Heiress of Haddon

by W. E. Doubleday

CHAPTER X.

IN DIRE STRAITS.

And if the worst had fall'n which could befall,
He stood, a stranger in this breathing world,
An erring spirit from another hurled;
A thing of dark imaginings, that shaped
By choice the perils he by chance escaped;
But 'scaped in vain.

Edmund Wynne was rudely awakened from the train of thought into which he had fallen by the rough hand of the ostler, which alighted upon his shoulders with a smack which was re-echoed in the farthest corner of the yard.

"Now, James," said his companion, whose ready familiarity was becoming exceedingly distasteful, "they are about to begin, see!"

The courtyard was, in fact, already more than comfortably filled. Those of the audience who formed the pit squatted unceremoniously down in groups upon the ground, and having brought with them a plentiful supply of fruit and provisions, they were already busily engaged in discussing them; whilst the more select company, which paid a higher price and represented the modern gallery, occupied the reserved part on the other side of the rope, and was amusing itself in a general way, by looking down with supercilious contempt upon the common folk below.

Edmund stretched himself slightly forward, and peering out of the darkness of his retreat, was just in time to witness the appearance of the musicians, who, after making their bow to the audience, passed along the stage and made their exit through a doorway at the other end. A profound silence fell upon the company, and as the music of the violins floated gently on the breeze, the players made their appearance on the stage.

"What grotesque figures," he exclaimed, as an involuntary smile stole across his face; "why, they are covered with ivy leaves."

"See how Lord Burleigh cheers," interrupted the delighted ostler, as the play commenced, "and Sir Henry, too; see! Hang him, that's old Boniface rooting about; what can he want, I wonder? I believe he is looking for me."

"Who is Boniface?" meekly asked Edmund.

"The landlord, of course; and your friends are with him, too," was the curt reply.

Edmund shrank back still further into the shadow of the room. "It would never do for them to see me here," he explained; "it would upset all our plans. You must screen me somehow, won't you?"

"Take care of yourself, sir," returned the ostler as he snatched up the pitchfork and began to toss the hay about. "Take care of yourself, sir, for he's coming up here, upon my faith he is. Here's luck!" and the hay flew about in all directions.

No second bidding was required. Edmund scrambled over the heaps of hay and straw which lay upon the floor and never slackened his haste until he found himself hidden from view behind the stack in the further-most corner of the loft. Barely had he succeeded in ensconcing himself there, when footsteps were heard ascending the ladder, and a moment later a sharp knocking at the door announced to the only too conscious conspirators that the landlord was waiting to enter.

"Halloa," shouted the ostler, as he stamped upon the floor with his fork, to convey the impression that he was busily engaged, at work. "You can't get in here, I've got my work to do."

Edmund was astonished at the cool impudence of his friend, and he lifted his head to accord him a nod of approval, but a bundle of straw which the ostler purposely tossed at him from the other side of the room made him quickly withdraw his cranium again into the shelter.

"Let me in, I say," shouted a voice from below. "You knave, let me in,
I tell you."

The ostler had played his little game, and, having sheltered his companion, he now anxiously awaited the result. Glancing round to see that Edmund was completely buried from sight, he dropped upon his knees, and moving the catch on one side he slowly raised the door.

"You knave! you villain!" exclaimed his irate master, as he stepped into the room. "Wasting your time in looking at puppet-shows. How dare you, sir; how dare you? Get you gone, sirrah!" and he gave him a kick which considerably accelerated the speed with which he disappeared below.

Having thus satisfactorily vented his displeasure, his brow relaxed and he turned to the baron and Sir Thomas and conducted them to a seat so lately vacated by the guilty pair, with an urbanity which looked positively impossible to ruffle.

"You see, my lord, there is a seat ready provided," he exclaimed, as he pointed to the bale of hay which stood beside the wall. "Perhaps your lordships will be pleased to seat yourself on that? I'll warrant me 'tis clean enough, for I espied the rogue sitting on it."

Sir George Vernon, nothing loth, accepted the proffered seat.

"I will reach another bundle down for you," continued the loquacious innkeeper, turning to the younger knight. "I will get you one of a convenient size; most of them are far too big to be comfortable, I fear, but I have them in all shapes and sizes; you shall be made comfortable in a trice, my lord."

He cast his eyes about in search of the bundle "of convenient size," and his choice fell upon the one which covered the gap where Edmund Wynne lay hidden. Having once selected this he proceeded straightway to climb over the impeding bundles to reach it from the corner where the ostler had tossed it just before.

This, however, proved no slight task. He was burly and heavy, while the bundles were frail and loosely stacked and failed to yield to his feet that amount of support which, of all men, the stouter ones are supposed most to require. This being so, it was not surprising to find that ere he reached it he stumbled and fell several times, until at last Sir Thomas took pity upon him and told him to desist.

"I would stand, my good man," he said, "rather than thou should'st break thy neck, or I might lay upon some of this soft straw for the nonce."

"A prison bed," chimed in Sir George. "Well, some folks like one thing and some another, there's no accounting for tastes."

The landlord scouted the proposal at once. He felt that somehow he was on his mettle, and it was incumbent upon him to vindicate the honour of his house. "Had the kind nobleman been possessed of a better acquaintance with him," he said, "he would have known that it was not in his nature to be overcome by trifles. Things, thank goodness, were managed better than that at the Cock hostelry," and to support his statement he wiped away the perspiration from his brow, and made a further attempt to reach it down.

Edmund's feelings during these critical moments would be easier to imagine than describe. Every moment he expected that the bundle would be lifted off, and he anticipated the mortification of being dragged out and being brought face to face with the man whom he now most dreaded. As the other advanced and the unstable walls of his shelter quivered until they threatened to fall upon him, he crouched down further and further into the corner, preferring rather to be buried under the solid squares of hay than to be discovered in such a position. Sir Thomas' words inspired him with a ray of hope, but his expectations were dashed as suddenly as they had arisen by the words of the baron and the action of the busy landlord, who, all unconscious of the torture he was inflicting, struggled valiantly on towards his quarry.

At last his perseverance was rewarded, and he found himself able to grasp the object of his toil; but Edmund as he felt the protecting roof of hay departing, snatched at the withes which bound it round, and dragged it down with all his might.

In vain did the furious landlord pull and tug. Try as he would, it would not move an inch, and he was about to give it up in disgust and offer some reason for his lack of success, when Stanley again came to his aid.

"Stand aside, man; thou art too old for such a task, and too fat, too, perchance. Let me get it out. Odd's fish, my good fellow, but there's been much to do about a little thing. Here it is, see."

Edmund had, for the moment relaxed his hold, and it was at precisely that same moment that Sir Thomas Staley took hold of the top of the bundle to pull it up. There was but one chance left, and although it promised a little hope of success, he deemed his position desperate enough to warrant him in attempting it. He decided to leap out simultaneously with the withdrawal of the bundle, and, trusting to the confusion his unexpected appearance would create, to escape through the trap-door, and race away for his life.

However, when he saw the sole protection which had hidden him from his enemies begin to move away his courage failed him, and he had not sufficient boldness to carry out the plan he had so neatly arranged. Instinctively he threw his arms up to clutch the rope again, but it was too late, it had already passed beyond his reach; there was nothing left to save him. Another moment and his hiding place would be discovered, when——, Sir Thomas missed his footing, and with a gesture of impatience he let the bundle fall again, and turned his back upon it in disgust.

It alighted heavily upon the luckless Edmund's shoulders, and it struck him with so much force that almost before he was aware of it, he found himself most uncomfortably doubled up, and tight pinned beneath its weight upon the floor. He could neither free himself nor ease his position without attracting attention, for his arms were tightly wedged underneath him, while his legs had found a resting place between two lots of hay, at a height somewhat above the level of his head. One thing, and one alone, was at his command. He could at least, he thought, remain quietly there, an unwilling eavesdropper, until his persecutors had gone. This he resolved to do; meanwhile he could only submit to the conditions which a series of unfortunate incidents had brought upon him, and listen to the conversation in the hope that some of it, at least, might at some time or other prove profitable to him in the accomplishment of the object he had in view.

"How long will they be, mine host?" inquired Sir George, to whom the circumlocution of the stage proved uninteresting indeed.

"About two hours, my lord," suavely replied that individual, as he gazed proudly at the brilliant company assembled in the yard below, wondering the while how much they would expend at the inn when the play was over.

"Two hours!" Edmund groaned inwardly, but the groan was none the less sincere because it was inaudible.

"Two hours!" exclaimed the astonished baron, "then I'm off."

Hope again revived within the heart of the prisoner.

"Nay, stop, Sir George," interrupted the younger knight; "you cannot see a play like this at any time you choose. Stay awhile and bid me company, and forget your troubles in a stoup of ale."

"Aye, I have the best in the town," added the host; "there is nothing like it in all London."

This was quite a new idea, and Sir George scratched his head, as if by so doing he might facilitate his judgment, and then he did what so many other troubled ones have done, both before his time and since, he sought to drown his troubles by gorging himself with his favourite liquor.

"Ha! well," he muttered, "the ale is good, as London ale goes, I trow, but——"

"It is indeed," added the tavern-keeper promptly. "There's none better, though I say it."

"But I think I will have cider," continued the baron, not heeding the interruption.

"I will fetch it myself," exclaimed the proprietor of the Cock; "and sure I am, 'twill be the best that ever you have tasted."

"Nay, hold," interrupted Sir George, "I will go with thee. I will trust none to spice my drink except it be Lady Maude, or Dorothy. I will go with thee and spice it myself."

"And I will have some simple sack," said Sir Thomas.

Sir George Vernon and the landlord descended the ladder, and threaded their way through the crowd into the tavern, while Sir Thomas Stanley, left to his own devices, continued to lie quietly down upon his couch of straw, watching with intense interest the progress of the play.

Edmund, meanwhile, hearing no one stirring, and not being in a position to see, concluded that all three had descended together, and that he was the sole occupant of the room. He waited for a moment or two, and then, as the silence confirmed him in his opinion, he began to make strenuous efforts to free himself. There was no sign made in response to the noise he made in the attempt, and, without any interruption, he released himself from his uncomfortable position.

Slowly and painfully he raised himself up, but as he reached the top, the thrill of triumph to which his new-born hopes of liberty had given birth, died away, and a sigh of dismay escaped him as he discovered that he was not alone.

For a time he stood perfectly motionless, too terrified to advance, and too paralysed by fear to regain his hiding-place. Fortunately, however, for him, Sir Thomas Stanley's back was turned towards him, and so intently had he fixed his attention upon the scene which was being acted on the stage before him, that he was in complete ignorance of the events which were transpiring in his rear. Edmund wistfully cast a look at the ladder which protruded temptingly through the trap-door, but the look more than satisfied him that he could not hope to gain it without attracting the attention of his most unwelcome companion.

There was only one idea which presented itself to the unlucky man's mind which promised any fair successes, and that left no alternative. He must put Sir Thomas out of the way!

However repugnant this plan might be, and Edmund felt all its hideousness, he felt every moment more and more convinced that it was the only safe way. He had suffered too much already to venture willingly back into the torture-chamber from which he had just escaped, even if he could safely have regained its shelter—in itself no mean feat; and at the bare idea of spending two more hours of like agony he trembled. He resolved that rather than he would be driven to that uncertain refuge again, Sir Thomas should pay the penalty of death.

At this stage of his reflections he was rudely stopped, for the young knight, as if conscious of some impending danger, withdrew his head into the room and rolled over upon his back, leaving Edmund so little time in which to screen himself from view, that in attempting to secure a cover he toppled right over and fell back upon a thin scattering of straw.

Sir Thomas stopped the yawn with which he was indulging himself, and got upon his feet, surprised in no small degree to find that no one had entered the room. He went to the ladder to satisfy himself, but meeting with a like measure of ill-success there, he came away in a discontented mood; not perceiving Edmund, who lay, holding his breath, behind a heap of hay.

"I thought it was my sack coming," he muttered; "but it was only those confounded rats. What a time they are gone, to be sure," and as a last resource he sat himself down upon Sir George's seat and watched the play afresh.

Edmund during all this time was slowly making up his wavering mind. The memory of Dame Durden was still fresh within him, and it was in fulfilment of his scheme of revenge for that that he had united with Sir Ronald Bury to bring the baron to book for his misdeeds, and was now in London. Why should he not wreak his vengeance upon Sir Thomas Stanley, and then at once accomplish the work on which his heart was set? In the intensity of his passion he could find no satisfactory answer to the question. There were powerful reasons both for and against such a plan. Sir Thomas was seriously jeopardising his present safety; but would his death at all affect the baron? Margaret would feel it, mayhap, and so might Sir George to some extent, but he was fully aware that Sir Ronald's aim would be by no means compassed by such a termination; nor was he at all certain his own desire would be accomplished even then. The danger of his present position, however, was too apparent to be lightly put aside, and it proved too much for him. Were the others to return now his ruin would be assured; and realising this, he cautiously raised his head, and finding the young nobleman again deeply interested in the progress of the scene before him, he quickly drew out his knife and crept silently on towards his unsuspicious prey.