Chapter Eighteen.
How I found myself again in London.
Three days later, as our ship laboured up the gulf of the Solway, Ludar came 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 like one who doubts his listener, “is in the service of my Queen, Mary of Scotland. There! fly not out, Humphrey; I never said she was your Queen.”
“Heaven forbid!” said I. “And as for this stranger, I mistrusted him all along. How calls he himself?”
“He is one Captain Fortescue, and hath a commission to engage loyal men to the Queen’s service. And, indeed, she needs it; for she lies in prison, watched and solitary, with scarce a face about her that is not an enemy’s. What would you do, Humphrey, were your Queen in such a plight?”
“Were my Queen a traitor—” I began, and stopped.
“I cannot help myself,” said he. “I owe her my life. Only one woman else could claim it, and her I have lost.”
“But,” said I, “are you sure of this man? May this not be some trap to your 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 practise on 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 any other service. But I, too, have a Queen, who owns me.”
“So be it,” said he. “I expected it; and naught else could part me from you. 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 of me. For I will back to London—”
“To your love,” said he, with a sigh. “So be it. You shall hear of me there, 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 my Queen, my father, and the memory of her who once loved me, you have the chiefest right to say, ‘Ludar, help me,’ and if I forget you, ’twill be that 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 my master; and my life goes for nothing, so it shall serve you and her you love, 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 one another the more at that parting than ever before.
Next day we landed. Captain Fortescue, suspecting me to be no friend to him or his cause, was in haste to reach Carlisle, and shortened our leave-taking in consequence. We had but time to renew our vows, when the boat which was to carry my friend and his new master from me came alongside and severed us. I watched him till the envious hills came in between; and, as I saw him last, standing and waving his hat, methought a great piece had gone out of my life, and that there was left of me but half the man I once was.
And now must my story hasten on by strides, such as never the laggard months took after I had said farewell to Ludar. For ’tis of him, not of Humphrey Dexter, that I am the chronicler, and till my history meet him once 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 proper place.
Two months had gone by, and in the budding woods the spring birds were wakening 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 far it 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 I fought by the way—for I clung to my sword through all—and not a few constables 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 hose and doublet, with coat that scarce held together at my back, with no cap to my head, and scarce one shoe to divide betwixt my two feet, ’twas little wonder if no man but the watch heeded me, still less suspected me to be the once famous captain of the clubs without Temple Bar.
My way into the city led by Finsbury Fields, where were many ’prentices at their sports, and citizens taking their sweethearts to sniff the sweet spring air. No one wanted me there. The lads bade me make way for 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 I had been away. There stood Stationers’ Hall, as lordly as ever, and Timothy Ryder, the beadle, taking his fees at the compter. There, too, was the great Cathedral with its crowd of loungers, and Fleet Street full of swaggering ’prentices, and the River sparkling in the sun.
Then, as I came near Temple Bar, my heart fell a thumping. Not that I forgot the place was deserted and the old home broken; but because it reminded me of what once was before all these troubles began. I crawled at a snail’s pace, wishing to put off the pang as long as possible. In fancy I was at my case, as I had been a year ago, clicking the letters into my stick, in time to the chirping of my little mistress who sang at her work within. At my side I could hear the dull groaning of the heavy press, 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 fellow with a ream on his back laboured out. I had expected naught but the desolation and silence which I last remembered in the place, and it staggered me to find all going on as before. No doubt here was some upstart printer, standing in my late master’s shoes and working at his forfeited press!
In no pleasant mood I walked, ragged and travel-stained as I was, into the 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 long journeyings.
“Come,” said he, surlily, “bustle hence, thou varlet. We keep nought here 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 him a 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 a ghost, “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 of that, Peter Stoupe?”
“Why,” said he, “I warn thee to pack hence. For Master Walgrave hath had enough of thee, I warrant; and there is none else here wanteth thee.”
“Then Master Walgrave is out of gaol?” I asked.
“No thanks to thee; he hath made his peace with the Company, and is restored 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, after what is past, you dare name them.”
“By heavens, you shall have something to marvel at,” said I, laying hold of him by the collar, and shaking him till his bones rattled. “Answer me, 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 the mirth of the new journeyman (who, it was plain, loved him no more than I), and walked through the shop to the parlour behind.
There in a nook beside the window, which was open to let in the sweet scent of the spring and the merry chirping of the birds, sat my sweet young mistress, Jeannette, reading out of a book to the little sister who sat on her knee; and ever and anon looking out at the swift, shining river, 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 the dog in the outer court. But when he spake, there was a certain little maid 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 was turned to love, did she say never a word when he appeared, but ran away and hid herself.’”
“And do tall knights and ladies play at hide-and-go-seek, like boys and girls?” asked the little sister.
Jeannette laughed at the question, and as she did so, she looked up and saw me standing there.
She, at least, knew me!
For a moment the colour left her cheeks, in fear and doubt. Next, it rushed back in a crimson flood; then she uttered my name, and hid her face 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 story in what I saw then.
“Ay,” said I, stepping forward, and answering the little’s one’s question, “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 seemed not too well pleased. Yet, I suspected he was not altogether discontented to see me back, for he counted me a proper workman and handy at my craft. And when I set-to and told them a plain tale of what had 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 saw them last in the street of Kingston. The minister, she said, had pinched himself to shelter them for many a week, while they worked for him among the harvesters and in the dairy, in return. But at last when Autumn came, and they could do no more to serve him, they departed, and petitioned the Company to admit them back to the printing house; which, after much ado, was granted, and so they continued with much labour to subsist. But Peter, I was told afterwards, made himself master of everything, and, in return for his services, exacted all the profit, little as it was, they made by the printing. At last, after lying six months in gaol, Master Walgrave grew weary, and permitted his wife to sue for him to the Bishop; which she did, and so prettily, that his Grace allowed the prisoner to go free, on his submission. Since then, all had fared well. Peter Stoupe, who could hardly be parted with, was put back to his place and a new journeyman obtained. Business came back, winter went, springtime returned, and roses blossomed once more in sweet Jeannette’s cheeks; and all went merrily.
As for Mistress Jeannette’s cheeks, it seemed to me, as I sat and watched 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, when bed-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; voilà. That was one good thing your going did for me.”
“I would it had been any other good,” said I, “for it was pleasant to help 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 your arm, Humphrey; that is enough.”
So I helped her up the stairs, and at the top she thanked me, and said she was glad I was come back, for her father’s sake—meaning Master Walgrave, her step-father.
I asked was she glad for no reason else? and she said, perhaps for my sake ’twas good to be at work once more.
“Anyone’s sake besides?”
“Peut-être,” said she in her French jargon, vanishing into her chamber. I was a better scholar than I once was, and could translate the 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. He tried to look civil as I came to the table, but ’twas plain he had little stomach for his meal.
“My master telleth me,” said he, “he is content to give thee another trial, Humphrey. Pray heaven he may never hear how much it is he forgiveth thee. As for me, this folly of his is like to cost him my service, as I told him.”
“When are you going?” I asked.
“That concerns myself,” said Peter. “But since we be alone, Humphrey Dexter, let me say to you one thing. Whether I go or stay, know that I desire you hold no converse with my mistress’ daughter, and that for a very 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 shall wed her anon; and till then I would have her kept clear of your company.”
“Pass the mug, Peter Stoupe, and cease your funning. The day sweet Jeannette weds with you, I will saddle the horse shall carry you to church. Till then, if I catch so much as her name on your foul lips, I will drop you, feet uppermost, in the mud of Fleet Ditch. So make a bargain 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 you came, 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 alone while I was absent, and now loathed that I should rob him thus of half his kicking room. But he durst say naught. Only he lay at the far edge, 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 I had come in an evil hour for him. Master Walgrave had been hoodwinked by his smooth manners and lying tongue, and was fain to believe he owed him more for the duty he had done while his master was in gaol than in truth he did. Nor durst my mistress thwart him over much for the same cause. As for Jeannette—if she humoured him and endured his civilities, ’twas because she was ever kind. So all was going well with Peter when I chanced home, who knew him for his worth and promised to spoil his sport. Little wonder, then, if he hated to see me, and kept at the far edge of the bed.
However, I had more to think of than him; and, finding him deaf, even when I tried to be civil, I busied myself with other thoughts, and fell asleep, to dream a jumbled dream of Ludar, and Jeannette, and the captain of the Miséricorde.
I remember I dreamed that Ludar and Jeannette were keeping the watch on deck while I slept below; and that my hour being come, the captain had come 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 was Peter Stoupe, and, though I could scarce see his face, I knew he was glowering on me, white in his hand he slowly lifted a knife above my heart. I was motionless, not with terror—for his hand trembled so it could scarce have dealt a deadly blow—but with horror to find such a man at such a deed. So, though my eyes were open, he saw not that I was awake, and with a gasp brought down his hand. Mine was out in time to catch 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 as the sheets, and with quaking lips beg for mercy.
“Oh, Humphrey!” he gasped; “forgive—I knew not what I was— Yes, I was mad—forgive this 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, more than 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 came back to bed, he lay very still and cold, and when we rose in the morning never 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. For though he durst never lift his voice in my hearing again, he scowled at me under his brows, and, as I suppose, wished he had done what he tried to do that night. I found it best to let him be, even when he made up to Jeannette, which happened but seldom, and then little to his comfort. But when, after a month or more, his articles being ended, he took his hat and left the shop for good, I was not surprised, nor were my master or 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 little mistress held me off more than she had been wont, and was graver with me. Yet it was happiness to see she counted somewhat on my company, and scorned not to ask my arm whenever she needed its help.
Often and often she made me tell her of my journeyings, and of Ludar and the maiden. And her bright eyes would glisten as she heard how they were parted and what they had suffered for one another. And she longed to 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 with a monstrous letter in his hand, tied round with blue silk and sealed black at either end.
I had seen Will often since I came back to London, but had always forgotten to tell him, that when I was put to it to advise Ludar where he might hear of me, I had told him to send to my brother ’prentice on London Bridge, who, if any, might be counted on to know where I was to be found.
So now, when a letter was come, Will was vastly wroth that he should be mixed up in the matter, and needed much satisfying that ’twas a sign of friendship and nothing else that made me give his name, he being—as I told 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 of some new conspiracy in the North, and ’tis not safe to get a missive from 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 not belong to Ludar. Yet it was addressed:
“To the worthy ’prentice Humphrey Dexter, by the hand of one Will Peake, a mercer’s man on London Bridge, give these—”
With beating heart, I took the letter to where Jeannette sat in the garden, and bade her break the seal.