Complete works of hall c.., p.22
Complete Works of Hall Caine, page 22
Let none fear a fever,
But take it off thus, boys;
Let the King live forever,
’Tis no matter for us, boys.
Ralph found the atmosphere stifling in this place, which was grown noisome now to wellnigh every sense. He forced his way out through the swaying bodies and swinging arms of the occupants of the pit. As he did so he was conscious, though he did not turn his head, that close behind him, in the opening which he made in the crowd, his inevitable “Shadow” pursued him.
The air breathed free and fresh outside. Ralph walked from St. Leonard’s Gate by a back lane to the Dam Side. The river as well as the old town was illuminated. Every boat bore lamps to the masthead. Lamps, too, of many colors, hung downwards from the bridge, and were reflected in their completed circle in the waters beneath them.
The night was growing apace, and the streets were thronged with people, some laughing, some singing, some wrangling, and some fighting. Every tavern and coffee-house, as Ralph went by, sent out into the night its babel of voices. Loyal Lancasterians were within, doing honor to the royal message of that day by observing the spirit while violating the letter of it.
Ralph had walked up the Dam Side near to that point at which the Covel Cross lies to the left, when a couple of drunken men came reeling out of a tavern in front of him. Their dress denoted their profession and rank. They were lieutenants of the regiment which had been newly quartered at the castle. Both were drunk. One was capering about in a hopeless effort to dance; the other was trolling out a stave of the ballad that was just then being sung at the corner of every street: —
The blood that he lost, as I suppose
(Fa la la la),
Caused fire to rise in Oliver’s nose
(Fa la la la).
This ruling nose did bear such a sway,
It cast such a heat and shining ray,
That England scarce knew night from day
(Fa la la la).
The singer who thus described Cromwell and his shame was interrupted by a sudden attack of thirst, and forthwith applied the unfailing antidote contained in a leathern bottle which he held in one hand.
Ralph stepped off the pavement to allow the singer the latitude his condition required, when that person’s companion pirouetted into his breast, and went backwards with a smart rebound.
“What’s this, stopping the way of a gentleman?” hiccuped the man, bringing himself up with ludicrous effort to his full height, and suspending his capering for the better support of his soldierly dignity.
Then, stepping closer to Ralph, and peering into his face, he cried, “Why, it’s the man of mystery, as the sergeant calls him. Here, I say, sir,” continued the drunken officer, drawing with difficulty the sword that had dangled and clanked at his side; “you’ve got to tell us who you are. Quick, what’s your name?”
The man was flourishing his sword with as much apparent knowledge of how to use it as if it had been a marlin-spike. Ralph pushed it aside with a stout stick that he carried, and was passing on, when the singing soldier came up and said, “Never mind his name; but whether he be Presbyter Jack or Quaker George, he must drink to the health of the King. Here,” he cried, filling a drinking-cup from the bottle in his hand, “drink to King Charles and his glory!”
Ralph took the cup, and, pretending to raise it to his lips, cast its contents by a quick gesture over his shoulder, where the liquor fell full in the face of the Shadow, who had at that moment crept up behind him. The soldiers were too drunk to perceive what he had done, and permitted him to go by without further molestation. As he walked on he heard from behind another stave of the ballad, which told how —
This Oliver was of Huntingdon
(Fa la la la),
Born he was a brewer’s son
(Fa la la la),
He soon forsook the dray and sling,
And counted the brewhouse a petty thing
Unto the stately throne of a king
(Fa la la la).
“What did the great man himself say?” asked the Shadow, stepping up to Ralph’s side. “He said, ‘I would rather have a plain, russet-coated captain who knows what he fights for, and loves what he knows, than what you call a gentleman.’ And he was right, eh?”
“God knows,” said Ralph, and turned aside.
He had stopped to look into the middle of a small crowd that had gathered about the corner of the Bridge Lane. A blind fiddler sat on a stool there and played sprightly airs. His hearers consisted chiefly of men and boys. But among them was one young girl in bright ribbons, who was clearly an outcast of the streets. Despite her gay costume, she had a wistful look in her dark eyes, as of one who was on the point of breaking into tears.
The dance tunes suddenly came to an end, and were followed by the long and solemn sweeps of a simple old hymn such as had been known in many an English home for many an age. Gradually the music rose and fell, and then gently, and before any were aware, a sweet, low, girlish voice took up the burden and sang the words. It was the girl of the streets who sang. Was it the memory of some village home that these chords had awakened? Was it the vision of her younger and purer days that came back to her amid the gayeties of this night — of the hamlet, the church, the choir, and of herself singing there?
The hymn melted the hearts of many that stood around, and tears now stood in the singer’s downcast eyes.
* * * * *
At that hour of that night, in the solitary homestead far north, among the hills, what was Rotha’s travail of soul?
* * * * *
Ralph dropped his head, and felt something surging in his throat.
At the same instant a thick-lipped man with cruel eyes crushed through the people to where the girl stood, and, taking her roughly by the shoulder, pushed her away.
“Hand thy gab,” he said, between clinched teeth; “what’s thy business singing hymns in t’streets? Get along home to bed; that’s more in thy style, I reckon.”
The girl was stealing away covered with shame, when Ralph parted the people that divided him from the man, and, coming in front of him, laid one hand on his throat. Gasping for breath, the fellow would have struggled to free himself, but Ralph held him like a vise.
“This is not the first time we have met; take care it shall be the last.”
So saying, Ralph flung the man from him, and he fell like an infant at his feet.
Gathering himself up with a look compounded equally of surprise and hatred, the man said, “Nay, nay; do you think it’ll be the last? don’t you fear it!”
Then he slunk out of the crowd, and it was observed that when he had gained the opposite side of the street, the little, pale-faced elderly person who had been known as Ralph’s Shadow, had joined him.
* * * * *
“Is it our man?”
“The same, for sure.”
“Then it must be done the day. We’ve delayed too long already.”
CHAPTER XXVIII. AFTER WORD COMES WEIRD.
I. When Ralph lay down in his bed that night in a coffee-house in China Lane, there was no conviction more strongly impressed upon his mind than that it was his instant duty to leave Lancaster. It was obvious that he was watched, and that his presence in the old town had excited suspicion. The man who had pestered him for many days with his unwelcome society was clearly in league with the other man who had insulted the girl. The latter rascal he knew of old for a declared and bitter enemy. Probably the pair were only waiting for authority, perhaps merely for the verification of some surmise, before securing the aid of the constable to apprehend him. He must leave Lancaster, and at once.
Ralph rose from his bed and dressed himself afresh. He strapped his broad pack across his back, called his hostess, and paid his score. “Must the gentleman start away at midnight?” Yes; a sudden call compelled him. “Should she brew him a pot of hot ale? — the nights were chill in winter.” Not to-night; he must leave without delay.
When Ralph walked through the streets of Lancaster that cold midnight, it was with no certainty as to his destination. It was to be anywhere, anywhere in this race for life. Any haven that promised solitude was to be his city of refuge.
The streets were quiet now, and even the roystering tipplers had gone off to their homes. For Ralph there was no home — only this wild hunt from place to place, with no safety and rest.
His heavy tread and the echo of his footfall were at length all that broke the stillness of the streets.
He walked southwards, and when he reached the turnpike he stood for a moment and turned his eyes towards the north. The fires that had been kindled were smouldering away, but even yet a red gleam lay across the square towers of the castle on the hill.
The old town was now asleep. Thousands of souls lay slumbering there.
Ralph thought of those who slept in a home he knew, far, far north of this town and those towers. What was his crime that he was banished from them — perhaps forever? What was his crime before God or man? His mother, his brother, Rotha —
Ralph struck his breast and turned about. No, it would not bear to be thought about. That dream, at least, was gone. Rotha was happy in his brother’s love, and as for himself — as for him — it was his destiny, and he must bear it!
Yet what was life worth now that he should struggle like this to preserve it?
Ralph returned to his old conviction — God’s hand was on him. The idea, morbid as it might be, brought him solace this time. Once more he stopped, and turned his eyes afresh towards the north and the fifty miles of darkness that lay between him and those he loved.
It was at that very moment of desolation that Rotha heard the neigh of a horse as she leaned out of her open window.
II. “Aye, poor man, about Martinmas the Crown seized his freehold and all his goods and chattels.”
“It will be sad news for him when he hears that his old mother and the wife and children were turned into the road.”
“Well, well, I will say, treason or none, that John Rushton was as good a subject as the loudest bagpipes of them all.”
Ralph was sitting at breakfast in a wayside inn when two Lancashire yeomen entered and began to converse in these terms: “Aye, aye, and the leaven of Puritanism is not to be crushed out by such measures. But it’s flat dishonesty, and nothing less. What did the proclamation of ‘59 mean if it didn’t promise pardon to every man that fought for the Parliament, save such as were named as regicides?”
“Tut, man, it came to nought; the King returned without conditions; and the men who fought against him are reckoned as guilty as those that cut off his father’s head.” “But the people will never uphold it. The little leaven remains, and one day it will leaven the lump.”
“Tut, the people are all fools — except such as are knaves. See how they’re given up to drunkenness and vain pleasures. Hypocrisy and libertinism are safe for a few years’ reign. England is Merry England, as they say, and she’ll be merry at any cost.”
“Poor John, it will be a sad blow to him!”
Ralph had been an eager listener to the conversation between the yeomen, who were clearly old Whigs and Parliamentarians.
“Pardon me, gentlemen,” he interrupted, “do you speak of John Rushton of Aberleigh?”
“We do. As good a gentleman as lived in Lancashire.”
“That’s true, but where was he when this disaster befell his household?”
“God knows; he had fled from judgment and was outlawed.”
“And the Crown confiscated his estate, you say, and turned his family into the road? What was the indictment — some trumpery subterfuge for treason?”
“Like enough; but the indictment counts for nothing in these days; it’s the verdict that is everything, and that’s settled beforehand.”
“True, true.”
“Did you know my neighbor John?”
“I did; we were comrades years ago.”
With these words, Ralph rose from his unfinished breakfast and walked out of the house.
What mischief of the same sort might even now be brewing at Wythburn in his absence? Should he return? That would be useless, and worse than useless. What could he do?
The daring impulse suddenly possessed him to go on to London, secure audience of the King himself, and plead for amnesty. Yes, that was all that remained to him to do, and it should be done. His petition might be spurned; his person might be seized, and he might be handed over to judgment; but what of that? He was certain to be captured sooner or later, and this sorry race for liberty and for life would be over at length.
III. The same day Ralph Ray, still travelling on foot, had approached the town of Preston. It was Sunday morning, but he perceived that smoke like a black cloud overhung the houses and crept far up the steeples and towers. Presently a tumultuous rabble came howling and hooting out of the town. At the head of them, and apparently pursued by them, was a man half clad, who turned about at every few yards, and, raising his arm, predicted woe and desolation to the people he was leaving. He was a Quaker preacher, and his presence in Preston was the occasion of this disturbance.
“Oh, Preston,” he cried, “as the waters run when the floodgates are up, so doth the visitation of God’s love pass away from thee, oh, Preston!”
“Get along with thee; thou righteous Crister,” said one of the crowd, lifting a stick above his head. “Get along, or ye’ll have Gervas Bennett aback of ye again.”
“I shall never cease to cry aloud against deceit and vanities,” shrieked the preacher above the tumult. “You do profess a Sabbath, and dress yourselves in fine apparel, and your women go with stretched necks.”
“Tush, tush! Beat him, stone him!”
“Surely the serpent will bite without enchantment,” the preacher replied, “and a babbler is no better. The lips of a fool will swallow up himself.”
The church bells were beginning to ring in the town, and the sound came across the fields and was heard even above the mocking laughter of the crowd.
“You have your steeple-houses, too,” cried the preacher, “and the bells of your gospel markets are even now a-ringing where your priests and professors are selling their wares. But God dwells not in temples made with hands. Oh, men of Preston, did I not prophesy that fire, and famine, and plagues, and slaughter would come upon ye unless ye came to the light with which Christ hath enlightened all men? And have ye not the plague of the East at your doors already?”
“And who brought it, who brought it?” screamed more than one voice from the crowd. “Who brought the plague to us from the East? Beat him, beat him!” The mob, with many uplifted hands, swayed about the preacher. “Your cities will be laid waste, the houses without man, and the land be utterly desolate. And what will ye do, oh men of Preston, in the day of visitation, and in the desolation which shall come from far?”
The rabble had rushed past by this time, still hooting and howling at the wild, fiery-eyed enthusiast at their head.
Ralph walked on to the town and speedily discovered the cause of the black cloud which overhung it. An epidemic of an alarming nature had broken out in various quarters, and fears were entertained that it was none other than a great pestilence which had been brought to England from the East.
Indescribably eerie was the look of Preston that Sunday morning. Men and boys were bearing torches through the streets to disinfect them, and it was the smoke from these torches that hung like a cloud above the town. Through the thick yellow atmosphere the shapes of people passing to and fro in the thoroughfares stood out large and black.
IV. Ralph had travelled thus far in the fixed determination of pushing on to London, seeking audience of the King himself, and pleading for an amnesty. But the resolution which had never failed him before began now to waver. Surely there was more than his political offences involved in the long series of disasters that had befallen his household? He reflected that every link in that chain of evil seemed to be coupled to the gyves that hung about his own wrists. Wilson’s life in Wythburn — his death — Sim’s troubles — Rotha’s sorrow — even his father’s fearful end, and the more fearful accident at the funeral — then his mother’s illness, nigh to death — how nigh to death by this time God alone could tell him here — all, all, with this last misery of his own banishment, seemed somehow to centre in himself. Yes, yes, sin and its wages must be in this thing; but what sin, what sin? What was the crime that cast its shadow over his life?
“As the waters run when the flood-gates are up,” said the preacher, “so doth the visitation of God’s love pass away from thee.”
Of what use, then, would be the amnesty of the King? Mockery of mockeries! In a case like this only the Great King Himself could proclaim a pardon. Ralph put his hands over his eyes as the vision came back to him of a riderless horse flying with its dread burden across the fells. No sepulture! It was the old Hebrew curse — the punishment of the unpardonable sin.
He thought again of his stricken mother in the old home, and then of the love which had gone from him like a dream of the night. Heaven had willed it that where the heart of man yearned for love, somewhere in the world there was a woman’s heart yearning to respond. But the curse came to some here and some there — the curse of an unrequitable passion.
* * * * *
The church bells were still ringing over the darkened town.
Rotha was happy in her love; Heaven be with her and bless her! As for himself, it was a part of the curse that lay on him that her face should haunt his dreams, that her voice should come to him in his sleep, and that “Rotha, Rotha,” should rise in sobs to his lips in the weary watches of the night.
Yes, it must be as he had thought — God’s hand was on him. Destiny had to work its own way. Why should he raise his feeble hands to prevent it? The end would be the end, whenever and wherever it might come. Why, then, should he stir?
Ralph had determined to go no farther. He would stay in Preston over the night, and set out again for the north at daybreak. Was it despair that possessed him? Even if so, he was stronger than before. Hope had gone, and fear went with it.
