The Shadow of a Crime Part 39

The loyaly of the Lancasterians might be unimpeachable, but their amus.e.m.e.nt at the proclamation was equally beyond question.

"That from Charles Stuart!" said one, with a laugh; and he added, with more familiarity of affection for his King than reverence for his august state, "What a sly dog he is, to be sure!"

"Who is that big man in the long coat?" said another, who had not partic.i.p.ated in the banter of his companions on the Puritanical devices of Charles and his cronies. He was jerking his head aside to where a man whom we have known in other scenes was pushing his way through the crowd.

"Don't know; no one knows, seemingly," answered the politician whose penetration had solved the mystery of the proclamation against vice and all loose livers.

"He's been in Lancaster this more nor a week, hasn't he?"

"Believe he has; and so has the little withered fellow that haunts him like his shadow. Don't seem over-welcome company, so far as I can see."

"Where's the little one now?"

"I reckon he's nigh about somewhere."

Ralph Ray borrowed a link from a boy who was near, and stood before the paper that was posted upon the Cross. Just then a short, pale-faced, elderly man, with quick eyes beneath s.h.a.ggy brows, elbowed his way between the people and came up close at Ray's side.

It was clearly not his object to read the proclamation, for after a glance at it his eyes were turned towards Ralph's face. If he had hoped to catch the light of an expression there he was disappointed.

Ralph read the proclamation without changing a muscle of his countenance. He was returning the link to its owner, when the little man reached out his long finger, and, touching the paper as it hung on the Cross, looked up into Ralph's eyes with a cunning leer, and said, "Unco' gude, eh?"

Ralph made no reply. As though determined to draw him into converse, the little man shrugged his shoulders, and added, "Clarendon's work that, eh?"

There was still no response, so the speaker continued: "It'll deceive none. It's lang sin' the like of it stood true in England--worse luck!"

The dialect in which this was spoken was of that mongrel sort which in these troublous days was sometimes adopted by degenerate Scotchmen who, living in England, had reasons of their own for desiring to conceal their nationality.

"I'll wager it's all a joke," added the speaker, dropping his voice, but still addressing Ralph, and ignoring the people that stood around them.

Ralph turned about, and, giving but a glance to his interlocutor, pa.s.sed out of the crowd without a word.

The little man remained a moment or two behind, and then slunk down the street in the direction which Ralph had taken.

There was to be a performance at the theatre that night, and already the people had begun to troop towards St. Leonard's Gate. Chairs were being carried down the causeway, with link-boys walking in front of them, and coaches were winding their way among the fires in the streets. Scarlet cloaks were mingling with the gray jerkins of the townspeople, and swords were here and there clanking on the pavement.

The theatre was a rude wooden structure that stood near the banks of the river, on a vacant plot of ground that bordered the city on the east and skirted the fields. It had a gallery that sloped upwards from the pit, and the more conspicuous seats in it were draped in crimson cloth. The stage, which went out as a square chamber from one side of the circular auditorium, was lighted by lamps that hung above the heads of the actors.

Before the performance began every seat was filled. The men hailed their friends from opposite sides of the house, and laughed and chaffed, and sang s.n.a.t.c.hes of Royalist and other ballads. The women, who for the most part wore veils or masks, whispered together, flirted their fans, and returned without reserve the salutations that were offered them.

Ralph Ray, who was there, stood at the back of the pit, and close at his left was the sinister little man who had earlier in the evening been described as his shadow. Their bearing towards each other was the same as had been observed at the Cross: the one constantly interrogating in a low voice; the other answering with a steadfast glance or not at all.

When the curtain rose, a little b.u.t.terfly creature, in the blue-and-scarlet costume of a man,--all frills and fluffs and lace and linen,--came forward, with many trips and skips and grimaces, and p.r.o.nounced a prologue, which consisted of a panegyric on the King and his government in their relations to the stage.

It was not very pointed, conclusive, or emphatic, but it was rewarded with applause, which rose to a general outburst of delighted approval when the rigor of the "late usurpers" was gibbeted in the following fashion:--

Affrighted with the shadow of their rage, They broke the mirror of the times, the Stage; The Stage against them still maintained the war, When they debauched the Pulpit and the Bar.

"Pretty times, forsooth, of which one of that breed could be the mirror," whispered the little man at Ralph's elbow.

The play forthwith proceeded, and proved to be the attempt of a gentleman of fashion to compromise the honor of a lady of the Court whom he had mistaken for a courtesan. The audience laughed at every indelicate artifice of the libertine, and screamed when the demure maiden let fall certain remarks which bore a double significance.

Finally, when the lady declared her interest in a cage of birds, and the gentleman drew from his pocket a purse of guineas, and, shaking them before her face, asked if those were the d.i.c.ky-birds she wished for, the enjoyment of the audience pa.s.sed all bounds of ordinary expression. The men in lace and linen lay back in their seats to give vent to loud guffaws, and the women flirted their fans coquettishly before their eyes, or used them to tap the heads of their male companions in mild and roguish remonstrance.

"Pity they didn't debauch the stage as well as the pulpit and bar, if this is its condition inviolate," whispered the little man again.

The intervals between the acts were occupied by part of the audience in drinking from the bottles which they carried strapped about their waists, and in singing s.n.a.t.c.hes of songs. One broad-mouthed roysterer on the ground proposed the King's health, and supported the toast by a ballad in which "Great Charles, like Jehovah," was described as merciful and generous to the foes that would unking him and the vipers that would sting him. The chorus to this loyal lyric was sung by the "groundlings" with heartiness and unanimity:--

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 lat.i.tude 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 pa.s.sing 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?"

"G.o.d 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?