IN THE GOLDSMITH'S GARDEN.
"Rather than be yoked with this bridegroom is appointed me I would
take up any husband almost upon any trust."--_Bartholomew Fair._
Ravenshaw found Master Holyday leaning back against a door-post, with
the unconscious weariness of hunger, and listening with a mild interest
to the oration of a quack doctor who had drawn a small crowd.
"Come, heart," cried the captain, "the mountebank will never cure
thy empty stomach; here's the remedy for that," and he showed his
gold piece, and dragged the scholar to an ordinary. After dinner,
they bought paper, ink, and pens, and took a lodging at the house of
a horse-courser in Smithfield,--a top-story room, with an open view
of the horse markets backed by gabled buildings and the tower of St.
Bartholomew's Church.
Ravenshaw left the poet at work upon his puppet-play, of which the
title was to be: "The Tragical Comical History of Paris and Helen;
otherwise the King a Cuckold; being the Sweet Sinful Loves of the
Trojan Gallant and the Fair Queen of Menelaus; with the Mad, Merry
Humours of the Foul-mouthed Roaring Greek Soldier, Thersites."
The captain whiled away the afternoon in the streets, where there
were conjurers, jugglers, morris-dancers, monsters, and all manner of
shows for the crowds of people in town for the law term. At evening
he took home a supper from a cook's shop, and shared it with Holyday,
who, being in the full flow of inspiration, continued writing with one
hand while he ate from the other whatever the captain offered him; the
poet knowing not what food he took, and oft staring or grimacing as he
sought for expression or felt the passion or mirth of what he wrote.
Ravenshaw presently placed a lighted candle on the writer's deal table,
and stole out to keep his tryst with the goldsmith's daughter.
The day had gone eventfully at the goldsmith's house. In the morning
Master Etheridge announced that he would give a supper, with dancing,
that night, to show his pleasure at Sir Peregrine's recovery and
arrival. This was an age when rich citizens missed no occasion
for festivity. So there was much bustle of sending servants with
invitations, hiring a band of musicians, cooking meats and fowls and
birds, making cakes and marchpane and pasties, and other doings.
Millicent uttered no plaint or protest; the time of pleadings and tears
on her side, arguments and threats on her father's, was past; many and
long had been the scenes between the two, such as were not uncommon in
that age, and such as Shakespeare has represented in the brief passage
between "Juliet" and her parents, and these had left the goldsmith firm
as rock, Millicent weak and hopeless of resisting his will.
As for Sir Peregrine, he had never thought it necessary to urge; he
took it for granted she adored him--what lady had not?--and that in
her heart she counted herself supremely blessed in being picked out
for him. He attributed her aloofness and sulkiness, even her outbursts
of spoken detestation, to shyness, girlish perverseness, sense of
unworthiness of the honour of his hand, and chiefly to jealousy of his
former wives and present admirers. So he serenely ignored all signs of
her feelings.
She bore her part in the day's preparations, a little uneasy in mind
lest the festivities might prevent her appointed meeting at nightfall.
She could not help counting much upon this new acquaintance; he seemed
a man of such resource and ingenuity, and such willingness to deliver
her, even though he was betrothed to another--what a pity he was
betrothed! She checked herself, with a blush; but all the same she had
an intuition that the other woman would not be the best wife for him.
So it befell that, as Ravenshaw approached the house at dark, he saw
all the windows light, and from the open ones came forth the sounds of
music, laughter, and gay voices. Nevertheless, he pushed gently at the
Friday Street gate, which gave as he had hoped, and found himself alone
in the garden. He softly closed the gate, went into the shadow of the
apple-tree, and waited.
With his eyes upon the place where she must appear in coming from the
house, he listened to the music of a stately dance,--the thin but
elegant and spirit-like music of the time, produced on this occasion
by violins, flutes, and shawms. When the strains died, they were soon
followed by bursts of laughter from the open dining-room windows;
then, presently, in the moonlight, he saw the figure he awaited. With
a golden caul upon her head, and wearing the long robe and train
necessary to the majestic pavan which she had recently been dancing,
she glided across the turf, and stopped before him.
"You have come from great mirth," whispered the captain, looking toward
the windows whence the laughter proceeded.
"It enabled me to escape," she whispered in reply. "They are listening
to the tales of one Master Vallance; he has been telling of the
rogueries of a rascal named Ravenshaw, a disbanded captain that
swaggers about the town."
He stared at her, with open eyes and limp jaw; in a vague way he
remembered one Master Vallance as a gallant who had insulted him one
night in the Windmill tavern, the night he first met Master Holyday.
Luckily, she did not notice his expression.
"As for me," she finished, "I think no better of gentlemen like Master
Vallance for knowing such foul knaves."
"Ay, indeed," assented the captain.
"They are holding these little revels in welcome to Sir Peregrine," she
went on. "You might have been invited, but I heard my father say he
forgot where you lodged, if you told him."
"'Tis better to be here, at your invitation."
"Then I bid you welcome," she said, smiling, and holding out her hand.
"Faith, a right courteous maid," said he, and took the least motion as
if to touch the hand with his lips; but thought what he was, and stood
rigid. "Well, we must talk now of your--"
"Good heaven! Stand close behind the tree," she whispered. "'Tis Sir
Peregrine, come after me."
Ravenshaw was instantly under cover. Sure enough, steps were shuffling
along the sod, and a cracked old voice approached, saying:
"What, what, sweet? Wilt fly me still? wilt be still peevish? Nay, good
lack, I perceive it now; thou knew'st I'd follow; thou wished to be
alone with me, alone with thy chick. A pretty thought; I'll kiss thee
for it."
Ravenshaw heard the smack of the old man's lips, and grated his teeth.
She had stepped toward the knight, so as to meet him at a further
distance from her secret visitor, of whom, manifestly, the old fellow's
eyes had not caught a glimpse.
What was she to do? To send the interrupter back into the house upon a
pretext was to be rid of him but a minute. She was not born to craft,
or schooled in it; but her situation of late had sharpened her wits and
altered her scruples. Ravenshaw, straining his ears, heard her say:
"I am angry with you, Sir Peregrine, and that is why I came away."
"What, angry, my bird, with thy faithfullest, ever-lovingest servant?
Be I to blame if Mistress Felton smiled so at me?"
"Oh, Mistress Felton?--let her smile, I care not. I am angry because of
thy gift. A goodly gift enough, and more than I deserve; but when you
knew my heart was set upon the sapphire in your Italian bonnet--"
"Why, God's love, you never said you wished it! Sure, how--"
"Never said, with my lips, no doubt. But have I not said with my eyes,
gazing on it by the hour? Troth, art grown so blind--?"
"Oh, good lack, say no more, sweet! The sapphire is thine own; I'll
fetch it to-morrow."
"Nay, but I wish it to-night, long for it to-night, must have it
to-night; else I shall hate it, and never desire it, and throw it to a
coal-carrier when you fetch it!"
"God-a-mercy! thou shalt have it to-night. 'Tis at mine inn; I'll send
one of my men straightway."
"What, trust it to thy man? Such a jewel, that I have set my heart on?
If he were to lose it, or be robbed of it, I should ne'er--"
"Oh, fear not. Humphrey is to be trusted; he hath served me
fifty--ah--twenty year, come Michaelmas; he'll fetch it safe."
"Oh, well, then, if you fear to go alone for it after dark!--if you
choose not to make a lover's errand of it!--if you are too old, why,
then--"
"Oh, tush, I'll go for it! Too old! ha, ha! Thou'rt a jesting chick,
thou art. See how soon I shall fetch it."
He strutted to the gate, and was gone. In a moment, Millicent was by
Ravenshaw's side; neither of the two thinking to fasten the gate after
the knight's departure.
"I see we must be quick," said Ravenshaw. "Your only escape from this
marriage is to run away from it. Your only refuge, you once thought,
was your uncle's house. But now that seems closed to you."
"I am not sure. My uncle wrote me so, when he was fresh from his mishap
in London. But if he found me at his door, he might not have the heart
to thrust me away."
"No doubt; but your father would seek you at your uncle's. You think
you could be hid there; but if your father is the man he seems, and
your uncle is the man _he_ seems, your father would soon have you out
of hiding; he would have the house down, else. Is it not so?"
"Perchance you are right; alas!"
"Now there is a way whereby it may be possible for you to find refuge
elsewhere; or whereby you may e'en go to your uncle's and defy your
father when he comes after you."
"In God's name, what is it?"
"Troth, have you ne'er thought on't? If you were already married--but
not to Sir Peregrine or any such kind of stockfish--might not your
husband take you to his own house? or if he took you to your uncle's,
what good were your father's claim upon you against your husband's?"
She looked at him timidly but sweetly, and trembled a little.
"What?" quoth she, with pretended gaiety. "Escape a husband by seeking
a husband?"
"By accepting, not seeking, one--one less unfit--one that a maid might
find to her liking."
"Why, in good sooth--I hope I am not a bold hussy for saying so--but
rather than be bound to that odious Sir Peregrine, I think I would
choose blindfold any husband that offered! And if he were, as you say,
to my liking--"
"I said he might be to the liking of some maids. Have you ever
considered what manner of man your fancy might rest upon?"
He covered the seriousness of the question with a feigned merriment.
She, too, wore a smile; in her confusion, she fingered the low-hanging
apple-blossoms, and avoided his eyes, but, watching him furtively, she
noticed how familiarly his hand reposed on his sword-hilt; ere she
bethought herself, she answered:
"Oh, a man of good wit, a better wit than face, and yet a middling good
face, too; a man that could handle a rapier well--yes, certainly a good
swordman; and as for--"
A voice was suddenly heard from the dining-room window aloft:
"Millicent! What do you in the garden, child? Sure 'tis thy train I see
on the grass. What dost thou behind the apple-tree?"
It was the girl's mother,--Ravenshaw dared not look from behind the
tree, but he knew the voice.
"Say you are with Sir Peregrine," he whispered.
With a trembling voice, she obeyed.
"Oh!" exclaimed Mistress Etheridge, satisfied; but then, as with a
suddenly engendered doubt, "I should have thought Sir Peregrine would
speak for himself."
"Oh, heaven!" whispered Millicent; "she will send down to see."
"Good lack, sweet mother!" cried Ravenshaw, in well-nigh perfect
imitation of Sir Peregrine's cracked voice, "may not young lovers
steal away for a tender minute or so? May not doves coo in a corner
unseen? Must sweethearts be called from a quiet bower, and made to show
themselves, and to give answers?"
"Peace, peace, Sir Peregrine! I am much to blame," replied Mistress
Etheridge; and went away from the window, as Millicent observed in
peeping around the apple-tree.
"Faith," whispered Ravenshaw, "lest we be overheard, I should speak
love to you in his voice henceforth."
"Nay, I'd rather you spoke it in your own voice," said Millicent, ere
she realised.
Ravenshaw's heart bounded.
"'Slight, what fool's talk!" she added, quickly, in chagrin. "I do
indeed forget the other maid!"
"What other maid?" he asked, off his guard.
"The maid you are to marry, of course."
"Oh!--faith, yes, I forgot her, too!" he answered, truly enough.
"Fie, Master Holyday!" she said, pride bidding her assume the mask of
raillery.
"Holyday, say you?" called out an insolent, derisive voice, at which
both Ravenshaw and Millicent started in surprise, for it came from
within the garden. A moment later, a head was thrust forth from the
shrubbery by the gate,--the head of Master Jerningham's man Gregory,
who had patiently hounded Ravenshaw all afternoon and evening, and had
slipped in when Sir Peregrine had left the gate unclosed.
"Holyday, forsooth!" he went on, instantly alive to the opportunity
of serving his master by shattering the falsely won confidence he saw
between the maid and Ravenshaw. "You are cozened, mistress. The man's
name is not Holyday; 'tis Ravenshaw--and a scurvy name he has made of
it, too!"
Astonishment and mortification had held the captain motionless; but
now, with a sharp ejaculation, he flashed out his rapier, and ran for
his exposer. But the cat-footed Gregory had as swiftly darted along
between shrubbery and wall, and Ravenshaw, on reaching the place where
he had appeared, had to stop and look about in vain for him.
"What does he mean?" demanded Millicent of the captain, whom she had
followed. "Is your name Ravenshaw?"
He felt that his wrathful movement against his accuser had confirmed
the accusation; moreover, there was that in her look which made it too
repugnant to deceive her longer.
"I cannot deny it," he said, humbly.
"What! Not _that_ Ravenshaw?"
"The one of whom you heard Master Vallance speak?--yes!"
Here Gregory's voice put in again from another part of the shrubbery:
"'Tis Ravenshaw, the roaring rascal, that calls himself captain, and
lives by his wits and by blustering."
A slight sound told that this speech was followed by another prudent
flight behind the shrubbery. Ravenshaw was minded to give chase and
dig the fellow out at all cost, but was drawn from that intention, and
from all thought of the spy, by the look of horror, indignation, and
loathing that had come over Millicent's face. He took a step toward
her; but, with a gesture of abhorrence, she ran from him across the
garden. Knowing not what he would say or do in supplication, he went
after her.
"Not another step!" she cried, turning upon him, and with the dignity
of outraged trustfulness. "Go hence, villain, rascal, knave! Go, or
I will call my father, to have his 'prentices throw you into the
street! Good God! to think I should have trusted my secrets to such an
ill-famed rogue! I know not what your purpose was, but for once you
shall fail in your cheateries. I'd rather wed Sir Peregrine Medway
thrice over than be beholden to--"
At this instant, and as Ravenshaw stood shrinking in the fire of her
contempt, the unseen Gregory, having seized his chance for a concealed
dash from the garden, reached the gate, and ran plump into the arms of
Sir Peregrine, who was returning with the sapphire.
"Good lack, what the devil's this?" exclaimed the ancient knight,
knocked out of breath; and he pluckily caught Gregory by the neck, and
forced him back into the garden.
"Let him go," said Millicent, as the knight came forward in great
amazement. "He is a knave, doubtless, but deserves well for unmasking
this other knave."
"What, why, 'tis Master Holyday!" said Sir Peregrine, quite bewildered.
"Call'st thou him a knave? And what dost thou here, Master Holyday? I
knew not you were invited to the revels."
"'Tis no Master Holyday," said Millicent, "but one Captain Ravenshaw,
whose name is a byword of the taverns; this man has declared him, and
he denies it not. What his designs were, in passing upon my father by
the name of Holyday, I know not."
"Good lack! here's wonders and marvels! And how comes he to be here
to-night?"
Millicent hesitated. Ravenshaw spoke for the first time:
"I came through that gate, which you were so careless as to leave open,
Sir Peregrine; I saw you go, as I stood without; and what my purposes
were, you may amuse yourself in guessing. Yonder knave, I perceive,
followed me--"
At this, Gregory, not liking the captain's tone, suddenly jerked from
the old knight's grasp, and bolted out through the gate. Ravenshaw
could not immediately pursue him, for he had been thinking swiftly, and
had something yet to say:
"My designs being foiled, and to show that I am a man of pleasant
humour, I will e'en give you a word of good counsel. When you tell
Master Etheridge how he was fooled in his friend, young Holyday, let
him suppose you were here when I entered this garden; for, look you, it
will show ill in you to have left this lady alone, and the gate open;
and it will appear careless in her, not to have made sure the gate was
fastened. It will seem brave in you, moreover, to have been here and
put me to rout when that knave betrayed me."
He paused, looking at Millicent to see whether she inwardly thanked
him for saving the secret of her dealings with him; but, though
she seemed to breathe a little more freely, as if she realised her
advantage in his suggestion, she exhibited nothing for him but
contempt; doubtless she supposed he had deeper motives for his advice,
or that he was jesting.
Receiving no reply from either her or Sir Peregrine, the captain, after
waiting a moment, made a low bow, turned, and swaggered out through the
gate.
"No doubt 'tis wise to do as he counselled," faltered Millicent, in a
low tone, after Sir Peregrine had carefully closed the gate, and as he
led her to the house.
"Ay, so I think. I would not have your father know you were careless,
sweet. Take the sapphire, chick, and give me a kiss for it."
As she felt his arms around her, and his moustache against her lip, and
meditated that her last hope had proved worthless, she gave herself up
as lost, and accounted herself rather a dead than a living person for
the rest of her days.
Meanwhile Captain Ravenshaw, after stumbling over the protruding feet
of a figure that huddled drunkenlike in the next doorway, plunged
rapidly on in search of Gregory; dogged at a safe distance by the
drunkenlike figure, which, on rising from the doorway, proved to
be that of Gregory himself, firm upon shadowing his enemy until the
latter's meeting with Jerningham next day.
At last abandoning the quest, during which Millicent's whiplike words
of dismissal lashed his heart all the while, Ravenshaw returned to a
part of Friday Street where he could stand in solitude and see the
light, and hear the sprightly music, that came from the goldsmith's
windows.
"Though you loathe me and cast me off," he whispered, looking toward
the room in which she might be, "yet, against your knowledge, and
against your will to be served by me, I will keep my promise, and save
you! You may fling me forth, but you cannot stop me from that! Hope be
with you in these revels, sweet; and sleep lie soft upon your eyelids
afterward. Good night!"
After a little time, he made up his mind what to do, and took himself
off through Cheapside, the keen-eyed, silent-footed serving-man still
upon his track.