University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.

The Knight and Shepherd's Daughter.

The Skipper's necessary affairs in the port engaged
him all the day succeeding that of his interview
with father Pierre, and therefore prevented him from
making his intended visit to the Cripple of St. Jerome's.
When the next morning broke upon him,
the early bell of St. Mary's Chapel informed him of
the Sabbath,—a day seldom distinguished in his calendar
from the rest of the week. It was, however,
not unheeded now, as it suggested the thought that
an opportunity might be afforded him to gain a sight
of Blanche Warden—and even, perchance an interview—at
the service of the Chapel. In this hope he
at once relinquished his design of going to St. Jerome's,
at least until after the morning offices of the
church were performed. Accordingly, at an hour
somewhat in advance of the general attendance of

the congregation, the Skipper was seen loitering in
the purlieus of the Chapel, where he marked with an
inquisitive but cautious watchfulness the various
groups that were coming to their devotions. When
at length his strained vision was able to descry a
cavalcade approaching from the direction of St. Inigoe's,
and he discerned the figures of Albert Verheyden
and Blanche Warden dallying far in the rear
of the Collector and his daughter Alice, their horses
almost at a walk, and themselves manifestly engrossed
in an earnest conference, he turned hastily towards
the church and with a compressed lip and
knitted brow, ascended the stair and threw himself
into an obscure corner of the little gallery which
looked upon the altar. Here he remained a sullen
and concealed observer of the rites of the temple,—
his bosom rankling with uncharitable thoughts, and
his countenance clouded with feelings the most ungenial
to the lowly self-abasement and contrition of
heart which breathed in every word of the solemn
ritual that addressed his ear.

The Collector's family entered the place of worship.
The Secretary still accompanied Blanche,
knelt beside her in prayer, opened her missal to the
various services of the day, and tendered the customary
offices of familiar gallantry common to such
an occasion, with an unrebuked freedom: all this in
the view of the Skipper, whose eye flashed with a
vengeful fire, as he gazed upon the man to whom he
attributed the wrong he deemed himself to have suffered
in his recent interview with the maiden. The

service ended and the throng was retiring, when
Cocklescraft planted himself on the outside of the
door. His purpose was to exchange even but a word
with the daughter of the Collector—at least to win a
recognition of his presence by a smile, a nod, the
smallest courtesy,—so dear to the heart of a lover.
She came at last, loiteringly with father Pierre and
Albert Verheyden. Perhaps she did not see Cocklescraft
in the shade of the big elm, even although her
father's weaker sight had recognised him, and the old
man had stepped aside to shake his hand. She passed
on to her horse without once turning her head towards
him. The Skipper abruptly sprang from the Collector
to help her into her saddle, but Blanche had
already Albert's hand, and in a moment was in her
seat. Cocklescraft's proffered service was acknowledged
by a bow and only a casual word. The Secretary
in an instant mounted his steed, and, with
the maiden, set forth on their ride at a brisk gallop.
The Brother of the Coast forgetful of his usual circumspection,
stood with folded arms and moody
visage, looking darkly upon them as they disappeared,
and muttering half-audible ejaculations of wrath.
He was, after an interval, roused from his abstraction
by the hand of father Pierre gently laid upon his
shoulder:

“You have forgotten the censer of virgin silver,
you promised to offer at this shrine,” said the priest
in a grave voice. “It was to be an offering for the
sin of a wayward spirit of anger. Beware, son, that
thou dost no wrong to a brother.”

“I have not forgotten the censer, holy father,”
returned the Skipper, with an ineffectual effort to
assume his usual equanimity. “I have only deferred
the offering—until I may give it,” he added in a
stern voice—“with an honest conscience. Thou
shalt have it anon. I have business now that stands
in the way:—good morning to you, father.” And
with these words he walked rapidly away.

In the afternoon Cocklescraft was seen plying his
way from the quay in a small boat, attended by two
seamen who rowed him to a point some five or six
miles below the town, where he landed, and set out
on foot for St. Jerome's.

On the following morning, whilst the dawn yet
cast its grey hue over the face of the land, two men,
in shaggy frize dresses, arrived at the hut of the
Cripple. They rode on rough, little beach-ponies,
each provided with a sack. The mastiff bitch
eyed the visiters with a malign aspect from her station
beneath the door sill, and by her low mutterings
warned them against a too near approach.
They accordingly stood at bay.

“Curse on the slut!” said one; “she has the eye
of a very devil;—it might not be safe to defy her.
Not a mouse is stirring:—the old Trencherman is as
still as his bowl. Were it safe, think you, to wake
him?”

“Why not?” demanded the other. “He will be
in a passion, and threaten, at first, with his weapon;
—but when he knows we come to trade with him, I
will warrant he butters his wrinkles as smoothly with

a smile as you could desire. Strike your staff,
Nichol, against the door.”

“The fiend fetch me, if I venture so near as to
strike, with that bitch at the step. Try it thyself,
Perry Cadger.”

“Nay, and it comes to that, I will rouse him in
another fashion,” said the other.

“Master Swale—Master Robert Swale—Halloo
—halloo!”

“Rob, man, awake,—turn out for thy friends!”
exclaimed the first. The growl of the mastiff bitch
was now changed into a hoarse bark. Some stir
was heard from the inside of the hut, and, in a moment
afterwards, the door was unbolted and brought
sufficiently open to allow the uncouth head and half
dressed figure of the Cripple to be seen. A short
blunderbuss was levelled directly in the face of the
visiters, whilst an ungracious repulse was screamed
out in a voice husky with rage.

“Begone, you misbegotten thieves! What makes
you here? Do you think I am an ale draper to take
in every strolling runagate of the night. Begone, or
by my body, I will baptize you with a sprinkling of
lead!”

“In God's name, Robert Swale,” exclaimed the
first speaker, “turn thy weapon aslant! Thou mayst
do a deed of mischief upon thy friends. We are
Nichol Upstake, and Peregrine Cadger—friends,
Rob,—friends, who have come to drive bargains to
thy profit. Open your eyes, Master—put on your
glasses—we have gold in pocket, man.”

“Ha, ha, ha!” chuckled the tenant of the hut;
“thou art astir, cronies! Ha, ha! I took ye for
land loupers—sharks. By the Five Wounds, I knew
ye not! Have patience a space and I will open.”

When the Cripple had dressed himself he came
swinging forth in his bowl, and passing beyond the
curtilage of his dwelling went to the beach, whither
he was followed by his two visiters who had now
dismounted from their ponies. Here he halted, and
taking off his cap, exposed his bare head and loose
white tresses to the morning breeze which came
somewhat sharply from the water.

“Soh!” he exclaimed, “there is refreshment in
that! It is my custom to expel these night-cap vapours
with the good salt water breeze: that is a commodity
that may reach the province without paying
duty to his Lordship! a cheap physic, a cheap physic,
masters. Now what scent art thou upon, Nichol
Upstake? Perry Cadger, man of sarsnet and grogram,
I guess thy errand.”

“In truth, Robert Swale,” said Upstake—

“No Robert Swale, nor Master Robert Swale,”
testily interrupted the owner of the cabin: “none of
your worshipful phrase for me! Thou art but a
shallow hypocrite to affect this reverence. Rob of
the Bowl is the best I get from you when your longings
are satisfied; ay, and it is said with a curl of
your lip; and you make merry over my unworthiness
with your pot-fellows. So, be honest, and give me
plain Rob; I seek no flattery.”

“You do us wrong, good Master Rob,” interposed
Peregrine Cadger—

“To your needs,” said Rob, sternly: “Speak in
the way of your trade! You have no voice, nor I
ear for aught else.”

“Then, in brief, said Nichol Upstake, “I would
fain know if you could supply me with Antigua to
day, or aqua vitæ, I care not which?”

“If such a thing might be, where wouldst thou
take it, Nichol?” inquired Rob.

“To Warrington on the Cliffs.”

“Ay, to Warrington on the Cliffs; good!—and
warily to be borne? no hawk's eye upon thy path?”

“It shall be by night, if you like it,” said the dealer.

“Well, well!” replied the Cripple; “I can give
you a little of both, master: a flagon or so; some
three or four. My hut is small, and hath a scant
cellar. But the money in hand, Nichol Upstake!
Good gold—full weight—and a fair price, too, mark
you! I must have a trifle above my last market—ten
shillings the gallon on the brandy, and two more for
the Antigua. Leave thy kegs, and see me again at
sunset. The money in hand! the money in hand!
there is no trust in my commonwealth.”

“It shall be so,” said Nichol.

“And now, Master Cadger, what wilt? You have
a scheme to cozen dame and wench with gewgaws;
I see it in thine eye: and you will swear upon book
and cross, if need be, they have stood you a wondrous
hard purchase, even at the full three hundred per
cent, excess you purpose to exact above the cost;

and all the while it has come out of Rob's warehouse
as cheap as beggars' alms: Ha, ha, ha! This world
thrives on honesty! it grows fat on virtue! knavery
only starves! Your rogue in rags, what hath he but
his deserts! Let him repent and turn virtuous, like
you and me, Perry, and his torn cloak and threadbare
doublet shall be fenced and lined to defy all weathers.
Hark ye, master, I have camblets, satins, and velvets,
cambric, and lawn for thee—choice commodities all.
Thou shalt see them in the hut.”

“How came you by so rich an inventory, Rob?”

The Cripple turned a fierce eye upon the mercer,
and with one glance conveyed his meaning, as he
touched the handle of his dagger and said in a low
tone,

“Dost forget the covenant between us? Peregrine
Cadger you know I brook no such question.”

The mercer stood for a moment abashed, and then
replied: “An idle word, Master Rob, which meant
no harm: as you say, honesty will only thrive.
You shall find never a knave that is not some part
fool. I will into the hut to look at the wares.”

“Do so,” said the Cripple. “You will find them
in the box behind the door. There is need that you
leave me, so follow him, Nichol. I have sudden
business, masters, which it does not concern you to
witness. When you have seen what you desire, depart
quickly; leave your sacks and come back at sunset.
I charge you, have a care that your eyes do
not wander towards my motions. You know me, and
know that I have sentinels upon your steps who have

power to sear your eye-balls if you but steal one forbidden
glance: away!”

The dealers withdrew into the hut, wondering at
the abrupt termination of their interview, and implicitly
confiding in the power of the Cripple to make
good his threat.

“The Lord have mercy upon us!” said the mercer,
in a smothered voice, after they had entered the
door; “the Cripple hath matters on hand which it
were not for our good to pry into. Pray you, Nichol,
let us make our survey and do his bidding, by setting
forth at once. I am not the man to give him offence.”

The cause of this unexpected dismissal of the
visiters was the apparition of Cocklescraft, whose
figure, in the doubtful light of the morning, was seen
by Rob at a distance, on the profile of the bank in
the neighbourhood of the Wizard's Chapel. He had
halted upon observing the Cripple in company with
strangers, and had made a signal which was sufficiently
intelligible to the person to whom it was addressed,
to explain his wish to meet him.

Rob, having thus promptly rid himself of his company,
now swung on his short crutches, almost as
rapidly as a good walker could have got over the
ground, towards the spot where the Buccaneer had
halted.

“Steer your cockleshell there to the right, old
worm!” said the Freebooter, as Rob came opposite
to the bank on which he stood. “You shall find it
easier to come up by the hollow.”

“The plagues of a foul conscience light on thee!”
replied the Cripple, desisting from farther motion,
and wiping the perspiration from his brow. “Is it
more seemly I should waste my strength on the fruitless
labour to clamber up that rough slope, or thou
come down to me? You mock me, sirrah!” he added,
with an expression of sudden anger; “Thou know'st
I cannot mount the bank.”

“Thou know'st I can drag thee up, reverend fragment
of a sinful man!” returned Cocklescraft, jocularly;
“yes, and with all thy pack of evil passions at
thy back, besides. Would you hold our meeting in
sight from the window of the hut, where you have
just lodged a pair of your busy meddlers—your bumpkin
cronies in the way of trade? It was such as these
that, but a few nights ago, set his Lordship's hounds
upon our tracks. Come up, man, without farther
parley.”

The Cripple's fleeting anger changed, as usual, to
that bitter smile and chuckle with which he was wont
to return into a tractable mood, as he said,—

“A provident rogue! a shrewd imp! He has his
instinct of mischief so keen that his forecast never
sleepeth. The devil hath made him a perfect scholar.
There, Dickon, give me thy hand,” he added, when
he came to the steep ascent which his machine of
locomotion was utterly inadequate to surmount.
“Give me thy hand, good cut-throat. Help me to
the top.”

The muscular seaman, instead of extending his
hand to his companion, descended the bank, and

taking the bowl and its occupant upon his shoulder,
strode upward to the even ground, and deposited his
load with as little apparent effort as if he had been
dealing with a truss of hay.

“Bravely!” ejaculated Rob, when he was set down.
“I scarce could have done better in my best day.
Now, what set thee to jogging so early, Dickon?
Where dost thou come from?”

“From the Chapel,” replied the other. “I came
there from the Port last night, express to see you;
and having no special favour for the bed I slept on,
I left it at the first streak of light to go and rouse you
from your dreams, and lo! there you are at one of
your dog and wolf bargains with the country side
clowns.”

“Discreet knaves, Dickon, who have come to ease
us of somewhat of our charge of contraband: stout
jerkins—stout and well lined; rogues of substance—
Nichol Upstake, the ordinary keeper of Warrington,
and Perry Cadger, the mercer of St. Mary's. Seeing
thee here, I dismissed them until sunset. That Peregrine
Cadger is somewhat leaky as a gossip, and
might tell tales if he were aware that I consorted
with you.”

“I see them taking the road on their ponies,” said
Cocklescraft; “we may venture to the hut. I am
sharp set for breakfast, and when I have a contented
stomach, I will hold discourse with you, Rob, touching
matters of some concern to us both.”

The Cripple and his guest, upon this hint, repaired
to the hut, and in due time the morning meal was

supplied and despatched. Cocklescraft then opened
the purport of his visit.

“Has it ever come into your wise brain, Master
Rob,” he asked, “that you are getting somewhat old;
and that it might behoove you to make a shrift at
the confessional, by way of settling your account?
I take it, it will not be a very clean reckoning without
a good swashing penance.”

“How now, thou malignant kite!” exclaimed the
Cripple; “what's in the wind?”

“Simply, Rob, that the time has come when, peradventure,
we must part. I am tired of this wicked
life. I shall amend; and I come to counsel you to
the like virtuous resolution. I will be married,
Robert Swale, Man of the Bowl!”

“Grammercy! thou wilt be married! thou! I spit
upon thee for a fool. What crotchet is this?”

“I will be married, as I say, neither more nor less.
Now to what wench, ask you? Why to the very
fairest and primest flower of this province—the Rose
of St. Mary's—the Collector's own daughter. I
mark that devil's sneer of unbelief of your's, old
buckler man; truer word was never spoke by son of
the sea or land, than I speak now.”

“To the Collector's daughter!” ejaculated the
Cripple, in a tone of derision. “Thy carriage is bold
in the Port, but no measure of audacity will ever
bring thee to that favour. Would'st thou play at thine
old game, and sack the town, and take the daintiest
in it for ransom? You know no other trick of wooing,
Dickon.”

“By my hand, Rob, I am specially besought by the
Collector to make one at a choice merry-making
which his daughter has on foot for next Thursday.
Ay, and I am going, on his set command, to dance a
gailliard with Mistress Blanche. Oh, she shall be
the very bird of the sea—the girl of the billow, Rob!
She shall be empress of the green wave that nursed
me, and the blue sky, and the wide waste. Her
throne shall be on the deck of my gay bark: and my
merry men shall spring at her beck as deftly as at
the boatswain's pipe!”

“You shall sooner meet your deservings,” said
Rob, “on the foal of the acorn, with a hempen string,
than find grace with the Collector's child. Thy whole
life has been adversary to the good will of the
father.”

“I know it,” replied Cocklescraft. “I was born
in natural warfare with the customs and all who
gather them; the more praise for my exploit! I shall
change my ways and forsake evil company. I shall
be a man of worship. We shall shut up the Chapel,
Rob; expel our devils; pack off our witches to Norway,
and establish an honest vocation. Therefore,
Rob, go to father Pierre; repent of your misdeeds,
and live upon your past gains. You are rich and
may afford to entertain henceforth a reputable conscience.”

“Do not palter with me, sirrah! but tell me what
this imports.”

“Then truly, Rob, I am much disturbed in my
fancies. I love the wench, and mean to have her—

fairly if I can—but after the fashion of the Coast if I
must. She doth not consent as yet—mainly because
she hath a toy of delight in that silken Secretary of
my Lord—a bookish pale-cheeked, sickly strummer
of stringed instruments—one Master Verheyden, I
think they call him.”

“Ha!” exclaimed the Cripple, as a frown
gathered on his brow; “what is he? Whence comes
he?”

“His Lordship's chamber secretary,” replied Cocklescraft;
“brought hither I know not when nor
whence. A silent-paced, priestly pattern of modesty,
who feeds on the favour of his betters, as a lady's
dog, that being allowed to lick the hand of his mistress,
takes the privilege to snarl on all who approach
her. I shall make light work with him by whipping
him out of my way. Why are you angry, that you
scowl so, Master Rob?”

“I needs must be angry to see thee make a fool of
thyself,” replied the master of the hut. “Verheyden—
his Lordship's secretary!” he muttered to himself.
“No, no! it would be a folly to think it.”

“Mutter as you will, Rob,” said Cocklescraft; “by
St. Iago, I will try conclusions with the Secretary—
folly or no folly! He hath taught the maiden,” he
added, with a bitter emphasis, “to affect a scorn for
me, and he shall smart for it.”

“Ha! thy spirit is ever for undoing!” exclaimed
Rob, suddenly changing his mood, and forcing a harsh
laugh of derision. “Mischief is your proper element
—your food, your repose, your luxury. Well, if

thou needst must take on a new life, and strive to be
worshipful, I would counsel thee to begin it with some
deed of charity, not strife. I had as well make my
lecture to a young wolf! Ha, Dickon, thou wilt be a
prospering pupil to the master that teaches thee the
virtue of charity! Such rede will be welcome to thee
as water to thy shoes! I have scanned thee in all
thy humours!”

“I spurn upon your advice, and will not be scorned,
old man!” said Cocklescraft, angrily. “The maiden
shall be mine, though I pluck her from beneath her
father's blazing roof-tree; and then farewell to the
province, and to thee! Mark you that! I come not
to be taunted with thy ill-favoured speech! My men
shall be withdrawn from the Chapel. I will put them
on worthier service than to minister to thy greediness.”

“Hot-brained, silly idiot—thou drivelling fool!”
shouted Rob. “Dost thou not know that I can put
thee in the dust and trample on thee as a caitiff?
that I can drive thee from the province as a vile out-law?
Art thou such a dizzard as to tempt my anger?
If you would thrive even in your villanous wooing,
have a care not to provoke my displeasure! One
word from me, and not a man paces thy deck:
thou goest abroad unattended, stiverless—a fugitive,
with hue and cry at thy heels. How dar'st thou reprove
me, boy?”

“Thy hand, Rob,” said Cocklescraft, relenting.
“You say no more than my folly warrants; I am a

wanton fool: your pardon—let there be peace between
us.”

“Art reasonable again? Bravely confessed, Dickon!
I forgive thy rash speech. Now go thy ways, and
the Foul One speed thee! I have naught to counsel,
either for strife or peace, since thou hast neither
wit, wisdom, nor patience for sober advice against
the current of thy will. It will not be long before
this maimed trunk shall sink into its natural resting
place—and it matters not to me how my remnant
of time be spent—whether in hoarding or keeping.
The world will find me an heir to squander what
little store it hath pleased my fortune to gather. So
go thy ways!”

“I will see you again, friend Rob,” said the Buccaneer.
“I have matter to look after at the Chapel,
and then shall get back to the Port, to drive my
suit to a speedy issue. I came here but in honest
dealing with you, to give you friendly notice of
my design, and, perchance, to get your aid. You
have no counsel for me? It is well; my own head
and arm shall befriend me; they have stood me in
stead in straits more doubtful than this; farewell—
farewell!”

As the Skipper stepped along the beach, Rob
planted himself in the door of the hut and looked
after him for some moments, nodding his head significantly
towards him, and muttering in a cynical
undertone, “Go thy ways, snake of the sea, spawn
of a water devil! Thou married! ha, ha! Thy

lady gay shall have a sweetened cup in thee: and thy
wooing shall be tender and gentle—yea, as the
appetite of the sword-fish. It shall be festival
wooing—all in the light—in the light—of the bride's
own blazing roof: a dainty wolf! a most tractable
shark! Oh, I cannot choose but laugh!”