IN DIRE STRAITS.
And if the worst had fall'n which could befall,
He stood, a stranger in this breathing world,
An erring spirit from another hurled;
A thing of dark imaginings, that shaped
By choice the perils he by chance escaped;
But 'scaped in vain.
Edmund Wynne was rudely awakened from the train of thought into which
he had fallen by the rough hand of the ostler, which alighted upon his
shoulders with a smack which was re-echoed in the farthest corner of
the yard.
"Now, James," said his companion, whose ready familiarity was becoming
exceedingly distasteful, "they are about to begin, see!"
The courtyard was, in fact, already more than comfortably filled.
Those of the audience who formed the pit squatted unceremoniously down
in groups upon the ground, and having brought with them a plentiful
supply of fruit and provisions, they were already busily engaged in
discussing them; whilst the more select company, which paid a higher
price and represented the modern gallery, occupied the reserved part
on the other side of the rope, and was amusing itself in a general
way, by looking down with supercilious contempt upon the common folk
below.
Edmund stretched himself slightly forward, and peering out of the
darkness of his retreat, was just in time to witness the appearance
of the musicians, who, after making their bow to the audience, passed
along the stage and made their exit through a doorway at the other
end. A profound silence fell upon the company, and as the music of
the violins floated gently on the breeze, the players made their
appearance on the stage.
"What grotesque figures," he exclaimed, as an involuntary smile stole
across his face; "why, they are covered with ivy leaves."
"See how Lord Burleigh cheers," interrupted the delighted ostler, as
the play commenced, "and Sir Henry, too; see! Hang him, that's old
Boniface rooting about; what can he want, I wonder? I believe he is
looking for me."
"Who is Boniface?" meekly asked Edmund.
"The landlord, of course; and your friends are with him, too," was the
curt reply.
Edmund shrank back still further into the shadow of the room. "It
would never do for them to see me here," he explained; "it would upset
all our plans. You must screen me somehow, won't you?"
"Take care of yourself, sir," returned the ostler as he snatched up
the pitchfork and began to toss the hay about. "Take care of yourself,
sir, for he's coming up here, upon my faith he is. Here's luck!" and
the hay flew about in all directions.
No second bidding was required. Edmund scrambled over the heaps of hay
and straw which lay upon the floor and never slackened his haste until
he found himself hidden from view behind the stack in the further-most
corner of the loft. Barely had he succeeded in ensconcing himself
there, when footsteps were heard ascending the ladder, and a moment
later a sharp knocking at the door announced to the only too conscious
conspirators that the landlord was waiting to enter.
"Halloa," shouted the ostler, as he stamped upon the floor with his
fork, to convey the impression that he was busily engaged, at work.
"You can't get in here, I've got my work to do."
Edmund was astonished at the cool impudence of his friend, and he
lifted his head to accord him a nod of approval, but a bundle of straw
which the ostler purposely tossed at him from the other side of the
room made him quickly withdraw his cranium again into the shelter.
"Let me in, I say," shouted a voice from below. "You knave, let me in,
I tell you."
The ostler had played his little game, and, having sheltered his
companion, he now anxiously awaited the result. Glancing round to
see that Edmund was completely buried from sight, he dropped upon his
knees, and moving the catch on one side he slowly raised the door.
"You knave! you villain!" exclaimed his irate master, as he stepped
into the room. "Wasting your time in looking at puppet-shows. How dare
you, sir; how dare you? Get you gone, sirrah!" and he gave him a kick
which considerably accelerated the speed with which he disappeared
below.
Having thus satisfactorily vented his displeasure, his brow relaxed
and he turned to the baron and Sir Thomas and conducted them to a seat
so lately vacated by the guilty pair, with an urbanity which looked
positively impossible to ruffle.
"You see, my lord, there is a seat ready provided," he exclaimed, as
he pointed to the bale of hay which stood beside the wall. "Perhaps
your lordships will be pleased to seat yourself on that? I'll warrant
me 'tis clean enough, for I espied the rogue sitting on it."
Sir George Vernon, nothing loth, accepted the proffered seat.
"I will reach another bundle down for you," continued the loquacious
innkeeper, turning to the younger knight. "I will get you one of a
convenient size; most of them are far too big to be comfortable,
I fear, but I have them in all shapes and sizes; you shall be made
comfortable in a trice, my lord."
He cast his eyes about in search of the bundle "of convenient size,"
and his choice fell upon the one which covered the gap where Edmund
Wynne lay hidden. Having once selected this he proceeded straightway
to climb over the impeding bundles to reach it from the corner where
the ostler had tossed it just before.
This, however, proved no slight task. He was burly and heavy, while
the bundles were frail and loosely stacked and failed to yield to his
feet that amount of support which, of all men, the stouter ones are
supposed most to require. This being so, it was not surprising to find
that ere he reached it he stumbled and fell several times, until at
last Sir Thomas took pity upon him and told him to desist.
"I would stand, my good man," he said, "rather than thou should'st
break thy neck, or I might lay upon some of this soft straw for the
nonce."
"A prison bed," chimed in Sir George. "Well, some folks like one thing
and some another, there's no accounting for tastes."
The landlord scouted the proposal at once. He felt that somehow he was
on his mettle, and it was incumbent upon him to vindicate the honour
of his house. "Had the kind nobleman been possessed of a better
acquaintance with him," he said, "he would have known that it was not
in his nature to be overcome by trifles. Things, thank goodness, were
managed better than that at the Cock hostelry," and to support his
statement he wiped away the perspiration from his brow, and made a
further attempt to reach it down.
Edmund's feelings during these critical moments would be easier to
imagine than describe. Every moment he expected that the bundle would
be lifted off, and he anticipated the mortification of being dragged
out and being brought face to face with the man whom he now most
dreaded. As the other advanced and the unstable walls of his shelter
quivered until they threatened to fall upon him, he crouched down
further and further into the corner, preferring rather to be buried
under the solid squares of hay than to be discovered in such a
position. Sir Thomas' words inspired him with a ray of hope, but his
expectations were dashed as suddenly as they had arisen by the words
of the baron and the action of the busy landlord, who, all unconscious
of the torture he was inflicting, struggled valiantly on towards his
quarry.
At last his perseverance was rewarded, and he found himself able to
grasp the object of his toil; but Edmund as he felt the protecting
roof of hay departing, snatched at the withes which bound it round,
and dragged it down with all his might.
In vain did the furious landlord pull and tug. Try as he would, it
would not move an inch, and he was about to give it up in disgust and
offer some reason for his lack of success, when Stanley again came to
his aid.
"Stand aside, man; thou art too old for such a task, and too fat, too,
perchance. Let me get it out. Odd's fish, my good fellow, but there's
been much to do about a little thing. Here it is, see."
Edmund had, for the moment relaxed his hold, and it was at precisely
that same moment that Sir Thomas Staley took hold of the top of the
bundle to pull it up. There was but one chance left, and although it
promised a little hope of success, he deemed his position desperate
enough to warrant him in attempting it. He decided to leap out
simultaneously with the withdrawal of the bundle, and, trusting to the
confusion his unexpected appearance would create, to escape through
the trap-door, and race away for his life.
However, when he saw the sole protection which had hidden him from
his enemies begin to move away his courage failed him, and he had not
sufficient boldness to carry out the plan he had so neatly arranged.
Instinctively he threw his arms up to clutch the rope again, but
it was too late, it had already passed beyond his reach; there was
nothing left to save him. Another moment and his hiding place would
be discovered, when----, Sir Thomas missed his footing, and with a
gesture of impatience he let the bundle fall again, and turned his
back upon it in disgust.
It alighted heavily upon the luckless Edmund's shoulders, and it
struck him with so much force that almost before he was aware of
it, he found himself most uncomfortably doubled up, and tight pinned
beneath its weight upon the floor. He could neither free himself nor
ease his position without attracting attention, for his arms were
tightly wedged underneath him, while his legs had found a resting
place between two lots of hay, at a height somewhat above the level
of his head. One thing, and one alone, was at his command. He could
at least, he thought, remain quietly there, an unwilling eavesdropper,
until his persecutors had gone. This he resolved to do; meanwhile
he could only submit to the conditions which a series of unfortunate
incidents had brought upon him, and listen to the conversation in
the hope that some of it, at least, might at some time or other prove
profitable to him in the accomplishment of the object he had in view.
"How long will they be, mine host?" inquired Sir George, to whom the
circumlocution of the stage proved uninteresting indeed.
"About two hours, my lord," suavely replied that individual, as he
gazed proudly at the brilliant company assembled in the yard below,
wondering the while how much they would expend at the inn when the
play was over.
"Two hours!" Edmund groaned inwardly, but the groan was none the less
sincere because it was inaudible.
"Two hours!" exclaimed the astonished baron, "then I'm off."
Hope again revived within the heart of the prisoner.
"Nay, stop, Sir George," interrupted the younger knight; "you cannot
see a play like this at any time you choose. Stay awhile and bid me
company, and forget your troubles in a stoup of ale."
"Aye, I have the best in the town," added the host; "there is nothing
like it in all London."
This was quite a new idea, and Sir George scratched his head, as if
by so doing he might facilitate his judgment, and then he did what so
many other troubled ones have done, both before his time and since,
he sought to drown his troubles by gorging himself with his favourite
liquor.
"Ha! well," he muttered, "the ale is good, as London ale goes, I trow,
but----"
"It is indeed," added the tavern-keeper promptly. "There's none
better, though I say it."
"But I think I will have cider," continued the baron, not heeding the
interruption.
"I will fetch it myself," exclaimed the proprietor of the Cock; "and
sure I am, 'twill be the best that ever you have tasted."
"Nay, hold," interrupted Sir George, "I will go with thee. I will
trust none to spice my drink except it be Lady Maude, or Dorothy. I
will go with thee and spice it myself."
"And I will have some simple sack," said Sir Thomas.
Sir George Vernon and the landlord descended the ladder, and threaded
their way through the crowd into the tavern, while Sir Thomas Stanley,
left to his own devices, continued to lie quietly down upon his couch
of straw, watching with intense interest the progress of the play.
Edmund, meanwhile, hearing no one stirring, and not being in a
position to see, concluded that all three had descended together, and
that he was the sole occupant of the room. He waited for a moment or
two, and then, as the silence confirmed him in his opinion, he began
to make strenuous efforts to free himself. There was no sign made
in response to the noise he made in the attempt, and, without any
interruption, he released himself from his uncomfortable position.
Slowly and painfully he raised himself up, but as he reached the top,
the thrill of triumph to which his new-born hopes of liberty had given
birth, died away, and a sigh of dismay escaped him as he discovered
that he was not alone.
For a time he stood perfectly motionless, too terrified to advance,
and too paralysed by fear to regain his hiding-place. Fortunately,
however, for him, Sir Thomas Stanley's back was turned towards him,
and so intently had he fixed his attention upon the scene which was
being acted on the stage before him, that he was in complete ignorance
of the events which were transpiring in his rear. Edmund wistfully
cast a look at the ladder which protruded temptingly through the
trap-door, but the look more than satisfied him that he could not
hope to gain it without attracting the attention of his most unwelcome
companion.
There was only one idea which presented itself to the unlucky man's
mind which promised any fair successes, and that left no alternative.
He must put Sir Thomas out of the way!
However repugnant this plan might be, and Edmund felt all its
hideousness, he felt every moment more and more convinced that it
was the only safe way. He had suffered too much already to venture
willingly back into the torture-chamber from which he had just
escaped, even if he could safely have regained its shelter--in itself
no mean feat; and at the bare idea of spending two more hours of like
agony he trembled. He resolved that rather than he would be driven
to that uncertain refuge again, Sir Thomas should pay the penalty of
death.
At this stage of his reflections he was rudely stopped, for the young
knight, as if conscious of some impending danger, withdrew his head
into the room and rolled over upon his back, leaving Edmund so little
time in which to screen himself from view, that in attempting to
secure a cover he toppled right over and fell back upon a thin
scattering of straw.
Sir Thomas stopped the yawn with which he was indulging himself, and
got upon his feet, surprised in no small degree to find that no one
had entered the room. He went to the ladder to satisfy himself, but
meeting with a like measure of ill-success there, he came away in a
discontented mood; not perceiving Edmund, who lay, holding his breath,
behind a heap of hay.
"I thought it was my sack coming," he muttered; "but it was only those
confounded rats. What a time they are gone, to be sure," and as a last
resource he sat himself down upon Sir George's seat and watched the
play afresh.
Edmund during all this time was slowly making up his wavering mind.
The memory of Dame Durden was still fresh within him, and it was in
fulfilment of his scheme of revenge for that that he had united with
Sir Ronald Bury to bring the baron to book for his misdeeds, and was
now in London. Why should he not wreak his vengeance upon Sir Thomas
Stanley, and then at once accomplish the work on which his heart was
set? In the intensity of his passion he could find no satisfactory
answer to the question. There were powerful reasons both for and
against such a plan. Sir Thomas was seriously jeopardising his present
safety; but would his death at all affect the baron? Margaret would
feel it, mayhap, and so might Sir George to some extent, but he was
fully aware that Sir Ronald's aim would be by no means compassed by
such a termination; nor was he at all certain his own desire would be
accomplished even then. The danger of his present position, however,
was too apparent to be lightly put aside, and it proved too much for
him. Were the others to return now his ruin would be assured; and
realising this, he cautiously raised his head, and finding the young
nobleman again deeply interested in the progress of the scene before
him, he quickly drew out his knife and crept silently on towards his
unsuspicious prey.