CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.
HOW I FOUND MYSELF AGAIN IN LONDON.
Three days later, as our ship laboured up the gulf of the Solway, Ludarcame to me, as I stood on the poop, and said:
"Humphrey, I have news."
"Good or bad?" I asked.
"Neither," said he, "for it means we must part."
"I call that bad news. How is it, Ludar?"
"Our fellow-voyager," said he, and I could see he spoke nervously likeone who doubts his listener, "is in the service of my Queen, Mary ofScotland. There! fly not out, Humphrey; I never said she was yourQueen."
"Heaven forbid!" said I. "And as for this stranger, I mistrusted himall along. How calls he himself?"
"He is one Captain Fortescue, and hath a commission to engage loyal mento the Queen's service. And, indeed, she needs it; for she lies inprison, watched and solitary, with scarce a face about her that is notan enemy's. What would you do, Humphrey, were your Queen in such aplight?"
"Were my Queen a traitor--" I began, and stopped.
"I cannot help myself," said he. "I owe her my life. Only one womanelse could claim it, and her I have lost."
"But," said I, "are you sure of this man? May this not be some trap toyour ruin? What if he be a spy and no more?"
Ludar laughed.
"If so," said he, "he would have better sport on foot than to practiseon an outlaw like me. No, Humphrey, he is a loyal man, as, pray heaven,so am I. And he commands me in a name I cannot resist."
"Then," said I, sadly, "we part. I would have served you, Ludar, on anyother service. But I, too, have a Queen, who owns me."
"So be it," said he. "I expected it; and naught else could part me fromyou. Be sure we shall meet again, Humphrey, when all is over."
"Who knows but it may be on the field of battle?" said I, sadly. "Yet,tell me where I shall hear of you; and take note where you shall hear ofme. For I will back to London--"
"To your love," said he, with a sigh. "So be it. You shall hear of methere, Humphrey."
"And, before we part," said I, taking his great hand, "swear me an oath,Ludar, that you will not forget me."
He flung my hand away impatiently.
"Do you take me for a knave, brother? I swear to you, that next to myQueen, my father, and the memory of her who once loved me, you have thechiefest right to say, 'Ludar, help me,' and if I forget you, 'twill bethat I have forgotten I am a man."
That comforted me vastly, and I too made my vow.
"Next to my Queen," said I, "and no one besides, you are still mymaster; and my life goes for nothing, so it shall serve you and her youlove, who, I am sure, is true to you still, and waits for you somewhere,whatever men say."
He gripped my hand hard at that; and, sorrowful as it was, we loved oneanother the more at that parting than ever before.
Next day we landed. Captain Fortescue, suspecting me to be no friend tohim or his cause, was in haste to reach Carlisle, and shortened ourleave-taking in consequence. We had but time to renew our vows, whenthe boat which was to carry my friend and his new master from me camealongside and severed us. I watched him till the envious hills came inbetween; and, as I saw him last, standing and waving his hat, methoughta great piece had gone out of my life, and that there was left of me buthalf the man I once was.
And now must my story hasten on by strides, such as never the laggardmonths took after I had said farewell to Ludar. For 'tis of him, not ofHumphrey Dexter, that I am the chronicler, and till my history meet himonce more my reader is without his hero.
Yet there are one or two scenes a-wanting to fill up the gap; which,even though they concern chiefly me, I must relate in their properplace.
Two months had gone by, and in the budding woods the spring birds werewakening the earth out of her winter sleep, when I stood once more,footsore and friendless, in the streets of London. How I had got so farit matters not, nor how like a vagabond I begged and worked my way;staying now here for a few days ploughing, now there to break in a colt;held in bondage in one town because I lacked the money to pay my score,and chivied from the next for a rogue, which I was not. Not a few men Ifought by the way--for I clung to my sword through all--and not a fewconstables I laid by the heels (Heaven forgive me!) in mine own defence.Be all that as it may, I stood again in London town, whence, it seemed,I had been absent not nine months but nine years. With tattered hoseand doublet, with coat that scarce held together at my back, with no capto my head, and scarce one shoe to divide betwixt my two feet, 'twaslittle wonder if no man but the watch heeded me, still less suspected meto be the once famous captain of the clubs without Temple Bar.
My way into the city led by Finsbury Fields, where were many 'prenticesat their sports, and citizens taking their sweethearts to sniff thesweet spring air. No one wanted me there. The lads bade me make wayfor my betters, and the maids held back their skirts as they swept by.So I left them and wandered citywards.
I marvelled to see all so little changed, forgetting how short a time Ihad been away. There stood Stationers' Hall, as lordly as ever, andTimothy Ryder, the beadle, taking his fees at the compter. There, too,was the great Cathedral with its crowd of loungers, and Fleet Streetfull of swaggering 'prentices, and the River sparkling in the sun.
Then, as I came near Temple Bar, my heart fell a thumping. Not that Iforgot the place was deserted and the old home broken; but because itreminded me of what once was before all these troubles began. I crawledat a snail's pace, wishing to put off the pang as long as possible. Infancy I was at my case, as I had been a year ago, clicking the lettersinto my stick, in time to the chirping of my little mistress who sang ather work within. At my side I could hear the dull groaning of the heavypress, and not far off the whining of Peter Stoupe's everlasting psalm-tune. All was as if--
Was I dreaming? or was this the self-same psalm-tune come again to life,and, to accompany it, the dull grinding of the self-same press?Strange, that the bar was off the door, and, as I came to it, a fellowwith a ream on his back laboured out. I had expected naught but thedesolation and silence which I last remembered in the place, and itstaggered me to find all going on as before. No doubt here was someupstart printer, standing in my late master's shoes and working at hisforfeited press!
In no pleasant mood I walked, ragged and travel-stained as I was, intothe shop. Sure enough, it was Peter Stoupe, my late fellow-apprentice,who was whining, and beside him a new journeyman lugged at the press.
Peter knew me not at first, so changed and unkempt was I with my longjourneyings.
"Come," said he, surlily, "bustle hence, thou varlet. We keep noughthere but sticks for rogues like thee to taste. Get you gone!"
And he advanced on me with the stick.
Just to remind him of old days, I whipped it from his hand and gave hima crack on the skull, which brought him to himself at once.
"Why," said he, dropping his jaw, and gaping at me as if I had been aghost, "if it be not Humphrey Dexter, as I'm a sinner!"
"As certain as thou art a sinner," said I, "it is none other. What ofthat, Peter Stoupe?"
"Why," said he, "I warn thee to pack hence. For Master Walgrave hathhad enough of thee, I warrant; and there is none else here wanteththee."
"Then Master Walgrave is out of gaol?" I asked.
"No thanks to thee; he hath made his peace with the Company, and isrestored to his own."
"And my mistress, and Jeannette, and the lad?" I asked.
"They are naught to thee," answered he, curtly.
"Are they here?" I asked again.
"I tell thee that is naught to thee, Humphrey Dexter. I marvel, afterwhat is past, you dare name them."
"By heavens, you shall have something to marvel at," said I, laying holdof him by the collar, and shaking him till his bones rattled. "Answerme, are they here?"
"To be sure, to be sure," gasped he. "I pray you unhand me, Humphrey;my old friend, you are too rough."
I flung him off, to t
he mirth of the new journeyman (who, it was plain,loved him no more than I), and walked through the shop to the parlourbehind.
There in a nook beside the window, which was open to let in the sweetscent of the spring and the merry chirping of the birds, sat my sweetyoung mistress, Jeannette, reading out of a book to the little sisterwho sat on her knee; and ever and anon looking out at the swift, shiningriver, as it washed past the garden wall.
I remember the very words she was reading as I entered unheeded.
"'So it fell, that knight returned, and none knew him; no, not even thedog in the outer court. But when he spake, there was a certain littlemaid knew his voice, whom, as a child, he was wont to make sport with.But now, because she was grown from child to woman, and her mirth wasturned to love, did she say never a word when he appeared, but ran awayand hid herself.'"
"And do tall knights and ladies play at hide-and-go-seek, like boys andgirls?" asked the little sister.
Jeannette laughed at the question, and as she did so, she looked up andsaw me standing there.
She, at least, knew me!
For a moment the colour left her cheeks, in fear and doubt. Next, itrushed back in a crimson flood; then she uttered my name, and hid herface in the bosom of the little child.
I was but a plain 'prentice with no more than my share of brains. Yet,I had need to be slow-witted indeed, not to read a long, wonderful storyin what I saw then.
"Ay," said I, stepping forward, and answering the little's one'squestion, "and sometimes they find one another too."
And, as in the old days, I kissed them both, and was very happy.
When, presently, Master Walgrave returned and saw me there, he seemednot too well pleased. Yet, I suspected he was not altogetherdiscontented to see me back, for he counted me a proper workman andhandy at my craft. And when I set-to and told them a plain tale of whathad befallen me, and how ill I had been slandered by my fellow'prentice, and how ready I was to serve them now, he grew less sullen,and bade me abide where I was till he considered the matter.
From my mistress in turn I learned something of their doings since I sawthem last in the street of Kingston. The minister, she said, hadpinched himself to shelter them for many a week, while they worked forhim among the harvesters and in the dairy, in return. But at last whenAutumn came, and they could do no more to serve him, they departed, andpetitioned the Company to admit them back to the printing house; which,after much ado, was granted, and so they continued with much labour tosubsist. But Peter, I was told afterwards, made himself master ofeverything, and, in return for his services, exacted all the profit,little as it was, they made by the printing. At last, after lying sixmonths in gaol, Master Walgrave grew weary, and permitted his wife tosue for him to the Bishop; which she did, and so prettily, that hisGrace allowed the prisoner to go free, on his submission. Since then,all had fared well. Peter Stoupe, who could hardly be parted with, wasput back to his place and a new journeyman obtained. Business cameback, winter went, springtime returned, and roses blossomed once more insweet Jeannette's cheeks; and all went merrily.
As for Mistress Jeannette's cheeks, it seemed to me, as I sat andwatched her that evening, that the roses had not done blossoming yet.But I said little to her, for I guessed she would not talk. Only, whenbed-time came, and I went, as of old, to carry her up the steep stairs,she looked up brightly and said:
"I can walk now, Humphrey; _voila_. That was one good thing your goingdid for me."
"I would it had been any other good," said I, "for it was pleasant tohelp you. But, see, you still want some help."
"Well, sometimes I walk better. But to-night--no, I am not a baby,truly," said she, laughing as I offered to take her up. "Give me yourarm, Humphrey; that is enough."
So I helped her up the stairs, and at the top she thanked me, and saidshe was glad I was come back, for her father's sake--meaning MasterWalgrave, her step-father.
I asked was she glad for no reason else? and she said, perhaps for mysake 'twas good to be at work once more.
"Anyone's sake besides?"
"_Peut-etre_," said she in her French jargon, vanishing into herchamber. I was a better scholar than I once was, and could translatethe words in a way that made my heart beat.
So I left her and came down to supper.
There I found Peter Stoupe, very black in the face, awaiting me. Hetried to look civil as I came to the table, but 'twas plain he hadlittle stomach for his meal.
"My master telleth me," said he, "he is content to give thee anothertrial, Humphrey. Pray heaven he may never hear how much it is heforgiveth thee. As for me, this folly of his is like to cost him myservice, as I told him."
"When are you going?" I asked.
"That concerns myself," said Peter. "But since we be alone, HumphreyDexter, let me say to you one thing. Whether I go or stay, know that Idesire you hold no converse with my mistress' daughter, and that for avery sufficient reason. She is promised to me."
I laughed at this.
"Since when?" I asked.
"That too concerneth me," said Peter, who liked not my mirth. "I shallwed her anon; and till then I would have her kept clear of yourcompany."
"Pass the mug, Peter Stoupe, and cease your funning. The day sweetJeannette weds with you, I will saddle the horse shall carry you tochurch. Till then, if I catch so much as her name on your foul lips, Iwill drop you, feet uppermost, in the mud of Fleet Ditch. So make abargain of it."
He turned green at that, for he guessed I meant what I said.
"What?" began he; "you who ruined my master, and robbed--"
Here I sprang to my feet, and he stopped short.
"Robbed whom?" demanded I.
"Enough," said he, motioning me to sit down. "I resolved, when youcame, to hold no parley with you, and I repent me I have done so.Henceforth, Humphrey Dexter, we are strangers."
"Be what you will," said I, "only keep a civil tongue in your head."
And I went up to bed.
Now this was yet another trial to Peter, who had been used to lie alonewhile I was absent, and now loathed that I should rob him thus of halfhis kicking room. But he durst say naught. Only he lay at the faredge, and, instead of saying his prayers, cursed me between his teeth.
It was in my heart to pity Peter Stoupe that night. For it was plain Ihad come in an evil hour for him. Master Walgrave had been hoodwinkedby his smooth manners and lying tongue, and was fain to believe he owedhim more for the duty he had done while his master was in gaol than intruth he did. Nor durst my mistress thwart him over much for the samecause. As for Jeannette--if she humoured him and endured hiscivilities, 'twas because she was ever kind. So all was going well withPeter when I chanced home, who knew him for his worth and promised tospoil his sport. Little wonder, then, if he hated to see me, and keptat the far edge of the bed.
However, I had more to think of than him; and, finding him deaf, evenwhen I tried to be civil, I busied myself with other thoughts, and fellasleep, to dream a jumbled dream of Ludar, and Jeannette, and thecaptain of the _Misericorde_.
I remember I dreamed that Ludar and Jeannette were keeping the watch ondeck while I slept below; and that my hour being come, the captain hadcome down to fetch me, and was standing over me; when I awoke suddenly,and, in the dim moonlight, saw a real figure at the bedside. It wasPeter Stoupe, and, though I could scarce see his face, I knew he wasglowering on me, white in his hand he slowly lifted a knife above myheart. I was motionless, not with terror--for his hand trembled so itcould scarce have dealt a deadly blow--but with horror to find such aman at such a deed. So, though my eyes were open, he saw not that I wasawake, and with a gasp brought down his hand. Mine was out in time tocatch him by the wrist. "Peter Stoupe!" I cried; "are you gone mad?"
'Twas pitiful to see him then drop on his knees, his face as white asthe sheets, and with quaking lips beg for mercy.
"Oh, Humphrey!" he gasped; "forgive--I knew not what I was-- Yes, I wasmad--forgive thi
s once--"
"Forgive!" said I, "you ask the wrong person. You are on your knees;ask Him who is above to forgive you! 'Tis Him you have wronged, morethan me. And when you have done, come back to bed, for I am weary."
I know not if he prayed, or what he did. But presently, when he cameback to bed, he lay very still and cold, and when we rose in the morningnever a word spake either of us of what had passed that night.
But, as I expected, we were none the better friends for all that. Forthough he durst never lift his voice in my hearing again, he scowled atme under his brows, and, as I suppose, wished he had done what he triedto do that night. I found it best to let him be, even when he made upto Jeannette, which happened but seldom, and then little to his comfort.But when, after a month or more, his articles being ended, he took hishat and left the shop for good, I was not surprised, nor were my masteror mistress over-much cast down.
As for me, I had a shrewd guess Peter Stoupe had not yet done with me.
All went happily, then, in the house without Temple Bar. Only my littlemistress held me off more than she had been wont, and was graver withme. Yet it was happiness to see she counted somewhat on my company, andscorned not to ask my arm whenever she needed its help.
Often and often she made me tell her of my journeyings, and of Ludar andthe maiden. And her bright eyes would glisten as she heard how theywere parted and what they had suffered for one another. And she longedto see both, and was ever wondering where they were and how they fared.But the spring wore into summer, and the summer grew towards autumn,before a word of news came.
Then one Sunday, Will Peake, my old adversary, walked into the shop witha monstrous letter in his hand, tied round with blue silk and sealedblack at either end.
I had seen Will often since I came back to London, but had alwaysforgotten to tell him, that when I was put to it to advise Ludar wherehe might hear of me, I had told him to send to my brother 'prentice onLondon Bridge, who, if any, might be counted on to know where I was tobe found.
So now, when a letter was come, Will was vastly wroth that he should bemixed up in the matter, and needed much satisfying that 'twas a sign offriendship and nothing else that made me give his name, he being--as Itold him--the only trusty man of my acquaintance in London.
"I like it not, Humphrey Dexter," said he, tossing down the letter."The air is full of treason. Only to-day there is talk in the city ofsome new conspiracy in the North, and 'tis not safe to get a missivefrom so much as your lady-love. There, take it. I am rid of it; and,hark you, let no man know I had it in my fingers. Farewell."
The letter was in a great and notable hand, which, I was sure, did notbelong to Ludar. Yet it was addressed:
"_To the worthy 'prentice Humphrey Dexter, by the hand of one WillPeake, a mercer's man on London Bridge, give these_--"
With beating heart, I took the letter to where Jeannette sat in thegarden, and bade her break the seal.