, or surfeits!_”
I was standing before this jackanapes, when I heard a stir in the crowd
behind me, and another calling, “_Who’ll buy? Who’ll buy?_”
Turning, I saw a young man, very gaily dressed, moving quickly about at
the far end of the Pig Market, and behind him an old lackey, bent double
with the weight of two great baskets that he carried. The baskets were
piled with books, clothes, and gewgaws of all kinds; and ’twas the young
gentleman that hawked his wares himself. “_What d’ye lack?_” he kept
shouting, and would stop to unfold his merchandise, holding up now a
book, and now a silk doublet, and running over their merits like any
huckster—but with the merriest conceit in the world.
And yet ’twas not this that sent my heart flying into my mouth at the
sight of him. For by his curls and womanish face, no less than the amber
cloak with the black bars, I knew him at once for the same I had seen
yesterday among the dicers.
As I stood there, drawn this way and that by many reflections, he worked
his way through the press, selling here and there a trifle from his
baskets, and at length came to a halt in front of me.
“Ha!” he cried, pulling off his plumed hat, and bowing low, “a scholar,
I perceive. Let me serve you, sir. Here is the ‘History of Saint
George,’” and he picked out a thin brown quarto and held it up; “written
by Master Peter Heylin; a ripe book they tell me (though, to be sure, I
never read beyond the title), and the price a poor two shillings.”
[Illustration: “A scholar, I perceive. Let me serve you sir?”—Page 30.]
Now, all this while I was considering what to do. So, as I put my hand
in my pocket, and drew out the shillings, I said very slowly, looking
him in the eyes (but softly, so that the lackey might not hear)——
“So thus you feed your expenses at the dice: and my shilling, no doubt,
is for Luke Settle, as well as the rest.”
For the moment, under my look, he went white to the lips; then
clapped his hand to his sword, withdrew it, and answered me, red as a
turkey-cock——
“Shalt be a parson, yet, Master Scholar: but art in a damn’d hurry, it
seems.”
Now, I had ever a quick temper, and as he turned on his heel, was like
to have replied and raised a brawl. My own meddling tongue had brought
the rebuff upon me: but yet my heart was hot as he walked away.
I was standing there and looking after him, turning over in my hand the
“Life of Saint George,” when my fingers were aware of a slip of paper
between the pages. Pulling it out, I saw ’twas scribbled over with
writing and figures, as follows:—
“Mr. Anthony Killigrew, his acct for Oct. 25th, MDCXLII.—_For
herrings_, 2d.; _for coffie_, 4d.; _for scowring my coat_, 6d.; _at
bowls_, 5s. 10d.; _for bleading me_, 1s. 0d.; _for ye King’s speech_,
3d.; _for spic’d wine (with Marjory)_, 2s. 4d.; _for seeing ye
Rhinoceros_, 4d.; _at ye Ranter-go-round_, 6 ¾d.; _for a pair of
silver buttons_, 2s. 6d.; _for apples_, 2 ½d.; _for ale_, 6d.; _at ye
dice_, L17 5s.; _for spic’d wine (again)_, 4s. 6d.”
And so on.
As I glanced my eye down this paper, my anger oozed away, and a great
feeling of pity came over me, not only at the name of Anthony—the name
I had heard spoken in the bowling-green last night—but also to see
that monstrous item of L17 odd spent on the dice. ’Twas such a boy, too,
after all, that I was angry with, that had spent fourpence to see the
rhinoceros at a fair, and rode on the ranter-go-round (with “Marjory,”
no doubt, as ’twas for her, no doubt, the silver buttons were bought).
So that, with quick forgiveness, I hurried after him, and laid a hand on
his shoulder.
He stood by the entrance, counting up his money, and drew himself up
very stiff.
“I think, sir,” said I, “this paper is yours.”
“I thank you,” he answered, taking it, and eyeing me. “Is there
anything, besides, you wished to say?”
“A great deal, maybe, if your name be Anthony.”
“Master Anthony Killigrew is my name, sir; now serving under Lord
Bernard Stewart in His Majesty’s troop of guards.”
“And mine is Jack Marvel,” said I.
“Of the Yorkshire Marvels?”
“Why, yes; though but a shoot of that good stock, transplanted to
Cumberland, and there sadly withered.”
“’Tis no matter, sir,” said he politely; “I shall be proud to cross
swords with you.”
“Why, bless your heart!” I cried out, full of laughter at this childish
punctilio; “d’ye think I came to fight you?”
“If not, sir”—and he grew colder than ever—“you are going a cursed
roundabout way to avoid it.”
Upon this, finding no other way out of it, I began my tale at once: but
hardly had come to the meeting of the two men on the bowling-green, when
he interrupts me politely——
“I think, Master Marvel, as yours is like to be a story of some moment,
I will send this fellow back to my lodgings. He’s a long-ear’d dog that
I am saving from the gallows for so long as my conscience allows me. The
shower is done, I see; so if you know of a retir’d spot, we will talk
there more at our leisure.”
He dismiss’d his lackey, and stroll’d off with me to the Trinity Grove,
where, walking up and down, I told him all I had heard and seen the
night before.
“And now,” said I, “can you tell me if you have any such enemy as this
white-hair’d man, with the limping gait?”
He had come to a halt, sucking in his lips and seeming to reflect—
“I know one man,” he began: “but no—’tis impossible.”
As I stood, waiting to hear more, he clapp’d his hand in mine, very
quick and friendly: “Jack,” he cried;—“I’ll call thee Jack—’twas an
honest good turn thou hadst in thy heart to do me, and I a surly rogue
to think of fighting—I that could make mincemeat of thee.”
“I can fence a bit,” answer’d I.
“Now, say no more, Jack: I love thee.”
He look’d in my face, still holding my hand and smiling. Indeed, there
was something of the foreigner in his brisk graceful ways—yet not
unpleasing. I was going to say I had never seen the like—ah, me! that
both have seen and know the twin image so well.
“I think,” said I, “you had better be considering what to do.”
He laugh’d outright this time; and resting with his legs cross’d,
against the trunk of an elm, twirl’d an end of his long lovelocks, and
looked at me comically. Said he: “Tell me, Jack, is there aught in me
that offends thee?”
“Why, no,” I answered. “I think you’re a very proper young man—such as
I should loathe to see spoil’d by Master Settle’s knife.”
“Art not quick at friendship, Jack, but better at advising; only in this
case fortune has prevented thy good offices. Hark ye,” he lean’d forward
and glanc’d to right and left, “if these twain intend my hurt—as indeed
’twould seem—they lose their labor: for this very night I ride from
Oxford.”
“And why is that?”
“I’ll tell thee, Jack, tho’ I deserve to be shot. I am bound with a
letter from His Majesty to the Army of the West, where I have friends,
for my father’s sake—Sir Deakin Killigrew of Gleys, in Cornwall. ’Tis a
sweet country, they say, tho’ I have never seen it.”
“Not seen thy father’s country?”
“Why no—for he married a Frenchwoman, Jack, God rest her dear
soul!”—he lifted his hat—“and settled in that country, near Morlaix,
in Brittany, among my mother’s kin; my grandfather refusing to see or
speak with him, for wedding a poor woman without his consent. And in
France was I born and bred, and came to England two years agone; and
this last July the old curmudgeon died. So that my father, who was an
only son, is even now in England returning to his estates: and with him
my only sister Delia. I shall meet them on the way. To think of it!”
(and I declare the tears sprang to his eyes): “Delia will be a woman
grown, and ah! to see dear Cornwall together!”
Now I myself was only a child, and had been made an orphan when but nine
years old, by the smallpox that visited our home in Wastdale Village,
and carried off my father, the Vicar, and my dear mother. Yet his simple
words spoke to my heart and woke so tender a yearning for the small
stone cottage, and the bridge, and the grey fells of Yewbarrow above it,
that a mist rose in my eyes too, and I turn’d away to hide it.
“’Tis a ticklish business,” said I after a minute, “to carry the King’s
letter. Not one in four of his messengers comes through, they say. But
since it keeps you from the dice——”
“That’s true. To-night I make an end.”
“To-night!”
“Why, yes. To-night I go for my revenge, and ride straight from the inn
door.”
“Then I go with you to the ‘Crown,’” I cried, very positive.
He dropp’d playing with his curl, and look’d me in the face, his mouth
twitching with a queer smile.
“And so thou shalt Jack: but why?”
“I’ll give no reason,” said I, and knew I was blushing.
“Then be at the corner of All Hallows’ Church in Turl Street at seven
to-night. I lodge over Master Simon’s, the glover, and must be about
my affairs. Jack,”—he came near and took my hand—“am sure thou lovest
me.”
He nodded, with another cordial smile, and went his way up the grove,
his amber cloak flaunting like a belated butterfly under the leaf less
trees; and so pass’d out of my sight.