“It is bound up in the heart of man, that longing for the West. I complain of no one for fleeing away thither, beyond the utmost sea, as David wished to flee and be at peace." —Westward Hal
WALTER had not been long asleep, when loud knocking at the great door awaked him. Saying to himself, "They might knock till Doomsday for old Dickon—early to bed and early to rise is his motto," he rose, and putting on his clothes hastily, went to see who was there.
It was Sir John Carr, who good-naturedly had ridden two or three miles out of his way from the neighboring town to bring Mrs. Gray a letter, left there for her by means of that as yet rude and primitive institution, "Her Majesty's Post." It would seem, indeed, that common humanity demanded this service, since the letter bore the following quaint addition to the ordinary superscription:—"Haste! Haste! Haste! Post, haste for thy life! See thou tarry not!”
Walter, reading this, and not being aware that such exhortations were quite customary, "by reason that the posts be so slow nowadays," brought the letter in some alarm to his mother, who, late as the hour was, had not yet retired to rest. "I fear there is something wrong with my uncle's folk," he said.
Mrs. Gray broke the seal and read in silence. "All is well, thank God," she answered. "But your uncle feared the letter might not come till after you had gone. There is a ship, in which he hath a venture, lying at Sheerness, and now ready to go up to London. And he thinks it will save expense and trouble for you to ride thither, and take advantage of the ship.”
“I have no objection," cried the delighted Walter. "And indeed, mother, for that matter—," he continued, with a flushed face and nervous air.
But just at that moment Mrs. Gray's little oil lamp went out suddenly, so she did not see the boy's face. And she knew it was past midnight, that Walter ought to be in the saddle by five in the morning, and that young eyes need long sleep. So she kissed him, and bade him go to bed at once.
Walter's happiness may be guessed when, in due course, he found himself at last on board a real ship. The Royal Tudor was a Turkey-merchantman, just returned from the Levant, well laden with the rich silks and cashmeres of the East. But she was something more. Great guns showed their black muzzles from her port-holes, and stem and stern were garnished with what, to Walter's inexperienced eye, looked like fortresses, small but strong. Every man on board was a soldier, prepared to do and die in defense of the ship and the ship's freight. The "Noli me tangere" of the Scottish thistle would have been an apt motto for the English ship; though the converse, "I will not touch you," would have been far from applicable. Woe to the trader or man-of-war—whether Spanish, Flemish, or Portuguese—which should dare to interfere with her, or, even without interfering, should cross her path by accident! Already she had given a good account of more than one "caraque" or "caravel," over which the yellow flag of Spain should never float again. And everyone on board, from the captain to the cabin-boy, considered such "spoiling of the Egyptians" not only perfectly lawful, but a highly meritorious and satisfactory doing of their duty in that state of life unto which it had pleased God to call them.
All this and much more Walter learned, before he had been four-and-twenty hours on board, from his cousin George. The light-hearted, good-natured sailor-lad did the honors of the ship, his pride and joy, in first-rate style to his gentlemanly cousin; nor was he by any means insensible to the profound admiration with which the young scholar regarded him. This admiration might have become mutual, not without advantage to both, had not Walter's evil genius prompted him to show off the fragments of nautical knowledge he had picked up from his friend the blacksmith. In his enthusiasm he ventured upon some ill-advised observations about "cobridge-heads," "skyscrapers," and "mizzen-masts," which provoked George to peals of laughter, and unnecessarily loud assertions that "Master Walter might be a fine scholar on shore, but he did not know a main-mast from a marlin-spike on board ship.”
Walter ought to have- joined in the laugh, or found a good-humored retort. But it is hard to be taunted with ignorance of what we love. So he changed color, and, with some irritation of manner, vowed that he would soon know everything on board as well as George himself. And he was as good as his word.
When the ship arrived in London, the welcome he received from his uncle and aunt and their family was all that could be desired. Thomas Noble was a good specimen of a fine class, the merchantmen of England, who were then beginning to be what they have been ever since, "the honorable men of the earth." Like so many of their brethren in the Low Countries and elsewhere, they had espoused, almost universally, the cause of religious truth and freedom, and they maintained it often with great courage and liberality. There was not amongst them all a more zealous "Gospeller" than Master Noble, Warden of the Mercers' Company, and some time Sheriff of London Town.
He dwelt on London Bridge,—like the well-known cloth merchant, Master Hewit, whose young daughter the apprentice, Edward Osborne, saved by his celebrated leap from the kitchen window into the river below. All things had gone prosperously with Master Noble. He had the blessing that makes rich, and no sorrow added with it. His six brave sons were doing well, each in his own way. Gentle Lilias was a flower scarcely opened, fair and pure as a spring lily. At the time of Walter's visit, it happened that all were at home, or within easy reach of it, and often gathered around the cheerful, plentiful board where their father presided.
Walter was very happy amongst them. His days and weeks glided rapidly by amidst novel sights and exciting occupations. He saw the Queen ride in state to old St. Paul's, amidst transports of the loyal ardor that was such a characteristic feature of the times. He saw St. Paul's itself; and Westminster Abbey, and the Tower, and the shops, and the fields where the young men and apprentices played games, and practiced archery; and he sent out his own cloth-yard arrow very creditably amongst the rest. What was better than all, he bore part in a healthy, kindly family life, where peace, order, and plenty reigned.
It was strange enough that his most intimate friend amongst his cousins should be the one that he had come prepared almost to despise-"'prentice Will," in his plain blue gown and close-cropped hair. One evening at supper George was vaunting the glories of the Royal Tudor, when Will (who was frequently permitted to join the family meal, his master being an old and valued friend of his father's) looked up quietly from his trencher of powdered beef, and remarked, "She's well enough, brother George; but call me knave and Papist if the English Merchantman does not beat her as clean as Harry beat that great lubberly lout of a draper's lad last Saturday at the butts in Finsbury fields.”
“Speak of what you understand, my lad of watches and finger rings," George retorted contemptuously. "Would you wish a craft built for running to and fro in the Mediterranean to look like a cruiser for the Spanish main?”
“Is the Royal Merchantman to sail the Spanish main?" asked Walter in an eager, nervous whisper.
“The English Merchantman, an it please you, cousin," Will corrected aloud; "though, indeed," he added mysteriously, "if all were known, the other name might not come so much amiss. My master more than hints there be high and mighty personages with him in his venture.”
“Will," said his father, "don't speak evil of dignities.”
“Where's the evil, father?" Will asked briskly, yet respectfully. "Everyone knows my master's good conditions; and that which, in the way of gain or profit, would not soil his fingers, is clean enough to be touched by the Queen's gracious Majesty herself, God bless her.”
“Amen" said Harry the soldier. "Will, my lad, ne'er fash thyself with scruples about the English Merchantman. Let her cleave the waves as merrily as she lists. Ay, and let her crew seize Spanish treasure,—what is that but robbing the robber, and spoiling the spoiler? And if they cut the throats of the men—say rather of the fiends—that guard it, they will serve them better than—”
“Harry! Harry!" It was his mother who spoke, and in a tone of grieved surprise. "Are these fit words for a Christian man to speak?”
“No fit words for you to hear, at all events; so I crave your pardon, mother," he answered. "Yet, if you knew what I know of deeds done by the hands of Spanish men, I think that you-even you, could not weigh and measure out your words when you spoke of them.”
“Will," whispered Walter, "will you take me to see the English Merchantman?" "With all my heart," Will answered.
He was quite ready to fulfill his promise. The next Saturday afternoon, the holiday of London 'prentices, was the time fixed upon. Will asked his cousin's leave to bring with them his fellow-apprentice, and Walter somewhat reluctantly consented. He found Eustace Jenkyns, however, a notable addition to their party. He was a bold, merry scapegrace, who, to Walter's surprise, seemed quite an authority upon nautical matters; but, as Will privately informed him, was "nowhere" in the business, and just now in disgrace with his master for sundry acts of gross inattention and carelessness. Naturally idle and restless, he had fallen in with some of the wild speculations current at the time, and these had filled his head with visions of money-getting, far more rapid than any the workshop or the counter could realize. He talked of the gold to be won in the far West by brave hearts and ready hands, even alluding to the legend, already well known to Walter, of the lake of Parima and the golden city of Manoa or El Dorado. Walter believed, for his part, that the Incas who had been dispossessed by the Spaniards were still reigning there in barbaric splendor; and many and many a time, as he sat in the window of the old hall in his childhood's home with some early narrative of travel borrowed from the vicar before him, had he dreamed of finding and restoring them. Eustace Jenkyns did not care in the least for the lost Incas, but he cared for gold and for glory. Of these he talked, while Walter listened—and the poison shot through his veins like fire. Gold would be welcome, of course, to one who knew so well the pains and privations of poverty. But glory!— that was the bait that drew him irresistibly on.
He was not greatly shocked when at last Eustace trusted him with his grand secret. "I was not made for crying, ' what do you lack, my masters? ' or for twisting steel wires and copper filings either," he said. “My Christmas box is broken and spent long ago, my credit gone, my master turned against me.
'Twere no great matter to break my indentures too, and slip oft in the dark next Friday se'nnight to the English Merchantman. So Master Nevit would lose a bad 'prentice, and the service would gain a good sailor. And what would you think, Master Walter, of flinging off that pretty scholar's gown, crying, ' He, for the high seas!' and joining me?”
“Fie on you, Jenkyns!" cried Walter, turning away half angry, half amused. And yet the shaft hit.
A chain of circumstances, slight, yet strong, had woven itself around him, and by this he was being gradually drawn onwards to a deed from which, if boldly proposed to him at first, he would have turned away in horror. And yet, if his heart had not yielded already to temptation, these circumstances would have been as powerless to draw him as threads of gossamer.
It was quite natural that pretty Cousin Lilias should receive a large share of Master Walter's attention and admiration. As the time was drawing near when he ought to quit his uncle's hospitable roof for Oxford, it occurred to him to beg one of the young lady's top-knots for a keepsake. This was fair enough, since he had spent much more than he should have done upon ribbons and trinkets for her. Happening to find her one evening alone—she was standing in a kind of lobby that had a window, with a balcony outside, overlooking the river— he modestly preferred his important request. At first he played the grown-up cavalier, made her the fairest compliments he could think of and even indulged in some of the "euphemisms" which were then beginning to become fashionable.
But gradually his boyish nature reasserted itself, and forgetting his assumed manliness, he sprang forward and deftly tried to snatch the precious knot of blue ribbon; which, however, Lilias, for fear of surprise, had already taken from its place, and was holding high above her head. And thus for a minute's space or so they fenced and parried, laughing lightly at their sport, like the children they really were.
So absorbed were they in their play that George drew near unnoticed. The young sailor was very proud of his sister, and had never been quite cordial with Walter Gray since he observed his attentions to her. He showed, therefore, more indignation than the occasion seemed to demand. "Sister Lilias, you are too old to play with unmannerly boys," he remarked in an elder-brotherly tone of reproof. "Our mother is asking for you in the parlor.”
Lilias took the hint and vanished; although she did not present herself in the well-lighted parlor until she had cooled her burning cheeks with fresh water. George meanwhile gave Walter the full benefit of his angry scorn.
“You poor little scholar boy!" he cried. "Prithee, keep to your Latin grammar, and leave ladies' top-knots for those who can win them in something better than child's play. If you had not been all your life tied to your mother's apron, you would know by this time that my sister Lilias—”
“At least I know what you, sir, seem to have forgotten-that your sister is a lady," interrupted the indignant Walter. "How dare you chide her as an ill-conditioned child? And as for myself, though I have the misfortune to be a scholar, I hope at least to show you that I am a man. Will you fight me, sirrah”
“I'll put thee in my pocket, and carry thee over the Bridge and along Cheapside, with all the 'prentice lads and serving-lasses to look on and cry Lack-a-day!" returned George, laughing heartily. "Nay, nay," he added presently, glancing at Walter's flushed face and lowering brow, "'tis but sailor's nonsense, Cousin Walter. I mean no harm. There, give me your hand. One must be careful of a girl like Lilias, though.”
But Walter turned haughtily from him, and leaning against the casement, looked out upon the waters of the Thames, gliding peacefully far below.
“The lad is dumpish," thought George. "Well, I can't help that. Tomorrow I will buy for him that book I saw him eye so lovingly in old Spicer's booth the other day, to show I bear no malice." Comforting himself with this resolve, he walked away, carelessly whistling some sailor's melody.
Walter stood and gazed—in a listless, unhappy mood, discontented with his lot in life, angry with everyone, but most of all with himself. If he could but go away, win gold and glory, and then come back and show his cousins the worth of the "little scholar boy" they despised! What was it that just then shot noiselessly from under the arch of the bridge? A wherry, barely visible through the darkening gloom. But he marked it as it glided past; and he knew its errand well. Had not Eustace Jenkyns told him all? What mattered the details of the plot—how serving men and lasses were bribed, and the suspicions of the city watch laid to rest by a plausible story, accounting for the appearance of the wherry at that unseasonable hour? All he cared to think of was the rapturous joy with which the freed apprentice would set his foot that night on the deck of the English Merchantman. And then,—away to the distant West, to the land of gold and glory, of romance and dreams!
Why should Eustace Jenkyns, the goldsmith's runaway apprentice, taste that joy, and Walter Gray, scholar and gentleman, be shut out from it all? Was not his own life in his hand to do what he pleased with? For one delicious maddening moment he seemed to feel the spicy gales from those distant shores already fanning his cheek. And then his eye rested on the boat, gliding slowly past once more, two men in it now.
Another moment and the opportunity would be gone-gone forever. There was no time for thought. From the ship he would write to his mother, explain all, and excuse himself-if he could. Now he must act; now or never. He took out a white kerchief, and waved it. The signal was noticed by the men in the wherry—one of them raised his oar to a perpendicular position by way of answer.
Now, what should he do? At this hour the doors would be shut and all the lower windows of the house securely fastened, nor could he open them without attracting attention. But he remembered that George had once descended from the balcony to the river,—a perilous, but practicable feat, which he had heard him describe, with all its circumstances, for the benefit of James and Ned. Walter, naturally brave, was capable in this hour of excitement of the wildest daring. His head was steady, and his limbs were light and agile. In a moment he was out on the balcony, over it, clinging to it with both hands while he sought foothold beneath. He had not, fortunately, to entrust himself to a trim, modern building, smooth as glass from attic to basement. The kitchen window, an old statue of a saint in a niche, uneven stones here and there, tufts of grass, weeds, lastly the bridge buttress, gave him the support he needed, and enabled him at length to drop exhausted, but unhurt, into the dark cold waters beneath. He was soon helped into the boat by the astonished, but admiring Eustace Jenkyns.
And thus Walter Gray, by one egregious act of folly, or rather of madness, falsified the promise of his thoughtful childhood and precocious boyhood, gave the lie to all his past life, and utterly changed all his future.