Part 11 (2/2)
But presently, and while we were thus employed, she with dressing my hurts, and I with such and such affairs, Idonia whispered--
”Doth he know where you lodge?”
”Yes,” said I, ”he discovered the place to-night,” and told her where it was, and of the kindness Master Gregory had shown me.
”I knew not his name,” she interrupted me hurriedly, while making pretence to busy herself with the tightening a bandage, ”nor of what authority he were that took you from me when you were hurt before; but he looked at me as at one that would not use you well, and in the end spoke something roughly to me, so that I dared not follow you. Ah!
these upright staid men!” she added with a world of bitterness; but then, ”Now your lodging is known, you must leave it straightway, sir.”
”I am not used to run away,” said I, more coldly than I had meant to do, and she said no more. When we looked up Malpas had gone.
We looked at each other without speaking for admiration of the strength and secrecy he had shown in thus stealing off.
”I must go too,” I said presently, and saw her eyes widen in dismay.
”Beware of him!” she whispered. ”He doth not forget. And see! he hath not neglected to take his sword;” as indeed, most marvellously, he had done.
”Well, he serves an honest gentleman,” quoth I carelessly, ”so that if I have cause to think he plots against my life, I shall lay my complaint before my lord Pembroke.”
But she shook her head as doubting the wisdom, or at least the efficacy, of that, though she said nought either way, but led me soon after to the great oaken door (which Malpas had left ajar when he went) and set it wide. The night was very dark, with the moon now gone down into the bank of cloud, and so still that we heard a sentinel challenge one at the Bulwark Gate of the Tower. I thought too I heard the rattle of an oar against the thole, as though a boat put off from the Galley Quay a little below, but of that I was not sure.
”G.o.d keep you,” I said to the maid; but when she did not answer me I looked down and saw she was weeping.
When I went away, I heard the bolt shoot into its rusted socket, and asked myself: how would my case stand now, had Idonia shot it, as she essayed to do, at the first?
CHAPTER XII
HOW MR. JORDAN COULD NOT RUN COUNTER TO THE COURSE OF NATURE
I know not yet (and I thank Heaven for my ignorance) what may be the peculiar weakness of old age, though I suspect it to lie in an excessive regard for life; but of youth I have proved it to be a contempt of life; which, despite the philosophic ring of the phrase, I do affirm to be a fault, though I am willing to allow that I mean a contempt, not of our own, but of another man's life, and a surprise that he should hold dear so vulgar a commodity.
Thus, as I walked away from the house of Idonia, I pondered long and carefully the small account that Mr. Malpas was of, and could not conceive how he had the monstrous impudency to cling so tight as he did to the habit of living, which (as a soiled s.h.i.+rt) he might well enough have now been content to exchange. Indeed, the more I thought upon the matter, the greater increased my sense of the absurdity that such a man should claim his share of the world, or rather (to select the essential quality of my complaint) his share of that corner of Thames Street where Idonia lived, which goeth by the name of Petty Wales. From thence, at all hazards, I was determined to exclude him. For had not Idonia said: ”I fear him”? and that was enough for me. Indeed it seemed to elevate my jealousy into an obligation of chivalry, merely to remember that sallow-faced swaggerer that said he loved her. Simon Powell should have fitted me with some knight's part, methought, amidst his Peredurs and Geraints, and I would have proved myself worthy as the best of them.
But that was all very well. It was past ten o'clock, and when I got to London Bridge I found it barred against me and the watch within the gate-house snoring. I knocked twice or thrice pretty hard and at length woke the watch; but so angered was he at thus losing of his sleep, besides that he thought perhaps to recover upon his late remissness, that he flew into an unnecessary zeal of watchfulness, swearing I was some vagabond rogue, and, bidding me begone, shut the wicket in my face. In vain did I endeavour to make myself known, bawling my name through the gate, and Mr. Nelson's too; the porter had returned to his interrupted repose, and nothing on earth would move him again, for that night at least.
So after having launched one or two such observations as I thought befitted the occasion, I made the best of it I could, and turned away to seek for some cleanly house of receipt where I might pa.s.s the remainder of the night. Some while I spent in ranging hither and thither, without happening on such an hostelry as did please me (for I confess to a niceness in these matters); but at length, coming into a place where two streets met, I found there a very decent quiet house that answered to my wishes so well that I immediately entered and bespoke a chamber for the night. Here I slept exceeding soundly, and in the morning awoke, though yet sore from my scratches, yet otherwise refreshed and cheerful.
The better part of the travellers that had lain there were already up and away ere I arose, so that I had the room to myself almost, wherein I broke my fast, and, save for the lad that served me, held conversation with none other. Had I known in what fas.h.i.+on we were to meet later, I should no doubt have observed him with more closeness than I did, but I saw in a trice he was one that a groat would buy the soul of, and another groat the rest of him.
”'Twas late you came hither last night,” he said as he set down my tankard beside me upon the table.
I smiled without replying, and nodded once or twice, to give him a supposition of my discretion; but he took it otherwise.
”Ay, you say truly,” he ran on, ”there is a liberty of inns that no private house hath. Come when you list and go when you have a mind to; there's no constraint nor question amongst us.”
”Be pleased to fetch me the mustard,” said I.
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