It was indeed great news. Yesterday, in the early morning, the Scotch Queen had paid the penalty of her grievous treasons, and had been beheaded at Fotheringay Castle. Men seemed half dazed by the news. To many it had seemed that the dangers of which she was the author were to trouble England’s peace for ever; and now that, by a single blow, the cloud had been lifted, some of us fetched a great sigh of relief and had time to pity the fate of the fair woman, whose name we had so lately hated. So there was not much shouting or burning of bonfires. But every one felt something wonderful had happened, and rubbed their eyes, like those awakened out of some long drawn nightmare.
When I returned my master and mistress were still abroad. Jeannette, I found, had carried the maiden to her own bed, and having left her there to rest—and indeed she needed it, for we had travelled hard two days by long and tiresome roads—awaited me with a grave face.
“All this is passing strange,” said she, “and I love this maiden. But, my Humphrey, I have sad news to tell you since you left. Twas the evening of the very day you went; as I was helping the father draw his charges, there came suddenly into the shop a man, tall, haggard, but noble to look at, and seeming like a hunted lion. He looked round him wildly, and then asked, was this the printer’s house outside Temple Bar? The father answered shortly, yes. ‘Then,’ said he ‘is there one here, Humphrey Dexter by name?’ ‘No,’ said the father, who, I thought, mistrusted the fellow’s looks, and wanted to be rid of him. Without a word, then, he turned and left us; before I could so much as cry to him that you would be back anon. Where he went I know not, but that this was Sir Ludar, and that he goes in peril of his life I am as sure as that I speak now to thee.”
Now, I understood why, as I lay dreaming that night at Rochester, I had heard my master’s voice calling me back, while that of the maiden urged me forward. To think he had been here, in this very spot, calling for me, and I not at hand to answer! It was too bitter a cup; and late as it was, I rushed out once again into the street, in the foolish hope of seeing or hearing of him. But it was all too late!
Chapter Twenty One.
How a Certain Man was hanged at Tyburn.
Months passed, and the Irish maiden became one of Master Walgrave’s ordinary household. And she and my Jeannette were as sisters.
It was not without a struggle that my master and mistress were prevailed upon to open their home to the fair stranger. At first, my master, being sorely wroth with the miscarriage of my errand to his Grace, vowed so roundly that he would turn both me and my papist wench—so he called her—out of doors, that it seemed likely there would be broken heads as well as hearts over this business. For it was hard to keep my temper even with Jeannette’s step-father, when he talked like that.