THE PRAISE OF INNOCENCE.
"He keeps his promise best that breaks with hell."--_The Widow._
The Royal Exchange, or Gresham's Bourse, formed an open quadrangle,
where the merchants congregated by day, which was surrounded by a
colonnade; the roofed galleries over the colonnade made up the Pawn,
where ladies and gentlemen walked and lounged in the evening, among
bazaars and stalls. Naturally the uses of such a resort were not lost
upon Captain Ravenshaw and Master Holyday, who had reasons for knowing
all places where a houseless man might keep warm or dry in bad weather
without cost. When Ravenshaw entered, on this particular May evening,
he found the Pawn crowded, and lighted in a manner brilliant for those
days. The scholar was leaning, pensive, against a post.
"God save you, man, why look you so disconsolate? Is it the sight of so
many ladies?"
"No. I heed 'em not, when I am not asked to speak to 'em," replied
Holyday, listlessly. "How fared you?"
"Oh,--so so. The trick served. Faith, I e'en began to think myself I
was Master Holyday. But what's the matter?"
It was evident the captain did not wish to talk of his own affair. The
scholar was not the man to poke his nose into other people's matters.
But neither was he one to make any secret of his own concerns when
questioned.
"Oh, 'tis not much. I have been commissioned to write a play."
"What?" cried the captain, eagerly. "For which playhouse?--the
Globe?--the Blackfriars?--the Fortune?"
"Nay," said the scholar, sedately; "for Wat Stiles's puppet-show."
"Oh!--well, is not that good news? Is there not money in it? Why should
it make you down i' the mouth?"
"Oh, 'tis not the writing of the play--but I have no money to buy paper
and ink, and no place to write in."
"What, did the rascal showman give you no earnest money?"
"Yes; but I forgot, and spent it for supper. I knew you would make
shift to sup at the goldsmith's."
"Ay, marry, 'twould have gone hard else. Well, I am glad thou hast
eaten. It saves our shifting for thy supper. Troth, we shall come by
ink and paper. The thing is now to find beds for the night. Would I had
appointed to meet my gentleman this evening." But suddenly, at this,
the captain's face lengthened.
"When are you to meet him?"
"At ten to-morrow, in the Temple church," said the captain, dubiously.
After a moment's silence, he added, "And to think that the fat of the
land awaits you in Kent whenever you choose to take a wife to your
father's house there! Well, well, it must come to your getting the
better of that mad bashfulness--it must come to that in time."
"Why," quoth Holyday, surprised, "have you not assured me that women
are vipers?"
"Ay, most of them, indeed--but not all; not all." The captain spoke
thoughtfully.
"Well," said Holyday, after a pause, "I think I shall lodge in Cold
Harbour first, ere I take one home to my father." Cold Harbour was a
house in which vagabonds and debtors had sanctuary; but the two friends
had so far steered clear of it, the captain not liking the company or
the management thereof.
Leaving the Exchange, they found the streets alive with people; not
only had the fine weather brought out the citizens, but the town was
full of countryfolk up for the Trinity law term.
"'Odslid," a rustic esquire was overheard by the captain to say to
another, "I looked to lie at the Bell to-night, but not a bed's to be
had there. 'Twill go hard if all the inns--"
"Excellent," whispered Ravenshaw to the scholar. "We shall sleep dry of
the dews to-night--else I'm a simple parish ass. Come."
They went at once to the sign of the Bell, where the captain applied,
with an important air, for a chamber. On hearing that the house
was full, he made a great ado, saying he and his friend wished to
leave early in the morning in Hobson's wagon starting from that inn;
being late risers by habit, they durst not trust themselves to sleep
elsewhere, lest they miss the wagon. Finally, going into the inn yard,
the captain stated his case to one of Hobson's men, and suggested that
he and his companion might lie overnight in the tilt-wagon itself, so
as to make sure of not being left behind in the morning. The carrier,
glad to get two fares for the downward journey at a season when all
the travel was up to town, thought the idea a good one. And so the two
slept roomily that night on straw, well above ground, sheltered by the
canvas cover of the huge wagon. In the morning, pretending they went
for a bottle of wine, they did not return; and the carrier, whipping up
his horses at the end of a vain wait of fifteen minutes, was provided
with a subject of thought which lasted all the way to Edmonton.
Meanwhile, the captain and the scholar, postponing their breakfast,
whiled away the time till ten o'clock. At that hour, having left
his friend to loiter round Temple Bar, Ravenshaw stepped across the
venerable threshold of the church of the Temple.
This church, too, was a midday gathering-place, as was also Westminster
Abbey. But ten o'clock was too early for the crowd, and the captain
found himself almost alone among the recumbent figures, in dark marble,
of bygone knights of the Temple in full armour. Not even the lawyers,
in any considerable number, had yet taken their places by the clustered
Norman pillars at which they received clients. The gentleman whom
Ravenshaw had come to meet, to report the outcome of his attempt with
the goldsmith's daughter, was not there.
Master Jerningham, indeed, had cause to be late. He had cause also for
his mind to be, if not upset, at least tumbled about. In the first
place, though he did not try to resist it, he cursed his unreasonable
passion for this girl, which took so much time and thought from his
final preparations for the voyage on which he had set so heavy a
stake. He had been compelled to leave many things to his companion
gentlemen-adventurers, which he ought to have overseen himself. And
even as matters were, he was not clear as to what he would be about,
concerning the girl. Suppose he won her to a meeting, could such a
passion as his be cooled in the few hours during which he might be
with her before sailing? Or should he indeed, as he had hinted to Sir
Clement, set himself to carry her off on his voyage by persuasion
or force? He knew not; events must decide; only two things were
certain--he must behold her a yielding conquest in his arms; and he
must sail at the time set or as soon after as weather might permit.
Upon leaving Ravenshaw in St. Paul's, the day before, he had gone to
see a cunning man by whom his nativity had been cast with relation to
the voyage. The astrologer had foretold an obstacle to be encountered
at the last moment, and to be avoided only by great prudence. This had
darkened Master Jerningham's thoughts for awhile, but he had forgotten
it in the busy cares of the afternoon at Deptford, whither he had
hastened to see the bestowal of stores upon the ship. He had already
got his men down from London and Wapping, all taking part in the work,
some living aboard, some at the inns; so as to risk no desertions. He
had returned late to Winchester House, passed a restless night, slept
a little after daylight, and set forth in good time before ten for his
appointment.
Just as he was going down the water-stairs, a small craft shot in
ahead of the boat his man Gregory had hailed; a woman sprang up
from the stern and, gaining the stairs with a fearless leap, stood
facing him. She was a tall, finely made, ruddy-faced creature, in
her twenties, attired in the shabby remains of a country gentlewoman's
gown, and wearing a high-crowned, narrow-brimmed hat.
[Illustration: "BADE HIS VISITOR BE SEATED UPON A STONE BENCH, AND
FACED HER SULLENLY."]
"Name of the fiend!" muttered Master Jerningham, starting back in anger
and confusion. "What the devil do you here?"
"Peace," said the woman, in a low voice. "Have no fear. If your
virtuous kinsman sees me, say I'm old Jeremy's niece come to tell you
what men he'll need for the farm work." Her voice befitted her tall
and goodly figure, being rich and full; the look upon her handsome
countenance was one of mingled humiliation and scorn.
"I am in haste," said Jerningham, in great vexation.
"You must hear me first," she replied, resolutely.
Jerningham, stifling his annoyance, motioned Gregory to keep the
waterman waiting; then led the way up the stairs to the terrace, bade
his visitor be seated upon a stone bench, and faced her sullenly.
"Is this how you keep your promise?" he said, rebukingly.
"Oh, marry, I put you in no danger. I might have walked boldly to the
doors and asked for you. But I lay off yonder in the boat till you came
forth; it put me to the more cost, but you are shielded."
"Well, why in God's name have you come?"
"Because you would not come to the Grange, and I must needs have speech
with you. You forbade messages."
"Then have speech with me, and make an end. But look you, Meg, I have
no money. I have kept my word with you; I have given you a home at the
Grange; 'twas all I promised."
"'Tis all I ask. But the place must be a home, not a hell. 'Tis well
enough by day, and I mind not the loneness--troth, I'm glad to hide
my shame. But by night 'tis fearful, with none but old Jeremy for
protection, and he so feeble and such a coward. You must send a man
there, you must!--a man that is able to use a sword and pistol, and not
afraid."
"Why, who would go so far from the highroad to rob such a rotten husk
of a house?"
"'Tis not robbers," she said, sinking her voice to a terrified whisper.
"'Tis ghosts, and witches."
Jerningham laughed in derision of the idea.
"I tell you it's true. I know what I say," she went on. "Spirits walk
there every night; there are such sounds--!"
"Poh!" he interrupted. "The creaking of the timbers; the moving of
the casements in the wind; the flapping of the arras; the gnawing and
running of rats and mice."
"'Tis more than that. There be things I see; forms that pass swiftly;
they appear for a moment, then melt away."
"'Tis in your dreams you see them."
"I know when I am awake; besides, often I see them when I am not abed."
"They are the tricks of moonlight, then; or of rays that steal in at
cracks and crevices; or they are the moving of arras and such in a
faint breeze."
"I know better. Think not to put me off so. I'll not stay there alone
with old Jeremy. I cannot bear it--such fright! Good God, what nights
I've passed!"
Jerningham quieted her with a gesture of caution, as he looked
fearfully around to see if her excited manner was observed.
"Then there are witches," she went on, more calmly. "They slink about
the house and the garden in the shape of cats. Terrible noises they
make at night."
"Why, they _are_ cats, like enough; they seek the rats and mice. Troth,
for horrible noises--"
"Nay, but I know better. T'other evening Jeremy was late fetching home
the cow from the field, and so when I had done milking 'twas near
nightfall. As I was crossing the yard with the milk, what did I see
but an old woman leaning on her stick, by the corner of the house. She
was chewing and mumbling, and looking straight at me. I saw 'twas old
Goody Banks, whom the whole countryside knows to be a witch."
"Foh! a poor crazy beldame, no doubt come to beg or steal a crust or a
cup of milk."
"I thought so too, at first, after I had got over the fright of seeing
her--for 'tis rare we ever see any one at the Grange. But as I was
going to speak to her, she looked at me so evilly I remembered what the
countryfolk say of her, and such a fright came over me again, I cried
out, 'Avaunt in the name of Jesus!' and flung the pail of milk at her.
I heard a kind of whisk,--for I had closed my eyes as I threw,--and
when I opened them, there, instead of the old woman, stood a great cat,
staring at me with the very same evil eyes! So I knew she must be a
witch--turning into a cat before my very eyes!"
"But your eyes were closed, you say."
"Ay, she had bewitched me to close 'em, no doubt, so I might not see
how she transformed herself."
"Why, 'tis all clear. The whisk you heard was of the old woman's
running away from the milk-pail. The cat had been there all the while,
belike, but you had not seen it for the old woman."
"I tell you I know what I saw," she replied, growing vehement again.
"You need not think to fool me, and turn me off. Sith you have no other
place for me to live, I am content to live at the Grange; but you must
send a man there to guard the place against ghosts and witches. You
must do it,--a stout, strong man afraid of nothing; no shivering old
dotard like Jeremy, who durs'n't stick his nose out of his bedclothes
between dusk and daybreak. You promised to give me a home, and I to
keep silent and unseen; but a house of spirits and witches is no fit
home, and so what becomes of our agreement? So best send a man."
"Why, if it be not possible?"
"Then I shall hold myself freed of my promise, and if you cannot make
one place a home for me, you shall make another. I shall tell the
bishop all that is between us--oh, I shall get word to him, doubt it
not!--and I know what so good a man will do. He will make you marry me,
that is what he will! My birth--"
"Oh, peace! I was jesting. I will send a man. Is that all?"
"Ay, and little enough. There's much a man can do there, for the good
of the place itself. Will you send him to-day?"
"Why, faith, if I can find him--a man fit for the place, I mean. I have
much to do to-day."
"But I cannot endure another night there, with none but Jeremy in the
house. You must send him to-day; else I swear I will come--"
"Nay, give me a little time," pleaded Jerningham, thinking that if he
could but hold her off with promises for two days, her disclosure
would matter little, as by that time he would be afloat--unless weather
should hinder the sailing. At this "unless," he frowned, and remembered
the fortune-teller's prediction. Without doubt, what Mistress Meg might
do was the obstacle in the case. He entertained a morbid fear of an
impediment arising at the last moment. The woman was capable of keeping
her threat; and the bishop was capable of staying him at the very
lifting of the anchor, capable even of having him pursued and brought
back as long as he was in home waters. Meg knew nothing of his voyage.
He must keep that from her, as well as satisfy her in the matter of
her request. The wise man had said that "prudence" might avoid the
obstacle; Jerningham must deal prudently with her. "I will send a man
next week," quoth he.
"I will give you till to-morrow to find a fit man," she replied,
resolutely. "To-night I can sit up with candles lit. But if your man be
not there to-morrow at four o'clock in the afternoon, I shall start for
London; if I come a-horseback I can be here by eight."
Jerningham fetched a heavy sigh. He knew this woman, and when she
meant what she said, and how impossible it was to move her on those
occasions. He thought what a close player his adverse fiend was, to
set the time of her possible revelation upon the very eve of his
departure. Durst he hazard some very probable hitch of her causing? No;
that would not be "prudence." He must not only promise her; he must
also send the man. After all, that was no difficult matter; once the
master was safe away on the seas, destined to come back rich enough
to defy bishop and all, or come back never at all, let the man look
where he might for his wage. It was but palming off upon her the first
ruffian to be hired, who might behave decently for a week or so.
Jerningham's face lightened, therefore; he gave his word, slipped the
woman a coin to pay her boatman, saw her to the boat by which she had
come, and then took his seat in the one awaiting him, and bade the
waterman make haste to the Temple stairs.
As he and Gregory walked into the Temple church, he did not immediately
know the man who hastened up to meet him; for the up-turned moustaches,
and the bareness of chin, except for the little tuft beneath the
lip, gave the captain a somewhat spruce and gallant appearance,
notwithstanding his plain attire.
"God save you, sir. I thought you had changed your mind."
"By my soul, sir--oh, 'tis Ravenshaw! 'Faith, 'tis you have changed
your face. I was detained, against my will. Let's go behind that
farthest pillar. Troth, this transformation--" He broke off and eyed
the captain narrowly, with a sudden suspicion.
"A man's face is his own," said Ravenshaw, bluffly.
"One would think you had set yourself to charm the ladies."
"Fear not. I have no designs upon the lady you wot of. And now let me
speak plain words. When I undertook your business yesterday, 'twas left
in doubt between us whether your desire of this maid meant honestly."
"'Slight, it shall remain in doubt, as far as your knowledge is
concerned," replied Jerningham, quickly, nettled at the other's tone.
"It was left in doubt, as far as speech went," continued Ravenshaw.
"But there was little doubt in my mind. And yet I bound myself to
the service because I was at war with womankind. I thought all women
bad--nay, in my true heart I knew better, but I lost sight of that
knowledge, and chose to think them so."
"Wherein does your opinion of the sex concern me?"
"But I was wrong," pursued the captain. "I have met one who proves they
are not all bad. I were a fool, then, to hold myself at feud with the
sex; and the greater fool to pay back my grudge, if I must pay it, upon
one that is innocent."
"Why, thou recreant knave! Do you mean you have failed in the business
and would lay it to your virtue?"
"Softly, good sir! I will tell you this: I can win the maid to meet
you, if I will."
"Then what the devil--? How much money--? Come to an end, that I may
know whether to use you or--"
"I will win the maid to meet you--if you will pledge yourself--"
"Go on; what price?"
"If you will pledge yourself to make her your wife at the meeting, and
acknowledge her openly as such."
Jerningham stared for a moment in amazement. Then he gave a harsh laugh.
"A rare jest, i' faith! The roaring captain, desiring a city maid for
his mistress, offers to get her a gentleman husband! A shrewd captain!
Belike, a shrewd maid, rather!"
"By this hand, I ought to send you to hell! But for her sake, I will
rather explain. She seeks no husband. But I conceived you might be a
fit man for such a maid. You are young and well-favoured,--a fitter man
than some that might be forced upon her. I thought a marriage with such
a mate might save-- But to the point: if you love her, why not honestly?
And if honestly, why not in marriage? You will behold few maids as
beautiful, none more innocent. As to her portion, the marriage must
needs be against her father's knowledge, by license and bond; but when
he finds his son is so likely a gentleman, I warrant--"
"Come, come, an end of this; I am not to be coney-catched. Shall I meet
the wench through your mediation, or shall I not?"
"You shall not. And I tell you this: she is not to be won to such a
meeting as you are minded for; not by the forms of gods, the treasures
of kings, or the tongues of poets!"
Jerningham shrugged his shoulders.
"It is the truth," said the captain. "Virtue beats in her heart,
modesty courses with her blood, purity shines in her eyes, she is the
mirror of innocence. Should you find means to try her, I swear to
you the attempt would but mar her peace, and serve you nothing. Nay,
even if that were not so,--if there were a chance of your enticing
her,--black curses would fall upon the man by whose deed that stainless
flower were smirched. Innocence robed in beauty--there's too little of
it walks the world, that gentlemen should take a hand in spoiling it!"
"Man, you waste my time prating," said Jerningham, who had been
thinking swiftly, and imagining many possibilities, and hence saw
reason for calm speaking. "I see you are stubborn against the business
I bespoke you for. When I want an orator to recommend me a wife, I may
seek you. If I wish to hear sermons out of church, I can go to Paul's
Cross any day."
The two looked at each other searchingly. The captain sought to find
why Jerningham, after his exceeding desire, should show but a momentary
anger, and speedily turn indifferent. Had his desire melted at a
single disappointment? Perhaps; but affairs would bear watching. On
Jerningham's part, he was wondering what the other would really be
at, concerning the maid; what had passed between them, and how far
the captain stood in the way of Jerningham's possessing her by such
desperate means as might yet be used. If the man could only be kept
unsuspecting, and got out of London for a few days! Jerningham had a
thought.
"So let us say no more of this maid," he resumed, "and if you forget
her as soon as I shall, she will be soon forgot. No doubt you remember
I spoke of other employments I might have for you. Of course I meant if
you served me well with the goldsmith's wench. You proved a frail staff
to lean upon in that matter, but I perceive 'tis no fair test of you
where a woman is in the case. So, as you are a man to my liking, I will
try you in another business. By the foot of a soldier, it cuts my heart
to see men of mettle hounded by ill fortune!"
So soft and urbane had Master Jerningham suddenly grown, so tender
and courteous was his voice, so sweet a smile had transformed his
melancholy face, that the captain was disarmed. All the gentleman in
Ravenshaw seemed to be touched by the other's manner; he would have
felt graceless and churlish to resist.
"If the business be one that goes less against my stomach, I will show
my thanks in it," said he, in conciliated tones.
"'Tis a kind of stewardship over a little estate I have in Kent--if you
mind not going to the country."
"Say on!" quoth the captain, opening his eyes at the beneficent
prospect.
Master Jerningham depicted his small inheritance of neglected fields
and crazy house in as favourable colours as he could safely use. The
captain, dissembling not his satisfaction, averred he could wear the
gold chain of stewardship as well as another man. An agreement was
struck upon the spot; Jerningham imparted the general details, and said
he would have the necessary writings made, and full instructions drawn
up, within a few days; meanwhile, he desired the new steward to install
himself in the house at once.
"Marry, a bite and a sup, and I am ready," cried Ravenshaw, gaily; then
suddenly remembered his promise to meet the goldsmith's daughter that
evening. "Nay, I forgot; I have some affairs to settle. I cannot go
before to-morrow."
Jerningham, whose purpose had been so happily met by the captain's
readiness, lost his gratified look.
"Oh, a plague on your affairs! You must go to-day," he said.
Ravenshaw shook his head. "I cannot go till to-morrow, and there's an
end on't!"
Jerningham sighed with suppressed vexation. He dared not urge lest he
arouse suspicion. It was too late to back out of the bargain without
betraying himself. Moreover, to get the captain away on the morrow was
better than nothing.
"Well, well; look to your affairs, then. But go early to-morrow."
Ravenshaw pondered a few moments. "I will start at noon, not before."
"But you must be at the Grange by four o'clock; I have given my word to
the people there."
"I can do so, setting forth at noon. 'Tis eighteen miles, you say. I
will go by horse."
"'Slight, man, have you a horse?"
"No, but you will give me one--or the means to buy one at Smithfield;
and then may I die in Newgate if I be not at your country-house at four
o'clock!"
After a little thought, Jerningham told him to call at a certain gate
at Winchester House on the morrow at noon, where a horse would be in
waiting; he then handed him a gold angel and dismissed him to his
affairs.
The captain had no sooner strutted jauntily off than Jerningham quickly
beckoned Gregory, and said earnestly:
"Dog his footsteps. Lose not his track till he comes to me to-morrow;
and if he meets _her_--Begone! you will lose him. Haste!"
The jealous lackey, raised to sudden joy by this congenial commission,
glided away like a cat.
"I will have her, 'gainst all the surly fathers and swaggering captains
in London; and 'gainst her own will, and fiends and angels, to boot!"
said Master Jerningham, in his heart.
About the same moment, Ravenshaw was saying in _his_ heart, as he trod
the stones of Fleet Street:
"Ere I leave London, I'll see her safe from the old man's hopes and the
young man's devices. I'll pawn my brains, else!"