Sir Ludar Part 33

By this time the company had left their benches and were scattered about the room, gossiping over this last great news and questioning the fellow more. Some came to the table where Ludar and I sat; and the soldier, looking hard at me, exclaimed:

"Where saw I that gallows face before? Who be you, sirrah?"

"A printer," said I.

"You lie," said he, "for I saw you to-day accompany the old Scotsman to the Castle. And, by my body, that slouching dog there should be-- Hillo! comrades," cried he, amazed at his discovery, "more ghosts! May I perish if there have not been sitting in this very room while we talked of him this same sour-faced, love-sick clown, Master Ludar, and one of his merry men. Marry come up! The very man, skulking here, while his light-of-love is on her honeymoon, and the old dotard, his father, with his pockets full of English gold--"

He said no more. Ludar had no sword, but the blow he gave him silenced his foul tongue for a week. Instantly the room was turned into a shambles. 'Twas no time to mince words or blows, and we did neither.

Nor were we two left alone to withstand all the rest; for the gentleman of the party (whom I have mentioned), sided with us, as did also the sea captain, who owed mine host a long score, and saw a good way to cry quits without shortening his purse. Among us, we made so good an account of ourselves, that when at length we took our leave, not a man bade us stay.

"Come," said the captain, "my s.h.i.+p lies at the bridge. To-morrow we shall see England."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

HOW I FOUND MYSELF AGAIN IN LONDON.

Three days later, as our s.h.i.+p laboured up the gulf of the Solway, Ludar came to me, as I stood on the p.o.o.p, 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, wis.h.i.+ng 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."