DIRE THINGS BEFALL IN THE FOREST.
"'Mistress, it grows somewhat pretty and dark.'
'What then?'
'Nay, nothing. Do not think I am afraid,
Although perhaps you are.'"--_Beggars' Bush._
The two large boats were not alone upon the river. Here and there, in
the distance, moved the tiny lights of a wherry carrying a benighted
fare; and up toward the palaces and Westminster more than one cluster
of lanterns and torches swept along, where some party of ladies and
gentlemen were rowed to a mask or other revels. From one such company
the western breeze brought the strains of guitars; Bill Tooby and his
comrades, infected with the spirit of melody, began to sing "Heave
and ho, rumbelow," in deep voices, in time with the movement of their
bodies.
Along the northern bank of the river, where the dwellings and
warehouses of merchants rose like a wall from the water's edge, the dim
lights of windows ran in a straggling, interrupted line. Farther west,
where the river washed the stairs to the gardens of the great Strand
residences and of the Temple, there were scarce any lights at all. On
the south bank, a few glowing windows marked the row of taverns and
other houses--many of them of questionable repute--which, set back a
little from the river, concealed the bear-gardens and playhouses in the
fields behind. But soon, as the boat sped down-stream, the buildings on
that bank were flush with the shore, save where Winchester House showed
a few lighted windows beyond its terrace. Little did Millicent imagine
that anything bearing upon her destiny had ever been spoken or thought
on that terrace or in that house. In front, spanning the river, another
irregular row of window lights indicated the tall, close-built houses
of London Bridge; and the roar of the water, first dammed by the piers
and then falling in a kind of cataract through the twenty arches, was
already loud in the ears.
Millicent kept her eyes on the lights of the boat behind,--only two
lights, a lantern at the prow, and a torch held by some one near
the stern. They came steadily on, seeming neither to lose nor gain.
Suddenly she lost sense of them; but that was when her own boat plunged
into one of the arches of the bridge, and seemed to be gulped down
by a blacker night, a chill air, and a thunderous noise. Forward and
slightly downward the boat flung itself, as if into some gulf of the
underworld, but all of a sudden it was out again in the soft air and
the calm water, and Millicent, looking up, saw the lit windows of the
eastern side of the bridge. She continued gazing back, and very soon
the two lights, the little yellow one and the trailing red one, came
into view between the piers, still in pursuit at the same distance.
"They don't gain upon us," growled Cutting Tom, with a desire of making
himself agreeable to the maid.
"But they do not lose," said Millicent, in a troubled tone.
"Why, sooth, an they still gain not, 'tis sure they'll ne'er catch us."
"But they can see where we land," said she, "and they can land there,
too, and so follow us to the end."
"Then we can e'en teach 'em better manners," said Tom, grandly. "I'd as
lief split a throat this night as another."
"Oh, no; in heaven's name, no!" she cried. "We must escape them without
that. No blows, I beg of you, whate'er befall!"
"Yet you see how they stick to our heels. How is it, waterman? Shall we
not give 'em the slip soon?"
"Belike, and belike not," replied Tooby. "We can do our best, no more."
Suddenly Master Holyday, thinking in some manner to redeem himself, had
an inspiration.
"How if they couldn't see to follow us?" he asked, abruptly. "How if we
put out our lights and went on in the dark?"
"Not for ten pound a minute," said Tooby, "would I row without lights,
a night like this. 'Tis bad enow as it is, with all the ships and small
boats lying in the Pool here. E'en with our lanterns, we shall do well
an we bump not our nose."
There was a silence, broken only by the plash of the oars, the creak of
the rowlocks, the strange noises of the river, the lessening sound of
what an obscure dramatist of those days describes as
"The bridge's cataracts, and such-like murmurs
As night and sleep yield from a populous number."
"But I will e'en try something better," added Tooby, presently, and
forthwith gave an inaudible order to his men.
They instantly stopped rowing, and even proceeded to stay the boat's
movement with the current, so that it remained almost stationary.
Millicent cried out in alarm as the lights behind came rapidly nearer.
"Peace, mistress," said Tooby. "There will be no blood spilled." He
then spoke in a low tone to the men in the bow, and himself strode to
the stern, where he stood with his long arms slightly crooked at the
elbows as if to be in readiness for action.
Swiftly the other boat came alongside. Millicent, holding her breath,
wondering what was about to occur, made out her father bending forward
in the attitude of one ready to grasp and punish. The torch revealed
Sir Peregrine also, limply huddled up so that his beard was between his
knees, and two of the apprentices, one of whom held the torch.
"Ay, thou dost well to yield, wench!" spake the goldsmith, in tones so
wrathful as rather to contradict his words.
"Ay, chick," called out Sir Peregrine, reassuringly, "no need to run
away from me; I'll give thee no cause for jealousy, I promise thee."
Master Etheridge stood up to reach out for his daughter. She had a
fearful thought that Tooby had chosen to betray her. But at the same
instant Tooby, leaning over to the other boat, violently struck the
torch-bearing apprentice's hand, and deftly caught the torch away.
She heard a slight crash forward; and then her own boat shot through
the water, leaving the other in complete darkness, one of Tooby's men
having knocked the lantern from its prow with an oar.
Millicent gave a quick breath of relief and put on her cloak; but then
she thought of the other boat's danger of running into something, or of
being run down itself, and of this she spoke.
"Never fear," said Tooby. "He'll no more venture in the dark than I
would. We'll fast put yon ship's hull 'twixt them and us, and be out of
their ken ere ever they can get a light. And now pull, hearts, for the
honour of watermen!"
Soon the lights on the left bank, becoming fewer, took such height and
shape that Millicent knew her boat was passing the Tower. Somewhere
there the water plashed against the underground stairs of Traitors'
Gate, that arched cavern which had lifted its iron door often in nights
as dark as this, to admit some noble prisoner whose face, redly pale
in the torchlight, betokened a heart chilled with a feeling that those
damp walls formed a vestibule of death. Master Holyday, for all that
was upon his mind, thought of these things, and of much else in the
night-clad surroundings; but Millicent kept her eyes fixed on the
darkness behind, alert for any moving light that might appear in chase.
None such appeared; and by the time the boat had traversed the city of
great ships, and had come to where the lights upon the banks were few,
and the mysterious noises of the town had given place to those of the
country, she had cast away all fear of danger from behind.
At Deptford they passed one ship, of which Millicent took no more note
than she took of any other of the countless vessels whose lights dotted
the gloom around her that night; but on which she might have bestowed
a second look had she known all that was to be known.
The tide, the current, and the wind being with the rowers, it seemed
not long till Tooby hinted that Master Holyday would do well to keep
his eyes open for the place of landing. The scholar, scanning the
blue-black darkness in perplexity, said that he could not for his
life see anything of the shore. Tooby asked him whether he knew the
different landmarks by name. The scholar was acquainted with those in
the neighbourhood of where they should land. Thenceforth the waterman
called out the name of each village, wharf, riverside tavern, hill,
tributary, or well-known country-seat, the contents of the darkness
being known to him perhaps by his sense of distance, perhaps by
reference to some far-off light, perhaps sometimes by the smell of
marsh or wood. Holyday began to recognise the names; and at last told
the waterman to put ashore at the mouth of a certain creek.
The boat glided along a low bank and stopped. Tooby, standing up, held
out his lantern to show where there was safe footing. Master Holyday,
leaping out too hastily, alighted up to his knees in water. Millicent,
aided by the waterman's hand, stepped ashore. Cutting Tom and his men
lost no time. Ere it seemed possible, the lights of the boat were
moving swiftly away. Its departure, and especially that of Tooby,
left Millicent with a sudden pang of loneliness and misgiving. But she
reflected that the last stage of her flight was reached; taking new
heart, she grasped Holyday's sleeve, and waited to be led.
The party had two lanterns and a torch, all which had been lighted in
the boat. Cutting Tom assigned one lantern to Holyday, the other to the
slim fellow with the projecting head, the torch to himself. The poet,
with a deep sigh, and craning his neck to peer into the mysterious
blackness beyond the little area of feeble light, started forward;
Millicent clung to his elbow; Cutting Tom placed himself at her other
side, and the four men followed close.
The walkers proceeded slowly, Master Holyday having often to stop to
ascertain his way. At first the turf under them was springy, then it
became softer, and sometimes one's foot would sink into a tiny pool;
then the ground became higher, and presently they entered a wood. This
seemed interminable; not only was poor Master Holyday compelled to
pause every minute to identify his whereabouts but also the protruding
roots, fallen boughs, and frequent underbrush made every step a matter
of care.
As they moved their torch and lanterns, so the light and shadow
constantly moved about them; trunks and boughs, bush and brake, would
suddenly appear and as quickly vanish as the yellow rays swung here
and there. The breeze rustled unceasingly among the leaves, and the air
was pleasant with forest odours. Millicent's fancy peopled the shades
with sleeping giants, goblins, witches, dragons, and all the creatures
of the old tales of fairies and knights errant. She thought a similar
terror must have come upon the others; her companion hesitated so when
he strove to pierce the shadows with wide-open eyes; and Cutting Tom
kept so close to her; while one of the men had stepped up to the other
side of Holyday and tightly grasped his arm.
"'Tis a weary journey, mistress," complained the poet.
"Nay, I find it pleasant sport," said she, feeling that one of the
two must show a light heart. Holyday's manner all evening had been so
at variance with his readiness to fight a dangerous man some hours
earlier, that she made no attempt to understand the alteration; she
merely attended to the need of keeping up his spirits, though her own
heart faltered. But she could not help adding: "Is there much more of
this wood to go through?"
"More than I wish there were," replied Holyday.
They went some distance farther in silence. Then the slim fellow with
a lantern suddenly gave two coughs. Instantly Cutting Tom gripped
Millicent's arm, stood still, and said to Holyday:
"A plague on your eyes, sir! you are leading us the wrong way."
Holyday, stopping perforce with all the rest, replied, in amazement:
"'Tis the right way; I have come by this path to fish in the Thames a
hundred times."
"Poh! fish me no fish, sir!" cried Cutting Tom, while the slim
lantern-bearer strode around to the front. "Am I to be led astray, and
this maid here, for your designs? You have dragged us too long through
this cursed wood--and that's the hell of it!"
"'Tis the right way, I tell you," said Holyday; "and how can you say
otherwise, when you know not whither we are bound?"
"But I do know whither we are bound--and that's the hell of it!"
"I begin to think you are an impudent fellow," quoth Holyday,
momentarily reckless through loss of patience; "and _that's_ the hell
of it, in your Bedlam gibberish!"
"Death!" bellowed Cutting Tom; "'hell of it' belongs to me; no man in
England dare steal my speech!"
He handed his torch to one of the men, ran at the scholar, dealt him
a blow between the eyes, seized his lantern, and dragged Millicent
away, motioning the slim knave to lead on. The knave took a direction
leftward from their former one.
"What mean you?" cried the maid, trying to release herself. "I'll not
leave Master Holyday."
One of the men caught her by the free arm, and she was borne away by
him and Cutting Tom. Glancing back, she saw that the two remaining men,
one of whom had quickly stuck the torch in the ground, were grappling
with Holyday, who was struggling between them.
"In God's name, what would you do?" Millicent cried, as her captors
hastened on at the heels of the new guide.
The men vouchsafed no answer. After a little while, at a word from
Cutting Tom, they stopped and waited. Tom gave a whistle, which was
answered from the direction whence they had last come,--evidently
by one of the men who had remained with Holyday. Being at intervals
repeated, and answered at lessening distances, the whistle proved to be
for the purpose of guiding these two men. Soon they appeared with the
torch, but without Holyday.
"Oh, heaven! what have you done with him?" cried Millicent, turning
cold.
"Only lightened him of these, lady," said one of the twain, indicating
a bundle of clothing under his arm.
"And left him tied safe to a tree, lest he roam about i' the dark and
do himself an injury," quoth the other.
"Come," said Tom, tightening his grasp on the girl's arm. The guide
moved on, and the party made haste through the forest.
"Whither are you taking me?" Millicent asked, tearfully, but got no
reply. Wondering and appalled, scarce believing she was herself, oft
doubting the reality of this strange journey, she walked as she was
compelled.
At last they came out of the wood and made their way over a flat,
heathy plain. It seemed to Millicent that they had worked back to the
neighbourhood of the river. Cutting Tom grew impatient, muttered to
himself, and presently asked: "How far now?"
"'Tis straight before us," said the guide, in a voice muffled as if by
the heavy beard that covered his face.
A narrow rift in the clouds let through a moment's moonlight; Millicent
had a brief vision of lonely country, with a little cluster of gables
ahead; then all was blotted out in thicker darkness.