New Ties And Old Relations

: The Panchronicon

How long they slept after their extraordinary experience with the

runaway air-ship neither Rebecca nor Phoebe ever knew; but when they

awoke all was still, and it was evidently dark outside, for no ray of

light found its way past the hangings they had placed over their

windows.



There was something uncanny in the total silence. Even the noise of the

machinery was stilled, and the two sisters dressed togeth r in Rebecca's

room for company's sake.



"Do you suppose we've arrived in Infinite Space yet?" Rebecca asked.



"It's still enough fer it," Phoebe replied, in a low voice. "But I

don't hear the Panchronicon's machinery any more. It must have run down

entirely, wherever we are."



At that moment there was borne faintly to their ears the distant crowing

of a cock.



"Well, there!" said Rebecca, with an expression of immense relief, "I

don't believe the's any hens an' roosters in Infinite Space, is the'?"



Phoebe laughed and shook her head as she ran to the window. She drew

aside the shawl hanging before the glass and peered out.



The first gleams of dawn were dispelling the night, and against a dark

gray sky she saw the branches of thickly crowding trees.



Dropping the shawl, she turned eagerly to her sister.



"Rebecca Wise!" she exclaimed. "As sure as you're alive, we're back safe

on the ground again. We're in the woods."



"Mos' likely Putnam's wood lot," said Rebecca, with great satisfaction

as she finally adjusted her cameo brooch. "Gracious! Won't I be glad to

see all the folks again!"



She pushed open her door and, followed by Phoebe, entered the main

room. Here all was gloom, but they could hear Droop's breathing, and

knew that he was still sleeping under the table in the corner.



"For the lands sakes! Let's get out in the fresh air," Rebecca exclaimed

as she groped her way toward the stairs. "You keep a-holt o' me,

Phoebe. That's right. We'll get out o' here an' make rabbit tracks fer

home, I tell ye. We can come back later for our duds when that mis'able

specimen is sober fer awhile again."



Slowly the two made their way down the winding stairs to the lower hall,

where, after much fumbling, they found the door handle and lock.



As they emerged from the prison that had so long confined them, a cool

morning zephyr swept their faces, bringing with it once more the

well-known voice of distant chanticleer.



They walked across the springing turf a few yards and were then able to

make out the looming black mass of some building beyond the end of the

air-ship.



"Goodness!" Rebecca whispered. "This ain't Peltonville, Phoebe. There

ain't a house in the town as high as that, 'less it's the meetin'-house,

an' 'tain't the right shape fer that."



They advanced stealthily toward the newly discovered building, in which

not a single light was to be seen.



"In good sooth," Phoebe exclaimed, putting one hand on her sister's

arm, "it hath an air of witchcraft! Dost not feel cold chills in thee,

Rebecca?"



Rebecca stopped short, stiff with amazement.



"What's come over ye?" she asked, trying to peer into her sister's face.

"Whatever makes ye talk like that, child?"



Phoebe laughed nervously and, taking her sister's arm, pressed close

up to her.



"I don't know, dear. Did I speak funny?" she asked.



"Why you know you did. What's the use o' tryin' to scare a body with

gibberish? This place is creepy 'nough now."



As she spoke, they reached the door of the strange building. They could

see that it stood open, and even as they paused near the threshold

another puff of air passed them, and they heard a door squeak on its

rusty hinges.



They stood and listened breathlessly, peering into the dark interior

whence there was borne to their nostrils a musty odor. A large bat

whisked across the opening, and as they started back alarmed he returned

with swift zig-zag cuts and vanished ghostlike into the house.



"It's deserted," whispered Rebecca.



"Perhaps it's haunted," Phoebe replied.



"Well, we needn't go in, I guess," said Rebecca, turning from the door

and starting briskly away. "Come on this way, Phoebe--look out fer the

trees--lands! Did y'ever see so many?"



A few steps brought them to a high brick wall, against which flowers,

weeds, and vines grew rank together. They followed this wall, walking

more rapidly, for the day was breaking in earnest and groping was

needless now. Presently they came to a spot where the wall was broken

away, leaving an opening just broad enough to admit a man's body.

Rebecca squeezed boldly through and Phoebe followed her, rather for

company's sake than with any curiosity to see what was beyond.



They found themselves in a sort of open common, stretching to the edge

of a broad roadway about a hundred yards from where they stood. On the

other side of the road a cluster of gabled cottages was visible against

the faint rose tint of the eastern sky.



As Phoebe came to her sister's side, she clutched her arm excitedly:



"Rebecca!" she exclaimed. "'Tis Newington, as true as I live! Newington

and Blackman Street!"



Suddenly she sat down in the grass and hid her face in her hands.



"What d'ye mean?" said Rebecca, looking down at her sister with a

puzzled expression. "Where's Newington--I never heerd tell of Blackman

Street. Air ye thinkin' of Boston, or----"



Phoebe interrupted her by leaping to her feet and starting back to the

opening in the wall.



"Come back, Rebecca!" she exclaimed. "Come back quick!"



Rebecca followed her sister in some alarm. Phoebe must have been taken

suddenly ill, she thought. Perhaps they had reached one of those regions

infected by fevers of which she had heard from time to time.



In silence the two women hurried back to the Panchronicon, whose uncouth

form was now quite plainly visible behind the trees into the midst of

which it had fallen when the power stored within it was exhausted.



Not until they were safely seated in Rebecca's room did Phoebe speak

again.



"There!" she exclaimed, as she dropped to a seat on the edge of the bed,

"I declare to goodness, Rebecca, I don't know what to make of it!"



"What is it? What ails ye?" said Rebecca, anxiously.



"Why, I don't believe I'm myself, Rebecca. I've been here before. I know

that village out there, and--and--it's all I can do to talk same's I've

always been used to. I'm wanting to talk like--like I did awhile back."



"It's all right! It's all right!" said Rebecca, soothingly. "Th' ain't

nothing the matter with you, deary. Ye've ben shet up here with side

weight an' what not so long--o' course you're not yerself."



She bustled about pretending to set things to rights, but her heart was

heavy with apprehension. She thought that Phoebe was in the first

stages of delirium.



"Not myself! No," said Phoebe. "No--the fact is, I'm somebody else!"



At this Rebecca straightened up and cast one horrified glance at her

sister. Then she turned and began to put on her bonnet and jacket. Her

mind was made up. Phoebe was delirious and they must seek a doctor--at

once.



"Get your things on, Phoebe," she said, striving to appear calm. "Put

on your things an' come out with me. Let's see if we can't take a little

exercise."



Phoebe arose obediently and went to her room. They were neither of

them very long about their preparations, and by the time the sun was

actually rising, the two women were leaving the air-ship for the second

time, Phoebe carrying the precious carved box and Rebecca her satchel

and umbrella.



"What you bringin' that everlastin' packet o' letters for?" Rebecca

asked, as they reached the opening in the wall.



"I want to have it out in the light," Phoebe replied. "I want to see

something."



Outside of the brick wall she paused and opened the box. It was empty.



"I thought so!" she said.



"Why, ye've brought the box 'thout the letters, Phoebe," said Rebecca.

"You're not agoin' back for them, air ye?"



"No," Phoebe replied, "'twouldn't do any good. Rebecca. They aren't

there."



She dropped the box in the grass and looked wistfully about her.



"Not there!" said Rebecca, nonplussed. "Why, who'd take 'em?"



"Nobody. They haven't been written yet."



"Not--not--" Rebecca gasped for a moment and then hurried toward the

road. "Come on!" she cried.



Surely, she thought--surely they must find a doctor without delay.



But before they reached the road, Rebecca was glad to pause again and

take advantage of a friendly bush from whose cover she might gaze

without being herself observed.



The broad highway which but so short a time ago was quite deserted, was

now occupied by a double line of bustling people--young and old--men,

women, and children. Those travelling toward their left, to the north,

were principally men and boys, although now and then a pair of

loud-voiced girls passed northward with male companions. Those who were

travelling southward were the younger ones, and often whole families

together. Among these the women predominated.



All of these people were laughing--calling rough jokes back and

forth--singing, running, jumping, and dancing, till the whole roadway

appeared a merry Bedlam.



"Must be a county fair near here!" exclaimed Rebecca. "But will ye

listen to the gibberish an' see their clothes!"



Indeed, the language and the costumes were most perplexing to good New

England ears and eyes, and Rebecca knew not whether to advance or to

retreat.



The women all wore very wide and rather short skirts, the petticoat worn

exposed up to where a full over-skirt or flounce gave emphasis to their

hips. The elder ones wore long-sleeved jackets and high-crowned hats,

while the young ones wore what looked like low-necked jerseys tied

together in front and their braided hair hung from uncovered crowns.



The men wore short breeches, some full trunk hose, some tighter but

puffed; their jackets were of many fashions, from the long-skirted open

coats of the elders to the smart doublets or shirts of the young men.



The children were dressed like the adults, and most of them wore wreaths

and garlands of flowers, while in the hands of many were baskets full of

posies.



Phoebe gazed from her sister's side with the keenest delight, saying

nothing, but turning her eyes hither and thither as though afraid of

losing the least detail of the scene.



Presently two young girls approached, each with a basket in her hand.

They moved slowly over the grass, stopping constantly to pick the

violets under their feet. They were so engrossed in their task and in

their conversation that they failed to notice the two sisters half

hidden by the shrubbery.



"Nay--nay!" the taller of the two was saying, "I tell thee he made oath

to't, Cicely. Knew ye ever Master Stephen to be forsworn?"



"A lover's oaths--truly!" laughed the other. "Why, they be made for

breaking. I doubt not he hath made a like vow to a score of silly

wenches ere this, coz!"



"Thou dost him wrong, Cicely. An he keep not the tryst, 'twill only

be----"



"'Twill only be thy first misprision, eh?"



"Marry, then----"



Here their words were lost as they continued to move farther away, still

disputing together.



"Well!" exclaimed Rebecca, turning to Phoebe. "Now I know where we've

ben carried to. This is the Holy Land--Jerusalem or Bethlehem or Canaan

or some sech place. Thou--thee--thy! Did ye hear those girls talkin'

Bible language, Phoebe?"



Phoebe shook her head and was about to reply when there was a loud

clamour of many tongues from the road near by.



"The May-pole! The May-pole!" and someone started a roaring song in

which hundreds soon joined. The sisters could not distinguish the words,

but the volume of sound was tremendous.



There was the tramp of many rushing feet and a Babel of cries behind

them. They turned to see a party of twenty gayly clad young men bearing

down upon them, carrying a mighty May-pole crowned with flowers and

streaming with colored ribbons.



Around these and following after were three or four score merry lads and

lasses, all running and capering, shouting and dancing, singly or in

groups, hand in hand.



In a trice Rebecca found herself clinging to Phoebe with whom she was

borne onward helpless by the mad throng.



The new-comers were clad in all sorts of fantastic garbs, and many of

them were masked. Phoebe and her sister were therefore not conspicuous

in their long scant black skirts and cloth jackets with balloon sleeves.

Their costumes were taken for disguises, and as they were swallowed up

in the mad throng they were looked on as fellow revellers.



Had Rebecca been alone, she would probably have succeeded in time in

working her way out of this unwelcome crowd, but to her amazement, no

sooner had they been surrounded by the young roysterers than Phoebe,

breaking her long silence, seized her sister by the hand and began

laughing, dancing, and running with the best of them. To crown all,

what was Rebecca's surprise to hear her sister singing word for word

the madcap song of the others, as though she had known these words all

her life. She did not even skip those parts that made Rebecca blush.



It was incredible--monstrous--impossible! Phoebe, the sweet, modest,

gentle, prudish Phoebe, singing a questionable song in a whirl of

roystering Jerusalemites!



Up the broad road they danced--up to the northward, all men making way

for them as, with hand-bag and umbrella flying in her left hand, she was

dragged forward on an indecorous run by Phoebe, who held her tightly

by the right.



On--ever on, past wayside inn and many a lane and garden, house and

hedge. Over the stones and ruts, choking in clouds of dust.



Once Rebecca stumbled and a great gawky fellow caught her around the

waist to prevent her falling.



"Lips pay forfeit for tripping feet, lass!" he cried, and kissed her

with a sounding smack.



Furious and blushing, she swung her hand-bag in a circle and brought it

down upon the ravisher's head.



"Take that, you everlastin' rascal, you!" she gasped.



The bumpkin dodged with a laugh and disappeared in the crowd and dust,

cuffing, pushing, scuffling, hugging, and kissing quite heedless of

small rebuffs.



When they had proceeded thus until Rebecca thought there was nothing

left for it but to fall in her tracks and be trampled to death, the

whole crowd came suddenly to a halt, and the young men began to erect

the May-pole in the midst of a shaded green on one side of the main

road.



Rebecca stood, angry and breathless, trying to flick the dust off her

bag with her handkerchief, while Phoebe, at her side, her eyes bright

and cheeks rosy, showed her pretty teeth in a broad smile of pleasure,

the while she tried to restore some order to her hair. As for her hat,

that had long ago been lost.



"I declare--I declare to goodness!" panted Rebecca, "ef anybody'd told

me ez you, Phoebe Wise, would take on so--so like--like a--a----"



"Like any Zanny's light-o-love," Phoebe broke in, her bosom heaving

with the violence of her exercise. "But prithee, sweet, chide me not.

From this on shall I be chaste, demure, and sober as an abbess in a

play. But oh!--but oh!" she cried, stretching her arms high over her

head, "'twas a goodly frolic, sis! I felt a three-centuries' fasting

lust for it, in good sooth!"



Rebecca clutched her sister by the arm and shook her.



"Phoebe Wise--Phoebe Wise!" she cried, looking anxiously into her

face, "wake up now--wake up! What in the universal airth----"



A loud shout cut her short, and the two sisters turned amazed.



"The bull! The bull!"



There was an opening in the crowd as four men approached leading and

driving a huge angry bull, which was secured by a ring in his nose to

which ropes were attached. Another man followed, dragged forward by

three fierce bull-dogs in a leash.



The bull was quickly tied to a stout post in the street, and the crowd

formed a circle closely surrounding the bull-ring. It was the famous

bull-ring of Blackman Street in Southwark.



A moment later the dogs were freed, and amid their hoarse baying and

growling and the deep roaring of their adversary, the baiting began--the

chief sport of high and low in the merry days of good Queen Bess.



The sisters found themselves in the front of the throng surrounding the

raging beasts, and, before she knew it, Rebecca saw one of the dogs

caught on the horns of the bull and tossed, yelping and bleeding, into

the air.



For one moment she stood aghast in the midst of the delighted crowd of

shouting onlookers. Then she turned and fiercely elbowed her way

outward, followed by her sister.



"Come 'long--come 'long, Phoebe!" she cried. "We'll soon put a stop to

this! I'll find the selectmen o' this town an' see ef this cruelty to

animals is agoin' on right here in open daylight. I guess the's laws o'

some kind here, ef it is Bethlehem or Babylon!"



Hot with indignation, the still protesting woman reached the outskirts

of the throng and looked about her. Close at hand a tall, swaggering

fellow was loafing about. He was dressed in yellow from head to foot,

save where his doublet and hose were slashed with dirty red at elbows,

shoulders, and hips. A dirty ruff was around his neck, and on his head

he wore a great shapeless hat peaked up in front.



"Hey, mister!" cried Rebecca, addressing this worthy. "Can you tell me

where I can find one o' the selectmen?"



The stranger paused in his walk and glanced first at Rebecca and then,

with evidently increased interest, at Phoebe.



"Selectmen?" he asked. "Who hath selected them, dame?"



He gazed quizzically at the excited woman.



"Now you needn't be funny 'bout it," Rebecca cried, "fer I'm not goin'

to take any impidence. You know who I mean by the selectmen jest's well

as I do. I'd be obliged to ye ef ye'd tell me the way--an' drop that

Bible talk--good every-day English is good enough fer me!"



"In good sooth, dame," he replied, "'tis not every day I hear such

English as yours."



He paused a moment in thought. This was May-day--a season of revelry and

good-natured practical joking. This woman was evidently quizzing him, so

it behooved him to repay her in kind.



"But a truce to quips and quillets, say I," he continued. "'Twill do me

much pleasure an your ladyship will follow me to the selectman. As it

happens, his honor is even now holding court near London Bridge."



"London Bridge!" gasped Rebecca. "Why, London ain't a Bible country, is

it?"



Deigning no notice to a query which he did not understand, the young

fellow set off to northward, followed closely by the two women.



"Keep close to him, Phoebe," said Rebecca, warningly. "Ef we should

lose the man in all this rabble o' folks we would not find him in a

hurry."



"Thou seest, sweet sister," Phoebe replied, "'tis indeed our beloved

city of London. Did I not tell thee yon village was Newington, and here

we be now in Southwark, close to London Bridge."



Rebecca had forgotten her sister's ailment in the fierce indignation

which the bull-baiting had aroused. But now she was brought back to her

own personal fears and aims with a rude shock by the strange language

Phoebe held.



She leaped forward eagerly and touched their guide's shoulder.



"Hey, mister!" she exclaimed, "I'd be obliged to ye if ye'd show us the

house o' the nearest doctor before we see the selectman."



The man stopped short in the middle of the street, with a cunning leer

on his face. The change of purpose supported his belief that a May-day

jest was forward.



"Call me plain Jock Dean, mistress," he said. "And now tell me further,

wilt have a doctor of laws, of divinity, or of physic. We be in a merry

mood and a generous to-day, and will fetch forth bachelors, masters,

doctors, proctors, and all degrees from Oxford, Cambridge, or London at

a wink's notice. So say your will."



Rebecca would have returned a sharp reply to this banter, but she was

very anxious to find a physician for Phoebe, and so thought it best to

take a coaxing course.



"What I want's a doctor," she said. "I think my sister's got the shakes

or suthin', an' I must take her to the doctor. Now look here--you look

like a nice kind of a young man. I know it's some kind of antiques and

horribles day 'round here, an' all the folks hes on funny clothes and

does nothin' on'y joke a body. But let's drop comical talk jest fer a

minute an' get down to sense, eh?"



She spoke pleadingly, and for a moment Jock looked puzzled. He only

understood a portion of what she was saying, but he realized that she

was in some sort of trouble.



"Why bait the man with silly questions, Rebecca," Phoebe broke in. "A

truce to this silly talk of apothecaries. I have no need of surgeons, I.

My good fellow," she continued, addressing Jock with an air of

condescension that dumfounded her sister, "is not yonder the Southwark

pillory?"



"Ay, mistress," he replied, with a grin. "It's there you may see the

selectman your serving-maid inquired for."



Rebecca gasped and clinched her hands fiercely on her bag and umbrella.



"Serving-maid!" she cried.



"Ahoy--whoop--room! Yi--ki yi!"



A swarm of small white animals ran wildly past them from behind, and

after them came a howling, laughing, scrambling mob that filled the

street. Someone had loosed a few score rabbits for the delight of the

rabble.



There was no time for reflection. With one accord, Jock and the two

women ran with all speed toward the pillory and the bridge, driven

forward by the crowd behind them. To have held their ground would have

been to risk broken bones at least.



Fortunately the hunted beasts turned sharply to the right and left at

the first cross street, and soon the three human fugitives could halt

and draw breath.



They found themselves in the outskirts of a crowd surrounding the

pillory, and above the heads of those in front they could see a huge red

face under a thatch of tousled hair protruding stiffly through a hole in

a beam supported at right angles to a vertical post about five feet

high. On each side of the head a large and dirty hand hung through an

appropriate opening in the beam.



Under the prisoner's head was hung an account of his misdeeds, placed

there by some of his cronies. These crimes were in the nature of certain

breaches of public decorum and decency, the details of which the

bystanders were discussing with relish and good-humor.



"Let's get out o' here," said Rebecca, suddenly, when the purport of

what she heard pierced her nineteenth-century understanding. "These

folks beat me!"



She turned, grasping Phoebe's arm to enforce her request, but she

found that others had crowded in behind them and had hemmed them in.

This would not have deterred her but, unaccountably, Phoebe did not

seem inclined to move.



"Nay--nay!" she said. "'Tis a wanton wastrel, and he well deserves the

pillory. But, Rebecca, I've a mind to see what observance these people

will give the varlet. Last time I saw one pilloried, alas! they slew him

with shards and paving-stones. This fellow is liker to be pelted with

nosegays, methinks."



"Mercy me, Phoebe! Whatever--what--oh, goodness gracious grandmother,

child!" Poor Rebecca could find only exclamations wherein to express her

feelings. She began to wonder if she were dreaming.



At this moment a sprightly, dashing lad, in ragged clothing and

bareheaded, sprang to the platform beside the prisoner and waved his

arms for silence.



There were cries of "Hear--hear!" "Look at Baiting Will!" "Ho--ho--bully

rook!" "Sh-sh-h!"



After a time the tumult subsided so that Baiting Will could make himself

heard. He was evidently a well-known street wag, for his remarks were

received with frequent laughter and vocal applause.



"Hear ye--hear ye--all good folk and merry!" he shouted. "Here ye see

the liege lord of all May merry-makers. Hail to the King of the May, my

bully boys!"



"Ho--ho! All hail!"



"Hurrah--crown him, crown him!"



"The King of the May forever!"



By dint of bawling for silence till he was red in the face, the speaker

at length made himself heard again.



"What say ye, my good hearts--shall we have a double coronation? Where's

the quean will be his consort? Bring her forward, lads. We'll crown the

twain."



This proposal was greeted with a roar of laughter and approval, and a

number of slattern women showing the effects of strong ale in their

faces stepped boldly forward as competitors for coronation.



But again Baiting Will waved his arms for a chance to speak.



"Nay, my merry lads and lasses," he cried, "it were not meet to wed our

gracious lord the king without giving him a chance to choose his queen!"



He leaned his ear close to the grinning head, pretending to listen a

moment. Then, standing forward, he cried:



"His gracious and sovereign majesty hath bid me proclaim his choice. He

bids ye send him up for queen yon buxom dame in the black doublet and

unruffed neck--her wi' the black wand and outland scrip."



He pointed directly at Rebecca. She turned white and started to push her

way out of the crowd, but those behind her joined hands, laughing and

shouting: "A queen--a queen!"



Two or three stout fellows from just beneath the pillory elbowed their

way to her side and grasped her arms.



She struggled and shrieked in affright.



Phoebe with indignant face seized the arm of the man nearest her and

pulled lustily to free her sister.



"Stand aside, you knaves!" she cried, hotly. "Know your betters and keep

your greasy hands for the sluttish queans of Southwark streets!"



The lads only grinned and tightened their hold. Rebecca was struggling

fiercely and in silence, save for an occasional shriek of fear.



Phoebe raised her voice.



"Good people, will ye see a lady tousled by knavish street brawlers!

What ho--a rescue--a Burton--a Burton--a rescue--ho!"



Her voice rose high above the coarse laughter and chatter of the crowd.



"What's this? Who calls?"



The crowd parted to right and left with screams and imprecations, and on

a sudden two horsemen reined up their steeds beside the sisters.



"Back, ye knaves! Unhand the lady!" cried the younger of the two,

striking out with his whip at the heads of Rebecca's captors.



Putting up their hands to ward off these blows, the fellows hastily

retreated a few steps, leaving Rebecca and Phoebe standing alone.



"What's here!" cried the young man. "God warn us, an it be not fair

Mistress Burton herself!"



He leaped from his horse, and with the bridle in one hand and his

high-crowned hat in the other, he advanced, bowing toward the sisters.



He was a strongly built young man of middle height. His smooth face,

broad brow, and pleasant eyes were lighted up by a happy smile wherein

were shown a set of strong white teeth all too rare in the England of

his time. His abundant blond hair was cut short on top, but hung down on

each side, curling slightly over his ears. He wore a full-skirted,

long-sleeved jerkin secured by a long row of many small buttons down the

front. A loose lace collar lay flat over his shoulders and chest. His

French hose was black, and from the tops of his riding-boots there

protruded an edging of white lace.



He wore a long sword with a plain scabbard and hilt, and on his hands

were black gloves, well scented.



Phoebe's face wore a smile of pleased recognition, and she stretched

forth her right hand as the cavalier approached.



"You come in good time, Sir Guy!" she said.



"In very sooth, most fair, most mellific damsel, your unworthy servitor

was erring enchanted in the paradise of your divine idea when that the

horrific alarum did wend its fear-begetting course through the

labyrinthine corridors of his auricular sensories."



Phoebe laughed, half in amusement half in soft content. Then she

turned to Rebecca, who stood with wide-open eyes and mouth contemplating

this strange apparition.



"Be not confounded, sweetheart," she said. "Have I not told thee I have

ta'en on another's self. Come--thou art none the less dear, nor I less

thine own."



She stepped forward and put her hand gently on her sister's.



Rebecca looked with troubled eyes into Phoebe's face and said,

timidly:



"Won't ye go to a doctor's with me, Phoebe?"



There was a rude clatter of hoofs as the elder of the new-comers trotted

past the two women and, with his whip drove back the advancing crowd,

which had begun to close in upon them again.



"You were best mount and away with the ladies, Sir Guy," he said. "Yon

scurvy loons are in poor humor for dalliance."



With a graceful gesture, Sir Guy invited Phoebe to approach his horse.

She obeyed, and stepping upon his hand found herself instantly seated

before his saddle. She seemed to find the seat familiar, and her heart

beat with a pleasure she could scarce explain when, a moment later, the

handsome cavalier swung into place behind her and put one arm about her

waist to steady her.



Rebecca started forward, terror-stricken.



"Phoebe--Phoebe!" she cried. "Ye wouldn't leave me here!"



"Nay--nay!" said a gruff but kindly voice at her side. "Here, gi'e us

your hand, dame, step on my foot, and up behind you go."



Sir Guy's horse was turning to go, and in her panic Rebecca awaited no

second bidding, but scrambled quickly though clumsily to a seat behind

the serving-man.



They were all four soon free of the crowd and out of danger, thanks to

the universal respect for rank and the essential good nature of the

May-day gathering.



The horses assumed an easy ambling gait, a sort of single step which was

far more comfortable than Rebecca had feared she would find it.



The relief of deliverance from the rude mob behind her gave Rebecca

courage, and she gazed about with some interest.



On either side of the street the houses, which hitherto had stood apart

with gardens and orchards between them, were now set close together,

with the wide eaves of their sharp gables touching over narrow and dark

alleyways. The architecture was unlike anything she had ever seen, the

walls being built with the beams showing outside and the windows of many

small diamond-shaped panes.



They had only proceeded a few yards when Rebecca saw the glint of

sunbeams on water before them and found that they were approaching a

great square tower, surmounted by numberless poles bearing formless

round masses at their ends.



With one arm around her companion to steady herself, she held her

umbrella and bag tightly in her free hand. Now she pointed upward with

her umbrella and said:



"Do you mind tellin' me, mister, what's thet fruit they're a-dryin' up

on thet meetin'-house?"



The horseman glanced upward for a moment and then replied, with

something of wonder in his voice:



"Why, those are men's heads, dame. Know you not London Bridge and the

traitors' poles yet?"



"Oh, good land!" said the horrified woman, and shut her mouth tightly.

Evidently England was not the sort of country she had pictured it.



They rode into a long tunnel under the stones of this massive tower and

emerged to find themselves upon the bridge. Again and again did they

pass under round-arched tunnels bored, as it were, through gloomy

buildings six or seven stories high. These covered the bridge from end

to end, and they swarmed with a squalid humanity, if one might judge

from the calls and cries that resounded in the vaulted passageways and

interior courts.



As they finally came out from beneath the last great rookery, the

sisters found themselves in London, the great and busy city of four

hundred thousand inhabitants.



They were on New Fish Street, and their nostrils gave them witness of

its name at once. Farther up the slight ascent before them they met

other and far worse smells, and Rebecca was disgusted.



"Where are we goin'?" she asked.



"Why, to your mistress' residence, of course."



Rebecca was on the point of objecting to this characterization of her

sister, but she thought better of it ere she spoke. After all, if these

men had done all this kindness by reason of a mistake, she needed not to

correct them.



The street up which they were proceeding opened into Gracechurch Street,

leading still up the hill and away from the Thames. It was a fairly

broad highway, but totally unpaved, and disgraced by a ditch or "kennel"

into which found their way the ill-smelling slops thrown from the

windows and doors of the abutting houses.



"Good land o' Goshen!" Rebecca exclaimed at last. "Why in goodness' name

does all the folks throw sech messes out in the street?"



"Why, where would you have them throw them, dame?" asked her companion,

in surprise. "Are ye outlandish bred that ye put me such questions?"



"Not much!" she retorted, hotly. "It's you folks that's outlandish. Why,

where I come from they hev sewers in the city streets an' pavements an'

sidewalks an' trolley cars. Guess I've ben to Keene, an' I ought to

know."



She tossed her head with the air of one who has said something

conclusive.



The man held his peace for a moment, dumfounded. Then he laughed

heartily, with head thrown back.



"That's what comes of a kittenish hoyden for a mistress. Abroad too

early, dame, and strong ale before sunrise! These have stolen away your

wits and made ye hold strange discourse. Sewers--side-walkers

forsooth--troll carries, ho--ho!"



Rebecca grew red with fury. She released her hold to thump her companion

twice on the arm and nearly fell from the horse in consequence.



"You great rascal!" she cried, indignantly. "How dare ye talk 'bout

drinkin' ale! D'you s'pose I'd touch the nasty stuff? Me--a member of

the Woman's Christian Temperance Union! Me--a Daughter of Temperance an'

wearin' the blue ribbon! You'd ought to be ashamed, that's what you

ought!"



But the servant continued to laugh quietly and Rebecca raged within. Oh

how she hated to have to sit thus close behind a man who had so insulted

her! Clinging to him, too! Clinging for dear life to a man who accused

her of drinking ale!



They turned to the left into Leadenhall Street and Bucklesbury, where

the two women sniffed with delighted relief the spicy odor of the herbs

exposed on every hand for sale. They left Gresham's Royal Exchange on

the right, and shortly afterward stopped before the door of one of the

many well-to-do houses of that quarter.



Sir Guy and the two women dismounted, and, while the groom held the

horses, the others approached the building before which they had

paused.



Rebecca was about to address Phoebe, whose blushing face was beaming

with pleasure, when the door was suddenly thrown open and a

happy-looking buxom woman of advanced middle age appeared.



"Well--well--well!" she cried, holding up her fat hands in mock

amazement. "Out upon thee, Polly, for a light-headed wench!

What--sneaking out to an early tryst! Fie, girl!"



"Now, good mine aunt," Phoebe broke in, with a smile and a curtsey,

"no tryst have I kept, in sooth. Sir Guy is my witness that he found me

quite by chance."



"In very truth, good Mistress Goldsmith," said the knight, "it was but

the very bounteous guerdon of fair Dame Fortune that in the auspicious

forthcoming of my steed I found the inexpressible delectancy of my so

great discovery!"



He bowed as he gave back one step and kissed his hand toward Phoebe.



"All one--all one," said Dame Goldsmith, laughing as she held out her

hand to Phoebe. "My good man hath a homily prepared for you, mistress,

and the substance of it runneth on the folly of early rising on a

May-day morning."



Phoebe held forth her hand to the knight, who kissed it with a

flourish, hat in hand.



"Shall I hear from thee soon?" she said, in an undertone.



"Forthwith, most fairly beautiful--most gracious rare!" he replied.



Then, leaping on his horse, he dashed down the street at a mad gallop,

followed closely by his groom.



Rebecca stood stupefied, gazing first at one and then at the other, till

she was rudely brought to her senses by no other than Dame Goldsmith

herself.



"What, Rebecca!" she exclaimed. "Hast breakfasted, woman--what?"



"Ay, aunt," Phoebe broke in, hurriedly. "Rebecca must to my chamber to

tire me ere I see mine uncle. Prithee temper the fury of his homily,

sweet aunt."



Taking the dame's extended hand, she suffered herself to be led within,

followed by Rebecca, too amazed to speak.



On entering the street door they found themselves in a large hall, at

the farther end of which a bright wood fire was burning, despite the

season. A black oak table was on one side of the room against the wall,

upon which were to be seen a number of earthen beakers and a great

silver jug or tankard. A carved and cushioned settle stood against the

opposite wall, and besides two comfortable arm-chairs at the two

chimney-corners there were two or three heavy chairs of antique pattern

standing here and there. The floor was covered with newly gathered

fresh-smelling rushes.



A wide staircase led to the right, and to this Phoebe turned at once

as though she had always lived there.



"Hast heard from my father yet?" she asked, pausing upon the first

stair and addressing Dame Goldsmith.



"Nay, girl. Not so much as a word. I trow he'll have but little to say

to me. Ay--ay--a humorous limb, thy father, lass."



She swept out of the room with a toss of the head, and Phoebe smiled

as she turned to climb the stairs. Immediately she turned again and held

out one hand to Rebecca.



"Come along, Rebecca. Let's run 'long up," she said, relapsing into her

old manner.



She led the way without hesitation to a large, light bedroom, the front

of which hung over the street. Here, too, the floor was covered with

sweet rushes, a fact which Rebecca seemed to resent.



"Why the lands sakes do you suppose these London folks dump weeds on

their floors?" she asked. "An' look there at those two beds, still

unmade and all tumbled disgraceful!"



"Why, there's where we slept last night, Rebecca," said Phoebe,

laughing as she dropped into a chair. "As for the floors," she

continued, "they're always that way when folks ain't mighty rich. The

lords and all have carpets and rugs."



Rebecca, stepping very high to avoid stumbling in the rushes, moved over

to the dressing-table and proceeded to remove her outer wraps, having

first deposited her bag and umbrella on a chair.



"I don't see how in gracious you know so much about it," she remarked,

querulously. "'Pon my word, you acted with that young jackanapes an'

that fat old lady downstairs jest's ef you'd allus known em."



"Well, so I have," Phoebe replied, smiling. "I knew them all nearly

three hundred years before you were born, Rebecca Wise."



Rebecca dropped into a chair and looked helplessly at her sister with

her arms hanging at her sides.



"Phoebe Wise--" she began.



"No, not now!" Phoebe exclaimed, stopping her sister with a gesture.

"You must call me Mistress Mary. I'm Mary Burton, daughter of Isaac

Burton, soon to be Sir Isaac Burton, of Burton Hall. You are my dear old

tiring-woman--my sometime nurse--and thou must needs yield me the

respect and obedience as well as the love thou owest, thou fond old

darling!"



The younger woman threw her arms about the other's neck and kissed her

repeatedly.



Rebecca sat mute and impassive, making no return.



"Seems as though I ought to wake up soon now," she muttered, weakly.



"Come, Rebecca," Phoebe exclaimed, briskly, stepping to a high, carved

wardrobe beside her bed, "this merry-making habit wearies me. Let us don

a fitter attire. Come--lend a hand, dearie--be quick!"



Rebecca sat quite still, watching her sister as she proceeded to change

her garments, taking from wardrobe and tiring chest her wide skirts,

long-sleeved jacket, and striped under-vest with a promptitude and

readiness that showed perfect familiarity with her surroundings.



"There," thought Rebecca, "I have it! She's been reading those old

letters and looking at that ivory picture so long she thinks that she's

the girl in the picture herself, now. Yes, that's it. Mary Burton was

the name!"



When Phoebe was new-dressed, her sister could not but acknowledge

inwardly that the queer clothes were mightily becoming. She appeared the

beau ideal of a merry, light-hearted, healthy girl from the country.



On one point, however, Rebecca could not refrain from expostulating.



"Look a-here, Phoebe," she said, in a scandalized voice, as she rose

and faced her sister, "ain't you goin' to put on somethin' over your

chest? That ain't decent the way you've got yerself fixed now!"



"Nonsense!" cried Phoebe, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

"Wouldst have me cover my breast like a married woman! Look to thine own

attire. Come, where hast put it?"



Rebecca put her hands on her hips and looked into her sister's face with

a stern determination.



"Ef you think I'm agoin' to put on play-actor clothes an' go round

lookin' indecent, Phoebe Wise, why, you're mistaken--'cause I

ain't--so there!"



"Nay, nurse!" Phoebe exclaimed, earnestly. "'Tis the costume thou art

wearing now that is mummer's weeds. Come, sweet--come! They'll not

yield thee admittance below else."



She concluded with a warning inflection, and shook her finger

affectionately at her sister.



Rebecca opened her mouth several times and closed it again in despair

ere she could find a reply. At length she seated herself slowly, folded

her arms, and said:



"They can do jest whatever they please downstairs, Phoebe. As fer me,

I'd sooner be seen in my nightgown than in the flighty, flitter-scatter

duds the women 'round here wear. Not but you look good enough in 'em, if

you'd cover your chest, but play-actin' is meant for young folks--not

fer old maids like me."



"Nay--but----"



"What the lands sakes d'ye holler neigh all the time fer? I'm not agoin'

to neigh, an' you might's well make up your mind to't."



Phoebe bit her lips and then, after a moment's hesitation, turned to

the door.



"Well, well! E'en have it thy way!" she said.



Followed by Rebecca, the younger woman descended the stairs. As she

reached the entrance hall, she stopped short at sight of a tall, heavy

man standing beside the table across the room with his face buried in a

great stone mug.



He had dropped his flat round hat upon the table, and his long hair fell

in a sort of bush to his wide, white-frilled ruff. He wore a

long-skirted, loose coat of green cloth with yellow fringe, provided

with large side-pockets, but without a belt. The sleeves were loose, but

brought in tightly at the wrists by yellow bands. His green hose were of

the short and tight French pattern, and he wore red stockings and

pointed shoes of Spanish leather.



As he removed the cup with a deep sigh of satisfaction, there was

revealed a large, cheerful red face with a hooked nose between bushy

brows overhanging large blue eyes.



Phoebe stood upon the lowest stair in smiling silence and with folded

hands as he caught her eye.



"Ha, thou jade!" cried Master Goldsmith, for he it was. "Wilt give me

the slip of a May-day morn!"



He set down his cup with a loud bang and strode over to the staircase,

shaking his finger playfully at his niece.



Rebecca had just time to notice that his long, full beard and mustache

were decked with two or three spots of froth when, to her great

indignation, Phoebe was folded in his arms and soundly kissed on both

cheeks.



"There, lass!" he chuckled, as he stepped back, rubbing his hands. "I

told thy aunt I'd make thee do penance for thy folly."



Phoebe wiped her cheeks with her handkerchief and tipped her head

impudently at the cheerful ravisher.



"Now, God mend your manners, uncle!" she exclaimed. "What! Bedew my

cheeks with the froth of good ale on your beard while my throat lacks

the good body o't! Why, I'm burned up wi' thirst!"



"Good lack!" cried the goldsmith, turning briskly to the table. "Had ye

no drink when ye first returned, then?"



He poured a smaller cupful of foaming ale from the great silver jug and

brought it to Phoebe.



Rebecca clutched the stair-rail for support, and, with eyes ready to

start from her head, she leaned forward, incredulous, as Phoebe took

the cup from the merchant's hand.



Then she could keep silence no longer.



"Phoebe Wise!" she screamed, "be you goin' to drink ALE!"



No words can do justice to the awful emphasis which she laid upon that

last dread word.



Phoebe turned and looked up roguishly at her sister, who was still

half-way up the stairs. The young girl's left hand leaned on her uncle's

arm, while with her right she extended the cup in salutation.



"Here's thy good health, nurse--and to our better acquaintance," she

laughed.



Rebecca uttered one short scream and fled up to their bed-room. She had

seen the impossible. Her sister Phoebe with her face buried in a mug

of ale!