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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 04:37:18 -0700 |
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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 04:37:18 -0700 |
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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/11574-0.txt b/11574-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5fc72ac --- /dev/null +++ b/11574-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8517 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 11574 *** + +MASTER SKYLARK + +A Story of Shakspere’s Time + + +BY + +JOHN BENNETT + +ILLUSTRATIONS BY REGINALD B. BIRCH + +[Illustration: “‘MASTER SKYLARK, THOU SHALT HAVE THY WISH,’ +SAID QUEEN ELIZABETH.”] + + + + + ALL THAT NICHOLAS ATTWOOD’S MOTHER + WAS TO HIM, AND MORE, MY OWN MOTHER HAS BEEN TO ME + AND TO HER HERE I INSCRIBE THIS BOOK + WITH A NEVER-FAILING LOVE + + + + +CONTENTS + + + I THE LORD ADMIRAL’S PLAYERS + II NICHOLAS ATTWOOD’S HOME + III THE LAST STRAW + IV OFF FOR COVENTRY + V IN THE WARWICK ROAD + VI THE MASTER-PLAYER + VII “WELL SUNG, MASTER SKYLARK!” + VIII THE ADMIRAL’S COMPANY + IX THE MAY-DAY PLAY + X AFTER THE PLAY + XI DISOWNED + XII A STRANGE RIDE + XIII A DASH FOR FREEDOM + XIV AT BAY + XV LONDON TOWN + XVI MA’M’SELLE CICELY CAREW + XVII CAREW’S OFFER + XVIII MASTER HEYWOOD PROTESTS + XIX THE ROSE PLAY-HOUSE + XX DISAPPOINTMENT + XXI “THE CHILDREN OF PAUL’S” + XXII THE SKYLARK’S SONG + XXIII A NEW LIFE + XXIV THE MAKING OF A PLAYER + XXV THE WANING OF THE YEAR + XXVI TO SING BEFORE THE QUEEN + XXVII THE QUEEN’S PLAISANCE + XXVIII CHRISTMAS WITH QUEEN BESS + XXIX BACK TO GASTON CAREW + XXX AT THE FALCON INN + XXXI IN THE TWINKLING OF AN EYE + XXXII THE LAST OF GASTON CAREW + XXXIII CICELY DISAPPEARS + XXXIV THE BANDY-LEGGED MAN + XXXV A SUDDEN RESOLVE + XXXVI WAYFARING HOME + XXXVII TURNED ADRIFT + XXXVIII A STRANGE DAY + XXXIX ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL + + + + +LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS + + +“MASTER SKYLARK, THOU SHALT HAVE THY WISH,” SAID QUEEN ELIZABETH + +THE LORD ADMIRAL’S PLAYERS. THE TRUMPETERS AND THE DRUMMERS LED, THEIR +HORSES PRANCING, WHITE PLUMES WAVING IN THE BREEZE + +“WHUR BE-EST GOING, NICK?” ASKED ROGER DAWSON + +“WHAT! HOW NOW?” CRIED THE STRANGER, SHARPLY. “DOST LIKE OR LIKE ME +NOT?” + +“NICK THOUGHT OF HIS MOTHER’S SINGING ON A SUMMER’S EVENING—DREW A DEEP +BREATH AND BEGAN TO SING + +“NOBODY BREAKS NOBODY’S HEARTS IN OLD JO-OHN SMITHSES SHO-OP,” DRAWLED +THE SMITH, IN HIS DEEP VOICE; “NOR STEALS NOBODY, NOTHER” + +“DICCON HAD OFTEN MADE NICK WHISTLES FROM THE WILLOWS ALONG THE AVON +WHEN NICK WAS A TODDLER” + +NICK PUT ONE LEG OVER THE SILL AND LOOKED BACK + +“OH, NICK, THOU ART MOST BEAUTIFUL TO SEE!” CRIED CICELY + +“THAT VOICE, THAT VOICE!” NAT GILES PANTED TO HIMSELF + +NICK GAVE THE SILVER BUCKLE FROM HIS CLOAK TO A BOY WHO STOOD CRYING +WITH COLD AND HUNGER IN THE STREET + +SO NICK RODE HOME UPON THE BACK OF THE EARL OF ARUNDEL’S MAN-AT-ARMS + +“WHY, SIR, I’LL SING FOR THEE NOW,” SAID NICK, CHOKING + +“DO NA THOU STRIKE ME AGAIN, THOU ROGUE!” SAID NICK + +“OH, NICK, WHAT IS IT?” SHE CRIED + +MASTER SHAKSPERE MET THEM WITH OUTSTRETCHED HANDS + + + + +MASTER SKYLARK + + + + +CHAPTER I + + +THE LORD ADMIRAL’S PLAYERS + +There was an unwonted buzzing in the east end of Stratford on that next +to the last day of April, 1596. It was as if some one had thrust a stick +into a hive of bees and they had come whirling out to see. + +The low stone guard-wall of old Clopton bridge, built a hundred years +before by rich Sir Hugh, sometime Mayor of London, was lined with +straddling boys, like strawberries upon a spear of grass, and along the +low causeway from the west across the lowland to the town, brown-faced, +barefoot youngsters sat beside the roadway with their chubby legs +a-dangle down the mossy stones, staring away into the south across the +grassy levels of the valley of the Stour. + +Punts were poling slowly up the Avon to the bridge; and at the outlets +of the town, where the streets came down to the waterside among the +weeds, little knots of men and serving-maids stood looking into the +south and listening. Some had waited for an hour, some for two; yet +still there was no sound but the piping of the birds in white-thorn +hedges, the hollow lowing of kine knee-deep in grassy meadows, and the +long rush of the river through the sedge beside the pebbly shore; and +naught to see but quiet valleys, primrose lanes, and Warwick orchards +white with bloom, stretching away to the misty hills. + +But still they stood and looked and listened. + +The wind came stealing up out of the south, soft and warm and sweet and +still, moving the ripples upon the river with gray gusts; and, scudding +free before the wind, a dog came trotting up the road with wet pink +tongue and sidelong gait. At the throat of Clopton bridge he stopped and +scanned the way with dubious eye, then clapped his tail between his legs +and bolted for the town. The laughing shout that followed him into the +Warwick road seemed not to die away, but to linger in the air like the +drowsy hum of bees—a hum that came and went at intervals upon the +shifting wind, and grew by littles, taking body till it came unbroken as +a long, low, distance-muffled murmur from the south, so faint as +scarcely to be heard. + +Nick Attwood pricked his keen young ears. “They’re coming, Robin—hark +’e to the trampling!” + +Robin Getley held his breath and turned his ear toward the south. The +far-off murmur was a mutter now, defined and positive, and, as the two +friends listened, grew into a drumming roll, and all at once above it +came a shrill, high sound like the buzzing of a gnat close by the ear. + +Little Tom Davenant dropped from the finger-post, and came running up +from the fork of the Banbury road, his feet making little white puffs in +the dust as he flew. “They are coming! they are coming!” he shrieked +as he ran. + +Then up to his feet sprang Robin Getley, upon the saddle-backed +coping-stones, his hand upon Nick Attwood’s head to steady himself, and +looked away where the rippling Stour ran like a thread of silver beside +the dust-buff London road, and the little church of Atherstone stood +blue against the rolling Cotswold Hills. + +“They are coming! they are coming!” shrilled little Tom, and scrambled +up the coping like a squirrel up a rail. + +A stir ran out along the guard-wall, some crying out, some starting up. +“Sit down! sit down!” cried others, peering askance at the water +gurgling green down below. “Sit down, or we shall all be off!” + +Robin held his hand above his eyes. A cloud of dust was rising from the +London road and drifting off across the fields like smoke when the old +ricks burn in damp weather—a long, broad-sheeted mist; and in it were +bits of moving gold, shreds of bright colors vaguely seen, and silvery +gleams like the glitter of polished metal in the sun. And as he looked +the shifty wind came down out of the west again and whirled the cloud of +dust away, and there he saw a long line of men upon horses coming at an +easy canter up the highway. Just as he had made this out the line came +rattling to a stop, the distant drumming of hoofs was still, and as the +long file knotted itself into a rosette of ruddy color amid the April +green, a clear, shrill trumpet blew and blew again. + +“They are coming!” shouted Robin, “they are coming!” and, turning, waved +his cap. + +A shout went up along the bridge. Those down below came clambering up, +the punts came poling with a rush of foam, and a ripple ran along the +edge of Stratford town like the wind through a field of wheat. Windows +creaked and doors swung wide, and the workmen stopped in the +garden-plots to lean upon their mattocks and to look. + +“They are coming!” bellowed Rafe Hickathrift, the butcher’s boy, +standing far out in the street, with his red hands to his mouth for a +trumpet, “they are coming!” and at that the doors of Bridge street grew +alive with eager eyes. + +At early dawn the Oxford carrier had brought the news that the players +of the Lord High Admiral were coming up to Stratford out of London from +the south, to play on May-day there; and this was what had set the town +to buzzing like a swarm. For there were in England then but three great +companies, the High Chamberlain’s, the Earl of Pembroke’s men, and the +stage-players of my Lord Charles Howard, High Admiral of the Realm; and +the day on which they came into a Midland market-town to play was one to +mark with red and gold upon the calendar of the uneventful year. + +Away by the old mill-bridge there were fishermen angling for dace and +perch; but when the shout came down from the London road they dropped +their poles and ran, through the willows and over the gravel, splashing +and thrashing among the rushes and sandy shallows, not to be last when +the players came. And old John Carter coming down the Warwick road with +a load of hay, laid on the lash until piebald Dobbin snorted in dismay +and broke into a lumbering run to reach the old stone bridge in time. + +The distant horsemen now were coming on again, riding in double file. +They had flung their banners to the breeze, and on the changing wind, +with the thumping of horses’ hoofs, came by snatches the sound of a +kettledrummer drawing his drumhead tight, and beating as he drew, and +the muffled blasts of a trumpeter proving his lips. + +Fynes Morrison and Walter Stirley, who had gone to Cowslip lane to meet +the march, were running on ahead, and shouting as they ran: “There’s +forty men, and sumpter-mules! and, oh, the bravest banners and +attire—and the trumpets are a cloth-yard long! Make room for us, make +room for us, and let us up!” + +A bowshot off, the trumpets blew a blast so high, so clear, so keen, +that it seemed a flame of fire in the air, and as the brassy fanfare +died away across the roofs of the quiet town, the kettledrums clanged, +the cymbals clashed, and all the company began to sing the famous old +song of the hunt: + + “The hunt is up, the hunt is up, + Sing merrily we, the hunt is up! + The wild birds sing, + The dun deer fling, + The forest aisles with music ring! + Tantara, tantara, tantara! + + “Then ride along, ride along, + Stout and strong! + Farewell to grief and care; + With a rollicking cheer + For the high dun deer + And a life in the open air! + Tantara, the hunt is up, lads; + Tantara, the bugles bray! + Tantara, tantara, tantara, + Hio, hark away!” + +The first of the riders had reached old Clopton bridge, and the banners +strained upon their staves in the freshening river-wind. The trumpeters +and the drummers led, their horses prancing, white plumes waving in the +breeze, and the April sunlight dancing on the brazen horns and the +silver bellies of the kettledrums. + +Then came the banners of the company, curling down with a silky swish, +and unfurling again with a snap, like a broad-lashed whip. The greatest +one was rosy red, and on it was a gallant ship upon a flowing sea, +bearing upon its mainsail the arms of my Lord Charles Howard, High +Admiral of England. Upon its mate was a giant-bearded man with a fish’s +tail, holding a trident in his hand and blowing upon a shell, the Triton +of the seas which England ruled; this flag was bright sea-blue. The +third was white, and on it was a red wild rose with a golden heart, the +common standard of the company. + +[Illustration: THE LORD ADMIRAL’S PLAYERS. “THE TRUMPETERS AND THE +DRUMMERS LED, THEIR HORSES PRANCING, WHITE PLUMES WAVING IN THE +BREEZE.”] + +After the flags came twoscore men, the players of the Admiral, the +tiring-men, grooms, horse-boys, and serving-knaves, well mounted on good +horses, and all of them clad in scarlet tabards blazoned with the +coat-armor of their master. Upon their caps they wore the famous badge +of the Howards, a rampant silver demi-lion; and beneath their tabards at +the side could be seen their jerkins of many-colored silk, their +silver-buckled belts, and long, thin Spanish rapiers, slapping their +horses on the flanks at every stride. Their legs were cased in +high-topped riding-boots of tawny cordovan, with gilt spurs, and the +housings of their saddles were of blue with the gilt anchors of the +admiralty upon them. On their bridles were jingling bits of steel, which +made a constant tinkling, like a thousand little bells very far away. + +Some had faces smooth as boys and were quite young; and others wore +sharp-pointed beards with stiff-waxed mustaches, and were older men, +with a tinge of iron in their hair and lines of iron in their faces, +hardened by the life they led; and some, again, were smooth-shaven, so +often and so closely that their faces were blue with the beard beneath +the skin. But, oh, to Nicholas Attwood and the rest of Stratford boys, +they were a dashing, rakish, admirable lot, with the air of something +even greater than lords, and a keen knowingness in their sparkling, +worldly eyes that made a common wise man seem almost a fool beside them! + +And so they came riding up out of the south: + + “Then ride along, ride along, + Stout and strong! + Farewell to grief and care; + With a rollicking cheer + For the high dun deer + And a life in the open air!” + +“Hurrah! hurrah! God save the Queen!” + +A dropping shout went up the street like an arrow-flight scattering over +the throng; and the players, waving their scarlet caps until the long +line tossed like a poppy-garden in a summer rain, gave a cheer that +fairly set the crockery to dancing upon the shelves of the stalls in +Middle Bow. + +“Hurrah!” shouted Nicholas Attwood, his blue eyes shining with delight. +“Hurrah, hurrah, for the Admiral’s men!” And high in the air he threw +his cap, as a wild cheer broke from the eddying crowd, and the arches of +the long gray bridge rang hollow with the tread of hoofs. Whiff, came +the wind; down dropped the hat upon the very saddle-peak of one tall +fellow riding along among the rest. Catching it quickly as it fell, he +laughed and tossed it back; and when Nick caught it whirling in the air, +a shilling jingled from it to the ground. + +Then up Fore Bridge street they all trooped after into Stratford town. + +“Oh,” cried Robin, “it is brave, brave!” + +“Brave?” cried Nick. “It makes my very heart jump. And see, Robin, ’tis +a shilling, a real silver shilling—oh, what fellows they all be! Hurrah +for the Lord High Admiral’s men!” + + + + +CHAPTER II + + +NICHOLAS ATTWOOD’S HOME + +Nick Attwood’s father came home that night bitterly wroth. + +The burgesses of the town council had ordered him to build a chimney +upon his house, or pay ten shillings fine; and shillings were none too +plenty with Simon Attwood, the tanner of Old Town. + +“Soul and body o’ man!” said he, “they talk as if they owned the world, +and a man could na live upon it save by their leave. I must build my +fire in a pipe, or pay ten shillings fine? Things ha’ come to a pretty +pass—a pretty pass, indeed!” He kicked the rushes that were strewn upon +the floor, and ground the clay with his heel. “This litter will ha’ to +be all took out. Atkins will be here at six i’ the morning to do the +job, and a lovely mess he will make o’ the house!” + +“Do na fret thee, Simon,” said Mistress Attwood, gently. “The rushes +need a changing, and I ha’ pined this long while to lay the floor wi’ +new clay from Shottery common. ’Tis the sweetest earth! Nick shall take +the hangings down, and right things up when the chimley ’s done.” + +So at cockcrow next morning Nick slipped out of his straw bed, into his +clothes, and down the winding stair, while his parents were still asleep +in the loft, and, sousing his head in the bucket at the well, began his +work before the old town clock in the chapel tower had yet struck four. + +The rushes had not been changed since Easter, and were full of dust and +grease from the cooking and the table. Even the fresher sprigs of mint +among them smelled stale and old. When they were all in the barrow, Nick +sighed with relief and wiped his hands upon the dripping grass. + +It had rained in the night,—a soft, warm rain,—and the air was full of +the smell of the apple-bloom and pear from the little orchard behind the +house. The bees were already humming about the straw-bound hives along +the garden wall, and a misguided green woodpecker clung upside down to +the eaves, and thumped at the beams of the house. + +It was very still there in the gray of the dawn. He could hear the rush +of the water through the sedge in the mill-race, and then, all at once, +the roll of the wheel, the low rumble of the mill-gear, and the cool +whisper of the wind in the willows. + +When he went back into the house again the painted cloths upon the wall +seemed dingier than ever compared with the clean, bright world outside. +The sky-blue coat of the Prodigal Son was brown with the winter’s smoke; +the Red Sea towered above Pharaoh’s ill-starred host like an inky +mountain; and the homely maxims on the next breadth—“Do no Wrong,” +“Beware of Sloth,” “Overcome Pride,” and “Keep an Eye on the +Pence”—could scarcely be read. + +Nick jumped up on the three-legged stool and began to take them down. +The nails were crooked and jammed in the wall, and the last came out +with an unexpected jerk. Losing his balance, Nick caught at the +table-board which leaned against the wall; but the stool capsized, and +he came down on the floor with such a flap of tapestry that the ashes +flew out all over the room. + +He sat up dazed, and rubbed his elbows, then looked around and began to +laugh. + +He could hear heavy footsteps overhead. A door opened, and his father’s +voice called sternly from the head of the stair: “What madcap folly art +thou up to now?” + +“I be up to no folly at all,” said Nick, “but down, sir. I fell from the +stool. There is no harm done.” + +“Then be about thy business,” said Attwood, coming slowly down the +stairs. + +He was a gaunt man, smelling of leather and untanned hides. His short +iron-gray hair grew low down upon his forehead, and his hooked nose, +grim wide mouth, and heavy under jaw gave him a look at once forbidding +and severe. His doublet of serge and his fustian hose were stained with +liquor from the vats, and his eyes were heavy with sleep. + +The smile faded from Nick’s face. “Shall I throw the rushes into the +street, sir?” “Nay; take them to the muck-hill. The burgesses ha’ made +a great to-do about folk throwing trash into the highways. Soul and body +o’ man!” he growled, “a man must ask if he may breathe. And good hides +going a-begging, too!” + +Nick hurried away, for he dreaded his father’s sullen moods. + +The swine were squealing in their styes, the cattle bawled about the +straw-thatched barns in Chapel lane, and long files of gabbling ducks +waddled hurriedly down to the river through the primroses under the +hedge. He could hear the milkmaids calling in the meadows; and when he +trundled slowly home the smoke was creeping up in pale-blue threads from +the draught-holes in the wall. + +The tanner’s house stood a little back from the thoroughfare, in that +part of Stratford-on-Avon where the south end of Church street turns +from Bull lane toward the river. It was roughly built of timber and +plaster, the black beams showing through the yellow lime in curious +squares and triangles. The roof was of red tiles, and where the +spreading elms leaned over it the peaked gable was green with moss. + +At the side of the house was a garden of lettuce; beyond the garden a +rough wall on which the grass was growing. Sometimes wild primroses grew +on top of this wall, and once a yellow daffodil. Beyond the wall were +other gardens owned by thrifty neighbors, and open lands in common to +them all, where foot-paths wandered here and there in a free, +haphazard way. + +Behind the house was a well and a wood-pile, and along the lane ran a +whitewashed paling fence with a little gate, from which the path went up +to the door through rows of bright, old-fashioned flowers. + +Nick’s mother was getting the breakfast. She was a gentle woman with a +sweet, kind face, and a little air of quiet dignity that made her doubly +dear to Nick by contrast with his father’s unkempt ways. He used to +think that, in her worsted gown, with its falling collar of Antwerp +linen, and a soft, silken coif upon her fading hair, she was the most +beautiful woman in all the world. + +She put one arm about his shoulders, brushed back his curly hair, and +kissed him on the forehead. + +“Thou art mine own good little son,” said she, tenderly, “and I will +bake thee a cake in the new chimley on the morrow for thy +May-day-feast.” + +Then she helped him fetch the trestles from the buttery, set the board, +spread the cloth, and lay the wooden platters, pewter cups, and old horn +spoons in place. Breakfast being ready, she then called his father from +the yard. Nick waited deftly upon them both, so that they were soon done +with the simple meal of rye-bread, lettuce, cheese, and milk. + +As he carried away the empty platters and brought water and a towel for +them to wash their hands, he said quietly, although his eyes were bright +and eager, “The Lord High Admiral’s company is to act a stage-play at +the guildhall to-morrow before Master Davenant the Mayor and the town +burgesses.” + +Simon Attwood said nothing, but his brows drew down. + +“They came yestreen from London town by Oxford way to play in Stratford +and at Coventry, and are at the Swan Inn with Master Geoffrey +Inchbold—oh, ever so many of them, in scarlet jerkins, and cloth of +gold, and doublets of silk laced up like any lord! It is a very good +company, they say.” + +Mistress Attwood looked quickly at her husband. “What will they play?” +she asked. + +“I can na say surely, mother—‘Tamburlane,’ perhaps, or ‘The Troublesome +Reign of Old King John.’ The play will be free, father—may I go, sir?” + +“And lose thy time from school?” + +“There is no school to-morrow, sir.” + +“Then have ye naught to do, that ye waste the day in idle folly?” asked +the tanner, sternly. + +“I will do my work beforehand, sir,” replied Nick, quietly, though his +hand trembled a little as he brushed up the crumbs. + +“It is May-day, Simon,” interceded Mistress Attwood, “and a bit of +pleasure will na harm the lad.” + +“Pleasure?” said the tanner, sharply. “If he does na find pleasure +enough in his work, his book, and his home, he shall na seek it of low +rogues and strolling scape-graces.” + +“But, Simon,” said Mistress Attwood, “’tis the Lord Admiral’s own +company—surely they are not all graceless! And,” she continued with +very quiet dignity, “since mine own cousin Anne Hathaway married Will +Shakspere the play-actor, ’tis scarcely kind to call all players +rogues and low.” + +“No more o’ this, Margaret,” cried Attwood, flushing angrily. “Thou art +ever too ready with the boy’s part against me. He shall na go—I’ll find +a thing or two for him to do among the vats that will take this taste +for idleness out of his mouth. He shall na go: so that be all there is +on it.” Rising abruptly, he left the room. + +Nick clenched his hands. + +“Nicholas,” said his mother, softly. + +“Yes, mother,” said he; “I know. But he should na flout thee so! And, +mother, the Queen goes to the play—father himself saw her at Coventry +ten years ago. Is what the Queen does idle folly?” + +His mother took him by the hand and drew him to her side, with a smile +that was half a sigh. “Art thou the Queen?” + +“Nay,” said he; “and it’s all the better for England, like enough. But +surely, mother, it can na be wrong—” + +“To honour thy father?” said she, quickly, laying her finger across his +lips. “Nay, lad; it is thy bounden duty.” + +Nick turned and looked up at her wonderingly. “Mother,” said he, “art +thou an angel come down out of heaven?” + +“Nay,” she answered, patting his flushed cheek; “I be only the every-day +mother of a fierce little son who hath many a hard, hard lesson to +learn. Now eat thy breakfast—thou hast been up a long while.” + +Nick kissed her impetuously and sat down, but his heart still rankled +within him. + +All Stratford would go to the play. He could hear the murmur of voices +and music, the bursts of laughter and applause, the tramp of happy feet +going up the guildhall stairs to the Mayor’s show. Everybody went in +free at the Mayor’s show. The other boys could stand on stools and see +it all. They could hold horses at the gate of the inn at the September +fair, and so see all the farces. They could see the famous Norwich +puppet-play. But he—what pleasure did he ever have? A tawdry pageant by +a lot of clumsy country bumpkins at Whitsuntide or Pentecost, or a silly +school-boy masque at Christmas, with the master scolding like a heathen +Turk. It was not fair. + +And now he’d have to work all May-day. May-day out of all the year! Why, +there was to be a May-pole and a morris-dance, and a roasted calf, too, +in Master Wainwright’s field, since Margery was chosen Queen of the May. +And Peter Finch was to be Robin Hood, and Nan Rogers Maid Marian, and +wear a kirtle of Kendal green—and, oh, but the May-pole would be brave; +high as the ridge of the guildschool roof, and hung with ribbons like a +rainbow! Geoffrey Hall was to lead the dance, too, and the other boys +and girls would all be there. And where would he be? Sousing hides in +the tannery vats. Truly his father was a hard man! + +He pushed the cheese away. + + + + +CHAPTER III + + +THE LAST STRAW + +Little John Summer had a new horn-book that cost a silver penny. The +handle was carven and the horn was clear as honey. The other little boys +stood round about in speechless envy, or murmured their A B C’s and “ba +be bi’s” along the chapel steps. The lower-form boys were playing +leap-frog past the almshouse, and Geoffrey Gosse and the vicar’s son +were in the public gravel-pit, throwing stones at the robins in the +Great House elms across the lane. + +Some few dull fellows sat upon the steps behind the school-house, +anxiously poring over their books. But the larger boys of the Fable +Class stood in an excited group beneath the shadow of the overhanging +second story of the grammar-school, talking all at once, each louder +than the other, until the noise was deafening. + +“Oh, Nick, such goings on!” called Robin Getley, whose father was a +burgess, as Nick Attwood came slowly up the street, saying his sentences +for the day over and over to himself in hopeless desperation, having had +no time to learn them at home. “Stratford Council has had a quarrel, +and there’s to be no stage-play after all.” + +“What?” cried Nick, in amazement. “No stage-play? And why not?” + +“Why,” said Robin, “it was just this way—my father told me of it. Sir +Thomas Lucy, High Sheriff of Worcester, y’ know, rode in from Charlcote +yesternoon, and with him Sir Edward Greville of Milcote. So the +burgesses made a feast for them at the Swan Inn. Sir Thomas fetched a +fine, fat buck, and the town stood good for ninepence wine and twopence +bread, and broached a keg of sturgeon. And when they were all met +together there, eating, and drinking, and making merry—what? Why, in +came my Lord Admiral’s players from London town, ruffling it like high +dukes, and not caring two pops for Sir Thomas, or Sir Edward, or for +Stratford burgesses all in a heap; but sat them down at the table +straightway, and called for ale, as if they owned the place; and not +being served as soon as they desired, they laid hands upon Sir Thomas’s +server as he came in from the buttery with his tray full, and took both +meat and drink.” + +“What?” cried Nick. + +“As sure as shooting, they did!” said Robin; “and when Sir Thomas’s +gentry yeomen would have seen to it—what? Why, my Lord Admiral’s +master-player clapped his hand to his poniard-hilt, and dared them come +and take it if they could.” + +“To Sir Thomas Lucy’s men?” exclaimed Nick, aghast. + +“Ay, to their teeth! Sir Edward sprang up then, and said it was a shame +for players to behave so outrageously in Will Shakspere’s own home town. +And at that Sir Thomas, who, y’ know, has always misliked Will, flared +up like a bull at a red rag, and swore that all stage-players be +runagate rogues, anyway, and Will Shakspere neither more nor less than a +deer-stealing scape-gallows.” + +“Surely he did na say that in Stratford Council?” protested Nick. + +“Ay, but he did—that very thing,” said Robin; “and when that was out, +the master-player sprang upon the table, overturning half the ale, and +cried out that Will Shakspere was his very own true friend, and the +sweetest fellow in all England, and that whosoever gainsaid it was a +hemp-cracking rascal, and that he would prove it upon his back with a +quarter-staff whenever and wherever he chose, be he Sir Thomas Lucy, St. +George and the Dragon, Guy of Warwick, and the great dun cow, all rolled +up in one!” + +“Robin Getley, is this the very truth, or art thou cozening me?” + +“Upon my word, it is the truth,” said Robin. “And that’s not all. Sir +Edward cried out ‘Fie!’ upon the player for a saucy varlet; but the +fellow only laughed, and bowed quite low, and said that he took no +offense from Sir Edward for saying that, since it could not honestly be +denied, but that Sir Thomas did not know the truth from a truckle-bed in +broad daylight, and was but the remnant of a gentleman to boot.” + +“The bold-faced rogue!” + +“Ay, that he is,” nodded Robin; “and for his boldness Sir Thomas +straightway demanded that the High Bailiff refuse the company license to +play in Stratford.” + +“Refuse the Lord High Admiral’s players?” + +“Marry, no one else. And then Master John Shakspere, wroth at what Sir +Thomas had said of his son Will, vowed that he would send a letter down +to London town, and lay the whole coil before the Lord High Admiral +himself. For ever since that he was High Bailiff, the best companies of +England had always been bidden to play in Stratford, and it would be an +ill thing now to refuse the Lord Admiral’s company after granting +licenses to both my Lord Pembroke’s and the High Chamberlain’s.” + +“And so it would,” spoke up Walter Roche; “for there are our own +townsmen, Richard and Cuthbert Burbage, who are cousins of mine, and +John Hemynge and Thomas Greene, besides Will Shakspere and his brother +Edmund, all playing in the Lord Chamberlain’s company in London before +the Queen. It would be a black score against them all with the Lord +Admiral—I doubt not he would pay them out.” + +“That he would,” said Robin, “and so said my father and Alderman Henry +Walker, who, y’ know, is Will Shakspere’s own friend. And some of the +burgesses who cared not a rap for that were afeard of offending the Lord +Admiral. But Sir Thomas vowed that my Lord Howard was at Cadiz with +Walter Raleigh and the young Earl of Sussex, and would by no means hear +of it. So Master Bailiff Stubbes, who, ’tis said, doth owe Sir Thomas +forty pound, and is therefore under his thumb, forthwith refused the +company license to play in Stratford guildhall, inn-yard, or common. And +at that the master-player threw his glove into Master Stubbes’s face, +and called Sir Thomas a stupid old bell-wether, and Stratford burgesses +silly sheep for following wherever he chose to jump.” + +“And so they be,” sneered Hal Saddler. + +“How?” cried Robin, hotly. “My father is a burgess. Dost thou call him a +sheep, Hal Saddler?” + +“Nay, nay,” stammered Hal, hastily; “’twas not thy father I meant.” + +“Then hold thy tongue with both hands,” said Robin, sharply, “or it will +crack thy pate for thee some of these fine days.” + +“But come, Robin,” asked Nick, eagerly, “what became of the quarrel?” + +“Well, when the master-player threw his glove into Master Stubbes’s +face, the Chief Constable seized him for contempt of Stratford Council, +and held him for trial. At that some cried ‘Shame!’ and some ‘Hurrah!’ +but the rest of the players fled out of town in the night, lest their +baggage be taken by the law and they be fined.” + +“Whither did they go?” asked Nick, both sorry and glad to hear that they +were gone. + +“To Coventry, and left the master-player behind in gaol.” + +“Why, they dare na use him so—the Lord Admiral’s own man!” + +“Ay, that they don’t! Why, hark ’e, Nick! This morning, since Sir +Thomas has gone home, and the burgesses’ heads have all cooled down from +the sack and the clary they were in last night, la! but they are in a +pretty stew, my father says, for fear that they have given offense to +the Lord Admiral. So they have spoken the master-player softly, and +given him his freedom out of hand, and a long gold chain to twine about +his cap, to mend the matter with, beside.” + +“Whee-ew!” whistled Nick. “I wish I were a master-player!” + +“Oh, but he will not be pleased, and says he will have his revenge on +Stratford town if he must needs wait until the end of the world or go to +the Indies after it. And he has had his breakfast served in Master +Geoffrey Inchbold’s own room at the Swan, and swears that he will walk +the whole way to Coventry sooner than straddle the horse that the +burgesses have sent him to ride.” + +“What! Is he at the inn? Why, let’s go down and see him.” + +“Master Brunswood says that he will birch whoever cometh late,” objected +Hal Saddler. + +“Birch?” groaned Nick. “Why, he does nothing but birch! A fellow can na +say his ‘_sum, es, est_’ without catching it. And as for getting through +the ‘genitivo’ and ‘vocativo’ without a downright threshing—” He +shrugged his shoulders ruefully as he remembered his unlearned lesson. +Everything had gone wrong with him that morning, and the thought of the +birching that he was sure to get was more than he could bear. “I will +na stand it any longer—I’ll run away!” + +Kit Sedgewick laughed ironically. “And when the skies fall we’ll catch +sparrows, Nick Attwood,” said he. “Whither wilt thou run?” + +Stung by his tone of ridicule, Nick out with the first thing that came +into his head. “To Coventry, after the stage-players,” said he, +defiantly. + +The whole crowd gave an incredulous hoot. + +Nick’s face flushed. To be crossed at home, to be birched at school, to +work all May-day in the tannery vats, and to be laughed at—it was +too much. + +“Ye think that I will na? Well, I’ll show ye! ’Tis only eight miles to +Warwick, and hardly more than that beyond—no walk at all; and Diccon +Haggard, my mother’s cousin, lives in Coventry. So out upon your musty +Latin—English is good enough for me this day! There’s bluebells blowing +in the dingles, and cuckoo-buds no end. And while ye are all grinding at +your old Aesop I shall be roaming over the hills wherever I please.” + +As he spoke he thought of the dark, wainscoted walls of the school-room +with their narrow little windows overhead, of the foul-smelling floors +of the tannery in Southam’s lane, and his heart gave a great, rebellious +leap. “Ay,” said he, exultantly, “I shall be out where the birds can +sing and the grass is green, and I shall see the stage-play, while ye +will be mewed up all day long in school, and have nothing but a beggarly +morris and a farthing May-pole on the morrow.” + +“Oh, no doubt, no doubt,” said Hal Saddler, mockingly “We shall have +but bread and milk, and thou shalt have—a most glorious threshing from +thy father when thou comest home again!” + +That was the last straw to Nick’s unhappy heart. + +“’Tis a threshing either way,” said he, squaring his shoulders +doggedly. “Father will thresh me if I run away, and Master Brunswood +will thresh me if I don’t. I’ll not be birched four times a week for +merely tripping on a word, and have nothing to show for it but stripes. +If I must take a threshing, I’ll have my good day’s game out first.” + +“But wilt thou truly go to Coventry, Nick?” asked Robin Getley, +earnestly, for he liked Nick more than all the rest. + +“Ay, truly, Robin—that I will”; and, turning, Nick walked swiftly away +toward the market-place, never looking back. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +OFF FOR COVENTRY + +At the Bridge street crossing Nick paused irresolute. Around the public +pump a chattering throng of housewives were washing out their towels and +hanging them upon the market-cross to dry. Along the stalls in Middle +Row the grumbling shopmen were casting up their sales from tallies +chalked upon their window-ledges, or cuffing their tardy apprentices +with no light hand. + +John Gibson’s cart was hauling gravel from the pits in Henley street to +mend the causeway at the bridge, which had been badly washed by the late +spring floods, and the fine sand dribbled from the cart-tail like the +sand in an hour-glass. + +Here and there loutish farm-hands waited for work; and at the corner two +or three stout cudgel-men leaned upon their long staves, although the +market was two days closed, and there was not a Coventry merchant in +sight to be driven away from Stratford trade. + +Goody Baker with her shovel and broom of twigs was sweeping up the +market litter in the square. Nick wondered if his own mother’s back +would be so bent when she grew old. + +“Whur be-est going, Nick?” + +Roger Dawson sat astride a stick of timber in front of Master Geoffrey +Thompson’s new house, watching Tom Carpenter the carver cut fleur-de-lis +and curling traceries upon the front wall beams. He was a +tenant-farmer’s son, this Roger, and a likely good-for-naught. + +“To Coventry,” said Nick, curtly. + +“Wilt take a fellow wi’ thee?” + +Poor company might be better than none. + +“Come on.” + +Roger lumbered to his feet and trotted after. + +“No school to-day?” he asked. + +“Not for me,” answered Nick, shortly, for he did not care to talk about +it. + +“Faither wull na have I go to school, since us ha’ comed to town, an’ +plough-land sold for grazings,” drawled Roger; “Muster Pine o’ Welford +saith that I ha’ learned as much as faither ever knowed, an’ ’tis enow +for I. Faither saith it maketh saucy rogues o’ sons to know more than +they’s own dads.” + +Nick wondered if it did. His own father could neither read nor write, +while he could do both and had some Latin, too. At the thought of the +Latin he made a wry face. + +“Joe Carter be-eth in the stocks,” said Roger, peering through the +jeering crowd about the pillory and post; “a broke Tom Samson’s pate wi’ +’s ale-can yestreen.” + +[Illustration: “‘WHUR BE-EST GOING, NICK?’ ASKED ROGER DAWSON.”] + +But Nick pushed on. A few ruddy-faced farmers and drovers from the +Bed Horse Vale still lingered at the Boar Inn door and by the tap-room +of the Crown; and in the middle of the street a crowd of salters, +butchers, and dealers in hides, with tallow-smeared doublets and +doubtful hose, were squabbling loudly about the prices set upon +their wares. + +In the midst of them Nick saw his father, and scurried away into Back +Bridge street as fast as he could, feeling very near a sneak, but far +from altering his purpose. + +“Job Hortop,” said Simon Attwood to his apprentice at his side, looking +out suddenly over the crowd, “was that my Nick yonder?” + +“Nay, master, could na been,” said Job, stolidly; “Nick be-eth in school +by now—the clock ha’ struck. ’Twas Dawson’s Hodge and some like +ne’er-do-well.” + + + + +CHAPTER V + + +IN THE WARWICK ROAD + +The land was full of morning sounds as the lads trudged along the +Warwick road together. An ax rang somewhere deep in the woods of Arden; +cart-wheels ruttled on the stony road; a blackbird whistled shrilly in +the hedge, and they heard the deep-tongued belling of hounds far off in +Fulbroke park. + +Now and then a heron, rising from the river, trailed its long legs +across the sky, or a kingfisher sparkled in his own splash. Once a +lonely fisherman down by the Avon started a wild duck from the sedge, +and away it went pattering up-stream with frightened wings and red feet +running along the water. And then a river-rat plumped into the stream +beneath the willows, and left a long string of bubbles behind him. + +Nick’s ill humor soon wore off as he breathed the fresh air, moist from +lush meadows, and sweet from hedges pink and white with hawthorn bloom. +The thought of being pent up on such a day grew more and more +unbearable, and a blithe sense of freedom from all restraint blunted the +prick of conscience. + +“Why art going to Coventry, Nick?” inquired Roger suddenly, startled by +a thought coming into his wits like a child by a bat in the room. + +“To see the stage-play that the burgesses would na allow in Stratford.” + +“Wull I see, too?” + +“If thou hast eyes—the Mayor’s show is free.” + +“Oh, feckins, wun’t it be fine?” gaped Hodge. “Be it a tailors’ show, +Nick, wi’ Herod the King, and a rope for to hang Judas? An’ wull they +set the world afire wi’ a torch, an’ make the earth quake fearful wi’ a +barrel full o’ stones? Or wull it be Sin in a motley gown a-thumping the +Black Man over the pate wi’ a bladder full o’ peasen—an’ angels wi’ +silver wingses, an’ saints wi’ goolden hair? Or wull it be a giant nine +yards high, clad in the beards o’ murdered kings, like granny saith she +used to see?” + +“Pshaw! no,” said Nick; “none of those old-fashioned things. These be +players from London town, and I hope they’ll play a right good English +history-play, like ‘The Famous Victories of Henry Fift,’ to turn a +fellow’s legs all goose-flesh!” + +Hodge stopped short in the road. “La!” said he, “I’ll go no furder if +they turn me to a goose. I wunnot be turned goose, Nick Attwood—an’ a +plague on all witches, says I!” + +“Oh, pshaw!” laughed Nick; “come on. No witch in the world could turn +thee bigger goose than thou art now. Come along wi’ thee; there be no +witches there at all.” + +“Art sure thou ’rt not bedaffing me?” hesitated Hodge. “Good, then; I +be na feared. Art sure there be no witches?” + +“Why,” said Nick, “would Master Burgess John Shakspere leave his son +Will to do with witches?” + +“I dunno,” faltered Hodge; “a told Muster Robin Bowles it was na right +to drownd ’em in the river.” + +Nick hesitated. “Maybe it kills the fish,” said he; “and Master Will +Shakspere always liked to fish. But they burn witches in London, Hodge, +and he has na put a stop to it—and he’s a great man in London town.” + +Hodge came on a little way, shaking his head like an old sheep in a +corner. “Wully Shaxper a great man?” said he. “Why, a’s name be cut on +the old beech-tree up Snitterfield lane, where’s uncle Henry Shaxper +lives, an’ ’tis but poorly done. I could do better wi’ my own whittle.” + +“Ay, Hodge,” cried Nick; “and that’s about all thou canst do. Dost think +that a man’s greatness hangs on so little a thing as his sleight of hand +at cutting his name on a tree?” + +“Wull, maybe; maybe not; but if a be a great man, Nick Attwood, a might +do a little thing passing well—so there, now!” + +Nick pondered for a moment. “I do na know,” said he, slowly; “heaps of +men can do the little things, but parlous few the big. So some one must +be bigging it, or folks would all sing very small. And he doeth the big +most beautiful, they say. They call him the Swan of Avon.” + +“Avon swans be mostly geese,” said Hodge, vacantly. + +“Now, look ’e here, Hodge Dawson, don’t thou be calling Master Will +Shakspere goose. He married my own mother’s cousin, and I will na +have it.” + +“La, now,” drawled Hodge, staring, “’tis nowt to me. Thy Muster Wully +Shaxper may be all the long-necked fowls in Warrickshire for all I care. +And, anyway, I’d like to know, Nick Attwood, since when hath a been +‘_Muster_ Shaxper’—that ne’er-do-well, play-actoring fellow?” + +“Ne’er-do-well? It is na so. When he was here last summer he was bravely +dressed, and had a heap of good gold nobles in his purse. And he gave +Rick Hawkins, that’s blind of an eye, a shilling for only holding +his horse.” + +“Oh, ay,” drawled Hodge; “a fool and a’s money be soon parted.” + +“Will Shakspere is no fool,” declared Nick, hotly. “He’s made a peck o’ +money there in London town, and ’s going to buy the Great House in +Chapel lane, and come back here to live.” + +“Then a ’s a witless azzy!” blurted Hodge. “If a ’s so great a man +amongst the lords and earlses, a ’d na come back to Stratford. An’ I say +a ’s a witless loon—so there!” + +Nick whirled around in the road. “And I say, Hodge Dawson,” he exclaimed +with flashing eyes, “that ’tis a shame for a lout like thee to so +miscall thy thousand-time betters. And what’s more, thou shalt unsay +that, or I will make thee swallow thy words right here and now!” + +“I’d loike to see thee try,” Hodge began; but the words were scarcely +out of his mouth when he found himself stretched on the grass, Nick +Attwood bending over him. + +“There! thou hast seen it tried. Now come, take that back, or I will +surely box thine ears for thee.” + +Hodge blinked and gaped, collecting his wits, which had scattered to the +four winds. “Whoy,” said he, vaguely, “if ’tis all o’ that to thee, I +take it back.” + +Nick rose, and Hodge scrambled clumsily to his feet. “I’ll na go wi’ +thee,” said he, sulkily; “I will na go whur I be whupped.” + +Nick turned on his heel without a word, and started on. + +“An’ what’s more,” bawled Hodge after him, “thy Muster Wully Shaxper +be-eth an old gray goose, an’ boo to he, says I!” + +As he spoke he turned, dived through the thin hedge, and galloped across +the field as if an army were at his heels. + +Nick started back, but quickly paused. “Thou needst na run,” he called; +“I’ve not the time to catch thee now. But mind ye this, Hodge Dawson: +when I do come back, I’ll teach thee who thy betters be—Will Shakspere +first of all!” + +“Well crowed, well crowed, my jolly cockerel!” on a sudden called a +keen, high voice beyond the hedge behind him. + +Nick, startled, whirled about just in time to see a stranger leap the +hedge and come striding up the road. + + + + +CHAPTER VI + + +THE MASTER-PLAYER + +He had trim, straight legs, this stranger, and a slender, lithe body in +a tawny silken jerkin. Square-shouldered, too, was he, and over one +shoulder hung a plum-colored cloak bordered with gold braid. His long +hose were the color of his cloak, and his shoes were russet leather, +with rosettes of plum, and such high heels as Nick had never seen +before. His bonnet was of tawny velvet, with a chain twisted round it, +fastened by a jeweled brooch through which was thrust a curly +cock-feather. A fine white Holland-linen shirt peeped through his jerkin +at the throat, with a broad lace collar; and his short hair curled +crisply all over his head. He had a little pointed beard, and the ends +of his mustache were twisted so that they stood up fiercely on either +side of his sharp nose. At his side was a long Italian poniard in a +sheath of russet leather and silver filigree, and he had a reckless, +high and mighty fling about his stride that strangely took the eye. + +Nick stood, all taken by surprise, and stared. + +The stranger seemed to like it, but scowled nevertheless. “What! How +now?” he cried sharply. “Dost like or like me not?” + +“Why, sir,” stammered Nick, utterly lost for anything to say—“why, +sir,—” and knowing nothing else to do, he took off his cap and bowed. + +“Come, come,” snapped the stranger, stamping his foot, “I am a +swashing, ruffling, desperate Dick, and not to be made a common jest +for Stratford dolts to giggle at. What! These legs, that have put on +the very gentleman in proud Verona’s streets, laid in Stratford’s +common stocks, like a silly apprentice’s slouching heels? Nay, nay; +some one should taste old Bless-his-heart here first!” and with that +he clapped his hand upon the hilt of his poniard, with a wonderful +swaggering tilt of his shoulders. “Dost take me, boy?” + +“Why, sir,” hesitated Nick, no little awed by the stranger’s wild words +and imperious way, “ye surely are the master-player.” + +“There!” cried the stranger, whirling about, as if defying some one in +the hedge. “Who said I could not act? Why, see, he took me at a touch! +Say, boy,” he laughed, and turned to Nick, “thou art no fool. Why, boy, +I say I love thee now for this, since what hath passed in Stratford. A +murrain on the town! Dost hear me, boy?—a black murrain on the town!” +And all at once he made such a fierce stride toward Nick, gritting his +white teeth, and clapping his hand upon his poniard, that Nick drew back +afraid of him. + +[Illustration: “‘WHAT! HOW NOW?’ CRIED THE STRANGER, SHARPLY. ‘DOST LIKE +OR LIKE ME NOT?’”] + +“But nay,” hissed the stranger, and spat with scorn, “a town like +that is its own murrain—let it sicken on itself!” + +He struck an attitude, and waved his hand as if he were talking quite as +much to the trees and sky as he was to Nick Attwood, and looked about +him as if waiting for applause. Then all at once he laughed,—a +rollicking, merry laugh,—and threw off his furious manner as one does +an old coat. “Well, boy,” said he, with a quiet smile, looking kindly at +Nick, “thou art a right stanch little friend to all of us stage-players. +And I thank thee for it in Will Shakspere’s name; for he is the sweetest +fellow of us all.” + +His voice was simple, frank, and free—so different from the mad tone in +which he had just been ranting that Nick caught his breath +with surprise. + +“Nay, lad, look not so dashed,” said the master-player, merrily; “that +was only old Jem Burbage’s mighty tragic style; and I—I am only Gaston +Carew, hail-fellow-well-met with all true hearts. Be known to me, lad; +what is thy name? I like thy open, pretty face.” + +Nick flushed. “Nicholas Attwood is my name, sir.” + +“Nicholas Attwood? Why, it is a good name. Nick Attwood,—young Nick,—I +hope Old Nick will never catch thee—upon my word I do, and on the +remnant of mine honour! Thou hast taken a player’s part like a man, and +thou art a good fellow, Nicholas Attwood, and I love thee. So thou art +going to Coventry to see the players act? Surely thine is a nimble wit +to follow fancy nineteen miles. Come; I am going to Coventry to join my +fellows. Wilt thou go with me, Nick, and dine with us this night at the +best inn in all Coventry—the Blue Boar? Thou hast quite plucked up my +downcast heart for me, lad, indeed thou hast; for I was sore of +Stratford town—and I shall not soon forget thy plucky fending for our +own sweet Will. Come, say thou wilt go with me.” + +“Indeed, sir,” said Nick, bowing again, his head all in a whirl of +excitement at this wonderful adventure, “indeed I will, and that right +gladly, sir.” And with heart beating like a trip-hammer he walked along, +cap in hand, not knowing that his head was bare. + +The master-player laughed a simple, hearty laugh. “Why, Nick,” said he, +laying his hand caressingly upon the boy’s shoulder, “I am no such great +to-do as all that—upon my word, I’m not! A man of some few parts, +perhaps, not common in the world; but quite a plain fellow, after all. +Come, put off this high humility and be just friendly withal. Put on thy +cap; we are but two good faring-fellows here.” + +So Nick put on his cap, and they went on together, Nick in the seventh +heaven of delight. + +About a mile beyond Stratford, Welcombe wood creeps down along the left. +Just beyond, the Dingles wind irregularly up from the foot-path below to +the crest of Welcombe hill, through straggling clumps and briery +hollows, sweet with nodding bluebells, ash, and hawthorn. + +Nick and the master-player paused a moment at the top to catch their +breath and to look back. + +Stratford and the valley of the Avon lay spread before them like a +picture of peace, studded with blossoming orchards and girdled with +spring. Northward the forest of Arden clad the rolling hills. Southward +the fields of Feldon stretched away to the blue knolls beyond which lay +Oxford and Northamptonshire. The ragged stretches of Snitterfield downs +scrambled away to the left; and on the right, beyond Bearley, were the +wooded uplands where Guy of Warwick and Heraud of Arden slew the wild ox +and the boar. And down through the midst ran the Avon southward, like a +silver ribbon slipped through Kendal green, to where the Stour comes +down, past Luddington, to Bidford, and away to the misty hills. + +“Why,” exclaimed the master-player—“why, upon my word, it is a fair +town—as fair a town as the heart of man could wish. Wish? I wish ’t +were sunken in the sea, with all its pack of fools! Why,” said he, +turning wrathfully upon Nick, “that old Sir Thingumbob of thine, down +there, called me a caterpillar on the kingdom of England, a vagabond, +and a common player of interludes! Called me vagabond! Me! Why, I have +more good licenses than he has wits. And as to Master Bailiff Stubbes, I +have permits to play from more justices of the peace than he can shake a +stick at in a month of Sundays!” He shook his fist wrathfully at the +distant town, and gnawed his mustache until one side pointed up and the +other down. “But, hark ’e, boy, I’ll have my vengeance on them all—ay, +that will I, upon my word, and on the remnant of mine honour—or else my +name’s not Gaston Carew!” + +“Is it true, sir,” asked Nick, hesitatingly, “that they despitefully +handled you?” + +“With their tongues, ay,” said Carew, bitterly; “but not otherwise.” He +clapped his hand upon his poniard, and threw back his head defiantly. +“They dared not come to blows—they knew my kind! Yet John Shakspere is +no bad sort—he knoweth what is what. But Master Bailiff Stubbes, I +ween, is a long-eared thing that brays for thistles. I’ll thistle him! +He called Will Shakspere rogue. Hast ever looked through a red glass?” + +“Nay,” said Nick. + +“Well, it turns the whole world red. And so it is with Master Stubbes. +He looks through a pair of rogue’s eyes and sees the whole world rogue. +Why, boy,” cried the master-player, vehemently, “he thought to buy my +tongue! Marry, if tongues were troubles he has bought himself a peck! +What! Buy my silence? Nay, he’ll see a deadly flash of silence when I +come to my Lord the Admiral again!” + + + + +CHAPTER VII + + +“WELL SUNG, MASTER SKYLARK!” + +It was past high noon, and they had long since left Warwick castle far +behind. “Nicholas,” said the master-player, in the middle of a stream of +amazing stories of life in London town, “there is Blacklow knoll.” He +pointed to a little hill off to the left. + +Nick stared; he knew the tale: how grim old Guy de Beauchamp had Piers +Gaveston’s head upon that hill for calling him the Black Hound of Arden. + +“Ah!” said Carew, “times have changed since then, boy, when thou couldst +have a man’s head off for calling thee a name—or I would have yon +Master Bailiff Stubbes’s head off short behind the ears—and Sir Thomas +Lucy’s too!” he added, with a sudden flash of anger, gritting his teeth +and clenching his hand upon his poniard. “But, Nicholas, hast +anything to eat?” + +“Nothing at all, sir.” + +Master Carew pulled from his pouch some barley-cakes and half a small +Banbury cheese, yellow as gold and with a keen, sharp savour. “’Tis +enough for both of us,” said he, as they came to a shady little wood +with a clear, mossy-bottomed spring running down into a green meadow +with a mild noise, murmuring among the stones. “Come along, Nicholas; +we’ll eat it under the trees.” + +He had a small flask of wine, but Nick drank no wine, and went down to +the spring instead. There was a wild bird singing in a bush there, and +as he trotted down the slope it hushed its wandering tune. Nick took the +sound up softly, and stood by the wet stones a little while, imitating +the bird’s trilling note, and laughing to hear it answer timidly, as if +it took him for some great new bird without wings. Cocking its shy head +and watching him shrewdly with its beady eye, it sat, almost persuaded +that it was only size which made them different, until Nick clapped his +cap upon his head and strolled back, singing as he went. + +It was only the thread of an old-fashioned madrigal which he had often +heard his mother sing, with quaint words long since gone out of style +and hardly to be understood, and between the staves a warbling, wordless +refrain which he had learned out on the hills and in the +fields, picked up from a bird’s glad-throated morning-song. + +He had always sung the plain-tunes in church without taking any +particular thought about it; and he sang easily, with a clear young +voice which had a full, flute-like note in it like the high, sweet song +of a thrush singing in deep woods. + +Gaston Carew, the master-player, was sitting with his back against an +oak, placidly munching the last of the cheese, when Nick began to sing. +He started, straightening up as if some one had called him suddenly out +of a sound sleep, and, turning his head, listened eagerly. + +Nick mocked the wild bird, called again with a mellow, warbling trill, +and then struck up the quaint old madrigal with the bird’s song running +through it. Carew leaped to his feet, with a flash in his dark eyes. “My +soul! my soul!” he exclaimed in an excited undertone. “It is not—nay, +it cannot be—why, ’tis—it is the boy! Upon my heart, he hath a skylark +prisoned in his throat! _Well sung, well sung, Master Skylark!”_ he +cried, clapping his hands in real delight, as Nick came singing up the +bank. “Why, lad, I vow I thought thou wert up in the sky somewhere, with +wings to thy back! Where didst thou learn that wonder-song?” + +Nick colored up, quite taken aback. “I do na know, sir,” said he; +“mother learned me part, and the rest just came, I think, sir.” + +The master-player, his whole face alive and eager, now stared at +Nicholas Attwood as fixedly as Nick had stared at him. + +It was a hearty little English lad he saw, about eleven years of age, +tall, slender, trimly built, and fair. A gray cloth cap clung to the +side of his curly yellow head, and he wore a sleeveless jerkin of +dark-blue serge, gray home-spun hose, and heelless shoes of russet +leather. The white sleeves of his linen shirt were open to the elbow, +and his arms were lithe and brown. His eyes were frankly clear and +blue, and his red mouth had a trick of smiling that went straight to a +body’s heart. + +“Why, lad, lad,” cried Carew, breathlessly, “thou hast a very fortune in +thy throat!” + +Nick looked up in great surprise; and at that the master-player broke +off suddenly and said no more, though such a strange light came creeping +into his eyes that Nick, after meeting his fixed stare for a moment, +asked uneasily if they would not better be going on. + +Without a word the master-player started. Something had come into his +head which seemed to more than fill his mind; for as he strode along he +whistled under his breath and laughed softly to himself. Then again he +snapped his fingers and took a dancing step or two across the road, and +at last fell to talking aloud to himself, though Nick could not make out +a single word he said, for it was in some foreign language. + +“Nicholas,” he said suddenly, as they passed the winding lane that leads +away to Kenilworth—“Nicholas, dost know any other songs like that?” + +“Not just like that, sir,” answered Nick, not knowing what to make of +his companion’s strange new mood; “but I know Master Will Shakspere’s +‘Then nightly sings the staring owl, tu-who, tu-whit, tu-who!’ and ‘The +ousel-cock so black of hue, with orange-tawny bill,’ and then, too, I +know the throstle’s song that goes with it.” + +“Why, to be sure—to be sure thou knowest old Nick Bottom’s song, for +isn’t thy name Nick? Well met, both song and singer—well met, I say! +Nay,” he said hastily, seeing Nick about to speak; “I do not care to +hear thee talk. Sing me all thy songs. I am hungry as a wolf for songs. +Why, Nicholas, I must have songs! Come, lift up that honeyed throat of +thine and sing another song. Be not so backward; surely I love thee, +Nick, and thou wilt sing all of thy songs for me.” + +He laid his hand on Nick’s shoulder in his kindly way, and kept step +with him like a bosom friend, so that Nick’s heart beat high with pride, +and he sang all the songs he knew as they walked along. + +Carew listened intently, and sometimes with a fierce eagerness that +almost frightened the boy; and sometimes he frowned, and said under his +breath, “Tut, tut, that will not do!” but oftener he laughed without a +sound, nodding his head in time to the lilting tune, and seeming vastly +pleased with Nick, the singing, and last, but not least, with himself. + +And when Nick had ended the master-player had not a word to say, but for +half a mile gnawed his mustache in nervous silence, and looked Nick all +over with a long and earnest look. + +Then suddenly he slapped his thigh, and tossed his head back boldly. +“I’ll do it,” he said; “I’ll do it if I dance on air for it! I’ll have +it out of Master Stubbes and canting Stratford town, or may I never +thrive! My soul! it is the very thing. His eyes are like twin holidays, +and he breathes the breath of spring. Nicholas, Nicholas +Skylark,—Master Skylark,—why, it is a good name, in sooth, a very +good name! I’ll do it—I will, upon my word, and on the remnant of +mine honour!” + +“Did ye speak to me, sir?” asked Nick, timidly. + +“Nay, Nicholas; I was talking to the moon.” + +“Why, sir, the moon has not come yet,” said Nick, staring into the +western sky. + +“To be sure,” replied Master Carew, with a queer laugh. “Well, the +silvery jade has missed the first act.” + +“Oh,” cried Nick, reminded of the purpose of his long walk, “what will +ye play for the Mayor’s play, sir?” + +“I don’t know,” replied Carew, carelessly; “it will all be done before I +come. They will have had the free play this afternoon, so as to catch +the pence of all the May-day crowd to-morrow.” + +Nick stopped in the road, and his eyes filled up with tears, so quick +and bitter was the disappointment. “Why,” he cried, with a tremble in +his tired voice, “I thought the free play would be on the morrow—and +now I have not a farthing to go in!” + +“Tut, tut, thou silly lad!” laughed Carew, frankly; “am I thy friend for +naught? What! let thee walk all the way to Coventry, and never see the +play? Nay, on my soul! Why, Nick, I love thee, lad; and I’ll do for thee +in the twinkling of an eye. Canst thou speak lines by heart? Well, then, +say these few after me, and bear them in thy mind.” + +And thereupon he hastily repeated some half a dozen disconnected lines +in a high, reciting tone. + +“Why, sir,” cried Nick, bewildered, “it is a part!” + +“To be sure,” said Carew, laughing, “it is a part—and a part of a very +good whole, too—a comedy by young Tom Heywood, that would make a graven +image split its sides with laughing; and do thou just learn that part, +good Master Skylark, and thou shalt say it in to-morrow’s play.” + +“What, Master Carew!” gasped Nick. “I—truly? With the Lord Admiral’s +players?” + +“Why, to be sure!” cried the master-player, in great glee, clapping him +upon the back. “Didst think I meant a parcel of dirty tinkers? Nay, lad; +thou art just the very fellow for the part—my lady’s page should be a +pretty lad, and, soul o’ me, thou art that same! And, Nick, thou shalt +sing Tom Heywood’s newest song. It is a pretty song; it is a lark-song +like thine own.” + +Nick could hardly believe his ears. To act with the Lord Admiral’s +company! To sing with them before all Coventry! It passed the wildest +dream that he had ever dreamed. What would the boys in Stratford say? +Aha! they would laugh on the other side of their mouths now! + +“But will they have me, sir?” he asked doubtfully. + +“Have thee?” said Master Carew, haughtily. “If I say go, thou shalt go. +I am master here. And I tell thee, Nick, that thou shalt see the play, +and be the play, in part, and—well, we shall see what we shall see.” + +With that he fell to humming and chuckling to himself, as if he had +swallowed a water-mill, while Nick turned ecstatic cart-wheels along the +grass beside the road, until presently Coventry came in sight. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + + +THE ADMIRAL’S COMPANY + +The ancient city of Coventry stands upon a little hill, with old St. +Michael’s steeple and the spire of Holy Trinity church rising above it +against the sky; and as the master-player and the boy came climbing +upward from the south, walls, towers, chimneys, and red-tiled roofs were +turned to gold by the glow of the setting sun. + +To Nick it seemed as if a halo overhung the town—a ruddy glory and a +wonder bright; for here the Grey Friars of the great monastery had +played their holy mysteries and miracle-plays for over a hundred years; +here the trade-guilds had held their pageants when the friars’ day was +done; here were all the wonders that old men told by winter fires. + +People were coming and going through the gates like bees about a hive, +and in the distance Nick could hear the sound of many voices, the rush +of feet, wheels, and hoofs, and the shrill pipe of music. Here and there +were little knots of country folk making holiday: a father and mother +with a group of rosy children; a lad and his lass, spruce in new +finery, and gay with bits of ribbon—merry groups that were ever +changing. Gay banners flapped on tall ash staves. The suburb fields were +filled with booths and tents and stalls and butts for archery. The very +air seemed eager with the eve of holiday. + +But what to Nick was breathless wonder was to Carew only a twice-told +tale; so he pushed through the crowded thoroughfares, amid a throng that +made Nick’s head spin round, and came quickly to the Blue Boar Inn. + +The court was crowded to the gates with horses, travelers, and +serving-men; and here and there and everywhere rushed the busy +innkeeper, with a linen napkin fluttering on his arm, his cap half off, +and in his hot hand a pewter flagon, from which the brown ale dripped in +spatters on his fat legs as he flew. + +“They’re here,” said Carew, looking shrewdly about; “for there is +Gregory Goole, my groom, and Stephen Magelt, the tire-man. In with thee, +Nicholas.” + +He put Nick before him with a little air of patronage, and pushed him +into the room. + +It was a large, low chamber with heavy beams overhead, hung with leather +jacks and pewter tankards. Around the walls stood rough tables, at which +a medley of guests sat eating, drinking, dicing, playing at cards, and +talking loudly all at once, while the tapster and the cook’s knave sped +wildly about. + +At a great table in the midst of the riot sat the Lord High Admiral’s +players—a score or more loud-swashing gallants, richly clad in ruffs +and bands, embroidered shirts, Italian doublets slashed and laced, +Venetian hose, gay velvet caps with jeweled bands, and every man a +poniard or a rapier at his hip. Nick felt very much like a little brown +sparrow in a flock of gaudy Indian birds. + +The board was loaded down with meat and drink, and some of the players +were eating with forks, a new trick from the London court, which Nick +had never seen before. But all the diners looked up when Carew’s face +was recognized, and welcomed him with a deafening shout. + +He waved his hand for silence. + +“Thanks for these kind plaudits, gentle friends,” said he, with a +mocking air; “I have returned.” + +“Yes; we see that ye have, Gaston,” they all shouted, and laughed again. + +“Ay,” said he, thrusting his hand into his pouch, “ye fled, and left me +to be spoiled by the spoiler, but ye see I have left the +spoiler spoiled.” + +Lifting his hand triumphantly, he shook in their faces the golden chain +that the burgesses of Stratford had given him, and then, laying his hand +upon Nick’s shoulder, bowed to them all, and to him with courtly grace, +and said: “Be known, be known, all! Gentlemen, my Lord Admiral’s +Players, Master Nicholas Skylark, the sweetest singer in all the kingdom +of England!” + +Nick’s cheeks flushed hotly, and his eyes fell; for they all stared +curiously, first at him, and then at Carew standing up behind him, and +several grinned mockingly and winked in a knowing way. He stole a look +at Carew; but the master-player’s face was frank and quite unmoved, so +that Nick felt reassured. + +“Why, sirs,” said Carew, as some began to laugh and to speak to one +another covertly, “it is no jest. He hath a sweeter voice than Cyril +Davy’s, the best woman’s-voice in all London town. Upon my word, it is +the sweetest voice a body ever heard—outside of heaven and the holy +angels!” He lowered his tone and bowed his head a little. “I’ll stake +mine honour on it!” + +“Hast any, Gaston?” called a jeering voice, whereat the whole room +roared. + +But Carew cried again in a high voice that would be heard above the +noise: “Now, hark ’e; what I say is so. It is, upon my word, and on the +remnant of mine honour! And to-morrow ye shall see, for Master Skylark +is to sing and play with us.” + +When he had said that, nothing would do but Nick must sit down and eat +with them; so they made a place for him and for Master Carew. + +Nick bent his head and said a grace, at which some of them laughed, +until Carew shook his head with a stern frown; and before he ate he +bowed politely to them all, as his mother had taught him to do. They all +bowed mockingly, and hilariously offered him wine, which, when he +refused, they pressed upon him, until Carew stopped them, saying that he +would have no more of that. As he spoke he clapped his hand upon his +poniard and scowled blackly. They all laughed, but offered Nick no more +wine; instead, they picked him choice morsels, and made a great deal of +him, until his silly young head was quite turned, and he sat up and gave +himself a few airs—not many, for Stratford was no great place in which +to pick up airs. + +When they had eaten they wanted Nick to sing; but again Carew +interposed. “Nay,” said he; “he hath just eaten his fill, so he cannot +sing. Moreover, he is no jackdaw to screech in such a cage as this. He +shall not sing until to-morrow in the play.” + +At this some of the leading players who held shares in the venture +demurred, doubting if Nick could sing at all; but—“Hark ’e,” said +Master Carew, shortly, clapping his hand upon his poniard, “I say that +he can. Do ye take me?” + +So they said no more; and shortly after he took Nick away, and left them +over their tankards, singing uproariously. + +The Blue Boar Inn had not a bed to spare, nor had the players kept a +place for Carew; at which he smiled grimly, said he’d not forget it, and +took lodgings for himself and Nick at the Three Tuns in the next street. + +Nick spoke indeed of his mother’s cousin, with whom he had meant to +stay, but the master-player protested warmly; so, little loath, and much +flattered by the attentions of so great a man, Nick gave over the idea +and said no more about it. + +When the chamberlain had shown them to their room and they were both +undressed, Nick knelt beside the bed and said a prayer, as he always did +at home. Carew watched him curiously. It was quiet there, and the light +dim; Nick was young, and his yellow hair was very curly. Carew could +hear the faint breath murmuring through the boy’s lips as he prayed, and +while he stared at the little white figure his mouth twitched in a queer +way. But he tossed his head, and muttered to himself, “What, Gaston +Carew, turning soft? Nay, nay. I’ll do it—on my soul, I will!” rolled +into bed, and was soon fast asleep. + + * * * * * + +As for Nick, what with the excitement of the day, the dazzling fancies +in his brain, his tired legs, the weird night noises in the town, and +strange, tremendous dreams, he scarce could get to sleep at all; but +toward morning he fell into a refreshing doze, and did not wake until +the town was loud with May. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + + +THE MAY-DAY PLAY + +It was soon afternoon. All Coventry was thronged with people keeping +holiday, and at the Blue Boar a scene of wild confusion reigned. + +Tap-room and hall were crowded with guests, and in the cobbled court +horses innumerable stamped and whinnied. The players, with knitted +brows, stalked about the quieter nooks, going over their several parts, +and looking to their costumes, which were for the most part upon their +backs; while the thumping and pounding of the carpenters at work upon +the stage in the inn-yard were enough to drive a quiet-loving +person wild. + +Nick scarcely knew whether he were on his head or on his heels. The +master-player would not let him eat at all after once breaking his fast, +for fear it might affect his voice, and had him say his lines a hundred +times until he had them pat. Then he was off, directing here, there, and +everywhere, until the court was cleared of all that had no business +there, and the last surreptitious small boy had been duly projected +from the gates by Peter Hostler’s hobnailed boot. + +“Now, Nick,” said Carew, coming up all in a gale, and throwing a +sky-blue silken cloak about Nick’s shoulders, “thou’lt enter here”; and +he led him to a hallway door just opposite the gates. “When Master +Whitelaw, as the Duke, calls out, ‘How now, who comes?—I’ll match him +for the ale!’ be quickly in and answer to thy part; and, marry, boy, +don’t miss thy cues, or—tsst, thy head’s not worth a peascod!” With +that he clapped his hand upon his poniard and glared into Nick’s eyes, +as if to look clear through to the back of the boy’s wits. Nick heard +his white teeth grind, and was all at once very much afraid of him, for +he did indeed look dreadful. + +So Nicholas Attwood stood by the entry door, with his heart in his +throat, waiting his turn. + +He could hear the pages in the courtyard outside shouting for stools for +their masters, and squabbling over the best places upon the stage. Then +the gates creaked, and there came a wild rush of feet and a great crying +out as the ’prentices and burghers trooped into the inn-yard, pushing +and crowding for places near the stage. Those who had the money bawled +aloud for farthing stools. The rest stood jostling in a wrangling crowd +upon the ground, while up and down a girl’s shrill voice went all the +time, crying high, “Cherry ripe, cherry ripe! Who’ll buy my sweet May +cherries?” + +Then there was another shout, and a rattling tread of feet along the +wooden balconies that ran around the walls of the inn-yard, and cries +from the apprentices below: “Good-day, fair Master Harrington! Good-day, +Sir Thomas Parkes! Good-day, sweet Mistress Nettleby and Master +Nettleby! Good-day, good-day, good-day!” for the richer folk were coming +in at twopence each, and all the galleries were full. And then he heard +the baker’s boy with sugared cakes and ginger-nuts go stamping up +the stairs. + +The musicians in the balcony overhead were tuning up. There was a flute, +a viol, a gittern, a fiddle, and a drum; and behind the curtain, just +outside the door, Nick could hear the master-player’s low voice giving +hasty orders to the others. + +So he said his lines all over to himself, and cleared his throat. Then +on a sudden a shutter opened high above the orchestra, a trumpet blared, +the kettledrum crashed, and he heard a loud voice shout: + +“Good citizens of Coventry, and high-born gentles all: know ye now that +we, the players of the company of His Grace, Charles, Lord Howard, High +Admiral of England, Ireland, Wales, Calais, and Boulogne, the marches of +Normandy, Gascony, and Aquitaine, Captain-General of the Navy and the +Seas of Her Gracious Majesty the Queen—” + +At that the crowd in the courtyard cheered and cheered again. + +“—will, with your kind permission, play forthwith the laughable comedy +of ‘The Three Grey Gowns,’ by Master Thomas Heywood, in which will be +spoken many good things, old and new, and a brand-new song will be sung. +Now, hearken all—the play begins!” + +The trumpet blared, the kettledrum crashed again, and as a sudden hush +fell over the throng without Nick heard the voices of the players +going on. + +It was a broad farce, full of loud jests and nonsense, a great thwacking +of sticks and tumbling about; and Nick, with his eye to the crack of the +door, listened with all his ears for his cue, far too excited even to +think of laughing at the rough jokes, though the crowd in the inn-yard +roared till they held their sides. + +Carew came hurrying up, with an anxious look in his restless eyes. + +“Ready, Nicholas!” said he, sharply, taking Nick by the arm and lifting +the latch. “Go straight down front now as I told thee—mind thy +cues—speak boldly—sing as thou didst sing for me—and if thou wouldst +not break mine heart, do not fail me now! I have staked it all upon thee +here—and we _must_ win!” + +“How now, who comes?” Nick heard a loud voice call outside—the +door-latch clicked behind him—he was out in the open air and down the +stage before he quite knew where he was. + +The stage was built against the wall just opposite the gates. It was but +a temporary platform of planks laid upon trestles. One side of it was +against the wall, and around the three other sides the crowd was packed +close to the platform rail. + +At the ends, upon the boards, several wealthy gallants sat on high, +three-legged stools, within arm’s reach of the players acting there. The +courtyard was a sea of heads, and the balconies were filled with +gentlefolk in holiday attire, eating cakes and chaffing gaily at the +play. All was one bewildered cloud of staring eyes to Nick, and the only +thing which he was sure he saw was the painted sign that hung upon the +curtain at the rear, which in the lack of other scenery announced in +large red print: “This is a Room in Master Jonah Jackdawe’s House.” + +And then he heard the last quick words, “I’ll match him for the ale!” +and started on his lines. + +It was not that he said so ill what little he had to say, but that his +voice was homelike and familiar in its sound, one of their own, with no +amazing London accent to the words—just the speech of every-day, the +sort that they all knew. + +First, some one in the yard laughed out—a shock-headed ironmonger’s +apprentice, “Whoy, bullies, there be hayseed in his hair. ’Tis took off +pasture over-soon. I fecks! they’ve plucked him green!” + +There was a hoarse, exasperating laugh. Nick hesitated in his lines. The +player at his back tried to prompt him, but only made the matter worse, +and behind the green curtain at the door a hand went “clap” upon a +dagger-hilt. The play lagged, and the crowd began to jeer. Nick’s heart +was full of fear and of angry shame that he had dared to try. Then all +at once there came a brief pause, in which he vaguely realized that no +one spoke. The man behind him thrust him forward, and whispering +wrathfully, “Quick, quick—sing up, thou little fool!” stepped back and +left him there alone. + +[Illustration: “NICK THOUGHT OF HIS MOTHER’S SINGING ON A SUMMER’S +EVENING—DREW A DEEP BREATH AND BEGAN TO SING.”] + +A viol overhead took up the time, the gittern struck a few sharp +notes. This unexpected music stopped the noise, and all was still. Nick +thought of his mother’s voice singing on a summer’s evening among the +hollyhocks, and as the viol’s droning died away he drew a deep breath +and began to sing the words of “Heywood’s newest song”: + + “Pack, clouds, away, and welcome, day; + With night we banish sorrow; + Sweet air, blow soft; mount, lark, aloft, + To give my love good-morrow!” + +It was only a part of a madrigal, the air to which they had fitted the +words,—the same air that Nick had sung in the woods,—a thing scarce +meant ever to be sung alone, a simple strain, a few plain notes, and at +the close one brief, queer, warbling trill like a bird’s wild song, that +rose and fell and rose again like a silver ripple. + +The instruments were still; the fresh young voice came out alone, and it +was done so soon that Nick hardly knew that he had sung at all. For a +moment no one seemed to breathe. Then there was a very great noise, and +all the court seemed hurling at him. A man upon the stage sprang to his +feet. What they were going to do to him Nick did not know. He gave a +frightened cry, and ran past the green curtain, through the open door, +and into the master-player’s excited arms. + +“Quick, quick!” cried Carew. “Go back, go back! There, hark!—dost not +hear them call? Quick, out again—they call thee back!” With that he +thrust Nick through the door. The man upon the stage came up, slipped +something into his hand—Nick, all bewildered, knew not what; and there +he stood, quite stupefied, not knowing what to do. Then Carew came out +hastily and led him down the stage, bowing, and pressing his hand to his +heart, and smiling like a summer sunrise; so that Nick, seeing this, did +the same, and bowed as neatly as he could; though, to be sure, his was +only a simple, country-bred bow, and no such ceremonious to-do as Master +Carew’s courtly London obeisance. + +Every one was standing up and shouting so that not a soul could hear his +ears, until the ironmonger’s apprentice bellowed above the rest; “Whoy, +bullies!” he shouted, amid a chorus of cheers and laughter, “didn’t I +say ’twas catched out in the fields—it be a skylark, sure enough! Come, +Muster Skylark, sing that song again, an’ thou shalt ha’ my +brand-new cap!” + +Then many voices cried out together, “Sing it again! The Skylark—the +Skylark!” + +Nick looked up, startled. “Why, Master Carew,” said he, with a tremble +in his voice, “do they mean me?” + +Carew put one hand beneath Nick’s chin and turned his face up, smiling. +The master-player’s cheeks were flushed with triumph, and his dark eyes +danced with pride. “Ay, Nicholas Skylark; ’tis thou they mean.” + +The viol and the music came again from overhead, and when they ceased +Nick sang the little song once more. And when the master-player had +taken him outside, and the play was over, some fine ladies came and +kissed him, to his great confusion; for no one but his mother or his +kin had ever done so before, and these had much perfume about them, musk +and rose-attar, so that they smelled like rose-mallows in July. The +players of the Lord Admiral’s company were going about shaking hands +with Carew and with each other as if they had not met for years, and +slapping one another upon the back; and one came over, a tall, solemn, +black-haired man, he who had written the song, and stood with his feet +apart and stared at Nick, but spoke never a word, which Nick thought was +very singular. But as he turned away he said, with a world of pity in +his voice, “And I have writ two hundred plays, yet never saw thy like. +Lad, lad, thou art a jewel in a wild swine’s snout!” which Nick did not +understand at all; nor why Master Carew said so sharply, “Come, Heywood, +hold thy blabbing tongue; we are all in the same sty.” + +“Speak for thyself, Gat Carew!” answered Master Heywood, firmly. “I’ll +have no hand in this affair, I tell thee once for all!” + +Master Carew flushed queerly and bit his lip, and, turning hastily away, +took Nick to walk about the town. Nick then, for the first time, looked +into his hand to see what the man upon the stage had given him. It was a +gold rose-noble. + + + + +CHAPTER X + + +AFTER THE PLAY + +Through the high streets of the third city of the realm Master Gaston +Carew strode as if he were a very king, and Coventry his kingdom. + +There was music everywhere,—of pipers and fiddlers, drums, tabrets, +flutes, and horns,—and there were dancing bears upon the corners, with +minstrels, jugglers, chapmen crying their singsong wares, and such a +mighty hurly-burly as Nick had never seen before. And wherever there was +a wonder to be seen, Carew had Nick see it, though it cost a penny a +peep, and lifted him to watch the fencing and quarter-staff play in the +market-place. And at one of the gay booths he bought gilt ginger-nuts +and caraway cakes with currants on the top, and gave them all to Nick, +who thanked him kindly, but said, if Master Carew pleased, he’d rather +have his supper, for he was very hungry. + +“Why, to be sure,” said Carew, and tossed a silver penny for a scramble +to the crowd; “thou shalt have the finest supper in the town.” + +Whereupon, bowing to all the great folk they met, and being bowed to +most politely in return, they came to the Three Tuns. + +Stared at by a hundred curious eyes, made way for everywhere, and +followed by wondering exclamations of envy, it was little wonder that +Nick, a simple country lad, at last began to think that there was not in +all the world another gentleman so grand as Master Gaston Carew, and +also to have a pleasant notion that Nicholas Attwood was no bad +fellow himself. + +The lordly innkeeper came smirking and bobbing obsequiously about, with +his freshest towel on his arm, and took the master-player’s order as a +dog would take a bone. + +“Here, sirrah,” said Carew, haughtily; “fetch us some repast, I care not +what, so it be wholesome food—a green Banbury cheese, some simnel bread +and oat-cakes; a pudding, hark ’e, sweet and full of plums, with honey +and a pasty—a meat pasty, marry, a pasty made of fat and toothsome +eels; and moreover, fellow, ale to wash it down—none of thy penny ale, +mind ye, too weak to run out of the spigot, but snapping good brew—dost +take me?—with beef and mustard, tripe, herring, and a good fat capon +broiled to a turn!” + +The innkeeper gaped like a fish. + +“How now, sirrah? Dost think I cannot pay thy score?” quoth Carew, +sharply. + +“Nay, nay,” stammered the host; “but, sir, where—where will ye put it +all without bursting into bits?” + +“Be off with thee!” cried Carew, sharply. “That is my affair. Nay, +Nick,” said he, laughing at the boy’s, astonished look; “we shall not +burst. What we do not have to-night we’ll have in the morning. ’Tis the +way with these inns,—to feed the early birds with scraps,—so the more +we leave from supper the more we’ll have for breakfast. And thou wilt +need a good breakfast to ride on all day long.” + +“Ride?” exclaimed Nick. “Why, sir, I was minded to walk back to +Stratford, and keep my gold rose-noble whole.” + +“Walk?” cried the master-player, scornfully. “Thou, with thy golden +throat? Nay, Nicholas, thou shalt ride to-morrow like a very king, if I +have to pay for the horse myself, twelvepence the day!” and with that he +began chuckling as if it were a joke. + +But Nick stood up, and, bowing, thanked him gratefully; at which the +master-player went from chuckling to laughing, and leered at Nick so +oddly that the boy would have thought him tipsy, save that there had +been nothing yet to drink. And a queer sense of uneasiness came creeping +over him as he watched the master-player’s eyes opening and shutting, +opening and shutting, so that one moment he seemed to be staring and the +next almost asleep; though all the while his keen, dark eyes peered out +from between the lids like old dog-foxes from their holes, looking Nick +over from head to foot, and from foot to head again, as if measuring him +with an ellwand. + +When the supper came, filling the whole table and the sideboard too, +Nick arose to serve the meat as he was used at home; but, “Nay, Nicholas +Skylark, my honey-throat,” cried Carew, “sit thee down! Thou wait on +me—thou songster of the silver tongue? Nay, nay, sweetheart; the knave +shall wait on thee, or I’ll wait on thee myself—I will, upon my word! +Why, Nick, I tell thee I love thee, and dost think I’d let thee wait or +walk? nay, nay, thou’lt ride to-morrow like a king, and have all +Stratford wait for thee!” At this he chuckled so that he almost choked +upon a mouthful of bread and meat. + +“Canst ride, Nicholas?” + +“Fairly, sir.” + +“Fairly? Fie, modesty! I warrant thou canst ride like a very centaur. +What sayest—I’ll ride a ten-mile race with thee to-morrow as we go?” + +“Why,” cried Nick, “are ye going back to Stratford to play, after all?” + +“To Stratford? Nay; not for a bushel of good gold Harry shovel-boards! +Bah! That town is ratsbane and nightshade in my mouth! Nay, we’ll not go +back to Stratford town; but we shall ride a piece with thee, +Nicholas,—we shall ride a piece with thee.” + +Chuckling again to himself, he fell to upon the pasty and said no more. + +Nick held his peace, as he was taught to do unless first spoken to; but +he could not help thinking that stage-players, and master-players in +particular, were very queer folk. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + + +DISOWNED + +Night came down on Stratford town that last sweet April day, and the +pastured kine came lowing home. Supper-time passed, and the cool stars +came twinkling out; but still Nick Attwood did not come. + +“He hath stayed to sleep with Robin, Master Burgess Getley’s son,” said +Mistress Attwood, standing in the door, and staring out into the dusk; +“he is often lonely here.” + +“He should ha’ telled thee on it, then,” said Simon Attwood. “This be no +way to do. I’ve a mind to put him to a trade.” + +“Nay, Simon,” protested his wife; “he may be careless,—he is young +yet,—but Nicholas is a good lad. Let him have his schooling out—he’ll +be the better for it.” + +“Then let him show it as he goes along,” said Attwood, grimly, as he +blew the candle out. + +But May-day dawned; mid-morning came, mid-afternoon, then supper-time +again; and supper-time crept into dusk—and still no Nicholas Attwood. + +His mother grew uneasy; but his father only growled: “We’ll reckon up +when he cometh home. Master Brunswood tells me he was na at the school +the whole day yesterday—and he be feared to show his face. I’ll _fear_ +him with a bit of birch!” + +“Do na be too hard with the lad, Simon,” pleaded Mistress Attwood. “Who +knows what hath happened to him? He must be hurt, or he’d ’a’ come home +to his mother”—and she began to wring her hands. “He may ha’ fallen +from a tree, and lieth all alone out on the hill—or, Simon, the Avon! +Thou dost na think our lad be drowned?” + +“Fudge!” said Simon Attwood. “Born to hang’ll never drown!” + +When, however, the next day crept around and still his son did not come +home, a doubt stole into the tanner’s own heart. Yet when his wife was +for starting out to seek some tidings of the boy, he stopped her +wrathfully. + +“Nay, Margaret,” said he; “thou shalt na go traipsing around the town +like a hen wi’ but one chick. I wull na ha’ thee made a laughing-stock +by all the fools in Stratford.” + +But as the third day rolled around, about the middle of the afternoon +the tanner himself sneaked out at the back door of his tannery in +Southam’s lane, and went up into the town. + +“Robin Getley,” he asked at the guildschool door, “was my son wi’ thee +overnight?” + +“Nay, Master Attwood. Has he not come back?” + +“Come back? From where?” + +Robin hung his head. + +“From, where?” demanded the tanner. “Come, boy!” + +“From Coventry,” said Robin, knowing that the truth would out at last, +anyway. + +“He went to see the players, sir,” spoke up Hal Saddler, briskly, not +heeding Robin’s stealthy kick. “He said he’d bide wi’ Diccon Haggard +overnight; an’ he said he wished he were a master-player himself, +sir, too.” + +Simon Attwood, frowning blackly, hurried on. It _was_ Nick, then, whom +he had seen crossing the market-square. + +Wat Raven, who swept Clopton bridge, had seen two boys go up the Warwick +road. “One were thy Nick, Muster Attwood,” said he, thumping the dirt +from his broom across the coping-stone, “and the other were +Dawson’s Hodge.” + +The angry tanner turned again into the market-place. His brows were +knit, and his eyes were hot, yet his step was heavy and slow. Above all +things, he hated disobedience, yet in his surly way he loved his only +son; and far worse than disobedience, he hated that _his_ son +should disobey. + +Astride a beam in front of Master Thompson’s house sat Roger Dawson. +Simon Attwood took him by the collar none too gently. + +“Here, leave be!” choked Roger, wriggling hard; but the tanner’s grip +was like iron. “Wert thou in Coventry May-day?” he asked sternly. + +“Nay, that I was na,” sputtered Hodge. “A plague on Coventry!” + +“Do na lie to me—thou wert there wi’ my son Nicholas.” + +“I was na,” snarled Hodge. “Nick Attwood threshed me in the Warrick +road; an’ I be no dawg to follow at the heels o’ folks as threshes me.” + +“Where be he, then?” demanded Attwood, with a sudden sinking at heart in +spite of his wrath. + +“How should I know? A went away wi’ a play-actoring fellow in a +plum-colored cloak; and play-actoring fellow said a loved him like a’s +own, and patted a’s back, and flung me hard names, like stones at a lost +dawg. Now le’ me go, Muster Attwood—cross my heart, ’tis all I know!” + +“Is’t Nicholas ye seek, Master Attwood?” asked Tom Carpenter, turning +from his fleurs-de-lis. “Why, sir, he’s gone got famous, sir. I was in +Coventry mysel’ May-day; and—why, sir, Nick was all the talk! He sang +there at the Blue Boar inn-yard with the Lord High Admiral’s players, +and took a part in the play; and, sir, ye’d scarce believe me, but the +people went just daft to hear him sing, sir.” + +Simon Attwood heard no more. He walked down High street in a daze. With +hard men bitter blows strike doubly deep. He stopped before the +guildhall school. The clock struck five; each iron clang seemed beating +upon his heart. He raised his hand as if to shut the clangor out, and +then his face grew stern and hard. “He hath gone his own wilful way,” +said he, bitterly. “Let him follow it to the end.” + +Mistress Attwood came to meet him, running in the garden-path. +“Nicholas?” was all that she could say. + +“Never speak to me of him, again,” he said, and passed her by into the +house. “He hath gone away with a pack of stage-playing rascals and +vagabonds, whither no man knoweth.” + +Taking the heavy Bible down from the shelf, he lit a rushlight at the +fire, although it was still broad daylight, and sat there with the great +book open in his lap until the sun went down and the chill night wind +crept in along the floor; yet he could not read a single word and never +turned a page. + + + + +CHAPTER XII + + +A STRANGE RIDE + +Rat-a-tat-tat at the first dim hint of dawn went the chamberlain’s +knuckles upon the door. To Nick it seemed scarce midnight yet, so sound +had been his sleep. + +Master Carew having gotten into his high-topped riding-boots with a +great puffing and tugging, they washed their faces at the inn-yard pump +by the smoky light of the hostler’s lantern, and then in a subdued, +half-wakened way made a hearty breakfast off the fragments of the last +night’s feast. Part of the remaining cold meat, cheese, and cakes Carew +stowed in his leather pouch. The rest he left in the lap of a beggar +sleeping beside the door. + +The street was dim with a chilly fog, through which a few pale stars +still struggled overhead. The houses were all shut and barred; nobody +was abroad, and the night-watch slept in comfortable doorways here and +there, with lolling heads and lanterns long gone out. As they came along +the crooked street, a stray cat scurried away with scared green eyes, +and a kenneled hound set up a lonesome howl. + +But the Blue Boar Inn was stirring like an ant-hill, with firefly +lanterns flitting up and down, and a cheery glow about the open door. +The horses of the company, scrubbed unreasonably clean, snorted and +stamped in little bridled clumps about the courtyard, and the +stable-boys, not scrubbed at all, clanked at the pump or shook out +wrinkled saddle-cloths with most prodigious yawns. The grooms were +buckling up the packs; the chamberlain and sleepy-lidded maids stood at +the door, waiting their fare-well farthings. + +Some of the company yawned in the tap-room; some yawned out of doors +with steaming stirrup-cup in hand; and some came yawning down the +stairways pulling on their riding-cloaks, booted, spurred, and ready for +a long day’s ride. + +“Good-morrow, sirs,” said Carew, heartily. “Good-morrow, sir, to you,” +said they, and all came over to speak to Nicholas in a very kindly way; +and one or two patted him on the cheek and walked away speaking in +under-tones among themselves, keeping one eye on Carew all the while. +And Master Tom Heywood, the play-writer, came out with a great slice of +fresh wheat-bread, thick with butter and dripping with yellow honey, and +gave it to Nick; and stood there silently with a very queer expression +watching him eat it, until Carew’s groom led up a stout hackney and a +small roan palfrey to the block, and the master-player, crying +impatiently, “Up with thee, Nick; we must be ambling!” sprang into the +saddle of the gray. + +The sleepy inn-folk roused a bit to send a cheery volley of, “Fare ye +well, sirs; come again,” after the departing players, and the long +cavalcade cantered briskly out of the inn-yard, in double rank, with a +great clinking of bridle-chains and a drifting odor of wet leather and +heavy perfume. + +Nick sat very erect and rode his best, feeling like some errant knight +of the great Round Table, ready to right the whole world’s wrongs. “But +what about the horse?” said he. “We can na keep him in Stratford, sir.” + +“Oh, that’s all seen to,” said the master-player. “’Tis to be sent back +by the weekly carrier.” + +“And where do I turn into the Stratford road, sir?” asked Nick, as the +players clattered down the cobbled street in a cloud of mist that +steamed up so thickly from the stones that the horses seemed to have no +legs, but to float like boats. + +“Some distance further on,” replied Carew, carelessly. “’Tis not the +way we came that thou shalt ride to-day; that is t’ other end of town, +and the gate not open yet. But the longest way round is the shortest way +home, so let’s be spurring on.” + +At the corner of the street a cross and sleepy cobbler was strapping a +dirty urchin, who bellowed lustily. Nick winced. + +“Hollo!” cried Carew. “What’s to do?” + +“Why, sir,” said Nick, ruefully, “father will thresh me well this +night.” + +“Nay,” said Carew, in a quite decided tone; “that he’ll not, I promise +thee!”—and as he spoke he chuckled softly to himself. + +The man before them turned suddenly around and grinned queerly; but, +catching the master-player’s eye, whipped his head about like a +weather-vane in a gale, and cantered on. + +As they came down the narrow street the watchmen were just swinging wide +the city gates, and gave a cheer to speed the parting guests, who gave a +rouse in turn, and were soon lost to sight in the mist which hid the +valley in a great gray sea. + +“How shall I know where to turn off, sir?” asked Nick, a little +anxiously. “’Tis all alike.” + +“I’ll tell thee,” said the master-player; “rest thee easy on that score. +I know the road thou art to ride much better than thou dost thyself.” + +He smiled quite frankly as he spoke, and Nick could not help wondering +why the man before them again turned around and eyed him with that +sneaking grin. + +He did not like the fellow’s looks. He had scowling black brows, hair +cut as close as if the rats had gnawed it off, a pair of ill-shaped +bandy-legs, a wide, unwholesome slit of a mouth, and a nose like a +raspberry tart. His whole appearance was servile and mean, and there was +a sly malice in his furtive eyes. Besides that, and a thing which +strangely fascinated Nick’s gaze, there was a hole through the gristle +of his right ear, scarred about as if it had been burned, and through +this hole the fellow had tied a bow of crimson ribbon, like a butterfly +alighted upon his ear. + +“A pretty fellow!” said Carew, with a shrug. “He’ll be hard put to dodge +the hangman yet; but he’s a right good fellow in his way, and he has +served me—he has served me.” + +The first loud burst of talk had ceased, and all rode silently along. +The air was chill, and Nick was grateful for the cloak that Carew threw +around him. There was no sound but the beat of many hoofs in the +dust-padded road, and now and then the crowing of a cock somewhere +within the cloaking fog. The stars were gone, and the sky was lighting +up; and all at once, as they rode, the clouds ahead, low down and to the +right, broke raggedly away and let a red sun-gleam shoot through across +the mist, bathing the riders in dazzling rosy light. + +“Why, Master Carew,” cried Nick, no little startled, “there comes the +sun, almost ahead! We’re riding east-ward, sir. We’ve missed the road!” + +“Oh, no, we’ve not,” said Carew; “nothing of the sort.” His tone was so +peremptory and sharp that Nick said nothing more, but rode along, +vaguely wishing that he was already clattering down Stratford +High street. + +The clouds scattered as the sun came up, and the morning haze drifted +away into cool dales, and floated off upon the breeze. And as the world +woke up the players wakened too, and rode gaily along, laughing, +singing, and chattering together, until Nick thought he had never in all +his life before seen such a jolly fellowship. His heart was blithe as he +reined his curveting palfrey by the master-player’s side, and watched +the sunlight dance and sparkle along the dashing line from dagger-hilts +and jeweled clasps, and the mist-lank plumes curl crisp again in the +warmth of the rising sun. + +The master-player, too, had a graceful, taking way of being half +familiar with the lad; he was besides a marvelous teller of wonderful +tales, and whiled away the time with jests and quips, mile after mile, +till Nick forgot both road and time, and laughed until his sides +were sore. + +Yet slowly, as they rode along, it came home to him with the passing of +the land that this was country new and strange. So he began to take +notice of this and that beside the way; and as he noticed he began to +grow uneasy. Thrice had he come to Coventry, but surely never by a road +like this. + +Yet still the master-player joked and laughed and pleased the boy with +little things—until Nick laughed too, and let the matter go. At last, +however, when they had ridden fully an hour, they passed a moss-grown +abbey on the left-hand side of the road, a strange old place that Nick +could not recall. + +“Are ye sure, Master Carew,” he ventured timidly— + +At that the master-player took on so offended an air that Nick was sorry +he had spoken. + +“Why, now,” said Carew, haughtily, “if thou dost know the roads of +England better than I, who have trudged and ridden them all these years, +I’ll sit me down and learn of thee how to follow mine own nose. I tell +thee I know the road thou art to ride this day better than thou dost +thyself; and I’ll see to it that thou dost come without fail to the very +place that thou art going. I will, upon my word, and on the remnant of +mine honour!” + +But in spite of this assurance, and in spite of the master-player’s +ceaseless stream of gaiety and marvels, Nick became more and more +uneasy. The road was certainly growing stranger and stranger as they +passed. The company, too, instead of ambling leisurely along, as they +had done at first, were now spurring ahead at a good round gallop, in +answer to a shrill whistle from the master-player; and the horses were +wet with sweat. + +They passed a country village, too, that was quite unknown to Nick, and +a great highway running to the north that he had never seen before; and +when they had ridden for about two hours, the road swerved southward to +a shining ford, and on a little tableland beyond he saw the gables of a +town he did not know. + +“Why, Master Carew!” he cried out, half indignant, half perplexed, and +thoroughly frightened, “this is na the Stratford road at all. I’m going +back. I will na ride another mile!” + +As he spoke he wheeled the roan sharply out of the clattering file with +a slash of the rein across the withers, and started back along the hill +past the rest of the company, who came thumping down behind. + +“Stop him! Stop him there!” he heard the master-player shout, and there +was something in the fierce, high voice that turned his whole heart +sick. What right had they to stop him? This was not the Stratford road; +he was certain of that now. But “Stop him—stop him there!” he heard the +master-player call, and a wild, unreasoning fright came over him. He dug +his heels into the palfrey’s heaving sides and urged him up the hill +through the cloud of dust that came rolling down behind the horsemen. +The hindmost riders had plunged into those before, and the whole array +was struggling, shouting, and wrangling in wild disorder; but out of the +flurry Carew and the bandy-legged man with the ribbon in his ear spurred +furiously and came galloping after him at the top of their speed. + +Nick cried out, and beat the palfrey with the rein; but the chase was +short. They overtook him as he topped the hill, one on each side, and, +leaning over, Carew snatched the bridle from his hand. “Thou little +imp!” he panted, as he turned the roan around and started down the hill. +“Don’t try this on again!” + +“Oh, Master Carew,” gasped Nick, “what are ye going to do wi’ me?” + +“Do with thee?” cried the master-player, savagely clapping his hand upon +his poniard,—“why, I am going to do with thee just whatever I please. +Dost hear? And, hark ’e, this sort of caper doth not please me at all; +and by the whistle of the Lord High Admiral, if thou triest it on again, +thy life is not worth a rotten peascod!” + +Unbuckling the rein, he tossed one end to the bandy-legged man, and +holding the other in his own hand, with Nick riding helplessly between +them, they trotted down the hill again, took their old places in the +ranks, and spattered through the shallow ford. + +The bandy-legged man had pulled a dagger from beneath his coat, and held +it under his bridle-rein, shining through the horse’s mane as they +dashed through the still half-sleeping town. Nick was speechless +with terror. + +Beyond the town’s end they turned sharply to the northeast, galloping +steadily onward for what was perhaps half an hour, though to Nick it +seemed a forever, until they came out into a great highway running +southward. “Watling street!” he heard the man behind him say, and knew +that they were in the old Roman road that stretched from London to the +north. Still they were galloping, though long strings dribbled from the +horses’ mouths, and the saddle-leathers dripped with foam. One or two +looked back at him and bit their lips; but Carew’s eyes were hot and +fierce, and his hand was on his poniard. The rest, after a curious +glance or two, shrugged their shoulders carelessly and galloped on: this +affair was Master Gaston Carew’s business, not theirs. + +Until high noon they hurried on with neither stop nor stay. Then they +came to a place where a little brook sang through the grass by the +roadside in a shady nook beneath some mighty oaks, and there the +master-player whistled for a halt, to give the horses breath and rest, +and to water them at the brook-pools. Some of the players sauntered up +and down to stretch their tired legs, munching meat and bread; and some +lay down upon the grass and slept a little. Two of them came, offering +Nick some cakes and cheese; but he was crying hard and would neither +eat nor drink, though Carew urged him earnestly. Then Master Tom +Heywood, with an ugly look at Carew, and without so much as an +if-ye-please or a by-your-leave, led Nick up the brook to a spot where +it had not been muddied by the horses, and made him wash his dusty face +and hands in the cool water and dampen his hair, though he complied as +if in a daze. And indeed Nick rode on through the long afternoon, +clinging helplessly to the pommel of his saddle, sobbing bitterly until +for very weariness he could no longer sob. + +It was after nine o’clock that night when they rode into Towcester, and +all that was to be seen was a butcher’s boy carting garbage out of the +town and whistling to keep his courage up. The watch had long since gone +to sleep about the silent streets, but a dim light burned in the +tap-room of the Old Brown Cow; and there the players rested for +the night. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + + +A DASH FOR FREEDOM + +Nick awoke from a heavy, burning sleep, aching from head to foot. The +master-player, up and dressed, stood by the window, scowling grimly out +into the ashy dawn. Nick made haste to rise, but could not stifle a +sharp cry of pain as he staggered to his feet, he was so racked and sore +with riding. + +At the boy’s smothered cry Carew turned, and his dark face softened with +a sudden look of pity and concern. “Why, Nick, my lad,” he cried, and +hurried to his side, “this is too bad, indeed!” and without more words +took him gently in his arms and carried him down to the courtyard well, +where he bathed him softly from neck to heel in the cold, refreshing +water, and wiped him with a soft, clean towel as tenderly as if he had +been the lad’s own mother. And having dried him thoroughly, he rubbed +him with a waxy ointment that smelled of henbane and poppies, until the +aching was almost gone. So soft and so kind was he withal that Nick took +heart after a little and asked timidly, “And ye will let me go home +to-day, sir, will ye not?” + +The master-player frowned. + +“Please, Master Carew, let me go.” + +“Come, come,” said Carew, impatiently, “enough of this!” and stamped his +foot. + +“But, oh, Master Carew,” pleaded Nick, with a sob in his throat, “my +mother’s heart will surely break if I do na come home!” + +Carew started, and his mouth twitched queerly. “Enough, I say—enough!” +he cried. “I will not hear; I’ll have no more. I tell thee hold thy +tongue—be dumb! I’ll not have ears—thou shalt not speak! Dost hear?” +He dashed the towel to the ground. “I bid thee hold thy tongue.” + +Nick hid his face between his hands, and leaned against the rough stone +wall, a naked, shivering, wretched little chap indeed. “Oh, mother, +mother, mother!” he sobbed pitifully. + +A singular expression came over the master-player’s face. “I will not +hear—I tell thee I will not hear!” he choked, and, turning suddenly +away, he fell upon the sleepy hostler, who was drawing water at the +well, and rated him outrageously, to that astounded worthy’s +great amazement. + +Nick crept into his clothes, and stole away to the kitchen door. There +was a red-faced woman there who bade him not to cry—’t would soon be +breakfast-time. Nick thought he could not eat at all; but when the +savory smell crept out and filled the chilly air, his poor little empty +stomach would not be denied, and he ate heartily. Master Heywood sat +beside him and gave him the choicest bits from his own trencher; and +Carew himself, seeing that he ate, looked strangely pleased, and ordered +him a tiny mutton-pie, well spiced. Nick pushed it back indignantly; but +Heywood took the pie and cut it open, saying quietly: “Come, lad, the +good God made the sheep that is in this pie, not Gaston Carew. Eat +it—come, ’twill do thee good!” and saw him finish the last crumb. + +From Towcester south through Northamptonshire is a pretty country of +rolling hills and undulating hollows, ribboned with pebbly rivers, and +dotted with fair parks and tofts of ash and elm and oak. Straggling +villages now and then were threaded on the road like beads upon a +string, and here and there the air was damp and misty from the grassy +fens along some winding stream. + +It was against nature that a healthy, growing lad should be so much cast +down as not to see and be interested in the strange, new, passing world +of things about him; and little by little Nick roused from his +wretchedness and began to look about him. And a wonder grew within his +brain: why had they stolen him?—where were they taking him?—what would +they do with him there?—or would they soon let him go again? + +Every yellow cloud of dust arising far ahead along the road wrought up +his hopes to a Bluebeard pitch, as regularly to fall. First came a +cast-off soldier from the war in the Netherlands, rakishly forlorn, his +breastplate full of rusty dents, his wild hair worn by his steel cap, +swaggering along on a sorry hack with an old belt full of pistolets, and +his long sword thumping Rosinante’s ribs. Then a peddling chapman, with +a dust-white pack and a cunning Hebrew look, limped by, sulkily doffing +his greasy hat. Two sturdy Midland journeymen, in search of southern +handicraft, trudged down with tool-bags over their shoulders and stout +oak staves in hand. Of wretched beggars and tattered rogues there was an +endless string. But of any help no sign. + +Here and there, like a moving dot, a ploughman turned a belated furrow; +or a sweating ditcher leaned upon his reluctant spade and longed for +night; or a shepherd, quite as silly as his sheep, gawked up the morning +hills. But not a sign of help for Nick. + +Once, passing through a little town, he raised a sudden cry of “Help! +Help—they be stealing me away!” But at that the master-player and the +bandy-legged man waved their hands and set up such a shout that his +shrill outcry was not even heard. And the simple country bumpkins, +standing in a grinning row like so many Old Aunt Sallys at a fair, +pulled off their caps and bowed, thinking it some company of great +lords, and fetched a clownish cheer as the players galloped by. + +Then the hot dust got into Nick’s throat, and he began to cough. Carew +started with a look of alarm. “Come, come, Nicholas, this will never +do—never do in the world; thou’lt spoil thy voice.” + +“I do na care,” said Nick. + +“But I do,” said Carew, sharply. “So we’ll have no more of it!” and he +clapped his hand upon his poniard. “But, nay—nay, lad, I did not mean +to threaten thee—’tis but a jest. Come, smooth thy throat, and do not +shriek no more. We play in old St. Albans town to-night, and thou art to +sing thy song for us again.” + +Nick pressed his lips tight shut and shook his head. He would not sing +for them again. + +“Come, Nick, I’ve promised Tom Heywood that thou shouldst sing his song; +and, lad, there’s no one left in all the land to sing it if thou’lt not. +Tom doth dearly love thee, lad—why, sure, thou hast seen that! And, +Nick, I’ve promised all the company that thou wouldst sing Tom’s song +with us to-night. ’Twill break their hearts if thou wilt not. Come, +Nick, thou’lt sing it for us all, and set old Albans town afire!” said +Carew, pleadingly. + +Nick shook his head. + +“Come, Nick,” said Carew, coaxingly, “we must hear that sweet voice of +thine in Albans town to-night. Come, there’s a dear, good lad, and give +us just one little song! Come, act the man and sing, as thou alone in +all the world canst sing, in Albans town this night; and on my word, and +on the remnant of mine honour, I’ll leave thee go back to Stratford town +to-morrow morning!” + +“To Stratford—to-morrow?” stammered Nick, with a glad, incredulous cry, +while his heart leaped up within him. + +“Ay, verily; upon my faith as the fine fag-end of a very proper +gentleman—thou shalt go back to Stratford town to-morrow if thou wilt +but do thy turn with us to-night.” + +Nick caught the master-player’s arm as they rode along, almost crying +for very joy: “Oh, that I will, sir—and do my very best. And, oh, +Master Carew, I ha’ thought so ill o’ thee! Forgive me, sir; I did na +know thee well.” + +Carew winced. Hastily throwing the rein to Nick, he left him to master +his own array. + +As for Nick, as happy as a lark he learned his new lines as he rode +along, Master Carew saying them over to him from the manuscript and over +again until he made not a single mistake; and was at great pains to +teach him the latest fashionable London way of pronouncing all the +words, and of emphasizing his set phrases. “Nay, nay,” he would cry +laughingly, “not that way, lad; but this: ‘Good my lord, I bring a +letter from the duke’—as if thou hadst indeed a letter, see, and not an +empty fist. And when thou dost hand it to him, do it thus—and not as if +thou wert about to stab him in the paunch with a cheese-knife!” And at +the end he clapped him upon the back and said again and again that he +loved him, that he was a dear, sweet figure of a lad, and that his voice +among the rest of England’s singers, was like clear honey dropping into +a pot of grease. + +But it is a long ride from Towcester to St. Albans town in Herts, though +the road runs through a pleasant, billowy land of oak-walled lanes, wide +pastures, and quiet parks; and the steady jog, jog of the little roan +began to rack Nick’s tired bones before the day was done. + +Yet when they marched into the quaint old town to the blare of trumpets +and the crash of the kettledrums, all the long line gaudy with the +coat-armour of the Lord High Admiral beneath their flaunting banners, +and the horses pricked up their ears and arched their necks and pranced +along the crowded streets, Nick, stared at by all the good townsfolk, +could not help feeling a thrill of pride that he was one of the great +company of players, and sat up very straight and held his head up +haughtily as Master Carew did, and bore himself with as lordly an air as +he knew how. + + * * * * * + +But when morning came, and he danced blithely back from washing himself +at the horse-trough, all ready to start for home, he found the little +roan cross-bridled as before between the master-player’s gray and the +bandy-legged fellow’s sorrel mare. + +“What, there! cast him loose,” said he to the horse-boy who held the +three. “I am not going on with the players—I’m to go back to +Stratford.” + +“Then ye go afoot,” coolly rejoined the other, grinning, “for the hoss +goeth on wi’ the rest.” + +“What is this, Master Carew?” cried Nick, indignantly, bursting into the +tap-room, where the players were at ale. “They will na let me have the +horse, sir. Am I to walk the whole way back to Stratford town?” + +“To Stratford?” asked Master Carew, staring with an expression of most +innocent surprise, as he set his ale-can down and turned around. “Why, +thou art not going to Stratford.” + +“Not going to Stratford!” gasped Nick, catching at the table with a +sinking heart. “Why, sir, ye promised that I should to-day.” + +“Nay, now, that I did not, Nicholas. I promised thee that thou shouldst +go back to-morrow—were not those my very words!” + +“Ay, that they were,” cried Nick; “and why will ye na leave me go?” + +“Why, this is not to-morrow, Nick. Why, see, I cannot leave thee go +to-day. Thou knowest that I said to-morrow; and this is not +to-morrow—on thine honour, is it now?” + +“How can I tell?” cried Nick, despairingly. “Yesterday ye said it would +be, and now ye say that it is na. Ye’ve twisted it all up so that a body +can na tell at all. But there is a falsehood—a wicked, black +falsehood—somewhere betwixt you and me, sir; and ye know that I have na +lied to you, Master Carew!” + +Through the tap-room door he saw the open street and the hills beyond +the town. Catching his breath, he sprang across the sill, and ran for +the free fields at the top of his speed. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + + +AT BAY + +“After him!—stop him!—catch the rogue!” cried Carew, running out on +the cobbles with his ale-can in his hand. “A shilling to the man that +brings him back unharmed! No blows, nor clubs, nor stabbing, hark ’e, +but catch me the knave straightway; he hath snatched a fortune from +my hands!” + +At that the hostler, whip in hand, and the tapster with his bit, were +off as fast as their legs could carry them, bawling “Stop, thief, stop!” +at the top of their lungs; and at their backs every idle varlet about +the inn—grooms, stable-boys, and hangers-on—ran whooping, howling, and +hallooing like wild huntsmen. + +Nick’s frightened heart was in his mouth, and his breath came quick and +sharp. Tap-a-tap, tap-a-tap went his feet on the cobblestones as down +the long street he flew, running as he had never run before. + +It seemed as if the whole town bellowed at his back; for windows creaked +above his head, and doors banged wildly after him; curs from every +alley-way came yelping at his heels; apprentices let go the +shutter-bars, and joined in the chase; and near and nearer came the cry +of “Stop, thief, stop!” and the kloppety-klop of hob-nailed shoes in +wild pursuit. + +The rabble filled the dark old street from wall to wall, as if a cloud +of good-for-naughts had burst above the town; and far in front sped one +small, curly-headed lad, running like a frightened fawn. He had lost his +cap, and his breath came short, half sobbing in his throat as the sound +of footfalls gained upon his ear; but even yet he might have beaten them +all and reached the open fields but for the dirt and garbage in the +street. Three times he slipped upon a rancid bacon-rind and almost fell; +and the third time, as he plunged across the oozing drain, a dog dashed +right between his feet. + +He staggered, nearly fell, threw out his hand against the house and +saved himself; but as he started on again he saw the town-watch, wakened +by the uproar, standing with their long staves at the end of the street, +barring the way. + +The door of a smithy stood open just ahead, with forge-fires glowing and +the hammer ringing on the anvil. Nick darted in, past the horses, +hostlers, and blacksmith’s boys, and caught at the leather apron of the +sturdy smith himself. + +“Hoo, man, what a dickens!” snorted he, dropping the red-hot shoe on +which he was at work, and staring like a startled ox at the panting +little fugitive. + +“Do na leave them take me!” panted Nick. “They ha’ stolen me away from +Stratford town and will na leave me go!” + +At that Will Hostler bolted in, red-faced and scant of wind, “Thou +young rascal,” quoth he, “I have thee now! Come out o’ that!” and he +tried to take Nick by the collar. + +“So-oftly, so-oftly!” rumbled the smith, tweaking up the glowing shoe in +his great pincers, and sweeping a sputtering half-circle in front of the +cowering lad. “Droive slow through the cro-owd! What hath youngster here +did no-ow?” + +“He hath stolen a fortune from his master at the Three Lions—and the +shilling for him’s mine!” + +“Hath stealed a fortune? Whoy, huttlety-tut!” roared the burly smith, +turning ponderously upon Nick, who was dodging around him like a boy at +tag around a tree. “Whoy, lad,” said he, scratching his puzzled head +with his great, grimy fingers, “where hast putten it?” + +All the rout and the riot now came plunging into the smithy, breathless +with the chase. Master Carew himself, his ale-can still clutched in his +hand, and bearing himself with a high air of dignity, followed after +them, frowning. + +“What?” said he, angrily, “have ye earthed the cub and cannot dig him +out? Hast caught him there, fellow?” + +“Ay, master, that I have!” shouted Will Hostler. “Shilling’s mine, sir.” + +“Then fetch him out of this hole!” cried Carew, sniffing disdainfully at +the low, smoky door. + +“But he will na be fetched,” stammered the doughty Will, keeping a most +respectful distance from the long black pincers and the sputtering shoe +with which the farrier stolidly mowed the air round about Nick Attwood +and himself. + +At that the crowd set up a shout. + +Carew thrust fiercely into the press, the louts and loafers giving way. +“What, here! Nicholas Attwood,” said he, harshly, “come hither.” + +“Do na leave him take me,” begged Nick. “He is not my master; I am not +bound out apprentice—they are stealing me away from my own home, and it +will break my mother’s heart.” + +[Illustration: “NOBODY BREAKS NOBODY’S HEARTS IN OLD JO-OHN SMITHSES +SHO-OP,’ DRAWLED THE SMITH, IN HIS DEEP VOICE; NOR STEALS +NOBODY, NOTHER”] + +“Nobody breaks nobody’s hearts in old Jo-ohn Smithses sho-op,” drawled +the smith, in his deep voice; “nor steals nobody, nother. We be +honest-dealing folk in Albans town, an’ makes as good horse-shoes as be +forged in all England”—and he went placidly on mowing the air with the +glimmering shoe. + +“Here, fellow, stand aside,” commanded Master Carew, haughtily. “Stand +aside and let me pass!” As he spoke he clapped his hand upon his poniard +with a fierce snarl, showing his white teeth like a wolf-hound. + +The men about him fell back with unanimous alacrity, making out each to +put himself behind the other. But the huge smith only puffed out his +sooty cheeks as if to blow a fly off the next bite of cheese. “So-oftly, +so-oftly, muster,” drawled he; “do na go to ruffling it here. This shop +be mine, and I be free-born Englishman. I’ll stand aside for no +swash-buckling rogue on my own ground. Come, now, what wilt thou o’ the +lad?—and speak thee fair, good muster, or thou’lt get a dab o’ the +red-hot shoe.” As he spoke he gave the black tongs an extra whirl. + + + + +CHAPTER XV + + +LONDON TOWN + +“Come,” growled the blacksmith, gripping his tongs, “what wilt thou have +o’ the lad?” + +“What will I have o’ the lad?” said Master Carew, mimicking the +blacksmith in a most comical way, with a wink at the crowd, as if he had +never been angry at all, so quickly could he change his face—“What will +I have o’ the lad?” and all the crowd laughed. “Why, bless thy gentle +heart, good man, I want to turn his farthings into round gold crowns—if +thou and thine infernal hot shoe do not make zanies of us all! Why, +Master Smith, ’tis to London town I’d take him, and fill his hands with +more silver shillings than there be cast-off shoes in thy whole shop.” + +“La, now, hearken till him!” gaped the smith, staring in amazement. + +“And here thou needs must up and spoil it all, because, forsooth, the +silly child goes a trifle sick for home and whimpers for his minnie!” + +“But the lad saith thou hast stealed him awa-ay from ’s ho-ome,” +rumbled the smith, like a doubtful earthquake; “and we’ll ha’ no +stealing o’ lads awa-ay from ho-ome in County Herts!” + +“Nay, that we won’t!” cried one. “Hurrah, John Smith—fair play, fair +play!” and there came an ugly, threatening murmur from the crowd. + +“What! Fair play?” cried Master Carew, turning so sharply about, with +his hand upon his poniard, that each made as if it were not he but his +neighbor had growled. “Why, sirs, what if I took any one of ye out of +your poverty and common clothes down into London town, horseback like a +king, and had ye sing before the Queen, and play for earls, and talk +with the highest dames in all the land; and fed ye well, and spoke ye +fair, and lodged ye soft, and clad ye fine, and wrought the whole town +on to cheer ye, and to fill your purses full of gold? What, sir,” said +he, turning to the gaping farrier—“what if I promised thee to turn +thine every word to a silver sixpence, and thy smutty grins to golden +angels—what wouldst thou? Knock me in the head with thy dirty sledge, +and bawl foul play?” + +“Nay, that I’d not,” roared the burly smith, with a stupid, ox-like +grin, scratching his tousled head; “I’d say, ‘Go it, bully, and a plague +on him that said thee nay!’” + +“And yet when I would fill this silly fellow’s jerkin full of good gold +Harry shovel-boards for the simple drawing of his breath, ye bawl +‘Foul play!’” + +“What, here! come out, lad,” roared the smith, with a great horse-laugh, +swinging Nick forward and thwacking him jovially between the shoulders +with his brawny hand; “come out, and go along o’ the master here,—’tis +for thy good,—and ho-ome wull keep, I trow, till thou dost come again.” + +But Nick hung back, and clung to the blacksmith’s grimy arm, crying in +despair: “I will na—oh, I will na!” + +“Tut, tut!” cried Master Carew. “Come, Nicholas; I mean thee well, I’ll +speak thee fair, and I’ll treat thee true”—and he smiled so frankly +that even Nick’s doubts almost wavered. “Come, I’ll swear it on my +hilt,” said he. + +The smith’s brow clouded. “Nay,” said he; “we’ll no swearing by hilts or +by holies here; the bailiff will na have it, sir.” + +“Good! then upon mine honour as an Englishman!” cried Carew. “What, how, +bullies? Upon mine honour as an Englishman!—how is it? Here we be, all +Englishmen together!” and he clapped his hand to Will Hostler’s +shoulder, whereat Will stood up very straight and looked around, as if +all at once he were somebody instead of somewhat less than nobody at all +of any consequence. “What!—ye are all for fair play?—and I am for fair +play, and good Master Smith, with his beautiful shoe, here, is for fair +play! Why, sirs, my bullies, we are all for fair play; and what more can +a man ask than good, downright English fair play? Nothing, say I. Fair +play first, last, and all the time!” and he waved his hand. “Hurrah for +downright English fair play!” + +“Hurrah, hurrah!” bellowed the crowd, swept along like bubbles in a +flood. “Fair play, says we—English fair play—hurrah!” And those inside +waved their hands, and those that were outside tossed up their caps, in +sheer delight of good fair play. + +“Hurrah, my bullies! That’s the cry!” said Carew, in his +hail-fellow-well-met, royal way. “Why, we’re the very best of fellows, +and the very fastest friends! Come, all to the old Three Lions inn, and +douse a can of brown March brew at my expense. To the Queen, to good +fair play, and to all the fine fellows in Albans town!” + +And what did the crowd do but raise a shout, like a parcel of +school-boys loosed for a holiday, and troop off to the Three Lions inn +at Master Carew’s heels, Will Hostler and the brawny smith bringing up +the rear with Nick between them, hand to collar, half forgotten by the +rest, and his heart too low for further grief. + +And while the crowd were still roaring over their tankards and cheering +good fair play, Master Gaston Carew up with his prisoner into the +saddle, and, mounting himself, with the bandy-legged man grinning +opposite, shook the dust of old St. Albans from his horse’s heels. + +“Now, Nicholas Attwood,” said he, grimly, as they galloped away, “hark +’e well to what I have to say, and do not let it slip thy mind. I am +willed to take thee to London town—dost mark me?—and to London town +thou shalt go, warm or cold. By the whistle of the Lord High Admiral, I +mean just what I say! So thou mayst take thy choice.” + +He gripped Nick’s shoulder as they rode, and glared into his eyes as if +to sear them with his own. Nick heard his poniard grating in its sheath, +and shut his eyes so that he might not see the master-player’s horrid +stare; for the opening and shutting, opening and shutting, of the blue +lids made him shudder. + +“And what’s more,” said Carew, sternly, “I shall call thee Master +Skylark from this time forth—dost hear? And when I bid thee go, thou’lt +go; and when I bid thee come, thou’lt come; and when I say, ‘Here, +follow me!’ thou’lt follow like a dog to heel!” He drew up his lip until +his white teeth showed, and Nick, hearing them gritting together, shrank +back dismayed. + +“There!” laughed Carew, scornfully. “He that knows better how to tame a +vixen or to cozen a pack of gulls, now let him speak!” and said no more +until they passed by Chipping Barnet. Then, “Nick,” said he, in a quiet, +kindly tone, as if they had been friends for years, “this is the place +where Warwick fell”; and pointed down the field. “There in the corner of +that croft they piled the noble dead like corn upon a threshing-floor. +Since then,” said he, with quiet irony, “men have stopped making English +kings as the Dutch make dolls, of a stick and a poll thereon.” + +Pleased with hearing his own voice, he would have gone on with many +another thing; but seeing that Nick listened not at all to what he said, +he ceased, and rode on silently or chatting with the others. + +The country through Middlesex was in most part flat, and heavy forests +overhung the road from time to time. There the players slipped their +poniards, and rode with rapier in hand; for many a dark deed and cruel +robbery had been done along this stretch of Watling street. And as they +passed, more than one dark-visaged rogue with branded hand and a price +upon his head peered at them from the copses by the way. + +In places where the woods crept very near they pressed closer together +and rode rapidly; and the horse-boy and the grooms lit up the matches of +their pistolets, and laid their harquebuses ready in rest, and blew the +creeping sparkle snapping red at every turn; not so much really fearing +an attack upon so stout a party of reckless, dashing blades, as being +overawed by the great, mysterious silence of the forest, the +semi-twilight all about, and the cold, strange-smelling wind that fanned +their faces. + +The wild spattering of hoofs in water-pools that lay unsucked by the sun +in shadowy stretches, the grim silence of the riders, and the wary eying +of each covert as they passed, sent a thrill of excitement into Nick’s +heart too keen for any boy to resist. + +Then, too, it was no everyday tale to be stolen away from home. It was a +wild, strange thing with a strange, wild sound to it, not altogether +terrible or unpleasant to a brave boy’s ears in that wonder-filled age, +when all the world was turned adventurer, and England led the fore; when +Francis Drake and the “Golden Hind,” John Hawkins and the “Victory,” +Frobisher and his cockleshells, were gossip for every English fireside; +when the whole world rang with English steel, and the wide sea foamed +with English keels, and the air was full of the blaze of the living and +the ghosts of the mighty dead. And down in Nick’s plucky young English +heart there came a spark like that which burns in the soul of a mariner +when for the first time an unknown ocean rolls before his eyes. + +So he rode on bravely, filled with a sense of daring and the thrill of +perils more remote than Master Carew’s altogether too adjacent poniard, +as well as with a sturdy determination to escape at the first +opportunity, in spite of all the master-player’s threats. + +Up Highgate Hill they rattled in a bracing northeast wind, the rugged +country bowling back against the tumbled sky. Far to south a rusty haze +had gloomed against the sun like a midday fog, mile after mile; and +suddenly, as they topped the range and cleared the last low hill, they +saw a city in the south spreading away until it seemed to Nick to girdle +half the world and to veil the sky in a reek of murky sea-coal smoke. + +“There!” said Carew, reining in the gray, as Nick looked up and felt his +heart almost stand still; “since Parma burned old Antwerp, and the Low +Countries are dead, there lies the market-heart of all the big +round world!” + +“London!” cried Nick, and, catching his breath with a quick gasp, sat +speechless, staring. + +Carew smiled. “Ay, Nick,” said he, cheerily; “’tis London town. Pluck +up thine heart, lad, and be no more cast down; there lies a New World +ready to thine hand. Thou canst win it if thou wilt. Come, let it be +thine Indies, thou Francis Drake, and I thy galleon to carry home the +spoils! And cheer up. It grieves my heart to see thee sad. Be merry +for my sake.” + +“For thy sake?” gasped Nick, staring blankly in his face. “Why, what +hast thou done for me?” A sudden sob surprised him, and he clenched his +fists—it was too cruel irony. “Why, sir, if thou wouldst only leave +me go!” + +“Tut, tut!” cried Carew, angrily. “Still harping on that same old +string? Why, from thy waking face I thought thou hadst dropped it long +ago. Let thee go? Not for all the wealth in Lombard street! Dost think +me a goose-witted gull?—and dost ask what I have done for thee? Thou +simpleton! I have made thee rise above the limits of thy wildest +dream—have shod thy feet with gold—have filled thy lap with +glory—have crowned thine head with fame! And yet, ‘What have I done for +thee?’ Fie! Thou art a stubborn-hearted little fool. But, marry come up! +I’ll mend thy mind. I’ll bend thy will to suit my way, or break it in +the bending!” + +Clapping his hand upon his poniard, he turned his back, and did not +speak to Nick again. + +And so they came down the Kentish Town road through a meadow-land +threaded with flowing streams, the wild hill thickets of Hampstead Heath +to right, the huddling villages of Islington, Hoxton, and Clerkenwell to +left. And as they passed through Kentish Town, past Primrose Hill into +Hampstead way, solitary farm-houses and lowly cottages gave way to +burgher dwellings in orderly array, with manor-houses here and there, +and in the distance palaces and towers reared their heads above the +crowding chimney-pots. + +Then the players dressed themselves in fair array, and flung their +banners out, and came through Smithfield to Aldersgate, mocking the grim +old gibbet there with railing gaiety; and through the gate rode into +London town, with a long, loud cheer that brought the people crowding to +their doors, and set the shutters creaking everywhere. + +Nick was bewildered by the countless shifting gables and the throngs of +people flowing onward like a stream, and stunned by the roar that seemed +to boil out of the very ground. The horses’ hoofs clashed on the +unevenly paved street with a noise like a thousand smithies. The houses +hung above him till they almost hid the sky, and seemed to be reeling +and ready to fall upon his head when he looked up; so that he urged the +little roan with his uneasy heels, and wished himself out of this +monstrous ruck where the walls were so close together that there was not +elbow-room to live, and the air seemed only heat, thick and stifling, +full of dust and smells. + +Shop after shop, and booth on booth, until Nick wondered where the +gardens were; and such a maze of lanes, byways, courts, blind alleys, +and passages that his simple country footpath head went all into a +tangle, and he could scarcely have told Tottenham Court road from the +river Thames. + +All that he remembered afterward was that, turning from High Holborn +into the Farringdon road, he saw a great church, under Ludgate Hill, +with spire burned and fallen, and its massive tower, black with age and +smoke, staring on the town. But he was too confused to know whither they +went or what he saw in passing; for of such a forest of houses he had +never even dreamed, with people swarming everywhere like ants upon a +hill, and among them all not one kind face he knew. Through the spirit +of adventure that had roused him for a time welled up a great +heart-sickness for his mother and his home. + +Out of a bewildered daze he came at last to realize this much: that the +master-player’s house was very tall and very dark, standing in a dismal, +dirty street, and that it had a gloomy hallway full of shadows that +crept and wavered along the wall in the dim light of the late afternoon. + +Then the master-player pushed him up a narrow staircase and along a +black corridor to a door at the end of the passage, through which he +thrust him into a darkness like night, and slammed the door behind him. + +Nick heard the bolts shoot heavily, and Master Carew call through the +heavy panels: “Now, Jackanapes, sit down and chew the cud of solitude +awhile. It may cool thy silly pate for thee, since nothing else will +serve. When thou hast found thy common sense, perchance thou’lt find thy +freedom, not before.” Then his step went down the corridor, down the +stair, through the long hall—a door banged with a hollow sound that +echoed through the house, and all was still. + +At first, in the utter darkness, Nick could not see at all, and did not +move for fear of falling down some awful hole; but as his eyes grew +used to the gloom he saw that he was in a little room. The only window +was boarded up, but a dim light crept in through narrow cracks and made +faint bars across the air. Little motes floated up and down these thin +blue bars, wavering in the uncertain light and then lost in the +darkness. Upon the floor was a pallet of straw, covered with a coarse +sheet, and having a rough coverlet of sheepskin. A round log was the +only pillow. + +Something moved. Nick, startled, peered into the shadows: it was a strip +of ragged tapestry which fluttered on the wall. As he watched it +flapping fitfully there came a hollow rattle in the wainscot, and an +uncanny sound like the moaning of wind in the chimney. + +“Let me out!” he cried, beating upon the door. “Let me out, I say!” A +stealthy footstep seemed to go away outside. “Mother, mother!” he cried +shrilly, now quite unstrung by fright, and beat frantically upon the +door until his hands ached; but no one answered. The window was beyond +his reach. Throwing himself upon the hard pallet, he hid his eyes in the +coverlet, and cried as if his heart would break. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + + +MA’M’SELLE CICELY CAREW + +How long he lay there in a stupor of despair Nick Attwood never knew. It +might have been days or weeks, for all that he took heed; for he was +thinking of his mother, and there was no room for more. + +The night passed by. Then the day came, by the lines of light that crept +across the floor. The door was opened at his back, and a trencher of +bread and meat thrust in. He did not touch it, and the rats came out of +the wall and pulled the meat about, and gnawed holes in the bread, and +squeaked, and ran along the wainscot; but he did not care. + +The afternoon dragged slowly by, and the creeping light went up the wall +until the roofs across the street shut out the sunset. Sometimes Nick +waked and sometimes he slept, he scarce knew which nor cared; nor did he +hear the bolts grate cautiously, or see the yellow candle-light steal in +across the gloom. + +“Boy!” said a soft little voice. + +He started up and looked around. + +For an instant he thought that he was dreaming, and was glad to think +that he would waken by and by from what had been so sad a dream, and +find himself safe in his own little bed in Stratford town. For the +little maid who stood in the doorway was such a one as his eyes had +never looked upon before. + +She was slight and graceful as a lily of the field, and her skin was +white as the purest wax, save where a damask rose-leaf red glowed +through her cheeks. Her black hair curled about her slender neck. Her +gown was crimson, slashed with gold, cut square across the breast and +simply made, with sleeves just elbow-long, wide-mouthed, and lined with +creamy silk. Her slippers, too, were of crimson silk, high-heeled, +jaunty bits of things; her silken stockings black. In one hand she held +a tall brass candlestick, and through the fingers of the other the +candle-flame made a ruddy glow like the sun in the heart of a hollyhock. +And in the shadow of her hand her eyes looked out, as Nick said long +afterward, like stars in a summer night. + +Thinking it was all a dream, he sat and stared at her. + +“Boy!” she said again, quite gently, but with a quaint little air of +reproof, “where are thy manners?” + +Nick got up quickly and bowed as best he knew how. If not a dream, this +was certainly a princess—and perchance—his heart leaped up—perchance +she came to set him free! He wondered who had told her of him? Diccon +Field, perhaps, whose father had been Simon Attwood’s partner till he +died, last Michaelmas. Diccon was in London now, printing books, he had +heard. Or maybe it was John, Hal Saddler’s older brother. No, it could +not be John, for John was with a carrier; and Nick had doubts if +carriers were much acquainted at court. + +Wondering, he stared, and bowed again. + +“Why, boy,” said she, with a quaint air of surprise, “thou art a very +pretty fellow! Why, indeed, thou lookest like a good boy! Why wilt thou +be so bad and break my father’s heart?” + +“Break thy father’s heart?” stammered Nick. “Pr’ythee, who is thy +father, Mistress Princess?” + +“Nay,” said the little maid, simply; “I am no princess. I am Cicely +Carew.” + +“Cicely Carew?” cried Nick, clenching his fists. “Art thou the daughter +of that wicked man, Gaston Carew?” + +“My father is not wicked!” said she, passionately, drawing back from the +threshold with her hand trembling upon the latch. “Thou shalt not say +that—I will not speak with thee at all!” + +“I do na care! If Master Gaston Carew is thy father, he is the wickedest +man in the world!” + +“Why, fie, for shame!” she cried, and stamped her little foot. “How +darest thou say such a thing?” + +“He hath stolen me from home,” exclaimed Nick, indignantly; “and I shall +never see my mother any more!” With that he choked, and hid his face in +his arm against the wall. + +The little maid looked at him with an air of troubled surprise, and, +coming into the room, touched him on the arm. “There,” she said +soothingly, “don’t cry!” and stroked him gently as one would a little +dog that was hurt. “My father will send thee home to thy mother, I know; +for he is very kind and good. Some one hath lied to thee about him.” + +Nick wiped his swollen eyes dubiously upon his sleeve; yet the little +maid seemed positive. Perhaps, after all, there was a mistake somewhere. + +“Art hungry, boy?” she asked suddenly, spying the empty trencher on the +floor. “There is a pasty and a cake in the buttery, and thou shalt have +some of it if thou wilt not cry any more. Come, I cannot bear to see +thee cry—it makes me weep myself; and that will blear mine eyes, and +father will feel bad.” + +“If he but felt as bad as he hath made me feel—” began Nick, +wrathfully; but she laid her little hand across his mouth. It was a very +white, soft, sweet little hand. + +“Come,” said she; “thou art hungry, and it hath made thee cross!” and, +with no more ado, took him by the hand and led him down the corridor +into a large room where the last daylight shone with a smoky glow. + +The walls were wainscoted with many panels, dark, old, and mysterious; +and in a burnished copper brazier at the end of the room cinnamon, +rosemary, and bay were burning with a pleasant smell. Along the walls +were joined-work chests for linen and napery, of brass-bound oak—one a +black, old, tragic sea-chest, carved with grim faces and weird griffins, +that had been cast up by the North Sea from the wreck of a Spanish +galleon of war. The floor was waxed in the French fashion, and was so +smooth that Nick could scarcely keep his feet. The windows were high up +in the wall, with their heads among the black roof-beams, which with +their grotesquely carven brackets were half lost in the dusk. Through +the windows Nick could see nothing but a world of chimney-pots. + +“Is London town all smoke-pipes?” he asked confusedly. + +“Nay,” replied the little maid; “there are people.” + +Pushing a chair up to the table, she bade him sit down. Then pulling a +tall, curiously-made stool to the other side of the board, she perched +herself upon it like a fairy upon a blade of grass. “Greg!” she called +imperiously, “Greg! What, how! Gregory Goole, I say!” + +“Yes, ma’m’selle,” replied a hoarse voice without; and through a door at +the further end of the room came the bandy-legged man with the bow of +crimson ribbon in his ear. + +Nick turned a little pale; and when the fellow saw him sitting there, he +came up hastily, with a look like a crock of sour milk. “Tut, tut! +ma’m’selle,” said he; “Master Carew will not like this.” + +She turned upon him with an air of dainty scorn. “Since when hath father +left his wits to thee, Gregory Goole? I know his likes as well as +thou—and it likes him not to let this poor boy starve, I’ll warrant. +Go, fetch the pasty and the cake that are in the buttery, with a glass +of cordial,—the Certosa cordial,—and that in the shaking of a black +sheep’s tail, or I will tell my father what thou wottest of.” And she +looked the very picture of diminutive severity. + +“Very good, ma’m’selle; just as ye say,” said Gregory, fawning, with +very poor grace, however. “But, knave,” he snarled, as he turned away, +with a black scowl at Nick, “if thou dost venture on any of thy scurvy +pranks while I be gone, I’ll break thy pate.” + +Cicely Carew knitted her brows. “That is a saucy rogue,” said she; “but +he hath served my father well. And, what is much in London town, he is +an honest man withal, though I have caught him at the Spanish wine +behind my father’s back; so he doth butter his tongue with smooth words +when he hath speech with me, for I am the lady of the house.” She held +up her head with a very pretty pride. “My mother—” + +Nick caught his breath, and his eyes filled. + +“Nay, boy,” said she, gently; “’tis I should weep, not thou; for _my_ +mother is dead. I do not think I ever saw her that I know,” she went on +musingly; “but she was a Frenchwoman who served a murdered queen, and +she was the loveliest woman that ever lived.” Cicely clasped her hands +and moved her lips. Nick saw that she was praying, and bent his head. + +“Thou art a good boy,” she said softly; “my father will like that”; and +then went quietly on: “That is why Gregory Goole doth call me +‘ma’m’selle’—because my mother was a Frenchwoman. But I am a right +English girl for all that; and when they shout, ‘God save the Queen!’ at +the play, why, I do too! And, oh, boy,” she cried, “it is a brave thing +to hear!” and she clapped her hands with sparkling eyes. “It drove the +Spaniards off the sea, my father ofttimes saith.” + +“Poh!” said Nick, stoutly, for he saw the pasty coming in, “they can na +beat us Englishmen!” and with that fell upon the pasty as if it were the +Spanish Armada in one lump and he Sir Francis Drake set on to do the +job alone. + +As he ate his spirits rose again, and he almost forgot that he was +stolen from his home, and grew eager to be seeing the wonders of the +great town whose ceaseless roar came over the housetops like a distant +storm. He was still somewhat in awe of this beautiful, flower-like +little maid, and listened in shy silence to the wonderful tales she +told: how that she had seen the Queen, who had red hair, and pearls like +gooseberries on her cloak; and how the court went down to Greenwich. But +the bandy-legged man kept popping his head in at the door, and, after +all, Nick was but in a prison-house; so he grew quite dismal after +a while. + +“Dost truly think thy father will leave me go?” he asked. + +“Of course he will,” said she. “I cannot see why thou dost hate him so?” + +“Why, truly,” hesitated Nick, “perhaps it is not thy father that I hate, +but only that he will na leave me go. And if he would but leave me go, +perhaps I’d love him very much indeed.” + +“Good, Nick! thou art a trump!” cried Master Carew’s voice suddenly from +the further end of the hall, where in spite of all the candles it was +dark; and, coming forward, the master-player held out his hands in a +most genial way. “Come, lad, thy hand—’tis spoken like a gentleman. +Nay, I will kiss thee—for I love thee, Nick, upon my word, and on the +remnant of mine honour!” Taking the boy’s half-unwilling hands in his +own, he stooped and kissed him upon the forehead. + +“Father,” said Cicely, gravely, “hast thou forgotten me?” + +“Nay, sweetheart, nay,” cried Carew, with a wonderful laugh that somehow +warmed the cockles of Nick’s forlorn heart; and turning quickly, the +master-player caught up the little maid and kissed her again and again, +so tenderly that Nick was amazed to see how one so cruel could be so +kind, and how so good a little maid could love so bad a man; for she +twined her arms about his neck, and then lay back with her head upon his +shoulder, purring like a kitten in his arms. + +“Father,” said she, patting his cheek, “some one hath told him naughty +things of thee. Come, daddy, say they are not so!” + +The master-player’s face turned red as flame. He coughed and looked up +among the roof-beams. “Why, of course they’re not,” said he, uneasily. + +“There, boy!” cried she; “I told thee so. Why, daddy, think!—they said +that thou hadst stolen him away from his own mother, and wouldst not +leave him go!” + +“Hollo!” ejaculated the master-player, abruptly, with a quiver in his +voice; “what a hole thou hast made in the pasty, Nick!” + +“Ah, daddy,” persisted Cicely, “and what a hole it would make in his +mother’s heart if he had been stolen away!” + +“Wouldst like another draught of cordial, Nick?” cried Carew, hurriedly, +reaching out for the tall flagon with a trembling hand. “’Tis good to +cheer the troubled heart, lad. Not that thou hast any reason in the +world to let thy heart be troubled,” he added hastily. “No, indeed, upon +my word; for thou art on the doorstep of a golden-lined success. See, +Nick, how the light shines through!” and he tilted up the flagon. “It is +one of old Jake Vessaline’s Murano-Venetian glasses; a beautiful thing, +now, is it not? ’Tis good as any made abroad!” but his hand was shaking +so that half the cordial missed the cup and ran into a little shimmering +pool upon the table-top. + +“And thou’lt send him home again, daddy, wilt thou not?” + +“Yes, yes, of course—why, to be sure—we’ll send him anywhere that thou +dost say, Golden-heart: to Persia or Cathay—ay, to the far side of the +green-cheese moon, or to the court of Tamburlaine the Great,” and he +laughed a quick, dry, nervous laugh that had no laughter in it. “I had +one of De Lannoy’s red Bohemian bottles, Nick,” he rattled on +feverishly; “but that butter-fingered rogue”—he nodded his head at the +outer stair—“dropped it, smash! and made a thousand most counterfeit +fourpences out of what cost me two pound sterling.” + +“But will ye truly leave me go, sir?” faltered Nick. + +“Why, of course—to be sure—yes, certainly—yes, yes. But, Nick, it is +too late this night. Why, come, thou couldst not go to-night. See, ’tis +dark, and thou a stranger in the town. ’Tis far to Stratford town—thou +couldst not walk it, lad; there will be carriers anon. Come, stay awhile +with Cicely and me—we will make thee a right welcome guest!” + +“That we will,” cried Cicely, clapping her hands. “Oh, do stay; I am so +lonely here! The maid is silly, Margot old, and the rats run in +the wall.” + +“And thou must to the theater, my lad, and sing for London town—ay, +Nicholas,” and Carew’s voice rang proudly. “The highest heads in London +town must hear that voice of thine, or I shall die unshrift. What! +lad?—come all the way from Coventry, and never show that face of thine, +nor let them hear thy skylark’s song? Why, ’twere a shame! And, Nick, my +lord the Admiral shall hear thee sing when he comes home again; +perchance the Queen herself. Why, Nick, of course thou’lt sing. Thou +hast not heart to say thou wilt not sing—even for me whom thou hatest.” + +Nick smiled in spite of himself, for Cicely was leaning on the arm of +his chair, devouring him with her great dark eyes: “Dost truly, truly +sing?” she asked. + +Nick laughed and blushed, and Carew laughed. “What, doth he sing? Why, +Nick, come, tune that skylark note of thine for little Golden-heart and +me. ’Twill make her think she hears the birds in verity—and, Nick, the +lass hath never seen a bird that sang, except within a cage. Nay, lad, +this is no cage!” he cried, as Nick looked about and sighed. “We will +make it very home for thee—will Cicely and I.” + +“That we will!” cried Cicely. “Come, boy, sing for me—my mother used to +sing.” + +At that Gaston Carew went white as a sheet, and put his hand quickly up +to his face. Cicely darted to his side with a frightened cry, and caught +his hand away. He tried to smile, but it was a ghastly attempt. “Tush, +tush! little one; ’twas something stung me!” said he, huskily, “Sing, +Nicholas, I beg of thee!” + +There was such a sudden world of weariness and sorrow in his voice that +Nick felt a pity for he knew not what, and lifting up his clear young +voice, he sang the quaint old madrigal. + +Carew sat with his face in his hand, and after it was done arose +unsteadily and said, “Come, Golden-heart; ’tis music such as charmeth +care and lureth sleep out of her dark valley—we must be trotting off +to bed.” + +That night Nick slept upon a better bed, with a sheet and a blue serge +coverlet, and a pillow stuffed with chaff. + +But as he drifted off into a troubled dreamland, he heard the door-bolt +throb into its socket, and knew that he was fastened in. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + + +CAREW’S OFFER + +Next morning Carew donned his plum-colored cloak, and with Nick’s hand +held tightly in his own went out of the door and down the steps into a +drifting fog which filled the street, the bandy-legged man with the +ribbon in his ear following close upon their heels. + +People passed them like shadows in the mist, and all the houses were a +blur until they came into a wide, open place where the wind blew free +above a wall with many great gates. + +In the middle of this open place a huge gray building stood, staring out +over the housetops—a great cathedral, wonderful and old. Its walls were +dark with time and smoke and damp, and the lofty tower that rose above +it was in part but a hollow shell split by lightning and blackened by +fire. But crowded between its massive buttresses were booths and +chapmen’s stalls; against its hoary side a small church leaned like a +child against a mother’s breast; and in and round about it eddied a +throng of men like ants upon a busy hill. + +All around the outer square were shops with gilded fronts and most +amazing signs: golden angels with outstretched wings, tiger heads, +bears, brazen serpents, and silver cranes; and in and out of the +shop-doors darted apprentices with new-bound books and fresh-printed +slips; for this was old St. Paul’s, the meeting-place of London town, +and in Paul’s Yard the printers and the bookmen dealt. + +With a deal of elbowing the master-player came up the broad steps into +the cathedral, and down the aisle to the pillars where the +merchant-tailors stood with table-books in hand, and there ordered a +brand-new suit of clothes for Nick of old Roger Shearman, the best +cloth-cutter in Threadneedle street. + +While they were deep in silk and silver thread, Haerlem linen, and +Leyden camelot, Nick stared about him half aghast; for it was to him +little less than monstrous to see a church so thronged with merchants +plying their trades as if the place were no more sacred than a booth in +the public square. + +The long nave of the cathedral was crowded with mercers from Cheapside, +drapers from Throgmorton street, stationers from Ludgate Hill, and +goldsmiths from Foster lane, hats on, loud-voiced, and using the very +font itself for a counter. By the columns beyond, sly, foxy-faced +lawyers hobnobbed; and on long benches by the wall, cast-off +serving-men, varlets, grooms, pastry-bakers, and pages sat, waiting to +be hired by some new master. Besides these who came on business there +was a host of gallants in gold-laced silk and velvet promenading up and +down the aisle, with no business there at all but to show their faces +and their clothes. And all about were solemn shrines and monuments and +tombs, and overhead a splendid window burned like a wheel of fire in the +eastern wall. + +While Nick stared, speechless, a party of the Admiral’s placers came +strolling by, their heads half hidden in their huge starched ruffs, and +with prodigious swords that would have dragged along the ground had they +not been cocked up behind so fiercely in the air. Seeing Master Carew +and the boy, they stopped in passing to greet them gaily. + +Master Heywood was there, and bowed to Nick with a kindly smile. His +companion was a handsome, proud-mouthed man with a blue, smooth-shaven +face and a jet-black periwig. Him Carew drew aside and spoke with in an +earnest undertone. As he talked, the other began to stare at Nick as if +he were some curious thing in a cage. + +“Upon my soul,” said Carew, “ye never heard the like of it. He hath a +voice as sweet and clear as if Puck had burst a honey-bag in +his throat.” + +“No doubt,” replied the other, carelessly; “and all the birds will hide +their heads when he begins to sing. But we don’t want him, Carew—not if +he had a voice like Miriam the Jew. Henslowe has just bought little Jem +Bristow of Will Augusten for eight pound sterling, and business is too +bad to warrant any more.” + +“Who spoke of selling?” said Carew, sharply. “Don’t flatter your chances +so, Master Alleyn. I wouldn’t sell the boy for a world full of Jem +Bristows. Why, his mouth is a mint where common words are coined into +gold! Sell him? I think I see myself in Bedlam for a fool! Nay, Master +Alleyn, what I am coming at is this: I’ll place him at the Rose, to do +his turn in the play with the rest of us, or out of it alone, as ye +choose, for one fourth of the whole receipts over and above my old share +in the venture. Do ye take me?” + +“Take you? One fourth the whole receipts! Zounds! man, do ye think we +have a spigot in El Dorado?” + +“Tush! Master Alleyn, don’t make a poor mouth; you’re none so needy. You +and Henslowe have made a heap of money out of us all.” + +“And what of that? Yesterday’s butter won’t smooth to-day’s bread. ’Tis +absurd of you, Carew, to ask one fourth and leave all the risk on us, +with the outlook as it is! Here’s that fellow Langley has built a new +play-house in Paris Garden, nearer to the landing than we are, and is +stealing our business most scurvily!” + +Carew shrugged his shoulders. + +“And what’s more, the very comedy for which Ben Jonson left us, because +we would not put it on, has been taken up by the Burbages on Will +Shakspere’s say-so, and is running famously at the Curtain.” + +“I told you so, Master Alleyn, when the fellow was fresh from the +Netherlands,” said Carew; “but your ears were plugged with your own +conceit. Young Jonson is no flatfish, if he did lay brick; he’s a plum +worth anybody’s picking.” + +“But, plague take it, Carew, those Burbages have all the plums! Since +they weaned Will Shakspere from us everything has gone wrong. Kemp has +left us; old John Lowin, too; and now the Lord Mayor and Privy Council +have soured on the play again and forbidden all playing on the Bankside, +outside the City or no.” + +Carew whistled softly to himself. + +“And since my Lord Chamberlain has been patron of the Burbages he will +not so much as turn a hand to revive the old game of bull- and +bear-baiting, and Phil and I have kept the Queen’s bulldogs going on a +twelvemonth now at our own expense—a pretty canker on our profits! Why, +Carew, as Will Shakspere used to say, ‘One woe doth tread the other’s +heels, so fast they follow!’ And what’s to do?” + +“What’s to do?” said Carew. “Why, I’ve told ye what’s to do. Ye’ve heard +Will say, ‘There is a tide leads on to fortune if ye take it at the +flood’? Well, Master Alleyn, here’s the tide, and at the flood. I have +offered you an argosy. Will ye sail or stick in the mud? Ye’ll never +have such a chance again. Come, one fourth over my old share, and I will +fill your purse so full of gold that it will gape like a stuffed toad. +His is the sweetest skylark voice that ever sugared ears!” + +“But, man, man, one fourth!” + +“Better one fourth than lose it all,” said Carew. “But, pshaw! Master +Ned Alleyn, I’ll not beg a man to swim that’s bent on drowning! We will +be at the play-house this afternoon; mayhap thou’lt have thought better +of it by then.” With a curt bow he was off through the crowd, Nick’s +hand in his own clenched very tight. + +They had hard work getting down the steps, for two hot-headed gallants +were quarreling there as to who should come up first, and there was a +great press. But Carew scowled and showed his teeth, and clenched his +poniard-hilt so fiercely that the commoners fell away and let them down. + +Nick’s eyes were hungry for the printers’ stalls where ballad-sheets +were sold for a penny, and where the books were piled along the shelves +until he wondered if all London were turned printer. He looked about to +see if he might chance upon Diccon Field; but Carew came so quickly +through the crowd that Nick had not time to recognize Diccon if he had +been there. Diccon had often made Nick whistles from the pollard willows +along the Avon below the tannery when Nick was a toddler in smocks, and +the lad thought he would like to see him before going back to Stratford. +Then, too, his mother had always liked Diccon Field, and would be glad +to hear from him. At thought of his mother he gave a happy little skip; +and as they turned into Paternoster Bow, “Master Carew,” said he, “how +soon shall I go home?” + +Carew walked a little faster. + +There had arisen a sound of shouting and a trampling of feet. The +constables had taken a purse-cutting thief, and were coming up to the +Newgate prison with a great rabble behind them. The fellow’s head was +broken, and his haggard face was all screwed up with pain; but that +did not stop the boys from hooting at him, and asking in mockery how he +thought he would like to be hanged and to dance on nothing at +Tyburn Hill. + +[Illustration: “DICCON HAD OFTEN MADE NICK WHISTLES FROM THE WILLOWS +ALONG THE AVON WHEN NICK WAS A TODDLER.”] + +“Did ye hear me, Master Carew?” asked Nick. + +The master-player stepped aside a moment into a doorway to let the mob +go by, and then strode on. + +Nick tried again: “I pray thee, sir—” + +“Do not pray me,” said Carew, sharply; “I am no Indian idol.” + +“But, good Master Carew—” + +“Nor call me good—I am not good.” + +“But, Master Carew,” faltered Nick, with a sinking sensation around his +heart, “when will ye leave me go home?” + +The master-player did not reply, but strode on rapidly, gnawing his +mustache. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + + +MASTER HEYWOOD PROTESTS + +It was a cold, raw day. All morning long the sun had shone through the +choking fog as the candle-flame through the dingy yellow horn of an old +stable-lantern. But at noon a wind sprang up that drove the mist through +London streets in streaks and strings mixed with smoke and the reek of +steaming roofs. Now and then the blue gleamed through in ragged patches +overhead; so that all the town turned out on pleasure bent, not minding +if it rained stewed turnips, so they saw the sky. + +But the fog still sifted through the streets, and all was damp and +sticky to the touch, so Cicely was left behind to loneliness and +disappointment. + +Nick and the master-player came down Ludgate Hill to Blackfriars landing +in a stream of merrymakers, high and low, rich and poor, faring forth to +London’s greatest thoroughfare, the Thames; and as the river and the +noble mansions along the Strand came into view, Nick’s heart beat fast. +It was a sight to stir the pulse. + +Far down the stream, the grim old Tower loomed above the drifting mist; +and, higher up, old London Bridge, lined with tall houses, stretched +from shore to shore. There were towers on it with domes and gilded +vanes, and the river foamed and roared under it, strangled by the piers. +From the dock at St. Mary Averies by the Bridge to Barge-house stairs, +the landing-stages all along the river-bank were thronged with boats; +and to and fro across the stream, wherries, punts, barges, and +water-craft of every kind were plying busily. In middle stream +sail-boats tugged along with creaking sweeps, or brown-sailed +trading-vessels slipped away to sea, with costly freight for Muscovy, +Turkey, and the Levant. And amid the countless water-craft a multitude +of stately swans swept here and there like snow-flakes on the +dusky river. + +Nick sniffed at the air, for it was full of strange odors—the smell of +breweries, of pitchy oakum, Norway tar, spices from hot countries, +resinous woods, and chilly whiffs from the water; and as they came out +along the wharf, there were brown-faced, hard-eyed sailors there, who +had been to the New World—wild fellows with silver rings in their ears +and a swaggering stagger in their petticoated legs. Some of them held +short, crooked brown tubes between their lips, and puffed great clouds +of pale brown smoke from their noses in a most amazing way. + +Broad-beamed Dutchmen, too, were there, and swarthy Spanish renegades, +with sturdy craftsmen of the City guilds and stalwart yeomen of the +guard in the Queen’s rich livery. + +But ere Nick had fairly begun to stare, confused by such a rout, Carew +had hailed a wherry, and they were half-way over to the Southwark side. + +Landing amid a deafening din of watermen bawling hoarsely for a place +along the Paris Garden stairs, the master-player hurried up the lane +through the noisy crowd. Some were faring afoot into Surrey, and some to +green St. George’s Fields to buy fresh fruit and milk from the +farm-houses and to picnic on the grass. Some turned aside to the Falcon +Inn for a bit of cheese and ale, and others to the play-houses beyond +the trees and fishing-ponds. And coming down from the inn they met a +crowd of players, with Master Tom Heywood at their head, frolicking and +cantering along like so many overgrown school-boys. + +“So we are to have thee with us awhile?” said Heywood, and put his arm +around Nick’s shoulders as they trooped along. + +“Awhile, sir, yes,” replied Nick, nodding; “but I am going home soon, +Master Carew says.” + +“Carew,” said Heywood, suddenly turning, “how can ye have the heart?” + +“Come, Heywood,” quoth the master-player, curtly, though his whole face +colored up, “I have heard enough of this. Will ye please to mind your +own affairs?” + +The writer of comedies lifted his brows, “Very well,” he answered +quietly; “but, lad, this much for thee,” said he, turning to Nick, “if +ever thou dost need a friend, Tom Heywood’s one will never speak +thee false.” + +“Sir!” cried Carew, clapping his hand upon his poniard Heywood looked +up steadily. “How? Wilt thou quarrel with me, Carew? What ugly poison +hath been filtered through thy wits? Why, thou art even falser than I +thought! Quarrel with me, who took thy new-born child from her dying +mother’s arms when thou wert fast in Newgate gaol?” + +Carew’s angry face turned sickly gray. He made as if to speak, but no +sound came. He shut his eyes and pushed out his hand in the air as if to +stop the voice of the writer of comedies. + +“Come,” said Heywood, with deep feeling; “thou canst not quarrel with me +yet—nay, though thou dost try thy very worst. It would be a sorry story +for my soul or thine to tell to hers.” + +Carew groaned. The rest of the players had passed on, and the three +stood there alone. “Don’t, Tom, don’t!” he cried. + +“Then how can ye have the heart?” the other asked again. + +The master-player lifted up his head, and his lips were trembling. +“’Tis not the heart, Tom,” he cried bitterly, “upon my word, and on +the remnant of mine honour! ’Tis the head which doeth this. For, Tom, +I cannot leave him go. Why, Tom, hast thou not heard him sing? A voice +which would call back the very dead that we have loved if they might +only hear. Why, Tom, ’tis worth a thousand pound! How can I leave him +go?” + +“Oh, fie for shame upon the man I took thee for!” cried Heywood. + +“But, Tom,” cried Carew, brokenly, “look it straightly in the face; I +am no such player as I was,—this reckless life hath done the trick for +me, Tom,—and here is ruin staring Henslowe and Alleyn in the eye. They +cannot keep me master if their luck doth not change soon; and Burbage +would not have me as a gift. So, Tom, what is there left to do? How can +I shift without the boy? Nay, Tom, it will not serve. There’s +Cicely—not one penny laid by for her against a rainy day; and I’ll be +gone, Tom, I’ll be gone—it is not morning all day long—we cannot last +forever. Nay, I cannot leave him go!” + +“But, sir,” broke in Nick, wretchedly, holding fast to Hey wood’s arm, +“ye said that I should go!” + +“Said!” cried the master-player, with a bitter smile; “why, Nick, I’d +say ten times more in one little minute just to hear thee sing than I +would stand to in a month of Easters afterward. Come, Nick, be fair. +I’ll feed thee full and dress thee well and treat thee true—all for +that song of thine.” + +“But, sir, my mother—” + +“Why, Carew, hath the boy a mother, too?” cried the writer of comedies. + +“Now, Heywood, on thy soul, no more of this!” cried the master-player, +with quivering lips. “Ye will make me out no man, or else a fiend. I +cannot let the fellow go—I will not let him go.” His hands were +twitching, and his face was pale, but his lips were set determinedly. +“And, Tom, there’s that within me will not abide even _thy_ pestering. +So come, no more of it! Upon my soul, I sour over soon!” + +So they came on gloomily past the bear-houses and the Queen’s kennels. +The river-wind was full of the wild smell of the bears; but what were +bears to poor Nick, whose last faint hope that the master-player meant +to keep his word and send him home again was gone? + +They passed the Paris Garden and the tall round play-house that Francis +Langley had just built. A blood-red banner flaunted overhead, with a +large white swan painted thereon; but Nick saw neither the play-house +nor the swan; he saw only, deep in his heart, a little gable-roof among +old elms, with blue smoke curling softly up among the rippling leaves; +an open door with tall pink hollyhocks beside it; and in the door, +watching for him till he came again, his own mother’s face. He began to +cry silently. + +“Nay, Nick, my lad, don’t cry,” said Heywood, gently; “’twill only make +bad matters worse. _Never_ is a weary while; but the longest lane will +turn at last: some day thou’lt find thine home again all in the +twinkling of an eye. Why, Nick, ’tis England still, and thou an +Englishman. Come, give the world as good as it can send.” + +Nick raised his head again, and, throwing the hair back from his eyes, +walked stoutly along, though the tears still trickled down his cheeks. + +“Sing thou my songs,” said Heywood, heartily, “and I will be thy +friend—let this be thine earnest.” As he spoke he slipped upon the +boy’s finger a gold ring with a green stone in it cut with a tall tree: +this was his seal. + +They had now come through the garden to the Rose Theatre, where the Lord +Admiral’s company played; and Carew was himself again. “Come, +Nicholas,” said he, half jestingly, “be done with thy doleful +dumps—care killed a cat, they say, lad. Why, if thy hateful looks could +stab, I’d be a dead man forty times. Come, cheer up, lad, that I may +know thou lovest me.” + +“But I do na love thee!” cried Nick, indignantly. + +“Tut! Do not be so dour. Thou’lt soon be envied by ten thousand men. +Come, don’t make a face at thy good fortune as though it were a tripe +fried in tar. Come, lad, be pleased; thou’lt be the pet of every +high-born dame in London town.” + +“I’d rather be my mother’s boy,” Nick answered simply. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX + + +THE ROSE PLAY-HOUSE + +The play-house was an eight-sided, three-storied, tower-like building of +oak and plastered lath, upon a low foundation of yellow brick. Two +outside stairways ran around the wall, and the roof was of bright-red +English tiles with a blue lead gutter at the eaves. There was a little +turret, from the top of which a tall ash stave went up; and on the +stave, whenever there was to be a play, there floated a great white flag +on which was a crimson rose with a golden heart, just like the one that +Nick with such delight had seen come up the Oxford road a few short +days before. + +Under the stairway was a narrow door marked “For the Playeres Onelie”; +and in the doorway stood a shrewd-faced, common-looking man, writing +upon a tablet which he held in his hand. There was a case of quills at +his side, with one of which he was scratching busily, now and then +prodding the ink-horn at his girdle. He held his tongue in his cheek, +and moved his head about as the pen formed the letters: he was no +expert penman, this Phil Henslowe, the stager of plays. + +He looked up as they came to the step. + +“A poor trip, Carew,” said he, running his finger down the column of +figures he was adding. “The play was hardly worth the candle—cleared +but five pound; and then, after I had paid the carman three shilling fip +to bring the stuff down from the City, ’twas lost in the river from the +barge at Paul’s wharf! A good two pound.” + +“Hard luck!” said Carew. + +“Hard? Adamantine, I say! Why, ’tis very stones for luck, and the whole +road rocky! Here’s Burbage, Condell, and Will Shakspere ha’ rebuilt +Blackfriars play-house in famous shape; and, marry, where are we?” + +Nick started. An idea came creeping into his head. Will Shakspere had +married his mother’s own cousin, Anne Hathaway of Shottery; and he had +often heard his mother say that Master Shakspere had ever been her own +good friend when they were young. + +“He and Jonson be thick as thieves,” said Henslowe; “and Chettle says +that Will hath near done the book of a new play for the autumn—a master +fine thing!—‘Romulus and Juliana,’ or something of that Italian sort, +to follow Ben Jonson’s comedy. Ned Alleyn played a sweet fool about +Ben’s comedy. Called it monstrous bad; and now it has taken the money +out of our mouths to the tune of nine pound six the day—and here, while +ye were gone, I ha’ played my Lord of Pembroke’s men in your ‘Robin +Hood,’ Heywood, to scant twelve shilling in the house!” + +Heywood flushed. + +“Nay, Tom, don’t be nettled; ’tis not the fault of thy play. There’s +naught will serve. We’ve tried old Marlowe and Robin Greene, Peele, +Nash, and all the rest; but, what! they will not do—’tis Shakspere, +Shakspere; our City flat-caps will ha’ nothing but Shakspere!” + +Nick listened eagerly. Master Will Shakspere must indeed be somebody in +London town! He stared across into the drifting cloud of mist and smoke +which hid the city like a pall, and wondered how and where, in that +terrible hive of more than a hundred thousand men, he could find +one man. + +“I tell thee, Tom Heywood, there’s some magic in the fellow, or my +name’s not Henslowe!” cried the manager. “His very words bewitch one’s +wits as nothing else can do. Why, I’ve tried them with ‘Pierce +Penniless,’ ‘Groat’s Worth of Wit,’ ‘Friar Bacon,’ ‘Orlando,’ and the +‘Battle of Alcazar.’ Why, tush! they will not even listen! And here I’ve +put Martin Gosset into purple and gold, and Jemmy Donstall into a +peach-colored gown laid down with silver-gilt, for ‘Volteger’; and what? +Why, we play to empty stools; and the rascals owe me for those costumes +yet—sixty shillings full! A murrain on Burbage and Will Shakspere +too!—but I wish we had him back again. We’d make their old Blackfriars +sick!” He shook his fist at a great gray pile of buildings that rose +above the rest out of the fog by the landing-place beyond the river. + +Nick stared. _That_ the play-house of Master Shakspere and the Burbages? +Will Shakspere playing there, just across the river? Oh, if Nick could +only find him, he would not let the son of his wife’s own cousin be +stolen away! + +Nick looked around quickly. + +The play-house stood a bowshot from the river, in the open fields. There +was a moated manor-house near by, and beyond it a little stream with +some men fishing. Between the play-house and the Thames were gardens and +trees, and a thin fringe of buildings along the bank by the landings. It +was not far, and there were places where one could get a boat every +fifty yards or so at the Bankside. + +But—“Come in, come in,” said Henslowe. “Growling never fed a dog; and +we must be doing.” + +“Go ahead, Nick,” said Carew, pushing him by the shoulder, and they all +went in. The door opened on a flight of stairs leading to the lowest +gallery at the right of the stage, where the orchestra sat. A man was +tuning up a viol as they came in. + +“I want you to hear this boy sing,” said Carew to Henslowe. “’Tis the +best thing ye ever lent ear to.” + +“Oh, this is the boy?” said the manager, staring at Nick. “Why, Alleyn +told me he was a country gawk!” + +“He lied, then,” said Carew, very shortly. “’Twas cheaper than the +truth at my price. There, Nick, go look about the place—we have +business.” + +Nick went slowly along the gallery. His hands were beginning to tremble +as he put them out touching the stools. Along the rail were ornamental +columns which supported the upper galleries and looked like beautiful +blue-veined white marble; but when he took hold of them to steady +himself he found they were only painted wood. + +There were two galleries above. They ran all around the inside of the +building, like the porches of the inn at Coventry, and he could see them +across the house. There were no windows in the gallery where he was, but +there were some in the second one. They looked high. He went on around +the gallery until he came to some steps going down into the open space +in the center of the building. The stage was already set up on the +trestles, and the carpenters were putting a shelter-roof over it on +copper-gilt pillars; for it was beginning to drizzle, and the middle of +the play-house was open to the sky. + +The spectators were already coming into the pit at a penny apiece, +although the play would not begin until early evening. Those for the +galleries paid another penny to a man in a red cloak at the foot of the +stairs where Nick was standing. There was a great uproar at the +entrance. Some apprentices had caught a cutpurse in the crowd, and were +beating him unmercifully. Every one pushed and shoved about, cursing the +thief, and those near enough kicked and struck him. + +Nick looked back. Carew and the manager had gone into the tiring-room +behind the stage. He took hold of the side-rail and started down the +steps. The man in the red cloak looked up. “Go back there,” said he, +sharply; “there’s enough down here now.” Nick went on around +the gallery. + +At the back of the stage were two doors for the players, and between +them hung a painted cloth or arras behind which the prompter stood. Over +these doors were two plastered rooms, twopenny private boxes for +gentlefolk. In one of them were three young men and a beautiful girl, +wonderfully dressed. The men were speaking to her, but she looked down +at Nick instead. “What a pretty boy!” she said, and tossed him a flower +that one of the men had just given her. It fell at Nick’s feet. He +started back, looking up. The girl smiled, so he took off his cap and +bowed; but the men looked sour. + +At the side of the stage was a screen with long leather fire-buckets and +a pole-ax hanging upon it, and behind it was a door through which Nick +saw the river and the gray walls of the old Dominican friary. As he came +down to it, some one thrust out a staff and barred the way. It was the +bandy-legged man with the ribbon in his ear, Nick looked out longingly; +it seemed so near! + +“Master Carew saith thou art not to stir outside—dost hear?” said the +bandy-legged man. + +“Ay,” said Nick, and turned back. + +There was a narrow stairway leading to the second gallery. He went up +softly. There was no one in the gallery, and there was a window on the +side next to the river; he had seen it from below. He went toward it +slowly that he might not arouse suspicion. It was above his head. + +[Illustration: “NICK PUT ONE LEG OVER THE SILL AND LOOKED BACK.”] + +There were stools for hire standing near. He brought one and set it +under the window. It stood unevenly upon the floor, and made a wabbling +noise. He was afraid some one would hear him; but the apprentices in +the pit were rattling dice, and two or three gentlemen’s pages were +wrangling for the best places on the platform; while, to add to the +general riot, two young gallants had brought gamecocks and were fighting +them in one corner, amid such a whooping and swashing that one could +hardly have heard the skies fall. + +A printer’s man was bawling, “Will ye buy a new book?” and the +fruit-sellers, too, were raising such a cry of “Apples, cherries, cakes, +and ale!” that the little noise Nick might make would be lost in the +wild confusion. + +Master Carew and the manager had not come out of the tiring-room. Nick +got up on the stool and looked out. It was not very far to the +ground—not so far as from the top of the big haycock in Master John +Combe’s field from which he had often jumped. + +The sill was just breast-high when he stood upon the stool. Putting his +hands upon it, he gave a little spring, and balanced on his arms a +moment. Then he put one leg over the window-sill and looked back. No one +was paying the slightest attention to him. Over all the noise he could +hear the man tuning the viol. Swinging himself out slowly and silently, +with his toes against the wall to steady him, he hung down as far as he +could, gave a little push away from the house with his feet, caught a +quick breath, and dropped. + + + + +CHAPTER XX + + +DISAPPOINTMENT + +Nick landed upon a pile of soft earth. It broke away under his feet and +threw him forward upon his hands and knees. He got up, a little shaken +but unhurt, and stood close to the wall, looking all about quickly. A +party of gaily dressed gallants were haggling with the horse-boys at the +sheds; but they did not even look at him. A passing carter stared up at +the window, measuring the distance with his eye, whistled incredulously, +and trudged on. + +Nick listened a moment, but heard only the clamor of voices inside, and +the zoon, zoon, zoon of the viol. He was trembling all over, and his +heart was beating like a trip-hammer. He wanted to run, but was fearful +of exciting suspicion. Heading straight for the river, he walked as fast +as he could through the gardens and the trees, brushing the dirt from +his hose as he went. + +There was a wherry just pushing out from Old Marigold stairs with a +single passenger, a gardener with a basket of truck. + +“Holloa!” cried Nick, hurrying down; “will ye take me across?” + +“For thrippence,” said the boatman, hauling the wherry alongside again +with his hook. + +Thrippence? Nick stopped, dismayed. Master Carew had his gold +rose-noble, and he had not thought of the fare. They would soon find +that he was gone. + +“Oh, I must be across, sir!” he cried. “Can ye na take me free? I be +little and not heavy; and I will help the gentleman with his basket.” + +The boatman’s only reply was to drop his hook and push off with the oar. + +But the gardener, touched by the boy’s pitiful expression, to say +nothing of being tickled by Nick’s calling him gentleman, spoke up: +“Here, jack-sculler,” said he; “I’ll toss up wi’ thee for it.” He pulled +a groat from his pocket and began spinning it in the air. “Come, thou +lookest a gamesome fellow—cross he goes, pile he stays; best two in +three flips—what sayst?” + +“Done!” said the waterman. “Pop her up!” + +Up went the groat. + +Nick held his breath. + +“Pile it is,” said the gardener. “One for thee—and up she goes again!” +The groat twirled in the air and came down _clink_ upon the thwart. + +“Aha!” cried the boatman, “’tis mine, or I’m a horse!” + +“Nay, jack-sculler,” laughed the gardener; “cross it is! Ka me, ka thee, +my pretty groat—I never lose with this groat.” + +“Oh, sir, do be brisk!” begged Nick, fearing every instant to see the +master-player and the bandy-legged man come running down the bank. + +“More haste, worse speed,” said the gardener; “only evil weeds grow +fast!” and he rubbed the groat on his jerkin. “Now, jack-sculler, hold +thy breath; for up she goes again!” + +A man came running over the rise. Nick gave a little frightened cry. It +was only a huckster’s knave with a roll of fresh butter. The groat came +down with a splash in the bottom of the wherry. The boatman picked it up +out of the water and wiped it with his sleeve. “Here, boy, get aboard,” +said he, shoving off; “and be lively about it!” + +The huckster’s knave came running down the landing. He pushed Nick +aside, and scrambled into the wherry, puffing for breath. The boat fell +off into the current. Nick, making a plunge for it into the water, just +managed to catch the gunwale and get aboard, wet to the knees. But he +did not care for that; for although there were people going up Paris +Garden lane, and a crowd about the entrance of the Rose, he could not +see Master Carew or the bandy-legged man anywhere. So he breathed a +little freer, yet kept his eyes fast upon the play-house until the +wherry bumped against Blackfriars stairs. + +Picking up the basket of truck, he sprang ashore, and, dropping it upon +the landing, took to his heels up the bank, without stopping to thank +either gardener or boatman. + +The gray walls of the old friary were just ahead, scarcely a stone’s +throw from the river. With heart beating high, he ran along the close, +looking eagerly for the entrance. He came to a wicket-gate that was +standing half ajar, and went through it into the old cloisters. + +Everything there was still. He was glad of that, for the noise and the +rush of the crowd outside confused him. + +The place had once been a well-kept garden-plot, but now was become a +mere stack of odds and ends of boards and beams, shavings, mortar, and +broken brick. A long-legged fellow with a green patch over one eye was +building a pair of stairs to a door beside which a sign read: “Playeres +Here: None Elles.” + +Nick doffed his cap. “Good-day,” said he; “is Master Will Shakspere in?” + +The man put down his saw and sat back upon one of the trestles, staring +stupidly. “Didst za-ay zummat?” + +“I asked if Master Will Shakspere was in?” + +The fellow scratched his head with a bit of shaving. “Noa; Muster Wull +Zhacksper beant in.” + +Nick’s heart stopped with a thump. “Where is he—do ye know?” + +“A’s gone awa-ay,” drawled the workman, vaguely. + +“Away? Whither!” + +“A’s gone to Ztratvoard to-own, whur’s woife do li-ive—went +a-yesterday.” + +Nick sat blindly down upon the other trestle. He did not put his cap on +again: he had quite forgotten it. + +Master Will Shakspere gone to Stratford—and only the day before! + +Too late—just one little day too late! It seemed like cruel mockery. +Why, he might be almost home! The thought was more than he could bear: +who could be brave in the face of such a blow? The bitter tears ran +down his face again. + +“Here, here, odzookens, lad!” grinned the workman, stolidly, “thou’lt +vetch t’ river up if weeps zo ha-ard. Ztop un, ztop un; do now.” + +Nick sat staring at the ground. A beetle was trying to crawl over a +shaving. It was a curly shaving, and as fast as the beetle crept up to +the top the shaving rolled over, and dropped the beetle upon its back in +the dust; but it only got up and tried again. Nick looked up. + +“Is—is Master Richard Burbage here, then?” + +Perhaps Burbage, who had been a Stratford man, would help him. + +“Noa,” drawled the carpenter; “Muster Bubbage beant here; doan’t want +un, nuther—nuvver do moind a’s owen business—always jawin’ volks. A +beant here, an’ doan’t want un, nuther.” + +Nick’s heart went down. “And where is he?” + +“Who? Muster Bubbage? Whoy, a be-eth out to Zhoreditch, a-playin’ at t’ +theater.” + +“And where may Shoreditch be?” + +“Whur be Zhoreditch?” gaped the workman, vacantly. “Whoy—whoy, zummers +over there a bit yon, zure”; and he waved his hand about in a way that +pointed to nowhere at all. + +“When will he be back?” asked Nick, desperately. + +“Be ba-ack?” drawled the workman, slowly taking up his saw again; “back +whur?—here? Whoy, a wun’t pla-ay here no mo-ore avore next Martlemas.” + +Martinmas? That was almost mid-November. It was now but middle May. + +Nick got up and went out at the wicket-gate. He was beginning to feel +sick and a little faint. The rush in the street made him dizzy, and the +sullen roar that came down on the wind from the town, mingled with the +tramping of feet, the splash of oars, the bumping of boats along the +wharves, and the shouts and cries of a thousand voices, stupefied him. + +He was standing there motionless in the narrow way, as if dazed by a +heavy fall, when Gaston Carew came running up from the river-front, with +the bandy-legged man at his heels. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI + + +“THE CHILDREN OF PAUL’S” + +An old gray rat came out of its hole, ran swiftly across the floor, and, +sitting up, crouched there, peering at Nick. He thought its bare, scaly +tail was not a pleasant thing to see; yet he looked at it, with his +elbows on his knees, and his chin in his hands. + +He had been locked in for two days now. They had put in plenty of food, +and he had eaten it all; for if he starved to death he would certainly +never get home. + +It was quite warm, and the boards had been taken from the window, so +that there was plenty of light. The window faced the north, and in the +night, wakened by some outcry in the street below, Nick had leaned his +log-pillow against the wainscot, and, climbing up, looked out into the +sky. It was clear, for a wonder, and the stars were very bright. The +moon, like a smoky golden platter, rose behind the eastern towers of the +town, and in the north hung the Great Wain pointing at the polar star. + +Somewhere underneath those stars was Stratford. The throstles would be +singing in the orchard there now, when the sun was low and the cool +wind came up from the river with a little whispering in the lane. The +purple-gray doves, too, would be cooing softly in the elms over the +cottage gable. In fancy he heard the whistle of their wings as they +flew. But all the sound that came in over the roofs of London town was a +hollow murmur as from a kennel of surly hounds. + +“Nick!—oh, Nick!” + +Cicely Carew was calling at the door. The rat scurried off to its hole +in the wall. + +“What there, Nick! Art thou within?” Cicely called again; but Nick made +no reply. + +“Nick, _dear_ Nick, art crying?” + +“No,” said he; “I’m not.” + +There was a short silence. + +“Nick, I say, wilt thou be good if I open the door?” + +“No.” + +“Then I will open it anyway; thou durstn’t be bad to me!” + +The bolts thumped, and then the heavy door swung slowly back. + +“Why, where art thou?” + +He was sitting in the corner behind the door. + +“Here,” said he. + +She came in, but he did not look up. + +“Nick,” she asked earnestly, “why wilt thou be so bad, and try to run +away from my father?” + +“I hate thy father!” said he, and brought his fist down upon his knee. + +“Hate him? Oh, Nick! Why?” + +“If thou be asking whys,” said Nick, bitterly, “why did he steal me away +from my mother?” + +“Oh, surely, Nick, that cannot be true—no, no, it cannot be true. Thou +hast forgotten, or thou hast slept too hard and had bad dreams. My +father would not steal a pin. It was a nightmare. Doth thine head hurt +thee?” She came over and stroked his forehead with her cool hand. She +was a graceful child, and gentle in all her ways. “I am sorry thou dost +not feel well, Nick. But my father will come presently, and he will heal +thee soon. Don’t cry any more.” + +“I’m not crying,” said Nick, stoutly, though as he spoke a tear ran down +his cheek, and fell upon his hand. + +“Then it is the roof leaks,” she said, looking up as if she had not seen +his tear-blinded eyes. “But cheer up, Nick, and be a good boy—wilt thou +not? ’Tis dinner-time, and thy new clothes have come; and thou art to +come down now and try them on.” + +When Nick came out of the tiring-room and found the master-player come, +he knew not what to say or do. “Oh, brave, brave, brave!” cried Cicely, +and danced around him, clapping her hands. “Why, it is a very prince—a +king! Oh, Nick, thou art most beautiful to see!” + +And Master Carew’s own eyes sparkled; for truly it was a pleasant sight +to see a fair young lad like Nick in such attire. + +[Illustration: ““OH, NICK, THOU ART MOST BEAUTIFUL TO SEE!” CRIED CICELY.”] + +There was a fine white shirt of Holland linen, and long hose of grayish +blue, with puffed and slashed trunks of velvet so blue as to be almost +black. The sleeveless jerkin was of the same dark color, trellised with +roses embroidered in silk, and loose from breast to broad lace collar so +that the waistcoat of dull gold silk beneath it might show. A cloak of +damask with a silver clasp, a buff-leather belt with a chubby purse hung +to it by a chain, tan-colored slippers, and a jaunty velvet cap with a +short white plume, completed the array. Everything, too, had been laid +down with perfume, so that from head to foot he smelt as sweet and clean +as a drift of rose-mallows. + +“My soul!” cried Carew, stepping back and snapping his fingers with +delight. “Thou art the bravest skylark that ever broke a shell! Fine +feathers—fine bird—my soul, how ye do set each other off!” He took +Nick by the shoulders, twirled him around, and, standing off again, +stared at him like a man who has found two pound sterling in a +cast-off coat. + +“I can na pay for them, sir,” said Nick, slowly. + +“There’s nought to pay—it is a gift.” + +Nick hung his head, much troubled. What could he say; what could he +think? This man had stolen him from home,—ay, made him tremble for his +very life a dozen times,—and with his whole heart he knew he hated +him—yet here, a gift! + +“Yes, Nick, it is a gift—and all because I love thee, lad.” + +“Love me?” + +“Why, surely! Who could see thee without liking, or hear thy voice and +not love thee? Love thee, Nick? Why, on my word and honour, lad, I love +thee with all my heart.” + +“Thou hast chosen strange ways to show it, Master Carew,” said Nick, and +looked straight up into the master player’s eyes. + +Carew turned upon his heel and ordered the dinner. + +It was a good dinner: fat roast capon stuffed with spiced carrots; +asparagus, biscuit, barley-cakes, and honey; and to end with, a flaky +pie, and Spanish cordial sprinkled with burnt sugar. With such fare and +a keen appetite, a marvelous brand-new suit of clothes, and Cicely +chattering gaily by his side, Nick could not be sulky or doleful long. +He was soon laughing; and Carew’s spirits seemed to rise with the boy’s. + +“Here, here!” he cried, as Nick was served the third time to the pie; +“art hollow to thy very toes? Why, thou’lt eat us out of house and +home—hey, Cicely? Marry come up, I think I’d best take Ned Alleyn’s +five shillings for thine hire, after all! What! Five shillings? Set me +in earth and bowl me to death with boiled turnips!—do they think to +play bob-fool with me? Five shillings! A fico for their five +shillings—and this for them!” and he squeezed the end of his thumb +between his fingers. “Cicely, what dost think?—Phil Henslowe had the +face to match Jem Bristow with our Nick!” + +“Why, daddy, Jem hath a face like a halibut!” + +“And a voice like a husky crow. Why, Nick’s mere shadow on the stage is +worth a ton of Jemmy Bristows. ’Twas casting pearls before swine, Nick, +to offer thee to Henslowe and Alleyn; but we’ve found a better trough +than theirs—hey, Cicely Goldenheart, haven’t we? Thou art to be one of +Paul’s boys.” + +“Paul who?” + +Carew lay back in his chair and laughed. “Paul who? Why, Saint Paul, +Nick,—’tis Paul’s Cathedral boys I mean. Marry, what dost say to that?” + +“I’d like another barley-cake.” + +“You’d _what_?” cried the master-player, letting the front legs of his +chair come down on the floor with a thump. + +“I’d like another barley-cake,” said Nick, quietly, helping himself to +the honey. + +“Upon my word, and on the remnant of mine honour!” ejaculated Carew. +“Tell a man his fortune’s made, and he calls for barley-cakes! Why, +thou’dst say ‘Pooh!’ to a cannon-ball! My faith, boy, dost understand +what this doth mean?” + +“Ay,” said Nick; “that I be hungry.” + +“But, Nick, upon my soul, thou art to sing with the Children of Paul’s; +to play with the cathedral company; to be a bright particular star in +the sweetest galaxy that ever shone in English sky! Dost take me yet?” + +“Ay,” said Nick, and sopped the honey with his cake. + +Carew played with his glass uneasily, and tapped his heel upon the +floor. “And is that all thou hast to say—hast turned oyster? There’s no +R in May—nobody will eat thee! Come, don’t make a mouth as though the +honey of the world were all turned gall upon thy tongue. ’Tis the +flood-tide of thy fortune, boy! Thou art to sing before the school +to-morrow, so that Master Nathaniel Gyles may take thy range and worth. +Now, truly, thou wilt do thy very best?” + +The bandy-legged man had brought water in a ewer, and poured some in a +basin for Nick to wash his hands. There was a green ribbon in his ear, +and the towel hung across his arm. Nick wiped his hands in silence. + +“Come,” said Master Carew, with an ugly sharpness in his voice, “thou’lt +sing thy very best?” + +“There’s nothing else to do,” replied Nick, doggedly. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII + + +THE SKYLARK’S SONG + +Master Nathaniel Gyles, Precentor of St. Paul’s, had pipe-stem legs, and +a face like an old parchment put in a box to keep. His sandy hair was +thin and straggling, and his fine cloth hose wrinkled around his +shrunken shanks; but his eye was sharp, and he wore about his neck a +broad gold chain that marked him as no common man. + +For Master Nathaniel Gyles was head of the Cathedral schools of acting +and of music, and he stood upon his dignity. + +“My duty is laid down,” said he, “in most specific terms, sir,—_lex +cathedralis_,—that is to say, by the laws of the cathedral; and has +been, sir, since the reign of Richard the Third. _Primus Magister +Scholarum, Custos Morum, Quartus Custos Rotulorum_,—so the title +stands, sir; and I know my place.” + +He pushed Nick into the anteroom, and turned to Carew with an irritated +air. + +“I likewise know, sir, what is what. In plain words, Master Gaston +Carew, ye have grossly misrepresented this boy to me, to the waste of +much good time. Why, sir, he does not dance a step, and cannot act +at all.” + +“Soft, Master Gyles—be not so fast!” said Carew, haughtily, drawing +himself up, with his hand on his poniard; “dost mean to tell me that I +have lied to thee? Marry, sir, thy tongue will run thee into a blind +alley! I told thee that the boy could sing, but not that he could act +or dance.” + +“Pouf, sir,—words! I know my place: one peg below the dean, sir, +nothing less: ‘_Magister, et cetera’_—’tis so set down. And I tell +thee, sir, he has no training, not a bit; can’t tell a pricksong from a +bottle of hay; doesn’t know a canon from a crocodile, or a fugue from a +hole in the ground!” + +“Oh, fol-de-riddle de fol-de-rol! What has that to do with it? I tell +thee, sir, the boy can sing.” + +“And, sir, I say I know my place. Music does not grow like weeds.” + +“And fa-la-las don’t make a voice.” + +“What! How? Wilt thou teach me?” The master’s voice rose angrily. “Teach +me, who learned descant and counterpoint in the Gallo-Belgic schools, +sir; the best in all the world! Thou, who knowest not a staccato from a +stick of liquorice!” + +Carew shrugged his shoulders impatiently. “Come, Master Gyles, this is +fool play. I told thee that the boy could sing, and thou hast not yet +heard him try. Thou knowest right well I am no such simple gull as to +mistake a jay for a nightingale; and I tell thee, sir, upon my word, +and on the remnant of mine honour, he has the voice that thou dost need +if thou wouldst win the favor of the Queen. He has the voice, and thou +the thingumbobs to make the most of it. Don’t be a fool, now; hear him +sing. That’s all I ask. Just hear him once. Thou’lt pawn thine ears to +hear him twice.” + +The music-school stood within the old cathedral grounds. Through the +windows came up distantly the murmur of the throng in Paul’s Yard. It +was mid-afternoon, quite warm; blundering flies buzzed up and down the +lozenged panes, and through the dark hall crept the humming sound of +childish voices reciting eagerly, with now and then a sharp, small cry +as some one faltered in his lines and had his fingers rapped. Somewhere +else there were boyish voices running scales, now up, now down, without +a stop, and other voices singing harmonies, two parts and three +together, here and there a little flat from weariness. + +The stairs were very dark, Nick thought, as they went up to another +floor; but the long hall they came into there was quite bright with +the sun. + +At one end was a little stage, like the one at the Rose play-house, with +a small gallery for musicians above it; but everything here was painted +white and gold, and was most scrupulously clean. The rush-strewn floor +was filled with oaken benches, and there were paintings hanging upon the +wall, portraits of old head-masters and precentors. Some of them were so +dark with time that Nick wondered if they had been blackamoors. + +Master Gyles closed the great door and pulled a cord that hung by the +stage. A bell jangled faintly somewhere in the wall. Nick heard the +muffled voices hush, and then a shuffling tramp of slippered feet came +up the outer stair. + +“Pouf!” said the precentor, crustily. “_Tempus fugit_—that is to say, +we have no time to waste. So, marry, boy, _venite, exultemus_—in other +words, if thou canst sing, be up and at it. Come, _cantate_—sing, I bid +thee, and that instanter—if thou canst sing at all.” + +The under-masters and monitors were pushing the boys into their seats. +Carew pointed to the stage. “Thou’lt do thy level best!” he said in a +low, hard tone, and something clashed beneath his cloak like steel +on steel. + +Nick went up the steps behind the screen. It seemed cold in the room; he +had not noticed it before. Yet there were sweat-drops upon his forehead. +He felt as if he were a jackanapes he had seen once at the Stratford +fair, which wore a crimson jerkin and a cap. The man who had the +jackanapes played upon a pipe and a tabor; and when he said, “Dance!” +the jackanapes danced, for it was sorely afraid of the man. Yet when +Nick looked around and did not see the master-player anywhere in the +hall, he felt exceedingly lonely all at once without him, though he both +feared and hated him. + +There still was a shuffling of feet and a low talking; but soon it +became very quiet, and they all seemed to be waiting for him to begin. +He did not care, but supposed he might as well: what else could he do? + +There was a clock somewhere ticking quickly with its sharp, metallic +ring. As he listened, lonely, his heart cried out for home. In his +fancy the wind seemed rippling over the Avon, and the elm-leaves rustled +like rain upon the roof above his bed. There were red and white +wild-roses in the hedge, and in the air a smell of clover and of +new-mown hay. The mowers would be working in the clover in the +moonlight. He could almost see the sweep of the shining scythes, and +hear the chink-a-chank, chink-a-chank of the whetstone on the long, +curving blades. Chink-a-chank, chink-a-chank—’twas but the clock, and +he in London town. + +Carew, sitting there behind the carven prompter’s-screen, put down his +head between his hands and listened. There were murmurings a little +while, then silence. Would the boy never begin? He pressed his knuckles +into his temples and waited. Bow Bells rang out the hour; but the room +was as still as a deep sleep. Would the boy never begin? + +The precentor sniffed. It was a contemptuous, incredulous sniff. Carew +looked up—his lips white, a fierce red spot in each cheek. He was +talking to himself. “By the whistle of the Lord High Admiral!” he +said—but there he stopped and held his breath. Nick was singing. + +Only the old madrigal, with its half-forgotten words that other +generations sang before they fell asleep. How queer it sounded there! It +was a very simple tune, too; yet, as he sang, the old precentor started +from his chair and pressed his wrinkled hands together against his +breast. He quite forgot the sneer upon his face, and it went fading out +like breath from a frosty pane. + +He had twelve boys who could sing a hundred songs at sight from +unfamiliar notes; who kept the beat and marked the time as if their +throats were pendulums; could syncopate and floriate as readily as +breathe. And this was only a common country song. + +But—“That voice, that voice!” he panted to himself: for old Nat Gyles +was music-mad; melody to him was like the very breath of life. And the +boy’s high, young voice, soft as a flute and silver clear, throbbed in +the air as if his very heart were singing out of his body in the sound. +And then, like the skylark rising, up, up it went, and up, up, up, till +the older choristers held their breath and feared that the vibrant tone +would break, so slender, film-like was the trembling thread of the boy’s +wild skylark song. But no; it trembled there, high, sweet, and clear, a +moment in the air; and then came running, rippling, floating down, as +though some one had set a song on fire in the sky, and dropped it +quivering and bright into a shadow world. Then suddenly it was gone, and +the long hall was still. + +The old precentor stepped beyond the screen. + +Gaston Carew’s face was in his hands, and his shoulders shook +convulsively. “I’ll leave thee go, lad, _—ma foi_, I’ll leave thee go. +But, nay, I dare not leave thee go!” + +Some one came and tapped him on the shoulder. It was the sub-precentor. +“Master Gyles would speak with thee, sir,” said he, in a low tone, as if +half afraid of the sound of his own voice in the quiet that was in +the hall. + +Carew drew his hand hastily over his face, as if to take the old one off +and put a new one on, then arose and followed the man. + +[Illustration: “‘THAT VOICE, THAT VOICE,’ NAT GYLES PANTED TO +HIMSELF.”] + +The old precentor stood with his hands still clasped against his +breast. “_Mirabile_!” he was saying with bated breath. “It is +impossible, and I have dreamed! Yet _credo_—I believe—_quia +impossibile est_—because it is impossible. Tell me, Carew, do I wake or +dream—or, stay, was it a soul I heard? Ay, Carew, ’twas a soul: the +lad’s own white, young soul. My faith, I said he was of no account! +_Satis verborum_—say no more. _Humanum est errare_—I am a poor old +fool; and there’s a sour bug flown in mine eye that makes it water so!” +He wiped his eyes, for the tears were running down his cheeks. + +“Thou’lt take him, then?” asked Carew. + +“Take him?” cried the old precentor, catching the master-player by the +hand. “Marry, that will I; a voice like that grows not on every bush. +Take him? Pouf! I know my place—he shall be entered on the rolls +at once.” + +“Good!” said Carew. “I shall have him learn to dance, and teach him how +to act myself. He stays with me, ye understand; thy school fare is +miserly. I’ll dress him, too; for these students’ robes are shabby +stuff. But for the rest—” + +“Trust me,” said Master Gyles; “he shall be the first singer of them +all. He shall be taught—but who can teach the lark its song, and not do +horrid murder on it? Faith, Carew, I’ll teach the lad myself; ay, all I +know. I studied in the best schools in the world.” + +“And, hark ’e, Master Gyles,” said Carew, sternly all at once; “thou’lt +come no royal placard and seizure on me—ye have sworn. The boy is mine +to have and to hold with all that he earns, in spite of thy +prerogatives.” + +For the kings of old had given the masters of this school the right to +take for St. Paul’s choir whatever voices pleased them, wherever they +might be found, by force if not by favor, barring only the royal singers +at Windsor; and when men have such privileges it is best to be wary how +one puts temptation in their way. + +“Thou hadst mine oath before I even saw the boy,” said the precentor, +haughtily. “Dost think me perjured—_Primus Magister Scholarum, Custos +Morum, Quartus Custos Rotulorum?_ Pouf! I know my place. My oath’s my +oath. But, soft; enough—here comes the boy. Who could have told a +skylark in such popinjay attire?” + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + + +A NEW LIFE + +And now a strange, new life began for Nicholas Attwood, in some things +so grand and kind that he almost hated to dislike it. + +It was different in every way from the simple, pinching round in +Stratford, and full of all the comforts of richness and plenty that make +life happy—excepting home and mother. + +Master Gaston Carew would have nothing but the best, and what he wanted, +whether he needed it or not; so with him money came like a summer rain, +and went like water out of a sieve: for he was a wild blade. + +They ate their breakfast when they pleased; dined at eleven, like the +nobility; supped at five, as was the fashion of the court. They had +wheat-bread the whole week round, as only rich folk could afford, with +fruit and berries in their season, and honey from the Surrey bee-farms +that made one’s mouth water with the sight of it dripping from the flaky +comb; and on Fridays spitchcocked eels, pickled herrings, and plums, +with simnel-cakes, poached eggs and milk, cream cheese and cordial, +like very kings; so that Nick could not help thriving. + +The master-player very seldom left him by himself to mope or to be +melancholy; but, while ever vaguely promising to let him go, did +everything in his power to make him rather wish to stay; so that Nick +was constantly surprised by the free-handed kindness of this man whom he +had every other reason in the world, he thought, for deeming his +worst enemy. + +When there were any new curiosities in Fleet street,—wild men with +rings in their noses, wondrous fishes, puppet-shows, or red-capped +baboons whirling on a pole,—Carew would have Nick see them as well as +Cicely; and often took them both to Bartholomew’s Fair, where there was +a giant eating raw beef and a man dancing upon a rope high over the +heads of the people. He would have had Nick every Thursday to the +bear-baiting in the Paris Garden circus beside; but one sight of that +brutal sport made the boy so sick that they never went again, but to the +stage-plays at the Rose instead, which Nick enjoyed immensely, for Carew +himself acted most excellently, and Master Tom Heywood always came and +spoke kindly to the lonely boy. + +For, in spite of all, Nick’s heart ached so at times that he thought it +would surely break with longing for his mother. And at night, when all +the house was still and dark, and he alone in bed, all the little, +unconsidered things of home—the beehives and the fragrant mint beside +the kitchen door, the smell of the baking bread or frying carrots, the +sound of the red-cheeked harvest apples dropping in the orchard, and the +plump of the old bucket in the well—came back to him so vividly that +many a time he cried himself to sleep, and could not have forgotten +if he would. + +On Midsummer Day there was a Triumph on the river at Westminster, with a +sham-fight and a great shooting of guns and hurling of balls of +wild-fire. The Queen was there, and the ambassadors of France and +Venice, with the Duke of Lennox and the Earls of Arundel and +Southampton. Master Carew took a wherry to Whitehall, and from the green +there they watched the show. + +The Thames was fairly hidden by the boats, and there was a grand state +bark all trimmed with silk and velvet for the Queen to be in to see the +pastime. But as for that, all Nick could make out was the high carved +stern of the bark, painted with England’s golden lions, and the bark was +so far away that he could not even tell which was the Queen. + +Coming home by Somerset House, a large barge passed them with many +watermen rowing, and fine carpets about the seats; and in it the old +Lord Chamberlain and his son my Lord Hunsdon, who, it was said, was to +be the Lord Chamberlain when his father died; for the old lord was +failing, and the Queen liked handsome young men about her. + +In the barge, beside their followers, were a company of richly dressed +gentlemen, who were having a very gay time together, and seemed to +please the old Lord Chamberlain exceedingly with the things they said. +They were somebodies, as Nick could very well see from their carriage +and address; and, so far as the barge allowed, they were all clustered +about one fellow in the seat by my Lord Hunsdon. He seemed to be the +chiefest spokesman of them all, and every one appeared very glad indeed +to be friendly with him. My Lord Hunsdon himself made free with his own +nobility, and sat beside him arm in arm. + +What he was saying they were too far away to hear in the shouting and +splash; but those with him in the barge were listening as eagerly as +children to a merry tale. Sometimes they laughed until they held their +sides; and then again as suddenly they were very quiet, and played +softly with their tankards and did not look at one another as he went +gravely on telling his story. Then all at once he would wave his hand +gaily, and his smile would sparkle out; and the whole company, from the +old Lord Chamberlain down, would brighten up again, as if a new dawn had +come over the hills into their hearts from the light of his hazel eyes. + +Nick made no doubt that this was some young earl rolling in wealth; for +who else could have such listeners? Yet there was, nevertheless, +something so familiar in his look that he could not help staring at him +as the barge came thumping through the jam. + +They passed along an oar’s-length or two away; and as they came abeam, +Carew, rising, doffed his hat, and bowed politely to them all. + +In spite of his wild life, he was a striking, handsome man. + +The old Lord Chamberlain said something to his son, and pointed with his +hand. All the company in the barge turned round to look; and he who had +been talking stood up quickly with his hand upon the young lord’s arm, +and, smiling, waved his cap. + +Nick gave a sharp cry. + +Then the barge pushed through, and shot away down stream like a wild +swan. + +“Why, Nick,” exclaimed Cicely, “how dreadful thou dost look!” and, +frightened, she caught him by the hand. “Why, oh!—what is it, +Nick—thou art not ill?” + +“It was Will Shakspere!” cried Nick, and sank into the bottom of the +wherry with his head upon the master-player’s knee. “Oh, Master Carew,” +he cried, “will ye never leave me go?” + +Carew laid his hand upon the boy’s head, and patted it gently. + +“Why, Nick,” said he, and cleared his throat, “is not this better than +Stratford?” + +“Oh, Master Carew—mother’s there!” was the reply. + +There was no sound but the thud of oars in the rowlocks and the hollow +bubble of the water at the stern, for they had fallen out of the hurry +and were coming down alone. + +“Is thy mother a good woman, Nick?” asked Cicely. + +Carew was staring out into the fading sky. “Ay, sweetheart,” he answered +in a queer, husky voice, suddenly putting one arm about her and the +other around Nick’s shoulders. “None but a good mother could have so +good a son.” + +“Then thou wilt send him home, daddy?” asked Cicely. + +Carew took her hand in his, but answered nothing. + +They had come to the landing. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + + +THE MAKING OF A PLAYER + +Master Will Shakspere was in town! The thought ran through Nick +Attwood’s head like a half-remembered tune. Once or twice he had all but +sung it instead of the words of his part. Master Will Shakspere was +in town! + +Could he but just find Master Shakspere, all his trouble would be over; +for the husband of his mother’s own cousin would see justice done him in +spite of the master-player and the bandy-legged man with the ribbon in +his ear—of that he was sure. + +But there seemed small chance of its coming about; for the doors of +Gaston Carew’s house were locked and barred by day and by night, as much +to keep Nick in as to keep thieves out; and all day long, when Carew was +away, the servants went about the lower halls, and Gregory Goole’s +uncanny face peered after him from every shadowy corner; and when he +went with Carew anywhere, the master-player watched him like a hawk, +while always at his heels he could hear the clump, clump, clump of the +bandy-legged man following after him. + +Even were he free to go as he pleased, he knew not where to turn; for +the Lord Chamberlain’s company would not be at the Blackfriars +play-house until Martinmas; and before that time to look for even Master +Will Shakspere at random in London town would be worse than hunting for +a needle in a haystack. + +To be sure, he knew that the Lord Chamberlain’s men were still playing +at the theater in Shoreditch; for Master Carew had taken Cicely there to +see the “Two Gentlemen of Verona.” But just where Shoreditch was, Nick +had only the faintest idea—somewhere away off by Finsbury Fields, +beyond the city walls to the north of London town—and all the wide +world seemed north of London town; and the way thither lay through a +bewildering tangle of streets in which the din and the rush of the crowd +were never still. + +From a hopeless chase like that Nick shrank back like a snail into its +shell. He was not too young to know that there were worse things than to +be locked in Gaston Carew’s house. It were better to be a safe-kept +prisoner there than to be lost in the sinks of London. And so, knowing +this, he made the best of it. + +But Master Shakspere was come back to town, and that was something. It +seemed somehow less lonely just to think of it. + +Yet in truth he had but little time to think of it; for the +master-player kept him closely at his strange, new work, and taught him +daily with the most amazing patience. + +He had Nick learn no end of stage parts off by heart, with their cues +and “business,” entrances and exits; and worked fully as hard as his +pupil, reading over every sentence twenty times until Nick had the +accent perfectly. He would have him stamp, too, and turn about, and +gesture in accordance with the speech, until the boy’s arms ached, going +with him through the motions one by one, over and over again, +unsatisfied, but patient to the last, until Nick wondered. “Nick, my +lad,” he would often say, with a tired but determined smile, “one little +thing done wrong may spoil the finest play, as one bad apple rots the +barrelful. We’ll have it right, or not at all, if it takes a month +of Sundays.” + +So, often, he kept Nick before a mirror for an hour at a time, making +faces while he spoke his lines, smiling, frowning, or grimacing as best +seemed to fit the part, until the boy grew fairly weary of his own +looks. Then sometimes, more often as the time slipped by, Carew would +clap his hands with a boyish laugh, and have a pie brought and a cup of +Spanish cordial for them both, declaring that he loved the lad with all +his heart, upon the remnant of his honour: from which Nick knew that he +was coming on. + +Cicely Carew’s governess was a Mistress Agnes Anstey. By birth she had +been a Harcourt of Ankerwyke, and she was therefore everywhere esteemed +fit by birth and breeding to teach the young mind when to bow and when +to beckon. She came each morning to the house, and Carew paid her double +shillings to see to it that Nick learned such little tricks of cap and +cloak as a lady’s page need have, the carriage best fitted for his +place, and how to come into a room where great folks were. Moreover, how +to back out again, bowing, and not fall over the stools—which was no +little art, until Nick caught the knack of peeping slyly between his +legs when he bowed. + +His hair, too, was allowed to grow long, and was combed carefully every +day by the tiring-woman; and soon, as it was naturally curly, it fell in +rolling waves about his neck. + +On the heels of the governess came M’sieu de Fleury, who, it was said, +had been dancing-master to Hatton, the late Lord Chancellor of England, +and had taught him those tricks with his nimble heels which had capered +him into the Queen’s good graces, and so got him the chancellorship. +M’sieu spoke dreadful English, but danced like the essence of agility, +and taught both Nick and Cicely the latest Italian coranto, playing the +tune upon his queer little pochette. + +Cicely already danced like a pixy, and laughed merrily at her comrade’s +first awkward antics, until he flushed with embarrassment. At that she +instantly became grave, and, when M’sieu had gone, came across the room, +and putting her arm about Nick, said repentantly, “Don’t thou mind me, +Nick. Father saith the French all laugh too soon at nothing; and I have +caught it from my mother’s blood. A boy is not good friends with his +feet as a girl is; but thou wilt do beautifully, I know; and M’sieu +shall teach us the galliard together.” + +And often, after the lesson was over and M’sieu departed, she would +have Nick try his steps over and over again in the great room, while she +stood upon the stool to make her tall, and cried, “Sa—sa!” as the +master did, scolding and praising him by turns, or jumping down in +pretty impatience to tuck up her little silken skirts and show him the +step herself; while the cook’s knave and the scullery-maids peeped at +the door and cried: “La, now, look ’e, Moll!” at every coupee. + +It made a picture quaint and pretty to see them dancing there. The smoky +light, stealing in through the narrow casements over the woodwork dark +with age, dropped in little yellow chequers upon old chests of oak, of +walnut, and of strange, purple-black wood from foreign lands, giving a +weird life to the griffins and twisted traceries carved upon their +sides. High-backed, narrow chairs stood along the wall, with cushioned +stools inlaid with shell. Twinklings of light glinted from the brass +candlesticks. On the wall above the wainscot the faded hangings wavered +in the draught, crusted thickly with strange embroidered flowers. And +dancing there together in the semi-gloom, the children seemed quaint +little figures stepped down from the tapestry at the touch of a +magic wand. + +And so the time went slipping by, very pleasantly upon the whole, and +Nick’s young heart grew stout again within his breast; for he was strong +and well, and in those days the very air was full of hope, and no man +knew what might betide with the rising of to-morrow’s sun. + +Every day, from two till three o’clock, he was at Master Gyles’s +private singing-room at the old cathedral school, learning to read music +at first sight, and to sing offhand the second, third, and fourth parts +of queer intermingled fugues or wonderfully constructed canons. + +At first his head felt stuffed like a feasted glutton with all the +learning that the old precentor poured into it; but by and by he found +it plain enough, and no very difficult thing to follow up the prickings +in the paper with his voice, and to sing parts written at fifths and +fourths and thirds with other voices as easily as to carry a song alone. +But still he sang best his own unpointed songs, the call and challenge +of the throstle and the merle, the morning glory of the lark, songs that +were impossible to write. And those were the songs that the precentor +was at the greatest pains to have him sing in perfect tones, making him +open his mouth like a little round and let the music float out +of itself. + +Like the master-player, nothing short of perfection pleased old +Nathaniel Gyles, and Nick’s voice often wavered with sheer weariness as +he ran his endless scales and sang absurd fa-la-la-las while his teacher +beat the time in the air with his lean forefinger like a grim automaton. + +The old man, too, was chary of his praise, though Nick tried hard to +please him, and it was only by little things he told his satisfaction. +He touzed the ears of the other boys, and sometimes smartly thumped +their crowns; but with Nick he only nipped his ruddy cheek between his +thumb and finger, or laid his hand upon his shoulder when the hard day’s +work was done, saying, “_Satis cantorum_—it is enough. Now be off to +thy nest, sir; and do not forget to wash thy throat with good cold water +every day.” + + * * * * * + +All this time the busy sand kept running in the glass. July was gone, +and August at its heels. The hot breath of the summer had cooled, and +the sun no longer burned the face when it came in through the windows. +Nick often shut his eyes and let the warm light fall upon his closed +lids. It made a ruddy glow like the wild red poppies that grow in the +pale green rye. In fancy he could almost smell the queer, rancid odor of +the crimson bloom crushed beneath the feet of the farmers’ boys who cut +the butter-yellow mustard from among the bearded grain. + +“Heigh-ho and alackaday!” thought Nick. “It is better in the country +than in town!” For there was no smell in all the town like the clean, +sweet smell of the open fields just after a summer rain, no colors like +the bright heart’s-ease and none-so-pretty, or the honeysuckle over the +cottage door, and no song ever to be heard among the sooty chimney-pots +like the song of the throstle piping to the daisies on the hill. + +But he had little time to dream such dreams, for every day from four to +six o’clock the children’s company played and sang in public, at their +own school-hall, or in the courtyard of the Mitre Inn on Bread street +near St. Paul’s. + +They were the pets of London town, and their playing-place was thronged +day after day. For the bright young faces and sweet, unbroken voices of +the richly costumed lads made a spot in sordid London life like a pot of +posies in a window on a dark street; so that both the high and the low, +the rich and the poor, came in to see them play and dance, to hear them +sing, and to laugh again at the witty things which were written for +them to say. + +The songs that were set for Nick to sing were always short, sweet, +simple things that even the dull-eyed, toil-worn folk upon the rough +plank benches in the pit could understand. Many a silver shilling came +clinking down at the heels of the other boys from the galleries of the +inn, where the people of the better classes, wealthy merchants, ladies +and their dashing gallants, watched the children’s company; but when +Nick’s songs were done the common people down below seemed all gone +daft. They tossed red apples after him, ripe yellow pears, fat purple +plums by handfuls, called him by name and brought him back, and cried +for more and more and more, until the old precentor shook his head +behind the prompters-screen, and waved Nick off with a forbidding frown. +Yet all the while he chuckled to himself until it seemed as if his dry +old ribs would rattle in his sides; and every day, before Nick sang, he +had him up to his little room for a broken egg and a cup of +rosy cordial. + +“To clear thy voice and to cheer the cockles of thine heart,” said he; +“and to tune that pretty throat of thine _ad gustum Reginae_—which is +to say, ‘to the Queen’s own taste,’—God bless Her Majesty!” + +The other boys were cast for women’s parts, for women never acted then; +and a queer sight it was to Nick to see his fellows in great +farthingales of taffeta and starchy cambric that rustled as they +walked, with popinjay blue ribbon in their hair, and flowered stomachers +sparkling with paste jewels. + +And, truth, it was no easy thing to tell them from the real affair, or +to guess the made from the maiden, so slender and so graceful were they +all, with their ruffs and their muffs and their feathered fans, and all +the airs and mincing graces of the daintiest young miss. + +But old Nat Gyles would never have Nick Attwood play the girl. “The lad +is good enough for me just as he is,” said he; and that was all there +was of it. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV + + +THE WANING OF THE YEAR + +In September the Lord Admiral’s company made a tour of the Midlands +during the great English fairing-time; but Carew did not go with them. +For, though still by name master-player with Henslowe and Alleyn, his +business with them had come to be but little more than pocketing his +share of the profits; and for the rest, nothing but to take Nick daily +to and from St. Paul’s, and to draw his wages week by week. + +Of those wages Nick saw never a penny: Carew took good care of that. Yet +he gave him everything that any boy could need, and bought him whatever +he fancied the instant he so much as expressed a wish for it: which, in +truth, was not much; for Nick had lived in only a country town, and knew +not many things to want. + +But with money a-plenty thus coming so easily into his hands,—money for +dicing, for luxuries, for all his wild sports, money for Cicely, money +for keeps, money to play chuckie-stones with if he chose,—there was no +bridle to Gaston Carew’s wild career. His boon companions were +spendthrifts and gamesters, dissolute fellows, of whom the least said +soonest mended; and with them he was brawling early and late, very often +all night long. And though money came in fast, he wasted it faster, so +that matters went from bad to worse. Duns came spying about his door, +and bailiffs hunted after him around the town with unpaid tradesmen’s +bills. Yet still he laughed and clapped his hand upon his poniard in the +old bold way. + +September faded away in wistful haze along the Hampstead hills. The +Admiral’s men came riding back with keen October ringing at their heels, +and all the stalls were full of red-cheeked apples striped with emerald +and gold. November followed, with its nipping frost, and all St. +George’s merry green fields turned brown and purple-gray. The old year +was waning fast. + +The Queen’s Day was but a poor holiday, in spite of the shut-up shops; +for it was grown so cold with sleet and rain that it was hard to get +about, the gutters and streets being very foul, and the by-lanes +impassable. And now the children of Paul’s gave no more plays in the +yard of the Mitre Inn, but sang in their own warm hall; for winter +was at hand. + +There came black nights when an ugly wind moaned in the shivering +chimneys and howled across the peaked roofs, nights when there was no +playing at the Rose, but it was hearty to be by the fire. Then sometimes +Carew sat at home all evening long, with Cicely upon his knee, and told +strange tales of lands across the sea, where he had traveled when he was +young, and where none spoke English but chance travelers, and even the +loudest shouting could not serve to make the people understand. + +While he spun these wondrous yarns Nick would curl up on the hearth and +blow the crackling fire, sometimes staring at the master-player’s +stories, sometimes laughing to himself at the funny faces carved upon +the sides of the chubby Dutch bellows, and sometimes neither laughing +nor listening, but thinking silently of home. Then Carew, looking at him +there, would quickly turn his face away and tell another tale. + +But oftener the master-player stayed all night at the Falcon Inn with +Dick Jones, Tom Hearne, Humphrey Jeffs, and other reckless roysterers, +dicing and flipping shillings at shovel-board until his finger-nails +were sore. Then Nick would read aloud to Cicely out of the “Hundred +Merry Tales,” or pop old riddles at her puzzled head until she, +laughing, cried, “Enough!” But most of all he liked the story of brave +Guy of Warwick, and would tell it again and again, with other legends of +Arden Wood, till bedtime came. + +In the gray of the morning Carew would come home, unshaven and +leaden-eyed, with his bandy-legged varlet trotting like a watch-dog at +his heels; and then, if the gaming had gone well, he was a lord, an +earl, a duke, at least, so merry and so sprightly would he be withal; +but if the dice had fallen wrong, he would by turns be raving mad or +sodden as a sunken pie. + +Yet, be his temper what it might, he was but one thing always to Cicely, +and doffed ill humor like a shabby hat when she came running to meet +him in the shadows of the hall; so that when he came into the lighted +room, with her upon his shoulder, his face was smiles, his step a +frolic, and his bearing that of a happy boy. + +But day by day the weather grew worse, with snow and ice paving the +streets with a glassy glare and choking the frozen drains; and there was +trouble and want among the poor in the wretched alleys near Carew’s +house: for fuel was high and food scarce, and there were many deaths, so +that the knell was tolling constantly. + +Cicely cried until her eyes were red for the very sadness of it all, +since she might do nothing for them, and hated the sound of the +sullen bell. + +“Pshaw, Cicely!” said Nick; “why should ye cry? Ye do na know them; so +ye need na care.” + +“But, Nick,” said she, “_nobody_ seems to care! And, sure, _somebody_ +ought to care; for it may be some one’s mother that is dead.” + +At that Nick felt a very queer choking in his own throat, and did not +rest quite easy in his mind until he had given the silver buckle from +his cloak to a boy who stood crying with cold and hunger in the street, +and begged a farthing of him for the love of the good God. + +Then came a thaw, with mist and fog so thick that people were lost in +their own streets, and knocked at their next-door neighbor’s gate to ask +the way home. All day long, down by the Thames drums beat upon the +wharves and bells ding-donged to guide the watermen ashore; but most of +those who needs must fare abroad went over London Bridge, because +there, although they might in no wise see, it felt, at least, as if the +world were still beneath their feet. + +At noon the air was muddy brown, with a bitter taste like watered smoke; +at night it was a blinding pall; and though, after mid-December, by +order of the Council, every alderman and burgess hung a light before his +door, torches, links, and candles only sputtered feebly in the gloom, of +no more use than jack-o’-lanterns gone astray, and none but blind men +knew the roads. + +The city watch was doubled everywhere; and all night long their shouts +went up and down—“’Tis what o’clock, and a foggy night!”—and right and +left their hurrying staves came thumping helplessly along the walls to +answer cries of “Murder!” and of “Help! Watch! Help!” For under cover of +the fog great gangs of thieves came down from Hampstead Heath, and +robberies were done in the most frequented thoroughfares, between the +very lights set up by the corporation; so that it was dangerous to go +about save armed and wary as a cat in a crowd. + +While such foul days endured there was no singing at St. Paul’s, nor +stage-plays anywhere, save at Blackfriars play-house, which was roofed +against the weather. And even there at last the fog crept in through +cracks and crannies until the players seemed but moving shadows talking +through a choking cloud; and Master Will Shakspere’s famous new piece of +“Romeo and Juliet,” which had been playing to crowded houses, taking ten +pound twelve the day, was fairly smothered off the boards. + +[Illustration: “NICK GAVE THE SILVER BUCKLE FROM HIS CLOAK TO A BOY WHO +STOOD CRYING WITH COLD AND HUNGER IN THE STREET.”] + +Nick was eager to be out in all this blindman’s holiday; but, “Nay,” +said Carew; “not so much as thy nose. A fog like this would steal the +croak from a raven’s throat, let alone the sweetness from a honey-pot +like thine—and bottom crust is the end of pie!” With which, bang went +the door, creak went the key, and Carew was off to the Falcon Inn. + + * * * * * + +So went the winter weather, and so went Carew; for there was no denying +that both had fallen into a very bad way. Yet another change came +creeping over Carew all unaware. + +Nick’s face had from the first attracted him; and now, living with the +boy day after day, housed up, a prisoner, yet cheerful through it all, +the master-player began to feel what in a better man had been the prick +of conscience, but in him was only an indefinite uneasiness like a +blunted cockle-bur. For the lad’s patient perseverance at his work, his +delight in singing, and the tone of longing threaded through his voice, +crept into the master-player’s heart in spite of him; and Nick’s gentle +ways with Cicely touched him more than all the rest: for if there was +one thing in all the world that Gaston Carew truly loved, it was his +daughter Cicely. So for her sake, as well as for Nick’s own, the +master-player came to love the lad. And this was shown in queer ways. + +In the wainscot of the dining-hall there was a carven panel just above +the Spanish chest. At night, when the house was still and all the rest +asleep, Carew often came and stood before this panel, with a queer, +hesitating look upon his hard, bold face; and stretching out his hand, +would press upon the head of a cherub cut in the bevel edge. Whereupon +the panel slipped away within the wainscot, leaving a little closet in +the hollow of the wall, in which a few strange things were stowed: an +empty flask, an inlaid rosewood box, a little slipper, and a dusty +gittern with its strings all snapped and a faded ribbon tied about +its neck. + +The rosewood box he would take down, and with it open in his lap would +sit beside the fire like a man within a dream, until the hearth grew +white and cold, and the draught had blown the ashes out in streaks +across the floor. In the box was a woman’s riding-glove and a miniature +upon ivory, Cicely’s mother’s face, painted at Paris in other days. + +One night, while they were sitting all together by the fire, Nick and +Cicely snug in the chimney-seat, Carew spoke up suddenly out of a little +silence which had fallen upon them all. “Nick,” said he, quite softly, +with a look on his face as if he were thinking of other things, “I +wonder if thou couldst play?” + +“What, sir?” asked Nick; “a game?” and made the bellows whistle in his +mouth. + +“Nay, lad; a gittern.” + +Nick and Cicely looked up, for his manner was very odd. + +“Why, sir, I do na know. I could try. I ha’ heard one played, and it is +passing sweet.” “Ay, Nick, ’tis passing sweet,” said Carew, +quickly—and no more; but spoke of France, how the lilies grow in the +ditches there, and the tall trees stand like soldiers by the road that +runs to the land of sunny hills and wine; and of the radiant women +there, with hair like night and eyes like the summer stars. Then all at +once he stopped as if some one had clapped a hand upon his mouth, and +sat and stared into the fire. + +But in the morning at breakfast there was a gittern at Nick’s place—a +rare old yellow gittern, with silver scrolls about the tail-piece, ivory +pegs, and a head that ended in an angel’s face. It was strung with +bright new silver strings, but near the bridge of it there was a little +rut worn into the wood by the tips of the fingers that had rested there +while playing, and the silken shoulder-ribbon was faded and worn. + +Nick stopped, then put out both his hands as if to touch it, yet did +not, being half afraid. + +“Tut, take it up!” said Carew, sharply, though he had not seemed to +heed. “Take it up—it is for thee.” + +“For me?” cried Nick—“not for mine own?” + +Carew turned and struck the table with his hand, as if suddenly wroth. +“Why should I say it was for thee? if it were not to be thine own?” + +“But, Master Carew—” Nick began. + +“‘Master Carew’ fiddlesticks! Hold thy prate. Do I know my own mind, or +do I filter my wits through thee? Did I not say that it is thine? Good, +then—’tis thine, although it were thrice somebody else’s; and thrice as +much thy very own through having other owners. Dost hear? Well, then, +enough—we’ll have no words about it!” + +Rising abruptly as he spoke, he clapped his hat upon his head and left +the room, Nick standing there beside the table, staring after him, with +the gittern in his hands. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + + +TO SING BEFORE THE QUEEN + + “Sir Fly hangs dead on the window-pane; + The frost doth wind his shroud; + Through the halls of his little summer house + The north wind cries aloud. + We will bury his bones in the mouldy wall, + And mourn for the noble slain: + A southerly wind and a sunny sky— + Buzz! up he comes again! + Oh, Master Fly!” + +Nick looked up from the music-rack and shivered. He had forgotten the +fire in studying his song, and the blackened ends of the burnt-out logs +lay smouldering on the hearth. The draught, too, whistled shrilly under +the door, in spite of the rushes that he had piled along the crack. + +The fog had been gone for a week. It was snapping cold; and through the +peep-holes he had thawed upon the window-pane with his breath, he could +see the hoar-frost lying in the shadow of the wall in the court below. + +How forlorn the green old dial looked out there alone in the cold, with +the winter dust whirling around it in little eddies upon the wind! The +dial was fringed with icicles, like an old man’s beard; and even the +creeping shadow on its face, which told mid-afternoon, seemed frozen +where it fell. + +Mid-afternoon already, and he so much to do! Nick pulled his cloak about +him, and turned to his song again: + + “Sir Fly hangs dead on the window-pane; + The frost doth wind his shroud—” + +But there he stopped; for the boys were singing in the great hall below, +and the whole house rang with the sound of the roaring chorus: + + “Down-a-down, hey, down-a-down, + Hey derry derry down-a-down!” + +Nick put his fingers in his ears, and began all over again: + + “Sir Fly hangs dead on the window-pane; + The frost doth wind his shroud; + Through the halls of his little summer house + The north wind cries aloud.” + +But it was no use; all he could hear was: + + “Down-a-down, hey, down-a-down, + Hey derry derry down-a-down!” + +How could a fellow study in a noise like that? He gave it up in despair, +and kicking the chunks together, stood upon the hearth, warming his +hands by the gathering blaze while he listened to the song: + + “Cold’s the wind, and wet’s the rain; + Saint Hugh, be our good speed! + Ill is the weather that bringeth no gain, + Nor helps good hearts in need. + + “Down-a-down, hey, down-a-down, + Hey derry derry down-a-down!” + +He could hear Colley Warren above them all. What a voice the boy had! +Like a golden horn blowing in the fresh of a morning breeze. It made +Nick tingle, he could not tell why. He and Colley often sang together, +and their voices made a quivering in the air like the ringing of a bell. +And often, while they sang, the viols standing in the corner of the room +would sound aloud a deep, soft note in harmony with them, although +nobody had touched the strings; so that the others cried out that the +instruments were bewitched, and would not let the boys sing any more. +Colley Warren was Nick’s best friend—a dark-eyed, quiet lad, as gentle +as a girl, and with a mouth like a girl’s mouth, for which the others +sometimes mocked him, though they loved him none the less. + +It was not because his voice was loud that it could be so distinctly +heard; but it was nothing like the rest, and came through all the others +like sunshine through a mist. Nick pulled the stool up closer, and sat +down in the chimney-corner, humming a second to the tune, and blowing +little glory-holes in the embers with the bellows. He liked the smell +of a wood fire, and liked to toast his toes. He was a trifle drowsy, +too, now that he was warm again to the marrow of his bones; perhaps he +dozed a little. + +But suddenly he came to himself again with a sense of a great stillness +fallen over everything—no singing in the room below, and silence +everywhere but in the court, where there was a trampling as of horses +standing at the gate. And while he was still lazily wondering, a great +cheer broke out in the room below, and there was a stamping of feet like +cattle galloping over a bridge; and then, all at once, the door opened +into the hallway at the foot of the stair, and the sound burst out as +fire bursts from the cock-loft window of a burning barn, and through the +noise and over it Colley Warren’s voice calling him by name: “Skylark! +Nick Skylark! Ho there, Nick! where art thou?” + +He sprang to the door and kicked the rushes away. All the hall was full +of voices, laughing, shouting, singing, and cheering. There were +footsteps coming up the stair. “What there, Skylark! Ho, boy! Nick, +where art thou?” he could hear Colley calling above them all. Out he +popped his nose: “Here I am, Colley—what’s to do? _Whatever in the +world!_” and he ducked his head like a mandarin; for whizz—flap! two +books came whirling up the stair and thumped against the panel by +his ears. + +“The news—the news, Nick! Have ye heard the news?” the lads were +shouting as if possessed. “We’re going to court! Hurrah, hurrah!” And +some, with their arms about one another, went whirling out at the door +and around the windy close like very madcaps, cutting such capers that +the horses standing at the gate kicked up their heels, and jerked the +horse-boys right and left like bundles of hay. + +Nick leaned over the railing and stared. + +“Come down and help us sing!” they cried. “Come down and shout with us +in the street!” + +“I can na come down—there’s work to do!” + +“Thy ‘can na’ be hanged, and thy work likewise! Come down and sing, or +we’ll fetch thee down. The Queen hath sent for us!” + +“The Queen—hath sent—for us?” + +“Ay, sent for us to come to court and play on Christmas day! Hurrah for +Queen Bess!” + +At that shrill cheer the startled horses fairly plunged into the street, +and the carts that were passing along the way were jammed against the +opposite wall. The carriers bellowed, the horse-boys bawled, the people +came running to see the row, and the apprentices flew out of the shops +bareheaded, waving their dirty aprons and cheering lustily, just for the +fun of the chance to cheer. + +“It’s true!” called Colley, his dark eyes dancing like stars on the sea. +“Come down, Nick, and sing in the street with us all! We are going to +Greenwich Palace on Christmas day to play before the Queen and the +court—for the first time, Nick, in a good six years; and we’re not to +work till the new masque comes from the Master of the Revels! Come down, +Nick, and sing with us out in the street; for we’re going to court, +we’re going to court to sing before the Queen! Hurrah, hurrah!” + +“Hurrah for good Queen Bess!” cried Nick; and up went his cap and down +went he on the baluster-rail like a runaway sled, head first into the +crowd, who caught him laughing as he came. Then all together they +cantered out like a parcel of colts in a fresh, green field, and sang in +the street before the school till the people cheered themselves hoarse +to hear such music on such a wintry day; sang until there was no other +business on all the thoroughfare but just to listen to their songs; sang +until the under-masters came out with their staves and drove them into +the school again, to keep them from straining their throats by singing +so loudly and so long in the frosty open air. + +But a fig for staves and for under-masters! The boys clapped fast the +gates behind them, and barred the under-masters out in the street, +singing twice as loudly as before, and mocking at them with wry faces +through the bars; and then trooped off up the old precentor’s private +stair and sang at his door until the old man could not hear his own +ears, and came out storming and grim as grief. + +But when he saw the boys all there, and heard them cheering him three +times three, he could not storm to save his life, but only stood there, +black and thin, against the yellow square of light, smiling a quaint +smile that half was wrinkles and half was pride, shaking his lean +forefinger at them as if he were beating time, and nodding until his +head seemed almost nodding off. + +“Hurrah for Master Nathaniel Gyles!” they shouted. + +“_Primus Magister Scholarum, Custos Morum, Quartus Custos Rotulorum_,” +said the old man softly to himself, the firelight from behind him +falling in a glory on his thin white hair. “Be off, ye rogues! Ye are +not fit to waste good language on; or, faith, I’d Latin ye all as dumb +as fishes in the depths of the briny sea!” + +“Hurrah for the fishes in the sea!” + +“Soft, ye knaves! Save thy throats for good Queen Bess!” + +“Hurrah for good Queen Bess!” + +“Be still, I say, ye good-for-nothing varlets; or ye sha’n’t have pie +and ale to-night. But marry, now, ye _shall_ have pie—ay, pie and ale +without a stint; for ye are good lads, and ye have pleased the Queen at +last; and I am as proud of ye as a peacock is of his own tail!” + +“Hurrah for the Queen—and the pie—and the ale! Hurrah for the peacock +and his tail!” shouted the boys; and straightway, seeing that they had +made a rhyme, they gave a cheer shriller and longer than all the others +put together, and went clattering down the stairway, singing at the top +of their lungs: + + Hurrah for the Queen, and the pie and the ale! + Hurrah for the peacock, hurrah for his tail! + Hurrah for hurrah, and hurrah again— + We’re going to court on Christmas day + To sing before the Queen!” + +“Good lads, good lads!” said the old precentor to himself, as he turned +back into his little room. His eyes were shining proudly in the +candle-light, yet the tears were running down his cheeks. A queer old +man, Nat Gyles, and dead this many a long, long year; yet that night no +man was happier than he. + +But Master Gaston Carew, who had come for Nick, stood in the gathering +dusk by the gate below, and stared up at the yellow square of light with +a troubled look upon his reckless face. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + + +THE QUEEN’S PLAISANCE + +It was a frosty morning when they all marched down to the boats that +bumped along Paul’s wharf. + +The roofs of London were white with frost and rosy with the dawn. In the +shadow of the walls the air lay in still pools of smoky blue; and in the +east the horizon stretched like a swamp of fire. The winking lights on +London Bridge were pale. The bridge itself stood cold and gray, +mysterious and dim as the stream below, but here and there along its +crest red-hot with a touch of flame from the burning eastern sky. Out of +the river, running inland with the tide, came steamy shreds that drifted +here and there. Then over the roofs of London town the sun sprang up +like a thing of life, and the veil of twilight vanished in bright day +with a million sparkles rippling on the stream. + +Warm with piping roast and cordial, keen with excitement, and blithe +with the sharp, fresh air, the red-cheeked lads skipped and chattered +along the landing like a flock of sparrows alighted by chance in a land +of crumbs. + +“Into the wherries, every one!” cried the old precentor. _“Ad unum +omnes_, great and small!” + +“Into the wherries!” echoed the under-masters. + +“Into the wherries, my bullies!” roared old Brueton the boatman, fending +off with a rusty hook as red as his bristling beard. “Into the wherries, +yarely all, and we’s catch the turn o’ the tide! ’Tis gone high +water now!” + +Then away they went, three wherries full, and Master Gyles behind them +in a brisk sixpenny tilt-boat, resplendent in new ash-colored hose, a +cloak of black velvet fringed with gold, and a brand-new periwig curled +and frizzed like a brush-heap in a gale of wind. + +How they had worked for the last few days! New songs, new dances, new +lines to learn; gallant compliments for the Queen, who was as fond of +flattery as a girl; new clothes, new slippers and caps to try, and a +thousand what-nots more. The school had hummed like a busy mill from +morning until night. And now that the grinding was done and they had +come at last to their reward,—the hoped-for summons to the court, which +had been sought so long in vain,—the boys of St. Paul’s bubbled with +glee until the under-masters were in a cold sweat for fear their +precious charges would pop from the wherries into the Thames, like so +many exuberant corks. + +They cheered with delight as London Bridge was shot and the boats went +flying down the Pool, past Billingsgate and the oystermen, the White +Tower and the Traitors’ Gate, past the shipping, where brown, +foreign-looking faces stared at them above sea-battered bulwarks. + +The sun was bright and the wind was keen; the air sparkled, and all the +world was full of life. Hammers beat in the builders’ yards; wild +bargees sang hoarsely as they drifted down to the Isle of Dogs; and in +slow ships that crept away to catch the wind in the open stream below, +with tawny sails drooping and rimmed with frost, they heard the hail of +salty mariners. + +The tide ran strong, and the steady oars carried them swiftly down. +London passed; then solitary hamlets here and there; then dun fields +running to the river’s edge like thirsty deer. + +In Deptford Reach some lords who were coming down by water passed them, +racing with a little Dutch boat from Deptford to the turn. Their boats +had holly-bushes at their prows and holiday garlands along their sides. +They were all shouting gaily, and the stream was bright with their +scarlet cloaks, Lincoln-green jerkins, and gold embroidery. But they +were very badly beaten, at which they laughed, and threw the Dutchmen a +handful of silver pennies. Thereupon the Dutchmen stood up in their boat +and bowed like jointed ninepins; and the lords, not to be outdone, stood +up likewise in their boats and bowed very low in return, with their +hands upon their breasts. Then everybody on the river laughed, and the +boys gave three cheers for the merry lords and three more for the sturdy +Dutchmen. The Dutchmen shouted back, “Goot Yule!” and bowed and bowed +until their boat turned round and went stern foremost down the stream, +so that they were bowing to the opposite bank, where no one was at all. +At this the rest all laughed again till their sides ached, and cheered +them twice as much as they had before. + +And while they were cheering and waving their caps, the boatmen rested +upon their oars and let the boats swing with the tide, which thereabout +set strong against the shore, and a trumpeter in the Earl of Arundel’s +barge stood up and blew upon a long horn bound with a banner of blue +and gold. + +Instantly he had blown, another trumpet answered from the south, and +when Nick turned, the shore was gay with men in brilliant livery. Beyond +was a wood of chestnut-trees as blue and leafless as a grove of spears; +and in the plain between the river and the wood stood a great palace of +gray stone, with turrets, pinnacles, and battlemented walls, over the +topmost tower of which a broad flag, blazoned with golden lions and +silver lilies square for square, whipped the winter wind. Amid a group +of towers large and small a lofty stack poured out a plume of sea-coal +smoke against the milky sky, and on the countless windows in the wall +the sunlight flashed with dazzling radiance. + +There were people on the battlements, and at the port between two towers +where the Queen went in and out the press was so thick that men’s heads +looked like the cobbles in the street. + +The shore was stayed with piling and with timbers like a wharf, so that +a hundred boats might lie there cheek by jowl and scarcely rub their +paint. The lords made way, and the children players came ashore through +an aisle of uplifted oars. They were met by the yeomen of the guard, +tall, brawny fellows clad in red, with golden roses on their breasts and +backs, and with them marched up to the postern two and two, Master Gyles +the last of all, as haughty as a Spanish don come courting fair +Queen Bess. + +A smoking dinner was waiting them, of whitebait with red pepper, and a +yellow juice so sour that Nick’s mouth drew up in a knot; but it was +very good. There were besides, silver dishes full of sugared red +currants, and heaps of comfits and sweetmeats, which Master Gyles would +not allow them even to touch, and saffron cakes with raisins in them, +and spiced hot cordial out of tiny silver cups. Bareheaded pages clad in +silk and silver lace waited upon them as if they were fledgling kings; +but the boys were too hungry to care for that or to try to put on airs, +and waded into the meat and drink as if they had been starved for a +fortnight. + +But when they were done Nick saw that the table off which they had eaten +was inlaid with pearl and silver filigree, and that the table-cloth was +of silk with woven metal-work and gems set in it worth more than a +thousand crowns. He was very glad he had eaten first, for such wonderful +service would have taken away his appetite. + +And truly a wonderful palace was the Queen’s Plaisance, as Greenwich +House was called. Elizabeth was born in it, and so loved it most of all. +There she pleased oftenest to receive and grant audiences to envoys from +foreign courts. And there, on that account, as was always her proud, +jealous way, she made a blinding show of glory and of wealth, of +science, art, and power, that England, to the eyes which saw her there, +might stand in second place to no dominion in the world, however rich +or great. + +It was a very house of gold. + +Over the door where the lads marched in was the Queen’s device, a golden +rose, with a motto set below in letters of gold, “Dieu et mon droit”; +and upon the walls were blazoned coats of noble arms on branching golden +trees, of purest metal and finest silk, costly beyond compare. The royal +presence-chamber shone with tapestries of gold, of silver, and of +oriental silks, of as many shifting colors as the birds of paradise, and +wrought in exquisite design, The throne was set with diamonds, with +rubies, garnets, and sapphires, glittering like a pastry-crust of stars, +and garnished with gold-lace work, pearls, and ornament; and under the +velvet canopy which hung above the throne was embroidered in +seed-pearls, “Vivat Regina Elizabetha!” There was no door without a +gorgeous usher, no room without a page, no corridor without a guard, no +post without a man of noble birth to fill it. + +On the walls of the great gallery were masterly paintings of great folk, +globes showing all the stars fast in the sky, and drawings of the world +and all its parts, so real that one could see the savages in the New +World hanging to the under side by their feet, like flies upon the +ceiling. How they stuck was more than Nick could make out; and where +they landed if they chanced to slip and fall troubled him a deal, until +in the sheer multiplication of wonders he could not wonder any more. + +When they came to rehearse in the afternoon the stage was hung with +stiff, rich silks that had come in costly cedar chests from the looms of +old Cathay; and the curtain behind which the players came and went was +broidered with gold thread in flowers and birds like meteors for +splendor. The gallery, too, where the musicians sat, was draped with +silk and damask. + +Some of the lads would have made out by their great airs as if this were +all a common thing to them; but Nick stared honestly with round eyes, +and went about with cautious feet, chary of touching things, and feeling +very much out of place and shy. + +It was all too grand, too wonderful,—amazing to look upon, no doubt, +and good to outface foreign envy with, but not to be endured every day +nor lived with comfortably. And as the day went by, each passing moment +with new marvels, Nick grew more and more uneasy for some simple little +nook where he might just sit down and be quiet for a while, as one could +do at home, without fine pages peering at him from the screens, or +splendid guards patrolling at his heels wherever he went, or obsequious +ushers bowing to the floor at every turn, and asking him what he might +be pleased to wish. And by the time night fell and the attendant came to +light them to their beds, he felt like a fly on the rim of a wheel that +went so fast he could scarcely get his breath or see what passed him by, +yet of which he durst not let go. + +The palace was much too much for him. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII + + +CHRISTMAS WITH QUEEN BESS + +Christmas morning came and went as if on swallow-wings, in a gale of +royal merriment. Four hundred sat to dinner that day in Greenwich halls, +and all the palace streamed with banners and green garlands. + +Within the courtyard two hundred horses neighed and stamped around a +water-fountain playing in a bowl of ice and evergreen. Grooms and pages, +hostlers and dames, went hurry-scurrying to and fro; cooks, bakers, and +scullions steamed about, leaving hot, mouth-watering streaks of +fragrance in the air; bluff men-at-arms went whistling here and there; +and serving-maids with rosy cheeks ran breathlessly up and down the +winding stairways. + +The palace stirred like a mighty pot that boils to its utmost verge, for +the hour of the revelries was come. + +Over the beech-wood and far across the black heath where Jack Cade +marshaled the men of Kent, the wind trembled with the boom of the castle +bell. Within the walls of the palace its clang was muffled by a sound of +voices that rose and fell like the wind upon the sea. + +The ambassadors of Venice and France were there, with their courtly +trains. The Lord High Constable of England was come to sit below the +Queen. The earls, too, of Southampton, Montgomery, Pembroke, and +Huntington were there; and William Cecil, Lord Burleigh, the Queen’s +High Treasurer, to smooth his care-lined forehead with a Yuletide jest. + +Up from the entry ports came shouts of “Room! room! room for my Lord +Strange! Room for the Duke of Devonshire!” and about the outer gates +there was a tumult like the cheering of a great crowd. + +The palace corridors were lined with guards. Gentlemen pensioners under +arms went flashing to and fro. Now and then through the inner throng +some handsome page with wind-blown hair and rainbow-colored cloak pushed +to the great door, calling: “Way, sirs, way for my Lord—way for my Lady +of Alderstone!” and one by one, or in blithe groups, the courtiers, clad +in silks and satins, velvets, jewels, and lace of gold, came up through +the lofty folding-doors to their places in the hall. + +There, where the Usher of the Black Rod stood, and the gentlemen of the +chamber came and went with golden chains about their necks, was bowing +and scraping without stint, and reverent civility; for men that were +wise and noble were passing by, men that were handsome and brave; and +ladies sweet as a summer day, and as fair to see as spring, laughed by +their sides and chatted behind their fans, or daintily nibbled comfits, +lacking anything to say. + +The windows were all curtained in, making a night-time in midday; and +from the walls and galleries flaring links and great bouquets of candles +threw an eddying flood of yellow light across the stirring scene. From +clump to clump of banner-staves and burnished arms, spiked above the +wainscot, garlands of red-berried holly, spruce, and mistletoe were +twined across the tapestry, till all the room was bound about with a +chain of living green. + +There were sweet odors floating through the air, and hazy threads of +fragrant smoke from perfumes burning in rich braziers; and under foot +was the crisp, clean rustle of new rushes. + +From time to time, above the hum of voices, came the sound of music from +a room beyond—cornets and flutes, fifes, lutes, and harps, with an +organ exquisitely played, and voices singing to it; and from behind the +players’ curtain, swaying slowly on its rings at the back of the stage, +came a murmur of whispering childish voices, now high in eager +questioning, now low, rehearsing some doubtful fragment of a song. + +Behind the curtain it was dark—not total darkness, but twilight; for a +dull glow came down overhead from the lights in the hall without, and +faint yellow bars went up and down the dusk from crevices in the screen. +The boys stood here and there in nervous groups. Now and then a sharp +complaint was heard from the tire-woman when an impatient lad would not +stand still to be dressed. + +Master Gyles went to and fro, twisting the manuscript of the Revel in +his hands, or pausing kindly to pat some faltering lad upon the back. +Nick and Colley were peeping by turns through a hole in the screen at +the throng in the audience-chamber. + +They could see a confusion of fans, jewels, and faces, and now and again +could hear a burst of subdued laughter over the steadily increasing buzz +of voices. Then from the gallery above, all at once there came a murmur +of instruments tuning together; a voice in the corridor was heard +calling, “Way here, way here!” in masterful tones; the tall +folding-doors at the side of the hall swung wide, and eight dapper pages +in white and gold came in with the Master of Revels. After them came +fifty ladies and noblemen clad in white and gold, and a guard of +gentlemen pensioners with glittering halberds. + +There was a sharp rustle. Every head in the audience-chamber louted low. +Nick’s heart gave a jump—for the Queen was there! + +She came with an air that was at once serious and royal, bearing herself +haughtily, yet with a certain grace and sprightliness that became her +very well. She was quite tall and well made, and her quickly changing +face was long and fair, though wrinkled and no longer young. Her +complexion was clear and of an olive hue; her nose was a little hooked; +her firm lips were thin; and her small black eyes, though keen and +bright, were pleasant and merry withal. Her hair was a coppery, tawny +red, and false, moreover. In her ears hung two great pearls; and there +was a fine small crown studded with diamonds upon her head, beside a +necklace of exceeding fine gold and jewels about her neck. She was +attired in a white silk gown bordered with pearls the size of beans, and +over it wore a mantle of black silk, cunningly shot with silver threads. +Her ruff was vast, her farthingale vaster; and her train, which was very +long, was borne by a marchioness who made more ado about it than +Elizabeth did of ruling her realm. + +“The Queen!” gasped Colley. + +“Dost think I did na know it?” answered Nick, his heart beginning to +beat tattoo as he stared through the peep-hole in the screen. + +He saw the great folk bowing like a gardenful of flowers in a storm, and +in its midst Elizabeth erect, speaking to those about her in a lively +and good-humored way, and addressing all the foreigners according to +their tongue—in French, Italian, Spanish, Dutch; but hers was funny +Dutch, and while she spoke she smiled and made a joke upon it in Latin, +at which they all laughed heartily, whether they understood what it +meant or not. Then, with her ladies in waiting, she passed to a dais +near the stage, and stood a moment, stately, fair, and proud, while all +her nobles made obeisance, then sat and gave a signal for the players +to begin. + +“Rafe Fullerton!” the prompter whispered shrilly; and out from behind +the screen slipped Rafe, the smallest of them all, and down the stage to +speak the foreword of the piece. He was frightened, and his voice shook +as he spoke, but every one was smiling, so he took new heart. + +“It is a masque of Summer-time and Spring,” said he, “wherein both +claim to be best-loved, and have their say of wit and humor, and each +her part of songs and dances suited to her time, the sprightly galliard +and the nimble jig for Spring, the slow pavone, the stately peacock +dance, for Summer-time. And win who may, fair Summer-time or merry +Spring, the winner is but that beside our Queen!”—with which he snapped +his fingers in the faces of them all—“God save Queen Bess!” + +At that the Queen’s eyes twinkled, and she nodded, highly pleased, so +that every one clapped mightily. + +The play soon ran its course amid great laughter and applause. Spring +won. The English ever loved her best, and the quick-paced galliard took +their fancy, too. “Up and be doing!” was its tune, and it gave one a +chance to cut fine capers with his heels. + +Then the stage stood empty and the music stopped. + +At this strange end a whisper of surprise ran through the hall. The +Queen tapped with the inner side of her rings upon the broad arm of her +chair. From the look on her face she was whetting her tongue. But before +she could speak, Nick and Colley, dressed as a farmer boy and girl, with +a garland of house-grown flowers about them, came down the stage from +the arras, hand in hand, bowing. + +The audience-chamber grew very still—_this_ was something new. Nick +felt a swallowing in his throat, and Colley’s hand winced in his grip. +There was no sound but a silky rustling in the room. + +Then suddenly the boys behind the players’ curtain laughed together, +not loud, but such a jolly little laugh that all the people smiled to +hear it. After the laughter came a hush. + +Then the pipes overhead made a merry sound as of shepherds piping on +oaten straws in new grass where there are daisies; and there was a +little elfish laughter of clarionets, and a fluttering among the cool +flutes like spring wind blowing through crisp young leaves in April. The +harps began to pulse and throb with a soft cadence like raindrops +falling into a clear pool where brown leaves lie upon the bottom and +bubbles float above green stones and smooth white pebbles. Nick lifted +up his head and sang. + +It was a happy little song of the coming and the triumph of the spring. +The words were all forgotten long ago. They were not much: enough to +serve the turn, no more; but the notes to which they went were like barn +swallows twittering under the eaves, goldfinches clinking in purple +weeds beside old roads, and robins singing in common gardens at dawn. +And wherever Nick’s voice ran Colley’s followed, the pipes laughing +after them a note or two below; while the flutes kept gurgling softly to +themselves as a hill brook gurgles through the woods, and the harps ran +gently up and down like rain among the daffodils. One voice called, the +other answered; there were echo-like refrains; and as they sang Nick’s +heart grew full. He cared not a stiver for the crowd, the golden palace, +or the great folk there—the Queen no more—he only listened for +Colley’s voice coming up lovingly after his own and running away when he +followed it down, like a lad and a lass through the bloom of the May. +And Colley was singing as if his heart would leap out of his round mouth +for joy to follow after the song they sung, till they came to the end +and the skylark’s song. + +There Colley ceased, and Nick went singing on alone, forgetting, caring +for, heeding nought but the song that was in his throat. + +The Queen’s fan dropped from her hand upon the floor. No one saw it or +picked it up. The Venetian ambassador scarcely breathed. + +Nick came down the stage, his hands before him, lifted as if he saw the +very lark he followed with his song, up, up, up into the sun. His cheeks +were flushed and his eyes were wet, though his voice was a song and a +laugh in one. + +Then they were gone behind the curtain, into the shadow and the twilight +there, Colley with his arms about Nick’s neck, not quite laughing, not +quite sobbing. The manuscript of the Revel lay torn in two upon the +floor, and Master Gyles had a foot upon each piece. + +In the hall beyond the curtain was a silence that was deeper than a +hush, a stillness rising from the hearts of men. + +Then Elizabeth turned in the chair where she sat. Her eyes were as +bright as a blaze. And out of the sides of her eyes she looked at the +Venetian ambassador. He was sitting far out on the edge of his chair, +and his lips had fallen apart. She laughed to herself. “It is a good +song, signor,” said she, and those about her started at the sound of her +voice. “_Chi tace confessa—_it is so! There are no songs like English +songs—there is no spring like an English spring—there is no land like +England, _my_ England!” She clapped her hands. “I will speak with those +lads,” said she. + +Straightway certain pages ran through the press and came behind the +curtain where Nick and Colley stood together, still trembling with the +music not yet gone out of them, and brought them through the hall to +where the Queen sat, every one whispering, “Look!” as they passed. + +On the dais they knelt together, bowing, side by side. Elizabeth, with a +kindly smile, leaning a little forward, raised them with her slender +hand. “Stand, dear lads,” said she, heartily. “Be lifted up by thine own +singing, as our hearts have been uplifted by thy song. And name me the +price of that same song—’twas sweeter than the sweetest song we ever +heard before.” + +“Or ever shall hear again,” said the Venetian ambassador, under his +breath, rubbing his forehead as if just wakening out of a dream. + +“Come,” said Elizabeth, tapping Colley’s cheek with her fan, “what wilt +thou have of me, fair maid?” + +Colley turned red, then very pale. “That I may stay in the palace +forever and sing for your Majesty,” said he. His fingers shivered +in Nick’s. + +“Now that is right prettily asked,” she cried, and was well pleased. +“Thou shalt indeed stay for a singing page in our household—a voice and +a face like thine are merry things upon a rainy Monday. And thou, Master +Lark,” said she, fanning the hair back from Nick’s forehead with her +perfumed fan—“thou that comest up out of the field with a song like the +angels sing—what wilt thou have: that thou mayst sing in our choir and +play on the lute for us?” + +Nick looked up at the torches on the wall, drawing a deep, long breath. +When he looked down again his eyes were dazzled and he could not see +the Queen. + +“What wilt thou have?” he heard her ask. + +“Let me go home,” said he. + +There were red and green spots in the air. He tried to count them, since +he could see nothing else, and everything was very still; but they all +ran into one purple spot which came and went like a firefly’s glow, and +in the middle of the purple spot he saw the Queen’s face coming +and going. + +“Surely, boy, that is an ill-considered speech,” said she, “or thou dost +deem us very poor, or most exceeding stingy!” Nick hung his head, for +the walls seemed tapestried with staring eyes. “Or else this home of +thine must be a very famous place.” + +The maids of honour tittered. Further off somebody laughed. Nick looked +up, and squared his shoulders. + +They had rubbed the cat the wrong way. + +It is hard to be a stranger in a palace, young, country-bred, and +laughed at all at once; but down in Nick Attwood’s heart was a stubborn +streak that all the flattery on earth could not cajole nor ridicule +efface. He might be simple, shy, and slow, but what he loved he loved: +that much he knew; and when they laughed at him for loving home they +seemed to mock not him, but home—and _that_ touched the fighting-spot. + +“I would rather be there than here,” said he. + +The Queen’s face flushed. “Thou art more curt than courteous,” said she. +“Is it not good enough for thee here?” + +“I could na live in such a place.” + +The Queen’s eyes snapped. “In such a place? Marry, art thou so choice? +These others find no fault with the life.” + +“Then they be born to it,” said Nick, “or they could abide no more than +I—they would na fit.” + +“Haw, haw!” said the Lord High Constable. + +The Queen shot one quick glance at him. “Old pegs have been made to fit +new holes before to-day,” said she; “and the trick can be done again.” +The Constable smothered the rest of that laugh in his hand, “But come, +boy, speak up; what hath put thee so out of conceit with our +best-beloved palace?” + +“There is na one thing likes me here. I can na bide in a place so fine, +for there’s not so much as a corner in it feels like home. I could na +sleep in the bed last night.” + +“What, how? We commanded good beds!” exclaimed Elizabeth, angrily, for +the Venetian ambassador was smiling in his beard. “This shall be +seen to.” + +“Oh, it _was_ a good bed—a very good bed indeed, your Majesty!” cried +Nick. “But the mattress puffed up like a cloud in a bag, and almost +smothered me; and it was so soft and so hot that it gave me a fever.” + +Elizabeth leaned back in her chair and laughed. The Lord High Constable +hastily finished the laugh that he had hidden in his hand. Everybody +laughed. “Upon my word,” said the Queen, “it is an odd skylark cannot +sleep in feathers! What didst thou do, forsooth?” + +“I slept in the coverlid on the floor,” said Nick. “It was na hurt,—I +dusted the place well,—and I slept like a top.” + +“Now verily,” laughed Elizabeth, “if it be floors that thou dost desire, +we have acres to spare—thou shalt have thy pick of the lot. Come, we +are ill used to begging people to be favored—thou’lt stay?” + +Nick shook his head. + +“_Ma foi!”_ exclaimed the Queen, “it is a queer fancy makes a face at +such a pleasant dwelling! What is it sticks in thy throat?” + +Nick stood silent. What was there to say? If he came here he never would +see Stratford town again; and _this_ was no abiding-place for him. They +would not even let him go to the fountain himself to draw water with +which to wash, but fetched it, three at a time, in a silver ewer and a +copper basin with towels and a flask of perfume. + +Elizabeth was tapping with her fan. “Thou art be-dazzled like,” she +said. “Think twice—preferment does not gooseberry on the hedge-row +every day; and this is a rare chance which hangs ripening on thy tongue. +Consider well. Come, thou wilt accept?” + +Nick slowly shook his head. + +“Go then, if thou wilt go!” said she; and as she spoke she shrugged her +shoulders, illy pleased, and turning toward Colley, took him by the hand +and drew him closer to her, smiling at his guise. “Thy comrade hath +more wit.” + +“He hath no mother,” Nick said quietly, loosing his hold at last on +Colley’s hand. “I would rather have my mother than his wit.” + +Elizabeth turned sharply back. Her keen eyes were sparkling, yet soft. + +“Thou art no fool,” said she. + +A little murmur ran through the room. + +She sat a moment, silent, studying his face. “Or if thou art, upon my +word I like the breed. It is a stubborn, froward dog; but Hold-fast is +his name. Ay, sirs,” she said, and sat up very straight, looking into +the faces of her court, “Brag is a good dog, but Hold-fast is better. A +lad who loves his mother thus makes a man who loveth his native +land—and it’s no bad streak in the blood. Master Skylark, thou shalt +have thy wish; to London thou shalt go this very night.” + +“I do na live in London,” Nick began. + +“What matters the place?” said she. “Live wheresoever thine heart doth +please. It is enough—so. Thou mayst kiss our hand.” She held her hand +out, bright with jewels. He knelt and kissed it as if it were all a +doing in a dream, or in some unlikely story he had read. But a long +while after he could smell the perfume from her slender fingers on +his lips. + +Then a page standing by him touched his arm as he arose, and bowing +backward from the throne, came with him to the curtain and the rest. Old +Master Gyles was standing there apart. It was too dark to see his face, +but he laid his hand upon Nick’s head. + +“Thy cake is burned to a coal,” said he. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX + + +BACK TO GASTON CAREW + +So they marched back out of the palace gates, down to the landing-place, +the last red sunlight gleaming on the basinets of the tall halberdiers +who marched on either side. + +Nick looked out toward London, where the river lay like a serpent, +bristling with masts; and beyond the river and the town to the forests +of Epping and Hainault; and beyond the forests to the hills, where the +waning day still lingered in a mist of frosty blue. At their back, +midway of the Queen’s park, stood up the old square tower Mirefleur, and +on its top one yellow light like the flame of a gigantic candle. The day +seemed builded of memories strange and untrue. + +A belated gull flapped by them heavily, and the red sun went down. +England was growing lonely. A great barge laden with straw came out of +the dusk, and was gone without a sound, its ghostly sail drawing in a +wind that the wherry sat too low to feel. Nick held his breath as the +barge went by: it was unreal, fantastical. + +Then the river dropped between its banks, and the woods and the hills +were gone. The tide ran heavily against the shore, and the wake of the +wherry broke the floating stars into cold white streaks and zigzag +ripplings of raveled light that ran unsteadily after them. The craft at +anchor in the Pool had swung about upon the flow, and pointed down to +Greenwich. A hush had fallen upon the never-ending bustle of the town; +and the air was full of a gray, uncanny afterglow which seemed to come +up out of the water, for the sky was grown quite dark. + +They were all wrapped in their boat-cloaks, tired and silent. Now and +then Nick dipped his fingers into the cold water over the gunwale. + +This was the end of the glory. + +He wished the boat would go a little faster. Yet when they came to the +landing he was sorry. + +The man-at-arms who went with him to Master Carew’s house was one of the +Earl of Arundel’s men, in a stiff-wadded jacket of heron-blue, with the +earls colors richly worked upon its back and his badge upon the sleeves. +Prowlers gave way before him in the streets, for he was broad and tall +and mighty, and the fear of any man was not in the look of his eye. + +As they came up the slow hill, Nick sighed, for the long-legged +man-at-arms walked fast. “What, there!” said he, and clapped Nick on the +shoulder with his bony hand; “art far spent, lad? Why, marry, get thee +upon my back. I’ll jog thee home in the shake of a black sheep’s tail.” + +So Nick rode home upon the back of the Earl of Arundel’s man-at-arms; +and that, too, seemed a dream like all the rest. + +When they came to Master Carew’s house the street was dark, and Nick’s +foot was asleep. He stamped it, tingling, upon the step, and the empty +passage echoed with the sound. Then the earl’s man beat the door with +the pommel of his dagger-hilt, and stood with his hands upon his hips, +carelessly whistling a little tune. + +Nick heard a sound of some one coming through the hall, and felt that at +last the day was done. A tired wonder wakened in his heart at how so +much had come to pass in such a little while; yet more he wondered why +it had ever come to pass at all. And what was the worth of it, anyway, +now it was over and gone? + +Then the door opened, and he went in. + +Master Gaston Carew himself had come to the door, walking quickly +through the hallway, with a queer, nervous twitching in his face. But +when he made out through the dusk that it was Nick, he seemed in no wise +moved, and said quite simply, as he gave the man-at-arms a penny: “Oh, +is it thou? Why, we have heard somewhat of thee; and upon my word I +thought, since thou wert grown so great, thou wouldst come home in a +coach-and-four, all blowing horns!” + +Nevertheless he drew Nick quickly in, and kissed him thrice; and after +he had kissed him kept fast hold of his hand until they came together +through the hall into the great room where Cicely was sitting quite +dismally in the chimney-seat alone. + +[Illustration: “SO NICK RODE HOME UPON THE BACK OF THE EARL OF ARUNDEL’S +MAN-AT-ARMS.”] + +“There, Nick,” said he; “tell her thyself that thou hast come back. She +thought she had lost thee for good and all, and hath sung, ‘Hey ho, my +heart is full of woe!’ the whole twilight, and would not be comforted. +Come, Cicely, doff thy doleful willow—the proverb lies. ‘Out of sight, +out of mind’—fudge! the boy’s come back again! A plague take +proverbs, anyway!” + +But when the children were both long since abed, and all the house was +still save for the scamper of rats in the wall, the heavy door of Nick’s +room opened stealthily, with a little grating upon the uneven sill, and +Master Carew stood there, peeping in, his hand upon the bolt outside. + +He held a rush-light in the other. Its glimmer fell across the bed upon +Nick’s tousled hair; and when the master-player saw the boy’s head upon +the pillow he started eagerly, with brightening eyes. “My soul!” he +whispered to himself, a little quaver in his tone, “I would have sworn +my own desire lied to me, and that he had not come at all! It cannot +be—yet, verily, I am not blind. _Ma foil_ it passeth understanding—a +freed skylark come back to its cage! I thought we had lost him forever.” + +Nick stirred in his sleep. Carew set the light on the floor. “Thou +fool!” said he, and he fumbled at his pouch; “thou dear-beloved little +fool! To catch the skirts of glory in thine hand, and tread the heels of +happy chance, and yet come back again to ill-starred twilight—and to +me! Ai, lad, I would thou wert my son—mine own, own son; yet Heaven +spare thee father such as I! For, Nick, I love thee. Yet thou dost hate +me like a poison thing. And still I love thee, on my word, and on the +remnant of mine honour!” His voice was husky. “Let thee go?—send thee +back?—eat my sweet and have it too?—how? Nay, nay; thy happy cake +would be my dough—it will not serve.” He shook his head, and looked +about to see that all was fast. “Yet, Nick, I say I love thee, on +my soul!” + +Slipping to the bedside with stealthy step, he laid a fat little Banbury +cheese and some brown sweet cakes beside Nick’s pillow; then came out +hurriedly and barred the door. + +The fire in the great hall had gone out, and the room was growing cold. +The table stood by the chimney-side, where supper had been laid, Carew +brought a napkin from the linen-chest, and spread it upon the board. +Then he went to the server’s screen and looked behind it, and tried the +latches of the doors; and having thus made sure that all was safe, came +back to the table again, and setting the rush-light there, turned the +contents of his purse into the napkin. + +There were both gold and silver. The silver he put back into the purse +again; the gold he counted carefully; and as he counted, laying the +pieces one by one in little heaps upon the cloth, he muttered under his +breath, like a small boy adding up his sums in school, saying over and +over again, “One for me, and one for thee, and two for Cicely Carew. One +for me, and one for thee, and two for Cicely Carew”; and told the coins +off in keeping with the count, so that the last pile was as large as +both the others put together. Then slowly ending, “None for me, and one +for thee, and two for Cicely Carew,” he laid the last three nobles +with the rest. + +Then he arose and stood a moment listening to the silence in the house. +An old he rat that was gnawing a rind on the hearth looked up, and ran a +little nearer to his hole. “Tsst! come back,” said Carew, “I’m no cat!” +and from the sliding panel in the wall took out a buckskin bag tied like +a meal-sack with a string. + +As he slipped the knot the throat of the bag sagged down, and a gold +piece jangled on the floor. Carew started as if all his nerves had +leaped within him at the unexpected sound, and closed the panel like a +flash. Then, setting his foot upon the fallen coin, he stopped its +spinning, and with one hand on his poniard, peering right and left, blew +the candle out. + +A little while he stood and listened in the dark; a little while his +feet went to and fro in the darkness. The wind cried in the chimney. Now +and then the casements shivered. The timbers in the wall creaked with +the cold, and the boards in the stairway cracked. Then the old he rat +came back to his rind, and his mate came out of the crack in the wall, +working her whiskers hungrily and snuffing the smell of the candle-drip; +for there was no sound, and the coast of rat-land was clear. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX + + +AT THE FALCON INN + + And then there came both mist and snow, + And it grew wondrous cold; + And ice mast-high came floating by, + As green as emerald. + +So says that wonder-ballad of the sea. + +But over London came a gale that made the chimneys rock; and after it +came ice and snow, sharp, stinging sleet, and thumping hail, with +sickening winds from the gray west, sour yellow fogs, and plunging rain, +till all the world was weary of the winter and the cold. + +But winter could not last forever. March crept onward, and the streets +of London came up out of the slush again with a glad surprise of +cobblestones. The sickly mist no longer hung along the river; and +sometimes upon a breezy afternoon it was pleasant and fair, the sun +shone warmly on one’s back, and the rusty sky grew bluer overhead. The +trees in Paris Garden put out buds; the lilac-tips began to swell; there +was a stirring in the roadside grass, and now and then a questing bird +went by upon the wind, piping a little silver thread of song. Nick’s +heart grew hungry for the woods of Arden and the gathering rush of the +waking water-brooks among the old dead leaves. The rain beat in at his +window, but he did not care for that, and kept it open day and night; +for when he wakened in the dark he loved to feel the fingers of the wind +across his face. + +Sometimes the moonlight through the ragged clouds came in upon the +floor, and in the hurry of the wind he almost fancied he could hear the +Avon, bank-full, rushing under the old mill-bridge. + +Then one day there came a shower with a warm south wind, sweet and +healthful and serene; and through the shower, out of the breaking +clouds, a sun-gleam like a path of gold straight down to the heart of +London town; and on the south wind, down that path of gold, came April. + +That night the wind in the chimney fluted a glad, new tune; and when +Nick looked out at his casement the free stars danced before him in the +sky. And when he felt that fluting wind blow warm and cool together on +his cheek, the chimneys mocked him, and the town was hideous. + + * * * * * + +It fell upon an April night, when the moon was at its full, that Master +Carew had come to the Falcon Inn, on the Southwark side of the river, +and had brought Nick with him for the air. Master Heywood was along, and +it was very pleasant there. + +The night breeze smelled of green fields, and the inn was thronged with +company. The windows were bright, and the air was full of voices. Tables +had been brought out into the garden and set beneath the arbor toward +the riverside. The vines of the arbor were shooting forth their first +pink-velvet leaves, and in the moonlight their shadows fell like +lacework across the linen cloths, blurred by the glow of the lanterns +hung upon the posts. + +The folds in the linen marked the table-tops with squares like a +checker-board, and Nick stood watching from the tap-room door, as if it +were a game. Not that he cared for any game; but that watching dulled +the teeth of the hunger in his heart to be out of the town and back +among the hills of Warwickshire, now that the spring was there. + +“What, there!—a pot of sack!” cried one gay fellow with a +silver-bordered cloak. “A pot of sack?” cried out another with a feather +like a rose-bush in his cap; “two pots ye mean, my buck!” “Ods-fish my +skin!” bawled out a third—“ods-fish my skin! Two pots of beggarly sack +on a Saturday night and a moon like this? Three pots, say I—and make it +malmsey, at my cost! What, there, knave! the table full of pots—I’ll +pay the score.” + +At that they all began to laugh and to slap one another on the back, and +to pound with their fists upon the board until the pewter tankards +hopped; and when the tapster’s knave came back they were singing at the +top of their lungs, for the spring had gotten into their wits, and they +were beside themselves with merriment. + +Master Tom Heywood had a little table to himself off in a corner, and +was writing busily upon a new play. “A sheet a day,” said he, “doth do +a wonder in a year”; so he was always at it. + +Gaston Carew sat beyond, dicing with a silky rogue who had the coldest, +hardest face that Nick had ever seen. His eyes were black and beady as a +rat’s, and were circled about by a myriad of little crowfoot lines; and +his hooked nose lay across his thin blue lips like a finger across a +slit in a dried pie. His long, slim hands were white as any woman’s; and +his fingers slipped among the laces at his cuffs like a weasel in a +tangle-patch. + +They had been playing for an hour, and the game had gone beyond all +reason. The other players had put aside the dice to watch the two, and +the nook in which their table stood was ringed with curious faces. A +lantern had been hung above, but Carew had had it taken down, as its +bottom made a shadow on the board. Carew’s face was red and white by +turns; but the face of the other had no more color than candle-wax. + +At the end of the arbor some one was strumming upon a gittern. It was +strung in a different key from that in which the men were singing, and +the jangle made Nick feel all puckered up inside. By and by the playing +ceased, and the singers came to the end of their song. In the brief hush +the sharp rattle of the dice sounded like the patter of cold hail +against the shutter in the lull of a winter storm. + +Then there came a great shouting outside, and, looking through the +arbor, Nick saw two couriers on galloway nags come galloping over the +bowling-green to the arbor-side, calling for ale. They drank it in +their saddles, while their panting horses sniffed at the fresh young +grass. Then they galloped on. Through the vines, as he looked after +them, Nick could see the towers of London glittering strangely in the +moonlight. It was nearly high tide, and up from the river came the sound +of women’s voices and laughter, with the pulse-like throb of oars and +the hoarse calling of the watermen. + +In the great room of the inn behind him the gallants were taking their +snuff in little silver ladles, and talking of princesses they had met, +and of whose coach they had ridden home in last from tennis at my +lord’s. Some were eating, some were drinking, and some were puffing at +long clay pipes, while others, by twos, locked arm in arm, went +swaggering up and down the room, with a huge talking of foreign lands +which they had never so much as seen. + +“A murrain on the luck!” cried Carew, suddenly. “Can I throw nothing but +threes and fours?” + +A muffled stir ran round. Nick turned from the glare of the open door, +and looked out into the moonlight. It seemed quite dark at first. The +master-player’s face was bitter white, and his fingers were tapping a +queer staccato upon the table-top. + +“A plague on the bedlam dice!” said he. “I think they are bewitched.” + +“Huff, ruff, and snuff!” the other replied. “Don’t get the +mubble-fubbles, Carew: there’s nought the matter with the dice.” + +A man came down from the tap-room door. Nick stepped aside to let him +pass. He was a player, by his air. + +He wore a riding-cloak of Holland cloth, neither so good nor so bad as a +riding-cloak might be, but under it a handsome jerkin overlaid with +lace, and belted with a buff girdle in which was a light Spanish rapier. +His boots were russet cordovan, mid-thigh tall, and the rowels of his +clinking spurs were silver stars. He was large of frame, and his curly +hair was short and brown; so was his pointed beard. His eyes were +singularly bright and fearless, and bluff self-satisfaction marked his +stride; but his under lip was petulant, and he flicked his boot with his +riding-whip as he shouldered his way along. + +“Ye cannot miss the place, sir,” called the tapster after him. “’Tis +just beyond Ned Alleyn’s, by the ditch. Ye’ll never mistake the ditch, +sir—Billingsgate is roses to it.” + +“Oh, I’ll find it fast enough,” the stranger answered; “but he should +have sent to meet me, knowing I might come at any hour. ’Tis a felon +place for thieves; and I’ve not heart to skewer even a goose on such a +night as this.” + +At the sudden breaking of voices upon the silence, Carew looked up, with +a quarrel ripe for picking in his eye. But seeing who spoke, such a +smile came rippling from the corners of his mouth across his dark, +unhappy face that it was as if a lamp of welcome had been lighted there. +“What, Ben!” he cried; “thou here? Why, bless thine heart, old gossip, +’tis good to see an honest face amid this pack of rogues.” + +There was a surly muttering in the crowd. Carew threw his head back +haughtily and set his knuckles to his hip. “A pack of rogues, I say,” he +repeated sharply; “and a fig for the whole pack!” There was a certain +wildness in his eyes. No one stirred or made reply. + +“Good! Gaston,” laughed the stranger, with a shrug; “picking thy company +still, I see, for quantity, and not for quality. No, thank ’e; none of +the tap for me. My Lord Hunsdon was made chamberlain in his father’s +stead to-day, and I’m off hot-foot with the news to Will’s.” + +He gathered his cloak about him, and was gone. + +“Ye’ve lost,” said the man who was dicing with Carew. + +Nick stepped down from the tap-room door. His ears were tingling with +the sound: “I’m off hot-foot with the news to Will’s.” + +“Hot-foot with the news to Will’s”? + +To “Will’s”? “Will” who? + +The man was a player, by his air. + +Nick hurriedly looked around. Carew’s wild eyes were frozen upon the +dice. The bandy-legged man was drinking at a table near the door. The +crimson ribbon in his ear looked like a patch of blood. + +He saw Nick looking at him, and made a horrible face. He would have +sworn likewise, but there was half a quart of ale in his can; so he +turned it up and drank instead. It was a long, long drink, and half his +face was buried in the pot. + +When he put it down the boy was gone. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI + + +IN THE TWINKLING OF AN EYE + +In a garden near the old bear-yard, among tall rose-trees which would +soon be in bloom, a merry company of men were sitting around a table +which stood in the angle of a quick-set hedge beside a path graveled +with white stones and bordered with mussel-shells. + +There was a house hard by with creamy-white walls, green-shuttered +windows, and a red-tiled roof. The door of the house was open, showing a +little ruddy fire upon a great hearth, kindled to drive away the damp; +and in the windows facing the garden there were lights shining warmly +out among the rose-trees. + +The table was spread with a red damask cloth, on which were a tray of +raisins and nuts and a small rally of silver cups. Above the table an +apple-tree nodded its new leaves, and from an overhanging bough a +lantern hung glowing like a great yellow bee. + +There was a young fellow with a white apron and a jolly little whisper +of a whistle on his puckered lips going around with a plate of cakes and +a tray of honey-bowls; and the men were eating and drinking and +chatting together so gaily, and seemed to be all such good friends, that +it was a pleasant thing just to see them sitting there in their +comfortable leather-bottomed chairs, taking life easily because the +spring had come again. + +One tall fellow was smoking a pipe. He held the bowl in one hand, and +kept tamping down the loose tobacco with his forefinger. Now and again +he would be so eagerly talking he would forget that his finger was in +the bowl, and it would be burned. He would take it out with a look of +quaint surprise, whereat the rest all roared. Another was a fat, round +man who chuckled constantly to himself, as if this life were all a joke; +and there was a quite severe, important-seeming, oldish man who said, +“Hem—hem!” from time to time, as if about to speak forthwith, yet never +spoke a word. There was also among the rest a raw-boned, lanky fellow +who had bitten the heart out of an oat-cake and held the rim of it in +his fingers like a new moon, waving it around while he talked, until the +little man beside him popped it deftly out of his grasp and ate it +before the other saw where it was gone. But when he made out what was +become of that oat-cake he rose up solemnly, took the little man by the +collar as a huntsman takes a pup, and laid him softly in the grass +without a word. + +What a laughing and going-on was then! It was as if they all were +growing young again. And in the middle of the row a head popped over the +quick-set hedge, and a most stentorian voice called out, “Here, here! Go +slow—I want a piece of that!” + +They all looked up, and the moment they spied that laughing face and +cloak of Holland cloth, raised a shout of “What, there!” “Well met!” +“Come in, Ben.” “Where hast thou tarried so long?” and the like; while +the waiter ran to open the gate and let the stranger in. + +A quiet man with a little chestnut-colored beard and hazel eyes, which +lit up quickly at sight of the stranger over the hedge, arose from his +place by the table and went down the path with hands outstretched to +greet him. + +“Welcome, welcome, hurly-burly Ben,” said he. “We’ve missed thee from +the feast. Art well? And what’s the good word?” + +“Ah, Will, thou gentle rogue!” the other cried, catching the hands of +the quiet man and holding him off while he looked at him there. “How +thou stealest one’s heart with the glance of thine eye! I was going to +give thee a piece of my mind; but a plague, old heart! who could chide +thee to thy face? Am I well? Ay, exceedingly well. And the news? Jove! +the best that was baked at the Queen’s to-day, and straight from the +oven-door! The thing is done—huff, puff, and away we go! But come +on—this needs telling to the rest.” + +They came up the path together, the big man crunching the mussel-shells +beneath his sturdy tread, and so into the circle of yellow light that +came down from the lantern among the apple-leaves, the big man with his +arm around the quiet man’s shoulders, holding his hand; for the quiet +man was not so large as the other, although withal no little man +himself, and very well built and straight. + +His tabard was black, without sleeves, and his doublet was scarlet +silk. His collar and wrist-bands were white Holland linen turned loosely +back, and his face was frank and fair and free. He was not old, but his +hair was thin upon his brow. His nose and his full, high forehead were +as cleanly cut as a finely chiseled stone; and his sensitive mouth had a +curve that was tender and sad, though he smiled all the while, a glimpse +of his white teeth showing through, and his little mustache twitching +with the ripple of his long upper lip. His flowing hair was +chestnut-colored, like his beard, and curly at the ends; and his +melancholy eyelids told of study and of thought; but under them the +kindly eyes were bright with pleasant fancy. + +“What, there, all of you!” said he; “a good investment for your ears!” + +“Out with it, Will!” they cried, and whirled around. + +“The Queen hath made Lord Hunsdon chamberlain,” the big man said. + +An instant’s hush fell on the garden. No one spoke; but they caught each +other by the hand, and, suddenly, the silence there seemed somehow +louder than a shout. + +“We’ll build the new Globe play-house, lads, and sweep the Bankside +clean from end to end!” a sturdy voice broke sharply on the hush. And +then they cheered—a cheer so loud that people on the river stopped +their boats, and came ashore asking where the fire was. And over all the +cheering rose the big man’s voice; for the quiet man was silent, and the +big man cheered for two. + +“Pull up thy rose-bushes, Will,” cried one, “and set out laurels in +their stead—thou’lt need them all for crowns.” + +“Ay, Will, our savor is not gone—Queen Bess knows salt!” + +“With Will and Ben for meat and crust, and the rest of us for seasoning, +the court shall say it never ate such master pie!” + +“We’ll make the walls of Whitehall ring come New Year next, or Twelfth +Night and Shrove Tuesday.” + +“Ay, that we will, old gossip! Here’s to thee!” + +“Here’s to the company, all of us!” + +“And a health to the new Lord Chamberlain!” + +“God save the Queen!” + +With that, they shook each other’s hands, as merry as men could be, and +laughed, because their hearts ran short of words; for these were young +Lord Hunsdon’s men, late players to the Queen in the old Lord +Chamberlain’s troupe; who, for a while deprived of favor by _his_ death, +were now, by this succession of his son, restored to prestige at the +court, and such preferment as none beside them ever won, not even the +Earl of Pembroke’s company. + +There was Kemp, the stout tragedian; gray John Lowin, the walking-man; +Diccon Burbage, and Cuthbert his brother, master-players and managers; +Robin Armin, the humorsome jester; droll Dick Tarlton, the king of +fools. There was Blount, and Pope, and Hemynge, and Thomas Greene, and +Joey Taylor, the acting-boy, deep in the heart of a honey-bowl, yet who +one day was to play “Hamlet” as no man ever has played it since. And +there were others, whose names and doings have vanished with them; and +beside these—“What, merry hearts!” the big man cried, and clapped his +neighbor on the back; “we’ll have a supper at the Mermaid Inn. We’ll +feast on reason, reason on the feast, toast the company with wit, and +company the wit with toast—why, pshaw, we are good fellows all!” He +laughed, and they laughed with him. _That_ was “rare Ben Jonson’s” way. + +“There’s some one knocking, master,” said the boy. + +A quick tap-tapping rattled on the wicket-gate. + +“Who is it?” asked the quiet man. + +“’Tis Edmund with the news,” cried one. + +“I’ve dished him,” said Ben Jonson. + +“’Tis Condell come to raise our wages,” said Robin Armin, with a grin. + +“Thou’lt raise more hopes than wages, Rob,” said Tarlton, mockingly. + +“It is a boy,” the waiter said, “who saith that he must see thee, +master, on his life.” + +The quiet man arose. + +“Sit down, Will,” said Greene; “he’ll pick thy pocket with a doleful +lie.” + +“There’s nothing in it, Tom, to pick.” + +“Then give him no more than half,” said Armin, soberly, “lest he +squander it!” + +“He saith he comes from Stratford town,” the boy went on. + +“Then tell him to go back again,” said Master Ben Jonson; “we’ve sucked +the sweet from Stratford town—be off with his seedy dregs!” + +“Go bring him in,” said the quiet man. + +“Nay, Will, don’t have him in. This makes the third within the +month—wilt father all the strays from Stratford town? Here, Ned, give +him this shilling, and tell him to be off to his cony-burrow as fast as +his legs can trot.” + +“We’ll see him first,” said the quiet man, stopping the other’s shilling +with his hand. + +“Oh, Willy-nilly!” the big man cried; “wilt be a kite to float all the +draggle-tails that flutter down from Warwickshire?” + +“Why, Ben,” replied the quiet man, “’tis not the kite that floats the +tail, but the wind which floats both kite and tail. Thank God, we’ve +caught the rising wind; so, hey for draggle-tails!—we’ll take up all +we can.” + +The waiter was coming up the path, and by his side, a little back, +bareheaded and flushed with running, came Nicholas Attwood. He had +followed the big man through the fields from the gates of the +Falcon Inn. + +He stopped at the edge of the lantern’s glow and looked around +uncertain, for the light was in his eyes. + +“Come, boy, what is it?” asked Ben Jonson. + +Nick peered through the brightness. “Master Will—Master Will +Shakspere!” he gasped. + +“_Well, my lady_,” said the quiet man; “_what wilt thou have of me_?” + +Nick Attwood had come to his fellow-townsman at last. + +Over the hedge where the lantern shone through the green of the +apple-leaves came a sound of voices talking fast, a listening hush, then +a clapping of hands, with mingled cries of “Good boy!” “Right, lad; do +not leave her till thou must!” and at the last, “What! take thee home to +thy mother, lad? Ay, marry, that will I!” And the _last_ was the voice +of the quiet man. + +Then followed laughter and scraps of song, merry talking, and good +cheer, for they all made glad together. + + * * * * * + +Across the fields beyond the hedge the pathway ran through Paris Garden, +stark and clear in the white moon-shine, save here and there where the +fog from the marsh crept down to meet the river-mist, and blotted out +the landscape as it went. In the north lay London, stirring like a +troubled sea. In the south was drowsy silence, save for the crowing of +the cocks, and now and then the baying of a hound far off. The smell of +bears was on the air; the river-wind breathed kennels. The Swan +play-house stood up, a great, blue blank against the sky. The sound of +voices was remote. The river made a constant murmur in the murk beyond +the landing-place; the trees moved softly. + +Low in the west, the lights of the Falcon Inn were shrunk to pin-pricks +in the dark. They seemed to wink and to shut their eyes. It was too far +to see the people passing by. + +On a sudden one light winked and did not open any more; and through the +night a faint, far cry came drifting down the river-wind—a long, thin +cry, like the wavering screech of an owl—a shrill, high, ugly sound; +the lights began to wink, wink, wink, to dance, to shift, to gather into +one red star. Out of the darkness came a wisp of something moving in +the path. + +Where the moonlight lay it scudded like the shadow of a windy cloud, now +lost to sight, now seen again. Out of the shadow came a man, with hands +outstretched and cap awry, running as if he were mad. As he ran he +looked from side to side, and turned his head for the keener ear. He was +panting hard. + +When he reached the ditch he paused in fault, ran on a step or two, went +back, stood hesitating there, clenching his hands in the empty wind, +listening; for the mist was grown so thick that he could scarcely see. + +But as he stood there doubtfully, uncertain of the way, catching the +wind in his nervous hands, and turning about in a little space like an +animal in a cage, over the hedge through the apple-boughs a boy’s clear +voice rose suddenly, singing a rollicking tune, with a snapping of +fingers and tapping of feet in time to its merry lilt. + +Then the man in the mist, when he heard that clear, high voice, turned +swiftly to it, crying out, “The Skylark! Zooks! It is the place!” and +ran through the fog to where the lantern glimmered through the hedge. +The light fell in a yellow stream across his face. He was pale as a +ghost. “What, there, within! What, there!” he panted. “Shakspere! +Jonson! Any one!” + +The song stopped short. “Who’s there?” called the voice of the quiet +man. + +“’Tis I, Tom Heywood. there’s to-do for players at the Falcon Inn. +Gaston Carew hath stabbed Fulk Sandells, for cheating at the dice, as +dead as a door-nail, and hath been taken by the watch!” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII + + +THE LAST OF GASTON CAREW + +It was Monday morning, and a beautiful day. + +Master Will Shakspere was reading a new play to Masters Ben Jonson and +Diccon Burbage at the Mermaid Inn. + +Thomas Pope, the player, and Peter Hemynge, the manager, were there with +them at the table under the little window. The play was a comedy of a +wicked money-lender named Shylock; but it was a comedy that made Nick +shudder as he sat on the bench by the door and listened to it through +happy thoughts of going home. + +Sunday had passed like a wondrous dream. He was free. Master Carew was +done for. On Saturday morning Master Will Shakspere would set out on the +journey to Stratford town, for his regular summer visit there; and Nick +was going with him—going to Stratford—going home! + +The comedy-reading went on. Master Burbage, his moving face alive, +leaned forward on his elbows, nodding now and then, and saying, “Fine, +fine!” under his breath. Master Pope was making faces suited to the +words, not knowing that he did so. Nick watched him, fascinated. + +A man came hurrying down Cheapside, and peered in at the open door. It +was Master Dick Jones of the Admiral’s company. He looked worried and as +if he had not slept. His hair was uncombed, and the skin under his eyes +hung in little bags. He squinted so that he might see from the broad +daylight outside into the darker room. + +“Gaston Carew wants to see thee, Skylark,” said he, quickly, seeing Nick +beside the door. + +Nick drew back. It seemed as if the master-player must be lying in wait +outside to catch him if he stirred abroad. + +“He says that he must see thee without fail, and that straightway. He is +in Newgate prison. Wilt come?” + +Nick shook his head. + +“But he says indeed he _must_ see thee. Come, Skylark, I will bring thee +back. I am no kidnapper. Why, it is the last thing he will ever ask of +thee. ’Tis hard to refuse so small a favor to a doomed man.” + +“Thou’lt surely fetch me back?” + +“Here, Master Will Shakspere,” called the Admiral’s player; “I am to +fetch the boy to Carew in Newgate on an urgent matter. My name is +Jones—Dick Jones, of Henslowe’s company. Burbage knows me. I’ll bring +him back.” + +Master Shakspere nodded, reading on; and Burbage waved his hand, +impatient of interruption. Nick arose and went with Jones. + +As they came up Newgate street to the crossing of Giltspur and the Old +Bailey, the black arch of the ancient gate loomed grimly against the +sky, its squinting window-slits peering down like the eyes of an old +ogre. The bell of St. Sepulchre’s was tolling, and there was a crowd +about the door, which opened, letting out a black cart in which was a +priest praying and a man in irons going to be hanged on Tyburn Hill. His +sweating face was ashen gray; and when the cart came to the church door +they gave him mockingly a great bunch of fresh, bright flowers. Nick +could not bear to watch. + +The turnkey at the prison gate was a crop-headed fellow with jowls like +a bulldog, and no more mercy in his face than a chopping-block. “Gaston +Carew, the player?” he growled. “Ye can’t come in without a permit from +the warden.” + +“We must,” said Jones. + +“Must?” said the turnkey. “I am the only one who says ‘must’ in +Newgate!” and slammed the door in their faces. + +The player clinked a shilling on the bar. + +“It was a boy he said would come,” growled the turnkey through the +wicket, pocketing the shilling; “so just the boy goes up. A shilling’s +worth, ye mind, and not another wink.” He drew Nick in, and dropped +the bars. + +It was a foul, dark place, and full of evil smells. Drops of water stood +on the cold stone walls, and a green mould crept along the floor. The +air was heavy and dank, and it began to be hard for Nick to breathe. The +men in the dungeons were singing a horrible song, and in the corner was +a half-naked fellow shackled to the floor. “Give me a penny,” he said, +“or I will curse thee.” Nick shuddered. + +“Up with thee,” said the turnkey, gruffly, unlocking the door to the +stairs. + +The common room above was packed with miserable wretches, fighting, +dancing, gibbering like apes. Some were bawling ribald songs, others +moaning with fever. The strongest kept the window-ledges near light and +air by sheer main force, and were dicing on the dirty sill. The turnkey +pushed and banged his way through them, Nick clinging desperately to +his jerkin. + +In a cell at the end of the corridor there was a Spanish renegade who +cursed the light when the door was opened, and cursed the darkness when +it closed. “Cesare el Moro, Cesare el Moro,” he was saying over and over +again to himself, as if he feared that he might forget his own name. + +Carew was in the middle cell, ironed hand and foot. He had torn his +sleeves and tucked the lace under the rough edges of the metal to keep +it from chafing the skin. He sat on a pile of dirty straw, with his face +in his folded arms upon his knees. By his side was a broken biscuit and +an empty stone jug. He had his fingers in his ears to shut out the +tolling of the knell for the man who had gone to be hanged. + +The turnkey shook the bars. “Here, wake up!” he said. + +Carew looked up. His eyes were swollen, and his face was covered with a +two days’ beard. He had slept in his clothes, and they were full of +broken straw and creases. But his haggard face lit up when he saw the +boy, and he came to the grating with an eager exclamation: “And thou +hast truly come? To the man thou dost hate so bitterly, but wilt not +hate any more. Come, Nick, thou wilt not hate me any more. ’Twill not +be worth thy while, Nick; the night is coming fast.” + +“Why, sir,” said Nick, “it is not so dark outside—’tis scarcely noon; +and thou wilt soon be out.” + +“Out? Ay, on Tyburn Hill,” said the master-player, quietly. “I’ve spent +my whole life for a bit of hempen cord. I’ve taken my last cue. Last +night, at twelve o’clock, I heard the bellman under the prison walls +call my name with the names of those already condemned. The play is +nearly out, Nick, and the people will be going home. It has been a wild +play, Nick, and ill played.” + +“Here, if ye’ve anything to say, be saying it,” said the turnkey. “’Tis +a shilling’s worth, ye mind.” + +Carew lifted up his head in the old haughty way, and clapped his +shackled hand to his hip—they had taken his poniard when he came into +the gaol. A queer look came over his face; taking his hand away, he +wiped it hurriedly upon his jerkin. There were dark stains upon +the silk. + +“Ye sent for me, sir,” said Nick. + +Carew passed his hand across his brow. “Yes, yes, I sent for thee. I +have something to tell thee, Nick.” He hesitated, and looked through the +bars at the boy, as if to read his thoughts. “Thou’lt be good and true +to Cicely—thou’lt deal fairly with my girl? Why, surely, yes.” He +paused again, as if irresolute. “I’ll trust thee, Nick. We’ve taken +money, thou and I; good gold and silver—tsst! what’s that?” He +stopped suddenly. + +Nick heard no sound but the Spaniard’s cursing. + +“’Tis my fancy,” Carew said. “Well, then, we’ve taken much good money, +Nick; and I have not squandered all of it. Hark’e—thou knowest the old +oak wainscot in the dining-hall, and the carven panel by the Spanish +chest? Good, then! Upon the panel is a cherubin, and—tsst! what’s +that, I say?” + +There was a stealthy rustling in the right-hand cell. The fellow in it +had his ear pressed close against the bars. “He is listening,” +said Nick. + +The fellow cursed and shook his fist, and then, when Master Carew +dropped his voice and would have gone on whispering, set up so loud a +howling and clanking of his chains that the lad could not make out one +word the master-player said. + +“Peace, thou dog!” cried Carew, and kicked the grating. But the fellow +only yelled the louder. + +Carew looked sorely troubled. “I dare not let him hear,” said he. “The +very walls of Newgate leak.” + +“_Yak, yah, yah, thou gallows-bird!_” + +“Yet I must tell thee, Nick.” + +“_Yah, yah, dangle-rope!_” + +“Stay! would Will Shakspere come? Why, here, I’ll send him word. He’ll +come—Will Shakspere never bore a grudge; and I shall so soon go where +are no grudges, envy, storms, or noise, but silence and the soft lap of +everlasting sleep. He’ll come—Nick, bid him come, upon his life, to +the Old Bailey when I am taken up.” + +Nick nodded. It was strange to have his master beg. + +Carew was looking up at a thin streak of light that came in through the +narrow window at the stair. “Nick,” said he, huskily, “last night I +dreamed I heard thee singing; but ’twas where there was a sweet, green +field and a stream flowing through a little wood. Methought ’twas on the +road past Warwick toward Coventry. Thou’lt go there some day and +remember Gaston Carew, wilt not, lad? And, Nick, for thine own mother’s +sake, do not altogether hate him; he was not so bad a man as he might +easily have been.” + +“Come,” growled the turnkey, who was pacing up and down like a surly +bear; “have done. ’Tis a fat shilling’s worth.” + +“’Twas there I heard thee sing first, Nick,” said Carew, holding to the +boy’s hands through the bars. “I’ll never hear thee sing again.” + +“Why, sir, I’ll sing for thee now,” said Nick, choking. + +The turnkey was coming back when Nick began suddenly to sing. He looked +up, staring. Such a thing dumfounded him. He had never heard a song like +that in Newgate. There were rules in prison. “Here, here,” he cried, “be +still!” But Nick sang on. + +The groaning, quarreling, and cursing were silent all at once. The guard +outside, who had been sharpening his pike upon the window-ledge, stopped +the shrieking sound. Silence like a restful sleep fell upon the weary +place. Through dark corridors and down the mildewed stairs the quaint +old song went floating as a childhood memory into an old man’s dream; +and to Gaston Carew’s ear it seemed as if the melody of earth had all +been gathered in that little song—all but the sound of the voice of his +daughter Cicely. + +It ceased, and yet a gentle murmur seemed to steal through the mouldy +walls, of birds and flowers, sunlight and the open air, of once-loved +mothers, and of long-forgotten homes. The renegade had ceased his +cursing, and was whispering a fragment of a Spanish prayer he had not +heard for many a day. + +Carew muttered to himself. “And now old cares are locked in charmèd +sleep, and new griefs lose their bitterness, to hear thee sing—to hear +thee sing. God bless thee, Nick!” + +“’Tis three good shillings’ worth o’ time,” the turnkey growled, and +fumbled with the keys. “All for one shilling, too,” said he, and kicked +the door-post sulkily. “But a plague, I say, a plague! ’Tis no one’s +business but mine. I’ve a good two shillings’ worth in my ears. ’Tis +thirty year since I ha’ heard the like o’ that. But what’s a gaol +for?—man’s delight? Nay, nay. Here, boy, time’s up! Come out o’ that.” +But he spoke so low that he scarcely heard himself; and going to the end +of the corridor, he marked at random upon the wall. + +“Oh, Nick, I love thee,” said the master-player, holding the boy’s hands +with a bitter grip. “Dost thou not love me just a little? Come, lad, say +that thou lovest me.” + +[Illustration: “‘WHY, SIR, I’LL SING FOR THEE NOW.’ SAID NICK, +CHOKING.”] + +“Nay, Master Carew,” Nick answered soberly, “I do na love +thee, and I will na say I do, sir; but I pity thee with all my heart. +And, sir, if thy being out would keep me stolen, still I think I’d wish +thee out—for Cicely. But, Master Carew, do na break my hands.” + +The master-player loosed his grasp. “I will not seek to be excused to +thee,” he said huskily. “I’ve prisoned thee as that clod prisons me; +but, Nick, the play is almost out, down comes the curtain on my heels, +and thy just blame will find no mark. Yet, Nick, now that I am fast and +thou art free, it makes my heart ache to feel that ’twas not I who set +thee free. Thou canst go when pleaseth thee, and thank me nothing for +it. And, Nick, as my sins be forgiven me, I truly meant to set thee free +and send thee home. I did, upon my word, and on the remnant of +mine honour!” + +“Time’s good and up, sirs,” said the turnkey, coming back. + +Carew thrust his hand into his breast. + +“I must be going, sir,” said Nick. + +“Ay, so thou must—all things must go. Oh, Nick, be friendly with me +now, if thou wert never friendly before. Kiss me, lad. There—now thy +hand.” The master-player clasped it closely in his own, and pressing +something into the palm, shut down the fingers over it. “Quick! Keep it +hid,” he whispered. “’Tis the chain I had from Stratford’s burgesses, to +some good usage come at last.” + +“Must I come and fetch thee out?” growled the turnkey. + +“I be coming, sir.” + +“Thou’lt send Will Shakspere? And, oh, Nick,” cried Carew, holding him +yet a little longer, “thou’lt keep my Cicely from harm?” + +“I’ll do my best,” said Nick, his own eyes full. + +The turnkey raised his heavy bunch of keys. “I’ll ding thee out o’ this” +said he. + +And the last Nick Attwood saw of Gaston Carew was his wistful eyes +hunting down the stairway after him, and his hand, with its torn fine +laces, waving at him through the bars. + +And when he came to the Mermaid Inn Master Shakspere’s comedy was done, +and Master Ben Jonson was telling a merry tale that made the tapster +sick with laughing. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII + + +CICELY DISAPPEARS + +That Master Will Shakspere should be so great seemed passing strange to +Nick, he felt so soon at home with him. It seemed as if the master-maker +of plays had a magic way of going out to and about the people he met, +and of fitting his humor to them as though he were a glover with their +measure in his hand. + +With Nick he was nothing all day long but a jolly, wise, and +gentle-hearted boy, wearing his greatness like an old cloth coat, as if +it were a long-accustomed thing, and quite beyond all pride, and went +about his business in a very simple way. But in the evening when the +wits were met together at his house, and Nick sat on the hindmost bench +and watched the noble gentlemen who came to listen to the sport, Master +Will Shakspere seemed to have the knack of being ever best among them +all, yet of never too much seeming to be better than the rest. + +And though, for the most part, he said but little, save when some pet +fancy moved him, when he did speak his conversation sparkled like a +little meadow brook that drew men’s best thoughts out of them like +water from a spring. + +And when they fell to bantering, he could turn the fag-end of another +man’s nothing to good account in a way so shrewd that not even Master +Ben Jonson could better him—and Master Ben Jonson set up for a wit. But +Master Shakspere came about as quickly as an English man-of-war, dodged +here and there on a breath of wind, and seemed quite everywhere at once; +while Master Jonson tacked and veered, and loomed across the elements +like a great galleon, pouring forth learned broadsides with a most +prodigious boom, riddling whatever was in the way, to be sure, but often +quite missing the point—because Master Shakspere had come about, hey, +presto, change! and was off with the argument, point and all, upon a +totally different tack. + +Then “Tush!” and “Fie upon thee, Will!” Master Jonson would cry with his +great bluff-hearted laugh, “thou art a regular flibbertigibbet! I’ll +catch thee napping yet, old heart, and fill thee so full of pepper-holes +that thou wilt leak epigrams. But quits—I must be home, or I shall +catch it from my wife. Faith, Will, thou shouldst see my little Ben!” + +“I’ll come some day,” Master Shakspere would say; “give him my love”; +and his mouth would smile, though his eyes were sad, for his own son +Hamnet was dead. + +Then, when the house was still again, and all had said good-by, Nick +doffed his clothes and laid him down to sleep in peace. Yet he often +wakened in the night, because his heart was dancing so. + +In the morning, when the world began to stir outside, and the early +light came in at the window, he slipped out of bed across the floor, and +threw the casement wide. Over the river, and over the town, and over the +hills that lay blue in the north, was Stratford! + +The damp, cool air from the garden below seemed a primrose whiff from +the lane behind his father’s house. He could hear the cocks crowing in +Surrey, and the lowing of the kine. There was a robin singing in a bush +under the window, and there was some one in the garden with a pair of +pruning-shears. Snip-snip! snip-snip! he heard them going. The light in +the east was pink as a peach-bloom and too intense to bear. + +“Good-morrow, Master Early-bird!” a merry voice called up to him, and a +nosegay dropped on the window-ledge at his side. He looked down. There +in the path among the rose-trees was Master Will Shakspere, laughing. He +had on an ancient leathern jacket and a hat with a hole in its crown; +and the skirts of the jacket were dripping with dew from the bushes. + +“Good-morrow, sir,” said Nick, and bowed. “It is a lovely day.” + +“Most beautiful indeed! How comes the sun?” + +“Just up, sir; the river is afire with it now. O-oh!” Nick held his +breath, and watched the light creep down the wall, darting long bars of +rosy gold through the snowy bloom of the apple-trees, until it rested +upon Master Shakspere’s face, and made a fleeting glory there. + +Then Master Shakspere stretched himself a little in the sun, laughing +softly, and said, “It is the sweetest music in the world—morning, +spring, and God’s dear sunshine; it starteth kindness brewing in the +heart, like sap in a withered bud. What sayest, lad? We’ll fetch the +little maid to-day; and then—away for Stratford town!” + + * * * * * + +But when Master Shakspere and Nicholas Attwood came to Gaston Carew’s +house, the constables had taken charge, the servants were scattering +hither and thither, and Cicely Carew was gone. + +The bandy-legged man, the butler said, had come on Sunday in great +haste, and packing up his goods, without a word of what had befallen his +master, had gone away, no one knew whither, and had taken Cicely with +him. Nor had they questioned what he did, for they all feared the rogue, +and judged him to have authority. + +Nick caught a moment at the lintel of the door. The house was full of +voices, and the sound of trampling feet went up and down from room to +room; but all he heard was Gaston Carew’s worn voice saying, “Thou’lt +keep my Cicely from harm?” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV + + +THE BANDY-LEGGED MAN + +Until night fell they sought the town over for a trace of Cicely; but +all to no avail. The second day likewise. + +The third day passed, and still there were no tidings. Master +Shakspere’s face grew very grave, and Nick’s heart sickened till he +quite forgot that he was going home. + +But on the morning of the fourth day, which chanced to be the 1st of +May, as he was standing in the door of a printer’s stall in St. Paul’s +Churchyard, watching the gaily dressed holiday crowds go up and down, +while Robin Dexter’s apprentices bound white-thorn boughs about the +brazen serpent overhead, he spied the bandy-legged man among the rout +that passed the north gate by St. Martin’s le Grand. + +He had a yellow ribbon in his ear, and wore a bright plum-colored cloak, +at sight of which Nick cried aloud, for it was the very cloak which +Master Gaston Carew wore when he first met him in the Warwick road. The +rogue was making for the way which ran from Cheapside to the river, and +was walking very fast. + +“Master Shakspere! Master Shakspere!” Nick called out. But Master +Shakspere was deep in the proofs of a newly published play, and did +not hear. + +The yellow ribbon fluttered in the sun—was gone behind the churchyard +wall. + +“Quick, Master Shakspere! quick!” Nick cried; but the master-writer +frowned at the inky page; for the light in the printer’s shop was dim, +and the proof was very bad. + +The ribbon was gone down the river-way—and with it the hope of finding +Cicely. Nick shot one look into the stall. Master Shakspere, deep in his +proofs, was deaf to the world outside. Nick ran to the gate at the top +of his speed. In the crowd afar off a yellow spot went fluttering like a +butterfly along a country road. Without a single second thought, he +followed it as fast as his legs could go. + +Twice he lost it in the throng. But the yellow patch bobbed up again in +the sunlight far beyond, and led him on, and on, and on, a breathless +chase, down empty lanes and alley-ways, through unfrequented courts, +among the warehouses and wharf-sheds along the river-front, into the +kennels of Billingsgate, where the only sky was a ragged slit between +the leaning roofs. His heart sank low and lower as they went, for only +thieves and runagates who dared not face the day in honest streets were +gathered in wards like these. + +In a filthy purlieu under Fish-street Hill, where mackerel-heads and +herrings strewed the drains, and sour kits of whitebait stood +fermenting in the sun, the bandy-legged man turned suddenly into a dingy +court, and when Nick reached the corner of the entry-way was gone as +though the earth had swallowed him. + +Nick stopped dismayed, and looked about, His forehead was wet and his +breath was gone. He had no idea where they were, but it was a dismal +hole. Six forbidding doorways led off from the unkempt court, and a +rotting stairway sagged along the wall. A crop-eared dog, that lay in +the sun beside a broken cart, sprang up with its hair all pointing to +its head, and snarled at him with a vicious grin. “Begone, thou cur!” he +cried, and let drive with a stone. The dog ran under the cart, and +crouched there barking at him. + +Through an open door beyond there came a sound of voices as of people in +some further thoroughfare. Perchance the bandy-legged man had passed +that way? He ran across the court, and up the steps; but came back +faster than he went, for the passageway there was blind and black, a +place unspeakable for dirt, and filled with people past description. A +woman peered out after him with red eyes blinking in the sun. “Ods +bobs!” she croaked, “a pretty thing! Come hither, knave; I want the +buckle off thy cloak.” + +Nick, shuddering, started for the street. But just as he reached the +entry-port a door in the courtyard opened, and the bandy-legged man came +out with a bag upon his back, leading Cicely by the hand. + +Seeing Nick, he gave a cry, believing himself pursued, and made for the +open door again; but almost instantly perceiving the boy to be alone, +slammed shut the door and followed him instead, dragging Cicely over the +stones, and shouting hoarsely, “Stop there! stop!” + +Nick’s heart came up in his very throat. His legs went water-weak. He +ran for the open thoroughfare without once looking back. Yet while he +ran he heard Cicely cry out suddenly in pain, “Oh, Gregory, Gregory, +thou art hurting me so!” and at the sound the voice of Gaston Carew rang +like a bugle in his ears: “Thou’lt keep my Cicely from harm?” He stopped +as short as if he had butted his head against a wall, whirled on his +heel, stood fast, though he was much afraid; and standing there, his +head thrown back and his fists tight clenched, as if some one had struck +him in the face, he waited until they came to where he was. “Thou +hulking, cowardly rogue!” said he to the bandy-legged man. + +But the bandy-legged man caught him fast by the arm, and hurried on into +the street, scanning it swiftly up and down. “Two birds with one stone, +by hen!” he chuckled, when he saw that the coast was clear. “They’ll +fetch a pretty penny by and by.” + +Poor Cicely smiled through her tears at Nick. “I knew thou wouldst come +for me soon,” said she. “But where is my father?” + +“He’s dead as a herring,” snarled Gregory. + +“That’s a lie,” said Nick; “he is na dead.” + +“Don’t call me liar, knave—by hen, I’ll put a stopper on thy voice!” + +“Thou wilt na put a stopper on a jug!” cried Nick, his heart so hot for +Cicely that he quite forgot himself. “I’d sing so well without a +voice—it would butter thy bread for thee! Loose my arm, thou rogue.” + +“Not for a thousand golden crowns! I’m no tom-noddy, to be gulled. And, +hark ’e, be less glib with that ‘rogue’ of thine, or I’ll baste thy back +for thee.” + +“Oh, don’t beat Nick!” gasped Cicely. + +“Do na fret for me,” said Nick; “I be na feared of the cowardly rogue!” + +Crack! the man struck him across the face. Nick’s eyes flashed hot as a +fire-coal. He set his teeth, but he did not flinch. “Do na thou strike +me again, _thou rogue!_” said he. + +As he spoke, on a sudden his heart leaped up and his fear was utterly +gone. In its place was a something fierce and strange—a bitter +gladness, a joy that stung and thrilled him like great music in the +night. A tingling ran from head to foot; the little hairs of his flesh +stood up; he trampled the stones as he hurried on. In his breast his +heart was beating like a bell; his breath came hotly, deep and slow; the +whole world widened on his gaze. Oh, what a thing is the heart of a boy! +how quickly great things are done therein! One instant, put him to the +touch—the thing is done, and he is nevermore the same. Like a keen, +cold wind that blows through a window in the night, life’s courage had +breathed on Nick Attwood’s heart; the _man_ that slept in the heart of +the boy awoke and was aware. The old song roared in Nick’s ears: + + Sir Francis Drake sailed round the world, + Round the world, round the world; + John Hawkins fought the “Victory,” + And we ha’ beaten Spain! + +Whither they were going he did not know. Whither they were going he did +not care. He was English: this was England still! He set his teeth and +threw back his shoulders. “I be na feared of him!” said he. + +“But my father will come for us soon, won’t he, Nick?” faltered Cicely. + +“Eigh! just don’t he wish that he might!” laughed Goole. + +“Oh, ay,” said she, and nodded bravely to herself; “he may be very busy +now, and so he cannot come. But presently he will come for me and fetch +me home again.” She gave a joyous little skip. “To fetch me home +again—ay, surely, my father will come for me anon.” + +A lump came up in Nick Attwood’s throat. “But what hath he done to thee, +Cicely, and where is thy pretty gown?” he asked, as they hurried on +through the crooked way; for the gown she wore was in rags. + +Cicely choked down a sob. “He hath kept me locked up in a horrible +place, where an old witch came in the night and stole my clothes away. +And he says that if money doth not come for me soon he will turn me out +to starve.” + +“To starve? Nay, Cicely; I will na leave thee starve. I’ll go with thee +wherever he taketh thee; I’ll fend for thee with all my might and main, +and none shall harm thee if I can help. So cheer up—we will get away! +Thou needst na gripe me so, thou rogue; I am going wherever she goes.” + +[Illustration: ““DO NA THOU STRIKE ME AGAIN, _THOU ROGUE!_” SAID NICK”] + +“I’ll see that ye do,” growled the bandy-legged man. “But take the other +hand of her, thou jackanapes, and fetch a better pace than this—I’ll +not be followed again.” + +His tone was bold, but his eyes were not; for they were faring through +the slums toward Whitechapel way, and the hungry crowd eyed Nick’s silk +cloak greedily. One burly rascal with a scar across his face turned back +and snatched at it. For his own safety’s sake, the bandy-legged man +struck up into a better thoroughfare, where he skulked along like a fox +overtaken by dawn, fearing to meet some dog he knew. + +“Oh, Gregory, go slow!” pleaded Cicely, panting for breath, and +stumbling over the cobblestones. Goole’s only answer was a scowl. Nick +trotted on sturdily, holding her hand, and butting his shoulder against +the crowd so that she might not be jostled; for the press grew thick and +thicker as they went. All London was a-Maying, and the foreigners from +Soho, too. Up in the belfries, as they passed, the bells were clanging +until the whole town rang like a smithy on the eve of war, for madcap +apprentices had the ropes, and were ringing for exercise. + +Thicker and thicker grew the throng, as though the sea were sweeping +through the town. Then, at the corner of Mincing Lane, where the +cloth-workers’ shops were thick, all at once there came an uproarious +din of men’s voices singing together: + + “Three merry boys, and three merry boys, + And three merry boys are we, + As ever did sing in a hempen string + Beneath the gallows-tree!” + +And before the bandy-legged man could chance upon a doorway in which to +stand out of the rush, they were pressed against the wall flat as cakes +by a crowd of bold apprentices in holiday attire going out to a wager of +archery to be shot in Finsbury Fields. + +At first all Nick could see was legs: red legs, yellow legs, blue legs, +green legs, long legs, strong legs—in truth, a very many of all sorts +of legs, all stepping out together like a hundred-bladed shears; for +these were the Saddlers of Cheapside and the Cutters of Mincing Lane, +tall, ruddy-faced fellows, all armed with clubs, which they twirled and +tossed and thwacked one another with in sport. Some wore straw hats with +steeple-crowns, and some flat caps of green and white, or red and +orange-tawny. Some had long yew bows and sheaves of arrows decked with +garlands; and they were all exceedingly daubed in the face with dripping +cherry-juice and with cheese, which they munched as they strode along. + +“What, there, Tom Webster, I say,” cried one, catching sight of Cicely’s +face, “here is a Queen o’ the May for thee!” + +His broad-shouldered comrade stopped in the way, and with him all the +rest. “My faith, Jem Armstrong, ’tis the truth, for once in thy life!” +quoth he, and stared at Cicely. Her cheeks were flushed, and her panting +red lips were fallen apart so that her little white teeth showed +through. Her long, dark lashes cast shadow circles under her eyes. Her +curly hair in elfin locks tossed all about her face, and through it was +tied a crimson ribbon, mocking the quick color of the blood which came +and went beneath her delicate skin. “My faith!” cried Tommy Webster, +“her face be as fair as a K in a copy-book! Hey, bullies, what? let’s +make her queen!” + +“A queen?” “What queen?” “Where is a queen?” “I granny! Tom Webster hath +catched a queen!” “Where is she, Tom?” “Up with her, mate, and let a +fellow see.” + +“Hands off, there!” snarled the bandy-legged man. + +“Up with her, Tom!” cried out the strapping fellow at his back. “A queen +it is; and a right good smacking toll all round—I have not bussed a +maid this day! Up with her, Tom!” + +“Stand back, ye rogues, and let us pass!” + +But alas and alack for the bandy-legged man! He could not ruffle and +swagger it off as Gaston Carew had done of old; a London apprentice was +harder nuts than his cowardly heart could crack. + +“Stand back, ye rogues!” he cried again. + +“Rogues? Rogues? Who calls us rogues? Hi, Martin Allston, crack me his +crown!” + +“Good masters,” faltered Gregory, seeing that bluster would not serve, +“I meant ye no offense. I pr’ythee, do not keep a father and his +children from their dying mother’s bed!” + +“Nay—is that so?” asked Webster, sobering instantly “Here, lads, give +way—their mother be a-dying.” + +The crowd fell back. “Ah, sirs,” whined Goole, scarce hiding the joy in +his face, “she’ll thank ye with her dying breath. Get on, thou knave!” +he muttered fiercely in Nick’s ear. + +But Nick stood fast, and caught Tom Webster by the arm. “The fellow +lieth in his throat,” said he. “My mother is in Stratford town; and +Cicely’s mother is dead.” + +“Thou whelp!” cried the bandy-legged man, and aimed a sudden blow at +Nick, “I’ll teach thee to hold thy tongue.” + +“Oh, no, ye won’t,” quoth Thomas Webster, interposing his long oak +staff, and thrusting the fellow away so hard that he thumped against the +wall; “there is no school on holidays! Thou’lt teach nobody here to hold +his tongue but thine own self—and start at that straightway. Dost take +me?—say? Now, Jacky Sprat, what’s all the coil about? Hath this sweet +fellow kidnapped thee?” + +“Nay, sir, not me, but Cicely; and do na leave him take her, sir, for he +treats her very ill!” + +“The little rascal lies,” sneered Goole, though his lips were the color +of lead; “I am her legal guardian!” + +“What! How? Thou wast her father but a moment since!” + +“Nay, nay,” Goole stammered, turning a sickly hue; “her father’s nearest +friend, I said,—he gave her in my charge.” + +“My father’s friend!” cried Cicely. “Thou? Thou? His common groom! Why, +he would not give my finger in thy charge.” + +“He is the wiser daddy, then!” laughed Jemmy Armstrong, “for the fellow +hath a T for Tyburn writ upon his face.” + +The eyes of the bandy-legged man began to shift from side to side; but +still he put a bold front on. “Stand off,” said he, and tried to thrust +Tom Webster back. “Thou’lt pay the piper dear for this! The knave is a +lying vagabond. He hath stolen this pack of goods.” + +“Why, fie for shame!” cried Cicely, and stamped her little foot. “Nick +doth not steal, and thou knowest it, Gregory Goole! It is thou who hast +stolen my pretty clothes, and the wine from my father’s house!” + +“Good, sweetheart!” quoth Tom Webster, eying the bandy-legged man with a +curious snap in his honest eyes. “So the rascal hath stolen other things +than thee? I thought that yellow bow of his was tied tremendous high! +Why, mates, the dog is a branded rogue—that ribbon is tied through the +hole in his ear!” + +Gregory Goole made a dash through the throng where the press was least. + +Thump! went Tommy Webster’s club, and a little puff of dust went up from +Gregory’s purple cloak. But he was off so sharply, and dodged with such +amazing skill, that most of the blows aimed at his head hummed through +the empty air, or thwacked some stout apprentice in the ribs as they all +went whooping after him. He was out of the press and away like a deer +down a covert lane between two shops ere one could say, “Jack, Robin’s +son,” and left the stout apprentices at every flying leap. So presently +they all gave over the chase, and came back with the bag he had dropped +as he ran; and were so well pleased with themselves for what they had +done that they gave three cheers for all the Cloth-workers and Saddlers +in London, and then three more for Cicely and Nick. They would no doubt +have gone right on and given three for the bag likewise, being strongly +in the humor of it; but “Hi, Tom Webster!” shouted one who could hardly +speak for cherries and cheese and puffing, “what’s gone with the queen +we’re to have so fast, and the toll that we’re to take?” + +Tom Webster pulled at his yellow beard, for he saw that Cicely was no +common child, and of gentler birth than they. “I do not think she’ll +bide the toll,” said he, in half apology. + +“What! is there anything to pay?” she asked with a rueful quaver in her +voice. “Oh, Nick, there is to pay!” + +“We have no money, sirs,” said Nick; “I be very sorry.” + +“If my father were here,” said Cicely, “he would give thee a handful of +silver; but I have not a penny to my name.” She looked up into Tom +Webster’s face. “But, sir,” said she, and laid her hand upon his arm, +“if ye care, I will kiss thee upon the cheek.” + +“Why, marry come up! My faith!” quoth he, and suddenly blushed—to his +own surprise the most of all—“why, what? Who’d want a sweeter penny +for his pains?” But “Here—nay, nay!” the others cried; “ye’ve left us +out. Fair play, fair play!” + +All Cicely could see was a forest of legs that filled the lane from wall +to wall, and six great fellows towering over her. “Why, sirs,” cried +she, confusedly, while her face grew rosy red, “ye all shall kiss my +hand—if—if—” + +“If what?” they roared. + +“If ye will but wipe your faces clean.” + +At the shout of laughter they sent up the constable of the cloth-men’s +ward awoke from a sudden dream of war and bloody insurrection, and came +down Cheapside bawling, “Peace, in the name of the Queen!” But when he +found it was only the apprentices of Mincing Lane out Maying, he stole +away around a shop, and made as if it were some other fellow. + +They took the humor of it like a jolly lot of bears, and all came +crowding round about, wiping their mouths on what came first, with a +lick and a promise,—kerchief, doublet, as it chanced,—laughing, and +shouldering each to be first. “Up with the little maid there, Tom!” they +roared lustily. + +Cicely gave him both her hands, and—“Upsydaisy!”—she was on the top of +the corner post, where she stood with one hand on his brawny shoulder to +steady herself, like a flower growing by a wall, bowing gravely all +about, and holding out her hand to be kissed with as graceful an air as +a princess born, and withal a sweet, quaint dignity that abashed the +wildest there. + +Some one or two came blustering as if her hand were not enough; but +Jemmy Armstrong rapped them so sharply over the pate, with “Soft, ye +loons, her hand!” that they dabbed at her little finger-tips, and were +out of his reach in a jiffy, rubbing their polls with a sheepish grin; +for Jemmy Armstrong’s love-pats would have cracked a hazelnut. + +Some came again a second time. One came even a third. But Cicely knew +him by his steeple-hat, and tucked her hand behind her, saying, “Fie, +sir, thou art greedy!” Whereupon the others laughed and punched him in +the ribs with their clubs, until he bellowed, “Quits! We’ll all be late +to the archery if we be not trotting on.” + +Nick’s face fell at the merry shout of “Finsbury, Finsbury, ho!” “I dare +na try to take her home alone,” said he; “that rogue may lie in wait +for us.” + +“Oh, Nick, he is not coming back?” cried Cicely; and with that she threw +her arms around Tom Webster’s neck. “Oh, take us with thee, sir—don’t +leave us all alone!” + +Webster pulled his yellow beard. “Nay, lass, it would not do,” said he; +“we’ll be mad larks by evening. But there, sweetheart, don’t weep no +more! That rogue shall not catch thee again, I promise that.” + +“Why, Tom,” quoth Armstrong, “what’s the coil? We’ll leave them at the +Boar’s Head Inn with sixpence each until their friends can come for +them. Hey, mates, up Great East Cheap!” And off they marched to the +Boar’s Head Inn. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXV + + +A SUDDEN RESOLVE + +Nick and Cicely were sitting on a bench in the sun beside the tap-room +door, munching a savory mutton-pie which Tommy Webster had bought for +them. Beside them over the window-sill the tapster twirled his spigot +cheerfully, and in the door the carrier was bidding the +serving-maids good-by. + +Around the inn-yard stood a row of heavy, canvas-covered wains and +lumbering two-wheeled carts, each surmounted by a well-armed guard, and +drawn by six strong horses with harness stout as cannon-leathers. The +hostlers stood at the horses’ heads, chewing at wisps of barley-straw as +though their other fare was scant, which, from their sleek rotundity, +was difficult to believe. The stable-boy, with a pot of slush, and a +head of hair like a last year’s haycock, was hastily greasing a +forgotten wheel; while, out of the room where the servants ate, the +drivers came stumbling down the steps with a mighty smell of onions and +brawn. The weekly train from London into the north was ready to be off. + +A portly, well-clad countryman, with a shrewd but good-humored +countenance, and a wife beside him round and rosy of face as he, came +bustling out of the private door. “How far yet, Master John?” he asked +as he buckled on his cloak. “Forty-two miles to Oxford, sir,” replied +the carrier. “We must be off if we’re to lie at Uxbridge overnight; for +there hath been rain beyond, sir, and the roads be werry deep.” + +Nick stared at the man for Oxford. Forty-two miles to Oxford! And Oxford +lay to the south of Stratford fifty miles and two. Ninety-four miles +from Stratford town! Ninety-four miles from home! + +“When will my father come for us, Nick?” asked Cicely, turning her hand +in the sun to see the red along the edges of her fingers. + +“Indeed, I can na tell,” said Nick; “Master Will Shakspere is coming +anon, and I shall go with him.” + +“And leave me by myself?” + +“Nay; thou shalt go, too. Thou’lt love to see his garden and the +rose-trees—it is like a very country place. He is a merry gentleman, +and, oh, so kind! He is going to take me home.” + +“But my father will take us home when he comes.” + +“To Stratford town, I mean.” + +“Away from daddy and me? Why, Nick!” + +“But my mother is in Stratford town.” + +Cicely was silent. “Then I think I would go, too,” she said quite +softly, looking down as if there were a picture on the ground. “When +one’s mother is gone there is a hurting-place that nought doth ever +come into any more—excepting daddy, and—and thee. We shall miss thee, +Nick, at supper-times. Thou’lt come back soon?” + +“I am na coming back.” + +“Not coming back?” She laid the mutton-pie down on the bench. + +“No—I am na coming back” + +“Never?” + +“Never.” + +She looked at him as if she had not altogether understood. + +Nick turned away. A strange uneasiness had come upon him, as if some one +were staring at him fixedly. But no one was. There was a Dutchman in the +gate who had not been there just before. “He must have sprung up out of +the ground,” thought Nick, “or else he is a very sudden Dutchman!” He +had on breeches like two great meal-sacks, and a Flemish sea-cloth +jacket full of wrinkles, as if it had been lying in a chest. His back +was turned, and Nick could not help smiling, for the fellow’s shanks +came out of his breeches’ bottoms like the legs of a letter A. He looked +like a pudding on two skewers. + +Cicely slowly took up the mutton-pie once more, but did not eat. “Is na +the pasty good?” asked Nick. + +“Not now,” said she. + +Nick turned away again. + +The Dutchman was not in the gate. He had crossed the inn-yard suddenly, +and was sitting close within the shadow of the wall, though the sunny +side was pleasanter by far. His wig was hanging down about his face, +and he was talking with the tapster’s knave, a hungry-looking fellow +clad in rusty black as if some one were dead, although it was a holiday +and he had neither kith nor kin. The knave was biting his under lip and +staring straight at Nick. + +“And will I never see thee more?” asked Cicely. + +“Oh, yes,” said Nick; “oh, yes.” + +But he did not know whether she ever would or no. + +“Gee-wup, Dobbin! Yoicks, Ned! Tschk—tschk!” The leading cart rolled +slowly through the gate. A second followed it. The drivers made a +cracking with their whips, and all the guests came out to see them off. +But the Dutchman, as the rest came out, arose, and with the tapster’s +knave went in at a narrow entrance beyond the tap-room steps. + +“And when will Master Shakspere come for thee?” asked Cicely once more, +the cold pie lying in her lap. + +“I do na know. How can I tell? Do na bother me so!” cried Nick, and dug +his heels into the cracks between the paving-stones; for after all that +had come to pass the starting of the baggage-train had made him sick +for home. + +Cicely looked up at him; she thought she had not heard aright. He was +staring after the last cart as it rolled through the inn-yard gate; his +throat was working, and his eyes were full of tears. + +“Why, Nick!” said she, “art crying?” + +“Nay,” said he, “but very near,” and dashed his hand across his face. +“Everything doth happen so all-at-once—and I am na big enough, Cicely. +Oh, Cicely, I would I were a mighty king—I’d make it all up +different somehow!” + +“Perhaps thou wilt be some day, Nick,” she answered quietly. “Thou’ldst +make a very lovely king. I could be queen; and daddy should be Lord +Admiral, and own the finest play-house in the town.” + +But Nick was staring at the tap-room door. A voice somewhere had +startled him. The guests were gone, and none was left but the tapster’s +knave leaning against the inner wall. + +“Thy mother should come to live with us, and thy father, and all thy +kin,” said Cicely, dreamily smiling; “and the people would love us, +there would be no more war, and we should be happy forevermore.” + +But Nick was listening,—not to her,—and his face was a little pale. He +felt a strange, uneasy sense of some one staring at his back. He whirled +about—looked in at the tap-room window. For an instant a peering face +was there; then it was gone—there was only the Dutchman’s frowzy wig +and striped woolen cap. But the voice he had heard and the face he had +seen were the voice and the face of Gregory Goole. + +“I should love to see thy mother, Nick,” said Cicely. + +He got up steadily, though his heart was jolting his very ribs. “Thou +shalt right speedily!” said he. + +The carts were standing in a line. The carrier came down the steps with +his stirrup-cup in hand. Nick’s heart gave a sudden, wild, resolute +leap, and he touched the carrier on the arm. “What will ye charge to +carry two as far as Stratford town?” he asked. His mouth was dry as a +dusty road, for the Dutchman had risen from his seat and was coming +toward the door. + +“I do na haul past Oxford,” said the man. + +“To Oxford, then—how much? Be quick!” Nick thrust his hand into his +breast where he carried the burgesses’ chain. + +“Eightpence the day, for three days out—two shilling ’tis, and find +yourself; it is an honest fare.” + +The tapster’s knave came down the steps; the Dutchman stood within the +shadow of the door. + +“Wilt carry us for this?” Nick cried, and thrust the chain into the +fellow’s hands. + +He gasped and almost let it fall. “Beshrew my heart! Gadzooks!” said he, +“art thou a prince in hiding, boy? ’T would buy me, horses, wains, and +all. Why, man alive, ’tis but a nip o’ this!” + +“Good, then,” said Nick, “’tis done—we’ll go. Come, Cicely, we’re +going home!” + +Staring, the carrier followed him, weighing the chain in his hairy hand. +“Who art thou, boy?” he cried again. “This matter hath a queer look.” + +“’Twas honestly come by, sir,” cried Nick, no longer able to conceal a +quiver in his voice, “and my name is Nicholas Attwood; I come from +Stratford town.” + +“Stratford-on-Avon? Why, art kin to Tanner Simon Attwood there, Attwood +of Old Town?” + +“He is my father, sir. Oh, leave us go with thee—take the whole +chain!” + +Slap went the carrier’s cap in the dirt! “Leave thee go wi’ me? +Gadzooks!” he cried, “my name be John Saddler—why, what? my daddy +liveth in Chapel lane, behind Will Underhill’s. I stole thy father’s +apples fifteen years. What! go wi’ me? Get on the wain, thou little +fool—get on all the wains I own, and a plague upon thine eightpence, +lad! Why, here; Hal telled me thou wert dead, or lost, or some such +fairy tale! Up on the sheepskin, both o’ ye!” + +The Dutchman came from the tap-room door and spoke to the tapster’s +knave; but the words which he spoke to that tapster’s knave were +anything but Dutch. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVI + + +WAYFARING HOME + +At Kensington watering-place, five miles from London town, Nick held the +pail for the horses of the Oxford man. “Hello, my buck!” quoth he, and +stared at Nick; “where under the sun didst pop from all at once?” and, +looking up, spied Cicely upon the carrier’s wain. “What, John!” he +shouted, “thou saidst there were no more!” + +“No more there weren’t, sir,” said John, “but there be now”; and out +with the whole story. + +“Well, I ha’ farmed for fifty year,” cried honest Roger Clout, “yet +never have I seen the mate to yonder little maid, nor heard the like o’ +such a tale! Wife, wife!” he cried, in a voice as round and full of +hearty cheer as one who calls his own cattle home across his own fat +fields. “Come hither, Moll—here’s company for thee. For sure, John, +they’ll ride wi’ Moll and I; ’tis godsend—angels on a baggage-cart! +Moll ha’ lost her only one, and the little maid will warm the cockles o’ +her heart, say nought about mine own. La, now, she is na feared o’ me; +God bless thee, child! Look at her, Moll—as sweet as honey and the +cream o’ the brindle cow.” + +So they rode with kindly Roger Clout and his good wife by Hanwell, +Hillingdon Hill, and Uxbridge, where they rested at the inn near old St. +Margaret’s, Cicely with Mistress Clout, and Nick with her good man. And +in the morning there was nothing to pay, for Roger Clout had footed all +the score. + +Then on again, through Beaconsfield and High Wycombe, into and over the +Chiltern Hills in Buckinghamshire. In parts the land was passing fair, +with sheep in flocks upon the hills, and cattle knee-deep in the grass; +but otherwhere the way was wild, with bogs and moss in all the deeps, +and dense beech forests on the heights; and more than once the guards +made ready their match-locks warily. But stout John Saddler’s train was +no soft cakes for thieves, and they came up through Bucks scot-free. + +At times it drizzled fitfully, and the road was rough and bad; but the +third day was a fair, sweet day, and most exceeding bright and fresh. +The shepherds whistled on the hills, and the milkmaids sang in the +winding lanes among the white-thorn hedges, the smell of which was +everywhere. The singing, the merry voices calling, the comfortable +lowing of the kine, the bleating of the sheep, the clinking of the +bridle-chains, and the heavy ruttle of the carts filled the air with +life and cheer. The wind was blowing both warm and cool; and, oh, the +blithe breeze of the English springtime! Nick went up the green hills, +and down the white dells like a leaf in the wind, now ahead and now +behind the winding train, or off into the woods and over the fields for +a posy-bunch for Cicely, calling and laughing back at her, and filling +her lap with flowers and ferns until the cart was all one great, +sweet-smelling bower. + +As for Cicely, Nick was there, so she was very well content. She had +never gone a-visiting in all her life before; and she would see Nick’s +mother, and the flowers in the yard, the well, and that wondrous stream, +the Avon, of which Nick talked so much. “Stratford is a fair, fair town, +though very full of fools,” her father often said. But she had nothing +to do with the fools, and daddy would come for her again; so her +laughter bubbled like a little spring throughout the livelong day. + +As the sun went down in the yellow west they came into Oxford from the +south on the easterly side. The Cherwell burned with the orange light +reflected from the sky, and the towers of the famous town of olden +schools and scholars stood up black-purple against the western glow, +with rims of gold on every roof and spire. + +Up the High street into the corn-market rolled the tired train, and +turned into the rambling square of the old Crown Inn near Carfax church, +a large, substantial hostelry, one of merry England’s best, +clean-chambered, homelike, full of honest cheer. + +There was a shout of greeting everywhere. The hostlers ran to walk the +horses till they cooled, and to rub them down before they fed, for they +were all afoam. Master Davenant himself saw to the storing of the wains; +and Mistress Davenant, a comely dame, with smooth brown hair and ruddy +cheeks, and no less wit than sprightly grace, was in the porch to meet +the company. “Well, good Dame Clout,” said she, “art home again? What +tales we’ll have! Didst see Tom Lane? No? Pshaw! But buss me, Moll; +we’ve missed thy butter parlously.” And then quite free she kissed both +Nick and Cicely. + +“What, there, Dame Davenant!” cried Roger Clout, “art passing them +around?” and laughed, “Do na forget me.” + +“Nay, nay,” she answered, “but I’m out. Here, Nan,” she called to the +smutty-faced scullery-maid, “a buss for Master Clout; his own Moll’s +busses be na fine enough since he hath been to town.” + +So, joking, laughing, they went in; while plain John Saddler backed out +of the porch as sooty Nan came running up, for fear the jilt might offer +somewhat of the sort to him, and was off in haste to see to his teams. +“There’s no leaving it to the boys,” said he, “for they’d rub ’em down +wi’ a water-pail, and give ’em straw to drink.” + +When the guests all came to the fourpenny table to sup, Nick spoke to +Master Roger Clout. “Ye’ve done enough for us, sir; thank ye with all my +heart; but I’ve a turn will serve us here, and, sir, I’d rather stand on +mine own legs. Ye will na mind?” And when they all were seated at the +board, he rose up stoutly at the end, and called out brave and clear: +“Sirs, and good dames all, will ye be pleased to have some music while +ye eat? For, if ye will, the little maid and I will sing you the latest +song from London town, a merry thing, with a fine trolly-lolly, sirs, +to glad your hearts with hearing.” + +Would they have music? To be sure! Who would not music while he ate must +be a Flemish dunderkopf, said they. So Nick and Cicely stood at one side +of the room upon a bench by the server’s board, and sang together, while +he played upon Mistress Davenant’s gittern: + + “Hey, laddie, hark to the merry, merry lark! + How high he singeth clear: + ‘Oh, a morn in spring is the sweetest thing + That cometh in all the year! + Oh, a morn in spring is the sweetest thing + That cometh in all the year!’ + + “Ring, ting! it is the merry springtime; + How full of heart a body feels! + Sing hey, trolly-lolly! oh, to live is to be jolly, + When springtime cometh with the summer at her heels! + + “God save us all, my jolly gentlemen, + We’ll merry be to-day; + For the cuckoo sings till the greenwood rings, + And it is the month of May! + For the cuckoo sings till the greenwood rings, + And it is the month of May!” + +Then the men at the table all waved their pewter pots, and thumped upon +the board, roaring, “Hey, trolly-lolly! oh, to live is to be jolly!” +until the rafters rang. + +[Illustration: + +1. Hey! lad-die, hark, to the mer-ry, mer-ry lark, How high he sing-eth +clear. O a morn in Spring is the sweeter thing That cometh in all the +year; O a morn in Spring is the sweet-est thing That com-eth in all +the year! + +REFRAIN. Piano. + +Ring! Ting! It is the mer-ry Spring-time. How full of heart a bod-y +feels! Sing hey trol-ly lol-ly! O to live is to be jol-ly, When +Spring-time cometh with the Summer at her heels! + +2. God save us all, my jol-ly gen-tle-men! We’ll mer-ry be to-day; For +the cuc-koo sings till the greenwood rings, And it is the month of May; +For the cuc-koo sings till the greenwood rings, And it is the month +of May! + +_Repeat Refrain after 2d Stanza._] + +“What, lad!” cried good Dame Davenant, “come, stay with me all year and +sing, thou and this little maid o’ thine. ’Twill cost thee neither cash +nor care. Why, thou’ldst fill the house with such a throng as it hath +never seen!” And in the morning she would not take a penny for their +lodging nor their keep. “Nay, nay,” said she; “they ha’ brought good +custom to the house, and left me a brave little tale to tell for many a +good long year. We inns-folk be not common penny-grabbers; marry, no!” +and, furthermore, she made interest with a carrier to give them a lift +to Woodstock on their way. + +When they came to Woodstock the carrier set them down by the gates of a +park built round by a high stone wall over which they could not see, and +with his wain went in at the gate, leaving them to journey on together +through a little rain-shower. + +The land grew flatter than before. There were few trees upon the hills, +and scarcely any springs at which to drink, but much tender grass, with +countless sheep nibbling everywhere. The shower was soon blown away; the +sun came out; and a pleasant wind sprang up out of the south. Here and +there beside some cottage wall the lilacs bloomed, and the later +orchard-trees were apple-pink and cherry-white with May. + +They came to a puddle in the road where there was a dance of +butterflies. Cicely clapped her hands with glee. A goldfinch dipped +across the path like a little yellow streak of laughter in the sun. “Oh, +Nick, what is it?” she cried. + +“A bird,” said he. + +“A truly bird?” and she clasped her hands. “Will it ever come again?” + +[Illustration: ““OH, NICK, WHAT IS IT?” SHE CRIED.”] + +“Again? Oh, yes, or, la! another one—there’s plenty in the weeds.” + +And so they fared all afternoon, until at dusk they came to Chipping +Norton across the fields, a short cut to where the thin blue +supper-smoke curled up. The mists were rising from the meadows; earth +and sky were blending on the hills; a little silver sickle moon hung in +the fading violet, low in the western sky. Under an old oak in a green +place a fiddler and a piper were playing, and youths and maidens were +dancing in the brown light. Some little chaps were playing +blindman’s-buff near by, and the older folk were gathered by the tree. + +Nick came straight to where they stood, and bowing, he and Cicely +together, doffed his cap, and said in his most London tone, “We bid ye +all good-e’en, good folk.” + +His courtly speech and manner, as well as his clothes and Cicely’s +jaunty gown, no little daunted the simple country folk. Nobody spoke, +but, standing silent, all stared at the two quaint little vagabonds as +mild kine stare at passing sheep in a quiet lane. + +“We need somewhat to eat this night, and we want a place to sleep,” said +Nick. “The beds must be right clean—we have good appetites. If ye can +do for us, we will dance for you anything that ye may desire—the +‘Queen’s Own Measure,’ ‘La Donzella,’ the new ‘Allemand’ of my Lord +Pembroke, a pavone or a tinternell, or the ‘Galliard of Savoy.’ Which +doth it please you, mistresses?” and he bowed to the huddling young +women, who scarcely knew what to make of it. + +“La! Joan,” whispered one, “he calleth thee ‘mistress’! Speak up, +wench.” But Joan stoutly held her peace. + +“Or if ye will, the little maid will dance the coranto for you, straight +from my Lord Chancellor’s dancing-master; and while she dances I +will sing.” + +“Why, hark ’e, Rob,” spoke out one motherly dame, “they two do look +clean-like. Children, too—who’d gi’ them stones when they beg for +bread? I’ll do for them this night myself; and thou, the good man, and +Kit can sleep in the hutch. So there, dears; now let’s see the Lord +Chancellor’s tantrums.” + +“’Tis not a tantrums, goody,” said Nick, politely, “but a coranto.” + +“La! young master, what’s the odds, just so we sees it done? Some folks +calls whittles ‘knives,’ and thinks ’t wunnot cut theys fingers!” + +Nick took his place at the side of the ring. “Now, Cicely!” said he. + +“Thou’lt call ‘Sa—sa!’ and give me the time of the coup d’archet?” she +whispered, timidly hesitant, as she stepped to the midst of the ring. + +“Ay, then,” said he, “’tis off, ’tis off!” and struck up a lively tune, +snapping his fingers for the time. + +Cicely, bowing all about her, slowly began to dance. + +It was a pretty sight to see: her big eyes wide and earnest, her cheeks +a little flushed, her short hair curling, and her crimson gown +fluttering about her as she danced the quaint running step forward and +back across the grass, balancing archly, with her hands upon her hips +and a little smile upon her lips, in the swaying motion of the coupee, +courtesying gracefully as one tiny slippered foot peeped out from her +rustling skirt, tapping on the turf, now in front and now behind. Nick +sang like a blackbird in the hedge. And how those country lads and +lasses stared to see such winsome, dainty grace! “La me!” gaped one, +“’tis fairy folk—she doth na even touch the ground!” “The pretty dear!” +the mothers said. “Doll, why canst thou na do the like, thou lummox?” +“Tut,” sighed the buxom Doll, “I have na wingses on my feet!” + +Then Cicely, breathless, bowed, and ran to Nick’s side asking, “Was it +all right, Nick?” + +“Right?” said he, and stroked her hair; “’twas better than thou didst +ever dance it for M’sieu.” + +“For why?” said she, and flushed, with a quick light in her eyes; “for +why—because this time I danced for thee.” + +The country folk, enchanted, called for more and more. + +Nick sang another song, and he and Cicely danced the galliard together, +while the piper piped and the fiddler fiddled away like mad; and the +moon went down, and the cottage doors grew ruddy with the light inside. +Then Dame Pettiford gave them milk and oat-cakes in a bowl, a bit of +honey in the comb, and a cup of strawberries; and Cicely fell fast +asleep with the last of the strawberries in her hand. + +So they came up out of the south through Shipston-on-Stour, in the +main-traveled way, and with every mile Nick felt home growing nearer. +Streams sprang up in the meadow-lands, with sedgy islands, and lines of +silvery willows bordering their banks. Flocks and herds cropped beneath +tofts of ash and elm and beech. Snug homes peeped out of hazel copses by +the road. The passing carts had a familiar look, and at Alderminster +Nick saw a man he thought he recognized. + +Before he knew that he was there they topped Edge Hill. + +There lay Stratford! as he had left it lying; not one stick or stack or +stone but he could put his finger on and say, “This place I know!” Green +pastures, grassy levels, streams, groves, mills, the old grange and the +manor-house, the road that forked in three, and the hills of Arden +beyond it all. There was the tower of the guildhall chapel above the +clustering, dun-thatched roofs among the green and blossom-white; to +left the spire of Holy Trinity sprang up beside the shining Avon. Bull +Lane he made out dimly, and a red-tiled roof among the trees. “There, +Cicely,” he said, “_there—there!_” and laughed a queer little shaky +laugh next door to crying for joy. + +Wat Raven was sweeping old Clopton bridge. “Hullo, there, Wat! I be come +home again!” Nick cried. Wat stared at him, but knew him not at all. + +Around the corner, and down High street. Fynes Morrison burst in at the +guildschool door. “Nick Attwood’s home!” he shouted; and his eyes were +like two plates. + +Then the last lane—and the smoke from his father’s house! + +The garden gate stood open, and there was some one working in the yard. +“It is my father, Cicely,” he laughed. “Father!” he cried, and hurried +in the lane. + +Simon Attwood straightened up and looked across the fence. His arms were +held a little out, and his hands hung down with bits of moist earth +clinging to them. His brows were darker than a year before, and his hair +was grown more gray; his back, too, stooped. “Art thou a-calling me?” +he asked. + +Nick laughed. “Why, father, do ye na know me?” he cried out. “’Tis +I—’tis Nick—come home!” + +Two steps the stern old tanner took—two steps to the latchet-gate. Not +one word did he speak; but he set his hand to the latchet-gate and +closed it in Nick’s face. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVII + + +TURNED ADRIFT + +Down the path and under the gate the rains had washed a shallow rut in +the earth. Two pebbles, loosened by the closing of the gate, rolled down +the rut and out upon the little spreading fan of sand that whitened in +the grass. + +There was the house with the black beams checkering its yellow walls. +There was the old bench by the door, and the lettuce in the garden-bed. +There were the beehives, and the bees humming among the orchard boughs. + +“Why, father, what!” cried Nick, “dost na know me yet? See, ’tis I, +Nick, thy son.” + +A strange look came into the tanner’s face. “I do na know thee, boy,” he +answered heavily; “thou canst na enter here.” + +“But, father, indeed ’tis I!” + +Simon Attwood looked across the town; yet he did not see the town: +across the town into the sky, yet he did not see the sky, nor the +drifting banks of cloud, nor the sunlight shining on the clouds. “I say +I do na know thee,” he replied; “be off to the place whence ye +ha’ come.” + +Nick’s hand was almost on the latch. He stopped. He looked up into his +father’s face. “Why, father, I’ve come home!” he gasped. + +The gate shook in the tanner’s grip. “Have I na telled thee twice I do +na know thee, boy? No house o’ mine shall e’er be home for thee. Thou +hast no part nor parcel here. Get thee out o’ my sight.” + +“Oh, father, father, what do ye mean?” cried Nick, his lips scarcely +able to shape the words. + +“Do na ye ‘father’ me no more,” said Simon Attwood, bitterly; “I be na +father to stage-playing, vagabond rogues. And be gone, I say. Dost hear? +Must I e’en thrust thee forth?” He raised his hand as if to strike. + +Nick fell away from the latchet-gate, dumb-stricken with amazement, +shame, and grief. + +“Oh, Nick,” cried Cicely, “come away—the wicked, wicked man!” + +“It is my father, Cicely.” + +She stared at him. “And thou dost hate _my_ father so? Oh, Nick! oh, +Nick!” + +“Will ye be gone?” called Simon Attwood, half-way opening the gate; +“must I set constables on thee?” + +Nick did not move. A numbness had crept over him like palsy. Cicely +caught him by the hand. “Come, let us go back to my father,” she said. +“He will not turn us out.” + +Scarcely knowing what he did, he followed her, stumbling in the level +path as though he were half blind or had been beaten upon the head. He +did not cry. This was past all crying. He let himself be led along—it +made no matter where. + +In Chapel lane there was a crowd along the Great House wall; and on the +wall Ned Cooke and Martin Addenbroke were sitting. There were heads of +people moving on the porch and in the court, and the yard was all +a-bustle and to-do. But there was nobody in the street, and no one +looked at Nick and Cicely. + +The Great House did look very fair in the sun of that May day, with its +homely gables of warm red brick and sunburnt timber, its cheery roof of +Holland tile, and with the sunlight flashing from the diamond panes that +were leaded into the sashes of the great bay-window on the eastern +garden side. + +In the garden all was stir-about and merry voices. There was a little +green court before the house, and a pleasant lawn coming down to the +lane from the doorway porch. The house stood to the left of the +entry-drive, and the barn-yard to the right was loud with the blithe +crowing of the cocks. But the high brick wall shut out the street where +Nick and Cicely trudged dolefully along, and to Nick the lane seemed +very full of broken crockery and dirt, and the sunlight all a mockery. +The whole of the year had not yet been so dark as this, for there had +ever been the dream of coming home. But _now_—he suffered himself to be +led along; that was enough. + +They had come past the Great House up from Chapel street, when a girl +came out of the western gate, and with her hand above her eyes looked +after them. She seemed in doubt, but looked again, quite searchingly. +Then, as one who is not sure, but does not wish to miss a chance, called +out, “Nick Attwood! Nick Attwood!” + +Cicely looked back to see who called. She did not know the girl, but saw +her beckon. “There is some one calling, Nick,” said she. + +Nick stopped in a hopeless sort of way, and looked back down the street. + +When he had turned so that the girl at the gate could see his face, she +left the gate wide open behind her, and came running quickly up the +street after them. As she drew nearer he saw that it was Susanna +Shakspere, though she was very much grown since he had seen her last. He +watched her running after them as if it were none of his affair. But +when she had caught up with them, she took him by the shoulder smartly +and drew him back toward the gate. “Why, Nicholas Attwood,” she cried, +all out of breath, “come straightway into the house with me. My father +hath been hunting after thee the whole way up from London town!” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVIII + + +A STRANGE DAY + +There in the Great House garden under the mulberry-trees stood Master +Will Shakspere, with Masters Jonson, Burbage, Hemynge, Condell, and a +goodly number more, who had just come up from London town, as well as +Alderman Henry Walker of Stratford, good old John Combe of the college, +and Michael Drayton, the poet of Warwick. For Master Shakspere had that +morning bought the Great House, with its gardens and barns, of Master +William Underhill, for sixty pounds sterling, and was making a great +feast for all his friends to celebrate the day. + +The London players all clapped their hands as Nick and Cicely came up +the garden-path, and, “Upon my word, Will,” declared Master Jonson, “the +lad is a credit to this old town of thine. A plucky fellow, I say, a +right plucky fellow. Found the lass and brought her home all safe and +sound—why, ’tis done like a true knight-errant!” + +[Illustration: “MASTER SHAKSPERE MET THEM WITH OUTSTRETCHED HANDS.”] + +Master Shakspere met them with outstretched hands. “Thou young rogue,” +said he, smiling, “how thou hast forestalled us! Why, here we have +been weeping for thee as lost, strayed, or stolen; and all the while +thou wert nestling in the bosom of thine own sweet home. How is the +beloved little mother?” + +“I ha’ na seen my mother,” faltered Nick. “Father will na let me in.” + +“What? How?” + +“My father will na have me any more, sir—saith I shall never be his son +again. Oh, Master Shakspere, why did they steal me from home?” + +They were all crowding about now, and Master Shakspere had hold of the +boy. “Why, what does this mean?” he asked. “What on earth has happened?” + +Between the two children, in broken words, the story came out. + +“Why, this is a sorry tale!” said Master Shakspere. “Does the man not +know that thou wert stolen, that thou wert kept against thy will, that +thou hast trudged half-way from London for thy mother’s sake?” + +“He will na leave me tell him, sir. He would na even listen to me!” + +“The muckle shrew!” quoth Master Jonson. “Why, I’ll have this out with +him! By Jupiter, I’ll read him reason with a vengeance!” With a clink of +his rapier he made as if to be off at once. + +“Nay, Ben,” said Master Shakspere; “cool thy blood—a quarrel will not +serve. This tanner is a bitter-minded, heavy-handed man—he’d only throw +thee in a pickling-vat” + +“What? Then he’d never tan another hide!” + +“And would that serve the purpose, Ben? The cure should better the +disease—the children must be thought about.” + +“The children? Why, as for them,” said Master Jonson, in his blunt, +outspoken way, “I’ll think thee a thought offhand to serve the turn. +What? Why, this tanner calls us vagabonds. Vagabonds, forsooth! Yet +vagabonds are gallows-birds, and gallows-birds are ravens. And ravens, +men say, do foster forlorn children. Take my point? Good, then; let us +ravenous vagabonds take these two children for our own, Will,—thou one, +I t’ other,—and by praiseworthy fostering singe this fellow’s very +brain with shame.” + +“Why, here, here, Ben Jonson,” spoke up Master Burbage, “this is all +very well for Will and thee; but, pray, where do Hemynge, Condell, and I +come in upon the bill? Come, man, ’tis a pity if we cannot all stand +together in this real play as well as in all the make-believe.” + +“That’s my sort!” cried Master Hemynge. “Why, what? Here is a player’s +daughter who has no father, and a player whose father will not have +him,—orphaned by fate, and disinherited by folly,—common stock with us +all! Marry, ’tis a sort of stock I want some of. Kind hearts are +trumps, my honest Ben—make it a stock company, and let us all be in.” + +“That’s no bad fancy,” added Condell, slowly, for Henry Condell was a +cold, shrewd man. “There’s merit in the lad beside his voice—_that_ +cannot keep its freshness long; but his figure’s good, his wit is +quick, and he has a very taking style. It would be worth while, Dick. +And, Will,” said he, turning to Master Shakspere, who listened with half +a smile to all that the others said, “he’ll make a better _Rosalind_ +than Roger Prynne for thy new play.” + +“So he would,” said Master Shakspere; “but before we put him into ‘As +You Like It,’ suppose we ask him how he does like it? Nick, thou hast +heard what all these gentlemen have said—what hast thou to say, +my lad?” + +“Why, sirs, ye are all kind,” said Nick, his voice beginning to tremble, +“very, very kind indeed, sirs; but—I—I want my mother—oh, masters, I +do want my mother!” + +At that John Combe turned on his heel and walked out of the gate. Out of +the garden-gate walked he, and down the dirty lane, setting his cane +down stoutly as he went, past gravel-pits and pens to Southam’s lane, +and in at the door of Simon Attwood’s tannery. + + * * * * * + +It was noon when he went in; yet the hour struck, and no one came or +went from the tannery. Mistress Attwood’s dinner grew cold upon the +board, and Dame Combe looked vainly across the fields toward the town. + +But about the middle of the afternoon John Combe came out of the tannery +door, and Simon Attwood came behind him. And as John Combe came down the +cobbled way, a trail of brown vat-liquor followed him, dripping from his +clothes, for he was soaked to the skin. His long gray hair had partly +dried in strings about his ears, and his fine lace collar was a +drabbled shame; but there was a singular untroubled smile upon his +plain old face. + +Simon Attwood stayed to lock the door, fumbling his keys as if his sight +had failed; but when the heavy bolt was shut, he turned and called after +John Combe, so that the old man stopped in the way and dripped a puddle +until the tanner came up to where he stood. And as he came up Attwood +asked, in such a tone as none had ever heard from his mouth before, +“Combe, John Combe, what’s done ’s done,—and oh, John, the pity of +it,—yet will ye still shake hands wi’ me, John, afore ye go?” + +John Combe took Simon Attwood’s bony hand and wrung it hard in his stout +old grip, and looked the tanner squarely in the eyes; then, still +smiling serenely to himself, and setting his cane down stoutly as he +walked, dripped home, and got himself into dry clothes without a word. + +But Simon Attwood went down to the river, and sat upon a flat stone +under some pollard willows, and looked into the water. + +What his thoughts were no one knew, nor ever shall know; but he was +fighting with himself, and more than once groaned bitterly. At first he +only shut his teeth and held his temples in his hands; but after a while +he began to cry to himself, over and over again, “O Absalom, my son, my +son! O my son Absalom!” and then only “My son, my son!” And when the day +began to wane above the woods of Arden, he arose, and came up from the +river, walking swiftly; and, looking neither to the right nor to the +left, came up to the Great House garden, and went in at the gate. + +At the door the servant met him, but saw his face, and let him pass +without a word; for he looked like a desperate man whom there was +no stopping. + +So, with a grim light burning in his eyes, his hat in his hand, and his +clothes all drabbled with the liquor from his vats, the tanner strode +into the dining-hall. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIX + + +ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL + +The table had been cleared of trenchers and napkins, the crumbs brushed +away, and a clean platter set before each guest with pared cheese, fresh +cherries, biscuit, caraways, and wine. + +There were about the long table, beside Master Shakspere himself, who +sat at the head of the board, Masters Richard and Cuthbert Burbage, +Henry Condell, and Peter Hemynge, Master Shakspere’s partners; Master +Ben Jonson, his dearest friend; Thomas Pope, who played his finest +parts; John Lowin, Samuel Gilburne, Robert Nash, and William Kemp, +players of the Lord Chamberlain’s company; Edmund Shakspere, the actor, +who was Master William Shakspere’s younger brother, and Master John +Shakspere, his father; Michael Drayton, the Midland bard; Burgess +Robert Getley, Alderman Henry Walker, and William Hart, the Stratford +hatter, brother-in-law to Master Shakspere. + +On one side of the table, between Master Jonson and Master Richard +Burbage, Cicely was seated upon a high chair, with a wreath of early +crimson roses in her hair, attired in the gown in which Nick saw her +first a year before. On the other side of the table Nick had a place +between Master Drayton and Robert Getley, father of his friend Robin. +Half-way down there was an empty chair. Master John Combe was absent. + +It was no common party. In all England better company could not have +been found. Some few of them the whole round world could not have +matched then, and could not match now. + +It would be worth a fortune to know the things they said,—the quips, +the jests, the merry tales that went around that board,—but time has +left too little of what such men said and did, and it can be imagined +only by the brightest wits. + +’Twas Master Shakspere on his feet, welcoming his friends to his “New +Place” with quiet words that made them glad to live and to be there, +when suddenly he stopped, his hands upon the table by his chair, +and stared. + +The tanner stood there, silent, in the door. + +Nick’s face turned pale. Cicely clung to Master Jonson’s arm. + +Simon Attwood stepped into the room, and Master Shakspere went quickly +to meet him in the middle of the floor. + +“Master Will Shakspere,” said the tanner, hoarsely, “I ha’ come about a +matter.” There he stopped, not knowing what to say, for he was +overwrought. + +“Out with it, sir,” said Master Shakspere, sternly. “There is much here +to be said.” + +The tanner wrung his hat within his hands, and looked about the ring of +cold, averted faces. Soft words with him were few; he had forgotten +tender things; and, indeed, what he meant to do was no easy thing +for any man. + +“Come, say what thou hast to say,” said Master Shakspere, resolutely; +“and say it quickly, that we may have done.” + +“There’s nought that I can say,” said Simon Attwood, “but that I be +sorry, and I want my son! Nick! Nick!” he faltered brokenly, “I be wrung +for thee; will ye na come home—just for thy mother’s sake, Nick, if ye +will na come for mine?” + +Nick started from his seat with a glad cry—then stopped. “But Cicely?” +he said. + +The tanner wrung his hat within his hands, and his face was dark with +trouble. Master Shakspere looked at Master Jonson. + +Nick stood hesitating between Cicely and his father, faithful to his +promise, though his heart was sick for home. + +An odd light had been struggling dimly in Simon Attwood’s troubled eyes. +Then all at once it shone out bright and clear, and he clapped his bony +hand upon the stout oak chair. “Bring her along,” he said. “I ha’ little +enough, but I will do the best I can. Maybe ’twill somehow right the +wrong I ha’ done,” he added huskily. “And, neighbors, I’ll go surety to +the Council that she shall na fall a pauper or a burden to the town. My +trade is ill enough, but, sirs, it will stand for forty pound the year +at a fair cast-up. Bring the lass wi’ thee, Nick—we’ll make out, lad, +we’ll make out. God will na let it all go wrong.” + +Master Jonson and Master Shakspere had been nodding and talking together +in a low tone, smiling like men very well pleased about something, and +directly Master Shakspere left the room. + +“Wilt thou come, lad?” asked the tanner, holding out his hands. + +“Oh, father!” cried Nick; then he choked so that he could say no more, +and his eyes were so full of mist that he could scarcely find his father +where he stood. + +But there was no need of more; Simon Attwood was answered. + +Voices buzzed about the room. The servants whispered in the hall. Nick +held his father’s gnarled hand in his own, and looked curiously up into +his face, as if for the first time knowing what it was to have a father. + +“Well, lad, what be it?” asked the tanner, huskily, laying his hand on +his son’s curly head, which was nearly up to his shoulder now. + +“Nothing,” said Nick, with a happy smile, “only mother will be glad to +have Cicely—won’t she?” + +Master Shakspere came into the room with something in his hand, and +walking to the table, laid it down. + +It was a heavy buckskin bag, tied tightly with a silken cord, and sealed +with red wax stamped with the seals of Master Shakspere and +Master Jonson. + +Every one was watching him intently, and one or two of the gentlemen +from London were smiling in a very knowing way. + +He broke the seals, and loosening the thong which closed the bag, took +out two other bags, one of which was just double its companion’s size. +They also were tied with silken cord and sealed with the two seals on +red wax. There was something printed roughly with a quill pen upon each +bag, but Master Shakspere kept that side turned toward himself so that +the others could not see. + +“Come, come, Will,” broke in Master Jonson, “don’t be all day about it!” + +“The more haste the worse speed, Ben,” said Master Shakspere, quietly. +“I have a little story to tell ye all.” + +So they all listened. + +“When Gaston Carew, lately master-player of the Lord High Admiral’s +company, was arraigned before my Lord Justice for the killing of that +rascal, Fulk Sandells, there was not a man of his own company had the +grace to lend him even so much as sympathy. But there were still some in +London who would not leave him totally friendless in such straits.” + +“Some?” interrupted Master Jonson, bluntly; “then o-n-e spells ‘some.’ +The names of them all were Will Shakspere.” + +“Tut, tut, Ben!” said Master Shakspere, and went on: “But when the +charge was read, and those against him showed their hand, it was easy to +see that the game was up. No one saw this any sooner than Carew himself; +yet he carried himself like a man, and confessed the indictment without +a quiver. They brought him the book, to read a verse and save his neck, +perhaps, by pleading benefit of clergy. But he knew the temper of those +against him, and that nothing might avail; so he refused the plea +quietly, saying, ‘I am no clerk, sirs. All I wish to read in this case +is what my own hand wrote upon that scoundrel Sandells.’ It was soon +over. When the judge pronounced his doom, all Carew asked was for a +friend to speak with a little while aside. This the court allowed; so he +sent for me—we played together with Henslowe, he and I, ye know. He had +not much to say—for once in his life,”—here Master Shakspere smiled +pityingly,—“but he sent his love forever to his only daughter Cicely.” + +Cicely was sitting up, listening with wide eyes, and eagerly nodded her +head as if to say, “Of course.” + +“He also begged of Nicholas Attwood that he would forgive him whatever +wrong he had done him.” + +“Why, that I will, sir,” choked Nick, brokenly; “he was wondrous kind to +me, except that he would na leave me go.” + +“After that,” continued Master Shakspere, “he made known to me a sliding +panel in the wainscot of his house, wherein was hidden all he had on +earth to leave to those he loved the best, and who, he hoped, +loved him.” + +“Everybody loves my father,” said Cicely, smiling and nodding again. +Master Jonson put his arm around the back of her chair, and she leaned +her head upon it. + +“Carew said that he had marked upon the bags which were within the panel +the names of the persons to whom they were to go, and had me swear, +upon my faith as a Christian man, that I would see them safely delivered +according to his wish. This being done, and the end come, he kissed me +on both cheeks, and standing bravely up, spoke to them all, saying that +for a man such as he had been it was easier to end even so than to go +on. I never saw him again.” + +The great writer of plays paused a moment, and his lips moved as if he +were saying a prayer. Master Burbage crossed himself. + +“The bags were found within the wall, as he had said, and were sealed by +Ben Jonson and myself until we should find the legatees—for they had +disappeared as utterly as if the earth had gaped and swallowed them. +But, by the Father’s grace, we have found them safe and sound at last; +and all’s well that ends well!” + +Here he turned the buckskin bags around. + +On one, in Master Carew’s school-boy scrawl, was printed, “For myne +Onelie Beeloved Doghter, Cicely Carew”; on the other, “For Nicholas +Attewode, alias Mastre Skie-lark, whom I, Gaston Carew, Player, Stole +Away from Stratford Toune, Anno Domini 1596.” + +Nick stared; Cicely clapped her hands; and Simon Attwood sat down +dizzily. + +“There,” said Master Shakspere, pointing to the second bag, “are one +hundred and fifty gold rose-nobles. In the other just three hundred +more. Neighbor Attwood, we shall have no paupers here.” + +Everybody laughed then and clapped their hands, and the London players +gave a rousing cheer. Master Ben Jonson’s shout might have been heard in +Market Square. + +At this tremendous uproar the servants peeped at the doors and windows; +and Tom Boteler, peering in from the buttery hall, and seeing the two +round money-bags plumping on the table, crept away with such a look of +amazement upon his face that Mollikins, the scullery-maid, thought he +had seen a ghost, and fled precipitately into the pantry. + +“And what’s more, Neighbor Tanner,” said Master Richard Burbage, “had +Carew’s daughter not sixpence to her name, we vagabond players, as ye +have had the scanty grace to dub us, would have cared for her for the +honour of the craft, and reared her gently in some quiet place where +there never falls even the shadow of such evil things as have been the +end of many a right good fellow beside old Kit Marlowe and +Gaston Carew.” + +“And to that end, Neighbor Attwood,” Master Shakspere added, “we have, +through my young Lord Hunsdon, who has just been made State Chamberlain, +Her Majesty’s gracious permission to hold this money in trust for the +little maid as guardians under the law.” + +Cicely stared around perplexed. “Won’t Nick be there?” she asked. “Why, +then I will not go—they shall not take thee from me, Nick!” and she +threw her arms around him. “I’m going to stay with thee till daddy +comes, and be thine own sister forever.” + +Master Jonson laughed gently, not his usual roaring laugh, but one that +was as tender as his own bluff heart. “Why, good enough, good enough! +The woman who mothered a lad like Master Skylark here is surely fit to +rear the little maid.” + +The London players thumped the table. “Why, ’tis the very trick,” said +Hemynge. “Marry, this is better than a play.” + +“It is indeed,” quoth Condell. “See the plot come out!” + +“Thou’lt do it, Attwood—why, of course thou’lt do it,” said Master +Shakspere. “’Tis an excellent good plan. These funds we hold in trust +will keep thee easy-minded, and warrant thee in doing well by both our +little folks. And what’s more,” he cried, for the thought had just come +in his head, “I have ever heard thee called an honest man; hard, indeed, +perhaps too hard, but honest as the day is long. Now I need a tenant for +this New Place of mine—some married man with a good housewife, and +children to be delving in the posy-beds outside. What sayst thou, Simon +Attwood? They tell me thy ’prentice, Job Hortop, is to marry in +July—he’ll take thine old house at a fair rental. Why, here, Neighbor +Attwood, thou toil-worn, time-damaged tanner, bless thy hard old heart, +man, come, be at ease—thou hast ground thy soul out long enough! Come, +take me at mine offer—be my fellow. The rent shall trickle off thy +finger-tips as easily as water off a duck’s back!” + +Simon Attwood arose from the chair where he had been sitting. There was +a bewildered look upon his face, and he was twisting his horny fingers +together until the knuckles were white. His lips parted as if to speak, +but he only swallowed very hard once or twice instead, and looked around +at them all. “Why, sir,” he said at length, looking at Master Shakspere, +“why, sirs, all of ye—I ha’ been a hard man, and summat of a fool, +sirs, ay, sirs, a very fool. I ha’ misthought and miscalled ye foully +many a time, and many a time. God knows I be sorry for it from the +bottom of my heart!” And with that he sat down and buried his face in +his arms among the dishes on the buffet. + +“Nay, Simon Attwood,” said Master Shakspere, going to his side and +putting his hand upon the tanner’s shoulder, “thou hast only been +mistaken, that is all. Come, sit thee up. To see thyself mistaken is but +to be the wiser. Why, never the wisest man but saw himself a fool a +thousand times. Come, I have mistaken thee more than thou hast me; for, +on my word, I thought thou hadst no heart at all—and that is far worse +than having one which has but gone astray. Come, Neighbor Attwood, sit +thee up and eat with us.” + +“Nay, I’ll go home,” said the tanner, turning his face away that they +might not see his tears. “I be a spoil-sport and a mar-feast here.” + +“Why, by Jupiter, man!” cried Master Jonson, bringing his fist down upon +the board with a thump that made the spoons all clink, “thou art the +very merry-maker of the feast. A full heart’s better than a surfeit any +day. Don’t let him go, Will—this sort of thing doth make the whole +world kin! Come, Master Attwood, sit thee down, and make thyself at +home. ’Tis not my house, but ’tis my friend’s, and so ’tis all the +same in the Lowlands. Be free of us and welcome.” + +“I thank ye, sirs,” said the tanner, slowly, turning to the table with +rough dignity. “Ye ha’ been good to my boy. I’ll ne’er forget ye while I +live. Oh, sirs, there be kind hearts in the world that I had na dreamed +of. But, masters, I ha’ said my say, and know na more. Your pleasure +wunnot be my pleasure, sirs, for I be only a common man. I will go home +to my wife. There be things to say before my boy comes home; and I ha’ +muckle need to tell her that I love her—I ha’ na done so these +many years.” + +“Why, Neighbor Tanner,” cried Master Jonson, with flushing cheeks, “thou +art a right good fellow! And here was I, no later than this morning, +red-hot to spit thee upon my bilbo like a Michaelmas goose!” He laughed +a boyish laugh that did one’s heart good to hear. + +“Ay,” said Master Shakspere, smiling, as he and Simon Attwood looked +into each other’s eyes. “Come, neighbor, I know thou art my man—so do +not go until thou drinkest one good toast with us, for we are all good +friends and true from this day forth. Come, Ben, a toast to fit +the cue.” + +“Why, then,” replied Master Jonson, in a good round voice, rising in his +place, “_here’s to all kind hearts!_” + +“Wherever they may be!” said Master Shakspere, softly. “It is a good +toast, and we will all drink it together.” + +And so they did. And Simon Attwood went away with a warmth and a +tingling in his heart he had never known before. + +“Margaret,” said he, coming quickly in at the door, as she went silently +about the house with a heavy heart preparing the supper, “Margaret.” + +She dropped the platter upon the board, and came to him hurriedly, +fearing evil tidings. + +He took her by the hands. This, even more than his unusual manner, +alarmed her. “Why, Simon,” she cried, “what is it? What has come +over thee?” + +“Nought,” he replied, looking down at her, his hard face quivering; “but +I love thee, Margaret.” + +“Simon, what dost thou mean?” faltered Mistress Attwood, her heart going +down like lead. + +“Nought, sweetheart—but that I love thee, Margaret, and that our lad is +coming home!” + +Her heart seemed to stop beating. + +“Margaret,” said he, huskily, “I do love thee, lass. Is it too late to +tell thee so?” + +“Nay, Simon,” answered his wife, simply, “’tis never too late to mend.” +And with that she laughed—but in the middle of her laughing a tear ran +down her cheek. + +FROM the windows of the New Place there came a great sound of men +singing together, and this was the quaint old song they sang: + + “Then here’s a health to all kind hearts + Wherever they may be; + For kindly hearts make but one kin + Of all humanity. + + “And here’s a rouse to all kind hearts + Wherever they be found; + For it is the throb of kindred hearts + Doth make the world go round!” + +“Why, Will,” said Master Burbage, slowly setting down his glass, “’tis +altogether a midsummer night’s dream.” + +“So it is, Dick,” answered Master Shakspere, with a smile, and a +far-away look in his eyes. “Come, Nicholas, wilt thou not sing for us +just the last few little lines of ‘When Thou Wakest,’ out of the play?” + +Then Nick stood up quietly, for they all were his good friends there, +and Master Drayton held his hand while he sang: + + “Every man shall take his own, + In your waking shall be shown: + Jack shall have Jill, + Nought shall go ill, + The man shall have his mare again, and all shall be well!” + +They were very still for a little while after he had done, and the +setting sun shone in at the windows across the table. Then Master +Shakspere said gently, “It is a good place to end.” + +“Ay,” said Master Jonson, “it is.” + +So they all got up softly and went out into the garden, where there were +seats under the trees among the rose-bushes, and talked quietly among +themselves, saying not much, yet meaning a great deal. + +But Nick and Cicely said “Good-night, sirs,” to them all, and bowed; and +Master Shakspere himself let them out at the gate, the others shaking +Nick by the hand with many kind wishes, and throwing kisses to Cicely +until they went out of sight around the chapel corner. + +When the children came to the garden-gate in front of Nick’s father’s +house, the red roses still twined in Cicely’s hair, Simon Attwood and +his wife Margaret were sitting together upon the old oaken settle by the +door, looking out into the sunset. And when they saw the children +coming, they arose and came through the garden to meet them, Nick’s +mother with outstretched hands, and her face bright with the glory of +the setting sun. And when she came to where he was, the whole of that +long, bitter year was nothing any more to Nick. + +For then—ah, then—a lad and his mother; a son come home, the wandering +ended, and the sorrow done! + +She took him to her breast as though he were a baby still; her tears ran +down upon his face, yet she was smiling—a smile like which there is no +other in all the world: a mother’s smile upon her only son, who was +astray, but has come home again. + +Oh, the love of a lad for his mother, the love of a mother for her +son—unchanged, unchanging, for right, for wrong, through grief and +shame, in joy, in peace, in absence, in sickness, and in the shadow of +death! Oh, mother-love, beyond all understanding, so holy that words but +make it common! + +“My boy!” was all she said; and then, “My boy—my little boy!” + +And after a while, “Mother,” said he, and took her face between his +strong young hands, and looked into her happy eyes, “mother dear, I ha? +been to London town; I ha’ been to the palace, and I ha’ seen the Queen; +but, mother,” he said, with a little tremble in his voice, for all he +smiled so bravely, “I ha’ never seen the place where I would rather be +than just where thou art, mother dear!” + +The soft gray twilight gathered in the little garden; far-off voices +drifted faintly from the town. The day was done. Cool and still, and +filled with gentle peace, the starlit night came down from the dewy +hills; and Cicely lay fast asleep in Simon Attwood’s arms. + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 11574 *** diff --git a/11574-h/11574-h.htm b/11574-h/11574-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f9d3b90 --- /dev/null +++ b/11574-h/11574-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,8778 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> + <title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Master Skylark, by John Bennett</title> + <link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> + <style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + blockquote {text-align: justify; + margin-left: 15%; + margin-right: 15%;} + img { + border-right: 0px; + border-top: 0px; + border-left: 0px; + border-bottom: 0px } + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { text-align: center; } + hr { width: 33%; } + hr.full { width: 100%; } + a:link {color:blue; + text-decoration:none} + link {color:blue; + text-decoration:none} + a:visited {color:blue; + text-decoration:none} + a:hover {color:red} + pre {font-size: 10pt; + margin-left: 10%; } + .ctr { text-align: center } + + +/* Poetry */ +.poetry {text-align: left; margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%;} +.poetry {display: inline-block;} +.x-ebookmaker .poetry {display: block;} + + +.ph2, .ph3, .ph4 { text-align: center; text-indent: 0em; font-weight: bold; } +.ph2 { font-size: x-large; margin: .75em auto; } +.ph3 { font-size: large; margin: .83em auto; } +.ph4 { font-size: medium; margin: 1.12em auto; } +div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} +h2,h3 {page-break-before: avoid;} + </style> + </head> + <body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 11574 ***</div> + +<p><br /> +<br /></p> +<hr class="full" /> +<p><br /> +<br /> +<a name="Frontspiece"></a></p> +<p class='ctr'> +<a href="images/illus0338.jpg"> +<img src="images/illus0338.jpg" width = "40%" alt="" /> +</a><br /> +<br /> +<b>“‘MASTER SKYLARK, THOU SHALT HAVE THY WISH,’ SAID QUEEN ELIZABETH.”</b> +<br /></p> +<p><br /> +<br /></p> + +<h1>MASTER SKYLARK<br /> + +<span class='ph2'>A Story of<br /> + +Shakspere’s Time</span></h1> + +<div class='ph4'>BY</div> + +<div class='ph3'>JOHN BENNETT</div> + +<p><br /></p> +<div class='ph4'>ILLUSTRATIONS BY REGINALD B. BIRCH</div> + +<p class='ctr'><img src="images/002.jpg" width="15%" alt="" /> +<br /></p> + + + +<div class='poetry'> +ALL THAT NICHOLAS ATTWOOD’S MOTHER<br /> +WAS TO HIM, AND MORE, MY OWN MOTHER HAS BEEN TO ME<br /> +AND TO HER HERE I INSCRIBE THIS BOOK<br /> +WITH A NEVER-FAILING LOVE<br /> +</div> + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2>CONTENTS</h2> +<p><br /></p> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_I">I THE LORD ADMIRAL’S PLAYERS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_II">II NICHOLAS ATTWOOD’S HOME</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_III">III THE LAST STRAW</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_IV">IV OFF FOR COVENTRY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_V">V IN THE WARWICK ROAD</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_VI">VI THE MASTER-PLAYER</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_VII">VII “WELL SUNG, MASTER SKYLARK!”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">VIII THE ADMIRAL’S COMPANY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_IX">IX THE MAY-DAY PLAY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_X">X AFTER THE PLAY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XI">XI DISOWNED</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XII">XII A STRANGE RIDE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">XIII A DASH FOR FREEDOM</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">XIV AT BAY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XV">XV LONDON TOWN</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">XVI MA’M’SELLE CICELY CAREW</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">XVII CAREW’S OFFER</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">XVIII MASTER HEYWOOD PROTESTS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XIX">XIX THE ROSE PLAY-HOUSE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XX">XX DISAPPOINTMENT</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXI">XXI “THE CHILDREN OF PAUL’S”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXII">XXII THE SKYLARK’S SONG</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII">XXIII A NEW LIFE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV">XXIV THE MAKING OF A PLAYER</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXV">XXV THE WANING OF THE YEAR</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXVI">XXVI TO SING BEFORE THE QUEEN</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXVII">XXVII THE QUEEN’S PLAISANCE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXVIII">XXVIII CHRISTMAS WITH QUEEN BESS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXIX">XXIX BACK TO GASTON CAREW</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXX">XXX AT THE FALCON INN</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXXI">XXXI IN THE TWINKLING OF AN EYE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXXII">XXXII THE LAST OF GASTON CAREW</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIII">XXXIII CICELY DISAPPEARS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIV">XXXIV THE BANDY-LEGGED MAN</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXXV">XXXV A SUDDEN RESOLVE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVI">XXXVI WAYFARING HOME</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVII">XXXVII TURNED ADRIFT</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVIII">XXXVIII A STRANGE DAY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIX">XXXIX ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2>LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS</h2> +<p><br /></p> + + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#Frontspiece">“MASTER SKYLARK, THOU SHALT HAVE THY WISH,” SAID QUEEN ELIZABETH</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus0340">THE LORD ADMIRAL’S PLAYERS. THE TRUMPETERS AND THE DRUMMERS LED, THEIR HORSES PRANCING, WHITE PLUMES WAVING IN THE BREEZE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus0342">“WHUR BE-EST GOING, NICK?” ASKED ROGER DAWSON</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus0344">“WHAT! HOW NOW?” CRIED THE STRANGER, SHARPLY. “DOST LIKE OR LIKE ME NOT?”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus0346">“NICK THOUGHT OF HIS MOTHER’S SINGING ON A SUMMER’S EVENING—DREW A DEEP BREATH AND BEGAN TO SING</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus0354">“NOBODY BREAKS NOBODY’S HEARTS IN OLD JO-OHN SMITHSES SHO-OP,” DRAWLED THE SMITH, IN HIS DEEP VOICE; “NOR STEALS NOBODY, NOTHER”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus0348">“DICCON HAD OFTEN MADE NICK WHISTLES FROM THE WILLOWS ALONG THE AVON WHEN NICK WAS A TODDLER”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus0350">NICK PUT ONE LEG OVER THE SILL AND LOOKED BACK</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#i_142">“OH, NICK, THOU ART MOST BEAUTIFUL TO SEE!” CRIED CICELY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus0352">“THAT VOICE, THAT VOICE!” NAT GILES PANTED TO HIMSELF</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#i_174">NICK GAVE THE SILVER BUCKLE FROM HIS CLOAK TO A BOY WHO STOOD CRYING WITH COLD AND HUNGER IN THE STREET</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus0356">SO NICK RODE HOME UPON THE BACK OF THE EARL OF ARUNDEL’S MAN-AT-ARMS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus0358">“WHY, SIR, I’LL SING FOR THEE NOW,” SAID NICK, CHOKING</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#i_250">“DO NA THOU STRIKE ME AGAIN, THOU ROGUE!” SAID NICK</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#i_272">“OH, NICK, WHAT IS IT?” SHE CRIED</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus0360">MASTER SHAKSPERE MET THEM WITH OUTSTRETCHED HANDS</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2>MASTER SKYLARK</h2> + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I<br /> +<span class='ph3'>THE LORD ADMIRAL’S PLAYERS</span></h2> +<p><br /></p> + +<p>There was an unwonted buzzing in the east end of Stratford on that next +to the last day of April, 1596. It was as if some one had thrust a stick +into a hive of bees and they had come whirling out to see.</p> + +<p>The low stone guard-wall of old Clopton bridge, built a hundred years +before by rich Sir Hugh, sometime Mayor of London, was lined with +straddling boys, like strawberries upon a spear of grass, and along the +low causeway from the west across the lowland to the town, brown-faced, +barefoot youngsters sat beside the roadway with their chubby legs +a-dangle down the mossy stones, staring away into the south across the +grassy levels of the valley of the Stour.</p> + +<p>Punts were poling slowly up the Avon to the bridge; and at the outlets +of the town, where the streets came down to the waterside among the +weeds, little knots of men and serving-maids stood looking into the +south and listening. Some had waited for an hour, some for two; yet +still there was no sound but the piping of the birds in white-thorn +hedges, the hollow lowing of kine knee-deep in grassy meadows, and the +long rush of the river through the sedge beside the pebbly shore; and +naught to see but quiet valleys, primrose lanes, and Warwick orchards +white with bloom, stretching away to the misty hills.</p> + +<p>But still they stood and looked and listened.</p> + +<p>The wind came stealing up out of the south, soft and warm and sweet and +still, moving the ripples upon the river with gray gusts; and, scudding +free before the wind, a dog came trotting up the road with wet pink +tongue and sidelong gait. At the throat of Clopton bridge he stopped and +scanned the way with dubious eye, then clapped his tail between his legs +and bolted for the town. The laughing shout that followed him into the +Warwick road seemed not to die away, but to linger in the air like the +drowsy hum of bees—a hum that came and went at intervals upon the +shifting wind, and grew by littles, taking body till it came unbroken as +a long, low, distance-muffled murmur from the south, so faint as +scarcely to be heard.</p> + +<p>Nick Attwood pricked his keen young ears. “They’re coming, Robin—hark +’e to the trampling!”</p> + +<p>Robin Getley held his breath and turned his ear toward the south. The +far-off murmur was a mutter now, defined and positive, and, as the two +friends listened, grew into a drumming roll, and all at once above it +came a shrill, high sound like the buzzing of a gnat close by the ear.</p> + +<p>Little Tom Davenant dropped from the finger-post, and came running up +from the fork of the Banbury road, his feet making little white puffs in +the dust as he flew. “They are coming! they are coming!” he shrieked +as he ran.</p> + +<p>Then up to his feet sprang Robin Getley, upon the saddle-backed +coping-stones, his hand upon Nick Attwood’s head to steady himself, and +looked away where the rippling Stour ran like a thread of silver beside +the dust-buff London road, and the little church of Atherstone stood +blue against the rolling Cotswold Hills.</p> + +<p>“They are coming! they are coming!” shrilled little Tom, and scrambled +up the coping like a squirrel up a rail.</p> + +<p>A stir ran out along the guard-wall, some crying out, some starting up. +“Sit down! sit down!” cried others, peering askance at the water +gurgling green down below. “Sit down, or we shall all be off!”</p> + +<p>Robin held his hand above his eyes. A cloud of dust was rising from the +London road and drifting off across the fields like smoke when the old +ricks burn in damp weather—a long, broad-sheeted mist; and in it were +bits of moving gold, shreds of bright colors vaguely seen, and silvery +gleams like the glitter of polished metal in the sun. And as he looked +the shifty wind came down out of the west again and whirled the cloud of +dust away, and there he saw a long line of men upon horses coming at an +easy canter up the highway. Just as he had made this out the line came +rattling to a stop, the distant drumming of hoofs was still, and as the +long file knotted itself into a rosette of ruddy color amid the April +green, a clear, shrill trumpet blew and blew again.</p> + +<p>“They are coming!” shouted Robin, “they are coming!” and, turning, waved +his cap.</p> + +<p>A shout went up along the bridge. Those down below came clambering up, +the punts came poling with a rush of foam, and a ripple ran along the +edge of Stratford town like the wind through a field of wheat. Windows +creaked and doors swung wide, and the workmen stopped in the +garden-plots to lean upon their mattocks and to look.</p> + +<p>“They are coming!” bellowed Rafe Hickathrift, the butcher’s boy, +standing far out in the street, with his red hands to his mouth for a +trumpet, “they are coming!” and at that the doors of Bridge street grew +alive with eager eyes.</p> + +<p>At early dawn the Oxford carrier had brought the news that the players +of the Lord High Admiral were coming up to Stratford out of London from +the south, to play on May-day there; and this was what had set the town +to buzzing like a swarm. For there were in England then but three great +companies, the High Chamberlain’s, the Earl of Pembroke’s men, and the +stage-players of my Lord Charles Howard, High Admiral of the Realm; and +the day on which they came into a Midland market-town to play was one to +mark with red and gold upon the calendar of the uneventful year.</p> + +<p>Away by the old mill-bridge there were fishermen angling for dace and +perch; but when the shout came down from the London road they dropped +their poles and ran, through the willows and over the gravel, splashing +and thrashing among the rushes and sandy shallows, not to be last when +the players came. And old John Carter coming down the Warwick road with +a load of hay, laid on the lash until piebald Dobbin snorted in dismay +and broke into a lumbering run to reach the old stone bridge in time.</p> + +<p>The distant horsemen now were coming on again, riding in double file. +They had flung their banners to the breeze, and on the changing wind, +with the thumping of horses’ hoofs, came by snatches the sound of a +kettledrummer drawing his drumhead tight, and beating as he drew, and +the muffled blasts of a trumpeter proving his lips.</p> + +<p>Fynes Morrison and Walter Stirley, who had gone to Cowslip lane to meet +the march, were running on ahead, and shouting as they ran: “There’s +forty men, and sumpter-mules! and, oh, the bravest banners and +attire—and the trumpets are a cloth-yard long! Make room for us, make +room for us, and let us up!”</p> + +<p>A bowshot off, the trumpets blew a blast so high, so clear, so keen, +that it seemed a flame of fire in the air, and as the brassy fanfare +died away across the roofs of the quiet town, the kettledrums clanged, +the cymbals clashed, and all the company began to sing the famous old +song of the hunt:</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +“The hunt is up, the hunt is up,<br /> +Sing merrily we, the hunt is up!<br /> +The wild birds sing,<br /> +The dun deer fling,<br /> +The forest aisles with music ring!<br /> +Tantara, tantara, tantara!<br /><br /> + +“Then ride along, ride along,<br /> +Stout and strong!<br /> +Farewell to grief and care;<br /> +With a rollicking cheer<br /> +For the high dun deer<br /> +And a life in the open air!<br /> +Tantara, the hunt is up, lads;<br /> +Tantara, the bugles bray!<br /> +Tantara, tantara, tantara,<br /> +Hio, hark away!”<br /><br /> +</div> + +<p>The first of the riders had reached old Clopton bridge, and the banners +strained upon their staves in the freshening river-wind. The trumpeters +and the drummers led, their horses prancing, white plumes waving in the +breeze, and the April sunlight dancing on the brazen horns and the +silver bellies of the kettledrums.</p> + +<p>Then came the banners of the company, curling down with a silky swish, +and unfurling again with a snap, like a broad-lashed whip. The greatest +one was rosy red, and on it was a gallant ship upon a flowing sea, +bearing upon its mainsail the arms of my Lord Charles Howard, High +Admiral of England. Upon its mate was a giant-bearded man with a fish’s +tail, holding a trident in his hand and blowing upon a shell, the Triton +of the seas which England ruled; this flag was bright sea-blue. The +third was white, and on it was a red wild rose with a golden heart, the +common standard of the company.</p> + +<p><a name="illus0340"></a></p> +<p class='ctr'> +<a href="images/illus0340.jpg"> +<img src="images/illus0340.jpg" width="40%" alt="" /> +</a><br /> +<b>THE LORD ADMIRAL’S PLAYERS. “THE TRUMPETERS AND THE +DRUMMERS LED, THEIR HORSES PRANCING, WHITE PLUMES WAVING IN THE BREEZE.”</b> +<br /></p> + +<p>After the flags came twoscore men, the players of the Admiral, the +tiring-men, grooms, horse-boys, and serving-knaves, well mounted on good +horses, and all of them clad in scarlet tabards blazoned with the +coat-armor of their master. Upon their caps they wore the famous badge +of the Howards, a rampant silver demi-lion; and beneath their tabards at +the side could be seen their jerkins of many-colored silk, their +silver-buckled belts, and long, thin Spanish rapiers, slapping their +horses on the flanks at every stride. Their legs were cased in +high-topped riding-boots of tawny cordovan, with gilt spurs, and the +housings of their saddles were of blue with the gilt anchors of the +admiralty upon them. On their bridles were jingling bits of steel, which +made a constant tinkling, like a thousand little bells very far away.</p> + +<p>Some had faces smooth as boys and were quite young; and others wore +sharp-pointed beards with stiff-waxed mustaches, and were older men, +with a tinge of iron in their hair and lines of iron in their faces, +hardened by the life they led; and some, again, were smooth-shaven, so +often and so closely that their faces were blue with the beard beneath +the skin. But, oh, to Nicholas Attwood and the rest of Stratford boys, +they were a dashing, rakish, admirable lot, with the air of something +even greater than lords, and a keen knowingness in their sparkling, +worldly eyes that made a common wise man seem almost a fool beside them!</p> + +<p>And so they came riding up out of the south:</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +“Then ride along, ride along,<br /> +Stout and strong!<br /> + Farewell to grief and care;<br /> +With a rollicking cheer<br /> +For the high dun deer<br /> + And a life in the open air!”<br /> +</div> + +<p>“Hurrah! hurrah! God save the Queen!”</p> + +<p>A dropping shout went up the street like an arrow-flight scattering over +the throng; and the players, waving their scarlet caps until the long +line tossed like a poppy-garden in a summer rain, gave a cheer that +fairly set the crockery to dancing upon the shelves of the stalls in +Middle Bow.</p> + +<p>“Hurrah!” shouted Nicholas Attwood, his blue eyes shining with delight. +“Hurrah, hurrah, for the Admiral’s men!” And high in the air he threw +his cap, as a wild cheer broke from the eddying crowd, and the arches of +the long gray bridge rang hollow with the tread of hoofs. Whiff, came +the wind; down dropped the hat upon the very saddle-peak of one tall +fellow riding along among the rest. Catching it quickly as it fell, he +laughed and tossed it back; and when Nick caught it whirling in the air, +a shilling jingled from it to the ground.</p> + +<p>Then up Fore Bridge street they all trooped after into Stratford town.</p> + +<p>“Oh,” cried Robin, “it is brave, brave!”</p> + +<p>“Brave?” cried Nick. “It makes my very heart jump. And see, Robin, ’tis +a shilling, a real silver shilling—oh, what fellows they all be! Hurrah +for the Lord High Admiral’s men!”</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II<br /> +<span class='ph3'>NICHOLAS ATTWOOD’S HOME<br /></span></h2> + +<p>Nick Attwood’s father came home that night bitterly wroth.</p> + +<p>The burgesses of the town council had ordered him to build a chimney +upon his house, or pay ten shillings fine; and shillings were none too +plenty with Simon Attwood, the tanner of Old Town.</p> + +<p>“Soul and body o’ man!” said he, “they talk as if they owned the world, +and a man could na live upon it save by their leave. I must build my +fire in a pipe, or pay ten shillings fine? Things ha’ come to a pretty +pass—a pretty pass, indeed!” He kicked the rushes that were strewn upon +the floor, and ground the clay with his heel. “This litter will ha’ to +be all took out. Atkins will be here at six i’ the morning to do the +job, and a lovely mess he will make o’ the house!”</p> + +<p>“Do na fret thee, Simon,” said Mistress Attwood, gently. “The rushes +need a changing, and I ha’ pined this long while to lay the floor wi’ +new clay from Shottery common. ’Tis the sweetest earth! Nick shall take +the hangings down, and right things up when the chimley ’s done.”</p> + +<p>So at cockcrow next morning Nick slipped out of his straw bed, into his +clothes, and down the winding stair, while his parents were still asleep +in the loft, and, sousing his head in the bucket at the well, began his +work before the old town clock in the chapel tower had yet struck four.</p> + +<p>The rushes had not been changed since Easter, and were full of dust and +grease from the cooking and the table. Even the fresher sprigs of mint +among them smelled stale and old. When they were all in the barrow, Nick +sighed with relief and wiped his hands upon the dripping grass.</p> + +<p>It had rained in the night,—a soft, warm rain,—and the air was full of +the smell of the apple-bloom and pear from the little orchard behind the +house. The bees were already humming about the straw-bound hives along +the garden wall, and a misguided green woodpecker clung upside down to +the eaves, and thumped at the beams of the house.</p> + +<p>It was very still there in the gray of the dawn. He could hear the rush +of the water through the sedge in the mill-race, and then, all at once, +the roll of the wheel, the low rumble of the mill-gear, and the cool +whisper of the wind in the willows.</p> + +<p>When he went back into the house again the painted cloths upon the wall +seemed dingier than ever compared with the clean, bright world outside. +The sky-blue coat of the Prodigal Son was brown with the winter’s smoke; +the Red Sea towered above Pharaoh’s ill-starred host like an inky +mountain; and the homely maxims on the next breadth—“Do no Wrong,” +“Beware of Sloth,” “Overcome Pride,” and “Keep an Eye on the +Pence”—could scarcely be read.</p> + +<p>Nick jumped up on the three-legged stool and began to take them down. +The nails were crooked and jammed in the wall, and the last came out +with an unexpected jerk. Losing his balance, Nick caught at the +table-board which leaned against the wall; but the stool capsized, and +he came down on the floor with such a flap of tapestry that the ashes +flew out all over the room.</p> + +<p>He sat up dazed, and rubbed his elbows, then looked around and began to +laugh.</p> + +<p>He could hear heavy footsteps overhead. A door opened, and his father’s +voice called sternly from the head of the stair: “What madcap folly art +thou up to now?”</p> + +<p>“I be up to no folly at all,” said Nick, “but down, sir. I fell from the +stool. There is no harm done.”</p> + +<p>“Then be about thy business,” said Attwood, coming slowly down the +stairs.</p> + +<p>He was a gaunt man, smelling of leather and untanned hides. His short +iron-gray hair grew low down upon his forehead, and his hooked nose, +grim wide mouth, and heavy under jaw gave him a look at once forbidding +and severe. His doublet of serge and his fustian hose were stained with +liquor from the vats, and his eyes were heavy with sleep.</p> + +<p>The smile faded from Nick’s face. “Shall I throw the rushes into the +street, sir?” “Nay; take them to the muck-hill. The burgesses ha’ made +a great to-do about folk throwing trash into the highways. Soul and body +o’ man!” he growled, “a man must ask if he may breathe. And good hides +going a-begging, too!”</p> + +<p>Nick hurried away, for he dreaded his father’s sullen moods.</p> + +<p>The swine were squealing in their styes, the cattle bawled about the +straw-thatched barns in Chapel lane, and long files of gabbling ducks +waddled hurriedly down to the river through the primroses under the +hedge. He could hear the milkmaids calling in the meadows; and when he +trundled slowly home the smoke was creeping up in pale-blue threads from +the draught-holes in the wall.</p> + +<p>The tanner’s house stood a little back from the thoroughfare, in that +part of Stratford-on-Avon where the south end of Church street turns +from Bull lane toward the river. It was roughly built of timber and +plaster, the black beams showing through the yellow lime in curious +squares and triangles. The roof was of red tiles, and where the +spreading elms leaned over it the peaked gable was green with moss.</p> + +<p>At the side of the house was a garden of lettuce; beyond the garden a +rough wall on which the grass was growing. Sometimes wild primroses grew +on top of this wall, and once a yellow daffodil. Beyond the wall were +other gardens owned by thrifty neighbors, and open lands in common to +them all, where foot-paths wandered here and there in a free, +haphazard way.</p> + +<p>Behind the house was a well and a wood-pile, and along the lane ran a +whitewashed paling fence with a little gate, from which the path went up +to the door through rows of bright, old-fashioned flowers.</p> + +<p>Nick’s mother was getting the breakfast. She was a gentle woman with a +sweet, kind face, and a little air of quiet dignity that made her doubly +dear to Nick by contrast with his father’s unkempt ways. He used to +think that, in her worsted gown, with its falling collar of Antwerp +linen, and a soft, silken coif upon her fading hair, she was the most +beautiful woman in all the world.</p> + +<p>She put one arm about his shoulders, brushed back his curly hair, and +kissed him on the forehead.</p> + +<p>“Thou art mine own good little son,” said she, tenderly, “and I will +bake thee a cake in the new chimley on the morrow for thy +May-day-feast.”</p> + +<p>Then she helped him fetch the trestles from the buttery, set the board, +spread the cloth, and lay the wooden platters, pewter cups, and old horn +spoons in place. Breakfast being ready, she then called his father from +the yard. Nick waited deftly upon them both, so that they were soon done +with the simple meal of rye-bread, lettuce, cheese, and milk.</p> + +<p>As he carried away the empty platters and brought water and a towel for +them to wash their hands, he said quietly, although his eyes were bright +and eager, “The Lord High Admiral’s company is to act a stage-play at +the guildhall to-morrow before Master Davenant the Mayor and the town +burgesses.”</p> + +<p>Simon Attwood said nothing, but his brows drew down.</p> + +<p>“They came yestreen from London town by Oxford way to play in Stratford +and at Coventry, and are at the Swan Inn with Master Geoffrey +Inchbold—oh, ever so many of them, in scarlet jerkins, and cloth of +gold, and doublets of silk laced up like any lord! It is a very good +company, they say.”</p> + +<p>Mistress Attwood looked quickly at her husband. “What will they play?” +she asked.</p> + +<p>“I can na say surely, mother—‘Tamburlane,’ perhaps, or ‘The Troublesome +Reign of Old King John.’ The play will be free, father—may I go, sir?”</p> + +<p>“And lose thy time from school?”</p> + +<p>“There is no school to-morrow, sir.”</p> + +<p>“Then have ye naught to do, that ye waste the day in idle folly?” asked +the tanner, sternly.</p> + +<p>“I will do my work beforehand, sir,” replied Nick, quietly, though his +hand trembled a little as he brushed up the crumbs.</p> + +<p>“It is May-day, Simon,” interceded Mistress Attwood, “and a bit of +pleasure will na harm the lad.”</p> + +<p>“Pleasure?” said the tanner, sharply. “If he does na find pleasure +enough in his work, his book, and his home, he shall na seek it of low +rogues and strolling scape-graces.”</p> + +<p>“But, Simon,” said Mistress Attwood, “’tis the Lord Admiral’s own +company—surely they are not all graceless! And,” she continued with +very quiet dignity, “since mine own cousin Anne Hathaway married Will +Shakspere the play-actor, ’tis scarcely kind to call all players +rogues and low.”</p> + +<p>“No more o’ this, Margaret,” cried Attwood, flushing angrily. “Thou art +ever too ready with the boy’s part against me. He shall na go—I’ll find +a thing or two for him to do among the vats that will take this taste +for idleness out of his mouth. He shall na go: so that be all there is +on it.” Rising abruptly, he left the room.</p> + +<p>Nick clenched his hands.</p> + +<p>“Nicholas,” said his mother, softly.</p> + +<p>“Yes, mother,” said he; “I know. But he should na flout thee so! And, +mother, the Queen goes to the play—father himself saw her at Coventry +ten years ago. Is what the Queen does idle folly?”</p> + +<p>His mother took him by the hand and drew him to her side, with a smile +that was half a sigh. “Art thou the Queen?”</p> + +<p>“Nay,” said he; “and it’s all the better for England, like enough. But +surely, mother, it can na be wrong—”</p> + +<p>“To honour thy father?” said she, quickly, laying her finger across his +lips. “Nay, lad; it is thy bounden duty.”</p> + +<p>Nick turned and looked up at her wonderingly. “Mother,” said he, “art +thou an angel come down out of heaven?”</p> + +<p>“Nay,” she answered, patting his flushed cheek; “I be only the every-day +mother of a fierce little son who hath many a hard, hard lesson to +learn. Now eat thy breakfast—thou hast been up a long while.”</p> + +<p>Nick kissed her impetuously and sat down, but his heart still rankled +within him.</p> + +<p>All Stratford would go to the play. He could hear the murmur of voices +and music, the bursts of laughter and applause, the tramp of happy feet +going up the guildhall stairs to the Mayor’s show. Everybody went in +free at the Mayor’s show. The other boys could stand on stools and see +it all. They could hold horses at the gate of the inn at the September +fair, and so see all the farces. They could see the famous Norwich +puppet-play. But he—what pleasure did he ever have? A tawdry pageant by +a lot of clumsy country bumpkins at Whitsuntide or Pentecost, or a silly +school-boy masque at Christmas, with the master scolding like a heathen +Turk. It was not fair.</p> + +<p>And now he’d have to work all May-day. May-day out of all the year! Why, +there was to be a May-pole and a morris-dance, and a roasted calf, too, +in Master Wainwright’s field, since Margery was chosen Queen of the May. +And Peter Finch was to be Robin Hood, and Nan Rogers Maid Marian, and +wear a kirtle of Kendal green—and, oh, but the May-pole would be brave; +high as the ridge of the guildschool roof, and hung with ribbons like a +rainbow! Geoffrey Hall was to lead the dance, too, and the other boys +and girls would all be there. And where would he be? Sousing hides in +the tannery vats. Truly his father was a hard man!</p> + +<p>He pushed the cheese away.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III<br /> +<span class='ph3'>THE LAST STRAW<br /></span></h2> + +<p>Little John Summer had a new horn-book that cost a silver penny. The +handle was carven and the horn was clear as honey. The other little boys +stood round about in speechless envy, or murmured their A B C’s and “ba +be bi’s” along the chapel steps. The lower-form boys were playing +leap-frog past the almshouse, and Geoffrey Gosse and the vicar’s son +were in the public gravel-pit, throwing stones at the robins in the +Great House elms across the lane.</p> + +<p>Some few dull fellows sat upon the steps behind the school-house, +anxiously poring over their books. But the larger boys of the Fable +Class stood in an excited group beneath the shadow of the overhanging +second story of the grammar-school, talking all at once, each louder +than the other, until the noise was deafening.</p> + +<p>“Oh, Nick, such goings on!” called Robin Getley, whose father was a +burgess, as Nick Attwood came slowly up the street, saying his sentences +for the day over and over to himself in hopeless desperation, having had +no time to learn them at home. “Stratford Council has had a quarrel, +and there’s to be no stage-play after all.”</p> + +<p>“What?” cried Nick, in amazement. “No stage-play? And why not?”</p> + +<p>“Why,” said Robin, “it was just this way—my father told me of it. Sir +Thomas Lucy, High Sheriff of Worcester, y’ know, rode in from Charlcote +yesternoon, and with him Sir Edward Greville of Milcote. So the +burgesses made a feast for them at the Swan Inn. Sir Thomas fetched a +fine, fat buck, and the town stood good for ninepence wine and twopence +bread, and broached a keg of sturgeon. And when they were all met +together there, eating, and drinking, and making merry—what? Why, in +came my Lord Admiral’s players from London town, ruffling it like high +dukes, and not caring two pops for Sir Thomas, or Sir Edward, or for +Stratford burgesses all in a heap; but sat them down at the table +straightway, and called for ale, as if they owned the place; and not +being served as soon as they desired, they laid hands upon Sir Thomas’s +server as he came in from the buttery with his tray full, and took both +meat and drink.”</p> + +<p>“What?” cried Nick.</p> + +<p>“As sure as shooting, they did!” said Robin; “and when Sir Thomas’s +gentry yeomen would have seen to it—what? Why, my Lord Admiral’s +master-player clapped his hand to his poniard-hilt, and dared them come +and take it if they could.”</p> + +<p>“To Sir Thomas Lucy’s men?” exclaimed Nick, aghast.</p> + +<p>“Ay, to their teeth! Sir Edward sprang up then, and said it was a shame +for players to behave so outrageously in Will Shakspere’s own home town. +And at that Sir Thomas, who, y’ know, has always misliked Will, flared +up like a bull at a red rag, and swore that all stage-players be +runagate rogues, anyway, and Will Shakspere neither more nor less than a +deer-stealing scape-gallows.”</p> + +<p>“Surely he did na say that in Stratford Council?” protested Nick.</p> + +<p>“Ay, but he did—that very thing,” said Robin; “and when that was out, +the master-player sprang upon the table, overturning half the ale, and +cried out that Will Shakspere was his very own true friend, and the +sweetest fellow in all England, and that whosoever gainsaid it was a +hemp-cracking rascal, and that he would prove it upon his back with a +quarter-staff whenever and wherever he chose, be he Sir Thomas Lucy, St. +George and the Dragon, Guy of Warwick, and the great dun cow, all rolled +up in one!”</p> + +<p>“Robin Getley, is this the very truth, or art thou cozening me?”</p> + +<p>“Upon my word, it is the truth,” said Robin. “And that’s not all. Sir +Edward cried out ‘Fie!’ upon the player for a saucy varlet; but the +fellow only laughed, and bowed quite low, and said that he took no +offense from Sir Edward for saying that, since it could not honestly be +denied, but that Sir Thomas did not know the truth from a truckle-bed in +broad daylight, and was but the remnant of a gentleman to boot.”</p> + +<p>“The bold-faced rogue!”</p> + +<p>“Ay, that he is,” nodded Robin; “and for his boldness Sir Thomas +straightway demanded that the High Bailiff refuse the company license to +play in Stratford.”</p> + +<p>“Refuse the Lord High Admiral’s players?”</p> + +<p>“Marry, no one else. And then Master John Shakspere, wroth at what Sir +Thomas had said of his son Will, vowed that he would send a letter down +to London town, and lay the whole coil before the Lord High Admiral +himself. For ever since that he was High Bailiff, the best companies of +England had always been bidden to play in Stratford, and it would be an +ill thing now to refuse the Lord Admiral’s company after granting +licenses to both my Lord Pembroke’s and the High Chamberlain’s.”</p> + +<p>“And so it would,” spoke up Walter Roche; “for there are our own +townsmen, Richard and Cuthbert Burbage, who are cousins of mine, and +John Hemynge and Thomas Greene, besides Will Shakspere and his brother +Edmund, all playing in the Lord Chamberlain’s company in London before +the Queen. It would be a black score against them all with the Lord +Admiral—I doubt not he would pay them out.”</p> + +<p>“That he would,” said Robin, “and so said my father and Alderman Henry +Walker, who, y’ know, is Will Shakspere’s own friend. And some of the +burgesses who cared not a rap for that were afeard of offending the Lord +Admiral. But Sir Thomas vowed that my Lord Howard was at Cadiz with +Walter Raleigh and the young Earl of Sussex, and would by no means hear +of it. So Master Bailiff Stubbes, who, ’tis said, doth owe Sir Thomas +forty pound, and is therefore under his thumb, forthwith refused the +company license to play in Stratford guildhall, inn-yard, or common. And +at that the master-player threw his glove into Master Stubbes’s face, +and called Sir Thomas a stupid old bell-wether, and Stratford burgesses +silly sheep for following wherever he chose to jump.”</p> + +<p>“And so they be,” sneered Hal Saddler.</p> + +<p>“How?” cried Robin, hotly. “My father is a burgess. Dost thou call him a +sheep, Hal Saddler?”</p> + +<p>“Nay, nay,” stammered Hal, hastily; “’twas not thy father I meant.”</p> + +<p>“Then hold thy tongue with both hands,” said Robin, sharply, “or it will +crack thy pate for thee some of these fine days.”</p> + +<p>“But come, Robin,” asked Nick, eagerly, “what became of the quarrel?”</p> + +<p>“Well, when the master-player threw his glove into Master Stubbes’s +face, the Chief Constable seized him for contempt of Stratford Council, +and held him for trial. At that some cried ‘Shame!’ and some ‘Hurrah!’ +but the rest of the players fled out of town in the night, lest their +baggage be taken by the law and they be fined.”</p> + +<p>“Whither did they go?” asked Nick, both sorry and glad to hear that they +were gone.</p> + +<p>“To Coventry, and left the master-player behind in gaol.”</p> + +<p>“Why, they dare na use him so—the Lord Admiral’s own man!”</p> + +<p>“Ay, that they don’t! Why, hark ’e, Nick! This morning, since Sir +Thomas has gone home, and the burgesses’ heads have all cooled down from +the sack and the clary they were in last night, la! but they are in a +pretty stew, my father says, for fear that they have given offense to +the Lord Admiral. So they have spoken the master-player softly, and +given him his freedom out of hand, and a long gold chain to twine about +his cap, to mend the matter with, beside.”</p> + +<p>“Whee-ew!” whistled Nick. “I wish I were a master-player!”</p> + +<p>“Oh, but he will not be pleased, and says he will have his revenge on +Stratford town if he must needs wait until the end of the world or go to +the Indies after it. And he has had his breakfast served in Master +Geoffrey Inchbold’s own room at the Swan, and swears that he will walk +the whole way to Coventry sooner than straddle the horse that the +burgesses have sent him to ride.”</p> + +<p>“What! Is he at the inn? Why, let’s go down and see him.”</p> + +<p>“Master Brunswood says that he will birch whoever cometh late,” objected +Hal Saddler.</p> + +<p>“Birch?” groaned Nick. “Why, he does nothing but birch! A fellow can na +say his ‘<i>sum, es, est</i>’ without catching it. And as for getting through +the ‘genitivo’ and ‘vocativo’ without a downright threshing—” He +shrugged his shoulders ruefully as he remembered his unlearned lesson. +Everything had gone wrong with him that morning, and the thought of the +birching that he was sure to get was more than he could bear. “I will +na stand it any longer—I’ll run away!”</p> + +<p>Kit Sedgewick laughed ironically. “And when the skies fall we’ll catch +sparrows, Nick Attwood,” said he. “Whither wilt thou run?”</p> + +<p>Stung by his tone of ridicule, Nick out with the first thing that came +into his head. “To Coventry, after the stage-players,” said he, +defiantly.</p> + +<p>The whole crowd gave an incredulous hoot.</p> + +<p>Nick’s face flushed. To be crossed at home, to be birched at school, to +work all May-day in the tannery vats, and to be laughed at—it was +too much.</p> + +<p>“Ye think that I will na? Well, I’ll show ye! ’Tis only eight miles to +Warwick, and hardly more than that beyond—no walk at all; and Diccon +Haggard, my mother’s cousin, lives in Coventry. So out upon your musty +Latin—English is good enough for me this day! There’s bluebells blowing +in the dingles, and cuckoo-buds no end. And while ye are all grinding at +your old Aesop I shall be roaming over the hills wherever I please.”</p> + +<p>As he spoke he thought of the dark, wainscoted walls of the school-room +with their narrow little windows overhead, of the foul-smelling floors +of the tannery in Southam’s lane, and his heart gave a great, rebellious +leap. “Ay,” said he, exultantly, “I shall be out where the birds can +sing and the grass is green, and I shall see the stage-play, while ye +will be mewed up all day long in school, and have nothing but a beggarly +morris and a farthing May-pole on the morrow.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, no doubt, no doubt,” said Hal Saddler, mockingly “We shall have +but bread and milk, and thou shalt have—a most glorious threshing from +thy father when thou comest home again!”</p> + +<p>That was the last straw to Nick’s unhappy heart.</p> + +<p>“’Tis a threshing either way,” said he, squaring his shoulders +doggedly. “Father will thresh me if I run away, and Master Brunswood +will thresh me if I don’t. I’ll not be birched four times a week for +merely tripping on a word, and have nothing to show for it but stripes. +If I must take a threshing, I’ll have my good day’s game out first.”</p> + +<p>“But wilt thou truly go to Coventry, Nick?” asked Robin Getley, +earnestly, for he liked Nick more than all the rest.</p> + +<p>“Ay, truly, Robin—that I will”; and, turning, Nick walked swiftly away +toward the market-place, never looking back.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV<br /> +<span class='ph3'>OFF FOR COVENTRY<br /></span></h2> + +<p>At the Bridge street crossing Nick paused irresolute. Around the public +pump a chattering throng of housewives were washing out their towels and +hanging them upon the market-cross to dry. Along the stalls in Middle +Row the grumbling shopmen were casting up their sales from tallies +chalked upon their window-ledges, or cuffing their tardy apprentices +with no light hand.</p> + +<p>John Gibson’s cart was hauling gravel from the pits in Henley street to +mend the causeway at the bridge, which had been badly washed by the late +spring floods, and the fine sand dribbled from the cart-tail like the +sand in an hour-glass.</p> + +<p>Here and there loutish farm-hands waited for work; and at the corner two +or three stout cudgel-men leaned upon their long staves, although the +market was two days closed, and there was not a Coventry merchant in +sight to be driven away from Stratford trade.</p> + +<p>Goody Baker with her shovel and broom of twigs was sweeping up the +market litter in the square. Nick wondered if his own mother’s back +would be so bent when she grew old.</p> + +<p>“Whur be-est going, Nick?”</p> + +<p>Roger Dawson sat astride a stick of timber in front of Master Geoffrey +Thompson’s new house, watching Tom Carpenter the carver cut fleur-de-lis +and curling traceries upon the front wall beams. He was a +tenant-farmer’s son, this Roger, and a likely good-for-naught.</p> + +<p>“To Coventry,” said Nick, curtly.</p> + +<p>“Wilt take a fellow wi’ thee?”</p> + +<p>Poor company might be better than none.</p> + +<p>“Come on.”</p> + +<p>Roger lumbered to his feet and trotted after.</p> + +<p>“No school to-day?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“Not for me,” answered Nick, shortly, for he did not care to talk about +it.</p> + +<p>“Faither wull na have I go to school, since us ha’ comed to town, an’ +plough-land sold for grazings,” drawled Roger; “Muster Pine o’ Welford +saith that I ha’ learned as much as faither ever knowed, an’ ’tis enow +for I. Faither saith it maketh saucy rogues o’ sons to know more than +they’s own dads.”</p> + +<p>Nick wondered if it did. His own father could neither read nor write, +while he could do both and had some Latin, too. At the thought of the +Latin he made a wry face.</p> + +<p>“Joe Carter be-eth in the stocks,” said Roger, peering through the +jeering crowd about the pillory and post; “a broke Tom Samson’s pate wi’ +’s ale-can yestreen.”</p> + +<p class='ctr'><a name="illus0342"></a> +<a href="images/illus0342.jpg"> +<img src="images/illus0342.jpg" width="40%" alt="" /> +</a><br /> +<b>“‘WHUR BE-EST GOING, NICK?’ ASKED ROGER DAWSON.”</b> +<br /></p> + +<p>But Nick pushed on. A few ruddy-faced farmers and drovers from the +Bed Horse Vale still lingered at the Boar Inn door and by the tap-room +of the Crown; and in the middle of the street a crowd of salters, +butchers, and dealers in hides, with tallow-smeared doublets and +doubtful hose, were squabbling loudly about the prices set upon +their wares.</p> + +<p>In the midst of them Nick saw his father, and scurried away into Back +Bridge street as fast as he could, feeling very near a sneak, but far +from altering his purpose.</p> + +<p>“Job Hortop,” said Simon Attwood to his apprentice at his side, looking +out suddenly over the crowd, “was that my Nick yonder?”</p> + +<p>“Nay, master, could na been,” said Job, stolidly; “Nick be-eth in school +by now—the clock ha’ struck. ’Twas Dawson’s Hodge and some like +ne’er-do-well.”</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V<br /> +<span class='ph3'>IN THE WARWICK ROAD<br /></span></h2> + +<p>The land was full of morning sounds as the lads trudged along the +Warwick road together. An ax rang somewhere deep in the woods of Arden; +cart-wheels ruttled on the stony road; a blackbird whistled shrilly in +the hedge, and they heard the deep-tongued belling of hounds far off in +Fulbroke park.</p> + +<p>Now and then a heron, rising from the river, trailed its long legs +across the sky, or a kingfisher sparkled in his own splash. Once a +lonely fisherman down by the Avon started a wild duck from the sedge, +and away it went pattering up-stream with frightened wings and red feet +running along the water. And then a river-rat plumped into the stream +beneath the willows, and left a long string of bubbles behind him.</p> + +<p>Nick’s ill humor soon wore off as he breathed the fresh air, moist from +lush meadows, and sweet from hedges pink and white with hawthorn bloom. +The thought of being pent up on such a day grew more and more +unbearable, and a blithe sense of freedom from all restraint blunted the +prick of conscience.</p> + +<p>“Why art going to Coventry, Nick?” inquired Roger suddenly, startled by +a thought coming into his wits like a child by a bat in the room.</p> + +<p>“To see the stage-play that the burgesses would na allow in Stratford.”</p> + +<p>“Wull I see, too?”</p> + +<p>“If thou hast eyes—the Mayor’s show is free.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, feckins, wun’t it be fine?” gaped Hodge. “Be it a tailors’ show, +Nick, wi’ Herod the King, and a rope for to hang Judas? An’ wull they +set the world afire wi’ a torch, an’ make the earth quake fearful wi’ a +barrel full o’ stones? Or wull it be Sin in a motley gown a-thumping the +Black Man over the pate wi’ a bladder full o’ peasen—an’ angels wi’ +silver wingses, an’ saints wi’ goolden hair? Or wull it be a giant nine +yards high, clad in the beards o’ murdered kings, like granny saith she +used to see?”</p> + +<p>“Pshaw! no,” said Nick; “none of those old-fashioned things. These be +players from London town, and I hope they’ll play a right good English +history-play, like ‘The Famous Victories of Henry Fift,’ to turn a +fellow’s legs all goose-flesh!”</p> + +<p>Hodge stopped short in the road. “La!” said he, “I’ll go no furder if +they turn me to a goose. I wunnot be turned goose, Nick Attwood—an’ a +plague on all witches, says I!”</p> + +<p>“Oh, pshaw!” laughed Nick; “come on. No witch in the world could turn +thee bigger goose than thou art now. Come along wi’ thee; there be no +witches there at all.”</p> + +<p>“Art sure thou ’rt not bedaffing me?” hesitated Hodge. “Good, then; I +be na feared. Art sure there be no witches?”</p> + +<p>“Why,” said Nick, “would Master Burgess John Shakspere leave his son +Will to do with witches?”</p> + +<p>“I dunno,” faltered Hodge; “a told Muster Robin Bowles it was na right +to drownd ’em in the river.”</p> + +<p>Nick hesitated. “Maybe it kills the fish,” said he; “and Master Will +Shakspere always liked to fish. But they burn witches in London, Hodge, +and he has na put a stop to it—and he’s a great man in London town.”</p> + +<p>Hodge came on a little way, shaking his head like an old sheep in a +corner. “Wully Shaxper a great man?” said he. “Why, a’s name be cut on +the old beech-tree up Snitterfield lane, where’s uncle Henry Shaxper +lives, an’ ’tis but poorly done. I could do better wi’ my own whittle.”</p> + +<p>“Ay, Hodge,” cried Nick; “and that’s about all thou canst do. Dost think +that a man’s greatness hangs on so little a thing as his sleight of hand +at cutting his name on a tree?”</p> + +<p>“Wull, maybe; maybe not; but if a be a great man, Nick Attwood, a might +do a little thing passing well—so there, now!”</p> + +<p>Nick pondered for a moment. “I do na know,” said he, slowly; “heaps of +men can do the little things, but parlous few the big. So some one must +be bigging it, or folks would all sing very small. And he doeth the big +most beautiful, they say. They call him the Swan of Avon.”</p> + +<p>“Avon swans be mostly geese,” said Hodge, vacantly.</p> + +<p>“Now, look ’e here, Hodge Dawson, don’t thou be calling Master Will +Shakspere goose. He married my own mother’s cousin, and I will na +have it.”</p> + +<p>“La, now,” drawled Hodge, staring, “’tis nowt to me. Thy Muster Wully +Shaxper may be all the long-necked fowls in Warrickshire for all I care. +And, anyway, I’d like to know, Nick Attwood, since when hath a been +‘<i>Muster</i> Shaxper’—that ne’er-do-well, play-actoring fellow?”</p> + +<p>“Ne’er-do-well? It is na so. When he was here last summer he was bravely +dressed, and had a heap of good gold nobles in his purse. And he gave +Rick Hawkins, that’s blind of an eye, a shilling for only holding +his horse.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, ay,” drawled Hodge; “a fool and a’s money be soon parted.”</p> + +<p>“Will Shakspere is no fool,” declared Nick, hotly. “He’s made a peck o’ +money there in London town, and ’s going to buy the Great House in +Chapel lane, and come back here to live.”</p> + +<p>“Then a ’s a witless azzy!” blurted Hodge. “If a ’s so great a man +amongst the lords and earlses, a ’d na come back to Stratford. An’ I say +a ’s a witless loon—so there!”</p> + +<p>Nick whirled around in the road. “And I say, Hodge Dawson,” he exclaimed +with flashing eyes, “that ’tis a shame for a lout like thee to so +miscall thy thousand-time betters. And what’s more, thou shalt unsay +that, or I will make thee swallow thy words right here and now!”</p> + +<p>“I’d loike to see thee try,” Hodge began; but the words were scarcely +out of his mouth when he found himself stretched on the grass, Nick +Attwood bending over him.</p> + +<p>“There! thou hast seen it tried. Now come, take that back, or I will +surely box thine ears for thee.”</p> + +<p>Hodge blinked and gaped, collecting his wits, which had scattered to the +four winds. “Whoy,” said he, vaguely, “if ’tis all o’ that to thee, I +take it back.”</p> + +<p>Nick rose, and Hodge scrambled clumsily to his feet. “I’ll na go wi’ +thee,” said he, sulkily; “I will na go whur I be whupped.”</p> + +<p>Nick turned on his heel without a word, and started on.</p> + +<p>“An’ what’s more,” bawled Hodge after him, “thy Muster Wully Shaxper +be-eth an old gray goose, an’ boo to he, says I!”</p> + +<p>As he spoke he turned, dived through the thin hedge, and galloped across +the field as if an army were at his heels.</p> + +<p>Nick started back, but quickly paused. “Thou needst na run,” he called; +“I’ve not the time to catch thee now. But mind ye this, Hodge Dawson: +when I do come back, I’ll teach thee who thy betters be—Will Shakspere +first of all!”</p> + +<p>“Well crowed, well crowed, my jolly cockerel!” on a sudden called a +keen, high voice beyond the hedge behind him.</p> + +<p>Nick, startled, whirled about just in time to see a stranger leap the +hedge and come striding up the road.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI<br /> +<span class='ph3'>THE MASTER-PLAYER<br /></span></h2> + +<p>He had trim, straight legs, this stranger, and a slender, lithe body in +a tawny silken jerkin. Square-shouldered, too, was he, and over one +shoulder hung a plum-colored cloak bordered with gold braid. His long +hose were the color of his cloak, and his shoes were russet leather, +with rosettes of plum, and such high heels as Nick had never seen +before. His bonnet was of tawny velvet, with a chain twisted round it, +fastened by a jeweled brooch through which was thrust a curly +cock-feather. A fine white Holland-linen shirt peeped through his jerkin +at the throat, with a broad lace collar; and his short hair curled +crisply all over his head. He had a little pointed beard, and the ends +of his mustache were twisted so that they stood up fiercely on either +side of his sharp nose. At his side was a long Italian poniard in a +sheath of russet leather and silver filigree, and he had a reckless, +high and mighty fling about his stride that strangely took the eye.</p> + +<p>Nick stood, all taken by surprise, and stared.</p> + +<p>The stranger seemed to like it, but scowled nevertheless. “What! How +now?” he cried sharply. “Dost like or like me not?”</p> + +<p>“Why, sir,” stammered Nick, utterly lost for anything to say—“why, +sir,—” and knowing nothing else to do, he took off his cap and bowed.</p> + +<p>“Come, come,” snapped the stranger, stamping his foot, “I am a swashing, +ruffling, desperate Dick, and not to be made a common jest for Stratford +dolts to giggle at. What! These legs, that have put on the very gentleman +in proud Verona’s streets, laid in Stratford’s common stocks, like a +silly apprentice’s slouching heels? Nay, nay; some one should taste old +Bless-his-heart here first!” and with that he clapped his hand upon the +hilt of his poniard, with a wonderful swaggering tilt of his shoulders. +“Dost take me, boy?”</p> + +<p>“Why, sir,” hesitated Nick, no little awed by the stranger’s wild words +and imperious way, “ye surely are the master-player.”</p> + +<p>“There!” cried the stranger, whirling about, as if defying some one in +the hedge. “Who said I could not act? Why, see, he took me at a touch! +Say, boy,” he laughed, and turned to Nick, “thou art no fool. Why, boy, +I say I love thee now for this, since what hath passed in Stratford. A +murrain on the town! Dost hear me, boy?—a black murrain on the town!” +And all at once he made such a fierce stride toward Nick, gritting his +white teeth, and clapping his hand upon his poniard, that Nick drew back +afraid of him.</p> + +<p class='ctr'><a name="illus0344"></a> +<a href="images/illus0344.jpg"> +<img src="images/illus0344.jpg" width="40%" alt="" /> +</a><br /> +<b>“‘WHAT! HOW NOW?’ CRIED THE STRANGER, SHARPLY. ‘DOST LIKE +OR LIKE ME NOT?’”</b> +<br /></p> + +<p>“But nay,” hissed the stranger, and spat with scorn, “a town like +that is its own murrain—let it sicken on itself!”</p> + +<p>He struck an attitude, and waved his hand as if he were talking quite as +much to the trees and sky as he was to Nick Attwood, and looked about +him as if waiting for applause. Then all at once he laughed,—a +rollicking, merry laugh,—and threw off his furious manner as one does +an old coat. “Well, boy,” said he, with a quiet smile, looking kindly at +Nick, “thou art a right stanch little friend to all of us stage-players. +And I thank thee for it in Will Shakspere’s name; for he is the sweetest +fellow of us all.”</p> + +<p>His voice was simple, frank, and free—so different from the mad tone in +which he had just been ranting that Nick caught his breath +with surprise.</p> + +<p>“Nay, lad, look not so dashed,” said the master-player, merrily; “that +was only old Jem Burbage’s mighty tragic style; and I—I am only Gaston +Carew, hail-fellow-well-met with all true hearts. Be known to me, lad; +what is thy name? I like thy open, pretty face.”</p> + +<p>Nick flushed. “Nicholas Attwood is my name, sir.”</p> + +<p>“Nicholas Attwood? Why, it is a good name. Nick Attwood,—young Nick,—I +hope Old Nick will never catch thee—upon my word I do, and on the +remnant of mine honour! Thou hast taken a player’s part like a man, and +thou art a good fellow, Nicholas Attwood, and I love thee. So thou art +going to Coventry to see the players act? Surely thine is a nimble wit +to follow fancy nineteen miles. Come; I am going to Coventry to join my +fellows. Wilt thou go with me, Nick, and dine with us this night at the +best inn in all Coventry—the Blue Boar? Thou hast quite plucked up my +downcast heart for me, lad, indeed thou hast; for I was sore of +Stratford town—and I shall not soon forget thy plucky fending for our +own sweet Will. Come, say thou wilt go with me.”</p> + +<p>“Indeed, sir,” said Nick, bowing again, his head all in a whirl of +excitement at this wonderful adventure, “indeed I will, and that right +gladly, sir.” And with heart beating like a trip-hammer he walked along, +cap in hand, not knowing that his head was bare.</p> + +<p>The master-player laughed a simple, hearty laugh. “Why, Nick,” said he, +laying his hand caressingly upon the boy’s shoulder, “I am no such great +to-do as all that—upon my word, I’m not! A man of some few parts, +perhaps, not common in the world; but quite a plain fellow, after all. +Come, put off this high humility and be just friendly withal. Put on thy +cap; we are but two good faring-fellows here.”</p> + +<p>So Nick put on his cap, and they went on together, Nick in the seventh +heaven of delight.</p> + +<p>About a mile beyond Stratford, Welcombe wood creeps down along the left. +Just beyond, the Dingles wind irregularly up from the foot-path below to +the crest of Welcombe hill, through straggling clumps and briery +hollows, sweet with nodding bluebells, ash, and hawthorn.</p> + +<p>Nick and the master-player paused a moment at the top to catch their +breath and to look back.</p> + +<p>Stratford and the valley of the Avon lay spread before them like a +picture of peace, studded with blossoming orchards and girdled with +spring. Northward the forest of Arden clad the rolling hills. Southward +the fields of Feldon stretched away to the blue knolls beyond which lay +Oxford and Northamptonshire. The ragged stretches of Snitterfield downs +scrambled away to the left; and on the right, beyond Bearley, were the +wooded uplands where Guy of Warwick and Heraud of Arden slew the wild ox +and the boar. And down through the midst ran the Avon southward, like a +silver ribbon slipped through Kendal green, to where the Stour comes +down, past Luddington, to Bidford, and away to the misty hills.</p> + +<p>“Why,” exclaimed the master-player—“why, upon my word, it is a fair +town—as fair a town as the heart of man could wish. Wish? I wish ’t +were sunken in the sea, with all its pack of fools! Why,” said he, +turning wrathfully upon Nick, “that old Sir Thingumbob of thine, down +there, called me a caterpillar on the kingdom of England, a vagabond, +and a common player of interludes! Called me vagabond! Me! Why, I have +more good licenses than he has wits. And as to Master Bailiff Stubbes, I +have permits to play from more justices of the peace than he can shake a +stick at in a month of Sundays!” He shook his fist wrathfully at the +distant town, and gnawed his mustache until one side pointed up and the +other down. “But, hark ’e, boy, I’ll have my vengeance on them all—ay, +that will I, upon my word, and on the remnant of mine honour—or else my +name’s not Gaston Carew!”</p> + +<p>“Is it true, sir,” asked Nick, hesitatingly, “that they despitefully +handled you?”</p> + +<p>“With their tongues, ay,” said Carew, bitterly; “but not otherwise.” He +clapped his hand upon his poniard, and threw back his head defiantly. +“They dared not come to blows—they knew my kind! Yet John Shakspere is +no bad sort—he knoweth what is what. But Master Bailiff Stubbes, I +ween, is a long-eared thing that brays for thistles. I’ll thistle him! +He called Will Shakspere rogue. Hast ever looked through a red glass?”</p> + +<p>“Nay,” said Nick.</p> + +<p>“Well, it turns the whole world red. And so it is with Master Stubbes. +He looks through a pair of rogue’s eyes and sees the whole world rogue. +Why, boy,” cried the master-player, vehemently, “he thought to buy my +tongue! Marry, if tongues were troubles he has bought himself a peck! +What! Buy my silence? Nay, he’ll see a deadly flash of silence when I +come to my Lord the Admiral again!”</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII<br /> +<span class='ph3'>“WELL SUNG, MASTER SKYLARK!”<br /></span></h2> + +<p>It was past high noon, and they had long since left Warwick castle far +behind. “Nicholas,” said the master-player, in the middle of a stream of +amazing stories of life in London town, “there is Blacklow knoll.” He +pointed to a little hill off to the left.</p> + +<p>Nick stared; he knew the tale: how grim old Guy de Beauchamp had Piers +Gaveston’s head upon that hill for calling him the Black Hound of Arden.</p> + +<p>“Ah!” said Carew, “times have changed since then, boy, when thou couldst +have a man’s head off for calling thee a name—or I would have yon +Master Bailiff Stubbes’s head off short behind the ears—and Sir Thomas +Lucy’s too!” he added, with a sudden flash of anger, gritting his teeth +and clenching his hand upon his poniard. “But, Nicholas, hast +anything to eat?”</p> + +<p>“Nothing at all, sir.”</p> + +<p>Master Carew pulled from his pouch some barley-cakes and half a small +Banbury cheese, yellow as gold and with a keen, sharp savour. “’Tis +enough for both of us,” said he, as they came to a shady little wood +with a clear, mossy-bottomed spring running down into a green meadow +with a mild noise, murmuring among the stones. “Come along, Nicholas; +we’ll eat it under the trees.”</p> + +<p>He had a small flask of wine, but Nick drank no wine, and went down to +the spring instead. There was a wild bird singing in a bush there, and +as he trotted down the slope it hushed its wandering tune. Nick took the +sound up softly, and stood by the wet stones a little while, imitating +the bird’s trilling note, and laughing to hear it answer timidly, as if +it took him for some great new bird without wings. Cocking its shy head +and watching him shrewdly with its beady eye, it sat, almost persuaded +that it was only size which made them different, until Nick clapped his +cap upon his head and strolled back, singing as he went.</p> + +<p>It was only the thread of an old-fashioned madrigal which he had often +heard his mother sing, with quaint words long since gone out of style +and hardly to be understood, and between the staves a warbling, wordless +refrain which he had learned out on the hills and in the +fields, picked up from a bird’s glad-throated morning-song.</p> + +<p>He had always sung the plain-tunes in church without taking any +particular thought about it; and he sang easily, with a clear young +voice which had a full, flute-like note in it like the high, sweet song +of a thrush singing in deep woods.</p> + +<p>Gaston Carew, the master-player, was sitting with his back against an +oak, placidly munching the last of the cheese, when Nick began to sing. +He started, straightening up as if some one had called him suddenly out +of a sound sleep, and, turning his head, listened eagerly.</p> + +<p>Nick mocked the wild bird, called again with a mellow, warbling trill, +and then struck up the quaint old madrigal with the bird’s song running +through it. Carew leaped to his feet, with a flash in his dark eyes. “My +soul! my soul!” he exclaimed in an excited undertone. “It is not—nay, +it cannot be—why, ’tis—it is the boy! Upon my heart, he hath a skylark +prisoned in his throat! <i>Well sung, well sung, Master Skylark!”</i> he +cried, clapping his hands in real delight, as Nick came singing up the +bank. “Why, lad, I vow I thought thou wert up in the sky somewhere, with +wings to thy back! Where didst thou learn that wonder-song?”</p> + +<p>Nick colored up, quite taken aback. “I do na know, sir,” said he; +“mother learned me part, and the rest just came, I think, sir.”</p> + +<p>The master-player, his whole face alive and eager, now stared at +Nicholas Attwood as fixedly as Nick had stared at him.</p> + +<p>It was a hearty little English lad he saw, about eleven years of age, +tall, slender, trimly built, and fair. A gray cloth cap clung to the +side of his curly yellow head, and he wore a sleeveless jerkin of +dark-blue serge, gray home-spun hose, and heelless shoes of russet +leather. The white sleeves of his linen shirt were open to the elbow, +and his arms were lithe and brown. His eyes were frankly clear and +blue, and his red mouth had a trick of smiling that went straight to a +body’s heart.</p> + +<p>“Why, lad, lad,” cried Carew, breathlessly, “thou hast a very fortune in +thy throat!”</p> + +<p>Nick looked up in great surprise; and at that the master-player broke +off suddenly and said no more, though such a strange light came creeping +into his eyes that Nick, after meeting his fixed stare for a moment, +asked uneasily if they would not better be going on.</p> + +<p>Without a word the master-player started. Something had come into his +head which seemed to more than fill his mind; for as he strode along he +whistled under his breath and laughed softly to himself. Then again he +snapped his fingers and took a dancing step or two across the road, and +at last fell to talking aloud to himself, though Nick could not make out +a single word he said, for it was in some foreign language.</p> + +<p>“Nicholas,” he said suddenly, as they passed the winding lane that leads +away to Kenilworth—“Nicholas, dost know any other songs like that?”</p> + +<p>“Not just like that, sir,” answered Nick, not knowing what to make of +his companion’s strange new mood; “but I know Master Will Shakspere’s +‘Then nightly sings the staring owl, tu-who, tu-whit, tu-who!’ and ‘The +ousel-cock so black of hue, with orange-tawny bill,’ and then, too, I +know the throstle’s song that goes with it.”</p> + +<p>“Why, to be sure—to be sure thou knowest old Nick Bottom’s song, for +isn’t thy name Nick? Well met, both song and singer—well met, I say! +Nay,” he said hastily, seeing Nick about to speak; “I do not care to +hear thee talk. Sing me all thy songs. I am hungry as a wolf for songs. +Why, Nicholas, I must have songs! Come, lift up that honeyed throat of +thine and sing another song. Be not so backward; surely I love thee, +Nick, and thou wilt sing all of thy songs for me.”</p> + +<p>He laid his hand on Nick’s shoulder in his kindly way, and kept step +with him like a bosom friend, so that Nick’s heart beat high with pride, +and he sang all the songs he knew as they walked along.</p> + +<p>Carew listened intently, and sometimes with a fierce eagerness that +almost frightened the boy; and sometimes he frowned, and said under his +breath, “Tut, tut, that will not do!” but oftener he laughed without a +sound, nodding his head in time to the lilting tune, and seeming vastly +pleased with Nick, the singing, and last, but not least, with himself.</p> + +<p>And when Nick had ended the master-player had not a word to say, but for +half a mile gnawed his mustache in nervous silence, and looked Nick all +over with a long and earnest look.</p> + +<p>Then suddenly he slapped his thigh, and tossed his head back boldly. +“I’ll do it,” he said; “I’ll do it if I dance on air for it! I’ll have +it out of Master Stubbes and canting Stratford town, or may I never +thrive! My soul! it is the very thing. His eyes are like twin holidays, +and he breathes the breath of spring. Nicholas, Nicholas +Skylark,—Master Skylark,—why, it is a good name, in sooth, a very +good name! I’ll do it—I will, upon my word, and on the remnant of +mine honour!”</p> + +<p>“Did ye speak to me, sir?” asked Nick, timidly.</p> + +<p>“Nay, Nicholas; I was talking to the moon.”</p> + +<p>“Why, sir, the moon has not come yet,” said Nick, staring into the +western sky.</p> + +<p>“To be sure,” replied Master Carew, with a queer laugh. “Well, the +silvery jade has missed the first act.”</p> + +<p>“Oh,” cried Nick, reminded of the purpose of his long walk, “what will +ye play for the Mayor’s play, sir?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know,” replied Carew, carelessly; “it will all be done before I +come. They will have had the free play this afternoon, so as to catch +the pence of all the May-day crowd to-morrow.”</p> + +<p>Nick stopped in the road, and his eyes filled up with tears, so quick +and bitter was the disappointment. “Why,” he cried, with a tremble in +his tired voice, “I thought the free play would be on the morrow—and +now I have not a farthing to go in!”</p> + +<p>“Tut, tut, thou silly lad!” laughed Carew, frankly; “am I thy friend for +naught? What! let thee walk all the way to Coventry, and never see the +play? Nay, on my soul! Why, Nick, I love thee, lad; and I’ll do for thee +in the twinkling of an eye. Canst thou speak lines by heart? Well, then, +say these few after me, and bear them in thy mind.”</p> + +<p>And thereupon he hastily repeated some half a dozen disconnected lines +in a high, reciting tone.</p> + +<p>“Why, sir,” cried Nick, bewildered, “it is a part!”</p> + +<p>“To be sure,” said Carew, laughing, “it is a part—and a part of a very +good whole, too—a comedy by young Tom Heywood, that would make a graven +image split its sides with laughing; and do thou just learn that part, +good Master Skylark, and thou shalt say it in to-morrow’s play.”</p> + +<p>“What, Master Carew!” gasped Nick. “I—truly? With the Lord Admiral’s +players?”</p> + +<p>“Why, to be sure!” cried the master-player, in great glee, clapping him +upon the back. “Didst think I meant a parcel of dirty tinkers? Nay, lad; +thou art just the very fellow for the part—my lady’s page should be a +pretty lad, and, soul o’ me, thou art that same! And, Nick, thou shalt +sing Tom Heywood’s newest song. It is a pretty song; it is a lark-song +like thine own.”</p> + +<p>Nick could hardly believe his ears. To act with the Lord Admiral’s +company! To sing with them before all Coventry! It passed the wildest +dream that he had ever dreamed. What would the boys in Stratford say? +Aha! they would laugh on the other side of their mouths now!</p> + +<p>“But will they have me, sir?” he asked doubtfully.</p> + +<p>“Have thee?” said Master Carew, haughtily. “If I say go, thou shalt go. +I am master here. And I tell thee, Nick, that thou shalt see the play, +and be the play, in part, and—well, we shall see what we shall see.”</p> + +<p>With that he fell to humming and chuckling to himself, as if he had +swallowed a water-mill, while Nick turned ecstatic cart-wheels along the +grass beside the road, until presently Coventry came in sight.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII<br /> +<span class='ph3'>THE ADMIRAL’S COMPANY<br /></span></h2> + +<p>The ancient city of Coventry stands upon a little hill, with old St. +Michael’s steeple and the spire of Holy Trinity church rising above it +against the sky; and as the master-player and the boy came climbing +upward from the south, walls, towers, chimneys, and red-tiled roofs were +turned to gold by the glow of the setting sun.</p> + +<p>To Nick it seemed as if a halo overhung the town—a ruddy glory and a +wonder bright; for here the Grey Friars of the great monastery had +played their holy mysteries and miracle-plays for over a hundred years; +here the trade-guilds had held their pageants when the friars’ day was +done; here were all the wonders that old men told by winter fires.</p> + +<p>People were coming and going through the gates like bees about a hive, +and in the distance Nick could hear the sound of many voices, the rush +of feet, wheels, and hoofs, and the shrill pipe of music. Here and there +were little knots of country folk making holiday: a father and mother +with a group of rosy children; a lad and his lass, spruce in new +finery, and gay with bits of ribbon—merry groups that were ever +changing. Gay banners flapped on tall ash staves. The suburb fields were +filled with booths and tents and stalls and butts for archery. The very +air seemed eager with the eve of holiday.</p> + +<p>But what to Nick was breathless wonder was to Carew only a twice-told +tale; so he pushed through the crowded thoroughfares, amid a throng that +made Nick’s head spin round, and came quickly to the Blue Boar Inn.</p> + +<p>The court was crowded to the gates with horses, travelers, and +serving-men; and here and there and everywhere rushed the busy +innkeeper, with a linen napkin fluttering on his arm, his cap half off, +and in his hot hand a pewter flagon, from which the brown ale dripped in +spatters on his fat legs as he flew.</p> + +<p>“They’re here,” said Carew, looking shrewdly about; “for there is +Gregory Goole, my groom, and Stephen Magelt, the tire-man. In with thee, +Nicholas.”</p> + +<p>He put Nick before him with a little air of patronage, and pushed him +into the room.</p> + +<p>It was a large, low chamber with heavy beams overhead, hung with leather +jacks and pewter tankards. Around the walls stood rough tables, at which +a medley of guests sat eating, drinking, dicing, playing at cards, and +talking loudly all at once, while the tapster and the cook’s knave sped +wildly about.</p> + +<p>At a great table in the midst of the riot sat the Lord High Admiral’s +players—a score or more loud-swashing gallants, richly clad in ruffs +and bands, embroidered shirts, Italian doublets slashed and laced, +Venetian hose, gay velvet caps with jeweled bands, and every man a +poniard or a rapier at his hip. Nick felt very much like a little brown +sparrow in a flock of gaudy Indian birds.</p> + +<p>The board was loaded down with meat and drink, and some of the players +were eating with forks, a new trick from the London court, which Nick +had never seen before. But all the diners looked up when Carew’s face +was recognized, and welcomed him with a deafening shout.</p> + +<p>He waved his hand for silence.</p> + +<p>“Thanks for these kind plaudits, gentle friends,” said he, with a +mocking air; “I have returned.”</p> + +<p>“Yes; we see that ye have, Gaston,” they all shouted, and laughed again.</p> + +<p>“Ay,” said he, thrusting his hand into his pouch, “ye fled, and left me +to be spoiled by the spoiler, but ye see I have left the +spoiler spoiled.”</p> + +<p>Lifting his hand triumphantly, he shook in their faces the golden chain +that the burgesses of Stratford had given him, and then, laying his hand +upon Nick’s shoulder, bowed to them all, and to him with courtly grace, +and said: “Be known, be known, all! Gentlemen, my Lord Admiral’s +Players, Master Nicholas Skylark, the sweetest singer in all the kingdom +of England!”</p> + +<p>Nick’s cheeks flushed hotly, and his eyes fell; for they all stared +curiously, first at him, and then at Carew standing up behind him, and +several grinned mockingly and winked in a knowing way. He stole a look +at Carew; but the master-player’s face was frank and quite unmoved, so +that Nick felt reassured.</p> + +<p>“Why, sirs,” said Carew, as some began to laugh and to speak to one +another covertly, “it is no jest. He hath a sweeter voice than Cyril +Davy’s, the best woman’s-voice in all London town. Upon my word, it is +the sweetest voice a body ever heard—outside of heaven and the holy +angels!” He lowered his tone and bowed his head a little. “I’ll stake +mine honour on it!”</p> + +<p>“Hast any, Gaston?” called a jeering voice, whereat the whole room +roared.</p> + +<p>But Carew cried again in a high voice that would be heard above the +noise: “Now, hark ’e; what I say is so. It is, upon my word, and on the +remnant of mine honour! And to-morrow ye shall see, for Master Skylark +is to sing and play with us.”</p> + +<p>When he had said that, nothing would do but Nick must sit down and eat +with them; so they made a place for him and for Master Carew.</p> + +<p>Nick bent his head and said a grace, at which some of them laughed, +until Carew shook his head with a stern frown; and before he ate he +bowed politely to them all, as his mother had taught him to do. They all +bowed mockingly, and hilariously offered him wine, which, when he +refused, they pressed upon him, until Carew stopped them, saying that he +would have no more of that. As he spoke he clapped his hand upon his +poniard and scowled blackly. They all laughed, but offered Nick no more +wine; instead, they picked him choice morsels, and made a great deal of +him, until his silly young head was quite turned, and he sat up and gave +himself a few airs—not many, for Stratford was no great place in which +to pick up airs.</p> + +<p>When they had eaten they wanted Nick to sing; but again Carew +interposed. “Nay,” said he; “he hath just eaten his fill, so he cannot +sing. Moreover, he is no jackdaw to screech in such a cage as this. He +shall not sing until to-morrow in the play.”</p> + +<p>At this some of the leading players who held shares in the venture +demurred, doubting if Nick could sing at all; but—“Hark ’e,” said +Master Carew, shortly, clapping his hand upon his poniard, “I say that +he can. Do ye take me?”</p> + +<p>So they said no more; and shortly after he took Nick away, and left them +over their tankards, singing uproariously.</p> + +<p>The Blue Boar Inn had not a bed to spare, nor had the players kept a +place for Carew; at which he smiled grimly, said he’d not forget it, and +took lodgings for himself and Nick at the Three Tuns in the next street.</p> + +<p>Nick spoke indeed of his mother’s cousin, with whom he had meant to +stay, but the master-player protested warmly; so, little loath, and much +flattered by the attentions of so great a man, Nick gave over the idea +and said no more about it.</p> + +<p>When the chamberlain had shown them to their room and they were both +undressed, Nick knelt beside the bed and said a prayer, as he always did +at home. Carew watched him curiously. It was quiet there, and the light +dim; Nick was young, and his yellow hair was very curly. Carew could +hear the faint breath murmuring through the boy’s lips as he prayed, and +while he stared at the little white figure his mouth twitched in a queer +way. But he tossed his head, and muttered to himself, “What, Gaston +Carew, turning soft? Nay, nay. I’ll do it—on my soul, I will!” rolled +into bed, and was soon fast asleep.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>As for Nick, what with the excitement of the day, the dazzling fancies +in his brain, his tired legs, the weird night noises in the town, and +strange, tremendous dreams, he scarce could get to sleep at all; but +toward morning he fell into a refreshing doze, and did not wake until +the town was loud with May.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX<br /> +<span class='ph3'>THE MAY-DAY PLAY<br /></span></h2> + +<p>It was soon afternoon. All Coventry was thronged with people keeping +holiday, and at the Blue Boar a scene of wild confusion reigned.</p> + +<p>Tap-room and hall were crowded with guests, and in the cobbled court +horses innumerable stamped and whinnied. The players, with knitted +brows, stalked about the quieter nooks, going over their several parts, +and looking to their costumes, which were for the most part upon their +backs; while the thumping and pounding of the carpenters at work upon +the stage in the inn-yard were enough to drive a quiet-loving +person wild.</p> + +<p>Nick scarcely knew whether he were on his head or on his heels. The +master-player would not let him eat at all after once breaking his fast, +for fear it might affect his voice, and had him say his lines a hundred +times until he had them pat. Then he was off, directing here, there, and +everywhere, until the court was cleared of all that had no business +there, and the last surreptitious small boy had been duly projected +from the gates by Peter Hostler’s hobnailed boot.</p> + +<p>“Now, Nick,” said Carew, coming up all in a gale, and throwing a +sky-blue silken cloak about Nick’s shoulders, “thou’lt enter here”; and +he led him to a hallway door just opposite the gates. “When Master +Whitelaw, as the Duke, calls out, ‘How now, who comes?—I’ll match him +for the ale!’ be quickly in and answer to thy part; and, marry, boy, +don’t miss thy cues, or—tsst, thy head’s not worth a peascod!” With +that he clapped his hand upon his poniard and glared into Nick’s eyes, +as if to look clear through to the back of the boy’s wits. Nick heard +his white teeth grind, and was all at once very much afraid of him, for +he did indeed look dreadful.</p> + +<p>So Nicholas Attwood stood by the entry door, with his heart in his +throat, waiting his turn.</p> + +<p>He could hear the pages in the courtyard outside shouting for stools for +their masters, and squabbling over the best places upon the stage. Then +the gates creaked, and there came a wild rush of feet and a great crying +out as the ’prentices and burghers trooped into the inn-yard, pushing +and crowding for places near the stage. Those who had the money bawled +aloud for farthing stools. The rest stood jostling in a wrangling crowd +upon the ground, while up and down a girl’s shrill voice went all the +time, crying high, “Cherry ripe, cherry ripe! Who’ll buy my sweet May +cherries?”</p> + +<p>Then there was another shout, and a rattling tread of feet along the +wooden balconies that ran around the walls of the inn-yard, and cries +from the apprentices below: “Good-day, fair Master Harrington! Good-day, +Sir Thomas Parkes! Good-day, sweet Mistress Nettleby and Master +Nettleby! Good-day, good-day, good-day!” for the richer folk were coming +in at twopence each, and all the galleries were full. And then he heard +the baker’s boy with sugared cakes and ginger-nuts go stamping up +the stairs.</p> + +<p>The musicians in the balcony overhead were tuning up. There was a flute, +a viol, a gittern, a fiddle, and a drum; and behind the curtain, just +outside the door, Nick could hear the master-player’s low voice giving +hasty orders to the others.</p> + +<p>So he said his lines all over to himself, and cleared his throat. Then +on a sudden a shutter opened high above the orchestra, a trumpet blared, +the kettledrum crashed, and he heard a loud voice shout:</p> + +<p>“Good citizens of Coventry, and high-born gentles all: know ye now that +we, the players of the company of His Grace, Charles, Lord Howard, High +Admiral of England, Ireland, Wales, Calais, and Boulogne, the marches of +Normandy, Gascony, and Aquitaine, Captain-General of the Navy and the +Seas of Her Gracious Majesty the Queen—”</p> + +<p>At that the crowd in the courtyard cheered and cheered again.</p> + +<p>“—will, with your kind permission, play forthwith the laughable comedy +of ‘The Three Grey Gowns,’ by Master Thomas Heywood, in which will be +spoken many good things, old and new, and a brand-new song will be sung. +Now, hearken all—the play begins!”</p> + +<p>The trumpet blared, the kettledrum crashed again, and as a sudden hush +fell over the throng without Nick heard the voices of the players +going on.</p> + +<p>It was a broad farce, full of loud jests and nonsense, a great thwacking +of sticks and tumbling about; and Nick, with his eye to the crack of the +door, listened with all his ears for his cue, far too excited even to +think of laughing at the rough jokes, though the crowd in the inn-yard +roared till they held their sides.</p> + +<p>Carew came hurrying up, with an anxious look in his restless eyes.</p> + +<p>“Ready, Nicholas!” said he, sharply, taking Nick by the arm and lifting +the latch. “Go straight down front now as I told thee—mind thy +cues—speak boldly—sing as thou didst sing for me—and if thou wouldst +not break mine heart, do not fail me now! I have staked it all upon thee +here—and we <i>must</i> win!”</p> + +<p>“How now, who comes?” Nick heard a loud voice call outside—the +door-latch clicked behind him—he was out in the open air and down the +stage before he quite knew where he was.</p> + +<p>The stage was built against the wall just opposite the gates. It was but +a temporary platform of planks laid upon trestles. One side of it was +against the wall, and around the three other sides the crowd was packed +close to the platform rail.</p> + +<p>At the ends, upon the boards, several wealthy gallants sat on high, +three-legged stools, within arm’s reach of the players acting there. The +courtyard was a sea of heads, and the balconies were filled with +gentlefolk in holiday attire, eating cakes and chaffing gaily at the +play. All was one bewildered cloud of staring eyes to Nick, and the only +thing which he was sure he saw was the painted sign that hung upon the +curtain at the rear, which in the lack of other scenery announced in +large red print: “This is a Room in Master Jonah Jackdawe’s House.”</p> + +<p>And then he heard the last quick words, “I’ll match him for the ale!” +and started on his lines.</p> + +<p>It was not that he said so ill what little he had to say, but that his +voice was homelike and familiar in its sound, one of their own, with no +amazing London accent to the words—just the speech of every-day, the +sort that they all knew.</p> + +<p>First, some one in the yard laughed out—a shock-headed ironmonger’s +apprentice, “Whoy, bullies, there be hayseed in his hair. ’Tis took off +pasture over-soon. I fecks! they’ve plucked him green!”</p> + +<p>There was a hoarse, exasperating laugh. Nick hesitated in his lines. The +player at his back tried to prompt him, but only made the matter worse, +and behind the green curtain at the door a hand went “clap” upon a +dagger-hilt. The play lagged, and the crowd began to jeer. Nick’s heart +was full of fear and of angry shame that he had dared to try. Then all +at once there came a brief pause, in which he vaguely realized that no +one spoke. The man behind him thrust him forward, and whispering +wrathfully, “Quick, quick—sing up, thou little fool!” stepped back and +left him there alone.</p> + +<p class='ctr'><a name="illus0346"></a> +<a href="images/illus0346.jpg"> +<img src="images/illus0346.jpg" width = "40%" alt="" /> +</a><br /> +<b>“NICK THOUGHT OF HIS MOTHER’S SINGING ON A SUMMER’S +EVENING—DREW A DEEP BREATH AND BEGAN TO SING.”</b> +<br /></p> + +<p>A viol overhead took up the time, the gittern struck a few sharp +notes. This unexpected music stopped the noise, and all was still. Nick +thought of his mother’s voice singing on a summer’s evening among the +hollyhocks, and as the viol’s droning died away he drew a deep breath +and began to sing the words of “Heywood’s newest song”:</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +“Pack, clouds, away, and welcome, day;<br /> + With night we banish sorrow;<br /> +Sweet air, blow soft; mount, lark, aloft,<br /> + To give my love good-morrow!”<br /> +</div> + +<p>It was only a part of a madrigal, the air to which they had fitted the +words,—the same air that Nick had sung in the woods,—a thing scarce +meant ever to be sung alone, a simple strain, a few plain notes, and at +the close one brief, queer, warbling trill like a bird’s wild song, that +rose and fell and rose again like a silver ripple.</p> + +<p>The instruments were still; the fresh young voice came out alone, and it +was done so soon that Nick hardly knew that he had sung at all. For a +moment no one seemed to breathe. Then there was a very great noise, and +all the court seemed hurling at him. A man upon the stage sprang to his +feet. What they were going to do to him Nick did not know. He gave a +frightened cry, and ran past the green curtain, through the open door, +and into the master-player’s excited arms.</p> + +<p>“Quick, quick!” cried Carew. “Go back, go back! There, hark!—dost not +hear them call? Quick, out again—they call thee back!” With that he +thrust Nick through the door. The man upon the stage came up, slipped +something into his hand—Nick, all bewildered, knew not what; and there +he stood, quite stupefied, not knowing what to do. Then Carew came out +hastily and led him down the stage, bowing, and pressing his hand to his +heart, and smiling like a summer sunrise; so that Nick, seeing this, did +the same, and bowed as neatly as he could; though, to be sure, his was +only a simple, country-bred bow, and no such ceremonious to-do as Master +Carew’s courtly London obeisance.</p> + +<p>Every one was standing up and shouting so that not a soul could hear his +ears, until the ironmonger’s apprentice bellowed above the rest; “Whoy, +bullies!” he shouted, amid a chorus of cheers and laughter, “didn’t I +say ’twas catched out in the fields—it be a skylark, sure enough! Come, +Muster Skylark, sing that song again, an’ thou shalt ha’ my +brand-new cap!”</p> + +<p>Then many voices cried out together, “Sing it again! The Skylark—the +Skylark!”</p> + +<p>Nick looked up, startled. “Why, Master Carew,” said he, with a tremble +in his voice, “do they mean me ?”</p> + +<p>Carew put one hand beneath Nick’s chin and turned his face up, smiling. +The master-player’s cheeks were flushed with triumph, and his dark eyes +danced with pride. “Ay, Nicholas Skylark; ’tis thou they mean.”</p> + +<p>The viol and the music came again from overhead, and when they ceased +Nick sang the little song once more. And when the master-player had +taken him outside, and the play was over, some fine ladies came and +kissed him, to his great confusion; for no one but his mother or his +kin had ever done so before, and these had much perfume about them, musk +and rose-attar, so that they smelled like rose-mallows in July. The +players of the Lord Admiral’s company were going about shaking hands +with Carew and with each other as if they had not met for years, and +slapping one another upon the back; and one came over, a tall, solemn, +black-haired man, he who had written the song, and stood with his feet +apart and stared at Nick, but spoke never a word, which Nick thought was +very singular. But as he turned away he said, with a world of pity in +his voice, “And I have writ two hundred plays, yet never saw thy like. +Lad, lad, thou art a jewel in a wild swine’s snout!” which Nick did not +understand at all; nor why Master Carew said so sharply, “Come, Heywood, +hold thy blabbing tongue; we are all in the same sty.”</p> + +<p>“Speak for thyself, Gat Carew!” answered Master Heywood, firmly. “I’ll +have no hand in this affair, I tell thee once for all!”</p> + +<p>Master Carew flushed queerly and bit his lip, and, turning hastily away, +took Nick to walk about the town. Nick then, for the first time, looked +into his hand to see what the man upon the stage had given him. It was a +gold rose-noble.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X<br /> +<span class='ph3'>AFTER THE PLAY<br /></span></h2> + +<p>Through the high streets of the third city of the realm Master Gaston +Carew strode as if he were a very king, and Coventry his kingdom.</p> + +<p>There was music everywhere,—of pipers and fiddlers, drums, tabrets, +flutes, and horns,—and there were dancing bears upon the corners, with +minstrels, jugglers, chapmen crying their singsong wares, and such a +mighty hurly-burly as Nick had never seen before. And wherever there was +a wonder to be seen, Carew had Nick see it, though it cost a penny a +peep, and lifted him to watch the fencing and quarter-staff play in the +market-place. And at one of the gay booths he bought gilt ginger-nuts +and caraway cakes with currants on the top, and gave them all to Nick, +who thanked him kindly, but said, if Master Carew pleased, he’d rather +have his supper, for he was very hungry.</p> + +<p>“Why, to be sure,” said Carew, and tossed a silver penny for a scramble +to the crowd; “thou shalt have the finest supper in the town.”</p> + +<p>Whereupon, bowing to all the great folk they met, and being bowed to +most politely in return, they came to the Three Tuns.</p> + +<p>Stared at by a hundred curious eyes, made way for everywhere, and +followed by wondering exclamations of envy, it was little wonder that +Nick, a simple country lad, at last began to think that there was not in +all the world another gentleman so grand as Master Gaston Carew, and +also to have a pleasant notion that Nicholas Attwood was no bad +fellow himself.</p> + +<p>The lordly innkeeper came smirking and bobbing obsequiously about, with +his freshest towel on his arm, and took the master-player’s order as a +dog would take a bone.</p> + +<p>“Here, sirrah,” said Carew, haughtily; “fetch us some repast, I care not +what, so it be wholesome food—a green Banbury cheese, some simnel bread +and oat-cakes; a pudding, hark ’e, sweet and full of plums, with honey +and a pasty—a meat pasty, marry, a pasty made of fat and toothsome +eels; and moreover, fellow, ale to wash it down—none of thy penny ale, +mind ye, too weak to run out of the spigot, but snapping good brew—dost +take me?—with beef and mustard, tripe, herring, and a good fat capon +broiled to a turn!”</p> + +<p>The innkeeper gaped like a fish.</p> + +<p>“How now, sirrah? Dost think I cannot pay thy score?” quoth Carew, +sharply.</p> + +<p>“Nay, nay,” stammered the host; “but, sir, where—where will ye put it +all without bursting into bits?”</p> + +<p>“Be off with thee!” cried Carew, sharply. “That is my affair. Nay, +Nick,” said he, laughing at the boy’s, astonished look; “we shall not +burst. What we do not have to-night we’ll have in the morning. ’Tis the +way with these inns,—to feed the early birds with scraps,—so the more +we leave from supper the more we’ll have for breakfast. And thou wilt +need a good breakfast to ride on all day long.”</p> + +<p>“Ride?” exclaimed Nick. “Why, sir, I was minded to walk back to +Stratford, and keep my gold rose-noble whole.”</p> + +<p>“Walk?” cried the master-player, scornfully. “Thou, with thy golden +throat? Nay, Nicholas, thou shalt ride to-morrow like a very king, if I +have to pay for the horse myself, twelvepence the day!” and with that he +began chuckling as if it were a joke.</p> + +<p>But Nick stood up, and, bowing, thanked him gratefully; at which the +master-player went from chuckling to laughing, and leered at Nick so +oddly that the boy would have thought him tipsy, save that there had +been nothing yet to drink. And a queer sense of uneasiness came creeping +over him as he watched the master-player’s eyes opening and shutting, +opening and shutting, so that one moment he seemed to be staring and the +next almost asleep; though all the while his keen, dark eyes peered out +from between the lids like old dog-foxes from their holes, looking Nick +over from head to foot, and from foot to head again, as if measuring him +with an ellwand.</p> + +<p>When the supper came, filling the whole table and the sideboard too, +Nick arose to serve the meat as he was used at home; but, “Nay, Nicholas +Skylark, my honey-throat,” cried Carew, “sit thee down! Thou wait on +me—thou songster of the silver tongue? Nay, nay, sweetheart; the knave +shall wait on thee, or I’ll wait on thee myself—I will, upon my word! +Why, Nick, I tell thee I love thee, and dost think I’d let thee wait or +walk? nay, nay, thou’lt ride to-morrow like a king, and have all +Stratford wait for thee!” At this he chuckled so that he almost choked +upon a mouthful of bread and meat.</p> + +<p>“Canst ride, Nicholas?”</p> + +<p>“Fairly, sir.”</p> + +<p>“Fairly? Fie, modesty! I warrant thou canst ride like a very centaur. +What sayest—I’ll ride a ten-mile race with thee to-morrow as we go?”</p> + +<p>“Why,” cried Nick, “are ye going back to Stratford to play, after all?”</p> + +<p>“To Stratford? Nay; not for a bushel of good gold Harry shovel-boards! +Bah! That town is ratsbane and nightshade in my mouth! Nay, we’ll not go +back to Stratford town; but we shall ride a piece with thee, +Nicholas,—we shall ride a piece with thee.”</p> + +<p>Chuckling again to himself, he fell to upon the pasty and said no more.</p> + +<p>Nick held his peace, as he was taught to do unless first spoken to; but +he could not help thinking that stage-players, and master-players in +particular, were very queer folk.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI<br /> +<span class='ph3'>DISOWNED<br /></span></h2> + +<p>Night came down on Stratford town that last sweet April day, and the +pastured kine came lowing home. Supper-time passed, and the cool stars +came twinkling out; but still Nick Attwood did not come.</p> + +<p>“He hath stayed to sleep with Robin, Master Burgess Getley’s son,” said +Mistress Attwood, standing in the door, and staring out into the dusk; +“he is often lonely here.”</p> + +<p>“He should ha’ telled thee on it, then,” said Simon Attwood. “This be no +way to do. I’ve a mind to put him to a trade.”</p> + +<p>“Nay, Simon,” protested his wife; “he may be careless,—he is young +yet,—but Nicholas is a good lad. Let him have his schooling out—he’ll +be the better for it.”</p> + +<p>“Then let him show it as he goes along,” said Attwood, grimly, as he +blew the candle out.</p> + +<p>But May-day dawned; mid-morning came, mid-afternoon, then supper-time +again; and supper-time crept into dusk—and still no Nicholas Attwood.</p> + +<p>His mother grew uneasy; but his father only growled: “We’ll reckon up +when he cometh home. Master Brunswood tells me he was na at the school +the whole day yesterday—and he be feared to show his face. I’ll <i>fear</i> +him with a bit of birch!”</p> + +<p>“Do na be too hard with the lad, Simon,” pleaded Mistress Attwood. “Who +knows what hath happened to him? He must be hurt, or he’d ’a’ come home +to his mother”—and she began to wring her hands. “He may ha’ fallen +from a tree, and lieth all alone out on the hill—or, Simon, the Avon! +Thou dost na think our lad be drowned?”</p> + +<p>“Fudge!” said Simon Attwood. “Born to hang’ll never drown!”</p> + +<p>When, however, the next day crept around and still his son did not come +home, a doubt stole into the tanner’s own heart. Yet when his wife was +for starting out to seek some tidings of the boy, he stopped her +wrathfully.</p> + +<p>“Nay, Margaret,” said he; “thou shalt na go traipsing around the town +like a hen wi’ but one chick. I wull na ha’ thee made a laughing-stock +by all the fools in Stratford.”</p> + +<p>But as the third day rolled around, about the middle of the afternoon +the tanner himself sneaked out at the back door of his tannery in +Southam’s lane, and went up into the town.</p> + +<p>“Robin Getley,” he asked at the guildschool door, “was my son wi’ thee +overnight?”</p> + +<p>“Nay, Master Attwood. Has he not come back?”</p> + +<p>“Come back? From where?”</p> + +<p>Robin hung his head.</p> + +<p>“From, where?” demanded the tanner. “Come, boy!”</p> + +<p>“From Coventry,” said Robin, knowing that the truth would out at last, +anyway.</p> + +<p>“He went to see the players, sir,” spoke up Hal Saddler, briskly, not +heeding Robin’s stealthy kick. “He said he’d bide wi’ Diccon Haggard +overnight; an’ he said he wished he were a master-player himself, +sir, too.”</p> + +<p>Simon Attwood, frowning blackly, hurried on. It <i>was</i> Nick, then, whom +he had seen crossing the market-square.</p> + +<p>Wat Raven, who swept Clopton bridge, had seen two boys go up the Warwick +road. “One were thy Nick, Muster Attwood,” said he, thumping the dirt +from his broom across the coping-stone, “and the other were +Dawson’s Hodge.”</p> + +<p>The angry tanner turned again into the market-place. His brows were +knit, and his eyes were hot, yet his step was heavy and slow. Above all +things, he hated disobedience, yet in his surly way he loved his only +son; and far worse than disobedience, he hated that <i>his</i> son +should disobey.</p> + +<p>Astride a beam in front of Master Thompson’s house sat Roger Dawson. +Simon Attwood took him by the collar none too gently.</p> + +<p>“Here, leave be!” choked Roger, wriggling hard; but the tanner’s grip +was like iron. “Wert thou in Coventry May-day?” he asked sternly.</p> + +<p>“Nay, that I was na,” sputtered Hodge. “A plague on Coventry!”</p> + +<p>“Do na lie to me—thou wert there wi’ my son Nicholas.”</p> + +<p>“I was na,” snarled Hodge. “Nick Attwood threshed me in the Warrick +road; an’ I be no dawg to follow at the heels o’ folks as threshes me.”</p> + +<p>“Where be he, then?” demanded Attwood, with a sudden sinking at heart in +spite of his wrath.</p> + +<p>“How should I know? A went away wi’ a play-actoring fellow in a +plum-colored cloak; and play-actoring fellow said a loved him like a’s +own, and patted a’s back, and flung me hard names, like stones at a lost +dawg. Now le’ me go, Muster Attwood—cross my heart, ’tis all I know!”</p> + +<p>“Is’t Nicholas ye seek, Master Attwood?” asked Tom Carpenter, turning +from his fleurs-de-lis. “Why, sir, he’s gone got famous, sir. I was in +Coventry mysel’ May-day; and—why, sir, Nick was all the talk! He sang +there at the Blue Boar inn-yard with the Lord High Admiral’s players, +and took a part in the play; and, sir, ye’d scarce believe me, but the +people went just daft to hear him sing, sir.”</p> + +<p>Simon Attwood heard no more. He walked down High street in a daze. With +hard men bitter blows strike doubly deep. He stopped before the +guildhall school. The clock struck five; each iron clang seemed beating +upon his heart. He raised his hand as if to shut the clangor out, and +then his face grew stern and hard. “He hath gone his own wilful way,” +said he, bitterly. “Let him follow it to the end.”</p> + +<p>Mistress Attwood came to meet him, running in the garden-path. +“Nicholas?” was all that she could say.</p> + +<p>“Never speak to me of him, again,” he said, and passed her by into the +house. “He hath gone away with a pack of stage-playing rascals and +vagabonds, whither no man knoweth.”</p> + +<p>Taking the heavy Bible down from the shelf, he lit a rushlight at the +fire, although it was still broad daylight, and sat there with the great +book open in his lap until the sun went down and the chill night wind +crept in along the floor; yet he could not read a single word and never +turned a page.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII<br /> +<span class='ph3'>A STRANGE RIDE<br /></span></h2> + +<p>Rat-a-tat-tat at the first dim hint of dawn went the chamberlain’s +knuckles upon the door. To Nick it seemed scarce midnight yet, so sound +had been his sleep.</p> + +<p>Master Carew having gotten into his high-topped riding-boots with a +great puffing and tugging, they washed their faces at the inn-yard pump +by the smoky light of the hostler’s lantern, and then in a subdued, +half-wakened way made a hearty breakfast off the fragments of the last +night’s feast. Part of the remaining cold meat, cheese, and cakes Carew +stowed in his leather pouch. The rest he left in the lap of a beggar +sleeping beside the door.</p> + +<p>The street was dim with a chilly fog, through which a few pale stars +still struggled overhead. The houses were all shut and barred; nobody +was abroad, and the night-watch slept in comfortable doorways here and +there, with lolling heads and lanterns long gone out. As they came along +the crooked street, a stray cat scurried away with scared green eyes, +and a kenneled hound set up a lonesome howl.</p> + +<p>But the Blue Boar Inn was stirring like an ant-hill, with firefly +lanterns flitting up and down, and a cheery glow about the open door. +The horses of the company, scrubbed unreasonably clean, snorted and +stamped in little bridled clumps about the courtyard, and the +stable-boys, not scrubbed at all, clanked at the pump or shook out +wrinkled saddle-cloths with most prodigious yawns. The grooms were +buckling up the packs; the chamberlain and sleepy-lidded maids stood at +the door, waiting their fare-well farthings.</p> + +<p>Some of the company yawned in the tap-room; some yawned out of doors +with steaming stirrup-cup in hand; and some came yawning down the +stairways pulling on their riding-cloaks, booted, spurred, and ready for +a long day’s ride.</p> + +<p>“Good-morrow, sirs,” said Carew, heartily. “Good-morrow, sir, to you,” +said they, and all came over to speak to Nicholas in a very kindly way; +and one or two patted him on the cheek and walked away speaking in +under-tones among themselves, keeping one eye on Carew all the while. +And Master Tom Heywood, the play-writer, came out with a great slice of +fresh wheat-bread, thick with butter and dripping with yellow honey, and +gave it to Nick; and stood there silently with a very queer expression +watching him eat it, until Carew’s groom led up a stout hackney and a +small roan palfrey to the block, and the master-player, crying +impatiently, “Up with thee, Nick; we must be ambling!” sprang into the +saddle of the gray.</p> + +<p>The sleepy inn-folk roused a bit to send a cheery volley of, “Fare ye +well, sirs; come again,” after the departing players, and the long +cavalcade cantered briskly out of the inn-yard, in double rank, with a +great clinking of bridle-chains and a drifting odor of wet leather and +heavy perfume.</p> + +<p>Nick sat very erect and rode his best, feeling like some errant knight +of the great Round Table, ready to right the whole world’s wrongs. “But +what about the horse?” said he. “We can na keep him in Stratford, sir.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, that’s all seen to,” said the master-player. “’Tis to be sent back +by the weekly carrier.”</p> + +<p>“And where do I turn into the Stratford road, sir?” asked Nick, as the +players clattered down the cobbled street in a cloud of mist that +steamed up so thickly from the stones that the horses seemed to have no +legs, but to float like boats.</p> + +<p>“Some distance further on,” replied Carew, carelessly. “’Tis not the +way we came that thou shalt ride to-day; that is t’ other end of town, +and the gate not open yet. But the longest way round is the shortest way +home, so let’s be spurring on.”</p> + +<p>At the corner of the street a cross and sleepy cobbler was strapping a +dirty urchin, who bellowed lustily. Nick winced.</p> + +<p>“Hollo!” cried Carew. “What’s to do?”</p> + +<p>“Why, sir,” said Nick, ruefully, “father will thresh me well this +night.”</p> + +<p>“Nay,” said Carew, in a quite decided tone; “that he’ll not, I promise +thee!”—and as he spoke he chuckled softly to himself.</p> + +<p>The man before them turned suddenly around and grinned queerly; but, +catching the master-player’s eye, whipped his head about like a +weather-vane in a gale, and cantered on.</p> + +<p>As they came down the narrow street the watchmen were just swinging wide +the city gates, and gave a cheer to speed the parting guests, who gave a +rouse in turn, and were soon lost to sight in the mist which hid the +valley in a great gray sea.</p> + +<p>“How shall I know where to turn off, sir?” asked Nick, a little +anxiously. “’Tis all alike.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll tell thee,” said the master-player; “rest thee easy on that score. +I know the road thou art to ride much better than thou dost thyself.”</p> + +<p>He smiled quite frankly as he spoke, and Nick could not help wondering +why the man before them again turned around and eyed him with that +sneaking grin.</p> + +<p>He did not like the fellow’s looks. He had scowling black brows, hair +cut as close as if the rats had gnawed it off, a pair of ill-shaped +bandy-legs, a wide, unwholesome slit of a mouth, and a nose like a +raspberry tart. His whole appearance was servile and mean, and there was +a sly malice in his furtive eyes. Besides that, and a thing which +strangely fascinated Nick’s gaze, there was a hole through the gristle +of his right ear, scarred about as if it had been burned, and through +this hole the fellow had tied a bow of crimson ribbon, like a butterfly +alighted upon his ear.</p> + +<p>“A pretty fellow!” said Carew, with a shrug. “He’ll be hard put to dodge +the hangman yet; but he’s a right good fellow in his way, and he has +served me—he has served me.”</p> + +<p>The first loud burst of talk had ceased, and all rode silently along. +The air was chill, and Nick was grateful for the cloak that Carew threw +around him. There was no sound but the beat of many hoofs in the +dust-padded road, and now and then the crowing of a cock somewhere +within the cloaking fog. The stars were gone, and the sky was lighting +up; and all at once, as they rode, the clouds ahead, low down and to the +right, broke raggedly away and let a red sun-gleam shoot through across +the mist, bathing the riders in dazzling rosy light.</p> + +<p>“Why, Master Carew,” cried Nick, no little startled, “there comes the +sun, almost ahead! We’re riding east-ward, sir. We’ve missed the road!”</p> + +<p>“Oh, no, we’ve not,” said Carew; “nothing of the sort.” His tone was so +peremptory and sharp that Nick said nothing more, but rode along, +vaguely wishing that he was already clattering down Stratford +High street.</p> + +<p>The clouds scattered as the sun came up, and the morning haze drifted +away into cool dales, and floated off upon the breeze. And as the world +woke up the players wakened too, and rode gaily along, laughing, +singing, and chattering together, until Nick thought he had never in all +his life before seen such a jolly fellowship. His heart was blithe as he +reined his curveting palfrey by the master-player’s side, and watched +the sunlight dance and sparkle along the dashing line from dagger-hilts +and jeweled clasps, and the mist-lank plumes curl crisp again in the +warmth of the rising sun.</p> + +<p>The master-player, too, had a graceful, taking way of being half +familiar with the lad; he was besides a marvelous teller of wonderful +tales, and whiled away the time with jests and quips, mile after mile, +till Nick forgot both road and time, and laughed until his sides +were sore.</p> + +<p>Yet slowly, as they rode along, it came home to him with the passing of +the land that this was country new and strange. So he began to take +notice of this and that beside the way; and as he noticed he began to +grow uneasy. Thrice had he come to Coventry, but surely never by a road +like this.</p> + +<p>Yet still the master-player joked and laughed and pleased the boy with +little things—until Nick laughed too, and let the matter go. At last, +however, when they had ridden fully an hour, they passed a moss-grown +abbey on the left-hand side of the road, a strange old place that Nick +could not recall.</p> + +<p>“Are ye sure, Master Carew,” he ventured timidly—</p> + +<p>At that the master-player took on so offended an air that Nick was sorry +he had spoken.</p> + +<p>“Why, now,” said Carew, haughtily, “if thou dost know the roads of +England better than I, who have trudged and ridden them all these years, +I’ll sit me down and learn of thee how to follow mine own nose. I tell +thee I know the road thou art to ride this day better than thou dost +thyself; and I’ll see to it that thou dost come without fail to the very +place that thou art going. I will, upon my word, and on the remnant of +mine honour!”</p> + +<p>But in spite of this assurance, and in spite of the master-player’s +ceaseless stream of gaiety and marvels, Nick became more and more +uneasy. The road was certainly growing stranger and stranger as they +passed. The company, too, instead of ambling leisurely along, as they +had done at first, were now spurring ahead at a good round gallop, in +answer to a shrill whistle from the master-player; and the horses were +wet with sweat.</p> + +<p>They passed a country village, too, that was quite unknown to Nick, and +a great highway running to the north that he had never seen before; and +when they had ridden for about two hours, the road swerved southward to +a shining ford, and on a little tableland beyond he saw the gables of a +town he did not know.</p> + +<p>“Why, Master Carew!” he cried out, half indignant, half perplexed, and +thoroughly frightened, “this is na the Stratford road at all. I’m going +back. I will na ride another mile!”</p> + +<p>As he spoke he wheeled the roan sharply out of the clattering file with +a slash of the rein across the withers, and started back along the hill +past the rest of the company, who came thumping down behind.</p> + +<p>“Stop him! Stop him there!” he heard the master-player shout, and there +was something in the fierce, high voice that turned his whole heart +sick. What right had they to stop him? This was not the Stratford road; +he was certain of that now. But “Stop him—stop him there!” he heard the +master-player call, and a wild, unreasoning fright came over him. He dug +his heels into the palfrey’s heaving sides and urged him up the hill +through the cloud of dust that came rolling down behind the horsemen. +The hindmost riders had plunged into those before, and the whole array +was struggling, shouting, and wrangling in wild disorder; but out of the +flurry Carew and the bandy-legged man with the ribbon in his ear spurred +furiously and came galloping after him at the top of their speed.</p> + +<p>Nick cried out, and beat the palfrey with the rein; but the chase was +short. They overtook him as he topped the hill, one on each side, and, +leaning over, Carew snatched the bridle from his hand. “Thou little +imp!” he panted, as he turned the roan around and started down the hill. +“Don’t try this on again!”</p> + +<p>“Oh, Master Carew,” gasped Nick, “what are ye going to do wi’ me?”</p> + +<p>“Do with thee?” cried the master-player, savagely clapping his hand upon +his poniard,—“why, I am going to do with thee just whatever I please. +Dost hear? And, hark ’e, this sort of caper doth not please me at all; +and by the whistle of the Lord High Admiral, if thou triest it on again, +thy life is not worth a rotten peascod!”</p> + +<p>Unbuckling the rein, he tossed one end to the bandy-legged man, and +holding the other in his own hand, with Nick riding helplessly between +them, they trotted down the hill again, took their old places in the +ranks, and spattered through the shallow ford.</p> + +<p>The bandy-legged man had pulled a dagger from beneath his coat, and held +it under his bridle-rein, shining through the horse’s mane as they +dashed through the still half-sleeping town. Nick was speechless +with terror.</p> + +<p>Beyond the town’s end they turned sharply to the northeast, galloping +steadily onward for what was perhaps half an hour, though to Nick it +seemed a forever, until they came out into a great highway running +southward. “Watling street!” he heard the man behind him say, and knew +that they were in the old Roman road that stretched from London to the +north. Still they were galloping, though long strings dribbled from the +horses’ mouths, and the saddle-leathers dripped with foam. One or two +looked back at him and bit their lips; but Carew’s eyes were hot and +fierce, and his hand was on his poniard. The rest, after a curious +glance or two, shrugged their shoulders carelessly and galloped on: this +affair was Master Gaston Carew’s business, not theirs.</p> + +<p>Until high noon they hurried on with neither stop nor stay. Then they +came to a place where a little brook sang through the grass by the +roadside in a shady nook beneath some mighty oaks, and there the +master-player whistled for a halt, to give the horses breath and rest, +and to water them at the brook-pools. Some of the players sauntered up +and down to stretch their tired legs, munching meat and bread; and some +lay down upon the grass and slept a little. Two of them came, offering +Nick some cakes and cheese; but he was crying hard and would neither +eat nor drink, though Carew urged him earnestly. Then Master Tom +Heywood, with an ugly look at Carew, and without so much as an +if-ye-please or a by-your-leave, led Nick up the brook to a spot where +it had not been muddied by the horses, and made him wash his dusty face +and hands in the cool water and dampen his hair, though he complied as +if in a daze. And indeed Nick rode on through the long afternoon, +clinging helplessly to the pommel of his saddle, sobbing bitterly until +for very weariness he could no longer sob.</p> + +<p>It was after nine o’clock that night when they rode into Towcester, and +all that was to be seen was a butcher’s boy carting garbage out of the +town and whistling to keep his courage up. The watch had long since gone +to sleep about the silent streets, but a dim light burned in the +tap-room of the Old Brown Cow; and there the players rested for +the night.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII<br /> +<span class='ph3'>A DASH FOR FREEDOM<br /></span></h2> + +<p>Nick awoke from a heavy, burning sleep, aching from head to foot. The +master-player, up and dressed, stood by the window, scowling grimly out +into the ashy dawn. Nick made haste to rise, but could not stifle a +sharp cry of pain as he staggered to his feet, he was so racked and sore +with riding.</p> + +<p>At the boy’s smothered cry Carew turned, and his dark face softened with +a sudden look of pity and concern. “Why, Nick, my lad,” he cried, and +hurried to his side, “this is too bad, indeed!” and without more words +took him gently in his arms and carried him down to the courtyard well, +where he bathed him softly from neck to heel in the cold, refreshing +water, and wiped him with a soft, clean towel as tenderly as if he had +been the lad’s own mother. And having dried him thoroughly, he rubbed +him with a waxy ointment that smelled of henbane and poppies, until the +aching was almost gone. So soft and so kind was he withal that Nick took +heart after a little and asked timidly, “And ye will let me go home +to-day, sir, will ye not?”</p> + +<p>The master-player frowned.</p> + +<p>“Please, Master Carew, let me go.”</p> + +<p>“Come, come,” said Carew, impatiently, “enough of this!” and stamped his +foot.</p> + +<p>“But, oh, Master Carew,” pleaded Nick, with a sob in his throat, “my +mother’s heart will surely break if I do na come home!”</p> + +<p>Carew started, and his mouth twitched queerly. “Enough, I say—enough!” +he cried. “I will not hear; I’ll have no more. I tell thee hold thy +tongue—be dumb! I’ll not have ears—thou shalt not speak! Dost hear?” +He dashed the towel to the ground. “I bid thee hold thy tongue.”</p> + +<p>Nick hid his face between his hands, and leaned against the rough stone +wall, a naked, shivering, wretched little chap indeed. “Oh, mother, +mother, mother!” he sobbed pitifully.</p> + +<p>A singular expression came over the master-player’s face. “I will not +hear—I tell thee I will not hear!” he choked, and, turning suddenly +away, he fell upon the sleepy hostler, who was drawing water at the +well, and rated him outrageously, to that astounded worthy’s +great amazement.</p> + +<p>Nick crept into his clothes, and stole away to the kitchen door. There +was a red-faced woman there who bade him not to cry—’t would soon be +breakfast-time. Nick thought he could not eat at all; but when the +savory smell crept out and filled the chilly air, his poor little empty +stomach would not be denied, and he ate heartily. Master Heywood sat +beside him and gave him the choicest bits from his own trencher; and +Carew himself, seeing that he ate, looked strangely pleased, and ordered +him a tiny mutton-pie, well spiced. Nick pushed it back indignantly; but +Heywood took the pie and cut it open, saying quietly: “Come, lad, the +good God made the sheep that is in this pie, not Gaston Carew. Eat +it—come, ’twill do thee good!” and saw him finish the last crumb.</p> + +<p>From Towcester south through Northamptonshire is a pretty country of +rolling hills and undulating hollows, ribboned with pebbly rivers, and +dotted with fair parks and tofts of ash and elm and oak. Straggling +villages now and then were threaded on the road like beads upon a +string, and here and there the air was damp and misty from the grassy +fens along some winding stream.</p> + +<p>It was against nature that a healthy, growing lad should be so much cast +down as not to see and be interested in the strange, new, passing world +of things about him; and little by little Nick roused from his +wretchedness and began to look about him. And a wonder grew within his +brain: why had they stolen him?—where were they taking him?—what would +they do with him there?—or would they soon let him go again?</p> + +<p>Every yellow cloud of dust arising far ahead along the road wrought up +his hopes to a Bluebeard pitch, as regularly to fall. First came a +cast-off soldier from the war in the Netherlands, rakishly forlorn, his +breastplate full of rusty dents, his wild hair worn by his steel cap, +swaggering along on a sorry hack with an old belt full of pistolets, and +his long sword thumping Rosinante’s ribs. Then a peddling chapman, with +a dust-white pack and a cunning Hebrew look, limped by, sulkily doffing +his greasy hat. Two sturdy Midland journeymen, in search of southern +handicraft, trudged down with tool-bags over their shoulders and stout +oak staves in hand. Of wretched beggars and tattered rogues there was an +endless string. But of any help no sign.</p> + +<p>Here and there, like a moving dot, a ploughman turned a belated furrow; +or a sweating ditcher leaned upon his reluctant spade and longed for +night; or a shepherd, quite as silly as his sheep, gawked up the morning +hills. But not a sign of help for Nick.</p> + +<p>Once, passing through a little town, he raised a sudden cry of “Help! +Help—they be stealing me away!” But at that the master-player and the +bandy-legged man waved their hands and set up such a shout that his +shrill outcry was not even heard. And the simple country bumpkins, +standing in a grinning row like so many Old Aunt Sallys at a fair, +pulled off their caps and bowed, thinking it some company of great +lords, and fetched a clownish cheer as the players galloped by.</p> + +<p>Then the hot dust got into Nick’s throat, and he began to cough. Carew +started with a look of alarm. “Come, come, Nicholas, this will never +do—never do in the world; thou’lt spoil thy voice.”</p> + +<p>“I do na care,” said Nick.</p> + +<p>“But I do,” said Carew, sharply. “So we’ll have no more of it!” and he +clapped his hand upon his poniard. “But, nay—nay, lad, I did not mean +to threaten thee—’tis but a jest. Come, smooth thy throat, and do not +shriek no more. We play in old St. Albans town to-night, and thou art to +sing thy song for us again.”</p> + +<p>Nick pressed his lips tight shut and shook his head. He would not sing +for them again.</p> + +<p>“Come, Nick, I’ve promised Tom Heywood that thou shouldst sing his song; +and, lad, there’s no one left in all the land to sing it if thou’lt not. +Tom doth dearly love thee, lad—why, sure, thou hast seen that! And, +Nick, I’ve promised all the company that thou wouldst sing Tom’s song +with us to-night. ’Twill break their hearts if thou wilt not. Come, +Nick, thou’lt sing it for us all, and set old Albans town afire!” said +Carew, pleadingly.</p> + +<p>Nick shook his head.</p> + +<p>“Come, Nick,” said Carew, coaxingly, “we must hear that sweet voice of +thine in Albans town to-night. Come, there’s a dear, good lad, and give +us just one little song! Come, act the man and sing, as thou alone in +all the world canst sing, in Albans town this night; and on my word, and +on the remnant of mine honour, I’ll leave thee go back to Stratford town +to-morrow morning!”</p> + +<p>“To Stratford—to-morrow?” stammered Nick, with a glad, incredulous cry, +while his heart leaped up within him.</p> + +<p>“Ay, verily; upon my faith as the fine fag-end of a very proper +gentleman—thou shalt go back to Stratford town to-morrow if thou wilt +but do thy turn with us to-night.”</p> + +<p>Nick caught the master-player’s arm as they rode along, almost crying +for very joy: “Oh, that I will, sir—and do my very best. And, oh, +Master Carew, I ha’ thought so ill o’ thee! Forgive me, sir; I did na +know thee well.”</p> + +<p>Carew winced. Hastily throwing the rein to Nick, he left him to master +his own array.</p> + +<p>As for Nick, as happy as a lark he learned his new lines as he rode +along, Master Carew saying them over to him from the manuscript and over +again until he made not a single mistake; and was at great pains to +teach him the latest fashionable London way of pronouncing all the +words, and of emphasizing his set phrases. “Nay, nay,” he would cry +laughingly, “not that way, lad; but this: ‘Good my lord, I bring a +letter from the duke’—as if thou hadst indeed a letter, see, and not an +empty fist. And when thou dost hand it to him, do it thus—and not as if +thou wert about to stab him in the paunch with a cheese-knife!” And at +the end he clapped him upon the back and said again and again that he +loved him, that he was a dear, sweet figure of a lad, and that his voice +among the rest of England’s singers, was like clear honey dropping into +a pot of grease.</p> + +<p>But it is a long ride from Towcester to St. Albans town in Herts, though +the road runs through a pleasant, billowy land of oak-walled lanes, wide +pastures, and quiet parks; and the steady jog, jog of the little roan +began to rack Nick’s tired bones before the day was done.</p> + +<p>Yet when they marched into the quaint old town to the blare of trumpets +and the crash of the kettledrums, all the long line gaudy with the +coat-armour of the Lord High Admiral beneath their flaunting banners, +and the horses pricked up their ears and arched their necks and pranced +along the crowded streets, Nick, stared at by all the good townsfolk, +could not help feeling a thrill of pride that he was one of the great +company of players, and sat up very straight and held his head up +haughtily as Master Carew did, and bore himself with as lordly an air as +he knew how.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>But when morning came, and he danced blithely back from washing himself +at the horse-trough, all ready to start for home, he found the little +roan cross-bridled as before between the master-player’s gray and the +bandy-legged fellow’s sorrel mare.</p> + +<p>“What, there! cast him loose,” said he to the horse-boy who held the +three. “I am not going on with the players—I’m to go back to +Stratford.”</p> + +<p>“Then ye go afoot,” coolly rejoined the other, grinning, “for the hoss +goeth on wi’ the rest.”</p> + +<p>“What is this, Master Carew?” cried Nick, indignantly, bursting into the +tap-room, where the players were at ale. “They will na let me have the +horse, sir. Am I to walk the whole way back to Stratford town?”</p> + +<p>“To Stratford?” asked Master Carew, staring with an expression of most +innocent surprise, as he set his ale-can down and turned around. “Why, +thou art not going to Stratford.”</p> + +<p>“Not going to Stratford!” gasped Nick, catching at the table with a +sinking heart. “Why, sir, ye promised that I should to-day.”</p> + +<p>“Nay, now, that I did not, Nicholas. I promised thee that thou shouldst +go back to-morrow—were not those my very words!”</p> + +<p>“Ay, that they were,” cried Nick; “and why will ye na leave me go?”</p> + +<p>“Why, this is not to-morrow, Nick. Why, see, I cannot leave thee go +to-day. Thou knowest that I said to-morrow; and this is not +to-morrow—on thine honour, is it now?”</p> + +<p>“How can I tell?” cried Nick, despairingly. “Yesterday ye said it would +be, and now ye say that it is na. Ye’ve twisted it all up so that a body +can na tell at all. But there is a falsehood—a wicked, black +falsehood—somewhere betwixt you and me, sir; and ye know that I have na +lied to you, Master Carew!”</p> + +<p>Through the tap-room door he saw the open street and the hills beyond +the town. Catching his breath, he sprang across the sill, and ran for +the free fields at the top of his speed.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV<br /> +<span class='ph3'>AT BAY<br /></span></h2> + +<p>“After him!—stop him!—catch the rogue!” cried Carew, running out on +the cobbles with his ale-can in his hand. “A shilling to the man that +brings him back unharmed! No blows, nor clubs, nor stabbing, hark ’e, +but catch me the knave straightway; he hath snatched a fortune from +my hands!”</p> + +<p>At that the hostler, whip in hand, and the tapster with his bit, were +off as fast as their legs could carry them, bawling “Stop, thief, stop!” +at the top of their lungs; and at their backs every idle varlet about +the inn—grooms, stable-boys, and hangers-on—ran whooping, howling, and +hallooing like wild huntsmen.</p> + +<p>Nick’s frightened heart was in his mouth, and his breath came quick and +sharp. Tap-a-tap, tap-a-tap went his feet on the cobblestones as down +the long street he flew, running as he had never run before.</p> + +<p>It seemed as if the whole town bellowed at his back; for windows creaked +above his head, and doors banged wildly after him; curs from every +alley-way came yelping at his heels; apprentices let go the +shutter-bars, and joined in the chase; and near and nearer came the cry +of “Stop, thief, stop!” and the kloppety-klop of hob-nailed shoes in +wild pursuit.</p> + +<p>The rabble filled the dark old street from wall to wall, as if a cloud +of good-for-naughts had burst above the town; and far in front sped one +small, curly-headed lad, running like a frightened fawn. He had lost his +cap, and his breath came short, half sobbing in his throat as the sound +of footfalls gained upon his ear; but even yet he might have beaten them +all and reached the open fields but for the dirt and garbage in the +street. Three times he slipped upon a rancid bacon-rind and almost fell; +and the third time, as he plunged across the oozing drain, a dog dashed +right between his feet.</p> + +<p>He staggered, nearly fell, threw out his hand against the house and +saved himself; but as he started on again he saw the town-watch, wakened +by the uproar, standing with their long staves at the end of the street, +barring the way.</p> + +<p>The door of a smithy stood open just ahead, with forge-fires glowing and +the hammer ringing on the anvil. Nick darted in, past the horses, +hostlers, and blacksmith’s boys, and caught at the leather apron of the +sturdy smith himself.</p> + +<p>“Hoo, man, what a dickens!” snorted he, dropping the red-hot shoe on +which he was at work, and staring like a startled ox at the panting +little fugitive.</p> + +<p>“Do na leave them take me!” panted Nick. “They ha’ stolen me away from +Stratford town and will na leave me go!”</p> + +<p>At that Will Hostler bolted in, red-faced and scant of wind, “Thou +young rascal,” quoth he, “I have thee now! Come out o’ that!” and he +tried to take Nick by the collar.</p> + +<p>“So-oftly, so-oftly!” rumbled the smith, tweaking up the glowing shoe in +his great pincers, and sweeping a sputtering half-circle in front of the +cowering lad. “Droive slow through the cro-owd! What hath youngster here +did no-ow?”</p> + +<p>“He hath stolen a fortune from his master at the Three Lions—and the +shilling for him’s mine!”</p> + +<p>“Hath stealed a fortune? Whoy, huttlety-tut!” roared the burly smith, +turning ponderously upon Nick, who was dodging around him like a boy at +tag around a tree. “Whoy, lad,” said he, scratching his puzzled head +with his great, grimy fingers, “where hast putten it?”</p> + +<p>All the rout and the riot now came plunging into the smithy, breathless +with the chase. Master Carew himself, his ale-can still clutched in his +hand, and bearing himself with a high air of dignity, followed after +them, frowning.</p> + +<p>“What?” said he, angrily, “have ye earthed the cub and cannot dig him +out? Hast caught him there, fellow?”</p> + +<p>“Ay, master, that I have!” shouted Will Hostler. “Shilling’s mine, sir.”</p> + +<p>“Then fetch him out of this hole!” cried Carew, sniffing disdainfully at +the low, smoky door.</p> + +<p>“But he will na be fetched,” stammered the doughty Will, keeping a most +respectful distance from the long black pincers and the sputtering shoe +with which the farrier stolidly mowed the air round about Nick Attwood +and himself.</p> + +<p>At that the crowd set up a shout.</p> + +<p>Carew thrust fiercely into the press, the louts and loafers giving way. +“What, here! Nicholas Attwood,” said he, harshly, “come hither.”</p> + +<p>“Do na leave him take me,” begged Nick. “He is not my master; I am not +bound out apprentice—they are stealing me away from my own home, and it +will break my mother’s heart.”</p> + +<p class='ctr'><a name="illus0354"></a> +<a href="images/illus0354.jpg"> +<img src="images/illus0354.jpg" width = "60%" alt="" /> +</a><br /> +<b>“NOBODY BREAKS NOBODY’S HEARTS IN OLD JO-OHN SMITHSES +SHO-OP,’ DRAWLED THE SMITH, IN HIS DEEP VOICE; NOR STEALS +NOBODY, NOTHER”</b> +<br /></p> + +<p>“Nobody breaks nobody’s hearts in old Jo-ohn Smithses sho-op,” drawled +the smith, in his deep voice; “nor steals nobody, nother. We be +honest-dealing folk in Albans town, an’ makes as good horse-shoes as be +forged in all England”—and he went placidly on mowing the air with the +glimmering shoe.</p> + +<p>“Here, fellow, stand aside,” commanded Master Carew, haughtily. “Stand +aside and let me pass!” As he spoke he clapped his hand upon his poniard +with a fierce snarl, showing his white teeth like a wolf-hound.</p> + +<p>The men about him fell back with unanimous alacrity, making out each to +put himself behind the other. But the huge smith only puffed out his +sooty cheeks as if to blow a fly off the next bite of cheese. “So-oftly, +so-oftly, muster,” drawled he; “do na go to ruffling it here. This shop +be mine, and I be free-born Englishman. I’ll stand aside for no +swash-buckling rogue on my own ground. Come, now, what wilt thou o’ the +lad?—and speak thee fair, good muster, or thou’lt get a dab o’ the +red-hot shoe.” As he spoke he gave the black tongs an extra whirl.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV<br /> +<span class='ph3'>LONDON TOWN<br /></span></h2> + +<p>“Come,” growled the blacksmith, gripping his tongs, “what wilt thou have +o’ the lad?”</p> + +<p>“What will I have o’ the lad?” said Master Carew, mimicking the +blacksmith in a most comical way, with a wink at the crowd, as if he had +never been angry at all, so quickly could he change his face—“What will +I have o’ the lad?” and all the crowd laughed. “Why, bless thy gentle +heart, good man, I want to turn his farthings into round gold crowns—if +thou and thine infernal hot shoe do not make zanies of us all! Why, +Master Smith, ’tis to London town I’d take him, and fill his hands with +more silver shillings than there be cast-off shoes in thy whole shop.”</p> + +<p>“La, now, hearken till him!” gaped the smith, staring in amazement.</p> + +<p>“And here thou needs must up and spoil it all, because, forsooth, the +silly child goes a trifle sick for home and whimpers for his minnie!”</p> + +<p>“But the lad saith thou hast stealed him awa-ay from ’s ho-ome,” +rumbled the smith, like a doubtful earthquake; “and we’ll ha’ no +stealing o’ lads awa-ay from ho-ome in County Herts!”</p> + +<p>“Nay, that we won’t!” cried one. “Hurrah, John Smith—fair play, fair +play!” and there came an ugly, threatening murmur from the crowd.</p> + +<p>“What! Fair play?” cried Master Carew, turning so sharply about, with +his hand upon his poniard, that each made as if it were not he but his +neighbor had growled. “Why, sirs, what if I took any one of ye out of +your poverty and common clothes down into London town, horseback like a +king, and had ye sing before the Queen, and play for earls, and talk +with the highest dames in all the land; and fed ye well, and spoke ye +fair, and lodged ye soft, and clad ye fine, and wrought the whole town +on to cheer ye, and to fill your purses full of gold? What, sir,” said +he, turning to the gaping farrier—“what if I promised thee to turn +thine every word to a silver sixpence, and thy smutty grins to golden +angels—what wouldst thou? Knock me in the head with thy dirty sledge, +and bawl foul play?”</p> + +<p>“Nay, that I’d not,” roared the burly smith, with a stupid, ox-like +grin, scratching his tousled head; “I’d say, ‘Go it, bully, and a plague +on him that said thee nay!’”</p> + +<p>“And yet when I would fill this silly fellow’s jerkin full of good gold +Harry shovel-boards for the simple drawing of his breath, ye bawl +‘Foul play!’”</p> + +<p>“What, here! come out, lad,” roared the smith, with a great horse-laugh, +swinging Nick forward and thwacking him jovially between the shoulders +with his brawny hand; “come out, and go along o’ the master here,—’tis +for thy good,—and ho-ome wull keep, I trow, till thou dost come again.”</p> + +<p>But Nick hung back, and clung to the blacksmith’s grimy arm, crying in +despair: “I will na—oh, I will na!”</p> + +<p>“Tut, tut!” cried Master Carew. “Come, Nicholas; I mean thee well, I’ll +speak thee fair, and I’ll treat thee true”—and he smiled so frankly +that even Nick’s doubts almost wavered. “Come, I’ll swear it on my +hilt,” said he.</p> + +<p>The smith’s brow clouded. “Nay,” said he; “we’ll no swearing by hilts or +by holies here; the bailiff will na have it, sir.”</p> + +<p>“Good! then upon mine honour as an Englishman!” cried Carew. “What, how, +bullies? Upon mine honour as an Englishman!—how is it? Here we be, all +Englishmen together!” and he clapped his hand to Will Hostler’s +shoulder, whereat Will stood up very straight and looked around, as if +all at once he were somebody instead of somewhat less than nobody at all +of any consequence. “What!—ye are all for fair play?—and I am for fair +play, and good Master Smith, with his beautiful shoe, here, is for fair +play! Why, sirs, my bullies, we are all for fair play; and what more can +a man ask than good, downright English fair play? Nothing, say I. Fair +play first, last, and all the time!” and he waved his hand. “Hurrah for +downright English fair play!”</p> + +<p>“Hurrah, hurrah!” bellowed the crowd, swept along like bubbles in a +flood. “Fair play, says we—English fair play—hurrah!” And those inside +waved their hands, and those that were outside tossed up their caps, in +sheer delight of good fair play.</p> + +<p>“Hurrah, my bullies! That’s the cry!” said Carew, in his +hail-fellow-well-met, royal way. “Why, we’re the very best of fellows, +and the very fastest friends! Come, all to the old Three Lions inn, and +douse a can of brown March brew at my expense. To the Queen, to good +fair play, and to all the fine fellows in Albans town!”</p> + +<p>And what did the crowd do but raise a shout, like a parcel of +school-boys loosed for a holiday, and troop off to the Three Lions inn +at Master Carew’s heels, Will Hostler and the brawny smith bringing up +the rear with Nick between them, hand to collar, half forgotten by the +rest, and his heart too low for further grief.</p> + +<p>And while the crowd were still roaring over their tankards and cheering +good fair play, Master Gaston Carew up with his prisoner into the +saddle, and, mounting himself, with the bandy-legged man grinning +opposite, shook the dust of old St. Albans from his horse’s heels.</p> + +<p>“Now, Nicholas Attwood,” said he, grimly, as they galloped away, “hark +’e well to what I have to say, and do not let it slip thy mind. I am +willed to take thee to London town—dost mark me?—and to London town +thou shalt go, warm or cold. By the whistle of the Lord High Admiral, I +mean just what I say! So thou mayst take thy choice.”</p> + +<p>He gripped Nick’s shoulder as they rode, and glared into his eyes as if +to sear them with his own. Nick heard his poniard grating in its sheath, +and shut his eyes so that he might not see the master-player’s horrid +stare; for the opening and shutting, opening and shutting, of the blue +lids made him shudder.</p> + +<p>“And what’s more,” said Carew, sternly, “I shall call thee Master +Skylark from this time forth—dost hear? And when I bid thee go, thou’lt +go; and when I bid thee come, thou’lt come; and when I say, ‘Here, +follow me!’ thou’lt follow like a dog to heel!” He drew up his lip until +his white teeth showed, and Nick, hearing them gritting together, shrank +back dismayed.</p> + +<p>“There!” laughed Carew, scornfully. “He that knows better how to tame a +vixen or to cozen a pack of gulls, now let him speak!” and said no more +until they passed by Chipping Barnet. Then, “Nick,” said he, in a quiet, +kindly tone, as if they had been friends for years, “this is the place +where Warwick fell”; and pointed down the field. “There in the corner of +that croft they piled the noble dead like corn upon a threshing-floor. +Since then,” said he, with quiet irony, “men have stopped making English +kings as the Dutch make dolls, of a stick and a poll thereon.”</p> + +<p>Pleased with hearing his own voice, he would have gone on with many +another thing; but seeing that Nick listened not at all to what he said, +he ceased, and rode on silently or chatting with the others.</p> + +<p>The country through Middlesex was in most part flat, and heavy forests +overhung the road from time to time. There the players slipped their +poniards, and rode with rapier in hand; for many a dark deed and cruel +robbery had been done along this stretch of Watling street. And as they +passed, more than one dark-visaged rogue with branded hand and a price +upon his head peered at them from the copses by the way.</p> + +<p>In places where the woods crept very near they pressed closer together +and rode rapidly; and the horse-boy and the grooms lit up the matches of +their pistolets, and laid their harquebuses ready in rest, and blew the +creeping sparkle snapping red at every turn; not so much really fearing +an attack upon so stout a party of reckless, dashing blades, as being +overawed by the great, mysterious silence of the forest, the +semi-twilight all about, and the cold, strange-smelling wind that fanned +their faces.</p> + +<p>The wild spattering of hoofs in water-pools that lay unsucked by the sun +in shadowy stretches, the grim silence of the riders, and the wary eying +of each covert as they passed, sent a thrill of excitement into Nick’s +heart too keen for any boy to resist.</p> + +<p>Then, too, it was no everyday tale to be stolen away from home. It was a +wild, strange thing with a strange, wild sound to it, not altogether +terrible or unpleasant to a brave boy’s ears in that wonder-filled age, +when all the world was turned adventurer, and England led the fore; when +Francis Drake and the “Golden Hind,” John Hawkins and the “Victory,” +Frobisher and his cockleshells, were gossip for every English fireside; +when the whole world rang with English steel, and the wide sea foamed +with English keels, and the air was full of the blaze of the living and +the ghosts of the mighty dead. And down in Nick’s plucky young English +heart there came a spark like that which burns in the soul of a mariner +when for the first time an unknown ocean rolls before his eyes.</p> + +<p>So he rode on bravely, filled with a sense of daring and the thrill of +perils more remote than Master Carew’s altogether too adjacent poniard, +as well as with a sturdy determination to escape at the first +opportunity, in spite of all the master-player’s threats.</p> + +<p>Up Highgate Hill they rattled in a bracing northeast wind, the rugged +country bowling back against the tumbled sky. Far to south a rusty haze +had gloomed against the sun like a midday fog, mile after mile; and +suddenly, as they topped the range and cleared the last low hill, they +saw a city in the south spreading away until it seemed to Nick to girdle +half the world and to veil the sky in a reek of murky sea-coal smoke.</p> + +<p>“There!” said Carew, reining in the gray, as Nick looked up and felt his +heart almost stand still; “since Parma burned old Antwerp, and the Low +Countries are dead, there lies the market-heart of all the big +round world!”</p> + +<p>“London!” cried Nick, and, catching his breath with a quick gasp, sat +speechless, staring.</p> + +<p>Carew smiled. “Ay, Nick,” said he, cheerily; “’tis London town. Pluck +up thine heart, lad, and be no more cast down; there lies a New World +ready to thine hand. Thou canst win it if thou wilt. Come, let it be +thine Indies, thou Francis Drake, and I thy galleon to carry home the +spoils! And cheer up. It grieves my heart to see thee sad. Be merry +for my sake.”</p> + +<p>“For thy sake?” gasped Nick, staring blankly in his face. “Why, what +hast thou done for me?” A sudden sob surprised him, and he clenched his +fists—it was too cruel irony. “Why, sir, if thou wouldst only leave +me go!”</p> + +<p>“Tut, tut!” cried Carew, angrily. “Still harping on that same old +string? Why, from thy waking face I thought thou hadst dropped it long +ago. Let thee go? Not for all the wealth in Lombard street! Dost think +me a goose-witted gull?—and dost ask what I have done for thee? Thou +simpleton! I have made thee rise above the limits of thy wildest +dream—have shod thy feet with gold—have filled thy lap with +glory—have crowned thine head with fame! And yet, ‘What have I done for +thee?’ Fie! Thou art a stubborn-hearted little fool. But, marry come up! +I’ll mend thy mind. I’ll bend thy will to suit my way, or break it in +the bending!”</p> + +<p>Clapping his hand upon his poniard, he turned his back, and did not +speak to Nick again.</p> + +<p>And so they came down the Kentish Town road through a meadow-land +threaded with flowing streams, the wild hill thickets of Hampstead Heath +to right, the huddling villages of Islington, Hoxton, and Clerkenwell to +left. And as they passed through Kentish Town, past Primrose Hill into +Hampstead way, solitary farm-houses and lowly cottages gave way to +burgher dwellings in orderly array, with manor-houses here and there, +and in the distance palaces and towers reared their heads above the +crowding chimney-pots.</p> + +<p>Then the players dressed themselves in fair array, and flung their +banners out, and came through Smithfield to Aldersgate, mocking the grim +old gibbet there with railing gaiety; and through the gate rode into +London town, with a long, loud cheer that brought the people crowding to +their doors, and set the shutters creaking everywhere.</p> + +<p>Nick was bewildered by the countless shifting gables and the throngs of +people flowing onward like a stream, and stunned by the roar that seemed +to boil out of the very ground. The horses’ hoofs clashed on the +unevenly paved street with a noise like a thousand smithies. The houses +hung above him till they almost hid the sky, and seemed to be reeling +and ready to fall upon his head when he looked up; so that he urged the +little roan with his uneasy heels, and wished himself out of this +monstrous ruck where the walls were so close together that there was not +elbow-room to live, and the air seemed only heat, thick and stifling, +full of dust and smells.</p> + +<p>Shop after shop, and booth on booth, until Nick wondered where the +gardens were; and such a maze of lanes, byways, courts, blind alleys, +and passages that his simple country footpath head went all into a +tangle, and he could scarcely have told Tottenham Court road from the +river Thames.</p> + +<p>All that he remembered afterward was that, turning from High Holborn +into the Farringdon road, he saw a great church, under Ludgate Hill, +with spire burned and fallen, and its massive tower, black with age and +smoke, staring on the town. But he was too confused to know whither they +went or what he saw in passing; for of such a forest of houses he had +never even dreamed, with people swarming everywhere like ants upon a +hill, and among them all not one kind face he knew. Through the spirit +of adventure that had roused him for a time welled up a great +heart-sickness for his mother and his home.</p> + +<p>Out of a bewildered daze he came at last to realize this much: that the +master-player’s house was very tall and very dark, standing in a dismal, +dirty street, and that it had a gloomy hallway full of shadows that +crept and wavered along the wall in the dim light of the late afternoon.</p> + +<p>Then the master-player pushed him up a narrow staircase and along a +black corridor to a door at the end of the passage, through which he +thrust him into a darkness like night, and slammed the door behind him.</p> + +<p>Nick heard the bolts shoot heavily, and Master Carew call through the +heavy panels: “Now, Jackanapes, sit down and chew the cud of solitude +awhile. It may cool thy silly pate for thee, since nothing else will +serve. When thou hast found thy common sense, perchance thou’lt find thy +freedom, not before.” Then his step went down the corridor, down the +stair, through the long hall—a door banged with a hollow sound that +echoed through the house, and all was still.</p> + +<p>At first, in the utter darkness, Nick could not see at all, and did not +move for fear of falling down some awful hole; but as his eyes grew +used to the gloom he saw that he was in a little room. The only window +was boarded up, but a dim light crept in through narrow cracks and made +faint bars across the air. Little motes floated up and down these thin +blue bars, wavering in the uncertain light and then lost in the +darkness. Upon the floor was a pallet of straw, covered with a coarse +sheet, and having a rough coverlet of sheepskin. A round log was the +only pillow.</p> + +<p>Something moved. Nick, startled, peered into the shadows: it was a strip +of ragged tapestry which fluttered on the wall. As he watched it +flapping fitfully there came a hollow rattle in the wainscot, and an +uncanny sound like the moaning of wind in the chimney.</p> + +<p>“Let me out!” he cried, beating upon the door. “Let me out, I say!” A +stealthy footstep seemed to go away outside. “Mother, mother!” he cried +shrilly, now quite unstrung by fright, and beat frantically upon the +door until his hands ached; but no one answered. The window was beyond +his reach. Throwing himself upon the hard pallet, he hid his eyes in the +coverlet, and cried as if his heart would break.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI<br /> +<span class='ph3'>MA’M’SELLE CICELY CAREW<br /></span></h2> + +<p>How long he lay there in a stupor of despair Nick Attwood never knew. It +might have been days or weeks, for all that he took heed; for he was +thinking of his mother, and there was no room for more.</p> + +<p>The night passed by. Then the day came, by the lines of light that crept +across the floor. The door was opened at his back, and a trencher of +bread and meat thrust in. He did not touch it, and the rats came out of +the wall and pulled the meat about, and gnawed holes in the bread, and +squeaked, and ran along the wainscot; but he did not care.</p> + +<p>The afternoon dragged slowly by, and the creeping light went up the wall +until the roofs across the street shut out the sunset. Sometimes Nick +waked and sometimes he slept, he scarce knew which nor cared; nor did he +hear the bolts grate cautiously, or see the yellow candle-light steal in +across the gloom.</p> + +<p>“Boy!” said a soft little voice.</p> + +<p>He started up and looked around.</p> + +<p>For an instant he thought that he was dreaming, and was glad to think +that he would waken by and by from what had been so sad a dream, and +find himself safe in his own little bed in Stratford town. For the +little maid who stood in the doorway was such a one as his eyes had +never looked upon before.</p> + +<p>She was slight and graceful as a lily of the field, and her skin was +white as the purest wax, save where a damask rose-leaf red glowed +through her cheeks. Her black hair curled about her slender neck. Her +gown was crimson, slashed with gold, cut square across the breast and +simply made, with sleeves just elbow-long, wide-mouthed, and lined with +creamy silk. Her slippers, too, were of crimson silk, high-heeled, +jaunty bits of things; her silken stockings black. In one hand she held +a tall brass candlestick, and through the fingers of the other the +candle-flame made a ruddy glow like the sun in the heart of a hollyhock. +And in the shadow of her hand her eyes looked out, as Nick said long +afterward, like stars in a summer night.</p> + +<p>Thinking it was all a dream, he sat and stared at her.</p> + +<p>“Boy!” she said again, quite gently, but with a quaint little air of +reproof, “where are thy manners?”</p> + +<p>Nick got up quickly and bowed as best he knew how. If not a dream, this +was certainly a princess—and perchance—his heart leaped up—perchance +she came to set him free! He wondered who had told her of him? Diccon +Field, perhaps, whose father had been Simon Attwood’s partner till he +died, last Michaelmas. Diccon was in London now, printing books, he had +heard. Or maybe it was John, Hal Saddler’s older brother. No, it could +not be John, for John was with a carrier; and Nick had doubts if +carriers were much acquainted at court.</p> + +<p>Wondering, he stared, and bowed again.</p> + +<p>“Why, boy,” said she, with a quaint air of surprise, “thou art a very +pretty fellow! Why, indeed, thou lookest like a good boy! Why wilt thou +be so bad and break my father’s heart?”</p> + +<p>“Break thy father’s heart?” stammered Nick. “Pr’ythee, who is thy +father, Mistress Princess?”</p> + +<p>“Nay,” said the little maid, simply; “I am no princess. I am Cicely +Carew.”</p> + +<p>“Cicely Carew?” cried Nick, clenching his fists. “Art thou the daughter +of that wicked man, Gaston Carew?”</p> + +<p>“My father is not wicked!” said she, passionately, drawing back from the +threshold with her hand trembling upon the latch. “Thou shalt not say +that—I will not speak with thee at all!”</p> + +<p>“I do na care! If Master Gaston Carew is thy father, he is the wickedest +man in the world!”</p> + +<p>“Why, fie, for shame!” she cried, and stamped her little foot. “How +darest thou say such a thing?”</p> + +<p>“He hath stolen me from home,” exclaimed Nick, indignantly; “and I shall +never see my mother any more!” With that he choked, and hid his face in +his arm against the wall.</p> + +<p>The little maid looked at him with an air of troubled surprise, and, +coming into the room, touched him on the arm. “There,” she said +soothingly, “don’t cry!” and stroked him gently as one would a little +dog that was hurt. “My father will send thee home to thy mother, I know; +for he is very kind and good. Some one hath lied to thee about him.”</p> + +<p>Nick wiped his swollen eyes dubiously upon his sleeve; yet the little +maid seemed positive. Perhaps, after all, there was a mistake somewhere.</p> + +<p>“Art hungry, boy?” she asked suddenly, spying the empty trencher on the +floor. “There is a pasty and a cake in the buttery, and thou shalt have +some of it if thou wilt not cry any more. Come, I cannot bear to see +thee cry—it makes me weep myself; and that will blear mine eyes, and +father will feel bad.”</p> + +<p>“If he but felt as bad as he hath made me feel—” began Nick, +wrathfully; but she laid her little hand across his mouth. It was a very +white, soft, sweet little hand.</p> + +<p>“Come,” said she; “thou art hungry, and it hath made thee cross!” and, +with no more ado, took him by the hand and led him down the corridor +into a large room where the last daylight shone with a smoky glow.</p> + +<p>The walls were wainscoted with many panels, dark, old, and mysterious; +and in a burnished copper brazier at the end of the room cinnamon, +rosemary, and bay were burning with a pleasant smell. Along the walls +were joined-work chests for linen and napery, of brass-bound oak—one a +black, old, tragic sea-chest, carved with grim faces and weird griffins, +that had been cast up by the North Sea from the wreck of a Spanish +galleon of war. The floor was waxed in the French fashion, and was so +smooth that Nick could scarcely keep his feet. The windows were high up +in the wall, with their heads among the black roof-beams, which with +their grotesquely carven brackets were half lost in the dusk. Through +the windows Nick could see nothing but a world of chimney-pots.</p> + +<p>“Is London town all smoke-pipes?” he asked confusedly.</p> + +<p>“Nay,” replied the little maid; “there are people.”</p> + +<p>Pushing a chair up to the table, she bade him sit down. Then pulling a +tall, curiously-made stool to the other side of the board, she perched +herself upon it like a fairy upon a blade of grass. “Greg!” she called +imperiously, “Greg! What, how! Gregory Goole, I say!”</p> + +<p>“Yes, ma’m’selle,” replied a hoarse voice without; and through a door at +the further end of the room came the bandy-legged man with the bow of +crimson ribbon in his ear.</p> + +<p>Nick turned a little pale; and when the fellow saw him sitting there, he +came up hastily, with a look like a crock of sour milk. “Tut, tut! +ma’m’selle,” said he; “Master Carew will not like this.”</p> + +<p>She turned upon him with an air of dainty scorn. “Since when hath father +left his wits to thee, Gregory Goole? I know his likes as well as +thou—and it likes him not to let this poor boy starve, I’ll warrant. +Go, fetch the pasty and the cake that are in the buttery, with a glass +of cordial,—the Certosa cordial,—and that in the shaking of a black +sheep’s tail, or I will tell my father what thou wottest of.” And she +looked the very picture of diminutive severity.</p> + +<p>“Very good, ma’m’selle; just as ye say,” said Gregory, fawning, with +very poor grace, however. “But, knave,” he snarled, as he turned away, +with a black scowl at Nick, “if thou dost venture on any of thy scurvy +pranks while I be gone, I’ll break thy pate.”</p> + +<p>Cicely Carew knitted her brows. “That is a saucy rogue,” said she; “but +he hath served my father well. And, what is much in London town, he is +an honest man withal, though I have caught him at the Spanish wine +behind my father’s back; so he doth butter his tongue with smooth words +when he hath speech with me, for I am the lady of the house.” She held +up her head with a very pretty pride. “My mother—”</p> + +<p>Nick caught his breath, and his eyes filled.</p> + +<p>“Nay, boy,” said she, gently; “’tis I should weep, not thou; for <i>my</i> +mother is dead. I do not think I ever saw her that I know,” she went on +musingly; “but she was a Frenchwoman who served a murdered queen, and +she was the loveliest woman that ever lived.” Cicely clasped her hands +and moved her lips. Nick saw that she was praying, and bent his head.</p> + +<p>“Thou art a good boy,” she said softly; “my father will like that”; and +then went quietly on: “That is why Gregory Goole doth call me +‘ma’m’selle’—because my mother was a Frenchwoman. But I am a right +English girl for all that; and when they shout, ‘God save the Queen!’ at +the play, why, I do too! And, oh, boy,” she cried, “it is a brave thing +to hear!” and she clapped her hands with sparkling eyes. “It drove the +Spaniards off the sea, my father ofttimes saith.”</p> + +<p>“Poh!” said Nick, stoutly, for he saw the pasty coming in, “they can na +beat us Englishmen!” and with that fell upon the pasty as if it were the +Spanish Armada in one lump and he Sir Francis Drake set on to do the +job alone.</p> + +<p>As he ate his spirits rose again, and he almost forgot that he was +stolen from his home, and grew eager to be seeing the wonders of the +great town whose ceaseless roar came over the housetops like a distant +storm. He was still somewhat in awe of this beautiful, flower-like +little maid, and listened in shy silence to the wonderful tales she +told: how that she had seen the Queen, who had red hair, and pearls like +gooseberries on her cloak; and how the court went down to Greenwich. But +the bandy-legged man kept popping his head in at the door, and, after +all, Nick was but in a prison-house; so he grew quite dismal after +a while.</p> + +<p>“Dost truly think thy father will leave me go?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“Of course he will,” said she. “I cannot see why thou dost hate him so?”</p> + +<p>“Why, truly,” hesitated Nick, “perhaps it is not thy father that I hate, +but only that he will na leave me go. And if he would but leave me go, +perhaps I’d love him very much indeed.”</p> + +<p>“Good, Nick! thou art a trump!” cried Master Carew’s voice suddenly from +the further end of the hall, where in spite of all the candles it was +dark; and, coming forward, the master-player held out his hands in a +most genial way. “Come, lad, thy hand—’tis spoken like a gentleman. +Nay, I will kiss thee—for I love thee, Nick, upon my word, and on the +remnant of mine honour!” Taking the boy’s half-unwilling hands in his +own, he stooped and kissed him upon the forehead.</p> + +<p>“Father,” said Cicely, gravely, “hast thou forgotten me?”</p> + +<p>“Nay, sweetheart, nay,” cried Carew, with a wonderful laugh that somehow +warmed the cockles of Nick’s forlorn heart; and turning quickly, the +master-player caught up the little maid and kissed her again and again, +so tenderly that Nick was amazed to see how one so cruel could be so +kind, and how so good a little maid could love so bad a man; for she +twined her arms about his neck, and then lay back with her head upon his +shoulder, purring like a kitten in his arms.</p> + +<p>“Father,” said she, patting his cheek, “some one hath told him naughty +things of thee. Come, daddy, say they are not so!”</p> + +<p>The master-player’s face turned red as flame. He coughed and looked up +among the roof-beams. “Why, of course they’re not,” said he, uneasily.</p> + +<p>“There, boy!” cried she; “I told thee so. Why, daddy, think!—they said +that thou hadst stolen him away from his own mother, and wouldst not +leave him go!”</p> + +<p>“Hollo!” ejaculated the master-player, abruptly, with a quiver in his +voice; “what a hole thou hast made in the pasty, Nick!”</p> + +<p>“Ah, daddy,” persisted Cicely, “and what a hole it would make in his +mother’s heart if he had been stolen away!”</p> + +<p>“Wouldst like another draught of cordial, Nick?” cried Carew, hurriedly, +reaching out for the tall flagon with a trembling hand. “’Tis good to +cheer the troubled heart, lad. Not that thou hast any reason in the +world to let thy heart be troubled,” he added hastily. “No, indeed, upon +my word; for thou art on the doorstep of a golden-lined success. See, +Nick, how the light shines through!” and he tilted up the flagon. “It is +one of old Jake Vessaline’s Murano-Venetian glasses; a beautiful thing, +now, is it not? ’Tis good as any made abroad!” but his hand was shaking +so that half the cordial missed the cup and ran into a little shimmering +pool upon the table-top.</p> + +<p>“And thou’lt send him home again, daddy, wilt thou not?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, yes, of course—why, to be sure—we’ll send him anywhere that thou +dost say, Golden-heart: to Persia or Cathay—ay, to the far side of the +green-cheese moon, or to the court of Tamburlaine the Great,” and he +laughed a quick, dry, nervous laugh that had no laughter in it. “I had +one of De Lannoy’s red Bohemian bottles, Nick,” he rattled on +feverishly; “but that butter-fingered rogue”—he nodded his head at the +outer stair—“dropped it, smash! and made a thousand most counterfeit +fourpences out of what cost me two pound sterling.”</p> + +<p>“But will ye truly leave me go, sir?” faltered Nick.</p> + +<p>“Why, of course—to be sure—yes, certainly—yes, yes. But, Nick, it is +too late this night. Why, come, thou couldst not go to-night. See, ’tis +dark, and thou a stranger in the town. ’Tis far to Stratford town—thou +couldst not walk it, lad; there will be carriers anon. Come, stay awhile +with Cicely and me—we will make thee a right welcome guest!”</p> + +<p>“That we will,” cried Cicely, clapping her hands. “Oh, do stay; I am so +lonely here! The maid is silly, Margot old, and the rats run in +the wall.”</p> + +<p>“And thou must to the theater, my lad, and sing for London town—ay, +Nicholas,” and Carew’s voice rang proudly. “The highest heads in London +town must hear that voice of thine, or I shall die unshrift. What! +lad?—come all the way from Coventry, and never show that face of thine, +nor let them hear thy skylark’s song? Why, ’twere a shame! And, Nick, my +lord the Admiral shall hear thee sing when he comes home again; +perchance the Queen herself. Why, Nick, of course thou’lt sing. Thou +hast not heart to say thou wilt not sing—even for me whom thou hatest.”</p> + +<p>Nick smiled in spite of himself, for Cicely was leaning on the arm of +his chair, devouring him with her great dark eyes: “Dost truly, truly +sing?” she asked.</p> + +<p>Nick laughed and blushed, and Carew laughed. “What, doth he sing? Why, +Nick, come, tune that skylark note of thine for little Golden-heart and +me. ’Twill make her think she hears the birds in verity—and, Nick, the +lass hath never seen a bird that sang, except within a cage. Nay, lad, +this is no cage!” he cried, as Nick looked about and sighed. “We will +make it very home for thee—will Cicely and I.”</p> + +<p>“That we will!” cried Cicely. “Come, boy, sing for me—my mother used to +sing.”</p> + +<p>At that Gaston Carew went white as a sheet, and put his hand quickly up +to his face. Cicely darted to his side with a frightened cry, and caught +his hand away. He tried to smile, but it was a ghastly attempt. “Tush, +tush! little one; ’twas something stung me!” said he, huskily, “Sing, +Nicholas, I beg of thee!”</p> + +<p>There was such a sudden world of weariness and sorrow in his voice that +Nick felt a pity for he knew not what, and lifting up his clear young +voice, he sang the quaint old madrigal.</p> + +<p>Carew sat with his face in his hand, and after it was done arose +unsteadily and said, “Come, Golden-heart; ’tis music such as charmeth +care and lureth sleep out of her dark valley—we must be trotting off +to bed.”</p> + +<p>That night Nick slept upon a better bed, with a sheet and a blue serge +coverlet, and a pillow stuffed with chaff.</p> + +<p>But as he drifted off into a troubled dreamland, he heard the door-bolt +throb into its socket, and knew that he was fastened in.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVII"></a>CHAPTER XVII<br /> +<span class='ph3'>CAREW’S OFFER<br /></span></h2> + +<p>Next morning Carew donned his plum-colored cloak, and with Nick’s hand +held tightly in his own went out of the door and down the steps into a +drifting fog which filled the street, the bandy-legged man with the +ribbon in his ear following close upon their heels.</p> + +<p>People passed them like shadows in the mist, and all the houses were a +blur until they came into a wide, open place where the wind blew free +above a wall with many great gates.</p> + +<p>In the middle of this open place a huge gray building stood, staring out +over the housetops—a great cathedral, wonderful and old. Its walls were +dark with time and smoke and damp, and the lofty tower that rose above +it was in part but a hollow shell split by lightning and blackened by +fire. But crowded between its massive buttresses were booths and +chapmen’s stalls; against its hoary side a small church leaned like a +child against a mother’s breast; and in and round about it eddied a +throng of men like ants upon a busy hill.</p> + +<p>All around the outer square were shops with gilded fronts and most +amazing signs: golden angels with outstretched wings, tiger heads, +bears, brazen serpents, and silver cranes; and in and out of the +shop-doors darted apprentices with new-bound books and fresh-printed +slips; for this was old St. Paul’s, the meeting-place of London town, +and in Paul’s Yard the printers and the bookmen dealt.</p> + +<p>With a deal of elbowing the master-player came up the broad steps into +the cathedral, and down the aisle to the pillars where the +merchant-tailors stood with table-books in hand, and there ordered a +brand-new suit of clothes for Nick of old Roger Shearman, the best +cloth-cutter in Threadneedle street.</p> + +<p>While they were deep in silk and silver thread, Haerlem linen, and +Leyden camelot, Nick stared about him half aghast; for it was to him +little less than monstrous to see a church so thronged with merchants +plying their trades as if the place were no more sacred than a booth in +the public square.</p> + +<p>The long nave of the cathedral was crowded with mercers from Cheapside, +drapers from Throgmorton street, stationers from Ludgate Hill, and +goldsmiths from Foster lane, hats on, loud-voiced, and using the very +font itself for a counter. By the columns beyond, sly, foxy-faced +lawyers hobnobbed; and on long benches by the wall, cast-off +serving-men, varlets, grooms, pastry-bakers, and pages sat, waiting to +be hired by some new master. Besides these who came on business there +was a host of gallants in gold-laced silk and velvet promenading up and +down the aisle, with no business there at all but to show their faces +and their clothes. And all about were solemn shrines and monuments and +tombs, and overhead a splendid window burned like a wheel of fire in the +eastern wall.</p> + +<p>While Nick stared, speechless, a party of the Admiral’s placers came +strolling by, their heads half hidden in their huge starched ruffs, and +with prodigious swords that would have dragged along the ground had they +not been cocked up behind so fiercely in the air. Seeing Master Carew +and the boy, they stopped in passing to greet them gaily.</p> + +<p>Master Heywood was there, and bowed to Nick with a kindly smile. His +companion was a handsome, proud-mouthed man with a blue, smooth-shaven +face and a jet-black periwig. Him Carew drew aside and spoke with in an +earnest undertone. As he talked, the other began to stare at Nick as if +he were some curious thing in a cage.</p> + +<p>“Upon my soul,” said Carew, “ye never heard the like of it. He hath a +voice as sweet and clear as if Puck had burst a honey-bag in +his throat.”</p> + +<p>“No doubt,” replied the other, carelessly; “and all the birds will hide +their heads when he begins to sing. But we don’t want him, Carew—not if +he had a voice like Miriam the Jew. Henslowe has just bought little Jem +Bristow of Will Augusten for eight pound sterling, and business is too +bad to warrant any more.”</p> + +<p>“Who spoke of selling?” said Carew, sharply. “Don’t flatter your chances +so, Master Alleyn. I wouldn’t sell the boy for a world full of Jem +Bristows. Why, his mouth is a mint where common words are coined into +gold! Sell him? I think I see myself in Bedlam for a fool! Nay, Master +Alleyn, what I am coming at is this: I’ll place him at the Rose, to do +his turn in the play with the rest of us, or out of it alone, as ye +choose, for one fourth of the whole receipts over and above my old share +in the venture. Do ye take me?”</p> + +<p>“Take you? One fourth the whole receipts! Zounds! man, do ye think we +have a spigot in El Dorado?”</p> + +<p>“Tush! Master Alleyn, don’t make a poor mouth; you’re none so needy. You +and Henslowe have made a heap of money out of us all.”</p> + +<p>“And what of that? Yesterday’s butter won’t smooth to-day’s bread. ’Tis +absurd of you, Carew, to ask one fourth and leave all the risk on us, +with the outlook as it is! Here’s that fellow Langley has built a new +play-house in Paris Garden, nearer to the landing than we are, and is +stealing our business most scurvily!”</p> + +<p>Carew shrugged his shoulders.</p> + +<p>“And what’s more, the very comedy for which Ben Jonson left us, because +we would not put it on, has been taken up by the Burbages on Will +Shakspere’s say-so, and is running famously at the Curtain.”</p> + +<p>“I told you so, Master Alleyn, when the fellow was fresh from the +Netherlands,” said Carew; “but your ears were plugged with your own +conceit. Young Jonson is no flatfish, if he did lay brick; he’s a plum +worth anybody’s picking.”</p> + +<p>“But, plague take it, Carew, those Burbages have all the plums! Since +they weaned Will Shakspere from us everything has gone wrong. Kemp has +left us; old John Lowin, too; and now the Lord Mayor and Privy Council +have soured on the play again and forbidden all playing on the Bankside, +outside the City or no.”</p> + +<p>Carew whistled softly to himself.</p> + +<p>“And since my Lord Chamberlain has been patron of the Burbages he will +not so much as turn a hand to revive the old game of bull- and +bear-baiting, and Phil and I have kept the Queen’s bulldogs going on a +twelvemonth now at our own expense—a pretty canker on our profits! Why, +Carew, as Will Shakspere used to say, ‘One woe doth tread the other’s +heels, so fast they follow!’ And what’s to do?”</p> + +<p>“What’s to do?” said Carew. “Why, I’ve told ye what’s to do. Ye’ve heard +Will say, ‘There is a tide leads on to fortune if ye take it at the +flood’? Well, Master Alleyn, here’s the tide, and at the flood. I have +offered you an argosy. Will ye sail or stick in the mud? Ye’ll never +have such a chance again. Come, one fourth over my old share, and I will +fill your purse so full of gold that it will gape like a stuffed toad. +His is the sweetest skylark voice that ever sugared ears!”</p> + +<p>“But, man, man, one fourth!”</p> + +<p>“Better one fourth than lose it all,” said Carew. “But, pshaw! Master +Ned Alleyn, I’ll not beg a man to swim that’s bent on drowning! We will +be at the play-house this afternoon; mayhap thou’lt have thought better +of it by then.” With a curt bow he was off through the crowd, Nick’s +hand in his own clenched very tight.</p> + +<p>They had hard work getting down the steps, for two hot-headed gallants +were quarreling there as to who should come up first, and there was a +great press. But Carew scowled and showed his teeth, and clenched his +poniard-hilt so fiercely that the commoners fell away and let them down.</p> + +<p>Nick’s eyes were hungry for the printers’ stalls where ballad-sheets +were sold for a penny, and where the books were piled along the shelves +until he wondered if all London were turned printer. He looked about to +see if he might chance upon Diccon Field; but Carew came so quickly +through the crowd that Nick had not time to recognize Diccon if he had +been there. Diccon had often made Nick whistles from the pollard willows +along the Avon below the tannery when Nick was a toddler in smocks, and +the lad thought he would like to see him before going back to Stratford. +Then, too, his mother had always liked Diccon Field, and would be glad +to hear from him. At thought of his mother he gave a happy little skip; +and as they turned into Paternoster Bow, “Master Carew,” said he, “how +soon shall I go home?”</p> + +<p>Carew walked a little faster.</p> + +<p>There had arisen a sound of shouting and a trampling of feet. The +constables had taken a purse-cutting thief, and were coming up to the +Newgate prison with a great rabble behind them. The fellow’s head was +broken, and his haggard face was all screwed up with pain; but that +did not stop the boys from hooting at him, and asking in mockery how he +thought he would like to be hanged and to dance on nothing at +Tyburn Hill.</p> + +<p class='ctr'><a name="illus0348"></a> +<a href="images/illus0348.jpg"> +<img src="images/illus0348.jpg" width = "40%" alt="" /> +</a><br /> +<b>“DICCON HAD OFTEN MADE NICK WHISTLES FROM THE WILLOWS +ALONG THE AVON WHEN NICK WAS A TODDLER.”</b> +<br /></p> + +<p>“Did ye hear me, Master Carew?” asked Nick.</p> + +<p>The master-player stepped aside a moment into a doorway to let the mob +go by, and then strode on.</p> + +<p>Nick tried again: “I pray thee, sir—”</p> + +<p>“Do not pray me,” said Carew, sharply; “I am no Indian idol.”</p> + +<p>“But, good Master Carew—”</p> + +<p>“Nor call me good—I am not good.”</p> + +<p>“But, Master Carew,” faltered Nick, with a sinking sensation around his +heart, “when will ye leave me go home?”</p> + +<p>The master-player did not reply, but strode on rapidly, gnawing his +mustache.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVIII"></a>CHAPTER XVIII<br /> +<span class='ph3'>MASTER HEYWOOD PROTESTS<br /></span></h2> + +<p>It was a cold, raw day. All morning long the sun had shone through the +choking fog as the candle-flame through the dingy yellow horn of an old +stable-lantern. But at noon a wind sprang up that drove the mist through +London streets in streaks and strings mixed with smoke and the reek of +steaming roofs. Now and then the blue gleamed through in ragged patches +overhead; so that all the town turned out on pleasure bent, not minding +if it rained stewed turnips, so they saw the sky.</p> + +<p>But the fog still sifted through the streets, and all was damp and +sticky to the touch, so Cicely was left behind to loneliness and +disappointment.</p> + +<p>Nick and the master-player came down Ludgate Hill to Blackfriars landing +in a stream of merrymakers, high and low, rich and poor, faring forth to +London’s greatest thoroughfare, the Thames; and as the river and the +noble mansions along the Strand came into view, Nick’s heart beat fast. +It was a sight to stir the pulse.</p> + +<p>Far down the stream, the grim old Tower loomed above the drifting mist; +and, higher up, old London Bridge, lined with tall houses, stretched +from shore to shore. There were towers on it with domes and gilded +vanes, and the river foamed and roared under it, strangled by the piers. +From the dock at St. Mary Averies by the Bridge to Barge-house stairs, +the landing-stages all along the river-bank were thronged with boats; +and to and fro across the stream, wherries, punts, barges, and +water-craft of every kind were plying busily. In middle stream +sail-boats tugged along with creaking sweeps, or brown-sailed +trading-vessels slipped away to sea, with costly freight for Muscovy, +Turkey, and the Levant. And amid the countless water-craft a multitude +of stately swans swept here and there like snow-flakes on the +dusky river.</p> + +<p>Nick sniffed at the air, for it was full of strange odors—the smell of +breweries, of pitchy oakum, Norway tar, spices from hot countries, +resinous woods, and chilly whiffs from the water; and as they came out +along the wharf, there were brown-faced, hard-eyed sailors there, who +had been to the New World—wild fellows with silver rings in their ears +and a swaggering stagger in their petticoated legs. Some of them held +short, crooked brown tubes between their lips, and puffed great clouds +of pale brown smoke from their noses in a most amazing way.</p> + +<p>Broad-beamed Dutchmen, too, were there, and swarthy Spanish renegades, +with sturdy craftsmen of the City guilds and stalwart yeomen of the +guard in the Queen’s rich livery.</p> + +<p>But ere Nick had fairly begun to stare, confused by such a rout, Carew +had hailed a wherry, and they were half-way over to the Southwark side.</p> + +<p>Landing amid a deafening din of watermen bawling hoarsely for a place +along the Paris Garden stairs, the master-player hurried up the lane +through the noisy crowd. Some were faring afoot into Surrey, and some to +green St. George’s Fields to buy fresh fruit and milk from the +farm-houses and to picnic on the grass. Some turned aside to the Falcon +Inn for a bit of cheese and ale, and others to the play-houses beyond +the trees and fishing-ponds. And coming down from the inn they met a +crowd of players, with Master Tom Heywood at their head, frolicking and +cantering along like so many overgrown school-boys.</p> + +<p>“So we are to have thee with us awhile?” said Heywood, and put his arm +around Nick’s shoulders as they trooped along.</p> + +<p>“Awhile, sir, yes,” replied Nick, nodding; “but I am going home soon, +Master Carew says.”</p> + +<p>“Carew,” said Heywood, suddenly turning, “how can ye have the heart?”</p> + +<p>“Come, Heywood,” quoth the master-player, curtly, though his whole face +colored up, “I have heard enough of this. Will ye please to mind your +own affairs?”</p> + +<p>The writer of comedies lifted his brows, “Very well,” he answered +quietly; “but, lad, this much for thee,” said he, turning to Nick, “if +ever thou dost need a friend, Tom Heywood’s one will never speak +thee false.”</p> + +<p>“Sir!” cried Carew, clapping his hand upon his poniard Heywood looked +up steadily. “How? Wilt thou quarrel with me, Carew? What ugly poison +hath been filtered through thy wits? Why, thou art even falser than I +thought! Quarrel with me, who took thy new-born child from her dying +mother’s arms when thou wert fast in Newgate gaol?”</p> + +<p>Carew’s angry face turned sickly gray. He made as if to speak, but no +sound came. He shut his eyes and pushed out his hand in the air as if to +stop the voice of the writer of comedies.</p> + +<p>“Come,” said Heywood, with deep feeling; “thou canst not quarrel with me +yet—nay, though thou dost try thy very worst. It would be a sorry story +for my soul or thine to tell to hers.”</p> + +<p>Carew groaned. The rest of the players had passed on, and the three +stood there alone. “Don’t, Tom, don’t!” he cried.</p> + +<p>“Then how can ye have the heart?” the other asked again.</p> + +<p>The master-player lifted up his head, and his lips were trembling. “’Tis +not the heart, Tom,” he cried bitterly, “upon my word, and on the +remnant of mine honour! ’Tis the head which doeth this. For, Tom, I +cannot leave him go. Why, Tom, hast thou not heard him sing? A voice +which would call back the very dead that we have loved if they might +only hear. Why, Tom, ’tis worth a thousand pound! How can I leave +him go?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, fie for shame upon the man I took thee for!” cried Heywood.</p> + +<p>“But, Tom,” cried Carew, brokenly, “look it straightly in the face; I +am no such player as I was,—this reckless life hath done the trick for +me, Tom,—and here is ruin staring Henslowe and Alleyn in the eye. They +cannot keep me master if their luck doth not change soon; and Burbage +would not have me as a gift. So, Tom, what is there left to do? How can +I shift without the boy? Nay, Tom, it will not serve. There’s +Cicely—not one penny laid by for her against a rainy day; and I’ll be +gone, Tom, I’ll be gone—it is not morning all day long—we cannot last +forever. Nay, I cannot leave him go!”</p> + +<p>“But, sir,” broke in Nick, wretchedly, holding fast to Hey wood’s arm, +“ye said that I should go!”</p> + +<p>“Said!” cried the master-player, with a bitter smile; “why, Nick, I’d +say ten times more in one little minute just to hear thee sing than I +would stand to in a month of Easters afterward. Come, Nick, be fair. +I’ll feed thee full and dress thee well and treat thee true—all for +that song of thine.”</p> + +<p>“But, sir, my mother—”</p> + +<p>“Why, Carew, hath the boy a mother, too?” cried the writer of comedies.</p> + +<p>“Now, Heywood, on thy soul, no more of this!” cried the master-player, +with quivering lips. “Ye will make me out no man, or else a fiend. I +cannot let the fellow go—I will not let him go.” His hands were +twitching, and his face was pale, but his lips were set determinedly. +“And, Tom, there’s that within me will not abide even <i>thy</i> pestering. +So come, no more of it! Upon my soul, I sour over soon!”</p> + +<p>So they came on gloomily past the bear-houses and the Queen’s kennels. +The river-wind was full of the wild smell of the bears; but what were +bears to poor Nick, whose last faint hope that the master-player meant +to keep his word and send him home again was gone?</p> + +<p>They passed the Paris Garden and the tall round play-house that Francis +Langley had just built. A blood-red banner flaunted overhead, with a +large white swan painted thereon; but Nick saw neither the play-house +nor the swan; he saw only, deep in his heart, a little gable-roof among +old elms, with blue smoke curling softly up among the rippling leaves; +an open door with tall pink hollyhocks beside it; and in the door, +watching for him till he came again, his own mother’s face. He began to +cry silently.</p> + +<p>“Nay, Nick, my lad, don’t cry,” said Heywood, gently; “’twill only make +bad matters worse. <i>Never</i> is a weary while; but the longest lane will +turn at last: some day thou’lt find thine home again all in the +twinkling of an eye. Why, Nick, ’tis England still, and thou an +Englishman. Come, give the world as good as it can send.”</p> + +<p>Nick raised his head again, and, throwing the hair back from his eyes, +walked stoutly along, though the tears still trickled down his cheeks.</p> + +<p>“Sing thou my songs,” said Heywood, heartily, “and I will be thy +friend—let this be thine earnest.” As he spoke he slipped upon the +boy’s finger a gold ring with a green stone in it cut with a tall tree: +this was his seal.</p> + +<p>They had now come through the garden to the Rose Theatre, where the Lord +Admiral’s company played; and Carew was himself again. “Come, +Nicholas,” said he, half jestingly, “be done with thy doleful +dumps—care killed a cat, they say, lad. Why, if thy hateful looks could +stab, I’d be a dead man forty times. Come, cheer up, lad, that I may +know thou lovest me.”</p> + +<p>“But I do na love thee!” cried Nick, indignantly.</p> + +<p>“Tut! Do not be so dour. Thou’lt soon be envied by ten thousand men. +Come, don’t make a face at thy good fortune as though it were a tripe +fried in tar. Come, lad, be pleased; thou’lt be the pet of every +high-born dame in London town.”</p> + +<p>“I’d rather be my mother’s boy,” Nick answered simply.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIX"></a>CHAPTER XIX<br /> +<span class='ph3'>THE ROSE PLAY-HOUSE<br /></span></h2> + +<p>The play-house was an eight-sided, three-storied, tower-like building of +oak and plastered lath, upon a low foundation of yellow brick. Two +outside stairways ran around the wall, and the roof was of bright-red +English tiles with a blue lead gutter at the eaves. There was a little +turret, from the top of which a tall ash stave went up; and on the +stave, whenever there was to be a play, there floated a great white flag +on which was a crimson rose with a golden heart, just like the one that +Nick with such delight had seen come up the Oxford road a few short +days before.</p> + +<p>Under the stairway was a narrow door marked “For the Playeres Onelie”; +and in the doorway stood a shrewd-faced, common-looking man, writing +upon a tablet which he held in his hand. There was a case of quills at +his side, with one of which he was scratching busily, now and then +prodding the ink-horn at his girdle. He held his tongue in his cheek, +and moved his head about as the pen formed the letters: he was no +expert penman, this Phil Henslowe, the stager of plays.</p> + +<p>He looked up as they came to the step.</p> + +<p>“A poor trip, Carew,” said he, running his finger down the column of +figures he was adding. “The play was hardly worth the candle—cleared +but five pound; and then, after I had paid the carman three shilling fip +to bring the stuff down from the City, ’twas lost in the river from the +barge at Paul’s wharf! A good two pound.”</p> + +<p>“Hard luck!” said Carew.</p> + +<p>“Hard? Adamantine, I say! Why, ’tis very stones for luck, and the whole +road rocky! Here’s Burbage, Condell, and Will Shakspere ha’ rebuilt +Blackfriars play-house in famous shape; and, marry, where are we?”</p> + +<p>Nick started. An idea came creeping into his head. Will Shakspere had +married his mother’s own cousin, Anne Hathaway of Shottery; and he had +often heard his mother say that Master Shakspere had ever been her own +good friend when they were young.</p> + +<p>“He and Jonson be thick as thieves,” said Henslowe; “and Chettle says +that Will hath near done the book of a new play for the autumn—a master +fine thing!—‘Romulus and Juliana,’ or something of that Italian sort, +to follow Ben Jonson’s comedy. Ned Alleyn played a sweet fool about +Ben’s comedy. Called it monstrous bad; and now it has taken the money +out of our mouths to the tune of nine pound six the day—and here, while +ye were gone, I ha’ played my Lord of Pembroke’s men in your ‘Robin +Hood,’ Heywood, to scant twelve shilling in the house!”</p> + +<p>Heywood flushed.</p> + +<p>“Nay, Tom, don’t be nettled; ’tis not the fault of thy play. There’s +naught will serve. We’ve tried old Marlowe and Robin Greene, Peele, +Nash, and all the rest; but, what! they will not do—’tis Shakspere, +Shakspere; our City flat-caps will ha’ nothing but Shakspere!”</p> + +<p>Nick listened eagerly. Master Will Shakspere must indeed be somebody in +London town! He stared across into the drifting cloud of mist and smoke +which hid the city like a pall, and wondered how and where, in that +terrible hive of more than a hundred thousand men, he could find +one man.</p> + +<p>“I tell thee, Tom Heywood, there’s some magic in the fellow, or my +name’s not Henslowe!” cried the manager. “His very words bewitch one’s +wits as nothing else can do. Why, I’ve tried them with ‘Pierce +Penniless,’ ‘Groat’s Worth of Wit,’ ‘Friar Bacon,’ ‘Orlando,’ and the +‘Battle of Alcazar.’ Why, tush! they will not even listen! And here I’ve +put Martin Gosset into purple and gold, and Jemmy Donstall into a +peach-colored gown laid down with silver-gilt, for ‘Volteger’; and what? +Why, we play to empty stools; and the rascals owe me for those costumes +yet—sixty shillings full! A murrain on Burbage and Will Shakspere +too!—but I wish we had him back again. We’d make their old Blackfriars +sick!” He shook his fist at a great gray pile of buildings that rose +above the rest out of the fog by the landing-place beyond the river.</p> + +<p>Nick stared. <i>That</i> the play-house of Master Shakspere and the Burbages? +Will Shakspere playing there, just across the river? Oh, if Nick could +only find him, he would not let the son of his wife’s own cousin be +stolen away!</p> + +<p>Nick looked around quickly.</p> + +<p>The play-house stood a bowshot from the river, in the open fields. There +was a moated manor-house near by, and beyond it a little stream with +some men fishing. Between the play-house and the Thames were gardens and +trees, and a thin fringe of buildings along the bank by the landings. It +was not far, and there were places where one could get a boat every +fifty yards or so at the Bankside.</p> + +<p>But—“Come in, come in,” said Henslowe. “Growling never fed a dog; and +we must be doing.”</p> + +<p>“Go ahead, Nick,” said Carew, pushing him by the shoulder, and they all +went in. The door opened on a flight of stairs leading to the lowest +gallery at the right of the stage, where the orchestra sat. A man was +tuning up a viol as they came in.</p> + +<p>“I want you to hear this boy sing,” said Carew to Henslowe. “’Tis the +best thing ye ever lent ear to.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, this is the boy?” said the manager, staring at Nick. “Why, Alleyn +told me he was a country gawk!”</p> + +<p>“He lied, then,” said Carew, very shortly. “’Twas cheaper than the +truth at my price. There, Nick, go look about the place—we have +business.”</p> + +<p>Nick went slowly along the gallery. His hands were beginning to tremble +as he put them out touching the stools. Along the rail were ornamental +columns which supported the upper galleries and looked like beautiful +blue-veined white marble; but when he took hold of them to steady +himself he found they were only painted wood.</p> + +<p>There were two galleries above. They ran all around the inside of the +building, like the porches of the inn at Coventry, and he could see them +across the house. There were no windows in the gallery where he was, but +there were some in the second one. They looked high. He went on around +the gallery until he came to some steps going down into the open space +in the center of the building. The stage was already set up on the +trestles, and the carpenters were putting a shelter-roof over it on +copper-gilt pillars; for it was beginning to drizzle, and the middle of +the play-house was open to the sky.</p> + +<p>The spectators were already coming into the pit at a penny apiece, +although the play would not begin until early evening. Those for the +galleries paid another penny to a man in a red cloak at the foot of the +stairs where Nick was standing. There was a great uproar at the +entrance. Some apprentices had caught a cutpurse in the crowd, and were +beating him unmercifully. Every one pushed and shoved about, cursing the +thief, and those near enough kicked and struck him.</p> + +<p>Nick looked back. Carew and the manager had gone into the tiring-room +behind the stage. He took hold of the side-rail and started down the +steps. The man in the red cloak looked up. “Go back there,” said he, +sharply; “there’s enough down here now.” Nick went on around +the gallery.</p> + +<p>At the back of the stage were two doors for the players, and between +them hung a painted cloth or arras behind which the prompter stood. Over +these doors were two plastered rooms, twopenny private boxes for +gentlefolk. In one of them were three young men and a beautiful girl, +wonderfully dressed. The men were speaking to her, but she looked down +at Nick instead. “What a pretty boy!” she said, and tossed him a flower +that one of the men had just given her. It fell at Nick’s feet. He +started back, looking up. The girl smiled, so he took off his cap and +bowed; but the men looked sour.</p> + +<p>At the side of the stage was a screen with long leather fire-buckets and +a pole-ax hanging upon it, and behind it was a door through which Nick +saw the river and the gray walls of the old Dominican friary. As he came +down to it, some one thrust out a staff and barred the way. It was the +bandy-legged man with the ribbon in his ear, Nick looked out longingly; +it seemed so near!</p> + +<p>“Master Carew saith thou art not to stir outside—dost hear?” said the +bandy-legged man.</p> + +<p>“Ay,” said Nick, and turned back.</p> + +<p>There was a narrow stairway leading to the second gallery. He went up +softly. There was no one in the gallery, and there was a window on the +side next to the river; he had seen it from below. He went toward it +slowly that he might not arouse suspicion. It was above his head.</p> + +<p class='ctr'><a name="illus0350"></a> +<a href="images/illus0350.jpg"> +<img src="images/illus0350.jpg" width = "35%" alt="" /> +</a><br /> +<b>“NICK PUT ONE LEG OVER THE SILL AND LOOKED BACK.”</b> +<br /></p> + +<p>There were stools for hire standing near. He brought one and set it +under the window. It stood unevenly upon the floor, and made a wabbling +noise. He was afraid some one would hear him; but the apprentices in +the pit were rattling dice, and two or three gentlemen’s pages were +wrangling for the best places on the platform; while, to add to the +general riot, two young gallants had brought gamecocks and were fighting +them in one corner, amid such a whooping and swashing that one could +hardly have heard the skies fall.</p> + +<p>A printer’s man was bawling, “Will ye buy a new book?” and the +fruit-sellers, too, were raising such a cry of “Apples, cherries, cakes, +and ale!” that the little noise Nick might make would be lost in the +wild confusion.</p> + +<p>Master Carew and the manager had not come out of the tiring-room. Nick +got up on the stool and looked out. It was not very far to the +ground—not so far as from the top of the big haycock in Master John +Combe’s field from which he had often jumped.</p> + +<p>The sill was just breast-high when he stood upon the stool. Putting his +hands upon it, he gave a little spring, and balanced on his arms a +moment. Then he put one leg over the window-sill and looked back. No one +was paying the slightest attention to him. Over all the noise he could +hear the man tuning the viol. Swinging himself out slowly and silently, +with his toes against the wall to steady him, he hung down as far as he +could, gave a little push away from the house with his feet, caught a +quick breath, and dropped.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XX"></a>CHAPTER XX<br /> +<span class='ph3'>DISAPPOINTMENT<br /></span></h2> + +<p>Nick landed upon a pile of soft earth. It broke away under his feet and +threw him forward upon his hands and knees. He got up, a little shaken +but unhurt, and stood close to the wall, looking all about quickly. A +party of gaily dressed gallants were haggling with the horse-boys at the +sheds; but they did not even look at him. A passing carter stared up at +the window, measuring the distance with his eye, whistled incredulously, +and trudged on.</p> + +<p>Nick listened a moment, but heard only the clamor of voices inside, and +the zoon, zoon, zoon of the viol. He was trembling all over, and his +heart was beating like a trip-hammer. He wanted to run, but was fearful +of exciting suspicion. Heading straight for the river, he walked as fast +as he could through the gardens and the trees, brushing the dirt from +his hose as he went.</p> + +<p>There was a wherry just pushing out from Old Marigold stairs with a +single passenger, a gardener with a basket of truck.</p> + +<p>“Holloa!” cried Nick, hurrying down; “will ye take me across?”</p> + +<p>“For thrippence,” said the boatman, hauling the wherry alongside again +with his hook.</p> + +<p>Thrippence? Nick stopped, dismayed. Master Carew had his gold +rose-noble, and he had not thought of the fare. They would soon find +that he was gone.</p> + +<p>“Oh, I must be across, sir!” he cried. “Can ye na take me free? I be +little and not heavy; and I will help the gentleman with his basket.”</p> + +<p>The boatman’s only reply was to drop his hook and push off with the oar.</p> + +<p>But the gardener, touched by the boy’s pitiful expression, to say +nothing of being tickled by Nick’s calling him gentleman, spoke up: +“Here, jack-sculler,” said he; “I’ll toss up wi’ thee for it.” He pulled +a groat from his pocket and began spinning it in the air. “Come, thou +lookest a gamesome fellow—cross he goes, pile he stays; best two in +three flips—what sayst?”</p> + +<p>“Done!” said the waterman. “Pop her up!”</p> + +<p>Up went the groat.</p> + +<p>Nick held his breath.</p> + +<p>“Pile it is,” said the gardener. “One for thee—and up she goes again!” +The groat twirled in the air and came down <i>clink</i> upon the thwart.</p> + +<p>“Aha!” cried the boatman, “’tis mine, or I’m a horse!”</p> + +<p>“Nay, jack-sculler,” laughed the gardener; “cross it is! Ka me, ka thee, +my pretty groat—I never lose with this groat.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, sir, do be brisk!” begged Nick, fearing every instant to see the +master-player and the bandy-legged man come running down the bank.</p> + +<p>“More haste, worse speed,” said the gardener; “only evil weeds grow +fast!” and he rubbed the groat on his jerkin. “Now, jack-sculler, hold +thy breath; for up she goes again!”</p> + +<p>A man came running over the rise. Nick gave a little frightened cry. It +was only a huckster’s knave with a roll of fresh butter. The groat came +down with a splash in the bottom of the wherry. The boatman picked it up +out of the water and wiped it with his sleeve. “Here, boy, get aboard,” +said he, shoving off; “and be lively about it!”</p> + +<p>The huckster’s knave came running down the landing. He pushed Nick +aside, and scrambled into the wherry, puffing for breath. The boat fell +off into the current. Nick, making a plunge for it into the water, just +managed to catch the gunwale and get aboard, wet to the knees. But he +did not care for that; for although there were people going up Paris +Garden lane, and a crowd about the entrance of the Rose, he could not +see Master Carew or the bandy-legged man anywhere. So he breathed a +little freer, yet kept his eyes fast upon the play-house until the +wherry bumped against Blackfriars stairs.</p> + +<p>Picking up the basket of truck, he sprang ashore, and, dropping it upon +the landing, took to his heels up the bank, without stopping to thank +either gardener or boatman.</p> + +<p>The gray walls of the old friary were just ahead, scarcely a stone’s +throw from the river. With heart beating high, he ran along the close, +looking eagerly for the entrance. He came to a wicket-gate that was +standing half ajar, and went through it into the old cloisters.</p> + +<p>Everything there was still. He was glad of that, for the noise and the +rush of the crowd outside confused him.</p> + +<p>The place had once been a well-kept garden-plot, but now was become a +mere stack of odds and ends of boards and beams, shavings, mortar, and +broken brick. A long-legged fellow with a green patch over one eye was +building a pair of stairs to a door beside which a sign read: “Playeres +Here: None Elles.”</p> + +<p>Nick doffed his cap. “Good-day,” said he; “is Master Will Shakspere in?”</p> + +<p>The man put down his saw and sat back upon one of the trestles, staring +stupidly. “Didst za-ay zummat?”</p> + +<p>“I asked if Master Will Shakspere was in?”</p> + +<p>The fellow scratched his head with a bit of shaving. “Noa; Muster Wull +Zhacksper beant in.”</p> + +<p>Nick’s heart stopped with a thump. “Where is he—do ye know?”</p> + +<p>“A’s gone awa-ay,” drawled the workman, vaguely.</p> + +<p>“Away? Whither!”</p> + +<p>“A’s gone to Ztratvoard to-own, whur’s woife do li-ive—went +a-yesterday.”</p> + +<p>Nick sat blindly down upon the other trestle. He did not put his cap on +again: he had quite forgotten it.</p> + +<p>Master Will Shakspere gone to Stratford—and only the day before!</p> + +<p>Too late—just one little day too late! It seemed like cruel mockery. +Why, he might be almost home! The thought was more than he could bear: +who could be brave in the face of such a blow? The bitter tears ran +down his face again.</p> + +<p>“Here, here, odzookens, lad!” grinned the workman, stolidly, “thou’lt +vetch t’ river up if weeps zo ha-ard. Ztop un, ztop un; do now.”</p> + +<p>Nick sat staring at the ground. A beetle was trying to crawl over a +shaving. It was a curly shaving, and as fast as the beetle crept up to +the top the shaving rolled over, and dropped the beetle upon its back in +the dust; but it only got up and tried again. Nick looked up.</p> + +<p>“Is—is Master Richard Burbage here, then?”</p> + +<p>Perhaps Burbage, who had been a Stratford man, would help him.</p> + +<p>“Noa,” drawled the carpenter; “Muster Bubbage beant here; doan’t want +un, nuther—nuvver do moind a’s owen business—always jawin’ volks. A +beant here, an’ doan’t want un, nuther.”</p> + +<p>Nick’s heart went down. “And where is he?”</p> + +<p>“Who? Muster Bubbage? Whoy, a be-eth out to Zhoreditch, a-playin’ at t’ +theater.”</p> + +<p>“And where may Shoreditch be?”</p> + +<p>“Whur be Zhoreditch?” gaped the workman, vacantly. “Whoy—whoy, zummers +over there a bit yon, zure”; and he waved his hand about in a way that +pointed to nowhere at all.</p> + +<p>“When will he be back?” asked Nick, desperately.</p> + +<p>“Be ba-ack?” drawled the workman, slowly taking up his saw again; “back +whur?—here? Whoy, a wun’t pla-ay here no mo-ore avore next Martlemas.”</p> + +<p>Martinmas? That was almost mid-November. It was now but middle May.</p> + +<p>Nick got up and went out at the wicket-gate. He was beginning to feel +sick and a little faint. The rush in the street made him dizzy, and the +sullen roar that came down on the wind from the town, mingled with the +tramping of feet, the splash of oars, the bumping of boats along the +wharves, and the shouts and cries of a thousand voices, stupefied him.</p> + +<p>He was standing there motionless in the narrow way, as if dazed by a +heavy fall, when Gaston Carew came running up from the river-front, with +the bandy-legged man at his heels.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXI"></a>CHAPTER XXI<br /> +<span class='ph3'>“THE CHILDREN OF PAUL’S”<br /></span></h2> + +<p>An old gray rat came out of its hole, ran swiftly across the floor, and, +sitting up, crouched there, peering at Nick. He thought its bare, scaly +tail was not a pleasant thing to see; yet he looked at it, with his +elbows on his knees, and his chin in his hands.</p> + +<p>He had been locked in for two days now. They had put in plenty of food, +and he had eaten it all; for if he starved to death he would certainly +never get home.</p> + +<p>It was quite warm, and the boards had been taken from the window, so +that there was plenty of light. The window faced the north, and in the +night, wakened by some outcry in the street below, Nick had leaned his +log-pillow against the wainscot, and, climbing up, looked out into the +sky. It was clear, for a wonder, and the stars were very bright. The +moon, like a smoky golden platter, rose behind the eastern towers of the +town, and in the north hung the Great Wain pointing at the polar star.</p> + +<p>Somewhere underneath those stars was Stratford. The throstles would be +singing in the orchard there now, when the sun was low and the cool +wind came up from the river with a little whispering in the lane. The +purple-gray doves, too, would be cooing softly in the elms over the +cottage gable. In fancy he heard the whistle of their wings as they +flew. But all the sound that came in over the roofs of London town was a +hollow murmur as from a kennel of surly hounds.</p> + +<p>“Nick!—oh, Nick!”</p> + +<p>Cicely Carew was calling at the door. The rat scurried off to its hole +in the wall.</p> + +<p>“What there, Nick! Art thou within?” Cicely called again; but Nick made +no reply.</p> + +<p>“Nick, <i>dear</i> Nick, art crying?”</p> + +<p>“No,” said he; “I’m not.”</p> + +<p>There was a short silence.</p> + +<p>“Nick, I say, wilt thou be good if I open the door?”</p> + +<p>“No.”</p> + +<p>“Then I will open it anyway; thou durstn’t be bad to me!”</p> + +<p>The bolts thumped, and then the heavy door swung slowly back.</p> + +<p>“Why, where art thou?”</p> + +<p>He was sitting in the corner behind the door.</p> + +<p>“Here,” said he.</p> + +<p>She came in, but he did not look up.</p> + +<p>“Nick,” she asked earnestly, “why wilt thou be so bad, and try to run +away from my father?”</p> + +<p>“I hate thy father!” said he, and brought his fist down upon his knee.</p> + +<p>“Hate him? Oh, Nick! Why?”</p> + +<p>“If thou be asking whys,” said Nick, bitterly, “why did he steal me away +from my mother?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, surely, Nick, that cannot be true—no, no, it cannot be true. Thou +hast forgotten, or thou hast slept too hard and had bad dreams. My +father would not steal a pin. It was a nightmare. Doth thine head hurt +thee?” She came over and stroked his forehead with her cool hand. She +was a graceful child, and gentle in all her ways. “I am sorry thou dost +not feel well, Nick. But my father will come presently, and he will heal +thee soon. Don’t cry any more.”</p> + +<p>“I’m not crying,” said Nick, stoutly, though as he spoke a tear ran down +his cheek, and fell upon his hand.</p> + +<p>“Then it is the roof leaks,” she said, looking up as if she had not seen +his tear-blinded eyes. “But cheer up, Nick, and be a good boy—wilt thou +not? ’Tis dinner-time, and thy new clothes have come; and thou art to +come down now and try them on.”</p> + +<p>When Nick came out of the tiring-room and found the master-player come, +he knew not what to say or do. “Oh, brave, brave, brave!” cried Cicely, +and danced around him, clapping her hands. “Why, it is a very prince—a +king! Oh, Nick, thou art most beautiful to see!”</p> + +<p>And Master Carew’s own eyes sparkled; for truly it was a pleasant sight +to see a fair young lad like Nick in such attire.</p> + +<p class='ctr'><a name="i_142"></a> +<a href="images/i_142.jpg"> +<img src="images/i_142.jpg" width="35%" alt="" /> +</a><br /> +<b>““OH, NICK, THOU ART MOST BEAUTIFUL TO SEE!” CRIED CICELY.”</b> +<br /></p> + +<p>There was a fine white shirt of Holland linen, and long hose of grayish +blue, with puffed and slashed trunks of velvet so blue as to be almost +black. The sleeveless jerkin was of the same dark color, trellised with +roses embroidered in silk, and loose from breast to broad lace collar so +that the waistcoat of dull gold silk beneath it might show. A cloak of +damask with a silver clasp, a buff-leather belt with a chubby purse hung +to it by a chain, tan-colored slippers, and a jaunty velvet cap with a +short white plume, completed the array. Everything, too, had been laid +down with perfume, so that from head to foot he smelt as sweet and clean +as a drift of rose-mallows.</p> + +<p>“My soul!” cried Carew, stepping back and snapping his fingers with +delight. “Thou art the bravest skylark that ever broke a shell! Fine +feathers—fine bird—my soul, how ye do set each other off!” He took +Nick by the shoulders, twirled him around, and, standing off again, +stared at him like a man who has found two pound sterling in a +cast-off coat.</p> + +<p>“I can na pay for them, sir,” said Nick, slowly.</p> + +<p>“There’s nought to pay—it is a gift.”</p> + +<p>Nick hung his head, much troubled. What could he say; what could he +think? This man had stolen him from home,—ay, made him tremble for his +very life a dozen times,—and with his whole heart he knew he hated +him—yet here, a gift!</p> + +<p>“Yes, Nick, it is a gift—and all because I love thee, lad.”</p> + +<p>“Love me?”</p> + +<p>“Why, surely! Who could see thee without liking, or hear thy voice and +not love thee? Love thee, Nick? Why, on my word and honour, lad, I love +thee with all my heart.”</p> + +<p>“Thou hast chosen strange ways to show it, Master Carew,” said Nick, and +looked straight up into the master player’s eyes.</p> + +<p>Carew turned upon his heel and ordered the dinner.</p> + +<p>It was a good dinner: fat roast capon stuffed with spiced carrots; +asparagus, biscuit, barley-cakes, and honey; and to end with, a flaky +pie, and Spanish cordial sprinkled with burnt sugar. With such fare and +a keen appetite, a marvelous brand-new suit of clothes, and Cicely +chattering gaily by his side, Nick could not be sulky or doleful long. +He was soon laughing; and Carew’s spirits seemed to rise with the boy’s.</p> + +<p>“Here, here!” he cried, as Nick was served the third time to the pie; +“art hollow to thy very toes? Why, thou’lt eat us out of house and +home—hey, Cicely? Marry come up, I think I’d best take Ned Alleyn’s +five shillings for thine hire, after all! What! Five shillings? Set me +in earth and bowl me to death with boiled turnips!—do they think to +play bob-fool with me? Five shillings! A fico for their five +shillings—and this for them!” and he squeezed the end of his thumb +between his fingers. “Cicely, what dost think?—Phil Henslowe had the +face to match Jem Bristow with our Nick!”</p> + +<p>“Why, daddy, Jem hath a face like a halibut!”</p> + +<p>“And a voice like a husky crow. Why, Nick’s mere shadow on the stage is +worth a ton of Jemmy Bristows. ’Twas casting pearls before swine, Nick, +to offer thee to Henslowe and Alleyn; but we’ve found a better trough +than theirs—hey, Cicely Goldenheart, haven’t we? Thou art to be one of +Paul’s boys.”</p> + +<p>“Paul who?”</p> + +<p>Carew lay back in his chair and laughed. “Paul who? Why, Saint Paul, +Nick,—’tis Paul’s Cathedral boys I mean. Marry, what dost say to that?”</p> + +<p>“I’d like another barley-cake.”</p> + +<p>“You’d <i>what</i>?” cried the master-player, letting the front legs of his +chair come down on the floor with a thump.</p> + +<p>“I’d like another barley-cake,” said Nick, quietly, helping himself to +the honey.</p> + +<p>“Upon my word, and on the remnant of mine honour!” ejaculated Carew. +“Tell a man his fortune’s made, and he calls for barley-cakes! Why, +thou’dst say ‘Pooh!’ to a cannon-ball! My faith, boy, dost understand +what this doth mean?”</p> + +<p>“Ay,” said Nick; “that I be hungry.”</p> + +<p>“But, Nick, upon my soul, thou art to sing with the Children of Paul’s; +to play with the cathedral company; to be a bright particular star in +the sweetest galaxy that ever shone in English sky! Dost take me yet?”</p> + +<p>“Ay,” said Nick, and sopped the honey with his cake.</p> + +<p>Carew played with his glass uneasily, and tapped his heel upon the +floor. “And is that all thou hast to say—hast turned oyster? There’s no +R in May—nobody will eat thee! Come, don’t make a mouth as though the +honey of the world were all turned gall upon thy tongue. ’Tis the +flood-tide of thy fortune, boy! Thou art to sing before the school +to-morrow, so that Master Nathaniel Gyles may take thy range and worth. +Now, truly, thou wilt do thy very best?”</p> + +<p>The bandy-legged man had brought water in a ewer, and poured some in a +basin for Nick to wash his hands. There was a green ribbon in his ear, +and the towel hung across his arm. Nick wiped his hands in silence.</p> + +<p>“Come,” said Master Carew, with an ugly sharpness in his voice, “thou’lt +sing thy very best?”</p> + +<p>“There’s nothing else to do,” replied Nick, doggedly.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXII"></a>CHAPTER XXII<br /> +<span class='ph3'>THE SKYLARK’S SONG<br /></span></h2> + +<p>Master Nathaniel Gyles, Precentor of St. Paul’s, had pipe-stem legs, and +a face like an old parchment put in a box to keep. His sandy hair was +thin and straggling, and his fine cloth hose wrinkled around his +shrunken shanks; but his eye was sharp, and he wore about his neck a +broad gold chain that marked him as no common man.</p> + +<p>For Master Nathaniel Gyles was head of the Cathedral schools of acting +and of music, and he stood upon his dignity.</p> + +<p>“My duty is laid down,” said he, “in most specific terms, sir,—<i>lex +cathedralis</i>,—that is to say, by the laws of the cathedral; and has +been, sir, since the reign of Richard the Third. <i>Primus Magister +Scholarum, Custos Morum, Quartus Custos Rotulorum</i>,—so the title +stands, sir; and I know my place.”</p> + +<p>He pushed Nick into the anteroom, and turned to Carew with an irritated +air.</p> + +<p>“I likewise know, sir, what is what. In plain words, Master Gaston +Carew, ye have grossly misrepresented this boy to me, to the waste of +much good time. Why, sir, he does not dance a step, and cannot act +at all.”</p> + +<p>“Soft, Master Gyles—be not so fast!” said Carew, haughtily, drawing +himself up, with his hand on his poniard; “dost mean to tell me that I +have lied to thee? Marry, sir, thy tongue will run thee into a blind +alley! I told thee that the boy could sing, but not that he could act +or dance.”</p> + +<p>“Pouf, sir,—words! I know my place: one peg below the dean, sir, +nothing less: ‘<i>Magister, et cetera’</i>—’tis so set down. And I tell +thee, sir, he has no training, not a bit; can’t tell a pricksong from a +bottle of hay; doesn’t know a canon from a crocodile, or a fugue from a +hole in the ground!”</p> + +<p>“Oh, fol-de-riddle de fol-de-rol! What has that to do with it? I tell +thee, sir, the boy can sing.”</p> + +<p>“And, sir, I say I know my place. Music does not grow like weeds.”</p> + +<p>“And fa-la-las don’t make a voice.”</p> + +<p>“What! How? Wilt thou teach me?” The master’s voice rose angrily. “Teach +me, who learned descant and counterpoint in the Gallo-Belgic schools, +sir; the best in all the world! Thou, who knowest not a staccato from a +stick of liquorice!”</p> + +<p>Carew shrugged his shoulders impatiently. “Come, Master Gyles, this is +fool play. I told thee that the boy could sing, and thou hast not yet +heard him try. Thou knowest right well I am no such simple gull as to +mistake a jay for a nightingale; and I tell thee, sir, upon my word, +and on the remnant of mine honour, he has the voice that thou dost need +if thou wouldst win the favor of the Queen. He has the voice, and thou +the thingumbobs to make the most of it. Don’t be a fool, now; hear him +sing. That’s all I ask. Just hear him once. Thou’lt pawn thine ears to +hear him twice.”</p> + +<p>The music-school stood within the old cathedral grounds. Through the +windows came up distantly the murmur of the throng in Paul’s Yard. It +was mid-afternoon, quite warm; blundering flies buzzed up and down the +lozenged panes, and through the dark hall crept the humming sound of +childish voices reciting eagerly, with now and then a sharp, small cry +as some one faltered in his lines and had his fingers rapped. Somewhere +else there were boyish voices running scales, now up, now down, without +a stop, and other voices singing harmonies, two parts and three +together, here and there a little flat from weariness.</p> + +<p>The stairs were very dark, Nick thought, as they went up to another +floor; but the long hall they came into there was quite bright with +the sun.</p> + +<p>At one end was a little stage, like the one at the Rose play-house, with +a small gallery for musicians above it; but everything here was painted +white and gold, and was most scrupulously clean. The rush-strewn floor +was filled with oaken benches, and there were paintings hanging upon the +wall, portraits of old head-masters and precentors. Some of them were so +dark with time that Nick wondered if they had been blackamoors.</p> + +<p>Master Gyles closed the great door and pulled a cord that hung by the +stage. A bell jangled faintly somewhere in the wall. Nick heard the +muffled voices hush, and then a shuffling tramp of slippered feet came +up the outer stair.</p> + +<p>“Pouf!” said the precentor, crustily. “<i>Tempus fugit</i>—that is to say, +we have no time to waste. So, marry, boy, <i>venite, exultemus</i>—in other +words, if thou canst sing, be up and at it. Come, <i>cantate</i>—sing, I bid +thee, and that instanter—if thou canst sing at all.”</p> + +<p>The under-masters and monitors were pushing the boys into their seats. +Carew pointed to the stage. “Thou’lt do thy level best!” he said in a +low, hard tone, and something clashed beneath his cloak like steel +on steel.</p> + +<p>Nick went up the steps behind the screen. It seemed cold in the room; he +had not noticed it before. Yet there were sweat-drops upon his forehead. +He felt as if he were a jackanapes he had seen once at the Stratford +fair, which wore a crimson jerkin and a cap. The man who had the +jackanapes played upon a pipe and a tabor; and when he said, “Dance!” +the jackanapes danced, for it was sorely afraid of the man. Yet when +Nick looked around and did not see the master-player anywhere in the +hall, he felt exceedingly lonely all at once without him, though he both +feared and hated him.</p> + +<p>There still was a shuffling of feet and a low talking; but soon it +became very quiet, and they all seemed to be waiting for him to begin. +He did not care, but supposed he might as well: what else could he do?</p> + +<p>There was a clock somewhere ticking quickly with its sharp, metallic +ring. As he listened, lonely, his heart cried out for home. In his +fancy the wind seemed rippling over the Avon, and the elm-leaves rustled +like rain upon the roof above his bed. There were red and white +wild-roses in the hedge, and in the air a smell of clover and of +new-mown hay. The mowers would be working in the clover in the +moonlight. He could almost see the sweep of the shining scythes, and +hear the chink-a-chank, chink-a-chank of the whetstone on the long, +curving blades. Chink-a-chank, chink-a-chank—’twas but the clock, and +he in London town.</p> + +<p>Carew, sitting there behind the carven prompter’s-screen, put down his +head between his hands and listened. There were murmurings a little +while, then silence. Would the boy never begin? He pressed his knuckles +into his temples and waited. Bow Bells rang out the hour; but the room +was as still as a deep sleep. Would the boy never begin?</p> + +<p>The precentor sniffed. It was a contemptuous, incredulous sniff. Carew +looked up—his lips white, a fierce red spot in each cheek. He was +talking to himself. “By the whistle of the Lord High Admiral!” he +said—but there he stopped and held his breath. Nick was singing.</p> + +<p>Only the old madrigal, with its half-forgotten words that other +generations sang before they fell asleep. How queer it sounded there! It +was a very simple tune, too; yet, as he sang, the old precentor started +from his chair and pressed his wrinkled hands together against his +breast. He quite forgot the sneer upon his face, and it went fading out +like breath from a frosty pane.</p> + +<p>He had twelve boys who could sing a hundred songs at sight from +unfamiliar notes; who kept the beat and marked the time as if their +throats were pendulums; could syncopate and floriate as readily as +breathe. And this was only a common country song.</p> + +<p>But—“That voice, that voice!” he panted to himself: for old Nat Gyles +was music-mad; melody to him was like the very breath of life. And the +boy’s high, young voice, soft as a flute and silver clear, throbbed in +the air as if his very heart were singing out of his body in the sound. +And then, like the skylark rising, up, up it went, and up, up, up, till +the older choristers held their breath and feared that the vibrant tone +would break, so slender, film-like was the trembling thread of the boy’s +wild skylark song. But no; it trembled there, high, sweet, and clear, a +moment in the air; and then came running, rippling, floating down, as +though some one had set a song on fire in the sky, and dropped it +quivering and bright into a shadow world. Then suddenly it was gone, and +the long hall was still.</p> + +<p>The old precentor stepped beyond the screen.</p> + +<p>Gaston Carew’s face was in his hands, and his shoulders shook +convulsively. “I’ll leave thee go, lad,<i>—ma foi</i>, I’ll leave thee go. +But, nay, I dare not leave thee go!”</p> + +<p>Some one came and tapped him on the shoulder. It was the sub-precentor. +“Master Gyles would speak with thee, sir,” said he, in a low tone, as if +half afraid of the sound of his own voice in the quiet that was in +the hall.</p> + +<p>Carew drew his hand hastily over his face, as if to take the old one off +and put a new one on, then arose and followed the man.</p> + +<p class='ctr'><a name="illus0352"></a> +<a href="images/illus0352.jpg"> +<img src="images/illus0352.jpg" width = "50%" alt="" /> +</a><br /> +<b>“‘THAT VOICE, THAT VOICE,’ NAT GYLES PANTED TO HIMSELF.”</b> +<br /></p> + +<p>The old precentor stood with his hands still clasped against his +breast. “<i>Mirabile</i>!” he was saying with bated breath. “It is +impossible, and I have dreamed! Yet <i>credo</i>—I believe—<i>quia +impossibile est</i>—because it is impossible. Tell me, Carew, do I wake or +dream—or, stay, was it a soul I heard? Ay, Carew, ’twas a soul: the +lad’s own white, young soul. My faith, I said he was of no account! +<i>Satis verborum</i>—say no more. <i>Humanum est errare</i>—I am a poor old +fool; and there’s a sour bug flown in mine eye that makes it water so!” +He wiped his eyes, for the tears were running down his cheeks.</p> + +<p>“Thou’lt take him, then?” asked Carew.</p> + +<p>“Take him?” cried the old precentor, catching the master-player by the +hand. “Marry, that will I; a voice like that grows not on every bush. +Take him? Pouf! I know my place—he shall be entered on the rolls +at once.”</p> + +<p>“Good!” said Carew. “I shall have him learn to dance, and teach him how +to act myself. He stays with me, ye understand; thy school fare is +miserly. I’ll dress him, too; for these students’ robes are shabby +stuff. But for the rest—”</p> + +<p>“Trust me,” said Master Gyles; “he shall be the first singer of them +all. He shall be taught—but who can teach the lark its song, and not do +horrid murder on it? Faith, Carew, I’ll teach the lad myself; ay, all I +know. I studied in the best schools in the world.”</p> + +<p>“And, hark ’e, Master Gyles,” said Carew, sternly all at once; “thou’lt +come no royal placard and seizure on me—ye have sworn. The boy is mine +to have and to hold with all that he earns, in spite of thy +prerogatives.”</p> + +<p>For the kings of old had given the masters of this school the right to +take for St. Paul’s choir whatever voices pleased them, wherever they +might be found, by force if not by favor, barring only the royal singers +at Windsor; and when men have such privileges it is best to be wary how +one puts temptation in their way.</p> + +<p>“Thou hadst mine oath before I even saw the boy,” said the precentor, +haughtily. “Dost think me perjured—<i>Primus Magister Scholarum, Custos +Morum, Quartus Custos Rotulorum?</i> Pouf! I know my place. My oath’s my +oath. But, soft; enough—here comes the boy. Who could have told a +skylark in such popinjay attire?”</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXIII<br /> +<span class='ph3'>A NEW LIFE<br /></span></h2> + +<p>And now a strange, new life began for Nicholas Attwood, in some things +so grand and kind that he almost hated to dislike it.</p> + +<p>It was different in every way from the simple, pinching round in +Stratford, and full of all the comforts of richness and plenty that make +life happy—excepting home and mother.</p> + +<p>Master Gaston Carew would have nothing but the best, and what he wanted, +whether he needed it or not; so with him money came like a summer rain, +and went like water out of a sieve: for he was a wild blade.</p> + +<p>They ate their breakfast when they pleased; dined at eleven, like the +nobility; supped at five, as was the fashion of the court. They had +wheat-bread the whole week round, as only rich folk could afford, with +fruit and berries in their season, and honey from the Surrey bee-farms +that made one’s mouth water with the sight of it dripping from the flaky +comb; and on Fridays spitchcocked eels, pickled herrings, and plums, +with simnel-cakes, poached eggs and milk, cream cheese and cordial, +like very kings; so that Nick could not help thriving.</p> + +<p>The master-player very seldom left him by himself to mope or to be +melancholy; but, while ever vaguely promising to let him go, did +everything in his power to make him rather wish to stay; so that Nick +was constantly surprised by the free-handed kindness of this man whom he +had every other reason in the world, he thought, for deeming his +worst enemy.</p> + +<p>When there were any new curiosities in Fleet street,—wild men with +rings in their noses, wondrous fishes, puppet-shows, or red-capped +baboons whirling on a pole,—Carew would have Nick see them as well as +Cicely; and often took them both to Bartholomew’s Fair, where there was +a giant eating raw beef and a man dancing upon a rope high over the +heads of the people. He would have had Nick every Thursday to the +bear-baiting in the Paris Garden circus beside; but one sight of that +brutal sport made the boy so sick that they never went again, but to the +stage-plays at the Rose instead, which Nick enjoyed immensely, for Carew +himself acted most excellently, and Master Tom Heywood always came and +spoke kindly to the lonely boy.</p> + +<p>For, in spite of all, Nick’s heart ached so at times that he thought it +would surely break with longing for his mother. And at night, when all +the house was still and dark, and he alone in bed, all the little, +unconsidered things of home—the beehives and the fragrant mint beside +the kitchen door, the smell of the baking bread or frying carrots, the +sound of the red-cheeked harvest apples dropping in the orchard, and the +plump of the old bucket in the well—came back to him so vividly that +many a time he cried himself to sleep, and could not have forgotten +if he would.</p> + +<p>On Midsummer Day there was a Triumph on the river at Westminster, with a +sham-fight and a great shooting of guns and hurling of balls of +wild-fire. The Queen was there, and the ambassadors of France and +Venice, with the Duke of Lennox and the Earls of Arundel and +Southampton. Master Carew took a wherry to Whitehall, and from the green +there they watched the show.</p> + +<p>The Thames was fairly hidden by the boats, and there was a grand state +bark all trimmed with silk and velvet for the Queen to be in to see the +pastime. But as for that, all Nick could make out was the high carved +stern of the bark, painted with England’s golden lions, and the bark was +so far away that he could not even tell which was the Queen.</p> + +<p>Coming home by Somerset House, a large barge passed them with many +watermen rowing, and fine carpets about the seats; and in it the old +Lord Chamberlain and his son my Lord Hunsdon, who, it was said, was to +be the Lord Chamberlain when his father died; for the old lord was +failing, and the Queen liked handsome young men about her.</p> + +<p>In the barge, beside their followers, were a company of richly dressed +gentlemen, who were having a very gay time together, and seemed to +please the old Lord Chamberlain exceedingly with the things they said. +They were somebodies, as Nick could very well see from their carriage +and address; and, so far as the barge allowed, they were all clustered +about one fellow in the seat by my Lord Hunsdon. He seemed to be the +chiefest spokesman of them all, and every one appeared very glad indeed +to be friendly with him. My Lord Hunsdon himself made free with his own +nobility, and sat beside him arm in arm.</p> + +<p>What he was saying they were too far away to hear in the shouting and +splash; but those with him in the barge were listening as eagerly as +children to a merry tale. Sometimes they laughed until they held their +sides; and then again as suddenly they were very quiet, and played +softly with their tankards and did not look at one another as he went +gravely on telling his story. Then all at once he would wave his hand +gaily, and his smile would sparkle out; and the whole company, from the +old Lord Chamberlain down, would brighten up again, as if a new dawn had +come over the hills into their hearts from the light of his hazel eyes.</p> + +<p>Nick made no doubt that this was some young earl rolling in wealth; for +who else could have such listeners? Yet there was, nevertheless, +something so familiar in his look that he could not help staring at him +as the barge came thumping through the jam.</p> + +<p>They passed along an oar’s-length or two away; and as they came abeam, +Carew, rising, doffed his hat, and bowed politely to them all.</p> + +<p>In spite of his wild life, he was a striking, handsome man.</p> + +<p>The old Lord Chamberlain said something to his son, and pointed with his +hand. All the company in the barge turned round to look; and he who had +been talking stood up quickly with his hand upon the young lord’s arm, +and, smiling, waved his cap.</p> + +<p>Nick gave a sharp cry.</p> + +<p>Then the barge pushed through, and shot away down stream like a wild +swan.</p> + +<p>“Why, Nick,” exclaimed Cicely, “how dreadful thou dost look!” and, +frightened, she caught him by the hand. “Why, oh!—what is it, +Nick—thou art not ill?”</p> + +<p>“It was Will Shakspere!” cried Nick, and sank into the bottom of the +wherry with his head upon the master-player’s knee. “Oh, Master Carew,” +he cried, “will ye never leave me go?”</p> + +<p>Carew laid his hand upon the boy’s head, and patted it gently.</p> + +<p>“Why, Nick,” said he, and cleared his throat, “is not this better than +Stratford?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, Master Carew—mother’s there!” was the reply.</p> + +<p>There was no sound but the thud of oars in the rowlocks and the hollow +bubble of the water at the stern, for they had fallen out of the hurry +and were coming down alone.</p> + +<p>“Is thy mother a good woman, Nick?” asked Cicely.</p> + +<p>Carew was staring out into the fading sky. “Ay, sweetheart,” he answered +in a queer, husky voice, suddenly putting one arm about her and the +other around Nick’s shoulders. “None but a good mother could have so +good a son.”</p> + +<p>“Then thou wilt send him home, daddy?” asked Cicely.</p> + +<p>Carew took her hand in his, but answered nothing.</p> + +<p>They had come to the landing.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXIV<br /> +<span class='ph3'>THE MAKING OF A PLAYER<br /></span></h2> + +<p>Master Will Shakspere was in town! The thought ran through Nick +Attwood’s head like a half-remembered tune. Once or twice he had all but +sung it instead of the words of his part. Master Will Shakspere was +in town!</p> + +<p>Could he but just find Master Shakspere, all his trouble would be over; +for the husband of his mother’s own cousin would see justice done him in +spite of the master-player and the bandy-legged man with the ribbon in +his ear—of that he was sure.</p> + +<p>But there seemed small chance of its coming about; for the doors of +Gaston Carew’s house were locked and barred by day and by night, as much +to keep Nick in as to keep thieves out; and all day long, when Carew was +away, the servants went about the lower halls, and Gregory Goole’s +uncanny face peered after him from every shadowy corner; and when he +went with Carew anywhere, the master-player watched him like a hawk, +while always at his heels he could hear the clump, clump, clump of the +bandy-legged man following after him.</p> + +<p>Even were he free to go as he pleased, he knew not where to turn; for +the Lord Chamberlain’s company would not be at the Blackfriars +play-house until Martinmas; and before that time to look for even Master +Will Shakspere at random in London town would be worse than hunting for +a needle in a haystack.</p> + +<p>To be sure, he knew that the Lord Chamberlain’s men were still playing +at the theater in Shoreditch; for Master Carew had taken Cicely there to +see the “Two Gentlemen of Verona.” But just where Shoreditch was, Nick +had only the faintest idea—somewhere away off by Finsbury Fields, +beyond the city walls to the north of London town—and all the wide +world seemed north of London town; and the way thither lay through a +bewildering tangle of streets in which the din and the rush of the crowd +were never still.</p> + +<p>From a hopeless chase like that Nick shrank back like a snail into its +shell. He was not too young to know that there were worse things than to +be locked in Gaston Carew’s house. It were better to be a safe-kept +prisoner there than to be lost in the sinks of London. And so, knowing +this, he made the best of it.</p> + +<p>But Master Shakspere was come back to town, and that was something. It +seemed somehow less lonely just to think of it.</p> + +<p>Yet in truth he had but little time to think of it; for the +master-player kept him closely at his strange, new work, and taught him +daily with the most amazing patience.</p> + +<p>He had Nick learn no end of stage parts off by heart, with their cues +and “business,” entrances and exits; and worked fully as hard as his +pupil, reading over every sentence twenty times until Nick had the +accent perfectly. He would have him stamp, too, and turn about, and +gesture in accordance with the speech, until the boy’s arms ached, going +with him through the motions one by one, over and over again, +unsatisfied, but patient to the last, until Nick wondered. “Nick, my +lad,” he would often say, with a tired but determined smile, “one little +thing done wrong may spoil the finest play, as one bad apple rots the +barrelful. We’ll have it right, or not at all, if it takes a month +of Sundays.”</p> + +<p>So, often, he kept Nick before a mirror for an hour at a time, making +faces while he spoke his lines, smiling, frowning, or grimacing as best +seemed to fit the part, until the boy grew fairly weary of his own +looks. Then sometimes, more often as the time slipped by, Carew would +clap his hands with a boyish laugh, and have a pie brought and a cup of +Spanish cordial for them both, declaring that he loved the lad with all +his heart, upon the remnant of his honour: from which Nick knew that he +was coming on.</p> + +<p>Cicely Carew’s governess was a Mistress Agnes Anstey. By birth she had +been a Harcourt of Ankerwyke, and she was therefore everywhere esteemed +fit by birth and breeding to teach the young mind when to bow and when +to beckon. She came each morning to the house, and Carew paid her double +shillings to see to it that Nick learned such little tricks of cap and +cloak as a lady’s page need have, the carriage best fitted for his +place, and how to come into a room where great folks were. Moreover, how +to back out again, bowing, and not fall over the stools—which was no +little art, until Nick caught the knack of peeping slyly between his +legs when he bowed.</p> + +<p>His hair, too, was allowed to grow long, and was combed carefully every +day by the tiring-woman; and soon, as it was naturally curly, it fell in +rolling waves about his neck.</p> + +<p>On the heels of the governess came M’sieu de Fleury, who, it was said, +had been dancing-master to Hatton, the late Lord Chancellor of England, +and had taught him those tricks with his nimble heels which had capered +him into the Queen’s good graces, and so got him the chancellorship. +M’sieu spoke dreadful English, but danced like the essence of agility, +and taught both Nick and Cicely the latest Italian coranto, playing the +tune upon his queer little pochette.</p> + +<p>Cicely already danced like a pixy, and laughed merrily at her comrade’s +first awkward antics, until he flushed with embarrassment. At that she +instantly became grave, and, when M’sieu had gone, came across the room, +and putting her arm about Nick, said repentantly, “Don’t thou mind me, +Nick. Father saith the French all laugh too soon at nothing; and I have +caught it from my mother’s blood. A boy is not good friends with his +feet as a girl is; but thou wilt do beautifully, I know; and M’sieu +shall teach us the galliard together.”</p> + +<p>And often, after the lesson was over and M’sieu departed, she would +have Nick try his steps over and over again in the great room, while she +stood upon the stool to make her tall, and cried, “Sa—sa!” as the +master did, scolding and praising him by turns, or jumping down in +pretty impatience to tuck up her little silken skirts and show him the +step herself; while the cook’s knave and the scullery-maids peeped at +the door and cried: “La, now, look ’e, Moll!” at every coupee.</p> + +<p>It made a picture quaint and pretty to see them dancing there. The smoky +light, stealing in through the narrow casements over the woodwork dark +with age, dropped in little yellow chequers upon old chests of oak, of +walnut, and of strange, purple-black wood from foreign lands, giving a +weird life to the griffins and twisted traceries carved upon their +sides. High-backed, narrow chairs stood along the wall, with cushioned +stools inlaid with shell. Twinklings of light glinted from the brass +candlesticks. On the wall above the wainscot the faded hangings wavered +in the draught, crusted thickly with strange embroidered flowers. And +dancing there together in the semi-gloom, the children seemed quaint +little figures stepped down from the tapestry at the touch of a +magic wand.</p> + +<p>And so the time went slipping by, very pleasantly upon the whole, and +Nick’s young heart grew stout again within his breast; for he was strong +and well, and in those days the very air was full of hope, and no man +knew what might betide with the rising of to-morrow’s sun.</p> + +<p>Every day, from two till three o’clock, he was at Master Gyles’s +private singing-room at the old cathedral school, learning to read music +at first sight, and to sing offhand the second, third, and fourth parts +of queer intermingled fugues or wonderfully constructed canons.</p> + +<p>At first his head felt stuffed like a feasted glutton with all the +learning that the old precentor poured into it; but by and by he found +it plain enough, and no very difficult thing to follow up the prickings +in the paper with his voice, and to sing parts written at fifths and +fourths and thirds with other voices as easily as to carry a song alone. +But still he sang best his own unpointed songs, the call and challenge +of the throstle and the merle, the morning glory of the lark, songs that +were impossible to write. And those were the songs that the precentor +was at the greatest pains to have him sing in perfect tones, making him +open his mouth like a little round and let the music float out +of itself.</p> + +<p>Like the master-player, nothing short of perfection pleased old +Nathaniel Gyles, and Nick’s voice often wavered with sheer weariness as +he ran his endless scales and sang absurd fa-la-la-las while his teacher +beat the time in the air with his lean forefinger like a grim automaton.</p> + +<p>The old man, too, was chary of his praise, though Nick tried hard to +please him, and it was only by little things he told his satisfaction. +He touzed the ears of the other boys, and sometimes smartly thumped +their crowns; but with Nick he only nipped his ruddy cheek between his +thumb and finger, or laid his hand upon his shoulder when the hard day’s +work was done, saying, “<i>Satis cantorum</i>—it is enough. Now be off to +thy nest, sir; and do not forget to wash thy throat with good cold water +every day.”</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>All this time the busy sand kept running in the glass. July was gone, +and August at its heels. The hot breath of the summer had cooled, and +the sun no longer burned the face when it came in through the windows. +Nick often shut his eyes and let the warm light fall upon his closed +lids. It made a ruddy glow like the wild red poppies that grow in the +pale green rye. In fancy he could almost smell the queer, rancid odor of +the crimson bloom crushed beneath the feet of the farmers’ boys who cut +the butter-yellow mustard from among the bearded grain.</p> + +<p>“Heigh-ho and alackaday!” thought Nick. “It is better in the country +than in town!” For there was no smell in all the town like the clean, +sweet smell of the open fields just after a summer rain, no colors like +the bright heart’s-ease and none-so-pretty, or the honeysuckle over the +cottage door, and no song ever to be heard among the sooty chimney-pots +like the song of the throstle piping to the daisies on the hill.</p> + +<p>But he had little time to dream such dreams, for every day from four to +six o’clock the children’s company played and sang in public, at their +own school-hall, or in the courtyard of the Mitre Inn on Bread street +near St. Paul’s.</p> + +<p>They were the pets of London town, and their playing-place was thronged +day after day. For the bright young faces and sweet, unbroken voices of +the richly costumed lads made a spot in sordid London life like a pot of +posies in a window on a dark street; so that both the high and the low, +the rich and the poor, came in to see them play and dance, to hear them +sing, and to laugh again at the witty things which were written for +them to say.</p> + +<p>The songs that were set for Nick to sing were always short, sweet, +simple things that even the dull-eyed, toil-worn folk upon the rough +plank benches in the pit could understand. Many a silver shilling came +clinking down at the heels of the other boys from the galleries of the +inn, where the people of the better classes, wealthy merchants, ladies +and their dashing gallants, watched the children’s company; but when +Nick’s songs were done the common people down below seemed all gone +daft. They tossed red apples after him, ripe yellow pears, fat purple +plums by handfuls, called him by name and brought him back, and cried +for more and more and more, until the old precentor shook his head +behind the prompters-screen, and waved Nick off with a forbidding frown. +Yet all the while he chuckled to himself until it seemed as if his dry +old ribs would rattle in his sides; and every day, before Nick sang, he +had him up to his little room for a broken egg and a cup of +rosy cordial.</p> + +<p>“To clear thy voice and to cheer the cockles of thine heart,” said he; +“and to tune that pretty throat of thine <i>ad gustum Reginae</i>—which is +to say, ‘to the Queen’s own taste,’—God bless Her Majesty!”</p> + +<p>The other boys were cast for women’s parts, for women never acted then; +and a queer sight it was to Nick to see his fellows in great +farthingales of taffeta and starchy cambric that rustled as they +walked, with popinjay blue ribbon in their hair, and flowered stomachers +sparkling with paste jewels.</p> + +<p>And, truth, it was no easy thing to tell them from the real affair, or +to guess the made from the maiden, so slender and so graceful were they +all, with their ruffs and their muffs and their feathered fans, and all +the airs and mincing graces of the daintiest young miss.</p> + +<p>But old Nat Gyles would never have Nick Attwood play the girl. “The lad +is good enough for me just as he is,” said he; and that was all there +was of it.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXV"></a>CHAPTER XXV<br /> +<span class='ph3'>THE WANING OF THE YEAR<br /></span></h2> + +<p>In September the Lord Admiral’s company made a tour of the Midlands +during the great English fairing-time; but Carew did not go with them. +For, though still by name master-player with Henslowe and Alleyn, his +business with them had come to be but little more than pocketing his +share of the profits; and for the rest, nothing but to take Nick daily +to and from St. Paul’s, and to draw his wages week by week.</p> + +<p>Of those wages Nick saw never a penny: Carew took good care of that. Yet +he gave him everything that any boy could need, and bought him whatever +he fancied the instant he so much as expressed a wish for it: which, in +truth, was not much; for Nick had lived in only a country town, and knew +not many things to want.</p> + +<p>But with money a-plenty thus coming so easily into his hands,—money for +dicing, for luxuries, for all his wild sports, money for Cicely, money +for keeps, money to play chuckie-stones with if he chose,—there was no +bridle to Gaston Carew’s wild career. His boon companions were +spendthrifts and gamesters, dissolute fellows, of whom the least said +soonest mended; and with them he was brawling early and late, very often +all night long. And though money came in fast, he wasted it faster, so +that matters went from bad to worse. Duns came spying about his door, +and bailiffs hunted after him around the town with unpaid tradesmen’s +bills. Yet still he laughed and clapped his hand upon his poniard in the +old bold way.</p> + +<p>September faded away in wistful haze along the Hampstead hills. The +Admiral’s men came riding back with keen October ringing at their heels, +and all the stalls were full of red-cheeked apples striped with emerald +and gold. November followed, with its nipping frost, and all St. +George’s merry green fields turned brown and purple-gray. The old year +was waning fast.</p> + +<p>The Queen’s Day was but a poor holiday, in spite of the shut-up shops; +for it was grown so cold with sleet and rain that it was hard to get +about, the gutters and streets being very foul, and the by-lanes +impassable. And now the children of Paul’s gave no more plays in the +yard of the Mitre Inn, but sang in their own warm hall; for winter +was at hand.</p> + +<p>There came black nights when an ugly wind moaned in the shivering +chimneys and howled across the peaked roofs, nights when there was no +playing at the Rose, but it was hearty to be by the fire. Then sometimes +Carew sat at home all evening long, with Cicely upon his knee, and told +strange tales of lands across the sea, where he had traveled when he was +young, and where none spoke English but chance travelers, and even the +loudest shouting could not serve to make the people understand.</p> + +<p>While he spun these wondrous yarns Nick would curl up on the hearth and +blow the crackling fire, sometimes staring at the master-player’s +stories, sometimes laughing to himself at the funny faces carved upon +the sides of the chubby Dutch bellows, and sometimes neither laughing +nor listening, but thinking silently of home. Then Carew, looking at him +there, would quickly turn his face away and tell another tale.</p> + +<p>But oftener the master-player stayed all night at the Falcon Inn with +Dick Jones, Tom Hearne, Humphrey Jeffs, and other reckless roysterers, +dicing and flipping shillings at shovel-board until his finger-nails +were sore. Then Nick would read aloud to Cicely out of the “Hundred +Merry Tales,” or pop old riddles at her puzzled head until she, +laughing, cried, “Enough!” But most of all he liked the story of brave +Guy of Warwick, and would tell it again and again, with other legends of +Arden Wood, till bedtime came.</p> + +<p>In the gray of the morning Carew would come home, unshaven and +leaden-eyed, with his bandy-legged varlet trotting like a watch-dog at +his heels; and then, if the gaming had gone well, he was a lord, an +earl, a duke, at least, so merry and so sprightly would he be withal; +but if the dice had fallen wrong, he would by turns be raving mad or +sodden as a sunken pie.</p> + +<p>Yet, be his temper what it might, he was but one thing always to Cicely, +and doffed ill humor like a shabby hat when she came running to meet +him in the shadows of the hall; so that when he came into the lighted +room, with her upon his shoulder, his face was smiles, his step a +frolic, and his bearing that of a happy boy.</p> + +<p>But day by day the weather grew worse, with snow and ice paving the +streets with a glassy glare and choking the frozen drains; and there was +trouble and want among the poor in the wretched alleys near Carew’s +house: for fuel was high and food scarce, and there were many deaths, so +that the knell was tolling constantly.</p> + +<p>Cicely cried until her eyes were red for the very sadness of it all, +since she might do nothing for them, and hated the sound of the +sullen bell.</p> + +<p>“Pshaw, Cicely!” said Nick; “why should ye cry? Ye do na know them; so +ye need na care.”</p> + +<p>“But, Nick,” said she, “<i>nobody</i> seems to care! And, sure, <i>somebody</i> +ought to care; for it may be some one’s mother that is dead.”</p> + +<p>At that Nick felt a very queer choking in his own throat, and did not +rest quite easy in his mind until he had given the silver buckle from +his cloak to a boy who stood crying with cold and hunger in the street, +and begged a farthing of him for the love of the good God.</p> + +<p>Then came a thaw, with mist and fog so thick that people were lost in +their own streets, and knocked at their next-door neighbor’s gate to ask +the way home. All day long, down by the Thames drums beat upon the +wharves and bells ding-donged to guide the watermen ashore; but most of +those who needs must fare abroad went over London Bridge, because +there, although they might in no wise see, it felt, at least, as if the +world were still beneath their feet.</p> + +<p>At noon the air was muddy brown, with a bitter taste like watered smoke; +at night it was a blinding pall; and though, after mid-December, by +order of the Council, every alderman and burgess hung a light before his +door, torches, links, and candles only sputtered feebly in the gloom, of +no more use than jack-o’-lanterns gone astray, and none but blind men +knew the roads.</p> + +<p>The city watch was doubled everywhere; and all night long their shouts +went up and down—“’Tis what o’clock, and a foggy night!”—and right and +left their hurrying staves came thumping helplessly along the walls to +answer cries of “Murder!” and of “Help! Watch! Help!” For under cover of +the fog great gangs of thieves came down from Hampstead Heath, and +robberies were done in the most frequented thoroughfares, between the +very lights set up by the corporation; so that it was dangerous to go +about save armed and wary as a cat in a crowd.</p> + +<p>While such foul days endured there was no singing at St. Paul’s, +nor stage-plays anywhere, save at Blackfriars play-house, +which was roofed against the weather. And even there at last the fog +crept in through cracks and crannies until the players seemed but moving +shadows talking through a choking cloud; and Master Will Shakspere’s +famous new piece of “Romeo and Juliet,” which had been playing to +crowded houses, taking ten pound twelve the day, was fairly smothered +off the boards.</p> + +<p class='ctr'><a name="i_174"></a> +<a href="images/i_174.jpg"> +<img src="images/i_174.jpg" width="35%" alt="" /> +</a><br /> +<b>“NICK GAVE THE SILVER BUCKLE FROM HIS CLOAK TO A BOY WHO +STOOD CRYING WITH COLD AND HUNGER IN THE STREET.”</b> +<br /></p> + +<p>Nick was eager to be out in all this blindman’s +holiday; but, “Nay,” said Carew; “not so much as thy nose. A fog like +this would steal the croak from a raven’s throat, let alone the +sweetness from a honey-pot like thine—and bottom crust is the end of +pie!” With which, bang went the door, creak went the key, and Carew was +off to the Falcon Inn.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>So went the winter weather, and so went Carew; for there was no denying +that both had fallen into a very bad way. Yet another change came +creeping over Carew all unaware.</p> + +<p>Nick’s face had from the first attracted him; and now, living with the +boy day after day, housed up, a prisoner, yet cheerful through it all, +the master-player began to feel what in a better man had been the prick +of conscience, but in him was only an indefinite uneasiness like a +blunted cockle-bur. For the lad’s patient perseverance at his work, his +delight in singing, and the tone of longing threaded through his voice, +crept into the master-player’s heart in spite of him; and Nick’s gentle +ways with Cicely touched him more than all the rest: for if there was +one thing in all the world that Gaston Carew truly loved, it was his +daughter Cicely. So for her sake, as well as for Nick’s own, the +master-player came to love the lad. And this was shown in queer ways.</p> + +<p>In the wainscot of the dining-hall there was a carven panel just above +the Spanish chest. At night, when the house was still and all the rest +asleep, Carew often came and stood before this panel, with a queer, +hesitating look upon his hard, bold face; and stretching out his hand, +would press upon the head of a cherub cut in the bevel edge. Whereupon +the panel slipped away within the wainscot, leaving a little closet in +the hollow of the wall, in which a few strange things were stowed: an +empty flask, an inlaid rosewood box, a little slipper, and a dusty +gittern with its strings all snapped and a faded ribbon tied about +its neck.</p> + +<p>The rosewood box he would take down, and with it open in his lap would +sit beside the fire like a man within a dream, until the hearth grew +white and cold, and the draught had blown the ashes out in streaks +across the floor. In the box was a woman’s riding-glove and a miniature +upon ivory, Cicely’s mother’s face, painted at Paris in other days.</p> + +<p>One night, while they were sitting all together by the fire, Nick and +Cicely snug in the chimney-seat, Carew spoke up suddenly out of a little +silence which had fallen upon them all. “Nick,” said he, quite softly, +with a look on his face as if he were thinking of other things, “I +wonder if thou couldst play?”</p> + +<p>“What, sir?” asked Nick; “a game?” and made the bellows whistle in his +mouth.</p> + +<p>“Nay, lad; a gittern.”</p> + +<p>Nick and Cicely looked up, for his manner was very odd.</p> + +<p>“Why, sir, I do na know. I could try. I ha’ heard one played, and it is +passing sweet.” “Ay, Nick, ’tis passing sweet,” said Carew, +quickly—and no more; but spoke of France, how the lilies grow in the +ditches there, and the tall trees stand like soldiers by the road that +runs to the land of sunny hills and wine; and of the radiant women +there, with hair like night and eyes like the summer stars. Then all at +once he stopped as if some one had clapped a hand upon his mouth, and +sat and stared into the fire.</p> + +<p>But in the morning at breakfast there was a gittern at Nick’s place—a +rare old yellow gittern, with silver scrolls about the tail-piece, ivory +pegs, and a head that ended in an angel’s face. It was strung with +bright new silver strings, but near the bridge of it there was a little +rut worn into the wood by the tips of the fingers that had rested there +while playing, and the silken shoulder-ribbon was faded and worn.</p> + +<p>Nick stopped, then put out both his hands as if to touch it, yet did +not, being half afraid.</p> + +<p>“Tut, take it up!” said Carew, sharply, though he had not seemed to +heed. “Take it up—it is for thee.”</p> + +<p>“For me?” cried Nick—“not for mine own?”</p> + +<p>Carew turned and struck the table with his hand, as if suddenly wroth. +“Why should I say it was for thee? if it were not to be thine own?”</p> + +<p>“But, Master Carew—” Nick began.</p> + +<p>“‘Master Carew’ fiddlesticks! Hold thy prate. Do I know my own mind, or +do I filter my wits through thee? Did I not say that it is thine? Good, +then—’tis thine, although it were thrice somebody else’s; and thrice as +much thy very own through having other owners. Dost hear? Well, then, +enough—we’ll have no words about it!”</p> + +<p>Rising abruptly as he spoke, he clapped his hat upon his head and left +the room, Nick standing there beside the table, staring after him, with +the gittern in his hands.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVI"></a>CHAPTER XXVI<br /> +<span class='ph3'>TO SING BEFORE THE QUEEN<br /></span></h2> + +<div class='poetry'> +“Sir Fly hangs dead on the window-pane;<br /> + The frost doth wind his shroud;<br /> +Through the halls of his little summer house<br /> + The north wind cries aloud.<br /> +We will bury his bones in the mouldy wall,<br /> + And mourn for the noble slain:<br /> +A southerly wind and a sunny sky—<br /> + Buzz! up he comes again!<br /> + Oh, Master Fly!”<br /> +</div> + +<p>Nick looked up from the music-rack and shivered. He had forgotten the +fire in studying his song, and the blackened ends of the burnt-out logs +lay smouldering on the hearth. The draught, too, whistled shrilly under +the door, in spite of the rushes that he had piled along the crack.</p> + +<p>The fog had been gone for a week. It was snapping cold; and through the +peep-holes he had thawed upon the window-pane with his breath, he could +see the hoar-frost lying in the shadow of the wall in the court below.</p> + +<p>How forlorn the green old dial looked out there alone in the cold, with +the winter dust whirling around it in little eddies upon the wind! The +dial was fringed with icicles, like an old man’s beard; and even the +creeping shadow on its face, which told mid-afternoon, seemed frozen +where it fell.</p> + +<p>Mid-afternoon already, and he so much to do! Nick pulled his cloak about +him, and turned to his song again:</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +“Sir Fly hangs dead on the window-pane;<br /> + The frost doth wind his shroud—”<br /> +</div> + +<p>But there he stopped; for the boys were singing in the great hall below, +and the whole house rang with the sound of the roaring chorus:</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +“Down-a-down, hey, down-a-down,<br /> + Hey derry derry down-a-down!”<br /> +</div> + +<p>Nick put his fingers in his ears, and began all over again:</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +“Sir Fly hangs dead on the window-pane;<br /> + The frost doth wind his shroud;<br /> +Through the halls of his little summer house<br /> + The north wind cries aloud.”<br /> +</div> + +<p>But it was no use; all he could hear was:</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +“Down-a-down, hey, down-a-down,<br /> + Hey derry derry down-a-down!”<br /> +</div> + +<p>How could a fellow study in a noise like that? He gave it up in despair, +and kicking the chunks together, stood upon the hearth, warming his +hands by the gathering blaze while he listened to the song:</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +“Cold’s the wind, and wet’s the rain;<br /> + Saint Hugh, be our good speed!<br /> +Ill is the weather that bringeth no gain,<br /> + Nor helps good hearts in need.<br /><br /> + +“Down-a-down, hey, down-a-down,<br /> + Hey derry derry down-a-down!”<br /> +</div> + +<p>He could hear Colley Warren above them all. What a voice the boy had! +Like a golden horn blowing in the fresh of a morning breeze. It made +Nick tingle, he could not tell why. He and Colley often sang together, +and their voices made a quivering in the air like the ringing of a bell. +And often, while they sang, the viols standing in the corner of the room +would sound aloud a deep, soft note in harmony with them, although +nobody had touched the strings; so that the others cried out that the +instruments were bewitched, and would not let the boys sing any more. +Colley Warren was Nick’s best friend—a dark-eyed, quiet lad, as gentle +as a girl, and with a mouth like a girl’s mouth, for which the others +sometimes mocked him, though they loved him none the less.</p> + +<p>It was not because his voice was loud that it could be so distinctly +heard; but it was nothing like the rest, and came through all the others +like sunshine through a mist. Nick pulled the stool up closer, and sat +down in the chimney-corner, humming a second to the tune, and blowing +little glory-holes in the embers with the bellows. He liked the smell +of a wood fire, and liked to toast his toes. He was a trifle drowsy, +too, now that he was warm again to the marrow of his bones; perhaps he +dozed a little.</p> + +<p>But suddenly he came to himself again with a sense of a great stillness +fallen over everything—no singing in the room below, and silence +everywhere but in the court, where there was a trampling as of horses +standing at the gate. And while he was still lazily wondering, a great +cheer broke out in the room below, and there was a stamping of feet like +cattle galloping over a bridge; and then, all at once, the door opened +into the hallway at the foot of the stair, and the sound burst out as +fire bursts from the cock-loft window of a burning barn, and through the +noise and over it Colley Warren’s voice calling him by name: “Skylark! +Nick Skylark! Ho there, Nick! where art thou?”</p> + +<p>He sprang to the door and kicked the rushes away. All the hall was full +of voices, laughing, shouting, singing, and cheering. There were +footsteps coming up the stair. “What there, Skylark! Ho, boy! Nick, +where art thou?” he could hear Colley calling above them all. Out he +popped his nose: “Here I am, Colley—what’s to do? <i>Whatever in the +world!</i>” and he ducked his head like a mandarin; for whizz—flap! two +books came whirling up the stair and thumped against the panel by +his ears.</p> + +<p>“The news—the news, Nick! Have ye heard the news?” the lads were +shouting as if possessed. “We’re going to court! Hurrah, hurrah!” And +some, with their arms about one another, went whirling out at the door +and around the windy close like very madcaps, cutting such capers that +the horses standing at the gate kicked up their heels, and jerked the +horse-boys right and left like bundles of hay.</p> + +<p>Nick leaned over the railing and stared.</p> + +<p>“Come down and help us sing!” they cried. “Come down and shout with us +in the street!”</p> + +<p>“I can na come down—there’s work to do!”</p> + +<p>“Thy ‘can na’ be hanged, and thy work likewise! Come down and sing, or +we’ll fetch thee down. The Queen hath sent for us!”</p> + +<p>“The Queen—hath sent—for us?”</p> + +<p>“Ay, sent for us to come to court and play on Christmas day! Hurrah for +Queen Bess!”</p> + +<p>At that shrill cheer the startled horses fairly plunged into the street, +and the carts that were passing along the way were jammed against the +opposite wall. The carriers bellowed, the horse-boys bawled, the people +came running to see the row, and the apprentices flew out of the shops +bareheaded, waving their dirty aprons and cheering lustily, just for the +fun of the chance to cheer.</p> + +<p>“It’s true!” called Colley, his dark eyes dancing like stars on the sea. +“Come down, Nick, and sing in the street with us all! We are going to +Greenwich Palace on Christmas day to play before the Queen and the +court—for the first time, Nick, in a good six years; and we’re not to +work till the new masque comes from the Master of the Revels! Come down, +Nick, and sing with us out in the street; for we’re going to court, we’re +going to court to sing before the Queen! Hurrah, hurrah!”</p> + +<p>“Hurrah for good Queen Bess!” cried Nick; and up went his cap and down +went he on the baluster-rail like a runaway sled, head first into the +crowd, who caught him laughing as he came. Then all together they +cantered out like a parcel of colts in a fresh, green field, and sang in +the street before the school till the people cheered themselves hoarse +to hear such music on such a wintry day; sang until there was no other +business on all the thoroughfare but just to listen to their songs; sang +until the under-masters came out with their staves and drove them into +the school again, to keep them from straining their throats by singing +so loudly and so long in the frosty open air.</p> + +<p>But a fig for staves and for under-masters! The boys clapped fast the +gates behind them, and barred the under-masters out in the street, +singing twice as loudly as before, and mocking at them with wry faces +through the bars; and then trooped off up the old precentor’s private +stair and sang at his door until the old man could not hear his own +ears, and came out storming and grim as grief.</p> + +<p>But when he saw the boys all there, and heard them cheering him three +times three, he could not storm to save his life, but only stood there, +black and thin, against the yellow square of light, smiling a quaint +smile that half was wrinkles and half was pride, shaking his lean +forefinger at them as if he were beating time, and nodding until his +head seemed almost nodding off.</p> + +<p>“Hurrah for Master Nathaniel Gyles!” they shouted.</p> + +<p>“<i>Primus Magister Scholarum, Custos Morum, Quartus Custos Rotulorum</i>,” +said the old man softly to himself, the firelight from behind him +falling in a glory on his thin white hair. “Be off, ye rogues! Ye are +not fit to waste good language on; or, faith, I’d Latin ye all as dumb +as fishes in the depths of the briny sea!”</p> + +<p>“Hurrah for the fishes in the sea!”</p> + +<p>“Soft, ye knaves! Save thy throats for good Queen Bess!”</p> + +<p>“Hurrah for good Queen Bess!”</p> + +<p>“Be still, I say, ye good-for-nothing varlets; or ye sha’n’t have pie +and ale to-night. But marry, now, ye <i>shall</i> have pie—ay, pie and ale +without a stint; for ye are good lads, and ye have pleased the Queen at +last; and I am as proud of ye as a peacock is of his own tail!”</p> + +<p>“Hurrah for the Queen—and the pie—and the ale! Hurrah for the peacock +and his tail!” shouted the boys; and straightway, seeing that they had +made a rhyme, they gave a cheer shriller and longer than all the others +put together, and went clattering down the stairway, singing at the top +of their lungs:</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +Hurrah for the Queen, and the pie and the ale!<br /> +Hurrah for the peacock, hurrah for his tail!<br /> +Hurrah for hurrah, and hurrah again—<br /> +We’re going to court on Christmas day<br /> + To sing before the Queen!”<br /> +</div> + +<p>“Good lads, good lads!” said the old precentor to himself, as he turned +back into his little room. His eyes were shining proudly in the +candle-light, yet the tears were running down his cheeks. A queer old +man, Nat Gyles, and dead this many a long, long year; yet that night no +man was happier than he.</p> + +<p>But Master Gaston Carew, who had come for Nick, stood in the gathering +dusk by the gate below, and stared up at the yellow square of light with +a troubled look upon his reckless face.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVII"></a>CHAPTER XXVII<br /> +<span class='ph3'>THE QUEEN’S PLAISANCE<br /></span></h2> + +<p>It was a frosty morning when they all marched down to the boats that +bumped along Paul’s wharf.</p> + +<p>The roofs of London were white with frost and rosy with the dawn. In the +shadow of the walls the air lay in still pools of smoky blue; and in the +east the horizon stretched like a swamp of fire. The winking lights on +London Bridge were pale. The bridge itself stood cold and gray, +mysterious and dim as the stream below, but here and there along its +crest red-hot with a touch of flame from the burning eastern sky. Out of +the river, running inland with the tide, came steamy shreds that drifted +here and there. Then over the roofs of London town the sun sprang up +like a thing of life, and the veil of twilight vanished in bright day +with a million sparkles rippling on the stream.</p> + +<p>Warm with piping roast and cordial, keen with excitement, and blithe +with the sharp, fresh air, the red-cheeked lads skipped and chattered +along the landing like a flock of sparrows alighted by chance in a land +of crumbs.</p> + +<p>“Into the wherries, every one!” cried the old precentor. <i>“Ad unum +omnes</i>, great and small!”</p> + +<p>“Into the wherries!” echoed the under-masters.</p> + +<p>“Into the wherries, my bullies!” roared old Brueton the boatman, fending +off with a rusty hook as red as his bristling beard. “Into the wherries, +yarely all, and we’s catch the turn o’ the tide! ’Tis gone high +water now!”</p> + +<p>Then away they went, three wherries full, and Master Gyles behind them +in a brisk sixpenny tilt-boat, resplendent in new ash-colored hose, a +cloak of black velvet fringed with gold, and a brand-new periwig curled +and frizzed like a brush-heap in a gale of wind.</p> + +<p>How they had worked for the last few days! New songs, new dances, new +lines to learn; gallant compliments for the Queen, who was as fond of +flattery as a girl; new clothes, new slippers and caps to try, and a +thousand what-nots more. The school had hummed like a busy mill from +morning until night. And now that the grinding was done and they had +come at last to their reward,—the hoped-for summons to the court, which +had been sought so long in vain,—the boys of St. Paul’s bubbled with +glee until the under-masters were in a cold sweat for fear their +precious charges would pop from the wherries into the Thames, like so +many exuberant corks.</p> + +<p>They cheered with delight as London Bridge was shot and the boats went +flying down the Pool, past Billingsgate and the oystermen, the White +Tower and the Traitors’ Gate, past the shipping, where brown, +foreign-looking faces stared at them above sea-battered bulwarks.</p> + +<p>The sun was bright and the wind was keen; the air sparkled, and all the +world was full of life. Hammers beat in the builders’ yards; wild +bargees sang hoarsely as they drifted down to the Isle of Dogs; and in +slow ships that crept away to catch the wind in the open stream below, +with tawny sails drooping and rimmed with frost, they heard the hail of +salty mariners.</p> + +<p>The tide ran strong, and the steady oars carried them swiftly down. +London passed; then solitary hamlets here and there; then dun fields +running to the river’s edge like thirsty deer.</p> + +<p>In Deptford Reach some lords who were coming down by water passed them, +racing with a little Dutch boat from Deptford to the turn. Their boats +had holly-bushes at their prows and holiday garlands along their sides. +They were all shouting gaily, and the stream was bright with their +scarlet cloaks, Lincoln-green jerkins, and gold embroidery. But they +were very badly beaten, at which they laughed, and threw the Dutchmen a +handful of silver pennies. Thereupon the Dutchmen stood up in their boat +and bowed like jointed ninepins; and the lords, not to be outdone, stood +up likewise in their boats and bowed very low in return, with their +hands upon their breasts. Then everybody on the river laughed, and the +boys gave three cheers for the merry lords and three more for the sturdy +Dutchmen. The Dutchmen shouted back, “Goot Yule!” and bowed and bowed +until their boat turned round and went stern foremost down the stream, +so that they were bowing to the opposite bank, where no one was at all. +At this the rest all laughed again till their sides ached, and cheered +them twice as much as they had before.</p> + +<p>And while they were cheering and waving their caps, the boatmen rested +upon their oars and let the boats swing with the tide, which thereabout +set strong against the shore, and a trumpeter in the Earl of Arundel’s +barge stood up and blew upon a long horn bound with a banner of blue +and gold.</p> + +<p>Instantly he had blown, another trumpet answered from the south, and +when Nick turned, the shore was gay with men in brilliant livery. Beyond +was a wood of chestnut-trees as blue and leafless as a grove of spears; +and in the plain between the river and the wood stood a great palace of +gray stone, with turrets, pinnacles, and battlemented walls, over the +topmost tower of which a broad flag, blazoned with golden lions and +silver lilies square for square, whipped the winter wind. Amid a group +of towers large and small a lofty stack poured out a plume of sea-coal +smoke against the milky sky, and on the countless windows in the wall +the sunlight flashed with dazzling radiance.</p> + +<p>There were people on the battlements, and at the port between two towers +where the Queen went in and out the press was so thick that men’s heads +looked like the cobbles in the street.</p> + +<p>The shore was stayed with piling and with timbers like a wharf, so that +a hundred boats might lie there cheek by jowl and scarcely rub their +paint. The lords made way, and the children players came ashore through +an aisle of uplifted oars. They were met by the yeomen of the guard, +tall, brawny fellows clad in red, with golden roses on their breasts and +backs, and with them marched up to the postern two and two, Master Gyles +the last of all, as haughty as a Spanish don come courting fair +Queen Bess.</p> + +<p>A smoking dinner was waiting them, of whitebait with red pepper, and a +yellow juice so sour that Nick’s mouth drew up in a knot; but it was +very good. There were besides, silver dishes full of sugared red +currants, and heaps of comfits and sweetmeats, which Master Gyles would +not allow them even to touch, and saffron cakes with raisins in them, +and spiced hot cordial out of tiny silver cups. Bareheaded pages clad in +silk and silver lace waited upon them as if they were fledgling kings; +but the boys were too hungry to care for that or to try to put on airs, +and waded into the meat and drink as if they had been starved for a +fortnight.</p> + +<p>But when they were done Nick saw that the table off which they had eaten +was inlaid with pearl and silver filigree, and that the table-cloth was +of silk with woven metal-work and gems set in it worth more than a +thousand crowns. He was very glad he had eaten first, for such wonderful +service would have taken away his appetite.</p> + +<p>And truly a wonderful palace was the Queen’s Plaisance, as Greenwich +House was called. Elizabeth was born in it, and so loved it most of all. +There she pleased oftenest to receive and grant audiences to envoys from +foreign courts. And there, on that account, as was always her proud, +jealous way, she made a blinding show of glory and of wealth, of +science, art, and power, that England, to the eyes which saw her there, +might stand in second place to no dominion in the world, however rich +or great.</p> + +<p>It was a very house of gold.</p> + +<p>Over the door where the lads marched in was the Queen’s device, a golden +rose, with a motto set below in letters of gold, “Dieu et mon droit”; +and upon the walls were blazoned coats of noble arms on branching golden +trees, of purest metal and finest silk, costly beyond compare. The royal +presence-chamber shone with tapestries of gold, of silver, and of +oriental silks, of as many shifting colors as the birds of paradise, and +wrought in exquisite design, The throne was set with diamonds, with +rubies, garnets, and sapphires, glittering like a pastry-crust of stars, +and garnished with gold-lace work, pearls, and ornament; and under the +velvet canopy which hung above the throne was embroidered in +seed-pearls, “Vivat Regina Elizabetha!” There was no door without a +gorgeous usher, no room without a page, no corridor without a guard, no +post without a man of noble birth to fill it.</p> + +<p>On the walls of the great gallery were masterly paintings of great folk, +globes showing all the stars fast in the sky, and drawings of the world +and all its parts, so real that one could see the savages in the New +World hanging to the under side by their feet, like flies upon the +ceiling. How they stuck was more than Nick could make out; and where +they landed if they chanced to slip and fall troubled him a deal, until +in the sheer multiplication of wonders he could not wonder any more.</p> + +<p>When they came to rehearse in the afternoon the stage was hung with +stiff, rich silks that had come in costly cedar chests from the looms of +old Cathay; and the curtain behind which the players came and went was +broidered with gold thread in flowers and birds like meteors for +splendor. The gallery, too, where the musicians sat, was draped with +silk and damask.</p> + +<p>Some of the lads would have made out by their great airs as if this were +all a common thing to them; but Nick stared honestly with round eyes, +and went about with cautious feet, chary of touching things, and feeling +very much out of place and shy.</p> + +<p>It was all too grand, too wonderful,—amazing to look upon, no doubt, +and good to outface foreign envy with, but not to be endured every day +nor lived with comfortably. And as the day went by, each passing moment +with new marvels, Nick grew more and more uneasy for some simple little +nook where he might just sit down and be quiet for a while, as one could +do at home, without fine pages peering at him from the screens, or +splendid guards patrolling at his heels wherever he went, or obsequious +ushers bowing to the floor at every turn, and asking him what he might +be pleased to wish. And by the time night fell and the attendant came to +light them to their beds, he felt like a fly on the rim of a wheel that +went so fast he could scarcely get his breath or see what passed him by, +yet of which he durst not let go.</p> + +<p>The palace was much too much for him.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVIII"></a>CHAPTER XXVIII<br /> +<span class='ph3'>CHRISTMAS WITH QUEEN BESS<br /></span></h2> + +<p>Christmas morning came and went as if on swallow-wings, in a gale of +royal merriment. Four hundred sat to dinner that day in Greenwich halls, +and all the palace streamed with banners and green garlands.</p> + +<p>Within the courtyard two hundred horses neighed and stamped around a +water-fountain playing in a bowl of ice and evergreen. Grooms and pages, +hostlers and dames, went hurry-scurrying to and fro; cooks, bakers, and +scullions steamed about, leaving hot, mouth-watering streaks of +fragrance in the air; bluff men-at-arms went whistling here and there; +and serving-maids with rosy cheeks ran breathlessly up and down the +winding stairways.</p> + +<p>The palace stirred like a mighty pot that boils to its utmost verge, for +the hour of the revelries was come.</p> + +<p>Over the beech-wood and far across the black heath where Jack Cade +marshaled the men of Kent, the wind trembled with the boom of the castle +bell. Within the walls of the palace its clang was muffled by a sound of +voices that rose and fell like the wind upon the sea.</p> + +<p>The ambassadors of Venice and France were there, with their courtly +trains. The Lord High Constable of England was come to sit below the +Queen. The earls, too, of Southampton, Montgomery, Pembroke, and +Huntington were there; and William Cecil, Lord Burleigh, the Queen’s +High Treasurer, to smooth his care-lined forehead with a Yuletide jest.</p> + +<p>Up from the entry ports came shouts of “Room! room! room for my Lord +Strange! Room for the Duke of Devonshire!” and about the outer gates +there was a tumult like the cheering of a great crowd.</p> + +<p>The palace corridors were lined with guards. Gentlemen pensioners under +arms went flashing to and fro. Now and then through the inner throng +some handsome page with wind-blown hair and rainbow-colored cloak pushed +to the great door, calling: “Way, sirs, way for my Lord—way for my Lady +of Alderstone!” and one by one, or in blithe groups, the courtiers, clad +in silks and satins, velvets, jewels, and lace of gold, came up through +the lofty folding-doors to their places in the hall.</p> + +<p>There, where the Usher of the Black Rod stood, and the gentlemen of the +chamber came and went with golden chains about their necks, was bowing +and scraping without stint, and reverent civility; for men that were +wise and noble were passing by, men that were handsome and brave; and +ladies sweet as a summer day, and as fair to see as spring, laughed by +their sides and chatted behind their fans, or daintily nibbled comfits, +lacking anything to say.</p> + +<p>The windows were all curtained in, making a night-time in midday; and +from the walls and galleries flaring links and great bouquets of candles +threw an eddying flood of yellow light across the stirring scene. From +clump to clump of banner-staves and burnished arms, spiked above the +wainscot, garlands of red-berried holly, spruce, and mistletoe were +twined across the tapestry, till all the room was bound about with a +chain of living green.</p> + +<p>There were sweet odors floating through the air, and hazy threads of +fragrant smoke from perfumes burning in rich braziers; and under foot +was the crisp, clean rustle of new rushes.</p> + +<p>From time to time, above the hum of voices, came the sound of music from +a room beyond—cornets and flutes, fifes, lutes, and harps, with an +organ exquisitely played, and voices singing to it; and from behind the +players’ curtain, swaying slowly on its rings at the back of the stage, +came a murmur of whispering childish voices, now high in eager +questioning, now low, rehearsing some doubtful fragment of a song.</p> + +<p>Behind the curtain it was dark—not total darkness, but twilight; for a +dull glow came down overhead from the lights in the hall without, and +faint yellow bars went up and down the dusk from crevices in the screen. +The boys stood here and there in nervous groups. Now and then a sharp +complaint was heard from the tire-woman when an impatient lad would not +stand still to be dressed.</p> + +<p>Master Gyles went to and fro, twisting the manuscript of the Revel in +his hands, or pausing kindly to pat some faltering lad upon the back. +Nick and Colley were peeping by turns through a hole in the screen at +the throng in the audience-chamber.</p> + +<p>They could see a confusion of fans, jewels, and faces, and now and again +could hear a burst of subdued laughter over the steadily increasing buzz +of voices. Then from the gallery above, all at once there came a murmur +of instruments tuning together; a voice in the corridor was heard +calling, “Way here, way here!” in masterful tones; the tall +folding-doors at the side of the hall swung wide, and eight dapper pages +in white and gold came in with the Master of Revels. After them came +fifty ladies and noblemen clad in white and gold, and a guard of +gentlemen pensioners with glittering halberds.</p> + +<p>There was a sharp rustle. Every head in the audience-chamber louted low. +Nick’s heart gave a jump—for the Queen was there!</p> + +<p>She came with an air that was at once serious and royal, bearing herself +haughtily, yet with a certain grace and sprightliness that became her +very well. She was quite tall and well made, and her quickly changing +face was long and fair, though wrinkled and no longer young. Her +complexion was clear and of an olive hue; her nose was a little hooked; +her firm lips were thin; and her small black eyes, though keen and +bright, were pleasant and merry withal. Her hair was a coppery, tawny +red, and false, moreover. In her ears hung two great pearls; and there +was a fine small crown studded with diamonds upon her head, beside a +necklace of exceeding fine gold and jewels about her neck. She was +attired in a white silk gown bordered with pearls the size of beans, and +over it wore a mantle of black silk, cunningly shot with silver threads. +Her ruff was vast, her farthingale vaster; and her train, which was very +long, was borne by a marchioness who made more ado about it than +Elizabeth did of ruling her realm.</p> + +<p>“The Queen!” gasped Colley.</p> + +<p>“Dost think I did na know it?” answered Nick, his heart beginning to +beat tattoo as he stared through the peep-hole in the screen.</p> + +<p>He saw the great folk bowing like a gardenful of flowers in a storm, and +in its midst Elizabeth erect, speaking to those about her in a lively +and good-humored way, and addressing all the foreigners according to +their tongue—in French, Italian, Spanish, Dutch; but hers was funny +Dutch, and while she spoke she smiled and made a joke upon it in Latin, +at which they all laughed heartily, whether they understood what it +meant or not. Then, with her ladies in waiting, she passed to a dais +near the stage, and stood a moment, stately, fair, and proud, while all +her nobles made obeisance, then sat and gave a signal for the players +to begin.</p> + +<p>“Rafe Fullerton!” the prompter whispered shrilly; and out from behind +the screen slipped Rafe, the smallest of them all, and down the stage to +speak the foreword of the piece. He was frightened, and his voice shook +as he spoke, but every one was smiling, so he took new heart.</p> + +<p>“It is a masque of Summer-time and Spring,” said he, “wherein both +claim to be best-loved, and have their say of wit and humor, and each +her part of songs and dances suited to her time, the sprightly galliard +and the nimble jig for Spring, the slow pavone, the stately peacock +dance, for Summer-time. And win who may, fair Summer-time or merry +Spring, the winner is but that beside our Queen!”—with which he snapped +his fingers in the faces of them all—“God save Queen Bess!”</p> + +<p>At that the Queen’s eyes twinkled, and she nodded, highly pleased, so +that every one clapped mightily.</p> + +<p>The play soon ran its course amid great laughter and applause. Spring +won. The English ever loved her best, and the quick-paced galliard took +their fancy, too. “Up and be doing!” was its tune, and it gave one a +chance to cut fine capers with his heels.</p> + +<p>Then the stage stood empty and the music stopped.</p> + +<p>At this strange end a whisper of surprise ran through the hall. The +Queen tapped with the inner side of her rings upon the broad arm of her +chair. From the look on her face she was whetting her tongue. But before +she could speak, Nick and Colley, dressed as a farmer boy and girl, with +a garland of house-grown flowers about them, came down the stage from +the arras, hand in hand, bowing.</p> + +<p>The audience-chamber grew very still—<i>this</i> was something new. Nick +felt a swallowing in his throat, and Colley’s hand winced in his grip. +There was no sound but a silky rustling in the room.</p> + +<p>Then suddenly the boys behind the players’ curtain laughed together, +not loud, but such a jolly little laugh that all the people smiled to +hear it. After the laughter came a hush.</p> + +<p>Then the pipes overhead made a merry sound as of shepherds piping on +oaten straws in new grass where there are daisies; and there was a +little elfish laughter of clarionets, and a fluttering among the cool +flutes like spring wind blowing through crisp young leaves in April. The +harps began to pulse and throb with a soft cadence like raindrops +falling into a clear pool where brown leaves lie upon the bottom and +bubbles float above green stones and smooth white pebbles. Nick lifted +up his head and sang.</p> + +<p>It was a happy little song of the coming and the triumph of the spring. +The words were all forgotten long ago. They were not much: enough to +serve the turn, no more; but the notes to which they went were like barn +swallows twittering under the eaves, goldfinches clinking in purple +weeds beside old roads, and robins singing in common gardens at dawn. +And wherever Nick’s voice ran Colley’s followed, the pipes laughing +after them a note or two below; while the flutes kept gurgling softly to +themselves as a hill brook gurgles through the woods, and the harps ran +gently up and down like rain among the daffodils. One voice called, the +other answered; there were echo-like refrains; and as they sang Nick’s +heart grew full. He cared not a stiver for the crowd, the golden palace, +or the great folk there—the Queen no more—he only listened for +Colley’s voice coming up lovingly after his own and running away when he +followed it down, like a lad and a lass through the bloom of the May. +And Colley was singing as if his heart would leap out of his round mouth +for joy to follow after the song they sung, till they came to the end +and the skylark’s song.</p> + +<p>There Colley ceased, and Nick went singing on alone, forgetting, caring +for, heeding nought but the song that was in his throat.</p> + +<p>The Queen’s fan dropped from her hand upon the floor. No one saw it or +picked it up. The Venetian ambassador scarcely breathed.</p> + +<p>Nick came down the stage, his hands before him, lifted as if he saw the +very lark he followed with his song, up, up, up into the sun. His cheeks +were flushed and his eyes were wet, though his voice was a song and a +laugh in one.</p> + +<p>Then they were gone behind the curtain, into the shadow and the twilight +there, Colley with his arms about Nick’s neck, not quite laughing, not +quite sobbing. The manuscript of the Revel lay torn in two upon the +floor, and Master Gyles had a foot upon each piece.</p> + +<p>In the hall beyond the curtain was a silence that was deeper than a +hush, a stillness rising from the hearts of men.</p> + +<p>Then Elizabeth turned in the chair where she sat. Her eyes were as +bright as a blaze. And out of the sides of her eyes she looked at the +Venetian ambassador. He was sitting far out on the edge of his chair, +and his lips had fallen apart. She laughed to herself. “It is a good +song, signor,” said she, and those about her started at the sound of her +voice. “<i>Chi tace confessa—</i>it is so! There are no songs like English +songs—there is no spring like an English spring—there is no land like +England, <i>my</i> England!” She clapped her hands. “I will speak with those +lads,” said she.</p> + +<p>Straightway certain pages ran through the press and came behind the +curtain where Nick and Colley stood together, still trembling with the +music not yet gone out of them, and brought them through the hall to +where the Queen sat, every one whispering, “Look!” as they passed.</p> + +<p>On the dais they knelt together, bowing, side by side. Elizabeth, with a +kindly smile, leaning a little forward, raised them with her slender +hand. “Stand, dear lads,” said she, heartily. “Be lifted up by thine own +singing, as our hearts have been uplifted by thy song. And name me the +price of that same song—’twas sweeter than the sweetest song we ever +heard before.”</p> + +<p>“Or ever shall hear again,” said the Venetian ambassador, under his +breath, rubbing his forehead as if just wakening out of a dream.</p> + +<p>“Come,” said Elizabeth, tapping Colley’s cheek with her fan, “what wilt +thou have of me, fair maid?”</p> + +<p>Colley turned red, then very pale. “That I may stay in the palace +forever and sing for your Majesty,” said he. His fingers shivered +in Nick’s.</p> + +<p>“Now that is right prettily asked,” she cried, and was well pleased. +“Thou shalt indeed stay for a singing page in our household—a voice and +a face like thine are merry things upon a rainy Monday. And thou, Master +Lark,” said she, fanning the hair back from Nick’s forehead with her +perfumed fan—“thou that comest up out of the field with a song like the +angels sing—what wilt thou have: that thou mayst sing in our choir and +play on the lute for us?”</p> + +<p>Nick looked up at the torches on the wall, drawing a deep, long breath. +When he looked down again his eyes were dazzled and he could not see +the Queen.</p> + +<p>“What wilt thou have?” he heard her ask.</p> + +<p>“Let me go home,” said he.</p> + +<p>There were red and green spots in the air. He tried to count them, since +he could see nothing else, and everything was very still; but they all +ran into one purple spot which came and went like a firefly’s glow, and +in the middle of the purple spot he saw the Queen’s face coming +and going.</p> + +<p>“Surely, boy, that is an ill-considered speech,” said she, “or thou dost +deem us very poor, or most exceeding stingy!” Nick hung his head, for +the walls seemed tapestried with staring eyes. “Or else this home of +thine must be a very famous place.”</p> + +<p>The maids of honour tittered. Further off somebody laughed. Nick looked +up, and squared his shoulders.</p> + +<p>They had rubbed the cat the wrong way.</p> + +<p>It is hard to be a stranger in a palace, young, country-bred, and +laughed at all at once; but down in Nick Attwood’s heart was a stubborn +streak that all the flattery on earth could not cajole nor ridicule +efface. He might be simple, shy, and slow, but what he loved he loved: +that much he knew; and when they laughed at him for loving home they +seemed to mock not him, but home—and <i>that</i> touched the fighting-spot.</p> + +<p>“I would rather be there than here,” said he.</p> + +<p>The Queen’s face flushed. “Thou art more curt than courteous,” said she. +“Is it not good enough for thee here?”</p> + +<p>“I could na live in such a place.”</p> + +<p>The Queen’s eyes snapped. “In such a place? Marry, art thou so choice? +These others find no fault with the life.”</p> + +<p>“Then they be born to it,” said Nick, “or they could abide no more than +I—they would na fit.”</p> + +<p>“Haw, haw!” said the Lord High Constable.</p> + +<p>The Queen shot one quick glance at him. “Old pegs have been made to fit +new holes before to-day,” said she; “and the trick can be done again.” +The Constable smothered the rest of that laugh in his hand, “But come, +boy, speak up; what hath put thee so out of conceit with our +best-beloved palace?”</p> + +<p>“There is na one thing likes me here. I can na bide in a place so fine, +for there’s not so much as a corner in it feels like home. I could na +sleep in the bed last night.”</p> + +<p>“What, how? We commanded good beds!” exclaimed Elizabeth, angrily, for +the Venetian ambassador was smiling in his beard. “This shall be +seen to.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, it <i>was</i> a good bed—a very good bed indeed, your Majesty!” cried +Nick. “But the mattress puffed up like a cloud in a bag, and almost +smothered me; and it was so soft and so hot that it gave me a fever.”</p> + +<p>Elizabeth leaned back in her chair and laughed. The Lord High Constable +hastily finished the laugh that he had hidden in his hand. Everybody +laughed. “Upon my word,” said the Queen, “it is an odd skylark cannot +sleep in feathers! What didst thou do, forsooth?”</p> + +<p>“I slept in the coverlid on the floor,” said Nick. “It was na hurt,—I +dusted the place well,—and I slept like a top.”</p> + +<p>“Now verily,” laughed Elizabeth, “if it be floors that thou dost desire, +we have acres to spare—thou shalt have thy pick of the lot. Come, we +are ill used to begging people to be favored—thou’lt stay?”</p> + +<p>Nick shook his head.</p> + +<p>“<i>Ma foi!”</i> exclaimed the Queen, “it is a queer fancy makes a face at +such a pleasant dwelling! What is it sticks in thy throat?”</p> + +<p>Nick stood silent. What was there to say? If he came here he never would +see Stratford town again; and <i>this</i> was no abiding-place for him. They +would not even let him go to the fountain himself to draw water with +which to wash, but fetched it, three at a time, in a silver ewer and a +copper basin with towels and a flask of perfume.</p> + +<p>Elizabeth was tapping with her fan. “Thou art be-dazzled like,” she +said. “Think twice—preferment does not gooseberry on the hedge-row +every day; and this is a rare chance which hangs ripening on thy tongue. +Consider well. Come, thou wilt accept?”</p> + +<p>Nick slowly shook his head.</p> + +<p>“Go then, if thou wilt go!” said she; and as she spoke she shrugged her +shoulders, illy pleased, and turning toward Colley, took him by the hand +and drew him closer to her, smiling at his guise. “Thy comrade hath +more wit.”</p> + +<p>“He hath no mother,” Nick said quietly, loosing his hold at last on +Colley’s hand. “I would rather have my mother than his wit.”</p> + +<p>Elizabeth turned sharply back. Her keen eyes were sparkling, yet soft.</p> + +<p>“Thou art no fool,” said she.</p> + +<p>A little murmur ran through the room.</p> + +<p>She sat a moment, silent, studying his face. “Or if thou art, upon my +word I like the breed. It is a stubborn, froward dog; but Hold-fast is +his name. Ay, sirs,” she said, and sat up very straight, looking into +the faces of her court, “Brag is a good dog, but Hold-fast is better. A +lad who loves his mother thus makes a man who loveth his native +land—and it’s no bad streak in the blood. Master Skylark, thou shalt +have thy wish; to London thou shalt go this very night.”</p> + +<p>“I do na live in London,” Nick began.</p> + +<p>“What matters the place?” said she. “Live wheresoever thine heart doth +please. It is enough—so. Thou mayst kiss our hand.” She held her hand +out, bright with jewels. He knelt and kissed it as if it were all a +doing in a dream, or in some unlikely story he had read. But a long +while after he could smell the perfume from her slender fingers on +his lips.</p> + +<p>Then a page standing by him touched his arm as he arose, and bowing +backward from the throne, came with him to the curtain and the rest. Old +Master Gyles was standing there apart. It was too dark to see his face, +but he laid his hand upon Nick’s head.</p> + +<p>“Thy cake is burned to a coal,” said he.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIX"></a>CHAPTER XXIX<br /> +<span class='ph3'>BACK TO GASTON CAREW<br /></span></h2> + +<p>So they marched back out of the palace gates, down to the landing-place, +the last red sunlight gleaming on the basinets of the tall halberdiers +who marched on either side.</p> + +<p>Nick looked out toward London, where the river lay like a serpent, +bristling with masts; and beyond the river and the town to the forests +of Epping and Hainault; and beyond the forests to the hills, where the +waning day still lingered in a mist of frosty blue. At their back, +midway of the Queen’s park, stood up the old square tower Mirefleur, and +on its top one yellow light like the flame of a gigantic candle. The day +seemed builded of memories strange and untrue.</p> + +<p>A belated gull flapped by them heavily, and the red sun went down. +England was growing lonely. A great barge laden with straw came out of +the dusk, and was gone without a sound, its ghostly sail drawing in a +wind that the wherry sat too low to feel. Nick held his breath as the +barge went by: it was unreal, fantastical.</p> + +<p>Then the river dropped between its banks, and the woods and the hills +were gone. The tide ran heavily against the shore, and the wake of the +wherry broke the floating stars into cold white streaks and zigzag +ripplings of raveled light that ran unsteadily after them. The craft at +anchor in the Pool had swung about upon the flow, and pointed down to +Greenwich. A hush had fallen upon the never-ending bustle of the town; +and the air was full of a gray, uncanny afterglow which seemed to come +up out of the water, for the sky was grown quite dark.</p> + +<p>They were all wrapped in their boat-cloaks, tired and silent. Now and +then Nick dipped his fingers into the cold water over the gunwale.</p> + +<p>This was the end of the glory.</p> + +<p>He wished the boat would go a little faster. Yet when they came to the +landing he was sorry.</p> + +<p>The man-at-arms who went with him to Master Carew’s house was one of the +Earl of Arundel’s men, in a stiff-wadded jacket of heron-blue, with the +earls colors richly worked upon its back and his badge upon the sleeves. +Prowlers gave way before him in the streets, for he was broad and tall +and mighty, and the fear of any man was not in the look of his eye.</p> + +<p>As they came up the slow hill, Nick sighed, for the long-legged +man-at-arms walked fast. “What, there!” said he, and clapped Nick on the +shoulder with his bony hand; “art far spent, lad? Why, marry, get thee +upon my back. I’ll jog thee home in the shake of a black sheep’s tail.”</p> + +<p>So Nick rode home upon the back of the Earl of Arundel’s man-at-arms; +and that, too, seemed a dream like all the rest.</p> + +<p>When they came to Master Carew’s house the street was dark, and Nick’s +foot was asleep. He stamped it, tingling, upon the step, and the empty +passage echoed with the sound. Then the earl’s man beat the door with +the pommel of his dagger-hilt, and stood with his hands upon his hips, +carelessly whistling a little tune.</p> + +<p>Nick heard a sound of some one coming through the hall, and felt that at +last the day was done. A tired wonder wakened in his heart at how so +much had come to pass in such a little while; yet more he wondered why +it had ever come to pass at all. And what was the worth of it, anyway, +now it was over and gone?</p> + +<p>Then the door opened, and he went in.</p> + +<p>Master Gaston Carew himself had come to the door, walking quickly +through the hallway, with a queer, nervous twitching in his face. But +when he made out through the dusk that it was Nick, he seemed in no wise +moved, and said quite simply, as he gave the man-at-arms a penny: “Oh, +is it thou? Why, we have heard somewhat of thee; and upon my word I +thought, since thou wert grown so great, thou wouldst come home in a +coach-and-four, all blowing horns!”</p> + +<p>Nevertheless he drew Nick quickly in, and kissed him thrice; and after +he had kissed him kept fast hold of his hand until they came together +through the hall into the great room where Cicely was sitting quite +dismally in the chimney-seat alone.</p> + +<p class='ctr'><a name="illus0356"></a> +<a href="images/illus0356.jpg"> +<img src="images/illus0356.jpg" width = "50%" alt="" /> +</a><br /> +<b>“SO NICK RODE HOME UPON THE BACK OF THE EARL OF ARUNDEL’S +MAN-AT-ARMS.”</b> +<br /></p> + +<p>“There, Nick,” said he; “tell her thyself that thou hast come back. She +thought she had lost thee for good and all, and hath sung, ‘Hey ho, my +heart is full of woe!’ the whole twilight, and would not be comforted. +Come, Cicely, doff thy doleful willow—the proverb lies. ‘Out of sight, +out of mind’—fudge! the boy’s come back again! A plague take +proverbs, anyway!”</p> + +<p>But when the children were both long since abed, and all the house was +still save for the scamper of rats in the wall, the heavy door of Nick’s +room opened stealthily, with a little grating upon the uneven sill, and +Master Carew stood there, peeping in, his hand upon the bolt outside.</p> + +<p>He held a rush-light in the other. Its glimmer fell across the bed upon +Nick’s tousled hair; and when the master-player saw the boy’s head upon +the pillow he started eagerly, with brightening eyes. “My soul!” he +whispered to himself, a little quaver in his tone, “I would have sworn +my own desire lied to me, and that he had not come at all! It cannot +be—yet, verily, I am not blind. <i>Ma foil</i> it passeth understanding—a +freed skylark come back to its cage! I thought we had lost him forever.”</p> + +<p>Nick stirred in his sleep. Carew set the light on the floor. “Thou +fool!” said he, and he fumbled at his pouch; “thou dear-beloved little +fool! To catch the skirts of glory in thine hand, and tread the heels of +happy chance, and yet come back again to ill-starred twilight—and to +me! Ai, lad, I would thou wert my son—mine own, own son; yet Heaven +spare thee father such as I! For, Nick, I love thee. Yet thou dost hate +me like a poison thing. And still I love thee, on my word, and on the +remnant of mine honour!” His voice was husky. “Let thee go?—send thee +back?—eat my sweet and have it too?—how? Nay, nay; thy happy cake +would be my dough—it will not serve.” He shook his head, and looked +about to see that all was fast. “Yet, Nick, I say I love thee, on +my soul!”</p> + +<p>Slipping to the bedside with stealthy step, he laid a fat little Banbury +cheese and some brown sweet cakes beside Nick’s pillow; then came out +hurriedly and barred the door.</p> + +<p>The fire in the great hall had gone out, and the room was growing cold. +The table stood by the chimney-side, where supper had been laid, Carew +brought a napkin from the linen-chest, and spread it upon the board. +Then he went to the server’s screen and looked behind it, and tried the +latches of the doors; and having thus made sure that all was safe, came +back to the table again, and setting the rush-light there, turned the +contents of his purse into the napkin.</p> + +<p>There were both gold and silver. The silver he put back into the purse +again; the gold he counted carefully; and as he counted, laying the +pieces one by one in little heaps upon the cloth, he muttered under his +breath, like a small boy adding up his sums in school, saying over and +over again, “One for me, and one for thee, and two for Cicely Carew. One +for me, and one for thee, and two for Cicely Carew”; and told the coins +off in keeping with the count, so that the last pile was as large as +both the others put together. Then slowly ending, “None for me, and one +for thee, and two for Cicely Carew,” he laid the last three nobles +with the rest.</p> + +<p>Then he arose and stood a moment listening to the silence in the house. +An old he rat that was gnawing a rind on the hearth looked up, and ran a +little nearer to his hole. “Tsst! come back,” said Carew, “I’m no cat!” +and from the sliding panel in the wall took out a buckskin bag tied like +a meal-sack with a string.</p> + +<p>As he slipped the knot the throat of the bag sagged down, and a gold +piece jangled on the floor. Carew started as if all his nerves had +leaped within him at the unexpected sound, and closed the panel like a +flash. Then, setting his foot upon the fallen coin, he stopped its +spinning, and with one hand on his poniard, peering right and left, blew +the candle out.</p> + +<p>A little while he stood and listened in the dark; a little while his +feet went to and fro in the darkness. The wind cried in the chimney. Now +and then the casements shivered. The timbers in the wall creaked with +the cold, and the boards in the stairway cracked. Then the old he rat +came back to his rind, and his mate came out of the crack in the wall, +working her whiskers hungrily and snuffing the smell of the candle-drip; +for there was no sound, and the coast of rat-land was clear.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXX"></a>CHAPTER XXX<br /> +<span class='ph3'>AT THE FALCON INN<br /></span></h2> + +<div class='poetry'> +And then there came both mist and snow,<br /> + And it grew wondrous cold;<br /> +And ice mast-high came floating by,<br /> + As green as emerald.<br /> +</div> + +<p>So says that wonder-ballad of the sea.</p> + +<p>But over London came a gale that made the chimneys rock; and after it +came ice and snow, sharp, stinging sleet, and thumping hail, with +sickening winds from the gray west, sour yellow fogs, and plunging rain, +till all the world was weary of the winter and the cold.</p> + +<p>But winter could not last forever. March crept onward, and the streets +of London came up out of the slush again with a glad surprise of +cobblestones. The sickly mist no longer hung along the river; and +sometimes upon a breezy afternoon it was pleasant and fair, the sun +shone warmly on one’s back, and the rusty sky grew bluer overhead. The +trees in Paris Garden put out buds; the lilac-tips began to swell; there +was a stirring in the roadside grass, and now and then a questing bird +went by upon the wind, piping a little silver thread of song. Nick’s +heart grew hungry for the woods of Arden and the gathering rush of the +waking water-brooks among the old dead leaves. The rain beat in at his +window, but he did not care for that, and kept it open day and night; +for when he wakened in the dark he loved to feel the fingers of the wind +across his face.</p> + +<p>Sometimes the moonlight through the ragged clouds came in upon the +floor, and in the hurry of the wind he almost fancied he could hear the +Avon, bank-full, rushing under the old mill-bridge.</p> + +<p>Then one day there came a shower with a warm south wind, sweet and +healthful and serene; and through the shower, out of the breaking +clouds, a sun-gleam like a path of gold straight down to the heart of +London town; and on the south wind, down that path of gold, came April.</p> + +<p>That night the wind in the chimney fluted a glad, new tune; and when +Nick looked out at his casement the free stars danced before him in the +sky. And when he felt that fluting wind blow warm and cool together on +his cheek, the chimneys mocked him, and the town was hideous.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>It fell upon an April night, when the moon was at its full, that Master +Carew had come to the Falcon Inn, on the Southwark side of the river, +and had brought Nick with him for the air. Master Heywood was along, and +it was very pleasant there.</p> + +<p>The night breeze smelled of green fields, and the inn was thronged with +company. The windows were bright, and the air was full of voices. Tables +had been brought out into the garden and set beneath the arbor toward +the riverside. The vines of the arbor were shooting forth their first +pink-velvet leaves, and in the moonlight their shadows fell like +lacework across the linen cloths, blurred by the glow of the lanterns +hung upon the posts.</p> + +<p>The folds in the linen marked the table-tops with squares like a +checker-board, and Nick stood watching from the tap-room door, as if it +were a game. Not that he cared for any game; but that watching dulled +the teeth of the hunger in his heart to be out of the town and back +among the hills of Warwickshire, now that the spring was there.</p> + +<p>“What, there!—a pot of sack!” cried one gay fellow with a +silver-bordered cloak. “A pot of sack?” cried out another with a feather +like a rose-bush in his cap; “two pots ye mean, my buck!” “Ods-fish my +skin!” bawled out a third—“ods-fish my skin! Two pots of beggarly sack +on a Saturday night and a moon like this? Three pots, say I—and make it +malmsey, at my cost! What, there, knave! the table full of pots—I’ll +pay the score.”</p> + +<p>At that they all began to laugh and to slap one another on the back, and +to pound with their fists upon the board until the pewter tankards +hopped; and when the tapster’s knave came back they were singing at the +top of their lungs, for the spring had gotten into their wits, and they +were beside themselves with merriment.</p> + +<p>Master Tom Heywood had a little table to himself off in a corner, and +was writing busily upon a new play. “A sheet a day,” said he, “doth do +a wonder in a year”; so he was always at it.</p> + +<p>Gaston Carew sat beyond, dicing with a silky rogue who had the coldest, +hardest face that Nick had ever seen. His eyes were black and beady as a +rat’s, and were circled about by a myriad of little crowfoot lines; and +his hooked nose lay across his thin blue lips like a finger across a +slit in a dried pie. His long, slim hands were white as any woman’s; and +his fingers slipped among the laces at his cuffs like a weasel in a +tangle-patch.</p> + +<p>They had been playing for an hour, and the game had gone beyond all +reason. The other players had put aside the dice to watch the two, and +the nook in which their table stood was ringed with curious faces. A +lantern had been hung above, but Carew had had it taken down, as its +bottom made a shadow on the board. Carew’s face was red and white by +turns; but the face of the other had no more color than candle-wax.</p> + +<p>At the end of the arbor some one was strumming upon a gittern. It was +strung in a different key from that in which the men were singing, and +the jangle made Nick feel all puckered up inside. By and by the playing +ceased, and the singers came to the end of their song. In the brief hush +the sharp rattle of the dice sounded like the patter of cold hail +against the shutter in the lull of a winter storm.</p> + +<p>Then there came a great shouting outside, and, looking through the +arbor, Nick saw two couriers on galloway nags come galloping over the +bowling-green to the arbor-side, calling for ale. They drank it in +their saddles, while their panting horses sniffed at the fresh young +grass. Then they galloped on. Through the vines, as he looked after +them, Nick could see the towers of London glittering strangely in the +moonlight. It was nearly high tide, and up from the river came the sound +of women’s voices and laughter, with the pulse-like throb of oars and +the hoarse calling of the watermen.</p> + +<p>In the great room of the inn behind him the gallants were taking their +snuff in little silver ladles, and talking of princesses they had met, +and of whose coach they had ridden home in last from tennis at my +lord’s. Some were eating, some were drinking, and some were puffing at +long clay pipes, while others, by twos, locked arm in arm, went +swaggering up and down the room, with a huge talking of foreign lands +which they had never so much as seen.</p> + +<p>“A murrain on the luck!” cried Carew, suddenly. “Can I throw nothing but +threes and fours?”</p> + +<p>A muffled stir ran round. Nick turned from the glare of the open door, +and looked out into the moonlight. It seemed quite dark at first. The +master-player’s face was bitter white, and his fingers were tapping a +queer staccato upon the table-top.</p> + +<p>“A plague on the bedlam dice!” said he. “I think they are bewitched.”</p> + +<p>“Huff, ruff, and snuff!” the other replied. “Don’t get the +mubble-fubbles, Carew: there’s nought the matter with the dice.”</p> + +<p>A man came down from the tap-room door. Nick stepped aside to let him +pass. He was a player, by his air.</p> + +<p>He wore a riding-cloak of Holland cloth, neither so good nor so bad as a +riding-cloak might be, but under it a handsome jerkin overlaid with +lace, and belted with a buff girdle in which was a light Spanish rapier. +His boots were russet cordovan, mid-thigh tall, and the rowels of his +clinking spurs were silver stars. He was large of frame, and his curly +hair was short and brown; so was his pointed beard. His eyes were +singularly bright and fearless, and bluff self-satisfaction marked his +stride; but his under lip was petulant, and he flicked his boot with his +riding-whip as he shouldered his way along.</p> + +<p>“Ye cannot miss the place, sir,” called the tapster after him. “’Tis +just beyond Ned Alleyn’s, by the ditch. Ye’ll never mistake the ditch, +sir—Billingsgate is roses to it.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I’ll find it fast enough,” the stranger answered; “but he should +have sent to meet me, knowing I might come at any hour. ’Tis a felon +place for thieves; and I’ve not heart to skewer even a goose on such a +night as this.”</p> + +<p>At the sudden breaking of voices upon the silence, Carew looked up, with +a quarrel ripe for picking in his eye. But seeing who spoke, such a +smile came rippling from the corners of his mouth across his dark, +unhappy face that it was as if a lamp of welcome had been lighted there. +“What, Ben!” he cried; “thou here? Why, bless thine heart, old gossip, +’tis good to see an honest face amid this pack of rogues.”</p> + +<p>There was a surly muttering in the crowd. Carew threw his head back +haughtily and set his knuckles to his hip. “A pack of rogues, I say,” he +repeated sharply; “and a fig for the whole pack!” There was a certain +wildness in his eyes. No one stirred or made reply.</p> + +<p>“Good! Gaston,” laughed the stranger, with a shrug; “picking thy company +still, I see, for quantity, and not for quality. No, thank ’e; none of +the tap for me. My Lord Hunsdon was made chamberlain in his father’s +stead to-day, and I’m off hot-foot with the news to Will’s.”</p> + +<p>He gathered his cloak about him, and was gone.</p> + +<p>“Ye’ve lost,” said the man who was dicing with Carew.</p> + +<p>Nick stepped down from the tap-room door. His ears were tingling with +the sound: “I’m off hot-foot with the news to Will’s.”</p> + +<p>“Hot-foot with the news to Will’s”?</p> + +<p>To “Will’s”? “Will” who?</p> + +<p>The man was a player, by his air.</p> + +<p>Nick hurriedly looked around. Carew’s wild eyes were frozen upon the +dice. The bandy-legged man was drinking at a table near the door. The +crimson ribbon in his ear looked like a patch of blood.</p> + +<p>He saw Nick looking at him, and made a horrible face. He would have +sworn likewise, but there was half a quart of ale in his can; so he +turned it up and drank instead. It was a long, long drink, and half his +face was buried in the pot.</p> + +<p>When he put it down the boy was gone.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXI"></a>CHAPTER XXXI<br /> +<span class='ph3'>IN THE TWINKLING OF AN EYE<br /></span></h2> + +<p>In a garden near the old bear-yard, among tall rose-trees which would +soon be in bloom, a merry company of men were sitting around a table +which stood in the angle of a quick-set hedge beside a path graveled +with white stones and bordered with mussel-shells.</p> + +<p>There was a house hard by with creamy-white walls, green-shuttered +windows, and a red-tiled roof. The door of the house was open, showing a +little ruddy fire upon a great hearth, kindled to drive away the damp; +and in the windows facing the garden there were lights shining warmly +out among the rose-trees.</p> + +<p>The table was spread with a red damask cloth, on which were a tray of +raisins and nuts and a small rally of silver cups. Above the table an +apple-tree nodded its new leaves, and from an overhanging bough a +lantern hung glowing like a great yellow bee.</p> + +<p>There was a young fellow with a white apron and a jolly little whisper +of a whistle on his puckered lips going around with a plate of cakes and +a tray of honey-bowls; and the men were eating and drinking and +chatting together so gaily, and seemed to be all such good friends, that +it was a pleasant thing just to see them sitting there in their +comfortable leather-bottomed chairs, taking life easily because the +spring had come again.</p> + +<p>One tall fellow was smoking a pipe. He held the bowl in one hand, and +kept tamping down the loose tobacco with his forefinger. Now and again +he would be so eagerly talking he would forget that his finger was in +the bowl, and it would be burned. He would take it out with a look of +quaint surprise, whereat the rest all roared. Another was a fat, round +man who chuckled constantly to himself, as if this life were all a joke; +and there was a quite severe, important-seeming, oldish man who said, +“Hem—hem!” from time to time, as if about to speak forthwith, yet never +spoke a word. There was also among the rest a raw-boned, lanky fellow +who had bitten the heart out of an oat-cake and held the rim of it in +his fingers like a new moon, waving it around while he talked, until the +little man beside him popped it deftly out of his grasp and ate it +before the other saw where it was gone. But when he made out what was +become of that oat-cake he rose up solemnly, took the little man by the +collar as a huntsman takes a pup, and laid him softly in the grass +without a word.</p> + +<p>What a laughing and going-on was then! It was as if they all were +growing young again. And in the middle of the row a head popped over the +quick-set hedge, and a most stentorian voice called out, “Here, here! Go +slow—I want a piece of that!”</p> + +<p>They all looked up, and the moment they spied that laughing face and +cloak of Holland cloth, raised a shout of “What, there!” “Well met!” +“Come in, Ben.” “Where hast thou tarried so long?” and the like; while +the waiter ran to open the gate and let the stranger in.</p> + +<p>A quiet man with a little chestnut-colored beard and hazel eyes, which +lit up quickly at sight of the stranger over the hedge, arose from his +place by the table and went down the path with hands outstretched to +greet him.</p> + +<p>“Welcome, welcome, hurly-burly Ben,” said he. “We’ve missed thee from +the feast. Art well? And what’s the good word?”</p> + +<p>“Ah, Will, thou gentle rogue!” the other cried, catching the hands of +the quiet man and holding him off while he looked at him there. “How +thou stealest one’s heart with the glance of thine eye! I was going to +give thee a piece of my mind; but a plague, old heart! who could chide +thee to thy face? Am I well? Ay, exceedingly well. And the news? Jove! +the best that was baked at the Queen’s to-day, and straight from the +oven-door! The thing is done—huff, puff, and away we go! But come +on—this needs telling to the rest.”</p> + +<p>They came up the path together, the big man crunching the mussel-shells +beneath his sturdy tread, and so into the circle of yellow light that +came down from the lantern among the apple-leaves, the big man with his +arm around the quiet man’s shoulders, holding his hand; for the quiet +man was not so large as the other, although withal no little man +himself, and very well built and straight.</p> + +<p>His tabard was black, without sleeves, and his doublet was scarlet +silk. His collar and wrist-bands were white Holland linen turned loosely +back, and his face was frank and fair and free. He was not old, but his +hair was thin upon his brow. His nose and his full, high forehead were +as cleanly cut as a finely chiseled stone; and his sensitive mouth had a +curve that was tender and sad, though he smiled all the while, a glimpse +of his white teeth showing through, and his little mustache twitching +with the ripple of his long upper lip. His flowing hair was +chestnut-colored, like his beard, and curly at the ends; and his +melancholy eyelids told of study and of thought; but under them the +kindly eyes were bright with pleasant fancy.</p> + +<p>“What, there, all of you!” said he; “a good investment for your ears!”</p> + +<p>“Out with it, Will!” they cried, and whirled around.</p> + +<p>“The Queen hath made Lord Hunsdon chamberlain,” the big man said.</p> + +<p>An instant’s hush fell on the garden. No one spoke; but they caught each +other by the hand, and, suddenly, the silence there seemed somehow +louder than a shout.</p> + +<p>“We’ll build the new Globe play-house, lads, and sweep the Bankside +clean from end to end!” a sturdy voice broke sharply on the hush. And +then they cheered—a cheer so loud that people on the river stopped +their boats, and came ashore asking where the fire was. And over all the +cheering rose the big man’s voice; for the quiet man was silent, and the +big man cheered for two.</p> + +<p>“Pull up thy rose-bushes, Will,” cried one, “and set out laurels in +their stead—thou’lt need them all for crowns.”</p> + +<p>“Ay, Will, our savor is not gone—Queen Bess knows salt!”</p> + +<p>“With Will and Ben for meat and crust, and the rest of us for seasoning, +the court shall say it never ate such master pie!”</p> + +<p>“We’ll make the walls of Whitehall ring come New Year next, or Twelfth +Night and Shrove Tuesday.”</p> + +<p>“Ay, that we will, old gossip! Here’s to thee!”</p> + +<p>“Here’s to the company, all of us!”</p> + +<p>“And a health to the new Lord Chamberlain!”</p> + +<p>“God save the Queen!”</p> + +<p>With that, they shook each other’s hands, as merry as men could be, and +laughed, because their hearts ran short of words; for these were young +Lord Hunsdon’s men, late players to the Queen in the old Lord +Chamberlain’s troupe; who, for a while deprived of favor by <i>his</i> death, +were now, by this succession of his son, restored to prestige at the +court, and such preferment as none beside them ever won, not even the +Earl of Pembroke’s company.</p> + +<p>There was Kemp, the stout tragedian; gray John Lowin, the walking-man; +Diccon Burbage, and Cuthbert his brother, master-players and managers; +Robin Armin, the humorsome jester; droll Dick Tarlton, the king of +fools. There was Blount, and Pope, and Hemynge, and Thomas Greene, and +Joey Taylor, the acting-boy, deep in the heart of a honey-bowl, yet who +one day was to play “Hamlet” as no man ever has played it since. And +there were others, whose names and doings have vanished with them; and +beside these—“What, merry hearts!” the big man cried, and clapped his +neighbor on the back; “we’ll have a supper at the Mermaid Inn. We’ll +feast on reason, reason on the feast, toast the company with wit, and +company the wit with toast—why, pshaw, we are good fellows all!” He +laughed, and they laughed with him. <i>That</i> was “rare Ben Jonson’s” way.</p> + +<p>“There’s some one knocking, master,” said the boy.</p> + +<p>A quick tap-tapping rattled on the wicket-gate.</p> + +<p>“Who is it?” asked the quiet man.</p> + +<p>“’Tis Edmund with the news,” cried one.</p> + +<p>“I’ve dished him,” said Ben Jonson.</p> + +<p>“’Tis Condell come to raise our wages,” said Robin Armin, with a grin.</p> + +<p>“Thou’lt raise more hopes than wages, Rob,” said Tarlton, mockingly.</p> + +<p>“It is a boy,” the waiter said, “who saith that he must see thee, +master, on his life.”</p> + +<p>The quiet man arose.</p> + +<p>“Sit down, Will,” said Greene; “he’ll pick thy pocket with a doleful +lie.”</p> + +<p>“There’s nothing in it, Tom, to pick.”</p> + +<p>“Then give him no more than half,” said Armin, soberly, “lest he +squander it!”</p> + +<p>“He saith he comes from Stratford town,” the boy went on.</p> + +<p>“Then tell him to go back again,” said Master Ben Jonson; “we’ve sucked +the sweet from Stratford town—be off with his seedy dregs!”</p> + +<p>“Go bring him in,” said the quiet man.</p> + +<p>“Nay, Will, don’t have him in. This makes the third within the +month—wilt father all the strays from Stratford town? Here, Ned, give +him this shilling, and tell him to be off to his cony-burrow as fast as +his legs can trot.”</p> + +<p>“We’ll see him first,” said the quiet man, stopping the other’s shilling +with his hand.</p> + +<p>“Oh, Willy-nilly!” the big man cried; “wilt be a kite to float all the +draggle-tails that flutter down from Warwickshire?”</p> + +<p>“Why, Ben,” replied the quiet man, “’tis not the kite that floats the +tail, but the wind which floats both kite and tail. Thank God, we’ve +caught the rising wind; so, hey for draggle-tails!—we’ll take up all +we can.”</p> + +<p>The waiter was coming up the path, and by his side, a little back, +bareheaded and flushed with running, came Nicholas Attwood. He had +followed the big man through the fields from the gates of the +Falcon Inn.</p> + +<p>He stopped at the edge of the lantern’s glow and looked around +uncertain, for the light was in his eyes.</p> + +<p>“Come, boy, what is it?” asked Ben Jonson.</p> + +<p>Nick peered through the brightness. “Master Will—Master Will +Shakspere!” he gasped.</p> + +<p>“<i>Well, my lady</i>,” said the quiet man; “<i>what wilt thou have of me</i>?”</p> + +<p>Nick Attwood had come to his fellow-townsman at last.</p> + +<p>Over the hedge where the lantern shone through the green of the +apple-leaves came a sound of voices talking fast, a listening hush, then +a clapping of hands, with mingled cries of “Good boy!” “Right, lad; do +not leave her till thou must!” and at the last, “What! take thee home to +thy mother, lad? Ay, marry, that will I!” And the <i>last</i> was the voice +of the quiet man.</p> + +<p>Then followed laughter and scraps of song, merry talking, and good +cheer, for they all made glad together.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>Across the fields beyond the hedge the pathway ran through Paris Garden, +stark and clear in the white moon-shine, save here and there where the +fog from the marsh crept down to meet the river-mist, and blotted out +the landscape as it went. In the north lay London, stirring like a +troubled sea. In the south was drowsy silence, save for the crowing of +the cocks, and now and then the baying of a hound far off. The smell of +bears was on the air; the river-wind breathed kennels. The Swan +play-house stood up, a great, blue blank against the sky. The sound of +voices was remote. The river made a constant murmur in the murk beyond +the landing-place; the trees moved softly.</p> + +<p>Low in the west, the lights of the Falcon Inn were shrunk to pin-pricks +in the dark. They seemed to wink and to shut their eyes. It was too far +to see the people passing by.</p> + +<p>On a sudden one light winked and did not open any more; and through the +night a faint, far cry came drifting down the river-wind—a long, thin +cry, like the wavering screech of an owl—a shrill, high, ugly sound; +the lights began to wink, wink, wink, to dance, to shift, to gather into +one red star. Out of the darkness came a wisp of something moving in +the path.</p> + +<p>Where the moonlight lay it scudded like the shadow of a windy cloud, now +lost to sight, now seen again. Out of the shadow came a man, with hands +outstretched and cap awry, running as if he were mad. As he ran he +looked from side to side, and turned his head for the keener ear. He was +panting hard.</p> + +<p>When he reached the ditch he paused in fault, ran on a step or two, went +back, stood hesitating there, clenching his hands in the empty wind, +listening; for the mist was grown so thick that he could scarcely see.</p> + +<p>But as he stood there doubtfully, uncertain of the way, catching the +wind in his nervous hands, and turning about in a little space like an +animal in a cage, over the hedge through the apple-boughs a boy’s clear +voice rose suddenly, singing a rollicking tune, with a snapping of +fingers and tapping of feet in time to its merry lilt.</p> + +<p>Then the man in the mist, when he heard that clear, high voice, turned +swiftly to it, crying out, “The Skylark! Zooks! It is the place!” and +ran through the fog to where the lantern glimmered through the hedge. +The light fell in a yellow stream across his face. He was pale as a +ghost. “What, there, within! What, there!” he panted. “Shakspere! +Jonson! Any one!”</p> + +<p>The song stopped short. “Who’s there?” called the voice of the quiet +man.</p> + +<p>“’Tis I, Tom Heywood. There’s to-do for players at the Falcon Inn. +Gaston Carew hath stabbed Fulk Sandells, for cheating at the dice, as +dead as a door-nail, and hath been taken by the watch!”</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXII"></a>CHAPTER XXXII<br /> +<span class='ph3'>THE LAST OF GASTON CAREW<br /></span></h2> + +<p>It was Monday morning, and a beautiful day.</p> + +<p>Master Will Shakspere was reading a new play to Masters Ben Jonson and +Diccon Burbage at the Mermaid Inn.</p> + +<p>Thomas Pope, the player, and Peter Hemynge, the manager, were there with +them at the table under the little window. The play was a comedy of a +wicked money-lender named Shylock; but it was a comedy that made Nick +shudder as he sat on the bench by the door and listened to it through +happy thoughts of going home.</p> + +<p>Sunday had passed like a wondrous dream. He was free. Master Carew was +done for. On Saturday morning Master Will Shakspere would set out on the +journey to Stratford town, for his regular summer visit there; and Nick +was going with him—going to Stratford—going home!</p> + +<p>The comedy-reading went on. Master Burbage, his moving face alive, +leaned forward on his elbows, nodding now and then, and saying, “Fine, +fine!” under his breath. Master Pope was making faces suited to the +words, not knowing that he did so. Nick watched him, fascinated.</p> + +<p>A man came hurrying down Cheapside, and peered in at the open door. It +was Master Dick Jones of the Admiral’s company. He looked worried and as +if he had not slept. His hair was uncombed, and the skin under his eyes +hung in little bags. He squinted so that he might see from the broad +daylight outside into the darker room.</p> + +<p>“Gaston Carew wants to see thee, Skylark,” said he, quickly, seeing Nick +beside the door.</p> + +<p>Nick drew back. It seemed as if the master-player must be lying in wait +outside to catch him if he stirred abroad.</p> + +<p>“He says that he must see thee without fail, and that straightway. He is +in Newgate prison. Wilt come?”</p> + +<p>Nick shook his head.</p> + +<p>“But he says indeed he <i>must</i> see thee. Come, Skylark, I will bring thee +back. I am no kidnapper. Why, it is the last thing he will ever ask of +thee. ’Tis hard to refuse so small a favor to a doomed man.”</p> + +<p>“Thou’lt surely fetch me back?”</p> + +<p>“Here, Master Will Shakspere,” called the Admiral’s player; “I am to +fetch the boy to Carew in Newgate on an urgent matter. My name is +Jones—Dick Jones, of Henslowe’s company. Burbage knows me. I’ll bring +him back.”</p> + +<p>Master Shakspere nodded, reading on; and Burbage waved his hand, +impatient of interruption. Nick arose and went with Jones.</p> + +<p>As they came up Newgate street to the crossing of Giltspur and the Old +Bailey, the black arch of the ancient gate loomed grimly against the +sky, its squinting window-slits peering down like the eyes of an old +ogre. The bell of St. Sepulchre’s was tolling, and there was a crowd +about the door, which opened, letting out a black cart in which was a +priest praying and a man in irons going to be hanged on Tyburn Hill. His +sweating face was ashen gray; and when the cart came to the church door +they gave him mockingly a great bunch of fresh, bright flowers. Nick +could not bear to watch.</p> + +<p>The turnkey at the prison gate was a crop-headed fellow with jowls like +a bulldog, and no more mercy in his face than a chopping-block. “Gaston +Carew, the player?” he growled. “Ye can’t come in without a permit from +the warden.”</p> + +<p>“We must,” said Jones.</p> + +<p>“Must?” said the turnkey. “I am the only one who says ‘must’ in +Newgate!” and slammed the door in their faces.</p> + +<p>The player clinked a shilling on the bar.</p> + +<p>“It was a boy he said would come,” growled the turnkey through the +wicket, pocketing the shilling; “so just the boy goes up. A shilling’s +worth, ye mind, and not another wink.” He drew Nick in, and dropped +the bars.</p> + +<p>It was a foul, dark place, and full of evil smells. Drops of water stood +on the cold stone walls, and a green mould crept along the floor. The +air was heavy and dank, and it began to be hard for Nick to breathe. The +men in the dungeons were singing a horrible song, and in the corner was +a half-naked fellow shackled to the floor. “Give me a penny,” he said, +“or I will curse thee.” Nick shuddered.</p> + +<p>“Up with thee,” said the turnkey, gruffly, unlocking the door to the +stairs.</p> + +<p>The common room above was packed with miserable wretches, fighting, +dancing, gibbering like apes. Some were bawling ribald songs, others +moaning with fever. The strongest kept the window-ledges near light and +air by sheer main force, and were dicing on the dirty sill. The turnkey +pushed and banged his way through them, Nick clinging desperately to +his jerkin.</p> + +<p>In a cell at the end of the corridor there was a Spanish renegade who +cursed the light when the door was opened, and cursed the darkness when +it closed. “Cesare el Moro, Cesare el Moro,” he was saying over and over +again to himself, as if he feared that he might forget his own name.</p> + +<p>Carew was in the middle cell, ironed hand and foot. He had torn his +sleeves and tucked the lace under the rough edges of the metal to keep +it from chafing the skin. He sat on a pile of dirty straw, with his face +in his folded arms upon his knees. By his side was a broken biscuit and +an empty stone jug. He had his fingers in his ears to shut out the +tolling of the knell for the man who had gone to be hanged.</p> + +<p>The turnkey shook the bars. “Here, wake up!” he said.</p> + +<p>Carew looked up. His eyes were swollen, and his face was covered with a +two days’ beard. He had slept in his clothes, and they were full of +broken straw and creases. But his haggard face lit up when he saw the +boy, and he came to the grating with an eager exclamation: “And thou +hast truly come? To the man thou dost hate so bitterly, but wilt not +hate any more. Come, Nick, thou wilt not hate me any more. ’Twill not +be worth thy while, Nick; the night is coming fast.”</p> + +<p>“Why, sir,” said Nick, “it is not so dark outside—’tis scarcely noon; +and thou wilt soon be out.”</p> + +<p>“Out? Ay, on Tyburn Hill,” said the master-player, quietly. “I’ve spent +my whole life for a bit of hempen cord. I’ve taken my last cue. Last +night, at twelve o’clock, I heard the bellman under the prison walls +call my name with the names of those already condemned. The play is +nearly out, Nick, and the people will be going home. It has been a wild +play, Nick, and ill played.”</p> + +<p>“Here, if ye’ve anything to say, be saying it,” said the turnkey. “’Tis +a shilling’s worth, ye mind.”</p> + +<p>Carew lifted up his head in the old haughty way, and clapped his +shackled hand to his hip—they had taken his poniard when he came into +the gaol. A queer look came over his face; taking his hand away, he +wiped it hurriedly upon his jerkin. There were dark stains upon +the silk.</p> + +<p>“Ye sent for me, sir,” said Nick.</p> + +<p>Carew passed his hand across his brow. “Yes, yes, I sent for thee. I +have something to tell thee, Nick.” He hesitated, and looked through the +bars at the boy, as if to read his thoughts. “Thou’lt be good and true +to Cicely—thou’lt deal fairly with my girl? Why, surely, yes.” He +paused again, as if irresolute. “I’ll trust thee, Nick. We’ve taken +money, thou and I; good gold and silver—tsst! what’s that?” He +stopped suddenly.</p> + +<p>Nick heard no sound but the Spaniard’s cursing.</p> + +<p>“’Tis my fancy,” Carew said. “Well, then, we’ve taken much good money, +Nick; and I have not squandered all of it. Hark’e—thou knowest the old +oak wainscot in the dining-hall, and the carven panel by the Spanish +chest? Good, then! Upon the panel is a cherubin, and—tsst! what’s +that, I say?”</p> + +<p>There was a stealthy rustling in the right-hand cell. The fellow in it +had his ear pressed close against the bars. “He is listening,” +said Nick.</p> + +<p>The fellow cursed and shook his fist, and then, when Master Carew +dropped his voice and would have gone on whispering, set up so loud a +howling and clanking of his chains that the lad could not make out one +word the master-player said.</p> + +<p>“Peace, thou dog!” cried Carew, and kicked the grating. But the fellow +only yelled the louder.</p> + +<p>Carew looked sorely troubled. “I dare not let him hear,” said he. “The +very walls of Newgate leak.”</p> + +<p>“<i>Yak, yah, yah, thou gallows-bird!</i>”</p> + +<p>“Yet I must tell thee, Nick.”</p> + +<p>“<i>Yah, yah, dangle-rope!</i>”</p> + +<p>“Stay! would Will Shakspere come? Why, here, I’ll send him word. He’ll +come—Will Shakspere never bore a grudge; and I shall so soon go where +are no grudges, envy, storms, or noise, but silence and the soft lap of +everlasting sleep. He’ll come—Nick, bid him come, upon his life, to +the Old Bailey when I am taken up.”</p> + +<p>Nick nodded. It was strange to have his master beg.</p> + +<p>Carew was looking up at a thin streak of light that came in through the +narrow window at the stair. “Nick,” said he, huskily, “last night I +dreamed I heard thee singing; but ’twas where there was a sweet, green +field and a stream flowing through a little wood. Methought ’twas on the +road past Warwick toward Coventry. Thou’lt go there some day and +remember Gaston Carew, wilt not, lad? And, Nick, for thine own mother’s +sake, do not altogether hate him; he was not so bad a man as he might +easily have been.”</p> + +<p>“Come,” growled the turnkey, who was pacing up and down like a surly +bear; “have done. ’Tis a fat shilling’s worth.”</p> + +<p>“’Twas there I heard thee sing first, Nick,” said Carew, holding to the +boy’s hands through the bars. “I’ll never hear thee sing again.”</p> + +<p>“Why, sir, I’ll sing for thee now,” said Nick, choking.</p> + +<p>The turnkey was coming back when Nick began suddenly to sing. He looked +up, staring. Such a thing dumfounded him. He had never heard a song like +that in Newgate. There were rules in prison. “Here, here,” he cried, “be +still!” But Nick sang on.</p> + +<p>The groaning, quarreling, and cursing were silent all at once. The guard +outside, who had been sharpening his pike upon the window-ledge, stopped +the shrieking sound. Silence like a restful sleep fell upon the weary +place. Through dark corridors and down the mildewed stairs the quaint +old song went floating as a childhood memory into an old man’s dream; +and to Gaston Carew’s ear it seemed as if the melody of earth had all +been gathered in that little song—all but the sound of the voice of his +daughter Cicely.</p> + +<p>It ceased, and yet a gentle murmur seemed to steal through the mouldy +walls, of birds and flowers, sunlight and the open air, of once-loved +mothers, and of long-forgotten homes. The renegade had ceased his +cursing, and was whispering a fragment of a Spanish prayer he had not +heard for many a day.</p> + +<p>Carew muttered to himself. “And now old cares are locked in charmèd +sleep, and new griefs lose their bitterness, to hear thee sing—to hear +thee sing. God bless thee, Nick!”</p> + +<p>“’Tis three good shillings’ worth o’ time,” the turnkey growled, and +fumbled with the keys. “All for one shilling, too,” said he, and kicked +the door-post sulkily. “But a plague, I say, a plague! ’Tis no one’s +business but mine. I’ve a good two shillings’ worth in my ears. ’Tis +thirty year since I ha’ heard the like o’ that. But what’s a gaol +for?—man’s delight? Nay, nay. Here, boy, time’s up! Come out o’ that.” +But he spoke so low that he scarcely heard himself; and going to the end +of the corridor, he marked at random upon the wall.</p> + +<p>“Oh, Nick, I love thee,” said the master-player, holding the boy’s hands +with a bitter grip. “Dost thou not love me just a little? Come, lad, say +that thou lovest me.”</p> + +<p class='ctr'><a name="illus0358"></a> +<a href="images/illus0358.jpg"> +<img src="images/illus0358.jpg" width = "40%" alt="" /> +</a><br /> +<b>“‘WHY, SIR, I’LL SING FOR THEE NOW.’ SAID NICK, CHOKING.”</b> +<br /></p> + +<p>“Nay, Master Carew,” Nick answered soberly, “I do na love +thee, and I will na say I do, sir; but I pity thee with all my heart. +And, sir, if thy being out would keep me stolen, still I think I’d wish +thee out—for Cicely. But, Master Carew, do na break my hands.”</p> + +<p>The master-player loosed his grasp. “I will not seek to be excused to +thee,” he said huskily. “I’ve prisoned thee as that clod prisons me; +but, Nick, the play is almost out, down comes the curtain on my heels, +and thy just blame will find no mark. Yet, Nick, now that I am fast and +thou art free, it makes my heart ache to feel that ’twas not I who set +thee free. Thou canst go when pleaseth thee, and thank me nothing for +it. And, Nick, as my sins be forgiven me, I truly meant to set thee free +and send thee home. I did, upon my word, and on the remnant of +mine honour!”</p> + +<p>“Time’s good and up, sirs,” said the turnkey, coming back.</p> + +<p>Carew thrust his hand into his breast.</p> + +<p>“I must be going, sir,” said Nick.</p> + +<p>“Ay, so thou must—all things must go. Oh, Nick, be friendly with me +now, if thou wert never friendly before. Kiss me, lad. There—now thy +hand.” The master-player clasped it closely in his own, and pressing +something into the palm, shut down the fingers over it. “Quick! Keep it +hid,” he whispered. “’Tis the chain I had from Stratford’s burgesses, to +some good usage come at last.”</p> + +<p>“Must I come and fetch thee out?” growled the turnkey.</p> + +<p>“I be coming, sir.”</p> + +<p>“Thou’lt send Will Shakspere? And, oh, Nick,” cried Carew, holding him +yet a little longer, “thou’lt keep my Cicely from harm?”</p> + +<p>“I’ll do my best,” said Nick, his own eyes full.</p> + +<p>The turnkey raised his heavy bunch of keys. “I’ll ding thee out o’ this” +said he.</p> + +<p>And the last Nick Attwood saw of Gaston Carew was his wistful eyes +hunting down the stairway after him, and his hand, with its torn fine +laces, waving at him through the bars.</p> + +<p>And when he came to the Mermaid Inn Master Shakspere’s comedy was done, +and Master Ben Jonson was telling a merry tale that made the tapster +sick with laughing.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXXIII<br /> +<span class='ph3'>CICELY DISAPPEARS<br /></span></h2> + +<p>That Master Will Shakspere should be so great seemed passing strange to +Nick, he felt so soon at home with him. It seemed as if the master-maker +of plays had a magic way of going out to and about the people he met, +and of fitting his humor to them as though he were a glover with their +measure in his hand.</p> + +<p>With Nick he was nothing all day long but a jolly, wise, and +gentle-hearted boy, wearing his greatness like an old cloth coat, as if +it were a long-accustomed thing, and quite beyond all pride, and went +about his business in a very simple way. But in the evening when the +wits were met together at his house, and Nick sat on the hindmost bench +and watched the noble gentlemen who came to listen to the sport, Master +Will Shakspere seemed to have the knack of being ever best among them +all, yet of never too much seeming to be better than the rest.</p> + +<p>And though, for the most part, he said but little, save when some pet +fancy moved him, when he did speak his conversation sparkled like a +little meadow brook that drew men’s best thoughts out of them like +water from a spring.</p> + +<p>And when they fell to bantering, he could turn the fag-end of another +man’s nothing to good account in a way so shrewd that not even Master +Ben Jonson could better him—and Master Ben Jonson set up for a wit. But +Master Shakspere came about as quickly as an English man-of-war, dodged +here and there on a breath of wind, and seemed quite everywhere at once; +while Master Jonson tacked and veered, and loomed across the elements +like a great galleon, pouring forth learned broadsides with a most +prodigious boom, riddling whatever was in the way, to be sure, but often +quite missing the point—because Master Shakspere had come about, hey, +presto, change! and was off with the argument, point and all, upon a +totally different tack.</p> + +<p>Then “Tush!” and “Fie upon thee, Will!” Master Jonson would cry with his +great bluff-hearted laugh, “thou art a regular flibbertigibbet! I’ll +catch thee napping yet, old heart, and fill thee so full of pepper-holes +that thou wilt leak epigrams. But quits—I must be home, or I shall +catch it from my wife. Faith, Will, thou shouldst see my little Ben!”</p> + +<p>“I’ll come some day,” Master Shakspere would say; “give him my love”; +and his mouth would smile, though his eyes were sad, for his own son +Hamnet was dead.</p> + +<p>Then, when the house was still again, and all had said good-by, Nick +doffed his clothes and laid him down to sleep in peace. Yet he often +wakened in the night, because his heart was dancing so.</p> + +<p>In the morning, when the world began to stir outside, and the early +light came in at the window, he slipped out of bed across the floor, and +threw the casement wide. Over the river, and over the town, and over the +hills that lay blue in the north, was Stratford!</p> + +<p>The damp, cool air from the garden below seemed a primrose whiff from +the lane behind his father’s house. He could hear the cocks crowing in +Surrey, and the lowing of the kine. There was a robin singing in a bush +under the window, and there was some one in the garden with a pair of +pruning-shears. Snip-snip! snip-snip! he heard them going. The light in +the east was pink as a peach-bloom and too intense to bear.</p> + +<p>“Good-morrow, Master Early-bird!” a merry voice called up to him, and a +nosegay dropped on the window-ledge at his side. He looked down. There +in the path among the rose-trees was Master Will Shakspere, laughing. He +had on an ancient leathern jacket and a hat with a hole in its crown; +and the skirts of the jacket were dripping with dew from the bushes.</p> + +<p>“Good-morrow, sir,” said Nick, and bowed. “It is a lovely day.”</p> + +<p>“Most beautiful indeed! How comes the sun?”</p> + +<p>“Just up, sir; the river is afire with it now. O-oh!” Nick held his +breath, and watched the light creep down the wall, darting long bars of +rosy gold through the snowy bloom of the apple-trees, until it rested +upon Master Shakspere’s face, and made a fleeting glory there.</p> + +<p>Then Master Shakspere stretched himself a little in the sun, laughing +softly, and said, “It is the sweetest music in the world—morning, +spring, and God’s dear sunshine; it starteth kindness brewing in the +heart, like sap in a withered bud. What sayest, lad? We’ll fetch the +little maid to-day; and then—away for Stratford town!”</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>But when Master Shakspere and Nicholas Attwood came to Gaston Carew’s +house, the constables had taken charge, the servants were scattering +hither and thither, and Cicely Carew was gone.</p> + +<p>The bandy-legged man, the butler said, had come on Sunday in great +haste, and packing up his goods, without a word of what had befallen his +master, had gone away, no one knew whither, and had taken Cicely with +him. Nor had they questioned what he did, for they all feared the rogue, +and judged him to have authority.</p> + +<p>Nick caught a moment at the lintel of the door. The house was full of +voices, and the sound of trampling feet went up and down from room to +room; but all he heard was Gaston Carew’s worn voice saying, “Thou’lt +keep my Cicely from harm?”</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXXIV<br /> +<span class='ph3'>THE BANDY-LEGGED MAN<br /></span></h2> + +<p>Until night fell they sought the town over for a trace of Cicely; but +all to no avail. The second day likewise.</p> + +<p>The third day passed, and still there were no tidings. Master +Shakspere’s face grew very grave, and Nick’s heart sickened till he +quite forgot that he was going home.</p> + +<p>But on the morning of the fourth day, which chanced to be the 1st of +May, as he was standing in the door of a printer’s stall in St. Paul’s +Churchyard, watching the gaily dressed holiday crowds go up and down, +while Robin Dexter’s apprentices bound white-thorn boughs about the +brazen serpent overhead, he spied the bandy-legged man among the rout +that passed the north gate by St. Martin’s le Grand.</p> + +<p>He had a yellow ribbon in his ear, and wore a bright plum-colored cloak, +at sight of which Nick cried aloud, for it was the very cloak which +Master Gaston Carew wore when he first met him in the Warwick road. The +rogue was making for the way which ran from Cheapside to the river, and +was walking very fast.</p> + +<p>“Master Shakspere! Master Shakspere!” Nick called out. But Master +Shakspere was deep in the proofs of a newly published play, and did +not hear.</p> + +<p>The yellow ribbon fluttered in the sun—was gone behind the churchyard +wall.</p> + +<p>“Quick, Master Shakspere! quick!” Nick cried; but the master-writer +frowned at the inky page; for the light in the printer’s shop was dim, +and the proof was very bad.</p> + +<p>The ribbon was gone down the river-way—and with it the hope of finding +Cicely. Nick shot one look into the stall. Master Shakspere, deep in his +proofs, was deaf to the world outside. Nick ran to the gate at the top +of his speed. In the crowd afar off a yellow spot went fluttering like a +butterfly along a country road. Without a single second thought, he +followed it as fast as his legs could go.</p> + +<p>Twice he lost it in the throng. But the yellow patch bobbed up again in +the sunlight far beyond, and led him on, and on, and on, a breathless +chase, down empty lanes and alley-ways, through unfrequented courts, +among the warehouses and wharf-sheds along the river-front, into the +kennels of Billingsgate, where the only sky was a ragged slit between +the leaning roofs. His heart sank low and lower as they went, for only +thieves and runagates who dared not face the day in honest streets were +gathered in wards like these.</p> + +<p>In a filthy purlieu under Fish-street Hill, where mackerel-heads and +herrings strewed the drains, and sour kits of whitebait stood +fermenting in the sun, the bandy-legged man turned suddenly into a dingy +court, and when Nick reached the corner of the entry-way was gone as +though the earth had swallowed him.</p> + +<p>Nick stopped dismayed, and looked about, His forehead was wet and his +breath was gone. He had no idea where they were, but it was a dismal +hole. Six forbidding doorways led off from the unkempt court, and a +rotting stairway sagged along the wall. A crop-eared dog, that lay in +the sun beside a broken cart, sprang up with its hair all pointing to +its head, and snarled at him with a vicious grin. “Begone, thou cur!” he +cried, and let drive with a stone. The dog ran under the cart, and +crouched there barking at him.</p> + +<p>Through an open door beyond there came a sound of voices as of people in +some further thoroughfare. Perchance the bandy-legged man had passed +that way? He ran across the court, and up the steps; but came back +faster than he went, for the passageway there was blind and black, a +place unspeakable for dirt, and filled with people past description. A +woman peered out after him with red eyes blinking in the sun. “Ods +bobs!” she croaked, “a pretty thing! Come hither, knave; I want the +buckle off thy cloak.”</p> + +<p>Nick, shuddering, started for the street. But just as he reached the +entry-port a door in the courtyard opened, and the bandy-legged man came +out with a bag upon his back, leading Cicely by the hand.</p> + +<p>Seeing Nick, he gave a cry, believing himself pursued, and made for the +open door again; but almost instantly perceiving the boy to be alone, +slammed shut the door and followed him instead, dragging Cicely over the +stones, and shouting hoarsely, “Stop there! stop!”</p> + +<p>Nick’s heart came up in his very throat. His legs went water-weak. He +ran for the open thoroughfare without once looking back. Yet while he +ran he heard Cicely cry out suddenly in pain, “Oh, Gregory, Gregory, +thou art hurting me so!” and at the sound the voice of Gaston Carew rang +like a bugle in his ears: “Thou’lt keep my Cicely from harm?” He stopped +as short as if he had butted his head against a wall, whirled on his +heel, stood fast, though he was much afraid; and standing there, his +head thrown back and his fists tight clenched, as if some one had struck +him in the face, he waited until they came to where he was. “Thou +hulking, cowardly rogue!” said he to the bandy-legged man.</p> + +<p>But the bandy-legged man caught him fast by the arm, and hurried on into +the street, scanning it swiftly up and down. “Two birds with one stone, +by hen!” he chuckled, when he saw that the coast was clear. “They’ll +fetch a pretty penny by and by.”</p> + +<p>Poor Cicely smiled through her tears at Nick. “I knew thou wouldst come +for me soon,” said she. “But where is my father?”</p> + +<p>“He’s dead as a herring,” snarled Gregory.</p> + +<p>“That’s a lie,” said Nick; “he is na dead.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t call me liar, knave—by hen, I’ll put a stopper on thy voice!”</p> + +<p>“Thou wilt na put a stopper on a jug!” cried Nick, his heart so hot for +Cicely that he quite forgot himself. “I’d sing so well without a +voice—it would butter thy bread for thee! Loose my arm, thou rogue.”</p> + +<p>“Not for a thousand golden crowns! I’m no tom-noddy, to be gulled. And, +hark ’e, be less glib with that ‘rogue’ of thine, or I’ll baste thy back +for thee.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, don’t beat Nick!” gasped Cicely.</p> + +<p>“Do na fret for me,” said Nick; “I be na feared of the cowardly rogue!”</p> + +<p>Crack! the man struck him across the face. Nick’s eyes flashed hot as a +fire-coal. He set his teeth, but he did not flinch. “Do na thou strike +me again, <i>thou rogue!</i>” said he.</p> + +<p>As he spoke, on a sudden his heart leaped up and his fear was utterly +gone. In its place was a something fierce and strange—a bitter +gladness, a joy that stung and thrilled him like great music in the +night. A tingling ran from head to foot; the little hairs of his flesh +stood up; he trampled the stones as he hurried on. In his breast his +heart was beating like a bell; his breath came hotly, deep and slow; the +whole world widened on his gaze. Oh, what a thing is the heart of a boy! +how quickly great things are done therein! One instant, put him to the +touch—the thing is done, and he is nevermore the same. Like a keen, +cold wind that blows through a window in the night, life’s courage had +breathed on Nick Attwood’s heart; the <i>man</i> that slept in the heart of +the boy awoke and was aware. The old song roared in Nick’s ears:</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +Sir Francis Drake sailed round the world,<br /> + Round the world, round the world;<br /> +John Hawkins fought the “Victory,”<br /> + And we ha’ beaten Spain!<br /> +</div> + +<p>Whither they were going he did not know. Whither they were going he did +not care. He was English: this was England still! He set his teeth and +threw back his shoulders. “I be na feared of him!” said he.</p> + +<p>“But my father will come for us soon, won’t he, Nick?” faltered Cicely.</p> + +<p>“Eigh! just don’t he wish that he might!” laughed Goole.</p> + +<p>“Oh, ay,” said she, and nodded bravely to herself; “he may be very busy +now, and so he cannot come. But presently he will come for me and fetch +me home again.” She gave a joyous little skip. “To fetch me home +again—ay, surely, my father will come for me anon.”</p> + +<p>A lump came up in Nick Attwood’s throat. “But what hath he done to thee, +Cicely, and where is thy pretty gown?” he asked, as they hurried on +through the crooked way; for the gown she wore was in rags.</p> + +<p>Cicely choked down a sob. “He hath kept me locked up in a horrible +place, where an old witch came in the night and stole my clothes away. +And he says that if money doth not come for me soon he will turn me out +to starve.”</p> + +<p>“To starve? Nay, Cicely; I will na leave thee starve. I’ll go with thee +wherever he taketh thee; I’ll fend for thee with all my might and main, +and none shall harm thee if I can help. So cheer up—we will get away! +Thou needst na gripe me so, thou rogue; I am going wherever she goes.”</p> + +<p class='ctr'><a name="i_250"></a> +<a href="images/i_250.jpg"> +<img src="images/i_250.jpg" width="35%" alt="" /> +</a><br /> +<b>““DO NA THOU STRIKE ME AGAIN, <i>THOU ROGUE!</i>” SAID NICK”</b> +<br /></p> + +<p>“I’ll see that ye do,” growled the bandy-legged man. “But take the other +hand of her, thou jackanapes, and fetch a better pace than this—I’ll +not be followed again.”</p> + +<p>His tone was bold, but his eyes were not; for they were faring through +the slums toward Whitechapel way, and the hungry crowd eyed Nick’s silk +cloak greedily. One burly rascal with a scar across his face turned back +and snatched at it. For his own safety’s sake, the bandy-legged man +struck up into a better thoroughfare, where he skulked along like a fox +overtaken by dawn, fearing to meet some dog he knew.</p> + +<p>“Oh, Gregory, go slow!” pleaded Cicely, panting for breath, and +stumbling over the cobblestones. Goole’s only answer was a scowl. Nick +trotted on sturdily, holding her hand, and butting his shoulder against +the crowd so that she might not be jostled; for the press grew thick and +thicker as they went. All London was a-Maying, and the foreigners from +Soho, too. Up in the belfries, as they passed, the bells were clanging +until the whole town rang like a smithy on the eve of war, for madcap +apprentices had the ropes, and were ringing for exercise.</p> + +<p>Thicker and thicker grew the throng, as though the sea were sweeping +through the town. Then, at the corner of Mincing Lane, where the +cloth-workers’ shops were thick, all at once there came an uproarious +din of men’s voices singing together:</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +“Three merry boys, and three merry boys,<br /> + And three merry boys are we,<br /> +As ever did sing in a hempen string<br /> + Beneath the gallows-tree!”<br /> +</div> + +<p>And before the bandy-legged man could chance upon a doorway in which to +stand out of the rush, they were pressed against the wall flat as cakes +by a crowd of bold apprentices in holiday attire going out to a wager of +archery to be shot in Finsbury Fields.</p> + +<p>At first all Nick could see was legs: red legs, yellow legs, blue legs, +green legs, long legs, strong legs—in truth, a very many of all sorts +of legs, all stepping out together like a hundred-bladed shears; for +these were the Saddlers of Cheapside and the Cutters of Mincing Lane, +tall, ruddy-faced fellows, all armed with clubs, which they twirled and +tossed and thwacked one another with in sport. Some wore straw hats with +steeple-crowns, and some flat caps of green and white, or red and +orange-tawny. Some had long yew bows and sheaves of arrows decked with +garlands; and they were all exceedingly daubed in the face with dripping +cherry-juice and with cheese, which they munched as they strode along.</p> + +<p>“What, there, Tom Webster, I say,” cried one, catching sight of Cicely’s +face, “here is a Queen o’ the May for thee!”</p> + +<p>His broad-shouldered comrade stopped in the way, and with him all the +rest. “My faith, Jem Armstrong, ’tis the truth, for once in thy life!” +quoth he, and stared at Cicely. Her cheeks were flushed, and her panting +red lips were fallen apart so that her little white teeth showed +through. Her long, dark lashes cast shadow circles under her eyes. Her +curly hair in elfin locks tossed all about her face, and through it was +tied a crimson ribbon, mocking the quick color of the blood which came +and went beneath her delicate skin. “My faith!” cried Tommy Webster, +“her face be as fair as a K in a copy-book! Hey, bullies, what? let’s +make her queen!”</p> + +<p>“A queen?” “What queen?” “Where is a queen?” “I granny! Tom Webster hath +catched a queen!” “Where is she, Tom?” “Up with her, mate, and let a +fellow see.”</p> + +<p>“Hands off, there!” snarled the bandy-legged man.</p> + +<p>“Up with her, Tom!” cried out the strapping fellow at his back. “A queen +it is; and a right good smacking toll all round—I have not bussed a +maid this day! Up with her, Tom!”</p> + +<p>“Stand back, ye rogues, and let us pass!”</p> + +<p>But alas and alack for the bandy-legged man! He could not ruffle and +swagger it off as Gaston Carew had done of old; a London apprentice was +harder nuts than his cowardly heart could crack.</p> + +<p>“Stand back, ye rogues!” he cried again.</p> + +<p>“Rogues? Rogues? Who calls us rogues? Hi, Martin Allston, crack me his +crown!”</p> + +<p>“Good masters,” faltered Gregory, seeing that bluster would not serve, +“I meant ye no offense. I pr’ythee, do not keep a father and his +children from their dying mother’s bed!”</p> + +<p>“Nay—is that so?” asked Webster, sobering instantly “Here, lads, give +way—their mother be a-dying.”</p> + +<p>The crowd fell back. “Ah, sirs,” whined Goole, scarce hiding the joy in +his face, “she’ll thank ye with her dying breath. Get on, thou knave!” +he muttered fiercely in Nick’s ear.</p> + +<p>But Nick stood fast, and caught Tom Webster by the arm. “The fellow +lieth in his throat,” said he. “My mother is in Stratford town; and +Cicely’s mother is dead.”</p> + +<p>“Thou whelp!” cried the bandy-legged man, and aimed a sudden blow at +Nick, “I’ll teach thee to hold thy tongue.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, no, ye won’t,” quoth Thomas Webster, interposing his long oak +staff, and thrusting the fellow away so hard that he thumped against the +wall; “there is no school on holidays! Thou’lt teach nobody here to hold +his tongue but thine own self—and start at that straightway. Dost take +me?—say? Now, Jacky Sprat, what’s all the coil about? Hath this sweet +fellow kidnapped thee?”</p> + +<p>“Nay, sir, not me, but Cicely; and do na leave him take her, sir, for he +treats her very ill!”</p> + +<p>“The little rascal lies,” sneered Goole, though his lips were the color +of lead; “I am her legal guardian!”</p> + +<p>“What! How? Thou wast her father but a moment since!”</p> + +<p>“Nay, nay,” Goole stammered, turning a sickly hue; “her father’s nearest +friend, I said,—he gave her in my charge.”</p> + +<p>“My father’s friend!” cried Cicely. “Thou? Thou? His common groom! Why, +he would not give my finger in thy charge.”</p> + +<p>“He is the wiser daddy, then!” laughed Jemmy Armstrong, “for the fellow +hath a T for Tyburn writ upon his face.”</p> + +<p>The eyes of the bandy-legged man began to shift from side to side; but +still he put a bold front on. “Stand off,” said he, and tried to thrust +Tom Webster back. “Thou’lt pay the piper dear for this! The knave is a +lying vagabond. He hath stolen this pack of goods.”</p> + +<p>“Why, fie for shame!” cried Cicely, and stamped her little foot. “Nick +doth not steal, and thou knowest it, Gregory Goole! It is thou who hast +stolen my pretty clothes, and the wine from my father’s house!”</p> + +<p>“Good, sweetheart!” quoth Tom Webster, eying the bandy-legged man with a +curious snap in his honest eyes. “So the rascal hath stolen other things +than thee? I thought that yellow bow of his was tied tremendous high! +Why, mates, the dog is a branded rogue—that ribbon is tied through the +hole in his ear!”</p> + +<p>Gregory Goole made a dash through the throng where the press was least.</p> + +<p>Thump! went Tommy Webster’s club, and a little puff of dust went up from +Gregory’s purple cloak. But he was off so sharply, and dodged with such +amazing skill, that most of the blows aimed at his head hummed through +the empty air, or thwacked some stout apprentice in the ribs as they all +went whooping after him. He was out of the press and away like a deer +down a covert lane between two shops ere one could say, “Jack, Robin’s +son,” and left the stout apprentices at every flying leap. So presently +they all gave over the chase, and came back with the bag he had dropped +as he ran; and were so well pleased with themselves for what they had +done that they gave three cheers for all the Cloth-workers and Saddlers +in London, and then three more for Cicely and Nick. They would no doubt +have gone right on and given three for the bag likewise, being strongly +in the humor of it; but “Hi, Tom Webster!” shouted one who could hardly +speak for cherries and cheese and puffing, “what’s gone with the queen +we’re to have so fast, and the toll that we’re to take?”</p> + +<p>Tom Webster pulled at his yellow beard, for he saw that Cicely was no +common child, and of gentler birth than they. “I do not think she’ll +bide the toll,” said he, in half apology.</p> + +<p>“What! is there anything to pay?” she asked with a rueful quaver in her +voice. “Oh, Nick, there is to pay!”</p> + +<p>“We have no money, sirs,” said Nick; “I be very sorry.”</p> + +<p>“If my father were here,” said Cicely, “he would give thee a handful of +silver; but I have not a penny to my name.” She looked up into Tom +Webster’s face. “But, sir,” said she, and laid her hand upon his arm, +“if ye care, I will kiss thee upon the cheek.”</p> + +<p>“Why, marry come up! My faith!” quoth he, and suddenly blushed—to his +own surprise the most of all—“why, what? Who’d want a sweeter penny +for his pains?” But “Here—nay, nay!” the others cried; “ye’ve left us +out. Fair play, fair play!”</p> + +<p>All Cicely could see was a forest of legs that filled the lane from wall +to wall, and six great fellows towering over her. “Why, sirs,” cried +she, confusedly, while her face grew rosy red, “ye all shall kiss my +hand—if—if—”</p> + +<p>“If what?” they roared.</p> + +<p>“If ye will but wipe your faces clean.”</p> + +<p>At the shout of laughter they sent up the constable of the cloth-men’s +ward awoke from a sudden dream of war and bloody insurrection, and came +down Cheapside bawling, “Peace, in the name of the Queen!” But when he +found it was only the apprentices of Mincing Lane out Maying, he stole +away around a shop, and made as if it were some other fellow.</p> + +<p>They took the humor of it like a jolly lot of bears, and all came +crowding round about, wiping their mouths on what came first, with a +lick and a promise,—kerchief, doublet, as it chanced,—laughing, and +shouldering each to be first. “Up with the little maid there, Tom!” they +roared lustily.</p> + +<p>Cicely gave him both her hands, and—“Upsydaisy!”—she was on the top of +the corner post, where she stood with one hand on his brawny shoulder to +steady herself, like a flower growing by a wall, bowing gravely all +about, and holding out her hand to be kissed with as graceful an air as +a princess born, and withal a sweet, quaint dignity that abashed the +wildest there.</p> + +<p>Some one or two came blustering as if her hand were not enough; but +Jemmy Armstrong rapped them so sharply over the pate, with “Soft, ye +loons, her hand!” that they dabbed at her little finger-tips, and were +out of his reach in a jiffy, rubbing their polls with a sheepish grin; +for Jemmy Armstrong’s love-pats would have cracked a hazelnut.</p> + +<p>Some came again a second time. One came even a third. But Cicely knew +him by his steeple-hat, and tucked her hand behind her, saying, “Fie, +sir, thou art greedy!” Whereupon the others laughed and punched him in +the ribs with their clubs, until he bellowed, “Quits! We’ll all be late +to the archery if we be not trotting on.”</p> + +<p>Nick’s face fell at the merry shout of “Finsbury, Finsbury, ho!” “I dare +na try to take her home alone,” said he; “that rogue may lie in wait +for us.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, Nick, he is not coming back?” cried Cicely; and with that she threw +her arms around Tom Webster’s neck. “Oh, take us with thee, sir—don’t +leave us all alone!”</p> + +<p>Webster pulled his yellow beard. “Nay, lass, it would not do,” said he; +“we’ll be mad larks by evening. But there, sweetheart, don’t weep no +more! That rogue shall not catch thee again, I promise that.”</p> + +<p>“Why, Tom,” quoth Armstrong, “what’s the coil? We’ll leave them at the +Boar’s Head Inn with sixpence each until their friends can come for +them. Hey, mates, up Great East Cheap!” And off they marched to the +Boar’s Head Inn.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXV"></a>CHAPTER XXXV<br /> +<span class='ph3'>A SUDDEN RESOLVE<br /></span></h2> + +<p>Nick and Cicely were sitting on a bench in the sun beside the tap-room +door, munching a savory mutton-pie which Tommy Webster had bought for +them. Beside them over the window-sill the tapster twirled his spigot +cheerfully, and in the door the carrier was bidding the +serving-maids good-by.</p> + +<p>Around the inn-yard stood a row of heavy, canvas-covered wains and +lumbering two-wheeled carts, each surmounted by a well-armed guard, and +drawn by six strong horses with harness stout as cannon-leathers. The +hostlers stood at the horses’ heads, chewing at wisps of barley-straw as +though their other fare was scant, which, from their sleek rotundity, +was difficult to believe. The stable-boy, with a pot of slush, and a +head of hair like a last year’s haycock, was hastily greasing a +forgotten wheel; while, out of the room where the servants ate, the +drivers came stumbling down the steps with a mighty smell of onions and +brawn. The weekly train from London into the north was ready to be off.</p> + +<p>A portly, well-clad countryman, with a shrewd but good-humored +countenance, and a wife beside him round and rosy of face as he, came +bustling out of the private door. “How far yet, Master John?” he asked +as he buckled on his cloak. “Forty-two miles to Oxford, sir,” replied +the carrier. “We must be off if we’re to lie at Uxbridge overnight; for +there hath been rain beyond, sir, and the roads be werry deep.”</p> + +<p>Nick stared at the man for Oxford. Forty-two miles to Oxford! And Oxford +lay to the south of Stratford fifty miles and two. Ninety-four miles +from Stratford town! Ninety-four miles from home!</p> + +<p>“When will my father come for us, Nick?” asked Cicely, turning her hand +in the sun to see the red along the edges of her fingers.</p> + +<p>“Indeed, I can na tell,” said Nick; “Master Will Shakspere is coming +anon, and I shall go with him.”</p> + +<p>“And leave me by myself?”</p> + +<p>“Nay; thou shalt go, too. Thou’lt love to see his garden and the +rose-trees—it is like a very country place. He is a merry gentleman, +and, oh, so kind! He is going to take me home.”</p> + +<p>“But my father will take us home when he comes.”</p> + +<p>“To Stratford town, I mean.”</p> + +<p>“Away from daddy and me? Why, Nick!”</p> + +<p>“But my mother is in Stratford town.”</p> + +<p>Cicely was silent. “Then I think I would go, too,” she said quite +softly, looking down as if there were a picture on the ground. “When +one’s mother is gone there is a hurting-place that nought doth ever +come into any more—excepting daddy, and—and thee. We shall miss thee, +Nick, at supper-times. Thou’lt come back soon?”</p> + +<p>“I am na coming back.”</p> + +<p>“Not coming back?” She laid the mutton-pie down on the bench.</p> + +<p>“No—I am na coming back”</p> + +<p>“Never?”</p> + +<p>“Never.”</p> + +<p>She looked at him as if she had not altogether understood.</p> + +<p>Nick turned away. A strange uneasiness had come upon him, as if some one +were staring at him fixedly. But no one was. There was a Dutchman in the +gate who had not been there just before. “He must have sprung up out of +the ground,” thought Nick, “or else he is a very sudden Dutchman!” He +had on breeches like two great meal-sacks, and a Flemish sea-cloth +jacket full of wrinkles, as if it had been lying in a chest. His back +was turned, and Nick could not help smiling, for the fellow’s shanks +came out of his breeches’ bottoms like the legs of a letter A. He looked +like a pudding on two skewers.</p> + +<p>Cicely slowly took up the mutton-pie once more, but did not eat. “Is na +the pasty good?” asked Nick.</p> + +<p>“Not now,” said she.</p> + +<p>Nick turned away again.</p> + +<p>The Dutchman was not in the gate. He had crossed the inn-yard suddenly, +and was sitting close within the shadow of the wall, though the sunny +side was pleasanter by far. His wig was hanging down about his face, +and he was talking with the tapster’s knave, a hungry-looking fellow +clad in rusty black as if some one were dead, although it was a holiday +and he had neither kith nor kin. The knave was biting his under lip and +staring straight at Nick.</p> + +<p>“And will I never see thee more?” asked Cicely.</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes,” said Nick; “oh, yes.”</p> + +<p>But he did not know whether she ever would or no.</p> + +<p>“Gee-wup, Dobbin! Yoicks, Ned! Tschk—tschk!” The leading cart rolled +slowly through the gate. A second followed it. The drivers made a +cracking with their whips, and all the guests came out to see them off. +But the Dutchman, as the rest came out, arose, and with the tapster’s +knave went in at a narrow entrance beyond the tap-room steps.</p> + +<p>“And when will Master Shakspere come for thee?” asked Cicely once more, +the cold pie lying in her lap.</p> + +<p>“I do na know. How can I tell? Do na bother me so!” cried Nick, and dug +his heels into the cracks between the paving-stones; for after all that +had come to pass the starting of the baggage-train had made him sick +for home.</p> + +<p>Cicely looked up at him; she thought she had not heard aright. He was +staring after the last cart as it rolled through the inn-yard gate; his +throat was working, and his eyes were full of tears.</p> + +<p>“Why, Nick!” said she, “art crying?”</p> + +<p>“Nay,” said he, “but very near,” and dashed his hand across his face. +“Everything doth happen so all-at-once—and I am na big enough, Cicely. +Oh, Cicely, I would I were a mighty king—I’d make it all up +different somehow!”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps thou wilt be some day, Nick,” she answered quietly. “Thou’ldst +make a very lovely king. I could be queen; and daddy should be Lord +Admiral, and own the finest play-house in the town.”</p> + +<p>But Nick was staring at the tap-room door. A voice somewhere had +startled him. The guests were gone, and none was left but the tapster’s +knave leaning against the inner wall.</p> + +<p>“Thy mother should come to live with us, and thy father, and all thy +kin,” said Cicely, dreamily smiling; “and the people would love us, +there would be no more war, and we should be happy forevermore.”</p> + +<p>But Nick was listening,—not to her,—and his face was a little pale. He +felt a strange, uneasy sense of some one staring at his back. He whirled +about—looked in at the tap-room window. For an instant a peering face +was there; then it was gone—there was only the Dutchman’s frowzy wig +and striped woolen cap. But the voice he had heard and the face he had +seen were the voice and the face of Gregory Goole.</p> + +<p>“I should love to see thy mother, Nick,” said Cicely.</p> + +<p>He got up steadily, though his heart was jolting his very ribs. “Thou +shalt right speedily!” said he.</p> + +<p>The carts were standing in a line. The carrier came down the steps with +his stirrup-cup in hand. Nick’s heart gave a sudden, wild, resolute +leap, and he touched the carrier on the arm. “What will ye charge to +carry two as far as Stratford town?” he asked. His mouth was dry as a +dusty road, for the Dutchman had risen from his seat and was coming +toward the door.</p> + +<p>“I do na haul past Oxford,” said the man.</p> + +<p>“To Oxford, then—how much? Be quick!” Nick thrust his hand into his +breast where he carried the burgesses’ chain.</p> + +<p>“Eightpence the day, for three days out—two shilling ’tis, and find +yourself; it is an honest fare.”</p> + +<p>The tapster’s knave came down the steps; the Dutchman stood within the +shadow of the door.</p> + +<p>“Wilt carry us for this?” Nick cried, and thrust the chain into the +fellow’s hands.</p> + +<p>He gasped and almost let it fall. “Beshrew my heart! Gadzooks!” said he, +“art thou a prince in hiding, boy? ’T would buy me, horses, wains, and +all. Why, man alive, ’tis but a nip o’ this!”</p> + +<p>“Good, then,” said Nick, “’tis done—we’ll go. Come, Cicely, we’re +going home!”</p> + +<p>Staring, the carrier followed him, weighing the chain in his hairy hand. +“Who art thou, boy?” he cried again. “This matter hath a queer look.”</p> + +<p>“’Twas honestly come by, sir,” cried Nick, no longer able to conceal a +quiver in his voice, “and my name is Nicholas Attwood; I come from +Stratford town.”</p> + +<p>“Stratford-on-Avon? Why, art kin to Tanner Simon Attwood there, Attwood +of Old Town?”</p> + +<p>“He is my father, sir. Oh, leave us go with thee—take the whole +chain!”</p> + +<p>Slap went the carrier’s cap in the dirt! “Leave thee go wi’ me? +Gadzooks!” he cried, “my name be John Saddler—why, what? my daddy +liveth in Chapel lane, behind Will Underhill’s. I stole thy father’s +apples fifteen years. What! go wi’ me? Get on the wain, thou little +fool—get on all the wains I own, and a plague upon thine eightpence, +lad! Why, here; Hal telled me thou wert dead, or lost, or some such +fairy tale! Up on the sheepskin, both o’ ye!”</p> + +<p>The Dutchman came from the tap-room door and spoke to the tapster’s +knave; but the words which he spoke to that tapster’s knave were +anything but Dutch.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVI"></a>CHAPTER XXXVI<br /> +<span class='ph3'>WAYFARING HOME<br /></span></h2> + +<p>At Kensington watering-place, five miles from London town, Nick held the +pail for the horses of the Oxford man. “Hello, my buck!” quoth he, and +stared at Nick; “where under the sun didst pop from all at once?” and, +looking up, spied Cicely upon the carrier’s wain. “What, John!” he +shouted, “thou saidst there were no more!”</p> + +<p>“No more there weren’t, sir,” said John, “but there be now”; and out +with the whole story.</p> + +<p>“Well, I ha’ farmed for fifty year,” cried honest Roger Clout, “yet +never have I seen the mate to yonder little maid, nor heard the like o’ +such a tale! Wife, wife!” he cried, in a voice as round and full of +hearty cheer as one who calls his own cattle home across his own fat +fields. “Come hither, Moll—here’s company for thee. For sure, John, +they’ll ride wi’ Moll and I; ’tis godsend—angels on a baggage-cart! +Moll ha’ lost her only one, and the little maid will warm the cockles o’ +her heart, say nought about mine own. La, now, she is na feared o’ me; +God bless thee, child! Look at her, Moll—as sweet as honey and the +cream o’ the brindle cow.”</p> + +<p>So they rode with kindly Roger Clout and his good wife by Hanwell, +Hillingdon Hill, and Uxbridge, where they rested at the inn near old St. +Margaret’s, Cicely with Mistress Clout, and Nick with her good man. And +in the morning there was nothing to pay, for Roger Clout had footed all +the score.</p> + +<p>Then on again, through Beaconsfield and High Wycombe, into and over the +Chiltern Hills in Buckinghamshire. In parts the land was passing fair, +with sheep in flocks upon the hills, and cattle knee-deep in the grass; +but otherwhere the way was wild, with bogs and moss in all the deeps, +and dense beech forests on the heights; and more than once the guards +made ready their match-locks warily. But stout John Saddler’s train was +no soft cakes for thieves, and they came up through Bucks scot-free.</p> + +<p>At times it drizzled fitfully, and the road was rough and bad; but the +third day was a fair, sweet day, and most exceeding bright and fresh. +The shepherds whistled on the hills, and the milkmaids sang in the +winding lanes among the white-thorn hedges, the smell of which was +everywhere. The singing, the merry voices calling, the comfortable +lowing of the kine, the bleating of the sheep, the clinking of the +bridle-chains, and the heavy ruttle of the carts filled the air with +life and cheer. The wind was blowing both warm and cool; and, oh, the +blithe breeze of the English springtime! Nick went up the green hills, +and down the white dells like a leaf in the wind, now ahead and now +behind the winding train, or off into the woods and over the fields for +a posy-bunch for Cicely, calling and laughing back at her, and filling +her lap with flowers and ferns until the cart was all one great, +sweet-smelling bower.</p> + +<p>As for Cicely, Nick was there, so she was very well content. She had +never gone a-visiting in all her life before; and she would see Nick’s +mother, and the flowers in the yard, the well, and that wondrous stream, +the Avon, of which Nick talked so much. “Stratford is a fair, fair town, +though very full of fools,” her father often said. But she had nothing +to do with the fools, and daddy would come for her again; so her +laughter bubbled like a little spring throughout the livelong day.</p> + +<p>As the sun went down in the yellow west they came into Oxford from the +south on the easterly side. The Cherwell burned with the orange light +reflected from the sky, and the towers of the famous town of olden +schools and scholars stood up black-purple against the western glow, +with rims of gold on every roof and spire.</p> + +<p>Up the High street into the corn-market rolled the tired train, and +turned into the rambling square of the old Crown Inn near Carfax church, +a large, substantial hostelry, one of merry England’s best, +clean-chambered, homelike, full of honest cheer.</p> + +<p>There was a shout of greeting everywhere. The hostlers ran to walk the +horses till they cooled, and to rub them down before they fed, for they +were all afoam. Master Davenant himself saw to the storing of the wains; +and Mistress Davenant, a comely dame, with smooth brown hair and ruddy +cheeks, and no less wit than sprightly grace, was in the porch to meet +the company. “Well, good Dame Clout,” said she, “art home again? What +tales we’ll have! Didst see Tom Lane? No? Pshaw! But buss me, Moll; +we’ve missed thy butter parlously.” And then quite free she kissed both +Nick and Cicely.</p> + +<p>“What, there, Dame Davenant!” cried Roger Clout, “art passing them +around?” and laughed, “Do na forget me.”</p> + +<p>“Nay, nay,” she answered, “but I’m out. Here, Nan,” she called to the +smutty-faced scullery-maid, “a buss for Master Clout; his own Moll’s +busses be na fine enough since he hath been to town.”</p> + +<p>So, joking, laughing, they went in; while plain John Saddler backed out +of the porch as sooty Nan came running up, for fear the jilt might offer +somewhat of the sort to him, and was off in haste to see to his teams. +“There’s no leaving it to the boys,” said he, “for they’d rub ’em down +wi’ a water-pail, and give ’em straw to drink.”</p> + +<p>When the guests all came to the fourpenny table to sup, Nick spoke to +Master Roger Clout. “Ye’ve done enough for us, sir; thank ye with all my +heart; but I’ve a turn will serve us here, and, sir, I’d rather stand on +mine own legs. Ye will na mind?” And when they all were seated at the +board, he rose up stoutly at the end, and called out brave and clear: +“Sirs, and good dames all, will ye be pleased to have some music while +ye eat? For, if ye will, the little maid and I will sing you the latest +song from London town, a merry thing, with a fine trolly-lolly, sirs, +to glad your hearts with hearing.”</p> + +<p>Would they have music? To be sure! Who would not music while he ate must +be a Flemish dunderkopf, said they. So Nick and Cicely stood at one side +of the room upon a bench by the server’s board, and sang together, while +he played upon Mistress Davenant’s gittern:</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +“Hey, laddie, hark to the merry, merry lark!<br /> + How high he singeth clear:<br /> + ‘Oh, a morn in spring is the sweetest thing<br /> + That cometh in all the year!<br /> + Oh, a morn in spring is the sweetest thing<br /> + That cometh in all the year!’<br /><br /> + +“Ring, ting! it is the merry springtime;<br /> + How full of heart a body feels!<br /> + Sing hey, trolly-lolly! oh, to live is to be jolly,<br /> + When springtime cometh with the summer at her heels!<br /><br /> + +“God save us all, my jolly gentlemen,<br /> + We’ll merry be to-day;<br /> + For the cuckoo sings till the greenwood rings,<br /> + And it is the month of May!<br /> + For the cuckoo sings till the greenwood rings,<br /> + And it is the month of May!”<br /> +</div> + +<p>Then the men at the table all waved their pewter pots, and thumped upon +the board, roaring, “Hey, trolly-lolly! oh, to live is to be jolly!” +until the rafters rang.</p> + +<p><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /></p> + +<p class='ctr'> +<a href="images/i_271.jpg"> +<img src="images/i_271.jpg" width="35%" alt="" /> +</a></p> + +<p>1. Hey! lad-die, hark, to the mer-ry, mer-ry lark, How high he sing-eth +clear. O a morn in Spring is the sweeter thing That cometh in all the +year; O a morn in Spring is the sweet-est thing That com-eth in all +the year!</p> + +<p>REFRAIN. Piano.</p> + +<p>Ring! Ting! It is the mer-ry Spring-time. How full of heart a bod-y +feels! Sing hey trol-ly lol-ly! O to live is to be jol-ly, When +Spring-time cometh with the Summer at her heels!</p> + +<p>2. God save us all, my jol-ly gen-tle-men! We’ll mer-ry be to-day; For +the cuc-koo sings till the greenwood rings, And it is the month of May; +For the cuc-koo sings till the greenwood rings, And it is the month +of May!</p> + +<p><i>Repeat Refrain after 2d Stanza.</i></p> + +<p><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /></p> + +<p>“What, lad!” cried good Dame Davenant, “come, stay with me all year and +sing, thou and this little maid o’ thine. ’Twill cost thee neither cash +nor care. Why, thou’ldst fill the house with such a throng as it hath +never seen!” And in the morning she would not take a penny for their +lodging nor their keep. “Nay, nay,” said she; “they ha’ brought good +custom to the house, and left me a brave little tale to tell for many a +good long year. We inns-folk be not common penny-grabbers; marry, no!” +and, furthermore, she made interest with a carrier to give them a lift +to Woodstock on their way.</p> + +<p>When they came to Woodstock the carrier set them down by the gates of a +park built round by a high stone wall over which they could not see, and +with his wain went in at the gate, leaving them to journey on together +through a little rain-shower.</p> + +<p>The land grew flatter than before. There were few trees upon the hills, +and scarcely any springs at which to drink, but much tender grass, with +countless sheep nibbling everywhere. The shower was soon blown away; the +sun came out; and a pleasant wind sprang up out of the south. Here and +there beside some cottage wall the lilacs bloomed, and the later +orchard-trees were apple-pink and cherry-white with May.</p> + +<p>They came to a puddle in the road where there was a dance of +butterflies. Cicely clapped her hands with glee. A goldfinch dipped +across the path like a little yellow streak of laughter in the sun. “Oh, +Nick, what is it?” she cried.</p> + +<p>“A bird,” said he.</p> + +<p>“A truly bird?” and she clasped her hands. “Will it ever come again?”</p> + +<p class='ctr'><a name="i_272"></a> +<a href="images/i_272.jpg"> +<img src="images/i_272.jpg" width="35%" alt="" /> +</a><br /> +<b>““OH, NICK, WHAT IS IT?” SHE CRIED.”</b> +<br /></p> + +<p>“Again? Oh, yes, or, la! another one—there’s plenty in the weeds.”</p> + +<p>And so they fared all afternoon, until at dusk they came to Chipping +Norton across the fields, a short cut to where the thin blue +supper-smoke curled up. The mists were rising from the meadows; earth +and sky were blending on the hills; a little silver sickle moon hung in +the fading violet, low in the western sky. Under an old oak in a green +place a fiddler and a piper were playing, and youths and maidens were +dancing in the brown light. Some little chaps were playing +blindman’s-buff near by, and the older folk were gathered by the tree.</p> + +<p>Nick came straight to where they stood, and bowing, he and Cicely +together, doffed his cap, and said in his most London tone, “We bid ye +all good-e’en, good folk.”</p> + +<p>His courtly speech and manner, as well as his clothes and Cicely’s +jaunty gown, no little daunted the simple country folk. Nobody spoke, +but, standing silent, all stared at the two quaint little vagabonds as +mild kine stare at passing sheep in a quiet lane.</p> + +<p>“We need somewhat to eat this night, and we want a place to sleep,” said +Nick. “The beds must be right clean—we have good appetites. If ye can +do for us, we will dance for you anything that ye may desire—the +‘Queen’s Own Measure,’ ‘La Donzella,’ the new ‘Allemand’ of my Lord +Pembroke, a pavone or a tinternell, or the ‘Galliard of Savoy.’ Which +doth it please you, mistresses?” and he bowed to the huddling young +women, who scarcely knew what to make of it.</p> + +<p>“La! Joan,” whispered one, “he calleth thee ‘mistress’! Speak up, +wench.” But Joan stoutly held her peace.</p> + +<p>“Or if ye will, the little maid will dance the coranto for you, straight +from my Lord Chancellor’s dancing-master; and while she dances I +will sing.”</p> + +<p>“Why, hark ’e, Rob,” spoke out one motherly dame, “they two do look +clean-like. Children, too—who’d gi’ them stones when they beg for +bread? I’ll do for them this night myself; and thou, the good man, and +Kit can sleep in the hutch. So there, dears; now let’s see the Lord +Chancellor’s tantrums.”</p> + +<p>“’Tis not a tantrums, goody,” said Nick, politely, “but a coranto.”</p> + +<p>“La! young master, what’s the odds, just so we sees it done? Some folks +calls whittles ‘knives,’ and thinks ’t wunnot cut theys fingers!”</p> + +<p>Nick took his place at the side of the ring. “Now, Cicely!” said he.</p> + +<p>“Thou’lt call ‘Sa—sa!’ and give me the time of the coup d’archet?” she +whispered, timidly hesitant, as she stepped to the midst of the ring.</p> + +<p>“Ay, then,” said he, “’tis off, ’tis off!” and struck up a lively tune, +snapping his fingers for the time.</p> + +<p>Cicely, bowing all about her, slowly began to dance.</p> + +<p>It was a pretty sight to see: her big eyes wide and earnest, her cheeks +a little flushed, her short hair curling, and her crimson gown +fluttering about her as she danced the quaint running step forward and +back across the grass, balancing archly, with her hands upon her hips +and a little smile upon her lips, in the swaying motion of the coupee, +courtesying gracefully as one tiny slippered foot peeped out from her +rustling skirt, tapping on the turf, now in front and now behind. Nick +sang like a blackbird in the hedge. And how those country lads and +lasses stared to see such winsome, dainty grace! “La me!” gaped one, “’tis fairy folk—she doth na even touch the ground!” “The pretty dear!” +the mothers said. “Doll, why canst thou na do the like, thou lummox?” +“Tut,” sighed the buxom Doll, “I have na wingses on my feet!”</p> + +<p>Then Cicely, breathless, bowed, and ran to Nick’s side asking, “Was it +all right, Nick?”</p> + +<p>“Right?” said he, and stroked her hair; “’twas better than thou didst +ever dance it for M’sieu.”</p> + +<p>“For why?” said she, and flushed, with a quick light in her eyes; “for +why—because this time I danced for thee.”</p> + +<p>The country folk, enchanted, called for more and more.</p> + +<p>Nick sang another song, and he and Cicely danced the galliard together, +while the piper piped and the fiddler fiddled away like mad; and the +moon went down, and the cottage doors grew ruddy with the light inside. +Then Dame Pettiford gave them milk and oat-cakes in a bowl, a bit of +honey in the comb, and a cup of strawberries; and Cicely fell fast +asleep with the last of the strawberries in her hand.</p> + +<p>So they came up out of the south through Shipston-on-Stour, in the +main-traveled way, and with every mile Nick felt home growing nearer. +Streams sprang up in the meadow-lands, with sedgy islands, and lines of +silvery willows bordering their banks. Flocks and herds cropped beneath +tofts of ash and elm and beech. Snug homes peeped out of hazel copses by +the road. The passing carts had a familiar look, and at Alderminster +Nick saw a man he thought he recognized.</p> + +<p>Before he knew that he was there they topped Edge Hill.</p> + +<p>There lay Stratford! as he had left it lying; not one stick or stack or +stone but he could put his finger on and say, “This place I know!” Green +pastures, grassy levels, streams, groves, mills, the old grange and the +manor-house, the road that forked in three, and the hills of Arden +beyond it all. There was the tower of the guildhall chapel above the +clustering, dun-thatched roofs among the green and blossom-white; to +left the spire of Holy Trinity sprang up beside the shining Avon. Bull +Lane he made out dimly, and a red-tiled roof among the trees. “There, +Cicely,” he said, “<i>there—there!</i>” and laughed a queer little shaky +laugh next door to crying for joy.</p> + +<p>Wat Raven was sweeping old Clopton bridge. “Hullo, there, Wat! I be come +home again!” Nick cried. Wat stared at him, but knew him not at all.</p> + +<p>Around the corner, and down High street. Fynes Morrison burst in at the +guildschool door. “Nick Attwood’s home!” he shouted; and his eyes were +like two plates.</p> + +<p>Then the last lane—and the smoke from his father’s house!</p> + +<p>The garden gate stood open, and there was some one working in the yard. +“It is my father, Cicely,” he laughed. “Father!” he cried, and hurried +in the lane.</p> + +<p>Simon Attwood straightened up and looked across the fence. His arms were +held a little out, and his hands hung down with bits of moist earth +clinging to them. His brows were darker than a year before, and his hair +was grown more gray; his back, too, stooped. “Art thou a-calling me?” +he asked.</p> + +<p>Nick laughed. “Why, father, do ye na know me?” he cried out. “’Tis +I—’tis Nick—come home!”</p> + +<p>Two steps the stern old tanner took—two steps to the latchet-gate. Not +one word did he speak; but he set his hand to the latchet-gate and +closed it in Nick’s face.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVII"></a>CHAPTER XXXVII<br /> +<span class='ph3'>TURNED ADRIFT<br /></span></h2> + +<p>Down the path and under the gate the rains had washed a shallow rut in +the earth. Two pebbles, loosened by the closing of the gate, rolled down +the rut and out upon the little spreading fan of sand that whitened in +the grass.</p> + +<p>There was the house with the black beams checkering its yellow walls. +There was the old bench by the door, and the lettuce in the garden-bed. +There were the beehives, and the bees humming among the orchard boughs.</p> + +<p>“Why, father, what!” cried Nick, “dost na know me yet? See, ’tis I, +Nick, thy son.”</p> + +<p>A strange look came into the tanner’s face. “I do na know thee, boy,” he +answered heavily; “thou canst na enter here.”</p> + +<p>“But, father, indeed ’tis I!”</p> + +<p>Simon Attwood looked across the town; yet he did not see the town: +across the town into the sky, yet he did not see the sky, nor the +drifting banks of cloud, nor the sunlight shining on the clouds. “I say +I do na know thee,” he replied; “be off to the place whence ye +ha’ come.”</p> + +<p>Nick’s hand was almost on the latch. He stopped. He looked up into his +father’s face. “Why, father, I’ve come home!” he gasped.</p> + +<p>The gate shook in the tanner’s grip. “Have I na telled thee twice I do +na know thee, boy? No house o’ mine shall e’er be home for thee. Thou +hast no part nor parcel here. Get thee out o’ my sight.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, father, father, what do ye mean?” cried Nick, his lips scarcely +able to shape the words.</p> + +<p>“Do na ye ‘father’ me no more,” said Simon Attwood, bitterly; “I be na +father to stage-playing, vagabond rogues. And be gone, I say. Dost hear? +Must I e’en thrust thee forth?” He raised his hand as if to strike.</p> + +<p>Nick fell away from the latchet-gate, dumb-stricken with amazement, +shame, and grief.</p> + +<p>“Oh, Nick,” cried Cicely, “come away—the wicked, wicked man!”</p> + +<p>“It is my father, Cicely.”</p> + +<p>She stared at him. “And thou dost hate <i>my</i> father so? Oh, Nick! oh, +Nick!”</p> + +<p>“Will ye be gone?” called Simon Attwood, half-way opening the gate; +“must I set constables on thee?”</p> + +<p>Nick did not move. A numbness had crept over him like palsy. Cicely +caught him by the hand. “Come, let us go back to my father,” she said. +“He will not turn us out.”</p> + +<p>Scarcely knowing what he did, he followed her, stumbling in the level +path as though he were half blind or had been beaten upon the head. He +did not cry. This was past all crying. He let himself be led along—it +made no matter where.</p> + +<p>In Chapel lane there was a crowd along the Great House wall; and on the +wall Ned Cooke and Martin Addenbroke were sitting. There were heads of +people moving on the porch and in the court, and the yard was all +a-bustle and to-do. But there was nobody in the street, and no one +looked at Nick and Cicely.</p> + +<p>The Great House did look very fair in the sun of that May day, with its +homely gables of warm red brick and sunburnt timber, its cheery roof of +Holland tile, and with the sunlight flashing from the diamond panes that +were leaded into the sashes of the great bay-window on the eastern +garden side.</p> + +<p>In the garden all was stir-about and merry voices. There was a little +green court before the house, and a pleasant lawn coming down to the +lane from the doorway porch. The house stood to the left of the +entry-drive, and the barn-yard to the right was loud with the blithe +crowing of the cocks. But the high brick wall shut out the street where +Nick and Cicely trudged dolefully along, and to Nick the lane seemed +very full of broken crockery and dirt, and the sunlight all a mockery. +The whole of the year had not yet been so dark as this, for there had +ever been the dream of coming home. But <i>now</i>—he suffered himself to be +led along; that was enough.</p> + +<p>They had come past the Great House up from Chapel street, when a girl +came out of the western gate, and with her hand above her eyes looked +after them. She seemed in doubt, but looked again, quite searchingly. +Then, as one who is not sure, but does not wish to miss a chance, called +out, “Nick Attwood! Nick Attwood!”</p> + +<p>Cicely looked back to see who called. She did not know the girl, but saw +her beckon. “There is some one calling, Nick,” said she.</p> + +<p>Nick stopped in a hopeless sort of way, and looked back down the street.</p> + +<p>When he had turned so that the girl at the gate could see his face, she +left the gate wide open behind her, and came running quickly up the +street after them. As she drew nearer he saw that it was Susanna +Shakspere, though she was very much grown since he had seen her last. He +watched her running after them as if it were none of his affair. But +when she had caught up with them, she took him by the shoulder smartly +and drew him back toward the gate. “Why, Nicholas Attwood,” she cried, +all out of breath, “come straightway into the house with me. My father +hath been hunting after thee the whole way up from London town!”</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVIII"></a>CHAPTER XXXVIII<br /> +<span class='ph3'>A STRANGE DAY<br /></span></h2> + +<p>There in the Great House garden under the mulberry-trees stood Master +Will Shakspere, with Masters Jonson, Burbage, Hemynge, Condell, and a +goodly number more, who had just come up from London town, as well as +Alderman Henry Walker of Stratford, good old John Combe of the college, +and Michael Drayton, the poet of Warwick. For Master Shakspere had that +morning bought the Great House, with its gardens and barns, of Master +William Underhill, for sixty pounds sterling, and was making a great +feast for all his friends to celebrate the day.</p> + +<p>The London players all clapped their hands as Nick and Cicely came up +the garden-path, and, “Upon my word, Will,” declared Master Jonson, “the +lad is a credit to this old town of thine. A plucky fellow, I say, a +right plucky fellow. Found the lass and brought her home all safe and +sound—why, ’tis done like a true knight-errant!”</p> + +<p class='ctr'><a name="illus0360"></a> +<a href="images/illus0360.jpg"> +<img src="images/illus0360.jpg" width = "40%" alt="" /> +</a><br /> +<b>“MASTER SHAKSPERE MET THEM WITH OUTSTRETCHED HANDS.”</b> +<br /></p> + +<p>Master Shakspere met them with outstretched hands. “Thou young rogue,” +said he, smiling, “how thou hast forestalled us! Why, here we have +been weeping for thee as lost, strayed, or stolen; and all the while +thou wert nestling in the bosom of thine own sweet home. How is the +beloved little mother?”</p> + +<p>“I ha’ na seen my mother,” faltered Nick. “Father will na let me in.”</p> + +<p>“What? How?”</p> + +<p>“My father will na have me any more, sir—saith I shall never be his son +again. Oh, Master Shakspere, why did they steal me from home?”</p> + +<p>They were all crowding about now, and Master Shakspere had hold of the +boy. “Why, what does this mean?” he asked. “What on earth has happened?”</p> + +<p>Between the two children, in broken words, the story came out.</p> + +<p>“Why, this is a sorry tale!” said Master Shakspere. “Does the man not +know that thou wert stolen, that thou wert kept against thy will, that +thou hast trudged half-way from London for thy mother’s sake?”</p> + +<p>“He will na leave me tell him, sir. He would na even listen to me!”</p> + +<p>“The muckle shrew!” quoth Master Jonson. “Why, I’ll have this out with +him! By Jupiter, I’ll read him reason with a vengeance!” With a clink of +his rapier he made as if to be off at once.</p> + +<p>“Nay, Ben,” said Master Shakspere; “cool thy blood—a quarrel will not +serve. This tanner is a bitter-minded, heavy-handed man—he’d only throw +thee in a pickling-vat”</p> + +<p>“What? Then he’d never tan another hide!”</p> + +<p>“And would that serve the purpose, Ben? The cure should better the +disease—the children must be thought about.”</p> + +<p>“The children? Why, as for them,” said Master Jonson, in his blunt, +outspoken way, “I’ll think thee a thought offhand to serve the turn. +What? Why, this tanner calls us vagabonds. Vagabonds, forsooth! Yet +vagabonds are gallows-birds, and gallows-birds are ravens. And ravens, +men say, do foster forlorn children. Take my point? Good, then; let us +ravenous vagabonds take these two children for our own, Will,—thou one, +I t’ other,—and by praiseworthy fostering singe this fellow’s very +brain with shame.”</p> + +<p>“Why, here, here, Ben Jonson,” spoke up Master Burbage, “this is all +very well for Will and thee; but, pray, where do Hemynge, Condell, and I +come in upon the bill? Come, man, ’tis a pity if we cannot all stand +together in this real play as well as in all the make-believe.”</p> + +<p>“That’s my sort!” cried Master Hemynge. “Why, what? Here is a player’s +daughter who has no father, and a player whose father will not have +him,—orphaned by fate, and disinherited by folly,—common stock with us +all! Marry, ’tis a sort of stock I want some of. Kind hearts are +trumps, my honest Ben—make it a stock company, and let us all be in.”</p> + +<p>“That’s no bad fancy,” added Condell, slowly, for Henry Condell was a +cold, shrewd man. “There’s merit in the lad beside his voice—<i>that</i> +cannot keep its freshness long; but his figure’s good, his wit is +quick, and he has a very taking style. It would be worth while, Dick. +And, Will,” said he, turning to Master Shakspere, who listened with half +a smile to all that the others said, “he’ll make a better <i>Rosalind</i> +than Roger Prynne for thy new play.”</p> + +<p>“So he would,” said Master Shakspere; “but before we put him into ‘As +You Like It,’ suppose we ask him how he does like it? Nick, thou hast +heard what all these gentlemen have said—what hast thou to say, +my lad?”</p> + +<p>“Why, sirs, ye are all kind,” said Nick, his voice beginning to tremble, +“very, very kind indeed, sirs; but—I—I want my mother—oh, masters, I +do want my mother!”</p> + +<p>At that John Combe turned on his heel and walked out of the gate. Out of +the garden-gate walked he, and down the dirty lane, setting his cane +down stoutly as he went, past gravel-pits and pens to Southam’s lane, +and in at the door of Simon Attwood’s tannery.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>It was noon when he went in; yet the hour struck, and no one came or +went from the tannery. Mistress Attwood’s dinner grew cold upon the +board, and Dame Combe looked vainly across the fields toward the town.</p> + +<p>But about the middle of the afternoon John Combe came out of the tannery +door, and Simon Attwood came behind him. And as John Combe came down the +cobbled way, a trail of brown vat-liquor followed him, dripping from his +clothes, for he was soaked to the skin. His long gray hair had partly +dried in strings about his ears, and his fine lace collar was a +drabbled shame; but there was a singular untroubled smile upon his +plain old face.</p> + +<p>Simon Attwood stayed to lock the door, fumbling his keys as if his sight +had failed; but when the heavy bolt was shut, he turned and called after +John Combe, so that the old man stopped in the way and dripped a puddle +until the tanner came up to where he stood. And as he came up Attwood +asked, in such a tone as none had ever heard from his mouth before, +“Combe, John Combe, what’s done ’s done,—and oh, John, the pity of +it,—yet will ye still shake hands wi’ me, John, afore ye go?”</p> + +<p>John Combe took Simon Attwood’s bony hand and wrung it hard in his stout +old grip, and looked the tanner squarely in the eyes; then, still +smiling serenely to himself, and setting his cane down stoutly as he +walked, dripped home, and got himself into dry clothes without a word.</p> + +<p>But Simon Attwood went down to the river, and sat upon a flat stone +under some pollard willows, and looked into the water.</p> + +<p>What his thoughts were no one knew, nor ever shall know; but he was +fighting with himself, and more than once groaned bitterly. At first he +only shut his teeth and held his temples in his hands; but after a while +he began to cry to himself, over and over again, “O Absalom, my son, my +son! O my son Absalom!” and then only “My son, my son!” And when the day +began to wane above the woods of Arden, he arose, and came up from the +river, walking swiftly; and, looking neither to the right nor to the +left, came up to the Great House garden, and went in at the gate.</p> + +<p>At the door the servant met him, but saw his face, and let him pass +without a word; for he looked like a desperate man whom there was +no stopping.</p> + +<p>So, with a grim light burning in his eyes, his hat in his hand, and his +clothes all drabbled with the liquor from his vats, the tanner strode +into the dining-hall.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIX"></a>CHAPTER XXXIX<br /> +<span class='ph3'>ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL<br /></span></h2> + +<p>The table had been cleared of trenchers and napkins, the crumbs brushed +away, and a clean platter set before each guest with pared cheese, fresh +cherries, biscuit, caraways, and wine.</p> + +<p>There were about the long table, beside Master Shakspere himself, who +sat at the head of the board, Masters Richard and Cuthbert Burbage, +Henry Condell, and Peter Hemynge, Master Shakspere’s partners; Master +Ben Jonson, his dearest friend; Thomas Pope, who played his finest +parts; John Lowin, Samuel Gilburne, Robert Nash, and William Kemp, +players of the Lord Chamberlain’s company; Edmund Shakspere, the actor, +who was Master William Shakspere’s younger brother, and Master John +Shakspere, his father; Michael Drayton, the Midland bard; Burgess +Robert Getley, Alderman Henry Walker, and William Hart, the Stratford +hatter, brother-in-law to Master Shakspere.</p> + +<p>On one side of the table, between Master Jonson and Master Richard +Burbage, Cicely was seated upon a high chair, with a wreath of early +crimson roses in her hair, attired in the gown in which Nick saw her +first a year before. On the other side of the table Nick had a place +between Master Drayton and Robert Getley, father of his friend Robin. +Half-way down there was an empty chair. Master John Combe was absent.</p> + +<p>It was no common party. In all England better company could not have +been found. Some few of them the whole round world could not have +matched then, and could not match now.</p> + +<p>It would be worth a fortune to know the things they said,—the quips, +the jests, the merry tales that went around that board,—but time has +left too little of what such men said and did, and it can be imagined +only by the brightest wits.</p> + +<p>’Twas Master Shakspere on his feet, welcoming his friends to his “New +Place” with quiet words that made them glad to live and to be there, +when suddenly he stopped, his hands upon the table by his chair, +and stared.</p> + +<p>The tanner stood there, silent, in the door.</p> + +<p>Nick’s face turned pale. Cicely clung to Master Jonson’s arm.</p> + +<p>Simon Attwood stepped into the room, and Master Shakspere went quickly +to meet him in the middle of the floor.</p> + +<p>“Master Will Shakspere,” said the tanner, hoarsely, “I ha’ come about a +matter.” There he stopped, not knowing what to say, for he was +overwrought.</p> + +<p>“Out with it, sir,” said Master Shakspere, sternly. “There is much here +to be said.”</p> + +<p>The tanner wrung his hat within his hands, and looked about the ring of +cold, averted faces. Soft words with him were few; he had forgotten +tender things; and, indeed, what he meant to do was no easy thing +for any man.</p> + +<p>“Come, say what thou hast to say,” said Master Shakspere, resolutely; +“and say it quickly, that we may have done.”</p> + +<p>“There’s nought that I can say,” said Simon Attwood, “but that I be +sorry, and I want my son! Nick! Nick!” he faltered brokenly, “I be wrung +for thee; will ye na come home—just for thy mother’s sake, Nick, if ye +will na come for mine?”</p> + +<p>Nick started from his seat with a glad cry—then stopped. “But Cicely?” +he said.</p> + +<p>The tanner wrung his hat within his hands, and his face was dark with +trouble. Master Shakspere looked at Master Jonson.</p> + +<p>Nick stood hesitating between Cicely and his father, faithful to his +promise, though his heart was sick for home.</p> + +<p>An odd light had been struggling dimly in Simon Attwood’s troubled eyes. +Then all at once it shone out bright and clear, and he clapped his bony +hand upon the stout oak chair. “Bring her along,” he said. “I ha’ little +enough, but I will do the best I can. Maybe ’twill somehow right the +wrong I ha’ done,” he added huskily. “And, neighbors, I’ll go surety to +the Council that she shall na fall a pauper or a burden to the town. My +trade is ill enough, but, sirs, it will stand for forty pound the year +at a fair cast-up. Bring the lass wi’ thee, Nick—we’ll make out, lad, +we’ll make out. God will na let it all go wrong.”</p> + +<p>Master Jonson and Master Shakspere had been nodding and talking together +in a low tone, smiling like men very well pleased about something, and +directly Master Shakspere left the room.</p> + +<p>“Wilt thou come, lad?” asked the tanner, holding out his hands.</p> + +<p>“Oh, father!” cried Nick; then he choked so that he could say no more, +and his eyes were so full of mist that he could scarcely find his father +where he stood.</p> + +<p>But there was no need of more; Simon Attwood was answered.</p> + +<p>Voices buzzed about the room. The servants whispered in the hall. Nick +held his father’s gnarled hand in his own, and looked curiously up into +his face, as if for the first time knowing what it was to have a father.</p> + +<p>“Well, lad, what be it?” asked the tanner, huskily, laying his hand on +his son’s curly head, which was nearly up to his shoulder now.</p> + +<p>“Nothing,” said Nick, with a happy smile, “only mother will be glad to +have Cicely—won’t she?”</p> + +<p>Master Shakspere came into the room with something in his hand, and +walking to the table, laid it down.</p> + +<p>It was a heavy buckskin bag, tied tightly with a silken cord, and sealed +with red wax stamped with the seals of Master Shakspere and +Master Jonson.</p> + +<p>Every one was watching him intently, and one or two of the gentlemen +from London were smiling in a very knowing way.</p> + +<p>He broke the seals, and loosening the thong which closed the bag, took +out two other bags, one of which was just double its companion’s size. +They also were tied with silken cord and sealed with the two seals on +red wax. There was something printed roughly with a quill pen upon each +bag, but Master Shakspere kept that side turned toward himself so that +the others could not see.</p> + +<p>“Come, come, Will,” broke in Master Jonson, “don’t be all day about it!”</p> + +<p>“The more haste the worse speed, Ben,” said Master Shakspere, quietly. +“I have a little story to tell ye all.”</p> + +<p>So they all listened.</p> + +<p>“When Gaston Carew, lately master-player of the Lord High Admiral’s +company, was arraigned before my Lord Justice for the killing of that +rascal, Fulk Sandells, there was not a man of his own company had the +grace to lend him even so much as sympathy. But there were still some in +London who would not leave him totally friendless in such straits.”</p> + +<p>“Some?” interrupted Master Jonson, bluntly; “then o-n-e spells ‘some.’ +The names of them all were Will Shakspere.”</p> + +<p>“Tut, tut, Ben!” said Master Shakspere, and went on: “But when the +charge was read, and those against him showed their hand, it was easy to +see that the game was up. No one saw this any sooner than Carew himself; +yet he carried himself like a man, and confessed the indictment without +a quiver. They brought him the book, to read a verse and save his neck, +perhaps, by pleading benefit of clergy. But he knew the temper of those +against him, and that nothing might avail; so he refused the plea +quietly, saying, ‘I am no clerk, sirs. All I wish to read in this case +is what my own hand wrote upon that scoundrel Sandells.’ It was soon +over. When the judge pronounced his doom, all Carew asked was for a +friend to speak with a little while aside. This the court allowed; so he +sent for me—we played together with Henslowe, he and I, ye know. He had +not much to say—for once in his life,”—here Master Shakspere smiled +pityingly,—“but he sent his love forever to his only daughter Cicely.”</p> + +<p>Cicely was sitting up, listening with wide eyes, and eagerly nodded her +head as if to say, “Of course.”</p> + +<p>“He also begged of Nicholas Attwood that he would forgive him whatever +wrong he had done him.”</p> + +<p>“Why, that I will, sir,” choked Nick, brokenly; “he was wondrous kind to +me, except that he would na leave me go.”</p> + +<p>“After that,” continued Master Shakspere, “he made known to me a sliding +panel in the wainscot of his house, wherein was hidden all he had on +earth to leave to those he loved the best, and who, he hoped, +loved him.”</p> + +<p>“Everybody loves my father,” said Cicely, smiling and nodding again. +Master Jonson put his arm around the back of her chair, and she leaned +her head upon it.</p> + +<p>“Carew said that he had marked upon the bags which were within the panel +the names of the persons to whom they were to go, and had me swear, +upon my faith as a Christian man, that I would see them safely delivered +according to his wish. This being done, and the end come, he kissed me +on both cheeks, and standing bravely up, spoke to them all, saying that +for a man such as he had been it was easier to end even so than to go +on. I never saw him again.”</p> + +<p>The great writer of plays paused a moment, and his lips moved as if he +were saying a prayer. Master Burbage crossed himself.</p> + +<p>“The bags were found within the wall, as he had said, and were sealed by +Ben Jonson and myself until we should find the legatees—for they had +disappeared as utterly as if the earth had gaped and swallowed them. +But, by the Father’s grace, we have found them safe and sound at last; +and all’s well that ends well!”</p> + +<p>Here he turned the buckskin bags around.</p> + +<p>On one, in Master Carew’s school-boy scrawl, was printed, “For myne +Onelie Beeloved Doghter, Cicely Carew”; on the other, “For Nicholas +Attewode, alias Mastre Skie-lark, whom I, Gaston Carew, Player, Stole +Away from Stratford Toune, Anno Domini 1596.”</p> + +<p>Nick stared; Cicely clapped her hands; and Simon Attwood sat down +dizzily.</p> + +<p>“There,” said Master Shakspere, pointing to the second bag, “are one +hundred and fifty gold rose-nobles. In the other just three hundred +more. Neighbor Attwood, we shall have no paupers here.”</p> + +<p>Everybody laughed then and clapped their hands, and the London players +gave a rousing cheer. Master Ben Jonson’s shout might have been heard in +Market Square.</p> + +<p>At this tremendous uproar the servants peeped at the doors and windows; +and Tom Boteler, peering in from the buttery hall, and seeing the two +round money-bags plumping on the table, crept away with such a look of +amazement upon his face that Mollikins, the scullery-maid, thought he +had seen a ghost, and fled precipitately into the pantry.</p> + +<p>“And what’s more, Neighbor Tanner,” said Master Richard Burbage, “had +Carew’s daughter not sixpence to her name, we vagabond players, as ye +have had the scanty grace to dub us, would have cared for her for the +honour of the craft, and reared her gently in some quiet place where +there never falls even the shadow of such evil things as have been the +end of many a right good fellow beside old Kit Marlowe and +Gaston Carew.”</p> + +<p>“And to that end, Neighbor Attwood,” Master Shakspere added, “we have, +through my young Lord Hunsdon, who has just been made State Chamberlain, +Her Majesty’s gracious permission to hold this money in trust for the +little maid as guardians under the law.”</p> + +<p>Cicely stared around perplexed. “Won’t Nick be there?” she asked. “Why, +then I will not go—they shall not take thee from me, Nick!” and she +threw her arms around him. “I’m going to stay with thee till daddy +comes, and be thine own sister forever.”</p> + +<p>Master Jonson laughed gently, not his usual roaring laugh, but one that +was as tender as his own bluff heart. “Why, good enough, good enough! +The woman who mothered a lad like Master Skylark here is surely fit to +rear the little maid.”</p> + +<p>The London players thumped the table. “Why, ’tis the very trick,” said +Hemynge. “Marry, this is better than a play.”</p> + +<p>“It is indeed,” quoth Condell. “See the plot come out!”</p> + +<p>“Thou’lt do it, Attwood—why, of course thou’lt do it,” said Master +Shakspere. “’Tis an excellent good plan. These funds we hold in trust +will keep thee easy-minded, and warrant thee in doing well by both our +little folks. And what’s more,” he cried, for the thought had just come +in his head, “I have ever heard thee called an honest man; hard, indeed, +perhaps too hard, but honest as the day is long. Now I need a tenant for +this New Place of mine—some married man with a good housewife, and +children to be delving in the posy-beds outside. What sayst thou, Simon +Attwood? They tell me thy ’prentice, Job Hortop, is to marry in +July—he’ll take thine old house at a fair rental. Why, here, Neighbor +Attwood, thou toil-worn, time-damaged tanner, bless thy hard old heart, +man, come, be at ease—thou hast ground thy soul out long enough! Come, +take me at mine offer—be my fellow. The rent shall trickle off thy +finger-tips as easily as water off a duck’s back!”</p> + +<p>Simon Attwood arose from the chair where he had been sitting. There was +a bewildered look upon his face, and he was twisting his horny fingers +together until the knuckles were white. His lips parted as if to speak, +but he only swallowed very hard once or twice instead, and looked around +at them all. “Why, sir,” he said at length, looking at Master Shakspere, +“why, sirs, all of ye—I ha’ been a hard man, and summat of a fool, +sirs, ay, sirs, a very fool. I ha’ misthought and miscalled ye foully +many a time, and many a time. God knows I be sorry for it from the +bottom of my heart!” And with that he sat down and buried his face in +his arms among the dishes on the buffet.</p> + +<p>“Nay, Simon Attwood,” said Master Shakspere, going to his side and +putting his hand upon the tanner’s shoulder, “thou hast only been +mistaken, that is all. Come, sit thee up. To see thyself mistaken is but +to be the wiser. Why, never the wisest man but saw himself a fool a +thousand times. Come, I have mistaken thee more than thou hast me; for, +on my word, I thought thou hadst no heart at all—and that is far worse +than having one which has but gone astray. Come, Neighbor Attwood, sit +thee up and eat with us.”</p> + +<p>“Nay, I’ll go home,” said the tanner, turning his face away that they +might not see his tears. “I be a spoil-sport and a mar-feast here.”</p> + +<p>“Why, by Jupiter, man!” cried Master Jonson, bringing his fist down upon +the board with a thump that made the spoons all clink, “thou art the +very merry-maker of the feast. A full heart’s better than a surfeit any +day. Don’t let him go, Will—this sort of thing doth make the whole +world kin! Come, Master Attwood, sit thee down, and make thyself at +home. ’Tis not my house, but ’tis my friend’s, and so ’tis all the +same in the Lowlands. Be free of us and welcome.”</p> + +<p>“I thank ye, sirs,” said the tanner, slowly, turning to the table with +rough dignity. “Ye ha’ been good to my boy. I’ll ne’er forget ye while I +live. Oh, sirs, there be kind hearts in the world that I had na dreamed +of. But, masters, I ha’ said my say, and know na more. Your pleasure +wunnot be my pleasure, sirs, for I be only a common man. I will go home +to my wife. There be things to say before my boy comes home; and I ha’ +muckle need to tell her that I love her—I ha’ na done so these +many years.”</p> + +<p>“Why, Neighbor Tanner,” cried Master Jonson, with flushing cheeks, “thou +art a right good fellow! And here was I, no later than this morning, +red-hot to spit thee upon my bilbo like a Michaelmas goose!” He laughed +a boyish laugh that did one’s heart good to hear.</p> + +<p>“Ay,” said Master Shakspere, smiling, as he and Simon Attwood looked +into each other’s eyes. “Come, neighbor, I know thou art my man—so do +not go until thou drinkest one good toast with us, for we are all good +friends and true from this day forth. Come, Ben, a toast to fit +the cue.”</p> + +<p>“Why, then,” replied Master Jonson, in a good round voice, rising in his +place, “<i>here’s to all kind hearts!</i>”</p> + +<p>“Wherever they may be!” said Master Shakspere, softly. “It is a good +toast, and we will all drink it together.”</p> + +<p>And so they did. And Simon Attwood went away with a warmth and a +tingling in his heart he had never known before.</p> + +<p>“Margaret,” said he, coming quickly in at the door, as she went silently +about the house with a heavy heart preparing the supper, “Margaret.”</p> + +<p>She dropped the platter upon the board, and came to him hurriedly, +fearing evil tidings.</p> + +<p>He took her by the hands. This, even more than his unusual manner, +alarmed her. “Why, Simon,” she cried, “what is it? What has come +over thee?”</p> + +<p>“Nought,” he replied, looking down at her, his hard face quivering; “but +I love thee, Margaret.”</p> + +<p>“Simon, what dost thou mean?” faltered Mistress Attwood, her heart going +down like lead.</p> + +<p>“Nought, sweetheart—but that I love thee, Margaret, and that our lad is +coming home!”</p> + +<p>Her heart seemed to stop beating.</p> + +<p>“Margaret,” said he, huskily, “I do love thee, lass. Is it too late to +tell thee so?”</p> + +<p>“Nay, Simon,” answered his wife, simply, “’tis never too late to mend.” +And with that she laughed—but in the middle of her laughing a tear ran +down her cheek.</p> + +<p>FROM the windows of the New Place there came a great sound of men +singing together, and this was the quaint old song they sang:</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +“Then here’s a health to all kind hearts<br /> + Wherever they may be;<br /> + For kindly hearts make but one kin<br /> + Of all humanity.<br /><br /> + +“And here’s a rouse to all kind hearts<br /> + Wherever they be found;<br /> + For it is the throb of kindred hearts<br /> + Doth make the world go round!”<br /> +</div> + +<p>“Why, Will,” said Master Burbage, slowly setting down his glass, “’tis +altogether a midsummer night’s dream.”</p> + +<p>“So it is, Dick,” answered Master Shakspere, with a smile, and a +far-away look in his eyes. “Come, Nicholas, wilt thou not sing for us +just the last few little lines of ‘When Thou Wakest,’ out of the play?”</p> + +<p>Then Nick stood up quietly, for they all were his good friends there, +and Master Drayton held his hand while he sang:</p> + +<div class='poetry'> + “Every man shall take his own,<br /> + In your waking shall be shown:<br /> + Jack shall have Jill,<br /> + Nought shall go ill,<br /> +The man shall have his mare again, and all shall be well!”<br /> +</div> + +<p>They were very still for a little while after he had done, and the +setting sun shone in at the windows across the table. Then Master +Shakspere said gently, “It is a good place to end.”</p> + +<p>“Ay,” said Master Jonson, “it is.”</p> + +<p>So they all got up softly and went out into the garden, where there were +seats under the trees among the rose-bushes, and talked quietly among +themselves, saying not much, yet meaning a great deal.</p> + +<p>But Nick and Cicely said “Good-night, sirs,” to them all, and bowed; and +Master Shakspere himself let them out at the gate, the others shaking +Nick by the hand with many kind wishes, and throwing kisses to Cicely +until they went out of sight around the chapel corner.</p> + +<p>When the children came to the garden-gate in front of Nick’s father’s +house, the red roses still twined in Cicely’s hair, Simon Attwood and +his wife Margaret were sitting together upon the old oaken settle by the +door, looking out into the sunset. And when they saw the children +coming, they arose and came through the garden to meet them, Nick’s +mother with outstretched hands, and her face bright with the glory of +the setting sun. And when she came to where he was, the whole of that +long, bitter year was nothing any more to Nick.</p> + +<p>For then—ah, then—a lad and his mother; a son come home, the wandering +ended, and the sorrow done!</p> + +<p>She took him to her breast as though he were a baby still; her tears ran +down upon his face, yet she was smiling—a smile like which there is no +other in all the world: a mother’s smile upon her only son, who was +astray, but has come home again.</p> + +<p>Oh, the love of a lad for his mother, the love of a mother for her +son—unchanged, unchanging, for right, for wrong, through grief and +shame, in joy, in peace, in absence, in sickness, and in the shadow of +death! Oh, mother-love, beyond all understanding, so holy that words but +make it common!</p> + +<p>“My boy!” was all she said; and then, “My boy—my little boy!”</p> + +<p>And after a while, “Mother,” said he, and took her face between his +strong young hands, and looked into her happy eyes, “mother dear, I ha? +been to London town; I ha’ been to the palace, and I ha’ seen the Queen; +but, mother,” he said, with a little tremble in his voice, for all he +smiled so bravely, “I ha’ never seen the place where I would rather be +than just where thou art, mother dear!”</p> + +<p>The soft gray twilight gathered in the little garden; far-off voices +drifted faintly from the town. The day was done. Cool and still, and +filled with gentle peace, the starlit night came down from the dewy +hills; and Cicely lay fast asleep in Simon Attwood’s arms. +<br /></p> +<hr class="full" /> + + + + + <div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 11574 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/11574-h/images/002.jpg b/11574-h/images/002.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..541b3f4 --- /dev/null +++ b/11574-h/images/002.jpg diff --git a/11574-h/images/cover.jpg b/11574-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..d1b2fe5 --- /dev/null +++ b/11574-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/11574-h/images/i_142.jpg b/11574-h/images/i_142.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..2a5423a --- /dev/null +++ b/11574-h/images/i_142.jpg diff --git a/11574-h/images/i_174.jpg b/11574-h/images/i_174.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..2275f1b --- /dev/null +++ b/11574-h/images/i_174.jpg diff --git a/11574-h/images/i_250.jpg b/11574-h/images/i_250.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..6511826 --- /dev/null +++ b/11574-h/images/i_250.jpg diff --git a/11574-h/images/i_271.jpg b/11574-h/images/i_271.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..4ad3167 --- /dev/null +++ b/11574-h/images/i_271.jpg diff --git a/11574-h/images/i_272.jpg b/11574-h/images/i_272.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..72de082 --- /dev/null +++ b/11574-h/images/i_272.jpg diff --git a/11574-h/images/illus0338.jpg b/11574-h/images/illus0338.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..f8334ab --- /dev/null +++ b/11574-h/images/illus0338.jpg diff --git a/11574-h/images/illus0340.jpg b/11574-h/images/illus0340.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..04a378a --- /dev/null +++ b/11574-h/images/illus0340.jpg diff --git a/11574-h/images/illus0342.jpg b/11574-h/images/illus0342.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..90731d2 --- /dev/null +++ b/11574-h/images/illus0342.jpg diff --git a/11574-h/images/illus0344.jpg b/11574-h/images/illus0344.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..0fecddf --- /dev/null +++ b/11574-h/images/illus0344.jpg diff --git a/11574-h/images/illus0346.jpg b/11574-h/images/illus0346.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..a71baae --- /dev/null +++ b/11574-h/images/illus0346.jpg diff --git a/11574-h/images/illus0348.jpg b/11574-h/images/illus0348.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..0bb9c84 --- /dev/null +++ b/11574-h/images/illus0348.jpg diff --git a/11574-h/images/illus0350.jpg b/11574-h/images/illus0350.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..933df1b --- /dev/null +++ b/11574-h/images/illus0350.jpg diff --git a/11574-h/images/illus0352.jpg b/11574-h/images/illus0352.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..85004f4 --- /dev/null +++ b/11574-h/images/illus0352.jpg diff --git a/11574-h/images/illus0354.jpg b/11574-h/images/illus0354.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..da2ec44 --- /dev/null +++ b/11574-h/images/illus0354.jpg diff --git a/11574-h/images/illus0356.jpg b/11574-h/images/illus0356.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..76bb667 --- /dev/null +++ b/11574-h/images/illus0356.jpg diff --git a/11574-h/images/illus0358.jpg b/11574-h/images/illus0358.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..fff4415 --- /dev/null +++ b/11574-h/images/illus0358.jpg diff --git a/11574-h/images/illus0360.jpg b/11574-h/images/illus0360.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..36f9793 --- /dev/null +++ b/11574-h/images/illus0360.jpg diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9bb10e4 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #11574 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/11574) diff --git a/old/11574-0.txt b/old/11574-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..98703a8 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/11574-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8898 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of Master Skylark, by John Bennett, +Illustrated, by Reginald B. Birch + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: Master Skylark + +Author: John Bennett + +Release Date: March 14, 2004 [eBook #11574] +[Most recently updated: September 8, 2021] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: Juliet Sutherland, Charlie Kirschner, and the Project +Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team. +Revised by Richard Tonsing. + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MASTER SKYLARK *** + + + + +MASTER SKYLARK + +A Story of Shakspere’s Time + + +BY + +JOHN BENNETT + +ILLUSTRATIONS BY REGINALD B. BIRCH + +[Illustration: “‘MASTER SKYLARK, THOU SHALT HAVE THY WISH,’ +SAID QUEEN ELIZABETH.”] + + + + + ALL THAT NICHOLAS ATTWOOD’S MOTHER + WAS TO HIM, AND MORE, MY OWN MOTHER HAS BEEN TO ME + AND TO HER HERE I INSCRIBE THIS BOOK + WITH A NEVER-FAILING LOVE + + + + +CONTENTS + + + I THE LORD ADMIRAL’S PLAYERS + II NICHOLAS ATTWOOD’S HOME + III THE LAST STRAW + IV OFF FOR COVENTRY + V IN THE WARWICK ROAD + VI THE MASTER-PLAYER + VII “WELL SUNG, MASTER SKYLARK!” + VIII THE ADMIRAL’S COMPANY + IX THE MAY-DAY PLAY + X AFTER THE PLAY + XI DISOWNED + XII A STRANGE RIDE + XIII A DASH FOR FREEDOM + XIV AT BAY + XV LONDON TOWN + XVI MA’M’SELLE CICELY CAREW + XVII CAREW’S OFFER + XVIII MASTER HEYWOOD PROTESTS + XIX THE ROSE PLAY-HOUSE + XX DISAPPOINTMENT + XXI “THE CHILDREN OF PAUL’S” + XXII THE SKYLARK’S SONG + XXIII A NEW LIFE + XXIV THE MAKING OF A PLAYER + XXV THE WANING OF THE YEAR + XXVI TO SING BEFORE THE QUEEN + XXVII THE QUEEN’S PLAISANCE + XXVIII CHRISTMAS WITH QUEEN BESS + XXIX BACK TO GASTON CAREW + XXX AT THE FALCON INN + XXXI IN THE TWINKLING OF AN EYE + XXXII THE LAST OF GASTON CAREW + XXXIII CICELY DISAPPEARS + XXXIV THE BANDY-LEGGED MAN + XXXV A SUDDEN RESOLVE + XXXVI WAYFARING HOME + XXXVII TURNED ADRIFT + XXXVIII A STRANGE DAY + XXXIX ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL + + + + +LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS + + +“MASTER SKYLARK, THOU SHALT HAVE THY WISH,” SAID QUEEN ELIZABETH + +THE LORD ADMIRAL’S PLAYERS. THE TRUMPETERS AND THE DRUMMERS LED, THEIR +HORSES PRANCING, WHITE PLUMES WAVING IN THE BREEZE + +“WHUR BE-EST GOING, NICK?” ASKED ROGER DAWSON + +“WHAT! HOW NOW?” CRIED THE STRANGER, SHARPLY. “DOST LIKE OR LIKE ME +NOT?” + +“NICK THOUGHT OF HIS MOTHER’S SINGING ON A SUMMER’S EVENING—DREW A DEEP +BREATH AND BEGAN TO SING + +“NOBODY BREAKS NOBODY’S HEARTS IN OLD JO-OHN SMITHSES SHO-OP,” DRAWLED +THE SMITH, IN HIS DEEP VOICE; “NOR STEALS NOBODY, NOTHER” + +“DICCON HAD OFTEN MADE NICK WHISTLES FROM THE WILLOWS ALONG THE AVON +WHEN NICK WAS A TODDLER” + +NICK PUT ONE LEG OVER THE SILL AND LOOKED BACK + +“OH, NICK, THOU ART MOST BEAUTIFUL TO SEE!” CRIED CICELY + +“THAT VOICE, THAT VOICE!” NAT GILES PANTED TO HIMSELF + +NICK GAVE THE SILVER BUCKLE FROM HIS CLOAK TO A BOY WHO STOOD CRYING +WITH COLD AND HUNGER IN THE STREET + +SO NICK RODE HOME UPON THE BACK OF THE EARL OF ARUNDEL’S MAN-AT-ARMS + +“WHY, SIR, I’LL SING FOR THEE NOW,” SAID NICK, CHOKING + +“DO NA THOU STRIKE ME AGAIN, THOU ROGUE!” SAID NICK + +“OH, NICK, WHAT IS IT?” SHE CRIED + +MASTER SHAKSPERE MET THEM WITH OUTSTRETCHED HANDS + + + + +MASTER SKYLARK + + + + +CHAPTER I + + +THE LORD ADMIRAL’S PLAYERS + +There was an unwonted buzzing in the east end of Stratford on that next +to the last day of April, 1596. It was as if some one had thrust a stick +into a hive of bees and they had come whirling out to see. + +The low stone guard-wall of old Clopton bridge, built a hundred years +before by rich Sir Hugh, sometime Mayor of London, was lined with +straddling boys, like strawberries upon a spear of grass, and along the +low causeway from the west across the lowland to the town, brown-faced, +barefoot youngsters sat beside the roadway with their chubby legs +a-dangle down the mossy stones, staring away into the south across the +grassy levels of the valley of the Stour. + +Punts were poling slowly up the Avon to the bridge; and at the outlets +of the town, where the streets came down to the waterside among the +weeds, little knots of men and serving-maids stood looking into the +south and listening. Some had waited for an hour, some for two; yet +still there was no sound but the piping of the birds in white-thorn +hedges, the hollow lowing of kine knee-deep in grassy meadows, and the +long rush of the river through the sedge beside the pebbly shore; and +naught to see but quiet valleys, primrose lanes, and Warwick orchards +white with bloom, stretching away to the misty hills. + +But still they stood and looked and listened. + +The wind came stealing up out of the south, soft and warm and sweet and +still, moving the ripples upon the river with gray gusts; and, scudding +free before the wind, a dog came trotting up the road with wet pink +tongue and sidelong gait. At the throat of Clopton bridge he stopped and +scanned the way with dubious eye, then clapped his tail between his legs +and bolted for the town. The laughing shout that followed him into the +Warwick road seemed not to die away, but to linger in the air like the +drowsy hum of bees—a hum that came and went at intervals upon the +shifting wind, and grew by littles, taking body till it came unbroken as +a long, low, distance-muffled murmur from the south, so faint as +scarcely to be heard. + +Nick Attwood pricked his keen young ears. “They’re coming, Robin—hark +’e to the trampling!” + +Robin Getley held his breath and turned his ear toward the south. The +far-off murmur was a mutter now, defined and positive, and, as the two +friends listened, grew into a drumming roll, and all at once above it +came a shrill, high sound like the buzzing of a gnat close by the ear. + +Little Tom Davenant dropped from the finger-post, and came running up +from the fork of the Banbury road, his feet making little white puffs in +the dust as he flew. “They are coming! they are coming!” he shrieked +as he ran. + +Then up to his feet sprang Robin Getley, upon the saddle-backed +coping-stones, his hand upon Nick Attwood’s head to steady himself, and +looked away where the rippling Stour ran like a thread of silver beside +the dust-buff London road, and the little church of Atherstone stood +blue against the rolling Cotswold Hills. + +“They are coming! they are coming!” shrilled little Tom, and scrambled +up the coping like a squirrel up a rail. + +A stir ran out along the guard-wall, some crying out, some starting up. +“Sit down! sit down!” cried others, peering askance at the water +gurgling green down below. “Sit down, or we shall all be off!” + +Robin held his hand above his eyes. A cloud of dust was rising from the +London road and drifting off across the fields like smoke when the old +ricks burn in damp weather—a long, broad-sheeted mist; and in it were +bits of moving gold, shreds of bright colors vaguely seen, and silvery +gleams like the glitter of polished metal in the sun. And as he looked +the shifty wind came down out of the west again and whirled the cloud of +dust away, and there he saw a long line of men upon horses coming at an +easy canter up the highway. Just as he had made this out the line came +rattling to a stop, the distant drumming of hoofs was still, and as the +long file knotted itself into a rosette of ruddy color amid the April +green, a clear, shrill trumpet blew and blew again. + +“They are coming!” shouted Robin, “they are coming!” and, turning, waved +his cap. + +A shout went up along the bridge. Those down below came clambering up, +the punts came poling with a rush of foam, and a ripple ran along the +edge of Stratford town like the wind through a field of wheat. Windows +creaked and doors swung wide, and the workmen stopped in the +garden-plots to lean upon their mattocks and to look. + +“They are coming!” bellowed Rafe Hickathrift, the butcher’s boy, +standing far out in the street, with his red hands to his mouth for a +trumpet, “they are coming!” and at that the doors of Bridge street grew +alive with eager eyes. + +At early dawn the Oxford carrier had brought the news that the players +of the Lord High Admiral were coming up to Stratford out of London from +the south, to play on May-day there; and this was what had set the town +to buzzing like a swarm. For there were in England then but three great +companies, the High Chamberlain’s, the Earl of Pembroke’s men, and the +stage-players of my Lord Charles Howard, High Admiral of the Realm; and +the day on which they came into a Midland market-town to play was one to +mark with red and gold upon the calendar of the uneventful year. + +Away by the old mill-bridge there were fishermen angling for dace and +perch; but when the shout came down from the London road they dropped +their poles and ran, through the willows and over the gravel, splashing +and thrashing among the rushes and sandy shallows, not to be last when +the players came. And old John Carter coming down the Warwick road with +a load of hay, laid on the lash until piebald Dobbin snorted in dismay +and broke into a lumbering run to reach the old stone bridge in time. + +The distant horsemen now were coming on again, riding in double file. +They had flung their banners to the breeze, and on the changing wind, +with the thumping of horses’ hoofs, came by snatches the sound of a +kettledrummer drawing his drumhead tight, and beating as he drew, and +the muffled blasts of a trumpeter proving his lips. + +Fynes Morrison and Walter Stirley, who had gone to Cowslip lane to meet +the march, were running on ahead, and shouting as they ran: “There’s +forty men, and sumpter-mules! and, oh, the bravest banners and +attire—and the trumpets are a cloth-yard long! Make room for us, make +room for us, and let us up!” + +A bowshot off, the trumpets blew a blast so high, so clear, so keen, +that it seemed a flame of fire in the air, and as the brassy fanfare +died away across the roofs of the quiet town, the kettledrums clanged, +the cymbals clashed, and all the company began to sing the famous old +song of the hunt: + + “The hunt is up, the hunt is up, + Sing merrily we, the hunt is up! + The wild birds sing, + The dun deer fling, + The forest aisles with music ring! + Tantara, tantara, tantara! + + “Then ride along, ride along, + Stout and strong! + Farewell to grief and care; + With a rollicking cheer + For the high dun deer + And a life in the open air! + Tantara, the hunt is up, lads; + Tantara, the bugles bray! + Tantara, tantara, tantara, + Hio, hark away!” + +The first of the riders had reached old Clopton bridge, and the banners +strained upon their staves in the freshening river-wind. The trumpeters +and the drummers led, their horses prancing, white plumes waving in the +breeze, and the April sunlight dancing on the brazen horns and the +silver bellies of the kettledrums. + +Then came the banners of the company, curling down with a silky swish, +and unfurling again with a snap, like a broad-lashed whip. The greatest +one was rosy red, and on it was a gallant ship upon a flowing sea, +bearing upon its mainsail the arms of my Lord Charles Howard, High +Admiral of England. Upon its mate was a giant-bearded man with a fish’s +tail, holding a trident in his hand and blowing upon a shell, the Triton +of the seas which England ruled; this flag was bright sea-blue. The +third was white, and on it was a red wild rose with a golden heart, the +common standard of the company. + +[Illustration: THE LORD ADMIRAL’S PLAYERS. “THE TRUMPETERS AND THE +DRUMMERS LED, THEIR HORSES PRANCING, WHITE PLUMES WAVING IN THE +BREEZE.”] + +After the flags came twoscore men, the players of the Admiral, the +tiring-men, grooms, horse-boys, and serving-knaves, well mounted on good +horses, and all of them clad in scarlet tabards blazoned with the +coat-armor of their master. Upon their caps they wore the famous badge +of the Howards, a rampant silver demi-lion; and beneath their tabards at +the side could be seen their jerkins of many-colored silk, their +silver-buckled belts, and long, thin Spanish rapiers, slapping their +horses on the flanks at every stride. Their legs were cased in +high-topped riding-boots of tawny cordovan, with gilt spurs, and the +housings of their saddles were of blue with the gilt anchors of the +admiralty upon them. On their bridles were jingling bits of steel, which +made a constant tinkling, like a thousand little bells very far away. + +Some had faces smooth as boys and were quite young; and others wore +sharp-pointed beards with stiff-waxed mustaches, and were older men, +with a tinge of iron in their hair and lines of iron in their faces, +hardened by the life they led; and some, again, were smooth-shaven, so +often and so closely that their faces were blue with the beard beneath +the skin. But, oh, to Nicholas Attwood and the rest of Stratford boys, +they were a dashing, rakish, admirable lot, with the air of something +even greater than lords, and a keen knowingness in their sparkling, +worldly eyes that made a common wise man seem almost a fool beside them! + +And so they came riding up out of the south: + + “Then ride along, ride along, + Stout and strong! + Farewell to grief and care; + With a rollicking cheer + For the high dun deer + And a life in the open air!” + +“Hurrah! hurrah! God save the Queen!” + +A dropping shout went up the street like an arrow-flight scattering over +the throng; and the players, waving their scarlet caps until the long +line tossed like a poppy-garden in a summer rain, gave a cheer that +fairly set the crockery to dancing upon the shelves of the stalls in +Middle Bow. + +“Hurrah!” shouted Nicholas Attwood, his blue eyes shining with delight. +“Hurrah, hurrah, for the Admiral’s men!” And high in the air he threw +his cap, as a wild cheer broke from the eddying crowd, and the arches of +the long gray bridge rang hollow with the tread of hoofs. Whiff, came +the wind; down dropped the hat upon the very saddle-peak of one tall +fellow riding along among the rest. Catching it quickly as it fell, he +laughed and tossed it back; and when Nick caught it whirling in the air, +a shilling jingled from it to the ground. + +Then up Fore Bridge street they all trooped after into Stratford town. + +“Oh,” cried Robin, “it is brave, brave!” + +“Brave?” cried Nick. “It makes my very heart jump. And see, Robin, ’tis +a shilling, a real silver shilling—oh, what fellows they all be! Hurrah +for the Lord High Admiral’s men!” + + + + +CHAPTER II + + +NICHOLAS ATTWOOD’S HOME + +Nick Attwood’s father came home that night bitterly wroth. + +The burgesses of the town council had ordered him to build a chimney +upon his house, or pay ten shillings fine; and shillings were none too +plenty with Simon Attwood, the tanner of Old Town. + +“Soul and body o’ man!” said he, “they talk as if they owned the world, +and a man could na live upon it save by their leave. I must build my +fire in a pipe, or pay ten shillings fine? Things ha’ come to a pretty +pass—a pretty pass, indeed!” He kicked the rushes that were strewn upon +the floor, and ground the clay with his heel. “This litter will ha’ to +be all took out. Atkins will be here at six i’ the morning to do the +job, and a lovely mess he will make o’ the house!” + +“Do na fret thee, Simon,” said Mistress Attwood, gently. “The rushes +need a changing, and I ha’ pined this long while to lay the floor wi’ +new clay from Shottery common. ’Tis the sweetest earth! Nick shall take +the hangings down, and right things up when the chimley ’s done.” + +So at cockcrow next morning Nick slipped out of his straw bed, into his +clothes, and down the winding stair, while his parents were still asleep +in the loft, and, sousing his head in the bucket at the well, began his +work before the old town clock in the chapel tower had yet struck four. + +The rushes had not been changed since Easter, and were full of dust and +grease from the cooking and the table. Even the fresher sprigs of mint +among them smelled stale and old. When they were all in the barrow, Nick +sighed with relief and wiped his hands upon the dripping grass. + +It had rained in the night,—a soft, warm rain,—and the air was full of +the smell of the apple-bloom and pear from the little orchard behind the +house. The bees were already humming about the straw-bound hives along +the garden wall, and a misguided green woodpecker clung upside down to +the eaves, and thumped at the beams of the house. + +It was very still there in the gray of the dawn. He could hear the rush +of the water through the sedge in the mill-race, and then, all at once, +the roll of the wheel, the low rumble of the mill-gear, and the cool +whisper of the wind in the willows. + +When he went back into the house again the painted cloths upon the wall +seemed dingier than ever compared with the clean, bright world outside. +The sky-blue coat of the Prodigal Son was brown with the winter’s smoke; +the Red Sea towered above Pharaoh’s ill-starred host like an inky +mountain; and the homely maxims on the next breadth—“Do no Wrong,” +“Beware of Sloth,” “Overcome Pride,” and “Keep an Eye on the +Pence”—could scarcely be read. + +Nick jumped up on the three-legged stool and began to take them down. +The nails were crooked and jammed in the wall, and the last came out +with an unexpected jerk. Losing his balance, Nick caught at the +table-board which leaned against the wall; but the stool capsized, and +he came down on the floor with such a flap of tapestry that the ashes +flew out all over the room. + +He sat up dazed, and rubbed his elbows, then looked around and began to +laugh. + +He could hear heavy footsteps overhead. A door opened, and his father’s +voice called sternly from the head of the stair: “What madcap folly art +thou up to now?” + +“I be up to no folly at all,” said Nick, “but down, sir. I fell from the +stool. There is no harm done.” + +“Then be about thy business,” said Attwood, coming slowly down the +stairs. + +He was a gaunt man, smelling of leather and untanned hides. His short +iron-gray hair grew low down upon his forehead, and his hooked nose, +grim wide mouth, and heavy under jaw gave him a look at once forbidding +and severe. His doublet of serge and his fustian hose were stained with +liquor from the vats, and his eyes were heavy with sleep. + +The smile faded from Nick’s face. “Shall I throw the rushes into the +street, sir?” “Nay; take them to the muck-hill. The burgesses ha’ made +a great to-do about folk throwing trash into the highways. Soul and body +o’ man!” he growled, “a man must ask if he may breathe. And good hides +going a-begging, too!” + +Nick hurried away, for he dreaded his father’s sullen moods. + +The swine were squealing in their styes, the cattle bawled about the +straw-thatched barns in Chapel lane, and long files of gabbling ducks +waddled hurriedly down to the river through the primroses under the +hedge. He could hear the milkmaids calling in the meadows; and when he +trundled slowly home the smoke was creeping up in pale-blue threads from +the draught-holes in the wall. + +The tanner’s house stood a little back from the thoroughfare, in that +part of Stratford-on-Avon where the south end of Church street turns +from Bull lane toward the river. It was roughly built of timber and +plaster, the black beams showing through the yellow lime in curious +squares and triangles. The roof was of red tiles, and where the +spreading elms leaned over it the peaked gable was green with moss. + +At the side of the house was a garden of lettuce; beyond the garden a +rough wall on which the grass was growing. Sometimes wild primroses grew +on top of this wall, and once a yellow daffodil. Beyond the wall were +other gardens owned by thrifty neighbors, and open lands in common to +them all, where foot-paths wandered here and there in a free, +haphazard way. + +Behind the house was a well and a wood-pile, and along the lane ran a +whitewashed paling fence with a little gate, from which the path went up +to the door through rows of bright, old-fashioned flowers. + +Nick’s mother was getting the breakfast. She was a gentle woman with a +sweet, kind face, and a little air of quiet dignity that made her doubly +dear to Nick by contrast with his father’s unkempt ways. He used to +think that, in her worsted gown, with its falling collar of Antwerp +linen, and a soft, silken coif upon her fading hair, she was the most +beautiful woman in all the world. + +She put one arm about his shoulders, brushed back his curly hair, and +kissed him on the forehead. + +“Thou art mine own good little son,” said she, tenderly, “and I will +bake thee a cake in the new chimley on the morrow for thy +May-day-feast.” + +Then she helped him fetch the trestles from the buttery, set the board, +spread the cloth, and lay the wooden platters, pewter cups, and old horn +spoons in place. Breakfast being ready, she then called his father from +the yard. Nick waited deftly upon them both, so that they were soon done +with the simple meal of rye-bread, lettuce, cheese, and milk. + +As he carried away the empty platters and brought water and a towel for +them to wash their hands, he said quietly, although his eyes were bright +and eager, “The Lord High Admiral’s company is to act a stage-play at +the guildhall to-morrow before Master Davenant the Mayor and the town +burgesses.” + +Simon Attwood said nothing, but his brows drew down. + +“They came yestreen from London town by Oxford way to play in Stratford +and at Coventry, and are at the Swan Inn with Master Geoffrey +Inchbold—oh, ever so many of them, in scarlet jerkins, and cloth of +gold, and doublets of silk laced up like any lord! It is a very good +company, they say.” + +Mistress Attwood looked quickly at her husband. “What will they play?” +she asked. + +“I can na say surely, mother—‘Tamburlane,’ perhaps, or ‘The Troublesome +Reign of Old King John.’ The play will be free, father—may I go, sir?” + +“And lose thy time from school?” + +“There is no school to-morrow, sir.” + +“Then have ye naught to do, that ye waste the day in idle folly?” asked +the tanner, sternly. + +“I will do my work beforehand, sir,” replied Nick, quietly, though his +hand trembled a little as he brushed up the crumbs. + +“It is May-day, Simon,” interceded Mistress Attwood, “and a bit of +pleasure will na harm the lad.” + +“Pleasure?” said the tanner, sharply. “If he does na find pleasure +enough in his work, his book, and his home, he shall na seek it of low +rogues and strolling scape-graces.” + +“But, Simon,” said Mistress Attwood, “’tis the Lord Admiral’s own +company—surely they are not all graceless! And,” she continued with +very quiet dignity, “since mine own cousin Anne Hathaway married Will +Shakspere the play-actor, ’tis scarcely kind to call all players +rogues and low.” + +“No more o’ this, Margaret,” cried Attwood, flushing angrily. “Thou art +ever too ready with the boy’s part against me. He shall na go—I’ll find +a thing or two for him to do among the vats that will take this taste +for idleness out of his mouth. He shall na go: so that be all there is +on it.” Rising abruptly, he left the room. + +Nick clenched his hands. + +“Nicholas,” said his mother, softly. + +“Yes, mother,” said he; “I know. But he should na flout thee so! And, +mother, the Queen goes to the play—father himself saw her at Coventry +ten years ago. Is what the Queen does idle folly?” + +His mother took him by the hand and drew him to her side, with a smile +that was half a sigh. “Art thou the Queen?” + +“Nay,” said he; “and it’s all the better for England, like enough. But +surely, mother, it can na be wrong—” + +“To honour thy father?” said she, quickly, laying her finger across his +lips. “Nay, lad; it is thy bounden duty.” + +Nick turned and looked up at her wonderingly. “Mother,” said he, “art +thou an angel come down out of heaven?” + +“Nay,” she answered, patting his flushed cheek; “I be only the every-day +mother of a fierce little son who hath many a hard, hard lesson to +learn. Now eat thy breakfast—thou hast been up a long while.” + +Nick kissed her impetuously and sat down, but his heart still rankled +within him. + +All Stratford would go to the play. He could hear the murmur of voices +and music, the bursts of laughter and applause, the tramp of happy feet +going up the guildhall stairs to the Mayor’s show. Everybody went in +free at the Mayor’s show. The other boys could stand on stools and see +it all. They could hold horses at the gate of the inn at the September +fair, and so see all the farces. They could see the famous Norwich +puppet-play. But he—what pleasure did he ever have? A tawdry pageant by +a lot of clumsy country bumpkins at Whitsuntide or Pentecost, or a silly +school-boy masque at Christmas, with the master scolding like a heathen +Turk. It was not fair. + +And now he’d have to work all May-day. May-day out of all the year! Why, +there was to be a May-pole and a morris-dance, and a roasted calf, too, +in Master Wainwright’s field, since Margery was chosen Queen of the May. +And Peter Finch was to be Robin Hood, and Nan Rogers Maid Marian, and +wear a kirtle of Kendal green—and, oh, but the May-pole would be brave; +high as the ridge of the guildschool roof, and hung with ribbons like a +rainbow! Geoffrey Hall was to lead the dance, too, and the other boys +and girls would all be there. And where would he be? Sousing hides in +the tannery vats. Truly his father was a hard man! + +He pushed the cheese away. + + + + +CHAPTER III + + +THE LAST STRAW + +Little John Summer had a new horn-book that cost a silver penny. The +handle was carven and the horn was clear as honey. The other little boys +stood round about in speechless envy, or murmured their A B C’s and “ba +be bi’s” along the chapel steps. The lower-form boys were playing +leap-frog past the almshouse, and Geoffrey Gosse and the vicar’s son +were in the public gravel-pit, throwing stones at the robins in the +Great House elms across the lane. + +Some few dull fellows sat upon the steps behind the school-house, +anxiously poring over their books. But the larger boys of the Fable +Class stood in an excited group beneath the shadow of the overhanging +second story of the grammar-school, talking all at once, each louder +than the other, until the noise was deafening. + +“Oh, Nick, such goings on!” called Robin Getley, whose father was a +burgess, as Nick Attwood came slowly up the street, saying his sentences +for the day over and over to himself in hopeless desperation, having had +no time to learn them at home. “Stratford Council has had a quarrel, +and there’s to be no stage-play after all.” + +“What?” cried Nick, in amazement. “No stage-play? And why not?” + +“Why,” said Robin, “it was just this way—my father told me of it. Sir +Thomas Lucy, High Sheriff of Worcester, y’ know, rode in from Charlcote +yesternoon, and with him Sir Edward Greville of Milcote. So the +burgesses made a feast for them at the Swan Inn. Sir Thomas fetched a +fine, fat buck, and the town stood good for ninepence wine and twopence +bread, and broached a keg of sturgeon. And when they were all met +together there, eating, and drinking, and making merry—what? Why, in +came my Lord Admiral’s players from London town, ruffling it like high +dukes, and not caring two pops for Sir Thomas, or Sir Edward, or for +Stratford burgesses all in a heap; but sat them down at the table +straightway, and called for ale, as if they owned the place; and not +being served as soon as they desired, they laid hands upon Sir Thomas’s +server as he came in from the buttery with his tray full, and took both +meat and drink.” + +“What?” cried Nick. + +“As sure as shooting, they did!” said Robin; “and when Sir Thomas’s +gentry yeomen would have seen to it—what? Why, my Lord Admiral’s +master-player clapped his hand to his poniard-hilt, and dared them come +and take it if they could.” + +“To Sir Thomas Lucy’s men?” exclaimed Nick, aghast. + +“Ay, to their teeth! Sir Edward sprang up then, and said it was a shame +for players to behave so outrageously in Will Shakspere’s own home town. +And at that Sir Thomas, who, y’ know, has always misliked Will, flared +up like a bull at a red rag, and swore that all stage-players be +runagate rogues, anyway, and Will Shakspere neither more nor less than a +deer-stealing scape-gallows.” + +“Surely he did na say that in Stratford Council?” protested Nick. + +“Ay, but he did—that very thing,” said Robin; “and when that was out, +the master-player sprang upon the table, overturning half the ale, and +cried out that Will Shakspere was his very own true friend, and the +sweetest fellow in all England, and that whosoever gainsaid it was a +hemp-cracking rascal, and that he would prove it upon his back with a +quarter-staff whenever and wherever he chose, be he Sir Thomas Lucy, St. +George and the Dragon, Guy of Warwick, and the great dun cow, all rolled +up in one!” + +“Robin Getley, is this the very truth, or art thou cozening me?” + +“Upon my word, it is the truth,” said Robin. “And that’s not all. Sir +Edward cried out ‘Fie!’ upon the player for a saucy varlet; but the +fellow only laughed, and bowed quite low, and said that he took no +offense from Sir Edward for saying that, since it could not honestly be +denied, but that Sir Thomas did not know the truth from a truckle-bed in +broad daylight, and was but the remnant of a gentleman to boot.” + +“The bold-faced rogue!” + +“Ay, that he is,” nodded Robin; “and for his boldness Sir Thomas +straightway demanded that the High Bailiff refuse the company license to +play in Stratford.” + +“Refuse the Lord High Admiral’s players?” + +“Marry, no one else. And then Master John Shakspere, wroth at what Sir +Thomas had said of his son Will, vowed that he would send a letter down +to London town, and lay the whole coil before the Lord High Admiral +himself. For ever since that he was High Bailiff, the best companies of +England had always been bidden to play in Stratford, and it would be an +ill thing now to refuse the Lord Admiral’s company after granting +licenses to both my Lord Pembroke’s and the High Chamberlain’s.” + +“And so it would,” spoke up Walter Roche; “for there are our own +townsmen, Richard and Cuthbert Burbage, who are cousins of mine, and +John Hemynge and Thomas Greene, besides Will Shakspere and his brother +Edmund, all playing in the Lord Chamberlain’s company in London before +the Queen. It would be a black score against them all with the Lord +Admiral—I doubt not he would pay them out.” + +“That he would,” said Robin, “and so said my father and Alderman Henry +Walker, who, y’ know, is Will Shakspere’s own friend. And some of the +burgesses who cared not a rap for that were afeard of offending the Lord +Admiral. But Sir Thomas vowed that my Lord Howard was at Cadiz with +Walter Raleigh and the young Earl of Sussex, and would by no means hear +of it. So Master Bailiff Stubbes, who, ’tis said, doth owe Sir Thomas +forty pound, and is therefore under his thumb, forthwith refused the +company license to play in Stratford guildhall, inn-yard, or common. And +at that the master-player threw his glove into Master Stubbes’s face, +and called Sir Thomas a stupid old bell-wether, and Stratford burgesses +silly sheep for following wherever he chose to jump.” + +“And so they be,” sneered Hal Saddler. + +“How?” cried Robin, hotly. “My father is a burgess. Dost thou call him a +sheep, Hal Saddler?” + +“Nay, nay,” stammered Hal, hastily; “’twas not thy father I meant.” + +“Then hold thy tongue with both hands,” said Robin, sharply, “or it will +crack thy pate for thee some of these fine days.” + +“But come, Robin,” asked Nick, eagerly, “what became of the quarrel?” + +“Well, when the master-player threw his glove into Master Stubbes’s +face, the Chief Constable seized him for contempt of Stratford Council, +and held him for trial. At that some cried ‘Shame!’ and some ‘Hurrah!’ +but the rest of the players fled out of town in the night, lest their +baggage be taken by the law and they be fined.” + +“Whither did they go?” asked Nick, both sorry and glad to hear that they +were gone. + +“To Coventry, and left the master-player behind in gaol.” + +“Why, they dare na use him so—the Lord Admiral’s own man!” + +“Ay, that they don’t! Why, hark ’e, Nick! This morning, since Sir +Thomas has gone home, and the burgesses’ heads have all cooled down from +the sack and the clary they were in last night, la! but they are in a +pretty stew, my father says, for fear that they have given offense to +the Lord Admiral. So they have spoken the master-player softly, and +given him his freedom out of hand, and a long gold chain to twine about +his cap, to mend the matter with, beside.” + +“Whee-ew!” whistled Nick. “I wish I were a master-player!” + +“Oh, but he will not be pleased, and says he will have his revenge on +Stratford town if he must needs wait until the end of the world or go to +the Indies after it. And he has had his breakfast served in Master +Geoffrey Inchbold’s own room at the Swan, and swears that he will walk +the whole way to Coventry sooner than straddle the horse that the +burgesses have sent him to ride.” + +“What! Is he at the inn? Why, let’s go down and see him.” + +“Master Brunswood says that he will birch whoever cometh late,” objected +Hal Saddler. + +“Birch?” groaned Nick. “Why, he does nothing but birch! A fellow can na +say his ‘_sum, es, est_’ without catching it. And as for getting through +the ‘genitivo’ and ‘vocativo’ without a downright threshing—” He +shrugged his shoulders ruefully as he remembered his unlearned lesson. +Everything had gone wrong with him that morning, and the thought of the +birching that he was sure to get was more than he could bear. “I will +na stand it any longer—I’ll run away!” + +Kit Sedgewick laughed ironically. “And when the skies fall we’ll catch +sparrows, Nick Attwood,” said he. “Whither wilt thou run?” + +Stung by his tone of ridicule, Nick out with the first thing that came +into his head. “To Coventry, after the stage-players,” said he, +defiantly. + +The whole crowd gave an incredulous hoot. + +Nick’s face flushed. To be crossed at home, to be birched at school, to +work all May-day in the tannery vats, and to be laughed at—it was +too much. + +“Ye think that I will na? Well, I’ll show ye! ’Tis only eight miles to +Warwick, and hardly more than that beyond—no walk at all; and Diccon +Haggard, my mother’s cousin, lives in Coventry. So out upon your musty +Latin—English is good enough for me this day! There’s bluebells blowing +in the dingles, and cuckoo-buds no end. And while ye are all grinding at +your old Aesop I shall be roaming over the hills wherever I please.” + +As he spoke he thought of the dark, wainscoted walls of the school-room +with their narrow little windows overhead, of the foul-smelling floors +of the tannery in Southam’s lane, and his heart gave a great, rebellious +leap. “Ay,” said he, exultantly, “I shall be out where the birds can +sing and the grass is green, and I shall see the stage-play, while ye +will be mewed up all day long in school, and have nothing but a beggarly +morris and a farthing May-pole on the morrow.” + +“Oh, no doubt, no doubt,” said Hal Saddler, mockingly “We shall have +but bread and milk, and thou shalt have—a most glorious threshing from +thy father when thou comest home again!” + +That was the last straw to Nick’s unhappy heart. + +“’Tis a threshing either way,” said he, squaring his shoulders +doggedly. “Father will thresh me if I run away, and Master Brunswood +will thresh me if I don’t. I’ll not be birched four times a week for +merely tripping on a word, and have nothing to show for it but stripes. +If I must take a threshing, I’ll have my good day’s game out first.” + +“But wilt thou truly go to Coventry, Nick?” asked Robin Getley, +earnestly, for he liked Nick more than all the rest. + +“Ay, truly, Robin—that I will”; and, turning, Nick walked swiftly away +toward the market-place, never looking back. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +OFF FOR COVENTRY + +At the Bridge street crossing Nick paused irresolute. Around the public +pump a chattering throng of housewives were washing out their towels and +hanging them upon the market-cross to dry. Along the stalls in Middle +Row the grumbling shopmen were casting up their sales from tallies +chalked upon their window-ledges, or cuffing their tardy apprentices +with no light hand. + +John Gibson’s cart was hauling gravel from the pits in Henley street to +mend the causeway at the bridge, which had been badly washed by the late +spring floods, and the fine sand dribbled from the cart-tail like the +sand in an hour-glass. + +Here and there loutish farm-hands waited for work; and at the corner two +or three stout cudgel-men leaned upon their long staves, although the +market was two days closed, and there was not a Coventry merchant in +sight to be driven away from Stratford trade. + +Goody Baker with her shovel and broom of twigs was sweeping up the +market litter in the square. Nick wondered if his own mother’s back +would be so bent when she grew old. + +“Whur be-est going, Nick?” + +Roger Dawson sat astride a stick of timber in front of Master Geoffrey +Thompson’s new house, watching Tom Carpenter the carver cut fleur-de-lis +and curling traceries upon the front wall beams. He was a +tenant-farmer’s son, this Roger, and a likely good-for-naught. + +“To Coventry,” said Nick, curtly. + +“Wilt take a fellow wi’ thee?” + +Poor company might be better than none. + +“Come on.” + +Roger lumbered to his feet and trotted after. + +“No school to-day?” he asked. + +“Not for me,” answered Nick, shortly, for he did not care to talk about +it. + +“Faither wull na have I go to school, since us ha’ comed to town, an’ +plough-land sold for grazings,” drawled Roger; “Muster Pine o’ Welford +saith that I ha’ learned as much as faither ever knowed, an’ ’tis enow +for I. Faither saith it maketh saucy rogues o’ sons to know more than +they’s own dads.” + +Nick wondered if it did. His own father could neither read nor write, +while he could do both and had some Latin, too. At the thought of the +Latin he made a wry face. + +“Joe Carter be-eth in the stocks,” said Roger, peering through the +jeering crowd about the pillory and post; “a broke Tom Samson’s pate wi’ +’s ale-can yestreen.” + +[Illustration: “‘WHUR BE-EST GOING, NICK?’ ASKED ROGER DAWSON.”] + +But Nick pushed on. A few ruddy-faced farmers and drovers from the +Bed Horse Vale still lingered at the Boar Inn door and by the tap-room +of the Crown; and in the middle of the street a crowd of salters, +butchers, and dealers in hides, with tallow-smeared doublets and +doubtful hose, were squabbling loudly about the prices set upon +their wares. + +In the midst of them Nick saw his father, and scurried away into Back +Bridge street as fast as he could, feeling very near a sneak, but far +from altering his purpose. + +“Job Hortop,” said Simon Attwood to his apprentice at his side, looking +out suddenly over the crowd, “was that my Nick yonder?” + +“Nay, master, could na been,” said Job, stolidly; “Nick be-eth in school +by now—the clock ha’ struck. ’Twas Dawson’s Hodge and some like +ne’er-do-well.” + + + + +CHAPTER V + + +IN THE WARWICK ROAD + +The land was full of morning sounds as the lads trudged along the +Warwick road together. An ax rang somewhere deep in the woods of Arden; +cart-wheels ruttled on the stony road; a blackbird whistled shrilly in +the hedge, and they heard the deep-tongued belling of hounds far off in +Fulbroke park. + +Now and then a heron, rising from the river, trailed its long legs +across the sky, or a kingfisher sparkled in his own splash. Once a +lonely fisherman down by the Avon started a wild duck from the sedge, +and away it went pattering up-stream with frightened wings and red feet +running along the water. And then a river-rat plumped into the stream +beneath the willows, and left a long string of bubbles behind him. + +Nick’s ill humor soon wore off as he breathed the fresh air, moist from +lush meadows, and sweet from hedges pink and white with hawthorn bloom. +The thought of being pent up on such a day grew more and more +unbearable, and a blithe sense of freedom from all restraint blunted the +prick of conscience. + +“Why art going to Coventry, Nick?” inquired Roger suddenly, startled by +a thought coming into his wits like a child by a bat in the room. + +“To see the stage-play that the burgesses would na allow in Stratford.” + +“Wull I see, too?” + +“If thou hast eyes—the Mayor’s show is free.” + +“Oh, feckins, wun’t it be fine?” gaped Hodge. “Be it a tailors’ show, +Nick, wi’ Herod the King, and a rope for to hang Judas? An’ wull they +set the world afire wi’ a torch, an’ make the earth quake fearful wi’ a +barrel full o’ stones? Or wull it be Sin in a motley gown a-thumping the +Black Man over the pate wi’ a bladder full o’ peasen—an’ angels wi’ +silver wingses, an’ saints wi’ goolden hair? Or wull it be a giant nine +yards high, clad in the beards o’ murdered kings, like granny saith she +used to see?” + +“Pshaw! no,” said Nick; “none of those old-fashioned things. These be +players from London town, and I hope they’ll play a right good English +history-play, like ‘The Famous Victories of Henry Fift,’ to turn a +fellow’s legs all goose-flesh!” + +Hodge stopped short in the road. “La!” said he, “I’ll go no furder if +they turn me to a goose. I wunnot be turned goose, Nick Attwood—an’ a +plague on all witches, says I!” + +“Oh, pshaw!” laughed Nick; “come on. No witch in the world could turn +thee bigger goose than thou art now. Come along wi’ thee; there be no +witches there at all.” + +“Art sure thou ’rt not bedaffing me?” hesitated Hodge. “Good, then; I +be na feared. Art sure there be no witches?” + +“Why,” said Nick, “would Master Burgess John Shakspere leave his son +Will to do with witches?” + +“I dunno,” faltered Hodge; “a told Muster Robin Bowles it was na right +to drownd ’em in the river.” + +Nick hesitated. “Maybe it kills the fish,” said he; “and Master Will +Shakspere always liked to fish. But they burn witches in London, Hodge, +and he has na put a stop to it—and he’s a great man in London town.” + +Hodge came on a little way, shaking his head like an old sheep in a +corner. “Wully Shaxper a great man?” said he. “Why, a’s name be cut on +the old beech-tree up Snitterfield lane, where’s uncle Henry Shaxper +lives, an’ ’tis but poorly done. I could do better wi’ my own whittle.” + +“Ay, Hodge,” cried Nick; “and that’s about all thou canst do. Dost think +that a man’s greatness hangs on so little a thing as his sleight of hand +at cutting his name on a tree?” + +“Wull, maybe; maybe not; but if a be a great man, Nick Attwood, a might +do a little thing passing well—so there, now!” + +Nick pondered for a moment. “I do na know,” said he, slowly; “heaps of +men can do the little things, but parlous few the big. So some one must +be bigging it, or folks would all sing very small. And he doeth the big +most beautiful, they say. They call him the Swan of Avon.” + +“Avon swans be mostly geese,” said Hodge, vacantly. + +“Now, look ’e here, Hodge Dawson, don’t thou be calling Master Will +Shakspere goose. He married my own mother’s cousin, and I will na +have it.” + +“La, now,” drawled Hodge, staring, “’tis nowt to me. Thy Muster Wully +Shaxper may be all the long-necked fowls in Warrickshire for all I care. +And, anyway, I’d like to know, Nick Attwood, since when hath a been +‘_Muster_ Shaxper’—that ne’er-do-well, play-actoring fellow?” + +“Ne’er-do-well? It is na so. When he was here last summer he was bravely +dressed, and had a heap of good gold nobles in his purse. And he gave +Rick Hawkins, that’s blind of an eye, a shilling for only holding +his horse.” + +“Oh, ay,” drawled Hodge; “a fool and a’s money be soon parted.” + +“Will Shakspere is no fool,” declared Nick, hotly. “He’s made a peck o’ +money there in London town, and ’s going to buy the Great House in +Chapel lane, and come back here to live.” + +“Then a ’s a witless azzy!” blurted Hodge. “If a ’s so great a man +amongst the lords and earlses, a ’d na come back to Stratford. An’ I say +a ’s a witless loon—so there!” + +Nick whirled around in the road. “And I say, Hodge Dawson,” he exclaimed +with flashing eyes, “that ’tis a shame for a lout like thee to so +miscall thy thousand-time betters. And what’s more, thou shalt unsay +that, or I will make thee swallow thy words right here and now!” + +“I’d loike to see thee try,” Hodge began; but the words were scarcely +out of his mouth when he found himself stretched on the grass, Nick +Attwood bending over him. + +“There! thou hast seen it tried. Now come, take that back, or I will +surely box thine ears for thee.” + +Hodge blinked and gaped, collecting his wits, which had scattered to the +four winds. “Whoy,” said he, vaguely, “if ’tis all o’ that to thee, I +take it back.” + +Nick rose, and Hodge scrambled clumsily to his feet. “I’ll na go wi’ +thee,” said he, sulkily; “I will na go whur I be whupped.” + +Nick turned on his heel without a word, and started on. + +“An’ what’s more,” bawled Hodge after him, “thy Muster Wully Shaxper +be-eth an old gray goose, an’ boo to he, says I!” + +As he spoke he turned, dived through the thin hedge, and galloped across +the field as if an army were at his heels. + +Nick started back, but quickly paused. “Thou needst na run,” he called; +“I’ve not the time to catch thee now. But mind ye this, Hodge Dawson: +when I do come back, I’ll teach thee who thy betters be—Will Shakspere +first of all!” + +“Well crowed, well crowed, my jolly cockerel!” on a sudden called a +keen, high voice beyond the hedge behind him. + +Nick, startled, whirled about just in time to see a stranger leap the +hedge and come striding up the road. + + + + +CHAPTER VI + + +THE MASTER-PLAYER + +He had trim, straight legs, this stranger, and a slender, lithe body in +a tawny silken jerkin. Square-shouldered, too, was he, and over one +shoulder hung a plum-colored cloak bordered with gold braid. His long +hose were the color of his cloak, and his shoes were russet leather, +with rosettes of plum, and such high heels as Nick had never seen +before. His bonnet was of tawny velvet, with a chain twisted round it, +fastened by a jeweled brooch through which was thrust a curly +cock-feather. A fine white Holland-linen shirt peeped through his jerkin +at the throat, with a broad lace collar; and his short hair curled +crisply all over his head. He had a little pointed beard, and the ends +of his mustache were twisted so that they stood up fiercely on either +side of his sharp nose. At his side was a long Italian poniard in a +sheath of russet leather and silver filigree, and he had a reckless, +high and mighty fling about his stride that strangely took the eye. + +Nick stood, all taken by surprise, and stared. + +The stranger seemed to like it, but scowled nevertheless. “What! How +now?” he cried sharply. “Dost like or like me not?” + +“Why, sir,” stammered Nick, utterly lost for anything to say—“why, +sir,—” and knowing nothing else to do, he took off his cap and bowed. + +“Come, come,” snapped the stranger, stamping his foot, “I am a +swashing, ruffling, desperate Dick, and not to be made a common jest +for Stratford dolts to giggle at. What! These legs, that have put on +the very gentleman in proud Verona’s streets, laid in Stratford’s +common stocks, like a silly apprentice’s slouching heels? Nay, nay; +some one should taste old Bless-his-heart here first!” and with that +he clapped his hand upon the hilt of his poniard, with a wonderful +swaggering tilt of his shoulders. “Dost take me, boy?” + +“Why, sir,” hesitated Nick, no little awed by the stranger’s wild words +and imperious way, “ye surely are the master-player.” + +“There!” cried the stranger, whirling about, as if defying some one in +the hedge. “Who said I could not act? Why, see, he took me at a touch! +Say, boy,” he laughed, and turned to Nick, “thou art no fool. Why, boy, +I say I love thee now for this, since what hath passed in Stratford. A +murrain on the town! Dost hear me, boy?—a black murrain on the town!” +And all at once he made such a fierce stride toward Nick, gritting his +white teeth, and clapping his hand upon his poniard, that Nick drew back +afraid of him. + +[Illustration: “‘WHAT! HOW NOW?’ CRIED THE STRANGER, SHARPLY. ‘DOST LIKE +OR LIKE ME NOT?’”] + +“But nay,” hissed the stranger, and spat with scorn, “a town like +that is its own murrain—let it sicken on itself!” + +He struck an attitude, and waved his hand as if he were talking quite as +much to the trees and sky as he was to Nick Attwood, and looked about +him as if waiting for applause. Then all at once he laughed,—a +rollicking, merry laugh,—and threw off his furious manner as one does +an old coat. “Well, boy,” said he, with a quiet smile, looking kindly at +Nick, “thou art a right stanch little friend to all of us stage-players. +And I thank thee for it in Will Shakspere’s name; for he is the sweetest +fellow of us all.” + +His voice was simple, frank, and free—so different from the mad tone in +which he had just been ranting that Nick caught his breath +with surprise. + +“Nay, lad, look not so dashed,” said the master-player, merrily; “that +was only old Jem Burbage’s mighty tragic style; and I—I am only Gaston +Carew, hail-fellow-well-met with all true hearts. Be known to me, lad; +what is thy name? I like thy open, pretty face.” + +Nick flushed. “Nicholas Attwood is my name, sir.” + +“Nicholas Attwood? Why, it is a good name. Nick Attwood,—young Nick,—I +hope Old Nick will never catch thee—upon my word I do, and on the +remnant of mine honour! Thou hast taken a player’s part like a man, and +thou art a good fellow, Nicholas Attwood, and I love thee. So thou art +going to Coventry to see the players act? Surely thine is a nimble wit +to follow fancy nineteen miles. Come; I am going to Coventry to join my +fellows. Wilt thou go with me, Nick, and dine with us this night at the +best inn in all Coventry—the Blue Boar? Thou hast quite plucked up my +downcast heart for me, lad, indeed thou hast; for I was sore of +Stratford town—and I shall not soon forget thy plucky fending for our +own sweet Will. Come, say thou wilt go with me.” + +“Indeed, sir,” said Nick, bowing again, his head all in a whirl of +excitement at this wonderful adventure, “indeed I will, and that right +gladly, sir.” And with heart beating like a trip-hammer he walked along, +cap in hand, not knowing that his head was bare. + +The master-player laughed a simple, hearty laugh. “Why, Nick,” said he, +laying his hand caressingly upon the boy’s shoulder, “I am no such great +to-do as all that—upon my word, I’m not! A man of some few parts, +perhaps, not common in the world; but quite a plain fellow, after all. +Come, put off this high humility and be just friendly withal. Put on thy +cap; we are but two good faring-fellows here.” + +So Nick put on his cap, and they went on together, Nick in the seventh +heaven of delight. + +About a mile beyond Stratford, Welcombe wood creeps down along the left. +Just beyond, the Dingles wind irregularly up from the foot-path below to +the crest of Welcombe hill, through straggling clumps and briery +hollows, sweet with nodding bluebells, ash, and hawthorn. + +Nick and the master-player paused a moment at the top to catch their +breath and to look back. + +Stratford and the valley of the Avon lay spread before them like a +picture of peace, studded with blossoming orchards and girdled with +spring. Northward the forest of Arden clad the rolling hills. Southward +the fields of Feldon stretched away to the blue knolls beyond which lay +Oxford and Northamptonshire. The ragged stretches of Snitterfield downs +scrambled away to the left; and on the right, beyond Bearley, were the +wooded uplands where Guy of Warwick and Heraud of Arden slew the wild ox +and the boar. And down through the midst ran the Avon southward, like a +silver ribbon slipped through Kendal green, to where the Stour comes +down, past Luddington, to Bidford, and away to the misty hills. + +“Why,” exclaimed the master-player—“why, upon my word, it is a fair +town—as fair a town as the heart of man could wish. Wish? I wish ’t +were sunken in the sea, with all its pack of fools! Why,” said he, +turning wrathfully upon Nick, “that old Sir Thingumbob of thine, down +there, called me a caterpillar on the kingdom of England, a vagabond, +and a common player of interludes! Called me vagabond! Me! Why, I have +more good licenses than he has wits. And as to Master Bailiff Stubbes, I +have permits to play from more justices of the peace than he can shake a +stick at in a month of Sundays!” He shook his fist wrathfully at the +distant town, and gnawed his mustache until one side pointed up and the +other down. “But, hark ’e, boy, I’ll have my vengeance on them all—ay, +that will I, upon my word, and on the remnant of mine honour—or else my +name’s not Gaston Carew!” + +“Is it true, sir,” asked Nick, hesitatingly, “that they despitefully +handled you?” + +“With their tongues, ay,” said Carew, bitterly; “but not otherwise.” He +clapped his hand upon his poniard, and threw back his head defiantly. +“They dared not come to blows—they knew my kind! Yet John Shakspere is +no bad sort—he knoweth what is what. But Master Bailiff Stubbes, I +ween, is a long-eared thing that brays for thistles. I’ll thistle him! +He called Will Shakspere rogue. Hast ever looked through a red glass?” + +“Nay,” said Nick. + +“Well, it turns the whole world red. And so it is with Master Stubbes. +He looks through a pair of rogue’s eyes and sees the whole world rogue. +Why, boy,” cried the master-player, vehemently, “he thought to buy my +tongue! Marry, if tongues were troubles he has bought himself a peck! +What! Buy my silence? Nay, he’ll see a deadly flash of silence when I +come to my Lord the Admiral again!” + + + + +CHAPTER VII + + +“WELL SUNG, MASTER SKYLARK!” + +It was past high noon, and they had long since left Warwick castle far +behind. “Nicholas,” said the master-player, in the middle of a stream of +amazing stories of life in London town, “there is Blacklow knoll.” He +pointed to a little hill off to the left. + +Nick stared; he knew the tale: how grim old Guy de Beauchamp had Piers +Gaveston’s head upon that hill for calling him the Black Hound of Arden. + +“Ah!” said Carew, “times have changed since then, boy, when thou couldst +have a man’s head off for calling thee a name—or I would have yon +Master Bailiff Stubbes’s head off short behind the ears—and Sir Thomas +Lucy’s too!” he added, with a sudden flash of anger, gritting his teeth +and clenching his hand upon his poniard. “But, Nicholas, hast +anything to eat?” + +“Nothing at all, sir.” + +Master Carew pulled from his pouch some barley-cakes and half a small +Banbury cheese, yellow as gold and with a keen, sharp savour. “’Tis +enough for both of us,” said he, as they came to a shady little wood +with a clear, mossy-bottomed spring running down into a green meadow +with a mild noise, murmuring among the stones. “Come along, Nicholas; +we’ll eat it under the trees.” + +He had a small flask of wine, but Nick drank no wine, and went down to +the spring instead. There was a wild bird singing in a bush there, and +as he trotted down the slope it hushed its wandering tune. Nick took the +sound up softly, and stood by the wet stones a little while, imitating +the bird’s trilling note, and laughing to hear it answer timidly, as if +it took him for some great new bird without wings. Cocking its shy head +and watching him shrewdly with its beady eye, it sat, almost persuaded +that it was only size which made them different, until Nick clapped his +cap upon his head and strolled back, singing as he went. + +It was only the thread of an old-fashioned madrigal which he had often +heard his mother sing, with quaint words long since gone out of style +and hardly to be understood, and between the staves a warbling, wordless +refrain which he had learned out on the hills and in the +fields, picked up from a bird’s glad-throated morning-song. + +He had always sung the plain-tunes in church without taking any +particular thought about it; and he sang easily, with a clear young +voice which had a full, flute-like note in it like the high, sweet song +of a thrush singing in deep woods. + +Gaston Carew, the master-player, was sitting with his back against an +oak, placidly munching the last of the cheese, when Nick began to sing. +He started, straightening up as if some one had called him suddenly out +of a sound sleep, and, turning his head, listened eagerly. + +Nick mocked the wild bird, called again with a mellow, warbling trill, +and then struck up the quaint old madrigal with the bird’s song running +through it. Carew leaped to his feet, with a flash in his dark eyes. “My +soul! my soul!” he exclaimed in an excited undertone. “It is not—nay, +it cannot be—why, ’tis—it is the boy! Upon my heart, he hath a skylark +prisoned in his throat! _Well sung, well sung, Master Skylark!”_ he +cried, clapping his hands in real delight, as Nick came singing up the +bank. “Why, lad, I vow I thought thou wert up in the sky somewhere, with +wings to thy back! Where didst thou learn that wonder-song?” + +Nick colored up, quite taken aback. “I do na know, sir,” said he; +“mother learned me part, and the rest just came, I think, sir.” + +The master-player, his whole face alive and eager, now stared at +Nicholas Attwood as fixedly as Nick had stared at him. + +It was a hearty little English lad he saw, about eleven years of age, +tall, slender, trimly built, and fair. A gray cloth cap clung to the +side of his curly yellow head, and he wore a sleeveless jerkin of +dark-blue serge, gray home-spun hose, and heelless shoes of russet +leather. The white sleeves of his linen shirt were open to the elbow, +and his arms were lithe and brown. His eyes were frankly clear and +blue, and his red mouth had a trick of smiling that went straight to a +body’s heart. + +“Why, lad, lad,” cried Carew, breathlessly, “thou hast a very fortune in +thy throat!” + +Nick looked up in great surprise; and at that the master-player broke +off suddenly and said no more, though such a strange light came creeping +into his eyes that Nick, after meeting his fixed stare for a moment, +asked uneasily if they would not better be going on. + +Without a word the master-player started. Something had come into his +head which seemed to more than fill his mind; for as he strode along he +whistled under his breath and laughed softly to himself. Then again he +snapped his fingers and took a dancing step or two across the road, and +at last fell to talking aloud to himself, though Nick could not make out +a single word he said, for it was in some foreign language. + +“Nicholas,” he said suddenly, as they passed the winding lane that leads +away to Kenilworth—“Nicholas, dost know any other songs like that?” + +“Not just like that, sir,” answered Nick, not knowing what to make of +his companion’s strange new mood; “but I know Master Will Shakspere’s +‘Then nightly sings the staring owl, tu-who, tu-whit, tu-who!’ and ‘The +ousel-cock so black of hue, with orange-tawny bill,’ and then, too, I +know the throstle’s song that goes with it.” + +“Why, to be sure—to be sure thou knowest old Nick Bottom’s song, for +isn’t thy name Nick? Well met, both song and singer—well met, I say! +Nay,” he said hastily, seeing Nick about to speak; “I do not care to +hear thee talk. Sing me all thy songs. I am hungry as a wolf for songs. +Why, Nicholas, I must have songs! Come, lift up that honeyed throat of +thine and sing another song. Be not so backward; surely I love thee, +Nick, and thou wilt sing all of thy songs for me.” + +He laid his hand on Nick’s shoulder in his kindly way, and kept step +with him like a bosom friend, so that Nick’s heart beat high with pride, +and he sang all the songs he knew as they walked along. + +Carew listened intently, and sometimes with a fierce eagerness that +almost frightened the boy; and sometimes he frowned, and said under his +breath, “Tut, tut, that will not do!” but oftener he laughed without a +sound, nodding his head in time to the lilting tune, and seeming vastly +pleased with Nick, the singing, and last, but not least, with himself. + +And when Nick had ended the master-player had not a word to say, but for +half a mile gnawed his mustache in nervous silence, and looked Nick all +over with a long and earnest look. + +Then suddenly he slapped his thigh, and tossed his head back boldly. +“I’ll do it,” he said; “I’ll do it if I dance on air for it! I’ll have +it out of Master Stubbes and canting Stratford town, or may I never +thrive! My soul! it is the very thing. His eyes are like twin holidays, +and he breathes the breath of spring. Nicholas, Nicholas +Skylark,—Master Skylark,—why, it is a good name, in sooth, a very +good name! I’ll do it—I will, upon my word, and on the remnant of +mine honour!” + +“Did ye speak to me, sir?” asked Nick, timidly. + +“Nay, Nicholas; I was talking to the moon.” + +“Why, sir, the moon has not come yet,” said Nick, staring into the +western sky. + +“To be sure,” replied Master Carew, with a queer laugh. “Well, the +silvery jade has missed the first act.” + +“Oh,” cried Nick, reminded of the purpose of his long walk, “what will +ye play for the Mayor’s play, sir?” + +“I don’t know,” replied Carew, carelessly; “it will all be done before I +come. They will have had the free play this afternoon, so as to catch +the pence of all the May-day crowd to-morrow.” + +Nick stopped in the road, and his eyes filled up with tears, so quick +and bitter was the disappointment. “Why,” he cried, with a tremble in +his tired voice, “I thought the free play would be on the morrow—and +now I have not a farthing to go in!” + +“Tut, tut, thou silly lad!” laughed Carew, frankly; “am I thy friend for +naught? What! let thee walk all the way to Coventry, and never see the +play? Nay, on my soul! Why, Nick, I love thee, lad; and I’ll do for thee +in the twinkling of an eye. Canst thou speak lines by heart? Well, then, +say these few after me, and bear them in thy mind.” + +And thereupon he hastily repeated some half a dozen disconnected lines +in a high, reciting tone. + +“Why, sir,” cried Nick, bewildered, “it is a part!” + +“To be sure,” said Carew, laughing, “it is a part—and a part of a very +good whole, too—a comedy by young Tom Heywood, that would make a graven +image split its sides with laughing; and do thou just learn that part, +good Master Skylark, and thou shalt say it in to-morrow’s play.” + +“What, Master Carew!” gasped Nick. “I—truly? With the Lord Admiral’s +players?” + +“Why, to be sure!” cried the master-player, in great glee, clapping him +upon the back. “Didst think I meant a parcel of dirty tinkers? Nay, lad; +thou art just the very fellow for the part—my lady’s page should be a +pretty lad, and, soul o’ me, thou art that same! And, Nick, thou shalt +sing Tom Heywood’s newest song. It is a pretty song; it is a lark-song +like thine own.” + +Nick could hardly believe his ears. To act with the Lord Admiral’s +company! To sing with them before all Coventry! It passed the wildest +dream that he had ever dreamed. What would the boys in Stratford say? +Aha! they would laugh on the other side of their mouths now! + +“But will they have me, sir?” he asked doubtfully. + +“Have thee?” said Master Carew, haughtily. “If I say go, thou shalt go. +I am master here. And I tell thee, Nick, that thou shalt see the play, +and be the play, in part, and—well, we shall see what we shall see.” + +With that he fell to humming and chuckling to himself, as if he had +swallowed a water-mill, while Nick turned ecstatic cart-wheels along the +grass beside the road, until presently Coventry came in sight. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + + +THE ADMIRAL’S COMPANY + +The ancient city of Coventry stands upon a little hill, with old St. +Michael’s steeple and the spire of Holy Trinity church rising above it +against the sky; and as the master-player and the boy came climbing +upward from the south, walls, towers, chimneys, and red-tiled roofs were +turned to gold by the glow of the setting sun. + +To Nick it seemed as if a halo overhung the town—a ruddy glory and a +wonder bright; for here the Grey Friars of the great monastery had +played their holy mysteries and miracle-plays for over a hundred years; +here the trade-guilds had held their pageants when the friars’ day was +done; here were all the wonders that old men told by winter fires. + +People were coming and going through the gates like bees about a hive, +and in the distance Nick could hear the sound of many voices, the rush +of feet, wheels, and hoofs, and the shrill pipe of music. Here and there +were little knots of country folk making holiday: a father and mother +with a group of rosy children; a lad and his lass, spruce in new +finery, and gay with bits of ribbon—merry groups that were ever +changing. Gay banners flapped on tall ash staves. The suburb fields were +filled with booths and tents and stalls and butts for archery. The very +air seemed eager with the eve of holiday. + +But what to Nick was breathless wonder was to Carew only a twice-told +tale; so he pushed through the crowded thoroughfares, amid a throng that +made Nick’s head spin round, and came quickly to the Blue Boar Inn. + +The court was crowded to the gates with horses, travelers, and +serving-men; and here and there and everywhere rushed the busy +innkeeper, with a linen napkin fluttering on his arm, his cap half off, +and in his hot hand a pewter flagon, from which the brown ale dripped in +spatters on his fat legs as he flew. + +“They’re here,” said Carew, looking shrewdly about; “for there is +Gregory Goole, my groom, and Stephen Magelt, the tire-man. In with thee, +Nicholas.” + +He put Nick before him with a little air of patronage, and pushed him +into the room. + +It was a large, low chamber with heavy beams overhead, hung with leather +jacks and pewter tankards. Around the walls stood rough tables, at which +a medley of guests sat eating, drinking, dicing, playing at cards, and +talking loudly all at once, while the tapster and the cook’s knave sped +wildly about. + +At a great table in the midst of the riot sat the Lord High Admiral’s +players—a score or more loud-swashing gallants, richly clad in ruffs +and bands, embroidered shirts, Italian doublets slashed and laced, +Venetian hose, gay velvet caps with jeweled bands, and every man a +poniard or a rapier at his hip. Nick felt very much like a little brown +sparrow in a flock of gaudy Indian birds. + +The board was loaded down with meat and drink, and some of the players +were eating with forks, a new trick from the London court, which Nick +had never seen before. But all the diners looked up when Carew’s face +was recognized, and welcomed him with a deafening shout. + +He waved his hand for silence. + +“Thanks for these kind plaudits, gentle friends,” said he, with a +mocking air; “I have returned.” + +“Yes; we see that ye have, Gaston,” they all shouted, and laughed again. + +“Ay,” said he, thrusting his hand into his pouch, “ye fled, and left me +to be spoiled by the spoiler, but ye see I have left the +spoiler spoiled.” + +Lifting his hand triumphantly, he shook in their faces the golden chain +that the burgesses of Stratford had given him, and then, laying his hand +upon Nick’s shoulder, bowed to them all, and to him with courtly grace, +and said: “Be known, be known, all! Gentlemen, my Lord Admiral’s +Players, Master Nicholas Skylark, the sweetest singer in all the kingdom +of England!” + +Nick’s cheeks flushed hotly, and his eyes fell; for they all stared +curiously, first at him, and then at Carew standing up behind him, and +several grinned mockingly and winked in a knowing way. He stole a look +at Carew; but the master-player’s face was frank and quite unmoved, so +that Nick felt reassured. + +“Why, sirs,” said Carew, as some began to laugh and to speak to one +another covertly, “it is no jest. He hath a sweeter voice than Cyril +Davy’s, the best woman’s-voice in all London town. Upon my word, it is +the sweetest voice a body ever heard—outside of heaven and the holy +angels!” He lowered his tone and bowed his head a little. “I’ll stake +mine honour on it!” + +“Hast any, Gaston?” called a jeering voice, whereat the whole room +roared. + +But Carew cried again in a high voice that would be heard above the +noise: “Now, hark ’e; what I say is so. It is, upon my word, and on the +remnant of mine honour! And to-morrow ye shall see, for Master Skylark +is to sing and play with us.” + +When he had said that, nothing would do but Nick must sit down and eat +with them; so they made a place for him and for Master Carew. + +Nick bent his head and said a grace, at which some of them laughed, +until Carew shook his head with a stern frown; and before he ate he +bowed politely to them all, as his mother had taught him to do. They all +bowed mockingly, and hilariously offered him wine, which, when he +refused, they pressed upon him, until Carew stopped them, saying that he +would have no more of that. As he spoke he clapped his hand upon his +poniard and scowled blackly. They all laughed, but offered Nick no more +wine; instead, they picked him choice morsels, and made a great deal of +him, until his silly young head was quite turned, and he sat up and gave +himself a few airs—not many, for Stratford was no great place in which +to pick up airs. + +When they had eaten they wanted Nick to sing; but again Carew +interposed. “Nay,” said he; “he hath just eaten his fill, so he cannot +sing. Moreover, he is no jackdaw to screech in such a cage as this. He +shall not sing until to-morrow in the play.” + +At this some of the leading players who held shares in the venture +demurred, doubting if Nick could sing at all; but—“Hark ’e,” said +Master Carew, shortly, clapping his hand upon his poniard, “I say that +he can. Do ye take me?” + +So they said no more; and shortly after he took Nick away, and left them +over their tankards, singing uproariously. + +The Blue Boar Inn had not a bed to spare, nor had the players kept a +place for Carew; at which he smiled grimly, said he’d not forget it, and +took lodgings for himself and Nick at the Three Tuns in the next street. + +Nick spoke indeed of his mother’s cousin, with whom he had meant to +stay, but the master-player protested warmly; so, little loath, and much +flattered by the attentions of so great a man, Nick gave over the idea +and said no more about it. + +When the chamberlain had shown them to their room and they were both +undressed, Nick knelt beside the bed and said a prayer, as he always did +at home. Carew watched him curiously. It was quiet there, and the light +dim; Nick was young, and his yellow hair was very curly. Carew could +hear the faint breath murmuring through the boy’s lips as he prayed, and +while he stared at the little white figure his mouth twitched in a queer +way. But he tossed his head, and muttered to himself, “What, Gaston +Carew, turning soft? Nay, nay. I’ll do it—on my soul, I will!” rolled +into bed, and was soon fast asleep. + + * * * * * + +As for Nick, what with the excitement of the day, the dazzling fancies +in his brain, his tired legs, the weird night noises in the town, and +strange, tremendous dreams, he scarce could get to sleep at all; but +toward morning he fell into a refreshing doze, and did not wake until +the town was loud with May. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + + +THE MAY-DAY PLAY + +It was soon afternoon. All Coventry was thronged with people keeping +holiday, and at the Blue Boar a scene of wild confusion reigned. + +Tap-room and hall were crowded with guests, and in the cobbled court +horses innumerable stamped and whinnied. The players, with knitted +brows, stalked about the quieter nooks, going over their several parts, +and looking to their costumes, which were for the most part upon their +backs; while the thumping and pounding of the carpenters at work upon +the stage in the inn-yard were enough to drive a quiet-loving +person wild. + +Nick scarcely knew whether he were on his head or on his heels. The +master-player would not let him eat at all after once breaking his fast, +for fear it might affect his voice, and had him say his lines a hundred +times until he had them pat. Then he was off, directing here, there, and +everywhere, until the court was cleared of all that had no business +there, and the last surreptitious small boy had been duly projected +from the gates by Peter Hostler’s hobnailed boot. + +“Now, Nick,” said Carew, coming up all in a gale, and throwing a +sky-blue silken cloak about Nick’s shoulders, “thou’lt enter here”; and +he led him to a hallway door just opposite the gates. “When Master +Whitelaw, as the Duke, calls out, ‘How now, who comes?—I’ll match him +for the ale!’ be quickly in and answer to thy part; and, marry, boy, +don’t miss thy cues, or—tsst, thy head’s not worth a peascod!” With +that he clapped his hand upon his poniard and glared into Nick’s eyes, +as if to look clear through to the back of the boy’s wits. Nick heard +his white teeth grind, and was all at once very much afraid of him, for +he did indeed look dreadful. + +So Nicholas Attwood stood by the entry door, with his heart in his +throat, waiting his turn. + +He could hear the pages in the courtyard outside shouting for stools for +their masters, and squabbling over the best places upon the stage. Then +the gates creaked, and there came a wild rush of feet and a great crying +out as the ’prentices and burghers trooped into the inn-yard, pushing +and crowding for places near the stage. Those who had the money bawled +aloud for farthing stools. The rest stood jostling in a wrangling crowd +upon the ground, while up and down a girl’s shrill voice went all the +time, crying high, “Cherry ripe, cherry ripe! Who’ll buy my sweet May +cherries?” + +Then there was another shout, and a rattling tread of feet along the +wooden balconies that ran around the walls of the inn-yard, and cries +from the apprentices below: “Good-day, fair Master Harrington! Good-day, +Sir Thomas Parkes! Good-day, sweet Mistress Nettleby and Master +Nettleby! Good-day, good-day, good-day!” for the richer folk were coming +in at twopence each, and all the galleries were full. And then he heard +the baker’s boy with sugared cakes and ginger-nuts go stamping up +the stairs. + +The musicians in the balcony overhead were tuning up. There was a flute, +a viol, a gittern, a fiddle, and a drum; and behind the curtain, just +outside the door, Nick could hear the master-player’s low voice giving +hasty orders to the others. + +So he said his lines all over to himself, and cleared his throat. Then +on a sudden a shutter opened high above the orchestra, a trumpet blared, +the kettledrum crashed, and he heard a loud voice shout: + +“Good citizens of Coventry, and high-born gentles all: know ye now that +we, the players of the company of His Grace, Charles, Lord Howard, High +Admiral of England, Ireland, Wales, Calais, and Boulogne, the marches of +Normandy, Gascony, and Aquitaine, Captain-General of the Navy and the +Seas of Her Gracious Majesty the Queen—” + +At that the crowd in the courtyard cheered and cheered again. + +“—will, with your kind permission, play forthwith the laughable comedy +of ‘The Three Grey Gowns,’ by Master Thomas Heywood, in which will be +spoken many good things, old and new, and a brand-new song will be sung. +Now, hearken all—the play begins!” + +The trumpet blared, the kettledrum crashed again, and as a sudden hush +fell over the throng without Nick heard the voices of the players +going on. + +It was a broad farce, full of loud jests and nonsense, a great thwacking +of sticks and tumbling about; and Nick, with his eye to the crack of the +door, listened with all his ears for his cue, far too excited even to +think of laughing at the rough jokes, though the crowd in the inn-yard +roared till they held their sides. + +Carew came hurrying up, with an anxious look in his restless eyes. + +“Ready, Nicholas!” said he, sharply, taking Nick by the arm and lifting +the latch. “Go straight down front now as I told thee—mind thy +cues—speak boldly—sing as thou didst sing for me—and if thou wouldst +not break mine heart, do not fail me now! I have staked it all upon thee +here—and we _must_ win!” + +“How now, who comes?” Nick heard a loud voice call outside—the +door-latch clicked behind him—he was out in the open air and down the +stage before he quite knew where he was. + +The stage was built against the wall just opposite the gates. It was but +a temporary platform of planks laid upon trestles. One side of it was +against the wall, and around the three other sides the crowd was packed +close to the platform rail. + +At the ends, upon the boards, several wealthy gallants sat on high, +three-legged stools, within arm’s reach of the players acting there. The +courtyard was a sea of heads, and the balconies were filled with +gentlefolk in holiday attire, eating cakes and chaffing gaily at the +play. All was one bewildered cloud of staring eyes to Nick, and the only +thing which he was sure he saw was the painted sign that hung upon the +curtain at the rear, which in the lack of other scenery announced in +large red print: “This is a Room in Master Jonah Jackdawe’s House.” + +And then he heard the last quick words, “I’ll match him for the ale!” +and started on his lines. + +It was not that he said so ill what little he had to say, but that his +voice was homelike and familiar in its sound, one of their own, with no +amazing London accent to the words—just the speech of every-day, the +sort that they all knew. + +First, some one in the yard laughed out—a shock-headed ironmonger’s +apprentice, “Whoy, bullies, there be hayseed in his hair. ’Tis took off +pasture over-soon. I fecks! they’ve plucked him green!” + +There was a hoarse, exasperating laugh. Nick hesitated in his lines. The +player at his back tried to prompt him, but only made the matter worse, +and behind the green curtain at the door a hand went “clap” upon a +dagger-hilt. The play lagged, and the crowd began to jeer. Nick’s heart +was full of fear and of angry shame that he had dared to try. Then all +at once there came a brief pause, in which he vaguely realized that no +one spoke. The man behind him thrust him forward, and whispering +wrathfully, “Quick, quick—sing up, thou little fool!” stepped back and +left him there alone. + +[Illustration: “NICK THOUGHT OF HIS MOTHER’S SINGING ON A SUMMER’S +EVENING—DREW A DEEP BREATH AND BEGAN TO SING.”] + +A viol overhead took up the time, the gittern struck a few sharp +notes. This unexpected music stopped the noise, and all was still. Nick +thought of his mother’s voice singing on a summer’s evening among the +hollyhocks, and as the viol’s droning died away he drew a deep breath +and began to sing the words of “Heywood’s newest song”: + + “Pack, clouds, away, and welcome, day; + With night we banish sorrow; + Sweet air, blow soft; mount, lark, aloft, + To give my love good-morrow!” + +It was only a part of a madrigal, the air to which they had fitted the +words,—the same air that Nick had sung in the woods,—a thing scarce +meant ever to be sung alone, a simple strain, a few plain notes, and at +the close one brief, queer, warbling trill like a bird’s wild song, that +rose and fell and rose again like a silver ripple. + +The instruments were still; the fresh young voice came out alone, and it +was done so soon that Nick hardly knew that he had sung at all. For a +moment no one seemed to breathe. Then there was a very great noise, and +all the court seemed hurling at him. A man upon the stage sprang to his +feet. What they were going to do to him Nick did not know. He gave a +frightened cry, and ran past the green curtain, through the open door, +and into the master-player’s excited arms. + +“Quick, quick!” cried Carew. “Go back, go back! There, hark!—dost not +hear them call? Quick, out again—they call thee back!” With that he +thrust Nick through the door. The man upon the stage came up, slipped +something into his hand—Nick, all bewildered, knew not what; and there +he stood, quite stupefied, not knowing what to do. Then Carew came out +hastily and led him down the stage, bowing, and pressing his hand to his +heart, and smiling like a summer sunrise; so that Nick, seeing this, did +the same, and bowed as neatly as he could; though, to be sure, his was +only a simple, country-bred bow, and no such ceremonious to-do as Master +Carew’s courtly London obeisance. + +Every one was standing up and shouting so that not a soul could hear his +ears, until the ironmonger’s apprentice bellowed above the rest; “Whoy, +bullies!” he shouted, amid a chorus of cheers and laughter, “didn’t I +say ’twas catched out in the fields—it be a skylark, sure enough! Come, +Muster Skylark, sing that song again, an’ thou shalt ha’ my +brand-new cap!” + +Then many voices cried out together, “Sing it again! The Skylark—the +Skylark!” + +Nick looked up, startled. “Why, Master Carew,” said he, with a tremble +in his voice, “do they mean me?” + +Carew put one hand beneath Nick’s chin and turned his face up, smiling. +The master-player’s cheeks were flushed with triumph, and his dark eyes +danced with pride. “Ay, Nicholas Skylark; ’tis thou they mean.” + +The viol and the music came again from overhead, and when they ceased +Nick sang the little song once more. And when the master-player had +taken him outside, and the play was over, some fine ladies came and +kissed him, to his great confusion; for no one but his mother or his +kin had ever done so before, and these had much perfume about them, musk +and rose-attar, so that they smelled like rose-mallows in July. The +players of the Lord Admiral’s company were going about shaking hands +with Carew and with each other as if they had not met for years, and +slapping one another upon the back; and one came over, a tall, solemn, +black-haired man, he who had written the song, and stood with his feet +apart and stared at Nick, but spoke never a word, which Nick thought was +very singular. But as he turned away he said, with a world of pity in +his voice, “And I have writ two hundred plays, yet never saw thy like. +Lad, lad, thou art a jewel in a wild swine’s snout!” which Nick did not +understand at all; nor why Master Carew said so sharply, “Come, Heywood, +hold thy blabbing tongue; we are all in the same sty.” + +“Speak for thyself, Gat Carew!” answered Master Heywood, firmly. “I’ll +have no hand in this affair, I tell thee once for all!” + +Master Carew flushed queerly and bit his lip, and, turning hastily away, +took Nick to walk about the town. Nick then, for the first time, looked +into his hand to see what the man upon the stage had given him. It was a +gold rose-noble. + + + + +CHAPTER X + + +AFTER THE PLAY + +Through the high streets of the third city of the realm Master Gaston +Carew strode as if he were a very king, and Coventry his kingdom. + +There was music everywhere,—of pipers and fiddlers, drums, tabrets, +flutes, and horns,—and there were dancing bears upon the corners, with +minstrels, jugglers, chapmen crying their singsong wares, and such a +mighty hurly-burly as Nick had never seen before. And wherever there was +a wonder to be seen, Carew had Nick see it, though it cost a penny a +peep, and lifted him to watch the fencing and quarter-staff play in the +market-place. And at one of the gay booths he bought gilt ginger-nuts +and caraway cakes with currants on the top, and gave them all to Nick, +who thanked him kindly, but said, if Master Carew pleased, he’d rather +have his supper, for he was very hungry. + +“Why, to be sure,” said Carew, and tossed a silver penny for a scramble +to the crowd; “thou shalt have the finest supper in the town.” + +Whereupon, bowing to all the great folk they met, and being bowed to +most politely in return, they came to the Three Tuns. + +Stared at by a hundred curious eyes, made way for everywhere, and +followed by wondering exclamations of envy, it was little wonder that +Nick, a simple country lad, at last began to think that there was not in +all the world another gentleman so grand as Master Gaston Carew, and +also to have a pleasant notion that Nicholas Attwood was no bad +fellow himself. + +The lordly innkeeper came smirking and bobbing obsequiously about, with +his freshest towel on his arm, and took the master-player’s order as a +dog would take a bone. + +“Here, sirrah,” said Carew, haughtily; “fetch us some repast, I care not +what, so it be wholesome food—a green Banbury cheese, some simnel bread +and oat-cakes; a pudding, hark ’e, sweet and full of plums, with honey +and a pasty—a meat pasty, marry, a pasty made of fat and toothsome +eels; and moreover, fellow, ale to wash it down—none of thy penny ale, +mind ye, too weak to run out of the spigot, but snapping good brew—dost +take me?—with beef and mustard, tripe, herring, and a good fat capon +broiled to a turn!” + +The innkeeper gaped like a fish. + +“How now, sirrah? Dost think I cannot pay thy score?” quoth Carew, +sharply. + +“Nay, nay,” stammered the host; “but, sir, where—where will ye put it +all without bursting into bits?” + +“Be off with thee!” cried Carew, sharply. “That is my affair. Nay, +Nick,” said he, laughing at the boy’s, astonished look; “we shall not +burst. What we do not have to-night we’ll have in the morning. ’Tis the +way with these inns,—to feed the early birds with scraps,—so the more +we leave from supper the more we’ll have for breakfast. And thou wilt +need a good breakfast to ride on all day long.” + +“Ride?” exclaimed Nick. “Why, sir, I was minded to walk back to +Stratford, and keep my gold rose-noble whole.” + +“Walk?” cried the master-player, scornfully. “Thou, with thy golden +throat? Nay, Nicholas, thou shalt ride to-morrow like a very king, if I +have to pay for the horse myself, twelvepence the day!” and with that he +began chuckling as if it were a joke. + +But Nick stood up, and, bowing, thanked him gratefully; at which the +master-player went from chuckling to laughing, and leered at Nick so +oddly that the boy would have thought him tipsy, save that there had +been nothing yet to drink. And a queer sense of uneasiness came creeping +over him as he watched the master-player’s eyes opening and shutting, +opening and shutting, so that one moment he seemed to be staring and the +next almost asleep; though all the while his keen, dark eyes peered out +from between the lids like old dog-foxes from their holes, looking Nick +over from head to foot, and from foot to head again, as if measuring him +with an ellwand. + +When the supper came, filling the whole table and the sideboard too, +Nick arose to serve the meat as he was used at home; but, “Nay, Nicholas +Skylark, my honey-throat,” cried Carew, “sit thee down! Thou wait on +me—thou songster of the silver tongue? Nay, nay, sweetheart; the knave +shall wait on thee, or I’ll wait on thee myself—I will, upon my word! +Why, Nick, I tell thee I love thee, and dost think I’d let thee wait or +walk? nay, nay, thou’lt ride to-morrow like a king, and have all +Stratford wait for thee!” At this he chuckled so that he almost choked +upon a mouthful of bread and meat. + +“Canst ride, Nicholas?” + +“Fairly, sir.” + +“Fairly? Fie, modesty! I warrant thou canst ride like a very centaur. +What sayest—I’ll ride a ten-mile race with thee to-morrow as we go?” + +“Why,” cried Nick, “are ye going back to Stratford to play, after all?” + +“To Stratford? Nay; not for a bushel of good gold Harry shovel-boards! +Bah! That town is ratsbane and nightshade in my mouth! Nay, we’ll not go +back to Stratford town; but we shall ride a piece with thee, +Nicholas,—we shall ride a piece with thee.” + +Chuckling again to himself, he fell to upon the pasty and said no more. + +Nick held his peace, as he was taught to do unless first spoken to; but +he could not help thinking that stage-players, and master-players in +particular, were very queer folk. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + + +DISOWNED + +Night came down on Stratford town that last sweet April day, and the +pastured kine came lowing home. Supper-time passed, and the cool stars +came twinkling out; but still Nick Attwood did not come. + +“He hath stayed to sleep with Robin, Master Burgess Getley’s son,” said +Mistress Attwood, standing in the door, and staring out into the dusk; +“he is often lonely here.” + +“He should ha’ telled thee on it, then,” said Simon Attwood. “This be no +way to do. I’ve a mind to put him to a trade.” + +“Nay, Simon,” protested his wife; “he may be careless,—he is young +yet,—but Nicholas is a good lad. Let him have his schooling out—he’ll +be the better for it.” + +“Then let him show it as he goes along,” said Attwood, grimly, as he +blew the candle out. + +But May-day dawned; mid-morning came, mid-afternoon, then supper-time +again; and supper-time crept into dusk—and still no Nicholas Attwood. + +His mother grew uneasy; but his father only growled: “We’ll reckon up +when he cometh home. Master Brunswood tells me he was na at the school +the whole day yesterday—and he be feared to show his face. I’ll _fear_ +him with a bit of birch!” + +“Do na be too hard with the lad, Simon,” pleaded Mistress Attwood. “Who +knows what hath happened to him? He must be hurt, or he’d ’a’ come home +to his mother”—and she began to wring her hands. “He may ha’ fallen +from a tree, and lieth all alone out on the hill—or, Simon, the Avon! +Thou dost na think our lad be drowned?” + +“Fudge!” said Simon Attwood. “Born to hang’ll never drown!” + +When, however, the next day crept around and still his son did not come +home, a doubt stole into the tanner’s own heart. Yet when his wife was +for starting out to seek some tidings of the boy, he stopped her +wrathfully. + +“Nay, Margaret,” said he; “thou shalt na go traipsing around the town +like a hen wi’ but one chick. I wull na ha’ thee made a laughing-stock +by all the fools in Stratford.” + +But as the third day rolled around, about the middle of the afternoon +the tanner himself sneaked out at the back door of his tannery in +Southam’s lane, and went up into the town. + +“Robin Getley,” he asked at the guildschool door, “was my son wi’ thee +overnight?” + +“Nay, Master Attwood. Has he not come back?” + +“Come back? From where?” + +Robin hung his head. + +“From, where?” demanded the tanner. “Come, boy!” + +“From Coventry,” said Robin, knowing that the truth would out at last, +anyway. + +“He went to see the players, sir,” spoke up Hal Saddler, briskly, not +heeding Robin’s stealthy kick. “He said he’d bide wi’ Diccon Haggard +overnight; an’ he said he wished he were a master-player himself, +sir, too.” + +Simon Attwood, frowning blackly, hurried on. It _was_ Nick, then, whom +he had seen crossing the market-square. + +Wat Raven, who swept Clopton bridge, had seen two boys go up the Warwick +road. “One were thy Nick, Muster Attwood,” said he, thumping the dirt +from his broom across the coping-stone, “and the other were +Dawson’s Hodge.” + +The angry tanner turned again into the market-place. His brows were +knit, and his eyes were hot, yet his step was heavy and slow. Above all +things, he hated disobedience, yet in his surly way he loved his only +son; and far worse than disobedience, he hated that _his_ son +should disobey. + +Astride a beam in front of Master Thompson’s house sat Roger Dawson. +Simon Attwood took him by the collar none too gently. + +“Here, leave be!” choked Roger, wriggling hard; but the tanner’s grip +was like iron. “Wert thou in Coventry May-day?” he asked sternly. + +“Nay, that I was na,” sputtered Hodge. “A plague on Coventry!” + +“Do na lie to me—thou wert there wi’ my son Nicholas.” + +“I was na,” snarled Hodge. “Nick Attwood threshed me in the Warrick +road; an’ I be no dawg to follow at the heels o’ folks as threshes me.” + +“Where be he, then?” demanded Attwood, with a sudden sinking at heart in +spite of his wrath. + +“How should I know? A went away wi’ a play-actoring fellow in a +plum-colored cloak; and play-actoring fellow said a loved him like a’s +own, and patted a’s back, and flung me hard names, like stones at a lost +dawg. Now le’ me go, Muster Attwood—cross my heart, ’tis all I know!” + +“Is’t Nicholas ye seek, Master Attwood?” asked Tom Carpenter, turning +from his fleurs-de-lis. “Why, sir, he’s gone got famous, sir. I was in +Coventry mysel’ May-day; and—why, sir, Nick was all the talk! He sang +there at the Blue Boar inn-yard with the Lord High Admiral’s players, +and took a part in the play; and, sir, ye’d scarce believe me, but the +people went just daft to hear him sing, sir.” + +Simon Attwood heard no more. He walked down High street in a daze. With +hard men bitter blows strike doubly deep. He stopped before the +guildhall school. The clock struck five; each iron clang seemed beating +upon his heart. He raised his hand as if to shut the clangor out, and +then his face grew stern and hard. “He hath gone his own wilful way,” +said he, bitterly. “Let him follow it to the end.” + +Mistress Attwood came to meet him, running in the garden-path. +“Nicholas?” was all that she could say. + +“Never speak to me of him, again,” he said, and passed her by into the +house. “He hath gone away with a pack of stage-playing rascals and +vagabonds, whither no man knoweth.” + +Taking the heavy Bible down from the shelf, he lit a rushlight at the +fire, although it was still broad daylight, and sat there with the great +book open in his lap until the sun went down and the chill night wind +crept in along the floor; yet he could not read a single word and never +turned a page. + + + + +CHAPTER XII + + +A STRANGE RIDE + +Rat-a-tat-tat at the first dim hint of dawn went the chamberlain’s +knuckles upon the door. To Nick it seemed scarce midnight yet, so sound +had been his sleep. + +Master Carew having gotten into his high-topped riding-boots with a +great puffing and tugging, they washed their faces at the inn-yard pump +by the smoky light of the hostler’s lantern, and then in a subdued, +half-wakened way made a hearty breakfast off the fragments of the last +night’s feast. Part of the remaining cold meat, cheese, and cakes Carew +stowed in his leather pouch. The rest he left in the lap of a beggar +sleeping beside the door. + +The street was dim with a chilly fog, through which a few pale stars +still struggled overhead. The houses were all shut and barred; nobody +was abroad, and the night-watch slept in comfortable doorways here and +there, with lolling heads and lanterns long gone out. As they came along +the crooked street, a stray cat scurried away with scared green eyes, +and a kenneled hound set up a lonesome howl. + +But the Blue Boar Inn was stirring like an ant-hill, with firefly +lanterns flitting up and down, and a cheery glow about the open door. +The horses of the company, scrubbed unreasonably clean, snorted and +stamped in little bridled clumps about the courtyard, and the +stable-boys, not scrubbed at all, clanked at the pump or shook out +wrinkled saddle-cloths with most prodigious yawns. The grooms were +buckling up the packs; the chamberlain and sleepy-lidded maids stood at +the door, waiting their fare-well farthings. + +Some of the company yawned in the tap-room; some yawned out of doors +with steaming stirrup-cup in hand; and some came yawning down the +stairways pulling on their riding-cloaks, booted, spurred, and ready for +a long day’s ride. + +“Good-morrow, sirs,” said Carew, heartily. “Good-morrow, sir, to you,” +said they, and all came over to speak to Nicholas in a very kindly way; +and one or two patted him on the cheek and walked away speaking in +under-tones among themselves, keeping one eye on Carew all the while. +And Master Tom Heywood, the play-writer, came out with a great slice of +fresh wheat-bread, thick with butter and dripping with yellow honey, and +gave it to Nick; and stood there silently with a very queer expression +watching him eat it, until Carew’s groom led up a stout hackney and a +small roan palfrey to the block, and the master-player, crying +impatiently, “Up with thee, Nick; we must be ambling!” sprang into the +saddle of the gray. + +The sleepy inn-folk roused a bit to send a cheery volley of, “Fare ye +well, sirs; come again,” after the departing players, and the long +cavalcade cantered briskly out of the inn-yard, in double rank, with a +great clinking of bridle-chains and a drifting odor of wet leather and +heavy perfume. + +Nick sat very erect and rode his best, feeling like some errant knight +of the great Round Table, ready to right the whole world’s wrongs. “But +what about the horse?” said he. “We can na keep him in Stratford, sir.” + +“Oh, that’s all seen to,” said the master-player. “’Tis to be sent back +by the weekly carrier.” + +“And where do I turn into the Stratford road, sir?” asked Nick, as the +players clattered down the cobbled street in a cloud of mist that +steamed up so thickly from the stones that the horses seemed to have no +legs, but to float like boats. + +“Some distance further on,” replied Carew, carelessly. “’Tis not the +way we came that thou shalt ride to-day; that is t’ other end of town, +and the gate not open yet. But the longest way round is the shortest way +home, so let’s be spurring on.” + +At the corner of the street a cross and sleepy cobbler was strapping a +dirty urchin, who bellowed lustily. Nick winced. + +“Hollo!” cried Carew. “What’s to do?” + +“Why, sir,” said Nick, ruefully, “father will thresh me well this +night.” + +“Nay,” said Carew, in a quite decided tone; “that he’ll not, I promise +thee!”—and as he spoke he chuckled softly to himself. + +The man before them turned suddenly around and grinned queerly; but, +catching the master-player’s eye, whipped his head about like a +weather-vane in a gale, and cantered on. + +As they came down the narrow street the watchmen were just swinging wide +the city gates, and gave a cheer to speed the parting guests, who gave a +rouse in turn, and were soon lost to sight in the mist which hid the +valley in a great gray sea. + +“How shall I know where to turn off, sir?” asked Nick, a little +anxiously. “’Tis all alike.” + +“I’ll tell thee,” said the master-player; “rest thee easy on that score. +I know the road thou art to ride much better than thou dost thyself.” + +He smiled quite frankly as he spoke, and Nick could not help wondering +why the man before them again turned around and eyed him with that +sneaking grin. + +He did not like the fellow’s looks. He had scowling black brows, hair +cut as close as if the rats had gnawed it off, a pair of ill-shaped +bandy-legs, a wide, unwholesome slit of a mouth, and a nose like a +raspberry tart. His whole appearance was servile and mean, and there was +a sly malice in his furtive eyes. Besides that, and a thing which +strangely fascinated Nick’s gaze, there was a hole through the gristle +of his right ear, scarred about as if it had been burned, and through +this hole the fellow had tied a bow of crimson ribbon, like a butterfly +alighted upon his ear. + +“A pretty fellow!” said Carew, with a shrug. “He’ll be hard put to dodge +the hangman yet; but he’s a right good fellow in his way, and he has +served me—he has served me.” + +The first loud burst of talk had ceased, and all rode silently along. +The air was chill, and Nick was grateful for the cloak that Carew threw +around him. There was no sound but the beat of many hoofs in the +dust-padded road, and now and then the crowing of a cock somewhere +within the cloaking fog. The stars were gone, and the sky was lighting +up; and all at once, as they rode, the clouds ahead, low down and to the +right, broke raggedly away and let a red sun-gleam shoot through across +the mist, bathing the riders in dazzling rosy light. + +“Why, Master Carew,” cried Nick, no little startled, “there comes the +sun, almost ahead! We’re riding east-ward, sir. We’ve missed the road!” + +“Oh, no, we’ve not,” said Carew; “nothing of the sort.” His tone was so +peremptory and sharp that Nick said nothing more, but rode along, +vaguely wishing that he was already clattering down Stratford +High street. + +The clouds scattered as the sun came up, and the morning haze drifted +away into cool dales, and floated off upon the breeze. And as the world +woke up the players wakened too, and rode gaily along, laughing, +singing, and chattering together, until Nick thought he had never in all +his life before seen such a jolly fellowship. His heart was blithe as he +reined his curveting palfrey by the master-player’s side, and watched +the sunlight dance and sparkle along the dashing line from dagger-hilts +and jeweled clasps, and the mist-lank plumes curl crisp again in the +warmth of the rising sun. + +The master-player, too, had a graceful, taking way of being half +familiar with the lad; he was besides a marvelous teller of wonderful +tales, and whiled away the time with jests and quips, mile after mile, +till Nick forgot both road and time, and laughed until his sides +were sore. + +Yet slowly, as they rode along, it came home to him with the passing of +the land that this was country new and strange. So he began to take +notice of this and that beside the way; and as he noticed he began to +grow uneasy. Thrice had he come to Coventry, but surely never by a road +like this. + +Yet still the master-player joked and laughed and pleased the boy with +little things—until Nick laughed too, and let the matter go. At last, +however, when they had ridden fully an hour, they passed a moss-grown +abbey on the left-hand side of the road, a strange old place that Nick +could not recall. + +“Are ye sure, Master Carew,” he ventured timidly— + +At that the master-player took on so offended an air that Nick was sorry +he had spoken. + +“Why, now,” said Carew, haughtily, “if thou dost know the roads of +England better than I, who have trudged and ridden them all these years, +I’ll sit me down and learn of thee how to follow mine own nose. I tell +thee I know the road thou art to ride this day better than thou dost +thyself; and I’ll see to it that thou dost come without fail to the very +place that thou art going. I will, upon my word, and on the remnant of +mine honour!” + +But in spite of this assurance, and in spite of the master-player’s +ceaseless stream of gaiety and marvels, Nick became more and more +uneasy. The road was certainly growing stranger and stranger as they +passed. The company, too, instead of ambling leisurely along, as they +had done at first, were now spurring ahead at a good round gallop, in +answer to a shrill whistle from the master-player; and the horses were +wet with sweat. + +They passed a country village, too, that was quite unknown to Nick, and +a great highway running to the north that he had never seen before; and +when they had ridden for about two hours, the road swerved southward to +a shining ford, and on a little tableland beyond he saw the gables of a +town he did not know. + +“Why, Master Carew!” he cried out, half indignant, half perplexed, and +thoroughly frightened, “this is na the Stratford road at all. I’m going +back. I will na ride another mile!” + +As he spoke he wheeled the roan sharply out of the clattering file with +a slash of the rein across the withers, and started back along the hill +past the rest of the company, who came thumping down behind. + +“Stop him! Stop him there!” he heard the master-player shout, and there +was something in the fierce, high voice that turned his whole heart +sick. What right had they to stop him? This was not the Stratford road; +he was certain of that now. But “Stop him—stop him there!” he heard the +master-player call, and a wild, unreasoning fright came over him. He dug +his heels into the palfrey’s heaving sides and urged him up the hill +through the cloud of dust that came rolling down behind the horsemen. +The hindmost riders had plunged into those before, and the whole array +was struggling, shouting, and wrangling in wild disorder; but out of the +flurry Carew and the bandy-legged man with the ribbon in his ear spurred +furiously and came galloping after him at the top of their speed. + +Nick cried out, and beat the palfrey with the rein; but the chase was +short. They overtook him as he topped the hill, one on each side, and, +leaning over, Carew snatched the bridle from his hand. “Thou little +imp!” he panted, as he turned the roan around and started down the hill. +“Don’t try this on again!” + +“Oh, Master Carew,” gasped Nick, “what are ye going to do wi’ me?” + +“Do with thee?” cried the master-player, savagely clapping his hand upon +his poniard,—“why, I am going to do with thee just whatever I please. +Dost hear? And, hark ’e, this sort of caper doth not please me at all; +and by the whistle of the Lord High Admiral, if thou triest it on again, +thy life is not worth a rotten peascod!” + +Unbuckling the rein, he tossed one end to the bandy-legged man, and +holding the other in his own hand, with Nick riding helplessly between +them, they trotted down the hill again, took their old places in the +ranks, and spattered through the shallow ford. + +The bandy-legged man had pulled a dagger from beneath his coat, and held +it under his bridle-rein, shining through the horse’s mane as they +dashed through the still half-sleeping town. Nick was speechless +with terror. + +Beyond the town’s end they turned sharply to the northeast, galloping +steadily onward for what was perhaps half an hour, though to Nick it +seemed a forever, until they came out into a great highway running +southward. “Watling street!” he heard the man behind him say, and knew +that they were in the old Roman road that stretched from London to the +north. Still they were galloping, though long strings dribbled from the +horses’ mouths, and the saddle-leathers dripped with foam. One or two +looked back at him and bit their lips; but Carew’s eyes were hot and +fierce, and his hand was on his poniard. The rest, after a curious +glance or two, shrugged their shoulders carelessly and galloped on: this +affair was Master Gaston Carew’s business, not theirs. + +Until high noon they hurried on with neither stop nor stay. Then they +came to a place where a little brook sang through the grass by the +roadside in a shady nook beneath some mighty oaks, and there the +master-player whistled for a halt, to give the horses breath and rest, +and to water them at the brook-pools. Some of the players sauntered up +and down to stretch their tired legs, munching meat and bread; and some +lay down upon the grass and slept a little. Two of them came, offering +Nick some cakes and cheese; but he was crying hard and would neither +eat nor drink, though Carew urged him earnestly. Then Master Tom +Heywood, with an ugly look at Carew, and without so much as an +if-ye-please or a by-your-leave, led Nick up the brook to a spot where +it had not been muddied by the horses, and made him wash his dusty face +and hands in the cool water and dampen his hair, though he complied as +if in a daze. And indeed Nick rode on through the long afternoon, +clinging helplessly to the pommel of his saddle, sobbing bitterly until +for very weariness he could no longer sob. + +It was after nine o’clock that night when they rode into Towcester, and +all that was to be seen was a butcher’s boy carting garbage out of the +town and whistling to keep his courage up. The watch had long since gone +to sleep about the silent streets, but a dim light burned in the +tap-room of the Old Brown Cow; and there the players rested for +the night. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + + +A DASH FOR FREEDOM + +Nick awoke from a heavy, burning sleep, aching from head to foot. The +master-player, up and dressed, stood by the window, scowling grimly out +into the ashy dawn. Nick made haste to rise, but could not stifle a +sharp cry of pain as he staggered to his feet, he was so racked and sore +with riding. + +At the boy’s smothered cry Carew turned, and his dark face softened with +a sudden look of pity and concern. “Why, Nick, my lad,” he cried, and +hurried to his side, “this is too bad, indeed!” and without more words +took him gently in his arms and carried him down to the courtyard well, +where he bathed him softly from neck to heel in the cold, refreshing +water, and wiped him with a soft, clean towel as tenderly as if he had +been the lad’s own mother. And having dried him thoroughly, he rubbed +him with a waxy ointment that smelled of henbane and poppies, until the +aching was almost gone. So soft and so kind was he withal that Nick took +heart after a little and asked timidly, “And ye will let me go home +to-day, sir, will ye not?” + +The master-player frowned. + +“Please, Master Carew, let me go.” + +“Come, come,” said Carew, impatiently, “enough of this!” and stamped his +foot. + +“But, oh, Master Carew,” pleaded Nick, with a sob in his throat, “my +mother’s heart will surely break if I do na come home!” + +Carew started, and his mouth twitched queerly. “Enough, I say—enough!” +he cried. “I will not hear; I’ll have no more. I tell thee hold thy +tongue—be dumb! I’ll not have ears—thou shalt not speak! Dost hear?” +He dashed the towel to the ground. “I bid thee hold thy tongue.” + +Nick hid his face between his hands, and leaned against the rough stone +wall, a naked, shivering, wretched little chap indeed. “Oh, mother, +mother, mother!” he sobbed pitifully. + +A singular expression came over the master-player’s face. “I will not +hear—I tell thee I will not hear!” he choked, and, turning suddenly +away, he fell upon the sleepy hostler, who was drawing water at the +well, and rated him outrageously, to that astounded worthy’s +great amazement. + +Nick crept into his clothes, and stole away to the kitchen door. There +was a red-faced woman there who bade him not to cry—’t would soon be +breakfast-time. Nick thought he could not eat at all; but when the +savory smell crept out and filled the chilly air, his poor little empty +stomach would not be denied, and he ate heartily. Master Heywood sat +beside him and gave him the choicest bits from his own trencher; and +Carew himself, seeing that he ate, looked strangely pleased, and ordered +him a tiny mutton-pie, well spiced. Nick pushed it back indignantly; but +Heywood took the pie and cut it open, saying quietly: “Come, lad, the +good God made the sheep that is in this pie, not Gaston Carew. Eat +it—come, ’twill do thee good!” and saw him finish the last crumb. + +From Towcester south through Northamptonshire is a pretty country of +rolling hills and undulating hollows, ribboned with pebbly rivers, and +dotted with fair parks and tofts of ash and elm and oak. Straggling +villages now and then were threaded on the road like beads upon a +string, and here and there the air was damp and misty from the grassy +fens along some winding stream. + +It was against nature that a healthy, growing lad should be so much cast +down as not to see and be interested in the strange, new, passing world +of things about him; and little by little Nick roused from his +wretchedness and began to look about him. And a wonder grew within his +brain: why had they stolen him?—where were they taking him?—what would +they do with him there?—or would they soon let him go again? + +Every yellow cloud of dust arising far ahead along the road wrought up +his hopes to a Bluebeard pitch, as regularly to fall. First came a +cast-off soldier from the war in the Netherlands, rakishly forlorn, his +breastplate full of rusty dents, his wild hair worn by his steel cap, +swaggering along on a sorry hack with an old belt full of pistolets, and +his long sword thumping Rosinante’s ribs. Then a peddling chapman, with +a dust-white pack and a cunning Hebrew look, limped by, sulkily doffing +his greasy hat. Two sturdy Midland journeymen, in search of southern +handicraft, trudged down with tool-bags over their shoulders and stout +oak staves in hand. Of wretched beggars and tattered rogues there was an +endless string. But of any help no sign. + +Here and there, like a moving dot, a ploughman turned a belated furrow; +or a sweating ditcher leaned upon his reluctant spade and longed for +night; or a shepherd, quite as silly as his sheep, gawked up the morning +hills. But not a sign of help for Nick. + +Once, passing through a little town, he raised a sudden cry of “Help! +Help—they be stealing me away!” But at that the master-player and the +bandy-legged man waved their hands and set up such a shout that his +shrill outcry was not even heard. And the simple country bumpkins, +standing in a grinning row like so many Old Aunt Sallys at a fair, +pulled off their caps and bowed, thinking it some company of great +lords, and fetched a clownish cheer as the players galloped by. + +Then the hot dust got into Nick’s throat, and he began to cough. Carew +started with a look of alarm. “Come, come, Nicholas, this will never +do—never do in the world; thou’lt spoil thy voice.” + +“I do na care,” said Nick. + +“But I do,” said Carew, sharply. “So we’ll have no more of it!” and he +clapped his hand upon his poniard. “But, nay—nay, lad, I did not mean +to threaten thee—’tis but a jest. Come, smooth thy throat, and do not +shriek no more. We play in old St. Albans town to-night, and thou art to +sing thy song for us again.” + +Nick pressed his lips tight shut and shook his head. He would not sing +for them again. + +“Come, Nick, I’ve promised Tom Heywood that thou shouldst sing his song; +and, lad, there’s no one left in all the land to sing it if thou’lt not. +Tom doth dearly love thee, lad—why, sure, thou hast seen that! And, +Nick, I’ve promised all the company that thou wouldst sing Tom’s song +with us to-night. ’Twill break their hearts if thou wilt not. Come, +Nick, thou’lt sing it for us all, and set old Albans town afire!” said +Carew, pleadingly. + +Nick shook his head. + +“Come, Nick,” said Carew, coaxingly, “we must hear that sweet voice of +thine in Albans town to-night. Come, there’s a dear, good lad, and give +us just one little song! Come, act the man and sing, as thou alone in +all the world canst sing, in Albans town this night; and on my word, and +on the remnant of mine honour, I’ll leave thee go back to Stratford town +to-morrow morning!” + +“To Stratford—to-morrow?” stammered Nick, with a glad, incredulous cry, +while his heart leaped up within him. + +“Ay, verily; upon my faith as the fine fag-end of a very proper +gentleman—thou shalt go back to Stratford town to-morrow if thou wilt +but do thy turn with us to-night.” + +Nick caught the master-player’s arm as they rode along, almost crying +for very joy: “Oh, that I will, sir—and do my very best. And, oh, +Master Carew, I ha’ thought so ill o’ thee! Forgive me, sir; I did na +know thee well.” + +Carew winced. Hastily throwing the rein to Nick, he left him to master +his own array. + +As for Nick, as happy as a lark he learned his new lines as he rode +along, Master Carew saying them over to him from the manuscript and over +again until he made not a single mistake; and was at great pains to +teach him the latest fashionable London way of pronouncing all the +words, and of emphasizing his set phrases. “Nay, nay,” he would cry +laughingly, “not that way, lad; but this: ‘Good my lord, I bring a +letter from the duke’—as if thou hadst indeed a letter, see, and not an +empty fist. And when thou dost hand it to him, do it thus—and not as if +thou wert about to stab him in the paunch with a cheese-knife!” And at +the end he clapped him upon the back and said again and again that he +loved him, that he was a dear, sweet figure of a lad, and that his voice +among the rest of England’s singers, was like clear honey dropping into +a pot of grease. + +But it is a long ride from Towcester to St. Albans town in Herts, though +the road runs through a pleasant, billowy land of oak-walled lanes, wide +pastures, and quiet parks; and the steady jog, jog of the little roan +began to rack Nick’s tired bones before the day was done. + +Yet when they marched into the quaint old town to the blare of trumpets +and the crash of the kettledrums, all the long line gaudy with the +coat-armour of the Lord High Admiral beneath their flaunting banners, +and the horses pricked up their ears and arched their necks and pranced +along the crowded streets, Nick, stared at by all the good townsfolk, +could not help feeling a thrill of pride that he was one of the great +company of players, and sat up very straight and held his head up +haughtily as Master Carew did, and bore himself with as lordly an air as +he knew how. + + * * * * * + +But when morning came, and he danced blithely back from washing himself +at the horse-trough, all ready to start for home, he found the little +roan cross-bridled as before between the master-player’s gray and the +bandy-legged fellow’s sorrel mare. + +“What, there! cast him loose,” said he to the horse-boy who held the +three. “I am not going on with the players—I’m to go back to +Stratford.” + +“Then ye go afoot,” coolly rejoined the other, grinning, “for the hoss +goeth on wi’ the rest.” + +“What is this, Master Carew?” cried Nick, indignantly, bursting into the +tap-room, where the players were at ale. “They will na let me have the +horse, sir. Am I to walk the whole way back to Stratford town?” + +“To Stratford?” asked Master Carew, staring with an expression of most +innocent surprise, as he set his ale-can down and turned around. “Why, +thou art not going to Stratford.” + +“Not going to Stratford!” gasped Nick, catching at the table with a +sinking heart. “Why, sir, ye promised that I should to-day.” + +“Nay, now, that I did not, Nicholas. I promised thee that thou shouldst +go back to-morrow—were not those my very words!” + +“Ay, that they were,” cried Nick; “and why will ye na leave me go?” + +“Why, this is not to-morrow, Nick. Why, see, I cannot leave thee go +to-day. Thou knowest that I said to-morrow; and this is not +to-morrow—on thine honour, is it now?” + +“How can I tell?” cried Nick, despairingly. “Yesterday ye said it would +be, and now ye say that it is na. Ye’ve twisted it all up so that a body +can na tell at all. But there is a falsehood—a wicked, black +falsehood—somewhere betwixt you and me, sir; and ye know that I have na +lied to you, Master Carew!” + +Through the tap-room door he saw the open street and the hills beyond +the town. Catching his breath, he sprang across the sill, and ran for +the free fields at the top of his speed. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + + +AT BAY + +“After him!—stop him!—catch the rogue!” cried Carew, running out on +the cobbles with his ale-can in his hand. “A shilling to the man that +brings him back unharmed! No blows, nor clubs, nor stabbing, hark ’e, +but catch me the knave straightway; he hath snatched a fortune from +my hands!” + +At that the hostler, whip in hand, and the tapster with his bit, were +off as fast as their legs could carry them, bawling “Stop, thief, stop!” +at the top of their lungs; and at their backs every idle varlet about +the inn—grooms, stable-boys, and hangers-on—ran whooping, howling, and +hallooing like wild huntsmen. + +Nick’s frightened heart was in his mouth, and his breath came quick and +sharp. Tap-a-tap, tap-a-tap went his feet on the cobblestones as down +the long street he flew, running as he had never run before. + +It seemed as if the whole town bellowed at his back; for windows creaked +above his head, and doors banged wildly after him; curs from every +alley-way came yelping at his heels; apprentices let go the +shutter-bars, and joined in the chase; and near and nearer came the cry +of “Stop, thief, stop!” and the kloppety-klop of hob-nailed shoes in +wild pursuit. + +The rabble filled the dark old street from wall to wall, as if a cloud +of good-for-naughts had burst above the town; and far in front sped one +small, curly-headed lad, running like a frightened fawn. He had lost his +cap, and his breath came short, half sobbing in his throat as the sound +of footfalls gained upon his ear; but even yet he might have beaten them +all and reached the open fields but for the dirt and garbage in the +street. Three times he slipped upon a rancid bacon-rind and almost fell; +and the third time, as he plunged across the oozing drain, a dog dashed +right between his feet. + +He staggered, nearly fell, threw out his hand against the house and +saved himself; but as he started on again he saw the town-watch, wakened +by the uproar, standing with their long staves at the end of the street, +barring the way. + +The door of a smithy stood open just ahead, with forge-fires glowing and +the hammer ringing on the anvil. Nick darted in, past the horses, +hostlers, and blacksmith’s boys, and caught at the leather apron of the +sturdy smith himself. + +“Hoo, man, what a dickens!” snorted he, dropping the red-hot shoe on +which he was at work, and staring like a startled ox at the panting +little fugitive. + +“Do na leave them take me!” panted Nick. “They ha’ stolen me away from +Stratford town and will na leave me go!” + +At that Will Hostler bolted in, red-faced and scant of wind, “Thou +young rascal,” quoth he, “I have thee now! Come out o’ that!” and he +tried to take Nick by the collar. + +“So-oftly, so-oftly!” rumbled the smith, tweaking up the glowing shoe in +his great pincers, and sweeping a sputtering half-circle in front of the +cowering lad. “Droive slow through the cro-owd! What hath youngster here +did no-ow?” + +“He hath stolen a fortune from his master at the Three Lions—and the +shilling for him’s mine!” + +“Hath stealed a fortune? Whoy, huttlety-tut!” roared the burly smith, +turning ponderously upon Nick, who was dodging around him like a boy at +tag around a tree. “Whoy, lad,” said he, scratching his puzzled head +with his great, grimy fingers, “where hast putten it?” + +All the rout and the riot now came plunging into the smithy, breathless +with the chase. Master Carew himself, his ale-can still clutched in his +hand, and bearing himself with a high air of dignity, followed after +them, frowning. + +“What?” said he, angrily, “have ye earthed the cub and cannot dig him +out? Hast caught him there, fellow?” + +“Ay, master, that I have!” shouted Will Hostler. “Shilling’s mine, sir.” + +“Then fetch him out of this hole!” cried Carew, sniffing disdainfully at +the low, smoky door. + +“But he will na be fetched,” stammered the doughty Will, keeping a most +respectful distance from the long black pincers and the sputtering shoe +with which the farrier stolidly mowed the air round about Nick Attwood +and himself. + +At that the crowd set up a shout. + +Carew thrust fiercely into the press, the louts and loafers giving way. +“What, here! Nicholas Attwood,” said he, harshly, “come hither.” + +“Do na leave him take me,” begged Nick. “He is not my master; I am not +bound out apprentice—they are stealing me away from my own home, and it +will break my mother’s heart.” + +[Illustration: “NOBODY BREAKS NOBODY’S HEARTS IN OLD JO-OHN SMITHSES +SHO-OP,’ DRAWLED THE SMITH, IN HIS DEEP VOICE; NOR STEALS +NOBODY, NOTHER”] + +“Nobody breaks nobody’s hearts in old Jo-ohn Smithses sho-op,” drawled +the smith, in his deep voice; “nor steals nobody, nother. We be +honest-dealing folk in Albans town, an’ makes as good horse-shoes as be +forged in all England”—and he went placidly on mowing the air with the +glimmering shoe. + +“Here, fellow, stand aside,” commanded Master Carew, haughtily. “Stand +aside and let me pass!” As he spoke he clapped his hand upon his poniard +with a fierce snarl, showing his white teeth like a wolf-hound. + +The men about him fell back with unanimous alacrity, making out each to +put himself behind the other. But the huge smith only puffed out his +sooty cheeks as if to blow a fly off the next bite of cheese. “So-oftly, +so-oftly, muster,” drawled he; “do na go to ruffling it here. This shop +be mine, and I be free-born Englishman. I’ll stand aside for no +swash-buckling rogue on my own ground. Come, now, what wilt thou o’ the +lad?—and speak thee fair, good muster, or thou’lt get a dab o’ the +red-hot shoe.” As he spoke he gave the black tongs an extra whirl. + + + + +CHAPTER XV + + +LONDON TOWN + +“Come,” growled the blacksmith, gripping his tongs, “what wilt thou have +o’ the lad?” + +“What will I have o’ the lad?” said Master Carew, mimicking the +blacksmith in a most comical way, with a wink at the crowd, as if he had +never been angry at all, so quickly could he change his face—“What will +I have o’ the lad?” and all the crowd laughed. “Why, bless thy gentle +heart, good man, I want to turn his farthings into round gold crowns—if +thou and thine infernal hot shoe do not make zanies of us all! Why, +Master Smith, ’tis to London town I’d take him, and fill his hands with +more silver shillings than there be cast-off shoes in thy whole shop.” + +“La, now, hearken till him!” gaped the smith, staring in amazement. + +“And here thou needs must up and spoil it all, because, forsooth, the +silly child goes a trifle sick for home and whimpers for his minnie!” + +“But the lad saith thou hast stealed him awa-ay from ’s ho-ome,” +rumbled the smith, like a doubtful earthquake; “and we’ll ha’ no +stealing o’ lads awa-ay from ho-ome in County Herts!” + +“Nay, that we won’t!” cried one. “Hurrah, John Smith—fair play, fair +play!” and there came an ugly, threatening murmur from the crowd. + +“What! Fair play?” cried Master Carew, turning so sharply about, with +his hand upon his poniard, that each made as if it were not he but his +neighbor had growled. “Why, sirs, what if I took any one of ye out of +your poverty and common clothes down into London town, horseback like a +king, and had ye sing before the Queen, and play for earls, and talk +with the highest dames in all the land; and fed ye well, and spoke ye +fair, and lodged ye soft, and clad ye fine, and wrought the whole town +on to cheer ye, and to fill your purses full of gold? What, sir,” said +he, turning to the gaping farrier—“what if I promised thee to turn +thine every word to a silver sixpence, and thy smutty grins to golden +angels—what wouldst thou? Knock me in the head with thy dirty sledge, +and bawl foul play?” + +“Nay, that I’d not,” roared the burly smith, with a stupid, ox-like +grin, scratching his tousled head; “I’d say, ‘Go it, bully, and a plague +on him that said thee nay!’” + +“And yet when I would fill this silly fellow’s jerkin full of good gold +Harry shovel-boards for the simple drawing of his breath, ye bawl +‘Foul play!’” + +“What, here! come out, lad,” roared the smith, with a great horse-laugh, +swinging Nick forward and thwacking him jovially between the shoulders +with his brawny hand; “come out, and go along o’ the master here,—’tis +for thy good,—and ho-ome wull keep, I trow, till thou dost come again.” + +But Nick hung back, and clung to the blacksmith’s grimy arm, crying in +despair: “I will na—oh, I will na!” + +“Tut, tut!” cried Master Carew. “Come, Nicholas; I mean thee well, I’ll +speak thee fair, and I’ll treat thee true”—and he smiled so frankly +that even Nick’s doubts almost wavered. “Come, I’ll swear it on my +hilt,” said he. + +The smith’s brow clouded. “Nay,” said he; “we’ll no swearing by hilts or +by holies here; the bailiff will na have it, sir.” + +“Good! then upon mine honour as an Englishman!” cried Carew. “What, how, +bullies? Upon mine honour as an Englishman!—how is it? Here we be, all +Englishmen together!” and he clapped his hand to Will Hostler’s +shoulder, whereat Will stood up very straight and looked around, as if +all at once he were somebody instead of somewhat less than nobody at all +of any consequence. “What!—ye are all for fair play?—and I am for fair +play, and good Master Smith, with his beautiful shoe, here, is for fair +play! Why, sirs, my bullies, we are all for fair play; and what more can +a man ask than good, downright English fair play? Nothing, say I. Fair +play first, last, and all the time!” and he waved his hand. “Hurrah for +downright English fair play!” + +“Hurrah, hurrah!” bellowed the crowd, swept along like bubbles in a +flood. “Fair play, says we—English fair play—hurrah!” And those inside +waved their hands, and those that were outside tossed up their caps, in +sheer delight of good fair play. + +“Hurrah, my bullies! That’s the cry!” said Carew, in his +hail-fellow-well-met, royal way. “Why, we’re the very best of fellows, +and the very fastest friends! Come, all to the old Three Lions inn, and +douse a can of brown March brew at my expense. To the Queen, to good +fair play, and to all the fine fellows in Albans town!” + +And what did the crowd do but raise a shout, like a parcel of +school-boys loosed for a holiday, and troop off to the Three Lions inn +at Master Carew’s heels, Will Hostler and the brawny smith bringing up +the rear with Nick between them, hand to collar, half forgotten by the +rest, and his heart too low for further grief. + +And while the crowd were still roaring over their tankards and cheering +good fair play, Master Gaston Carew up with his prisoner into the +saddle, and, mounting himself, with the bandy-legged man grinning +opposite, shook the dust of old St. Albans from his horse’s heels. + +“Now, Nicholas Attwood,” said he, grimly, as they galloped away, “hark +’e well to what I have to say, and do not let it slip thy mind. I am +willed to take thee to London town—dost mark me?—and to London town +thou shalt go, warm or cold. By the whistle of the Lord High Admiral, I +mean just what I say! So thou mayst take thy choice.” + +He gripped Nick’s shoulder as they rode, and glared into his eyes as if +to sear them with his own. Nick heard his poniard grating in its sheath, +and shut his eyes so that he might not see the master-player’s horrid +stare; for the opening and shutting, opening and shutting, of the blue +lids made him shudder. + +“And what’s more,” said Carew, sternly, “I shall call thee Master +Skylark from this time forth—dost hear? And when I bid thee go, thou’lt +go; and when I bid thee come, thou’lt come; and when I say, ‘Here, +follow me!’ thou’lt follow like a dog to heel!” He drew up his lip until +his white teeth showed, and Nick, hearing them gritting together, shrank +back dismayed. + +“There!” laughed Carew, scornfully. “He that knows better how to tame a +vixen or to cozen a pack of gulls, now let him speak!” and said no more +until they passed by Chipping Barnet. Then, “Nick,” said he, in a quiet, +kindly tone, as if they had been friends for years, “this is the place +where Warwick fell”; and pointed down the field. “There in the corner of +that croft they piled the noble dead like corn upon a threshing-floor. +Since then,” said he, with quiet irony, “men have stopped making English +kings as the Dutch make dolls, of a stick and a poll thereon.” + +Pleased with hearing his own voice, he would have gone on with many +another thing; but seeing that Nick listened not at all to what he said, +he ceased, and rode on silently or chatting with the others. + +The country through Middlesex was in most part flat, and heavy forests +overhung the road from time to time. There the players slipped their +poniards, and rode with rapier in hand; for many a dark deed and cruel +robbery had been done along this stretch of Watling street. And as they +passed, more than one dark-visaged rogue with branded hand and a price +upon his head peered at them from the copses by the way. + +In places where the woods crept very near they pressed closer together +and rode rapidly; and the horse-boy and the grooms lit up the matches of +their pistolets, and laid their harquebuses ready in rest, and blew the +creeping sparkle snapping red at every turn; not so much really fearing +an attack upon so stout a party of reckless, dashing blades, as being +overawed by the great, mysterious silence of the forest, the +semi-twilight all about, and the cold, strange-smelling wind that fanned +their faces. + +The wild spattering of hoofs in water-pools that lay unsucked by the sun +in shadowy stretches, the grim silence of the riders, and the wary eying +of each covert as they passed, sent a thrill of excitement into Nick’s +heart too keen for any boy to resist. + +Then, too, it was no everyday tale to be stolen away from home. It was a +wild, strange thing with a strange, wild sound to it, not altogether +terrible or unpleasant to a brave boy’s ears in that wonder-filled age, +when all the world was turned adventurer, and England led the fore; when +Francis Drake and the “Golden Hind,” John Hawkins and the “Victory,” +Frobisher and his cockleshells, were gossip for every English fireside; +when the whole world rang with English steel, and the wide sea foamed +with English keels, and the air was full of the blaze of the living and +the ghosts of the mighty dead. And down in Nick’s plucky young English +heart there came a spark like that which burns in the soul of a mariner +when for the first time an unknown ocean rolls before his eyes. + +So he rode on bravely, filled with a sense of daring and the thrill of +perils more remote than Master Carew’s altogether too adjacent poniard, +as well as with a sturdy determination to escape at the first +opportunity, in spite of all the master-player’s threats. + +Up Highgate Hill they rattled in a bracing northeast wind, the rugged +country bowling back against the tumbled sky. Far to south a rusty haze +had gloomed against the sun like a midday fog, mile after mile; and +suddenly, as they topped the range and cleared the last low hill, they +saw a city in the south spreading away until it seemed to Nick to girdle +half the world and to veil the sky in a reek of murky sea-coal smoke. + +“There!” said Carew, reining in the gray, as Nick looked up and felt his +heart almost stand still; “since Parma burned old Antwerp, and the Low +Countries are dead, there lies the market-heart of all the big +round world!” + +“London!” cried Nick, and, catching his breath with a quick gasp, sat +speechless, staring. + +Carew smiled. “Ay, Nick,” said he, cheerily; “’tis London town. Pluck +up thine heart, lad, and be no more cast down; there lies a New World +ready to thine hand. Thou canst win it if thou wilt. Come, let it be +thine Indies, thou Francis Drake, and I thy galleon to carry home the +spoils! And cheer up. It grieves my heart to see thee sad. Be merry +for my sake.” + +“For thy sake?” gasped Nick, staring blankly in his face. “Why, what +hast thou done for me?” A sudden sob surprised him, and he clenched his +fists—it was too cruel irony. “Why, sir, if thou wouldst only leave +me go!” + +“Tut, tut!” cried Carew, angrily. “Still harping on that same old +string? Why, from thy waking face I thought thou hadst dropped it long +ago. Let thee go? Not for all the wealth in Lombard street! Dost think +me a goose-witted gull?—and dost ask what I have done for thee? Thou +simpleton! I have made thee rise above the limits of thy wildest +dream—have shod thy feet with gold—have filled thy lap with +glory—have crowned thine head with fame! And yet, ‘What have I done for +thee?’ Fie! Thou art a stubborn-hearted little fool. But, marry come up! +I’ll mend thy mind. I’ll bend thy will to suit my way, or break it in +the bending!” + +Clapping his hand upon his poniard, he turned his back, and did not +speak to Nick again. + +And so they came down the Kentish Town road through a meadow-land +threaded with flowing streams, the wild hill thickets of Hampstead Heath +to right, the huddling villages of Islington, Hoxton, and Clerkenwell to +left. And as they passed through Kentish Town, past Primrose Hill into +Hampstead way, solitary farm-houses and lowly cottages gave way to +burgher dwellings in orderly array, with manor-houses here and there, +and in the distance palaces and towers reared their heads above the +crowding chimney-pots. + +Then the players dressed themselves in fair array, and flung their +banners out, and came through Smithfield to Aldersgate, mocking the grim +old gibbet there with railing gaiety; and through the gate rode into +London town, with a long, loud cheer that brought the people crowding to +their doors, and set the shutters creaking everywhere. + +Nick was bewildered by the countless shifting gables and the throngs of +people flowing onward like a stream, and stunned by the roar that seemed +to boil out of the very ground. The horses’ hoofs clashed on the +unevenly paved street with a noise like a thousand smithies. The houses +hung above him till they almost hid the sky, and seemed to be reeling +and ready to fall upon his head when he looked up; so that he urged the +little roan with his uneasy heels, and wished himself out of this +monstrous ruck where the walls were so close together that there was not +elbow-room to live, and the air seemed only heat, thick and stifling, +full of dust and smells. + +Shop after shop, and booth on booth, until Nick wondered where the +gardens were; and such a maze of lanes, byways, courts, blind alleys, +and passages that his simple country footpath head went all into a +tangle, and he could scarcely have told Tottenham Court road from the +river Thames. + +All that he remembered afterward was that, turning from High Holborn +into the Farringdon road, he saw a great church, under Ludgate Hill, +with spire burned and fallen, and its massive tower, black with age and +smoke, staring on the town. But he was too confused to know whither they +went or what he saw in passing; for of such a forest of houses he had +never even dreamed, with people swarming everywhere like ants upon a +hill, and among them all not one kind face he knew. Through the spirit +of adventure that had roused him for a time welled up a great +heart-sickness for his mother and his home. + +Out of a bewildered daze he came at last to realize this much: that the +master-player’s house was very tall and very dark, standing in a dismal, +dirty street, and that it had a gloomy hallway full of shadows that +crept and wavered along the wall in the dim light of the late afternoon. + +Then the master-player pushed him up a narrow staircase and along a +black corridor to a door at the end of the passage, through which he +thrust him into a darkness like night, and slammed the door behind him. + +Nick heard the bolts shoot heavily, and Master Carew call through the +heavy panels: “Now, Jackanapes, sit down and chew the cud of solitude +awhile. It may cool thy silly pate for thee, since nothing else will +serve. When thou hast found thy common sense, perchance thou’lt find thy +freedom, not before.” Then his step went down the corridor, down the +stair, through the long hall—a door banged with a hollow sound that +echoed through the house, and all was still. + +At first, in the utter darkness, Nick could not see at all, and did not +move for fear of falling down some awful hole; but as his eyes grew +used to the gloom he saw that he was in a little room. The only window +was boarded up, but a dim light crept in through narrow cracks and made +faint bars across the air. Little motes floated up and down these thin +blue bars, wavering in the uncertain light and then lost in the +darkness. Upon the floor was a pallet of straw, covered with a coarse +sheet, and having a rough coverlet of sheepskin. A round log was the +only pillow. + +Something moved. Nick, startled, peered into the shadows: it was a strip +of ragged tapestry which fluttered on the wall. As he watched it +flapping fitfully there came a hollow rattle in the wainscot, and an +uncanny sound like the moaning of wind in the chimney. + +“Let me out!” he cried, beating upon the door. “Let me out, I say!” A +stealthy footstep seemed to go away outside. “Mother, mother!” he cried +shrilly, now quite unstrung by fright, and beat frantically upon the +door until his hands ached; but no one answered. The window was beyond +his reach. Throwing himself upon the hard pallet, he hid his eyes in the +coverlet, and cried as if his heart would break. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + + +MA’M’SELLE CICELY CAREW + +How long he lay there in a stupor of despair Nick Attwood never knew. It +might have been days or weeks, for all that he took heed; for he was +thinking of his mother, and there was no room for more. + +The night passed by. Then the day came, by the lines of light that crept +across the floor. The door was opened at his back, and a trencher of +bread and meat thrust in. He did not touch it, and the rats came out of +the wall and pulled the meat about, and gnawed holes in the bread, and +squeaked, and ran along the wainscot; but he did not care. + +The afternoon dragged slowly by, and the creeping light went up the wall +until the roofs across the street shut out the sunset. Sometimes Nick +waked and sometimes he slept, he scarce knew which nor cared; nor did he +hear the bolts grate cautiously, or see the yellow candle-light steal in +across the gloom. + +“Boy!” said a soft little voice. + +He started up and looked around. + +For an instant he thought that he was dreaming, and was glad to think +that he would waken by and by from what had been so sad a dream, and +find himself safe in his own little bed in Stratford town. For the +little maid who stood in the doorway was such a one as his eyes had +never looked upon before. + +She was slight and graceful as a lily of the field, and her skin was +white as the purest wax, save where a damask rose-leaf red glowed +through her cheeks. Her black hair curled about her slender neck. Her +gown was crimson, slashed with gold, cut square across the breast and +simply made, with sleeves just elbow-long, wide-mouthed, and lined with +creamy silk. Her slippers, too, were of crimson silk, high-heeled, +jaunty bits of things; her silken stockings black. In one hand she held +a tall brass candlestick, and through the fingers of the other the +candle-flame made a ruddy glow like the sun in the heart of a hollyhock. +And in the shadow of her hand her eyes looked out, as Nick said long +afterward, like stars in a summer night. + +Thinking it was all a dream, he sat and stared at her. + +“Boy!” she said again, quite gently, but with a quaint little air of +reproof, “where are thy manners?” + +Nick got up quickly and bowed as best he knew how. If not a dream, this +was certainly a princess—and perchance—his heart leaped up—perchance +she came to set him free! He wondered who had told her of him? Diccon +Field, perhaps, whose father had been Simon Attwood’s partner till he +died, last Michaelmas. Diccon was in London now, printing books, he had +heard. Or maybe it was John, Hal Saddler’s older brother. No, it could +not be John, for John was with a carrier; and Nick had doubts if +carriers were much acquainted at court. + +Wondering, he stared, and bowed again. + +“Why, boy,” said she, with a quaint air of surprise, “thou art a very +pretty fellow! Why, indeed, thou lookest like a good boy! Why wilt thou +be so bad and break my father’s heart?” + +“Break thy father’s heart?” stammered Nick. “Pr’ythee, who is thy +father, Mistress Princess?” + +“Nay,” said the little maid, simply; “I am no princess. I am Cicely +Carew.” + +“Cicely Carew?” cried Nick, clenching his fists. “Art thou the daughter +of that wicked man, Gaston Carew?” + +“My father is not wicked!” said she, passionately, drawing back from the +threshold with her hand trembling upon the latch. “Thou shalt not say +that—I will not speak with thee at all!” + +“I do na care! If Master Gaston Carew is thy father, he is the wickedest +man in the world!” + +“Why, fie, for shame!” she cried, and stamped her little foot. “How +darest thou say such a thing?” + +“He hath stolen me from home,” exclaimed Nick, indignantly; “and I shall +never see my mother any more!” With that he choked, and hid his face in +his arm against the wall. + +The little maid looked at him with an air of troubled surprise, and, +coming into the room, touched him on the arm. “There,” she said +soothingly, “don’t cry!” and stroked him gently as one would a little +dog that was hurt. “My father will send thee home to thy mother, I know; +for he is very kind and good. Some one hath lied to thee about him.” + +Nick wiped his swollen eyes dubiously upon his sleeve; yet the little +maid seemed positive. Perhaps, after all, there was a mistake somewhere. + +“Art hungry, boy?” she asked suddenly, spying the empty trencher on the +floor. “There is a pasty and a cake in the buttery, and thou shalt have +some of it if thou wilt not cry any more. Come, I cannot bear to see +thee cry—it makes me weep myself; and that will blear mine eyes, and +father will feel bad.” + +“If he but felt as bad as he hath made me feel—” began Nick, +wrathfully; but she laid her little hand across his mouth. It was a very +white, soft, sweet little hand. + +“Come,” said she; “thou art hungry, and it hath made thee cross!” and, +with no more ado, took him by the hand and led him down the corridor +into a large room where the last daylight shone with a smoky glow. + +The walls were wainscoted with many panels, dark, old, and mysterious; +and in a burnished copper brazier at the end of the room cinnamon, +rosemary, and bay were burning with a pleasant smell. Along the walls +were joined-work chests for linen and napery, of brass-bound oak—one a +black, old, tragic sea-chest, carved with grim faces and weird griffins, +that had been cast up by the North Sea from the wreck of a Spanish +galleon of war. The floor was waxed in the French fashion, and was so +smooth that Nick could scarcely keep his feet. The windows were high up +in the wall, with their heads among the black roof-beams, which with +their grotesquely carven brackets were half lost in the dusk. Through +the windows Nick could see nothing but a world of chimney-pots. + +“Is London town all smoke-pipes?” he asked confusedly. + +“Nay,” replied the little maid; “there are people.” + +Pushing a chair up to the table, she bade him sit down. Then pulling a +tall, curiously-made stool to the other side of the board, she perched +herself upon it like a fairy upon a blade of grass. “Greg!” she called +imperiously, “Greg! What, how! Gregory Goole, I say!” + +“Yes, ma’m’selle,” replied a hoarse voice without; and through a door at +the further end of the room came the bandy-legged man with the bow of +crimson ribbon in his ear. + +Nick turned a little pale; and when the fellow saw him sitting there, he +came up hastily, with a look like a crock of sour milk. “Tut, tut! +ma’m’selle,” said he; “Master Carew will not like this.” + +She turned upon him with an air of dainty scorn. “Since when hath father +left his wits to thee, Gregory Goole? I know his likes as well as +thou—and it likes him not to let this poor boy starve, I’ll warrant. +Go, fetch the pasty and the cake that are in the buttery, with a glass +of cordial,—the Certosa cordial,—and that in the shaking of a black +sheep’s tail, or I will tell my father what thou wottest of.” And she +looked the very picture of diminutive severity. + +“Very good, ma’m’selle; just as ye say,” said Gregory, fawning, with +very poor grace, however. “But, knave,” he snarled, as he turned away, +with a black scowl at Nick, “if thou dost venture on any of thy scurvy +pranks while I be gone, I’ll break thy pate.” + +Cicely Carew knitted her brows. “That is a saucy rogue,” said she; “but +he hath served my father well. And, what is much in London town, he is +an honest man withal, though I have caught him at the Spanish wine +behind my father’s back; so he doth butter his tongue with smooth words +when he hath speech with me, for I am the lady of the house.” She held +up her head with a very pretty pride. “My mother—” + +Nick caught his breath, and his eyes filled. + +“Nay, boy,” said she, gently; “’tis I should weep, not thou; for _my_ +mother is dead. I do not think I ever saw her that I know,” she went on +musingly; “but she was a Frenchwoman who served a murdered queen, and +she was the loveliest woman that ever lived.” Cicely clasped her hands +and moved her lips. Nick saw that she was praying, and bent his head. + +“Thou art a good boy,” she said softly; “my father will like that”; and +then went quietly on: “That is why Gregory Goole doth call me +‘ma’m’selle’—because my mother was a Frenchwoman. But I am a right +English girl for all that; and when they shout, ‘God save the Queen!’ at +the play, why, I do too! And, oh, boy,” she cried, “it is a brave thing +to hear!” and she clapped her hands with sparkling eyes. “It drove the +Spaniards off the sea, my father ofttimes saith.” + +“Poh!” said Nick, stoutly, for he saw the pasty coming in, “they can na +beat us Englishmen!” and with that fell upon the pasty as if it were the +Spanish Armada in one lump and he Sir Francis Drake set on to do the +job alone. + +As he ate his spirits rose again, and he almost forgot that he was +stolen from his home, and grew eager to be seeing the wonders of the +great town whose ceaseless roar came over the housetops like a distant +storm. He was still somewhat in awe of this beautiful, flower-like +little maid, and listened in shy silence to the wonderful tales she +told: how that she had seen the Queen, who had red hair, and pearls like +gooseberries on her cloak; and how the court went down to Greenwich. But +the bandy-legged man kept popping his head in at the door, and, after +all, Nick was but in a prison-house; so he grew quite dismal after +a while. + +“Dost truly think thy father will leave me go?” he asked. + +“Of course he will,” said she. “I cannot see why thou dost hate him so?” + +“Why, truly,” hesitated Nick, “perhaps it is not thy father that I hate, +but only that he will na leave me go. And if he would but leave me go, +perhaps I’d love him very much indeed.” + +“Good, Nick! thou art a trump!” cried Master Carew’s voice suddenly from +the further end of the hall, where in spite of all the candles it was +dark; and, coming forward, the master-player held out his hands in a +most genial way. “Come, lad, thy hand—’tis spoken like a gentleman. +Nay, I will kiss thee—for I love thee, Nick, upon my word, and on the +remnant of mine honour!” Taking the boy’s half-unwilling hands in his +own, he stooped and kissed him upon the forehead. + +“Father,” said Cicely, gravely, “hast thou forgotten me?” + +“Nay, sweetheart, nay,” cried Carew, with a wonderful laugh that somehow +warmed the cockles of Nick’s forlorn heart; and turning quickly, the +master-player caught up the little maid and kissed her again and again, +so tenderly that Nick was amazed to see how one so cruel could be so +kind, and how so good a little maid could love so bad a man; for she +twined her arms about his neck, and then lay back with her head upon his +shoulder, purring like a kitten in his arms. + +“Father,” said she, patting his cheek, “some one hath told him naughty +things of thee. Come, daddy, say they are not so!” + +The master-player’s face turned red as flame. He coughed and looked up +among the roof-beams. “Why, of course they’re not,” said he, uneasily. + +“There, boy!” cried she; “I told thee so. Why, daddy, think!—they said +that thou hadst stolen him away from his own mother, and wouldst not +leave him go!” + +“Hollo!” ejaculated the master-player, abruptly, with a quiver in his +voice; “what a hole thou hast made in the pasty, Nick!” + +“Ah, daddy,” persisted Cicely, “and what a hole it would make in his +mother’s heart if he had been stolen away!” + +“Wouldst like another draught of cordial, Nick?” cried Carew, hurriedly, +reaching out for the tall flagon with a trembling hand. “’Tis good to +cheer the troubled heart, lad. Not that thou hast any reason in the +world to let thy heart be troubled,” he added hastily. “No, indeed, upon +my word; for thou art on the doorstep of a golden-lined success. See, +Nick, how the light shines through!” and he tilted up the flagon. “It is +one of old Jake Vessaline’s Murano-Venetian glasses; a beautiful thing, +now, is it not? ’Tis good as any made abroad!” but his hand was shaking +so that half the cordial missed the cup and ran into a little shimmering +pool upon the table-top. + +“And thou’lt send him home again, daddy, wilt thou not?” + +“Yes, yes, of course—why, to be sure—we’ll send him anywhere that thou +dost say, Golden-heart: to Persia or Cathay—ay, to the far side of the +green-cheese moon, or to the court of Tamburlaine the Great,” and he +laughed a quick, dry, nervous laugh that had no laughter in it. “I had +one of De Lannoy’s red Bohemian bottles, Nick,” he rattled on +feverishly; “but that butter-fingered rogue”—he nodded his head at the +outer stair—“dropped it, smash! and made a thousand most counterfeit +fourpences out of what cost me two pound sterling.” + +“But will ye truly leave me go, sir?” faltered Nick. + +“Why, of course—to be sure—yes, certainly—yes, yes. But, Nick, it is +too late this night. Why, come, thou couldst not go to-night. See, ’tis +dark, and thou a stranger in the town. ’Tis far to Stratford town—thou +couldst not walk it, lad; there will be carriers anon. Come, stay awhile +with Cicely and me—we will make thee a right welcome guest!” + +“That we will,” cried Cicely, clapping her hands. “Oh, do stay; I am so +lonely here! The maid is silly, Margot old, and the rats run in +the wall.” + +“And thou must to the theater, my lad, and sing for London town—ay, +Nicholas,” and Carew’s voice rang proudly. “The highest heads in London +town must hear that voice of thine, or I shall die unshrift. What! +lad?—come all the way from Coventry, and never show that face of thine, +nor let them hear thy skylark’s song? Why, ’twere a shame! And, Nick, my +lord the Admiral shall hear thee sing when he comes home again; +perchance the Queen herself. Why, Nick, of course thou’lt sing. Thou +hast not heart to say thou wilt not sing—even for me whom thou hatest.” + +Nick smiled in spite of himself, for Cicely was leaning on the arm of +his chair, devouring him with her great dark eyes: “Dost truly, truly +sing?” she asked. + +Nick laughed and blushed, and Carew laughed. “What, doth he sing? Why, +Nick, come, tune that skylark note of thine for little Golden-heart and +me. ’Twill make her think she hears the birds in verity—and, Nick, the +lass hath never seen a bird that sang, except within a cage. Nay, lad, +this is no cage!” he cried, as Nick looked about and sighed. “We will +make it very home for thee—will Cicely and I.” + +“That we will!” cried Cicely. “Come, boy, sing for me—my mother used to +sing.” + +At that Gaston Carew went white as a sheet, and put his hand quickly up +to his face. Cicely darted to his side with a frightened cry, and caught +his hand away. He tried to smile, but it was a ghastly attempt. “Tush, +tush! little one; ’twas something stung me!” said he, huskily, “Sing, +Nicholas, I beg of thee!” + +There was such a sudden world of weariness and sorrow in his voice that +Nick felt a pity for he knew not what, and lifting up his clear young +voice, he sang the quaint old madrigal. + +Carew sat with his face in his hand, and after it was done arose +unsteadily and said, “Come, Golden-heart; ’tis music such as charmeth +care and lureth sleep out of her dark valley—we must be trotting off +to bed.” + +That night Nick slept upon a better bed, with a sheet and a blue serge +coverlet, and a pillow stuffed with chaff. + +But as he drifted off into a troubled dreamland, he heard the door-bolt +throb into its socket, and knew that he was fastened in. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + + +CAREW’S OFFER + +Next morning Carew donned his plum-colored cloak, and with Nick’s hand +held tightly in his own went out of the door and down the steps into a +drifting fog which filled the street, the bandy-legged man with the +ribbon in his ear following close upon their heels. + +People passed them like shadows in the mist, and all the houses were a +blur until they came into a wide, open place where the wind blew free +above a wall with many great gates. + +In the middle of this open place a huge gray building stood, staring out +over the housetops—a great cathedral, wonderful and old. Its walls were +dark with time and smoke and damp, and the lofty tower that rose above +it was in part but a hollow shell split by lightning and blackened by +fire. But crowded between its massive buttresses were booths and +chapmen’s stalls; against its hoary side a small church leaned like a +child against a mother’s breast; and in and round about it eddied a +throng of men like ants upon a busy hill. + +All around the outer square were shops with gilded fronts and most +amazing signs: golden angels with outstretched wings, tiger heads, +bears, brazen serpents, and silver cranes; and in and out of the +shop-doors darted apprentices with new-bound books and fresh-printed +slips; for this was old St. Paul’s, the meeting-place of London town, +and in Paul’s Yard the printers and the bookmen dealt. + +With a deal of elbowing the master-player came up the broad steps into +the cathedral, and down the aisle to the pillars where the +merchant-tailors stood with table-books in hand, and there ordered a +brand-new suit of clothes for Nick of old Roger Shearman, the best +cloth-cutter in Threadneedle street. + +While they were deep in silk and silver thread, Haerlem linen, and +Leyden camelot, Nick stared about him half aghast; for it was to him +little less than monstrous to see a church so thronged with merchants +plying their trades as if the place were no more sacred than a booth in +the public square. + +The long nave of the cathedral was crowded with mercers from Cheapside, +drapers from Throgmorton street, stationers from Ludgate Hill, and +goldsmiths from Foster lane, hats on, loud-voiced, and using the very +font itself for a counter. By the columns beyond, sly, foxy-faced +lawyers hobnobbed; and on long benches by the wall, cast-off +serving-men, varlets, grooms, pastry-bakers, and pages sat, waiting to +be hired by some new master. Besides these who came on business there +was a host of gallants in gold-laced silk and velvet promenading up and +down the aisle, with no business there at all but to show their faces +and their clothes. And all about were solemn shrines and monuments and +tombs, and overhead a splendid window burned like a wheel of fire in the +eastern wall. + +While Nick stared, speechless, a party of the Admiral’s placers came +strolling by, their heads half hidden in their huge starched ruffs, and +with prodigious swords that would have dragged along the ground had they +not been cocked up behind so fiercely in the air. Seeing Master Carew +and the boy, they stopped in passing to greet them gaily. + +Master Heywood was there, and bowed to Nick with a kindly smile. His +companion was a handsome, proud-mouthed man with a blue, smooth-shaven +face and a jet-black periwig. Him Carew drew aside and spoke with in an +earnest undertone. As he talked, the other began to stare at Nick as if +he were some curious thing in a cage. + +“Upon my soul,” said Carew, “ye never heard the like of it. He hath a +voice as sweet and clear as if Puck had burst a honey-bag in +his throat.” + +“No doubt,” replied the other, carelessly; “and all the birds will hide +their heads when he begins to sing. But we don’t want him, Carew—not if +he had a voice like Miriam the Jew. Henslowe has just bought little Jem +Bristow of Will Augusten for eight pound sterling, and business is too +bad to warrant any more.” + +“Who spoke of selling?” said Carew, sharply. “Don’t flatter your chances +so, Master Alleyn. I wouldn’t sell the boy for a world full of Jem +Bristows. Why, his mouth is a mint where common words are coined into +gold! Sell him? I think I see myself in Bedlam for a fool! Nay, Master +Alleyn, what I am coming at is this: I’ll place him at the Rose, to do +his turn in the play with the rest of us, or out of it alone, as ye +choose, for one fourth of the whole receipts over and above my old share +in the venture. Do ye take me?” + +“Take you? One fourth the whole receipts! Zounds! man, do ye think we +have a spigot in El Dorado?” + +“Tush! Master Alleyn, don’t make a poor mouth; you’re none so needy. You +and Henslowe have made a heap of money out of us all.” + +“And what of that? Yesterday’s butter won’t smooth to-day’s bread. ’Tis +absurd of you, Carew, to ask one fourth and leave all the risk on us, +with the outlook as it is! Here’s that fellow Langley has built a new +play-house in Paris Garden, nearer to the landing than we are, and is +stealing our business most scurvily!” + +Carew shrugged his shoulders. + +“And what’s more, the very comedy for which Ben Jonson left us, because +we would not put it on, has been taken up by the Burbages on Will +Shakspere’s say-so, and is running famously at the Curtain.” + +“I told you so, Master Alleyn, when the fellow was fresh from the +Netherlands,” said Carew; “but your ears were plugged with your own +conceit. Young Jonson is no flatfish, if he did lay brick; he’s a plum +worth anybody’s picking.” + +“But, plague take it, Carew, those Burbages have all the plums! Since +they weaned Will Shakspere from us everything has gone wrong. Kemp has +left us; old John Lowin, too; and now the Lord Mayor and Privy Council +have soured on the play again and forbidden all playing on the Bankside, +outside the City or no.” + +Carew whistled softly to himself. + +“And since my Lord Chamberlain has been patron of the Burbages he will +not so much as turn a hand to revive the old game of bull- and +bear-baiting, and Phil and I have kept the Queen’s bulldogs going on a +twelvemonth now at our own expense—a pretty canker on our profits! Why, +Carew, as Will Shakspere used to say, ‘One woe doth tread the other’s +heels, so fast they follow!’ And what’s to do?” + +“What’s to do?” said Carew. “Why, I’ve told ye what’s to do. Ye’ve heard +Will say, ‘There is a tide leads on to fortune if ye take it at the +flood’? Well, Master Alleyn, here’s the tide, and at the flood. I have +offered you an argosy. Will ye sail or stick in the mud? Ye’ll never +have such a chance again. Come, one fourth over my old share, and I will +fill your purse so full of gold that it will gape like a stuffed toad. +His is the sweetest skylark voice that ever sugared ears!” + +“But, man, man, one fourth!” + +“Better one fourth than lose it all,” said Carew. “But, pshaw! Master +Ned Alleyn, I’ll not beg a man to swim that’s bent on drowning! We will +be at the play-house this afternoon; mayhap thou’lt have thought better +of it by then.” With a curt bow he was off through the crowd, Nick’s +hand in his own clenched very tight. + +They had hard work getting down the steps, for two hot-headed gallants +were quarreling there as to who should come up first, and there was a +great press. But Carew scowled and showed his teeth, and clenched his +poniard-hilt so fiercely that the commoners fell away and let them down. + +Nick’s eyes were hungry for the printers’ stalls where ballad-sheets +were sold for a penny, and where the books were piled along the shelves +until he wondered if all London were turned printer. He looked about to +see if he might chance upon Diccon Field; but Carew came so quickly +through the crowd that Nick had not time to recognize Diccon if he had +been there. Diccon had often made Nick whistles from the pollard willows +along the Avon below the tannery when Nick was a toddler in smocks, and +the lad thought he would like to see him before going back to Stratford. +Then, too, his mother had always liked Diccon Field, and would be glad +to hear from him. At thought of his mother he gave a happy little skip; +and as they turned into Paternoster Bow, “Master Carew,” said he, “how +soon shall I go home?” + +Carew walked a little faster. + +There had arisen a sound of shouting and a trampling of feet. The +constables had taken a purse-cutting thief, and were coming up to the +Newgate prison with a great rabble behind them. The fellow’s head was +broken, and his haggard face was all screwed up with pain; but that +did not stop the boys from hooting at him, and asking in mockery how he +thought he would like to be hanged and to dance on nothing at +Tyburn Hill. + +[Illustration: “DICCON HAD OFTEN MADE NICK WHISTLES FROM THE WILLOWS +ALONG THE AVON WHEN NICK WAS A TODDLER.”] + +“Did ye hear me, Master Carew?” asked Nick. + +The master-player stepped aside a moment into a doorway to let the mob +go by, and then strode on. + +Nick tried again: “I pray thee, sir—” + +“Do not pray me,” said Carew, sharply; “I am no Indian idol.” + +“But, good Master Carew—” + +“Nor call me good—I am not good.” + +“But, Master Carew,” faltered Nick, with a sinking sensation around his +heart, “when will ye leave me go home?” + +The master-player did not reply, but strode on rapidly, gnawing his +mustache. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + + +MASTER HEYWOOD PROTESTS + +It was a cold, raw day. All morning long the sun had shone through the +choking fog as the candle-flame through the dingy yellow horn of an old +stable-lantern. But at noon a wind sprang up that drove the mist through +London streets in streaks and strings mixed with smoke and the reek of +steaming roofs. Now and then the blue gleamed through in ragged patches +overhead; so that all the town turned out on pleasure bent, not minding +if it rained stewed turnips, so they saw the sky. + +But the fog still sifted through the streets, and all was damp and +sticky to the touch, so Cicely was left behind to loneliness and +disappointment. + +Nick and the master-player came down Ludgate Hill to Blackfriars landing +in a stream of merrymakers, high and low, rich and poor, faring forth to +London’s greatest thoroughfare, the Thames; and as the river and the +noble mansions along the Strand came into view, Nick’s heart beat fast. +It was a sight to stir the pulse. + +Far down the stream, the grim old Tower loomed above the drifting mist; +and, higher up, old London Bridge, lined with tall houses, stretched +from shore to shore. There were towers on it with domes and gilded +vanes, and the river foamed and roared under it, strangled by the piers. +From the dock at St. Mary Averies by the Bridge to Barge-house stairs, +the landing-stages all along the river-bank were thronged with boats; +and to and fro across the stream, wherries, punts, barges, and +water-craft of every kind were plying busily. In middle stream +sail-boats tugged along with creaking sweeps, or brown-sailed +trading-vessels slipped away to sea, with costly freight for Muscovy, +Turkey, and the Levant. And amid the countless water-craft a multitude +of stately swans swept here and there like snow-flakes on the +dusky river. + +Nick sniffed at the air, for it was full of strange odors—the smell of +breweries, of pitchy oakum, Norway tar, spices from hot countries, +resinous woods, and chilly whiffs from the water; and as they came out +along the wharf, there were brown-faced, hard-eyed sailors there, who +had been to the New World—wild fellows with silver rings in their ears +and a swaggering stagger in their petticoated legs. Some of them held +short, crooked brown tubes between their lips, and puffed great clouds +of pale brown smoke from their noses in a most amazing way. + +Broad-beamed Dutchmen, too, were there, and swarthy Spanish renegades, +with sturdy craftsmen of the City guilds and stalwart yeomen of the +guard in the Queen’s rich livery. + +But ere Nick had fairly begun to stare, confused by such a rout, Carew +had hailed a wherry, and they were half-way over to the Southwark side. + +Landing amid a deafening din of watermen bawling hoarsely for a place +along the Paris Garden stairs, the master-player hurried up the lane +through the noisy crowd. Some were faring afoot into Surrey, and some to +green St. George’s Fields to buy fresh fruit and milk from the +farm-houses and to picnic on the grass. Some turned aside to the Falcon +Inn for a bit of cheese and ale, and others to the play-houses beyond +the trees and fishing-ponds. And coming down from the inn they met a +crowd of players, with Master Tom Heywood at their head, frolicking and +cantering along like so many overgrown school-boys. + +“So we are to have thee with us awhile?” said Heywood, and put his arm +around Nick’s shoulders as they trooped along. + +“Awhile, sir, yes,” replied Nick, nodding; “but I am going home soon, +Master Carew says.” + +“Carew,” said Heywood, suddenly turning, “how can ye have the heart?” + +“Come, Heywood,” quoth the master-player, curtly, though his whole face +colored up, “I have heard enough of this. Will ye please to mind your +own affairs?” + +The writer of comedies lifted his brows, “Very well,” he answered +quietly; “but, lad, this much for thee,” said he, turning to Nick, “if +ever thou dost need a friend, Tom Heywood’s one will never speak +thee false.” + +“Sir!” cried Carew, clapping his hand upon his poniard Heywood looked +up steadily. “How? Wilt thou quarrel with me, Carew? What ugly poison +hath been filtered through thy wits? Why, thou art even falser than I +thought! Quarrel with me, who took thy new-born child from her dying +mother’s arms when thou wert fast in Newgate gaol?” + +Carew’s angry face turned sickly gray. He made as if to speak, but no +sound came. He shut his eyes and pushed out his hand in the air as if to +stop the voice of the writer of comedies. + +“Come,” said Heywood, with deep feeling; “thou canst not quarrel with me +yet—nay, though thou dost try thy very worst. It would be a sorry story +for my soul or thine to tell to hers.” + +Carew groaned. The rest of the players had passed on, and the three +stood there alone. “Don’t, Tom, don’t!” he cried. + +“Then how can ye have the heart?” the other asked again. + +The master-player lifted up his head, and his lips were trembling. +“’Tis not the heart, Tom,” he cried bitterly, “upon my word, and on +the remnant of mine honour! ’Tis the head which doeth this. For, Tom, +I cannot leave him go. Why, Tom, hast thou not heard him sing? A voice +which would call back the very dead that we have loved if they might +only hear. Why, Tom, ’tis worth a thousand pound! How can I leave him +go?” + +“Oh, fie for shame upon the man I took thee for!” cried Heywood. + +“But, Tom,” cried Carew, brokenly, “look it straightly in the face; I +am no such player as I was,—this reckless life hath done the trick for +me, Tom,—and here is ruin staring Henslowe and Alleyn in the eye. They +cannot keep me master if their luck doth not change soon; and Burbage +would not have me as a gift. So, Tom, what is there left to do? How can +I shift without the boy? Nay, Tom, it will not serve. There’s +Cicely—not one penny laid by for her against a rainy day; and I’ll be +gone, Tom, I’ll be gone—it is not morning all day long—we cannot last +forever. Nay, I cannot leave him go!” + +“But, sir,” broke in Nick, wretchedly, holding fast to Hey wood’s arm, +“ye said that I should go!” + +“Said!” cried the master-player, with a bitter smile; “why, Nick, I’d +say ten times more in one little minute just to hear thee sing than I +would stand to in a month of Easters afterward. Come, Nick, be fair. +I’ll feed thee full and dress thee well and treat thee true—all for +that song of thine.” + +“But, sir, my mother—” + +“Why, Carew, hath the boy a mother, too?” cried the writer of comedies. + +“Now, Heywood, on thy soul, no more of this!” cried the master-player, +with quivering lips. “Ye will make me out no man, or else a fiend. I +cannot let the fellow go—I will not let him go.” His hands were +twitching, and his face was pale, but his lips were set determinedly. +“And, Tom, there’s that within me will not abide even _thy_ pestering. +So come, no more of it! Upon my soul, I sour over soon!” + +So they came on gloomily past the bear-houses and the Queen’s kennels. +The river-wind was full of the wild smell of the bears; but what were +bears to poor Nick, whose last faint hope that the master-player meant +to keep his word and send him home again was gone? + +They passed the Paris Garden and the tall round play-house that Francis +Langley had just built. A blood-red banner flaunted overhead, with a +large white swan painted thereon; but Nick saw neither the play-house +nor the swan; he saw only, deep in his heart, a little gable-roof among +old elms, with blue smoke curling softly up among the rippling leaves; +an open door with tall pink hollyhocks beside it; and in the door, +watching for him till he came again, his own mother’s face. He began to +cry silently. + +“Nay, Nick, my lad, don’t cry,” said Heywood, gently; “’twill only make +bad matters worse. _Never_ is a weary while; but the longest lane will +turn at last: some day thou’lt find thine home again all in the +twinkling of an eye. Why, Nick, ’tis England still, and thou an +Englishman. Come, give the world as good as it can send.” + +Nick raised his head again, and, throwing the hair back from his eyes, +walked stoutly along, though the tears still trickled down his cheeks. + +“Sing thou my songs,” said Heywood, heartily, “and I will be thy +friend—let this be thine earnest.” As he spoke he slipped upon the +boy’s finger a gold ring with a green stone in it cut with a tall tree: +this was his seal. + +They had now come through the garden to the Rose Theatre, where the Lord +Admiral’s company played; and Carew was himself again. “Come, +Nicholas,” said he, half jestingly, “be done with thy doleful +dumps—care killed a cat, they say, lad. Why, if thy hateful looks could +stab, I’d be a dead man forty times. Come, cheer up, lad, that I may +know thou lovest me.” + +“But I do na love thee!” cried Nick, indignantly. + +“Tut! Do not be so dour. Thou’lt soon be envied by ten thousand men. +Come, don’t make a face at thy good fortune as though it were a tripe +fried in tar. Come, lad, be pleased; thou’lt be the pet of every +high-born dame in London town.” + +“I’d rather be my mother’s boy,” Nick answered simply. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX + + +THE ROSE PLAY-HOUSE + +The play-house was an eight-sided, three-storied, tower-like building of +oak and plastered lath, upon a low foundation of yellow brick. Two +outside stairways ran around the wall, and the roof was of bright-red +English tiles with a blue lead gutter at the eaves. There was a little +turret, from the top of which a tall ash stave went up; and on the +stave, whenever there was to be a play, there floated a great white flag +on which was a crimson rose with a golden heart, just like the one that +Nick with such delight had seen come up the Oxford road a few short +days before. + +Under the stairway was a narrow door marked “For the Playeres Onelie”; +and in the doorway stood a shrewd-faced, common-looking man, writing +upon a tablet which he held in his hand. There was a case of quills at +his side, with one of which he was scratching busily, now and then +prodding the ink-horn at his girdle. He held his tongue in his cheek, +and moved his head about as the pen formed the letters: he was no +expert penman, this Phil Henslowe, the stager of plays. + +He looked up as they came to the step. + +“A poor trip, Carew,” said he, running his finger down the column of +figures he was adding. “The play was hardly worth the candle—cleared +but five pound; and then, after I had paid the carman three shilling fip +to bring the stuff down from the City, ’twas lost in the river from the +barge at Paul’s wharf! A good two pound.” + +“Hard luck!” said Carew. + +“Hard? Adamantine, I say! Why, ’tis very stones for luck, and the whole +road rocky! Here’s Burbage, Condell, and Will Shakspere ha’ rebuilt +Blackfriars play-house in famous shape; and, marry, where are we?” + +Nick started. An idea came creeping into his head. Will Shakspere had +married his mother’s own cousin, Anne Hathaway of Shottery; and he had +often heard his mother say that Master Shakspere had ever been her own +good friend when they were young. + +“He and Jonson be thick as thieves,” said Henslowe; “and Chettle says +that Will hath near done the book of a new play for the autumn—a master +fine thing!—‘Romulus and Juliana,’ or something of that Italian sort, +to follow Ben Jonson’s comedy. Ned Alleyn played a sweet fool about +Ben’s comedy. Called it monstrous bad; and now it has taken the money +out of our mouths to the tune of nine pound six the day—and here, while +ye were gone, I ha’ played my Lord of Pembroke’s men in your ‘Robin +Hood,’ Heywood, to scant twelve shilling in the house!” + +Heywood flushed. + +“Nay, Tom, don’t be nettled; ’tis not the fault of thy play. There’s +naught will serve. We’ve tried old Marlowe and Robin Greene, Peele, +Nash, and all the rest; but, what! they will not do—’tis Shakspere, +Shakspere; our City flat-caps will ha’ nothing but Shakspere!” + +Nick listened eagerly. Master Will Shakspere must indeed be somebody in +London town! He stared across into the drifting cloud of mist and smoke +which hid the city like a pall, and wondered how and where, in that +terrible hive of more than a hundred thousand men, he could find +one man. + +“I tell thee, Tom Heywood, there’s some magic in the fellow, or my +name’s not Henslowe!” cried the manager. “His very words bewitch one’s +wits as nothing else can do. Why, I’ve tried them with ‘Pierce +Penniless,’ ‘Groat’s Worth of Wit,’ ‘Friar Bacon,’ ‘Orlando,’ and the +‘Battle of Alcazar.’ Why, tush! they will not even listen! And here I’ve +put Martin Gosset into purple and gold, and Jemmy Donstall into a +peach-colored gown laid down with silver-gilt, for ‘Volteger’; and what? +Why, we play to empty stools; and the rascals owe me for those costumes +yet—sixty shillings full! A murrain on Burbage and Will Shakspere +too!—but I wish we had him back again. We’d make their old Blackfriars +sick!” He shook his fist at a great gray pile of buildings that rose +above the rest out of the fog by the landing-place beyond the river. + +Nick stared. _That_ the play-house of Master Shakspere and the Burbages? +Will Shakspere playing there, just across the river? Oh, if Nick could +only find him, he would not let the son of his wife’s own cousin be +stolen away! + +Nick looked around quickly. + +The play-house stood a bowshot from the river, in the open fields. There +was a moated manor-house near by, and beyond it a little stream with +some men fishing. Between the play-house and the Thames were gardens and +trees, and a thin fringe of buildings along the bank by the landings. It +was not far, and there were places where one could get a boat every +fifty yards or so at the Bankside. + +But—“Come in, come in,” said Henslowe. “Growling never fed a dog; and +we must be doing.” + +“Go ahead, Nick,” said Carew, pushing him by the shoulder, and they all +went in. The door opened on a flight of stairs leading to the lowest +gallery at the right of the stage, where the orchestra sat. A man was +tuning up a viol as they came in. + +“I want you to hear this boy sing,” said Carew to Henslowe. “’Tis the +best thing ye ever lent ear to.” + +“Oh, this is the boy?” said the manager, staring at Nick. “Why, Alleyn +told me he was a country gawk!” + +“He lied, then,” said Carew, very shortly. “’Twas cheaper than the +truth at my price. There, Nick, go look about the place—we have +business.” + +Nick went slowly along the gallery. His hands were beginning to tremble +as he put them out touching the stools. Along the rail were ornamental +columns which supported the upper galleries and looked like beautiful +blue-veined white marble; but when he took hold of them to steady +himself he found they were only painted wood. + +There were two galleries above. They ran all around the inside of the +building, like the porches of the inn at Coventry, and he could see them +across the house. There were no windows in the gallery where he was, but +there were some in the second one. They looked high. He went on around +the gallery until he came to some steps going down into the open space +in the center of the building. The stage was already set up on the +trestles, and the carpenters were putting a shelter-roof over it on +copper-gilt pillars; for it was beginning to drizzle, and the middle of +the play-house was open to the sky. + +The spectators were already coming into the pit at a penny apiece, +although the play would not begin until early evening. Those for the +galleries paid another penny to a man in a red cloak at the foot of the +stairs where Nick was standing. There was a great uproar at the +entrance. Some apprentices had caught a cutpurse in the crowd, and were +beating him unmercifully. Every one pushed and shoved about, cursing the +thief, and those near enough kicked and struck him. + +Nick looked back. Carew and the manager had gone into the tiring-room +behind the stage. He took hold of the side-rail and started down the +steps. The man in the red cloak looked up. “Go back there,” said he, +sharply; “there’s enough down here now.” Nick went on around +the gallery. + +At the back of the stage were two doors for the players, and between +them hung a painted cloth or arras behind which the prompter stood. Over +these doors were two plastered rooms, twopenny private boxes for +gentlefolk. In one of them were three young men and a beautiful girl, +wonderfully dressed. The men were speaking to her, but she looked down +at Nick instead. “What a pretty boy!” she said, and tossed him a flower +that one of the men had just given her. It fell at Nick’s feet. He +started back, looking up. The girl smiled, so he took off his cap and +bowed; but the men looked sour. + +At the side of the stage was a screen with long leather fire-buckets and +a pole-ax hanging upon it, and behind it was a door through which Nick +saw the river and the gray walls of the old Dominican friary. As he came +down to it, some one thrust out a staff and barred the way. It was the +bandy-legged man with the ribbon in his ear, Nick looked out longingly; +it seemed so near! + +“Master Carew saith thou art not to stir outside—dost hear?” said the +bandy-legged man. + +“Ay,” said Nick, and turned back. + +There was a narrow stairway leading to the second gallery. He went up +softly. There was no one in the gallery, and there was a window on the +side next to the river; he had seen it from below. He went toward it +slowly that he might not arouse suspicion. It was above his head. + +[Illustration: “NICK PUT ONE LEG OVER THE SILL AND LOOKED BACK.”] + +There were stools for hire standing near. He brought one and set it +under the window. It stood unevenly upon the floor, and made a wabbling +noise. He was afraid some one would hear him; but the apprentices in +the pit were rattling dice, and two or three gentlemen’s pages were +wrangling for the best places on the platform; while, to add to the +general riot, two young gallants had brought gamecocks and were fighting +them in one corner, amid such a whooping and swashing that one could +hardly have heard the skies fall. + +A printer’s man was bawling, “Will ye buy a new book?” and the +fruit-sellers, too, were raising such a cry of “Apples, cherries, cakes, +and ale!” that the little noise Nick might make would be lost in the +wild confusion. + +Master Carew and the manager had not come out of the tiring-room. Nick +got up on the stool and looked out. It was not very far to the +ground—not so far as from the top of the big haycock in Master John +Combe’s field from which he had often jumped. + +The sill was just breast-high when he stood upon the stool. Putting his +hands upon it, he gave a little spring, and balanced on his arms a +moment. Then he put one leg over the window-sill and looked back. No one +was paying the slightest attention to him. Over all the noise he could +hear the man tuning the viol. Swinging himself out slowly and silently, +with his toes against the wall to steady him, he hung down as far as he +could, gave a little push away from the house with his feet, caught a +quick breath, and dropped. + + + + +CHAPTER XX + + +DISAPPOINTMENT + +Nick landed upon a pile of soft earth. It broke away under his feet and +threw him forward upon his hands and knees. He got up, a little shaken +but unhurt, and stood close to the wall, looking all about quickly. A +party of gaily dressed gallants were haggling with the horse-boys at the +sheds; but they did not even look at him. A passing carter stared up at +the window, measuring the distance with his eye, whistled incredulously, +and trudged on. + +Nick listened a moment, but heard only the clamor of voices inside, and +the zoon, zoon, zoon of the viol. He was trembling all over, and his +heart was beating like a trip-hammer. He wanted to run, but was fearful +of exciting suspicion. Heading straight for the river, he walked as fast +as he could through the gardens and the trees, brushing the dirt from +his hose as he went. + +There was a wherry just pushing out from Old Marigold stairs with a +single passenger, a gardener with a basket of truck. + +“Holloa!” cried Nick, hurrying down; “will ye take me across?” + +“For thrippence,” said the boatman, hauling the wherry alongside again +with his hook. + +Thrippence? Nick stopped, dismayed. Master Carew had his gold +rose-noble, and he had not thought of the fare. They would soon find +that he was gone. + +“Oh, I must be across, sir!” he cried. “Can ye na take me free? I be +little and not heavy; and I will help the gentleman with his basket.” + +The boatman’s only reply was to drop his hook and push off with the oar. + +But the gardener, touched by the boy’s pitiful expression, to say +nothing of being tickled by Nick’s calling him gentleman, spoke up: +“Here, jack-sculler,” said he; “I’ll toss up wi’ thee for it.” He pulled +a groat from his pocket and began spinning it in the air. “Come, thou +lookest a gamesome fellow—cross he goes, pile he stays; best two in +three flips—what sayst?” + +“Done!” said the waterman. “Pop her up!” + +Up went the groat. + +Nick held his breath. + +“Pile it is,” said the gardener. “One for thee—and up she goes again!” +The groat twirled in the air and came down _clink_ upon the thwart. + +“Aha!” cried the boatman, “’tis mine, or I’m a horse!” + +“Nay, jack-sculler,” laughed the gardener; “cross it is! Ka me, ka thee, +my pretty groat—I never lose with this groat.” + +“Oh, sir, do be brisk!” begged Nick, fearing every instant to see the +master-player and the bandy-legged man come running down the bank. + +“More haste, worse speed,” said the gardener; “only evil weeds grow +fast!” and he rubbed the groat on his jerkin. “Now, jack-sculler, hold +thy breath; for up she goes again!” + +A man came running over the rise. Nick gave a little frightened cry. It +was only a huckster’s knave with a roll of fresh butter. The groat came +down with a splash in the bottom of the wherry. The boatman picked it up +out of the water and wiped it with his sleeve. “Here, boy, get aboard,” +said he, shoving off; “and be lively about it!” + +The huckster’s knave came running down the landing. He pushed Nick +aside, and scrambled into the wherry, puffing for breath. The boat fell +off into the current. Nick, making a plunge for it into the water, just +managed to catch the gunwale and get aboard, wet to the knees. But he +did not care for that; for although there were people going up Paris +Garden lane, and a crowd about the entrance of the Rose, he could not +see Master Carew or the bandy-legged man anywhere. So he breathed a +little freer, yet kept his eyes fast upon the play-house until the +wherry bumped against Blackfriars stairs. + +Picking up the basket of truck, he sprang ashore, and, dropping it upon +the landing, took to his heels up the bank, without stopping to thank +either gardener or boatman. + +The gray walls of the old friary were just ahead, scarcely a stone’s +throw from the river. With heart beating high, he ran along the close, +looking eagerly for the entrance. He came to a wicket-gate that was +standing half ajar, and went through it into the old cloisters. + +Everything there was still. He was glad of that, for the noise and the +rush of the crowd outside confused him. + +The place had once been a well-kept garden-plot, but now was become a +mere stack of odds and ends of boards and beams, shavings, mortar, and +broken brick. A long-legged fellow with a green patch over one eye was +building a pair of stairs to a door beside which a sign read: “Playeres +Here: None Elles.” + +Nick doffed his cap. “Good-day,” said he; “is Master Will Shakspere in?” + +The man put down his saw and sat back upon one of the trestles, staring +stupidly. “Didst za-ay zummat?” + +“I asked if Master Will Shakspere was in?” + +The fellow scratched his head with a bit of shaving. “Noa; Muster Wull +Zhacksper beant in.” + +Nick’s heart stopped with a thump. “Where is he—do ye know?” + +“A’s gone awa-ay,” drawled the workman, vaguely. + +“Away? Whither!” + +“A’s gone to Ztratvoard to-own, whur’s woife do li-ive—went +a-yesterday.” + +Nick sat blindly down upon the other trestle. He did not put his cap on +again: he had quite forgotten it. + +Master Will Shakspere gone to Stratford—and only the day before! + +Too late—just one little day too late! It seemed like cruel mockery. +Why, he might be almost home! The thought was more than he could bear: +who could be brave in the face of such a blow? The bitter tears ran +down his face again. + +“Here, here, odzookens, lad!” grinned the workman, stolidly, “thou’lt +vetch t’ river up if weeps zo ha-ard. Ztop un, ztop un; do now.” + +Nick sat staring at the ground. A beetle was trying to crawl over a +shaving. It was a curly shaving, and as fast as the beetle crept up to +the top the shaving rolled over, and dropped the beetle upon its back in +the dust; but it only got up and tried again. Nick looked up. + +“Is—is Master Richard Burbage here, then?” + +Perhaps Burbage, who had been a Stratford man, would help him. + +“Noa,” drawled the carpenter; “Muster Bubbage beant here; doan’t want +un, nuther—nuvver do moind a’s owen business—always jawin’ volks. A +beant here, an’ doan’t want un, nuther.” + +Nick’s heart went down. “And where is he?” + +“Who? Muster Bubbage? Whoy, a be-eth out to Zhoreditch, a-playin’ at t’ +theater.” + +“And where may Shoreditch be?” + +“Whur be Zhoreditch?” gaped the workman, vacantly. “Whoy—whoy, zummers +over there a bit yon, zure”; and he waved his hand about in a way that +pointed to nowhere at all. + +“When will he be back?” asked Nick, desperately. + +“Be ba-ack?” drawled the workman, slowly taking up his saw again; “back +whur?—here? Whoy, a wun’t pla-ay here no mo-ore avore next Martlemas.” + +Martinmas? That was almost mid-November. It was now but middle May. + +Nick got up and went out at the wicket-gate. He was beginning to feel +sick and a little faint. The rush in the street made him dizzy, and the +sullen roar that came down on the wind from the town, mingled with the +tramping of feet, the splash of oars, the bumping of boats along the +wharves, and the shouts and cries of a thousand voices, stupefied him. + +He was standing there motionless in the narrow way, as if dazed by a +heavy fall, when Gaston Carew came running up from the river-front, with +the bandy-legged man at his heels. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI + + +“THE CHILDREN OF PAUL’S” + +An old gray rat came out of its hole, ran swiftly across the floor, and, +sitting up, crouched there, peering at Nick. He thought its bare, scaly +tail was not a pleasant thing to see; yet he looked at it, with his +elbows on his knees, and his chin in his hands. + +He had been locked in for two days now. They had put in plenty of food, +and he had eaten it all; for if he starved to death he would certainly +never get home. + +It was quite warm, and the boards had been taken from the window, so +that there was plenty of light. The window faced the north, and in the +night, wakened by some outcry in the street below, Nick had leaned his +log-pillow against the wainscot, and, climbing up, looked out into the +sky. It was clear, for a wonder, and the stars were very bright. The +moon, like a smoky golden platter, rose behind the eastern towers of the +town, and in the north hung the Great Wain pointing at the polar star. + +Somewhere underneath those stars was Stratford. The throstles would be +singing in the orchard there now, when the sun was low and the cool +wind came up from the river with a little whispering in the lane. The +purple-gray doves, too, would be cooing softly in the elms over the +cottage gable. In fancy he heard the whistle of their wings as they +flew. But all the sound that came in over the roofs of London town was a +hollow murmur as from a kennel of surly hounds. + +“Nick!—oh, Nick!” + +Cicely Carew was calling at the door. The rat scurried off to its hole +in the wall. + +“What there, Nick! Art thou within?” Cicely called again; but Nick made +no reply. + +“Nick, _dear_ Nick, art crying?” + +“No,” said he; “I’m not.” + +There was a short silence. + +“Nick, I say, wilt thou be good if I open the door?” + +“No.” + +“Then I will open it anyway; thou durstn’t be bad to me!” + +The bolts thumped, and then the heavy door swung slowly back. + +“Why, where art thou?” + +He was sitting in the corner behind the door. + +“Here,” said he. + +She came in, but he did not look up. + +“Nick,” she asked earnestly, “why wilt thou be so bad, and try to run +away from my father?” + +“I hate thy father!” said he, and brought his fist down upon his knee. + +“Hate him? Oh, Nick! Why?” + +“If thou be asking whys,” said Nick, bitterly, “why did he steal me away +from my mother?” + +“Oh, surely, Nick, that cannot be true—no, no, it cannot be true. Thou +hast forgotten, or thou hast slept too hard and had bad dreams. My +father would not steal a pin. It was a nightmare. Doth thine head hurt +thee?” She came over and stroked his forehead with her cool hand. She +was a graceful child, and gentle in all her ways. “I am sorry thou dost +not feel well, Nick. But my father will come presently, and he will heal +thee soon. Don’t cry any more.” + +“I’m not crying,” said Nick, stoutly, though as he spoke a tear ran down +his cheek, and fell upon his hand. + +“Then it is the roof leaks,” she said, looking up as if she had not seen +his tear-blinded eyes. “But cheer up, Nick, and be a good boy—wilt thou +not? ’Tis dinner-time, and thy new clothes have come; and thou art to +come down now and try them on.” + +When Nick came out of the tiring-room and found the master-player come, +he knew not what to say or do. “Oh, brave, brave, brave!” cried Cicely, +and danced around him, clapping her hands. “Why, it is a very prince—a +king! Oh, Nick, thou art most beautiful to see!” + +And Master Carew’s own eyes sparkled; for truly it was a pleasant sight +to see a fair young lad like Nick in such attire. + +[Illustration: ““OH, NICK, THOU ART MOST BEAUTIFUL TO SEE!” CRIED CICELY.”] + +There was a fine white shirt of Holland linen, and long hose of grayish +blue, with puffed and slashed trunks of velvet so blue as to be almost +black. The sleeveless jerkin was of the same dark color, trellised with +roses embroidered in silk, and loose from breast to broad lace collar so +that the waistcoat of dull gold silk beneath it might show. A cloak of +damask with a silver clasp, a buff-leather belt with a chubby purse hung +to it by a chain, tan-colored slippers, and a jaunty velvet cap with a +short white plume, completed the array. Everything, too, had been laid +down with perfume, so that from head to foot he smelt as sweet and clean +as a drift of rose-mallows. + +“My soul!” cried Carew, stepping back and snapping his fingers with +delight. “Thou art the bravest skylark that ever broke a shell! Fine +feathers—fine bird—my soul, how ye do set each other off!” He took +Nick by the shoulders, twirled him around, and, standing off again, +stared at him like a man who has found two pound sterling in a +cast-off coat. + +“I can na pay for them, sir,” said Nick, slowly. + +“There’s nought to pay—it is a gift.” + +Nick hung his head, much troubled. What could he say; what could he +think? This man had stolen him from home,—ay, made him tremble for his +very life a dozen times,—and with his whole heart he knew he hated +him—yet here, a gift! + +“Yes, Nick, it is a gift—and all because I love thee, lad.” + +“Love me?” + +“Why, surely! Who could see thee without liking, or hear thy voice and +not love thee? Love thee, Nick? Why, on my word and honour, lad, I love +thee with all my heart.” + +“Thou hast chosen strange ways to show it, Master Carew,” said Nick, and +looked straight up into the master player’s eyes. + +Carew turned upon his heel and ordered the dinner. + +It was a good dinner: fat roast capon stuffed with spiced carrots; +asparagus, biscuit, barley-cakes, and honey; and to end with, a flaky +pie, and Spanish cordial sprinkled with burnt sugar. With such fare and +a keen appetite, a marvelous brand-new suit of clothes, and Cicely +chattering gaily by his side, Nick could not be sulky or doleful long. +He was soon laughing; and Carew’s spirits seemed to rise with the boy’s. + +“Here, here!” he cried, as Nick was served the third time to the pie; +“art hollow to thy very toes? Why, thou’lt eat us out of house and +home—hey, Cicely? Marry come up, I think I’d best take Ned Alleyn’s +five shillings for thine hire, after all! What! Five shillings? Set me +in earth and bowl me to death with boiled turnips!—do they think to +play bob-fool with me? Five shillings! A fico for their five +shillings—and this for them!” and he squeezed the end of his thumb +between his fingers. “Cicely, what dost think?—Phil Henslowe had the +face to match Jem Bristow with our Nick!” + +“Why, daddy, Jem hath a face like a halibut!” + +“And a voice like a husky crow. Why, Nick’s mere shadow on the stage is +worth a ton of Jemmy Bristows. ’Twas casting pearls before swine, Nick, +to offer thee to Henslowe and Alleyn; but we’ve found a better trough +than theirs—hey, Cicely Goldenheart, haven’t we? Thou art to be one of +Paul’s boys.” + +“Paul who?” + +Carew lay back in his chair and laughed. “Paul who? Why, Saint Paul, +Nick,—’tis Paul’s Cathedral boys I mean. Marry, what dost say to that?” + +“I’d like another barley-cake.” + +“You’d _what_?” cried the master-player, letting the front legs of his +chair come down on the floor with a thump. + +“I’d like another barley-cake,” said Nick, quietly, helping himself to +the honey. + +“Upon my word, and on the remnant of mine honour!” ejaculated Carew. +“Tell a man his fortune’s made, and he calls for barley-cakes! Why, +thou’dst say ‘Pooh!’ to a cannon-ball! My faith, boy, dost understand +what this doth mean?” + +“Ay,” said Nick; “that I be hungry.” + +“But, Nick, upon my soul, thou art to sing with the Children of Paul’s; +to play with the cathedral company; to be a bright particular star in +the sweetest galaxy that ever shone in English sky! Dost take me yet?” + +“Ay,” said Nick, and sopped the honey with his cake. + +Carew played with his glass uneasily, and tapped his heel upon the +floor. “And is that all thou hast to say—hast turned oyster? There’s no +R in May—nobody will eat thee! Come, don’t make a mouth as though the +honey of the world were all turned gall upon thy tongue. ’Tis the +flood-tide of thy fortune, boy! Thou art to sing before the school +to-morrow, so that Master Nathaniel Gyles may take thy range and worth. +Now, truly, thou wilt do thy very best?” + +The bandy-legged man had brought water in a ewer, and poured some in a +basin for Nick to wash his hands. There was a green ribbon in his ear, +and the towel hung across his arm. Nick wiped his hands in silence. + +“Come,” said Master Carew, with an ugly sharpness in his voice, “thou’lt +sing thy very best?” + +“There’s nothing else to do,” replied Nick, doggedly. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII + + +THE SKYLARK’S SONG + +Master Nathaniel Gyles, Precentor of St. Paul’s, had pipe-stem legs, and +a face like an old parchment put in a box to keep. His sandy hair was +thin and straggling, and his fine cloth hose wrinkled around his +shrunken shanks; but his eye was sharp, and he wore about his neck a +broad gold chain that marked him as no common man. + +For Master Nathaniel Gyles was head of the Cathedral schools of acting +and of music, and he stood upon his dignity. + +“My duty is laid down,” said he, “in most specific terms, sir,—_lex +cathedralis_,—that is to say, by the laws of the cathedral; and has +been, sir, since the reign of Richard the Third. _Primus Magister +Scholarum, Custos Morum, Quartus Custos Rotulorum_,—so the title +stands, sir; and I know my place.” + +He pushed Nick into the anteroom, and turned to Carew with an irritated +air. + +“I likewise know, sir, what is what. In plain words, Master Gaston +Carew, ye have grossly misrepresented this boy to me, to the waste of +much good time. Why, sir, he does not dance a step, and cannot act +at all.” + +“Soft, Master Gyles—be not so fast!” said Carew, haughtily, drawing +himself up, with his hand on his poniard; “dost mean to tell me that I +have lied to thee? Marry, sir, thy tongue will run thee into a blind +alley! I told thee that the boy could sing, but not that he could act +or dance.” + +“Pouf, sir,—words! I know my place: one peg below the dean, sir, +nothing less: ‘_Magister, et cetera’_—’tis so set down. And I tell +thee, sir, he has no training, not a bit; can’t tell a pricksong from a +bottle of hay; doesn’t know a canon from a crocodile, or a fugue from a +hole in the ground!” + +“Oh, fol-de-riddle de fol-de-rol! What has that to do with it? I tell +thee, sir, the boy can sing.” + +“And, sir, I say I know my place. Music does not grow like weeds.” + +“And fa-la-las don’t make a voice.” + +“What! How? Wilt thou teach me?” The master’s voice rose angrily. “Teach +me, who learned descant and counterpoint in the Gallo-Belgic schools, +sir; the best in all the world! Thou, who knowest not a staccato from a +stick of liquorice!” + +Carew shrugged his shoulders impatiently. “Come, Master Gyles, this is +fool play. I told thee that the boy could sing, and thou hast not yet +heard him try. Thou knowest right well I am no such simple gull as to +mistake a jay for a nightingale; and I tell thee, sir, upon my word, +and on the remnant of mine honour, he has the voice that thou dost need +if thou wouldst win the favor of the Queen. He has the voice, and thou +the thingumbobs to make the most of it. Don’t be a fool, now; hear him +sing. That’s all I ask. Just hear him once. Thou’lt pawn thine ears to +hear him twice.” + +The music-school stood within the old cathedral grounds. Through the +windows came up distantly the murmur of the throng in Paul’s Yard. It +was mid-afternoon, quite warm; blundering flies buzzed up and down the +lozenged panes, and through the dark hall crept the humming sound of +childish voices reciting eagerly, with now and then a sharp, small cry +as some one faltered in his lines and had his fingers rapped. Somewhere +else there were boyish voices running scales, now up, now down, without +a stop, and other voices singing harmonies, two parts and three +together, here and there a little flat from weariness. + +The stairs were very dark, Nick thought, as they went up to another +floor; but the long hall they came into there was quite bright with +the sun. + +At one end was a little stage, like the one at the Rose play-house, with +a small gallery for musicians above it; but everything here was painted +white and gold, and was most scrupulously clean. The rush-strewn floor +was filled with oaken benches, and there were paintings hanging upon the +wall, portraits of old head-masters and precentors. Some of them were so +dark with time that Nick wondered if they had been blackamoors. + +Master Gyles closed the great door and pulled a cord that hung by the +stage. A bell jangled faintly somewhere in the wall. Nick heard the +muffled voices hush, and then a shuffling tramp of slippered feet came +up the outer stair. + +“Pouf!” said the precentor, crustily. “_Tempus fugit_—that is to say, +we have no time to waste. So, marry, boy, _venite, exultemus_—in other +words, if thou canst sing, be up and at it. Come, _cantate_—sing, I bid +thee, and that instanter—if thou canst sing at all.” + +The under-masters and monitors were pushing the boys into their seats. +Carew pointed to the stage. “Thou’lt do thy level best!” he said in a +low, hard tone, and something clashed beneath his cloak like steel +on steel. + +Nick went up the steps behind the screen. It seemed cold in the room; he +had not noticed it before. Yet there were sweat-drops upon his forehead. +He felt as if he were a jackanapes he had seen once at the Stratford +fair, which wore a crimson jerkin and a cap. The man who had the +jackanapes played upon a pipe and a tabor; and when he said, “Dance!” +the jackanapes danced, for it was sorely afraid of the man. Yet when +Nick looked around and did not see the master-player anywhere in the +hall, he felt exceedingly lonely all at once without him, though he both +feared and hated him. + +There still was a shuffling of feet and a low talking; but soon it +became very quiet, and they all seemed to be waiting for him to begin. +He did not care, but supposed he might as well: what else could he do? + +There was a clock somewhere ticking quickly with its sharp, metallic +ring. As he listened, lonely, his heart cried out for home. In his +fancy the wind seemed rippling over the Avon, and the elm-leaves rustled +like rain upon the roof above his bed. There were red and white +wild-roses in the hedge, and in the air a smell of clover and of +new-mown hay. The mowers would be working in the clover in the +moonlight. He could almost see the sweep of the shining scythes, and +hear the chink-a-chank, chink-a-chank of the whetstone on the long, +curving blades. Chink-a-chank, chink-a-chank—’twas but the clock, and +he in London town. + +Carew, sitting there behind the carven prompter’s-screen, put down his +head between his hands and listened. There were murmurings a little +while, then silence. Would the boy never begin? He pressed his knuckles +into his temples and waited. Bow Bells rang out the hour; but the room +was as still as a deep sleep. Would the boy never begin? + +The precentor sniffed. It was a contemptuous, incredulous sniff. Carew +looked up—his lips white, a fierce red spot in each cheek. He was +talking to himself. “By the whistle of the Lord High Admiral!” he +said—but there he stopped and held his breath. Nick was singing. + +Only the old madrigal, with its half-forgotten words that other +generations sang before they fell asleep. How queer it sounded there! It +was a very simple tune, too; yet, as he sang, the old precentor started +from his chair and pressed his wrinkled hands together against his +breast. He quite forgot the sneer upon his face, and it went fading out +like breath from a frosty pane. + +He had twelve boys who could sing a hundred songs at sight from +unfamiliar notes; who kept the beat and marked the time as if their +throats were pendulums; could syncopate and floriate as readily as +breathe. And this was only a common country song. + +But—“That voice, that voice!” he panted to himself: for old Nat Gyles +was music-mad; melody to him was like the very breath of life. And the +boy’s high, young voice, soft as a flute and silver clear, throbbed in +the air as if his very heart were singing out of his body in the sound. +And then, like the skylark rising, up, up it went, and up, up, up, till +the older choristers held their breath and feared that the vibrant tone +would break, so slender, film-like was the trembling thread of the boy’s +wild skylark song. But no; it trembled there, high, sweet, and clear, a +moment in the air; and then came running, rippling, floating down, as +though some one had set a song on fire in the sky, and dropped it +quivering and bright into a shadow world. Then suddenly it was gone, and +the long hall was still. + +The old precentor stepped beyond the screen. + +Gaston Carew’s face was in his hands, and his shoulders shook +convulsively. “I’ll leave thee go, lad, _—ma foi_, I’ll leave thee go. +But, nay, I dare not leave thee go!” + +Some one came and tapped him on the shoulder. It was the sub-precentor. +“Master Gyles would speak with thee, sir,” said he, in a low tone, as if +half afraid of the sound of his own voice in the quiet that was in +the hall. + +Carew drew his hand hastily over his face, as if to take the old one off +and put a new one on, then arose and followed the man. + +[Illustration: “‘THAT VOICE, THAT VOICE,’ NAT GYLES PANTED TO +HIMSELF.”] + +The old precentor stood with his hands still clasped against his +breast. “_Mirabile_!” he was saying with bated breath. “It is +impossible, and I have dreamed! Yet _credo_—I believe—_quia +impossibile est_—because it is impossible. Tell me, Carew, do I wake or +dream—or, stay, was it a soul I heard? Ay, Carew, ’twas a soul: the +lad’s own white, young soul. My faith, I said he was of no account! +_Satis verborum_—say no more. _Humanum est errare_—I am a poor old +fool; and there’s a sour bug flown in mine eye that makes it water so!” +He wiped his eyes, for the tears were running down his cheeks. + +“Thou’lt take him, then?” asked Carew. + +“Take him?” cried the old precentor, catching the master-player by the +hand. “Marry, that will I; a voice like that grows not on every bush. +Take him? Pouf! I know my place—he shall be entered on the rolls +at once.” + +“Good!” said Carew. “I shall have him learn to dance, and teach him how +to act myself. He stays with me, ye understand; thy school fare is +miserly. I’ll dress him, too; for these students’ robes are shabby +stuff. But for the rest—” + +“Trust me,” said Master Gyles; “he shall be the first singer of them +all. He shall be taught—but who can teach the lark its song, and not do +horrid murder on it? Faith, Carew, I’ll teach the lad myself; ay, all I +know. I studied in the best schools in the world.” + +“And, hark ’e, Master Gyles,” said Carew, sternly all at once; “thou’lt +come no royal placard and seizure on me—ye have sworn. The boy is mine +to have and to hold with all that he earns, in spite of thy +prerogatives.” + +For the kings of old had given the masters of this school the right to +take for St. Paul’s choir whatever voices pleased them, wherever they +might be found, by force if not by favor, barring only the royal singers +at Windsor; and when men have such privileges it is best to be wary how +one puts temptation in their way. + +“Thou hadst mine oath before I even saw the boy,” said the precentor, +haughtily. “Dost think me perjured—_Primus Magister Scholarum, Custos +Morum, Quartus Custos Rotulorum?_ Pouf! I know my place. My oath’s my +oath. But, soft; enough—here comes the boy. Who could have told a +skylark in such popinjay attire?” + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + + +A NEW LIFE + +And now a strange, new life began for Nicholas Attwood, in some things +so grand and kind that he almost hated to dislike it. + +It was different in every way from the simple, pinching round in +Stratford, and full of all the comforts of richness and plenty that make +life happy—excepting home and mother. + +Master Gaston Carew would have nothing but the best, and what he wanted, +whether he needed it or not; so with him money came like a summer rain, +and went like water out of a sieve: for he was a wild blade. + +They ate their breakfast when they pleased; dined at eleven, like the +nobility; supped at five, as was the fashion of the court. They had +wheat-bread the whole week round, as only rich folk could afford, with +fruit and berries in their season, and honey from the Surrey bee-farms +that made one’s mouth water with the sight of it dripping from the flaky +comb; and on Fridays spitchcocked eels, pickled herrings, and plums, +with simnel-cakes, poached eggs and milk, cream cheese and cordial, +like very kings; so that Nick could not help thriving. + +The master-player very seldom left him by himself to mope or to be +melancholy; but, while ever vaguely promising to let him go, did +everything in his power to make him rather wish to stay; so that Nick +was constantly surprised by the free-handed kindness of this man whom he +had every other reason in the world, he thought, for deeming his +worst enemy. + +When there were any new curiosities in Fleet street,—wild men with +rings in their noses, wondrous fishes, puppet-shows, or red-capped +baboons whirling on a pole,—Carew would have Nick see them as well as +Cicely; and often took them both to Bartholomew’s Fair, where there was +a giant eating raw beef and a man dancing upon a rope high over the +heads of the people. He would have had Nick every Thursday to the +bear-baiting in the Paris Garden circus beside; but one sight of that +brutal sport made the boy so sick that they never went again, but to the +stage-plays at the Rose instead, which Nick enjoyed immensely, for Carew +himself acted most excellently, and Master Tom Heywood always came and +spoke kindly to the lonely boy. + +For, in spite of all, Nick’s heart ached so at times that he thought it +would surely break with longing for his mother. And at night, when all +the house was still and dark, and he alone in bed, all the little, +unconsidered things of home—the beehives and the fragrant mint beside +the kitchen door, the smell of the baking bread or frying carrots, the +sound of the red-cheeked harvest apples dropping in the orchard, and the +plump of the old bucket in the well—came back to him so vividly that +many a time he cried himself to sleep, and could not have forgotten +if he would. + +On Midsummer Day there was a Triumph on the river at Westminster, with a +sham-fight and a great shooting of guns and hurling of balls of +wild-fire. The Queen was there, and the ambassadors of France and +Venice, with the Duke of Lennox and the Earls of Arundel and +Southampton. Master Carew took a wherry to Whitehall, and from the green +there they watched the show. + +The Thames was fairly hidden by the boats, and there was a grand state +bark all trimmed with silk and velvet for the Queen to be in to see the +pastime. But as for that, all Nick could make out was the high carved +stern of the bark, painted with England’s golden lions, and the bark was +so far away that he could not even tell which was the Queen. + +Coming home by Somerset House, a large barge passed them with many +watermen rowing, and fine carpets about the seats; and in it the old +Lord Chamberlain and his son my Lord Hunsdon, who, it was said, was to +be the Lord Chamberlain when his father died; for the old lord was +failing, and the Queen liked handsome young men about her. + +In the barge, beside their followers, were a company of richly dressed +gentlemen, who were having a very gay time together, and seemed to +please the old Lord Chamberlain exceedingly with the things they said. +They were somebodies, as Nick could very well see from their carriage +and address; and, so far as the barge allowed, they were all clustered +about one fellow in the seat by my Lord Hunsdon. He seemed to be the +chiefest spokesman of them all, and every one appeared very glad indeed +to be friendly with him. My Lord Hunsdon himself made free with his own +nobility, and sat beside him arm in arm. + +What he was saying they were too far away to hear in the shouting and +splash; but those with him in the barge were listening as eagerly as +children to a merry tale. Sometimes they laughed until they held their +sides; and then again as suddenly they were very quiet, and played +softly with their tankards and did not look at one another as he went +gravely on telling his story. Then all at once he would wave his hand +gaily, and his smile would sparkle out; and the whole company, from the +old Lord Chamberlain down, would brighten up again, as if a new dawn had +come over the hills into their hearts from the light of his hazel eyes. + +Nick made no doubt that this was some young earl rolling in wealth; for +who else could have such listeners? Yet there was, nevertheless, +something so familiar in his look that he could not help staring at him +as the barge came thumping through the jam. + +They passed along an oar’s-length or two away; and as they came abeam, +Carew, rising, doffed his hat, and bowed politely to them all. + +In spite of his wild life, he was a striking, handsome man. + +The old Lord Chamberlain said something to his son, and pointed with his +hand. All the company in the barge turned round to look; and he who had +been talking stood up quickly with his hand upon the young lord’s arm, +and, smiling, waved his cap. + +Nick gave a sharp cry. + +Then the barge pushed through, and shot away down stream like a wild +swan. + +“Why, Nick,” exclaimed Cicely, “how dreadful thou dost look!” and, +frightened, she caught him by the hand. “Why, oh!—what is it, +Nick—thou art not ill?” + +“It was Will Shakspere!” cried Nick, and sank into the bottom of the +wherry with his head upon the master-player’s knee. “Oh, Master Carew,” +he cried, “will ye never leave me go?” + +Carew laid his hand upon the boy’s head, and patted it gently. + +“Why, Nick,” said he, and cleared his throat, “is not this better than +Stratford?” + +“Oh, Master Carew—mother’s there!” was the reply. + +There was no sound but the thud of oars in the rowlocks and the hollow +bubble of the water at the stern, for they had fallen out of the hurry +and were coming down alone. + +“Is thy mother a good woman, Nick?” asked Cicely. + +Carew was staring out into the fading sky. “Ay, sweetheart,” he answered +in a queer, husky voice, suddenly putting one arm about her and the +other around Nick’s shoulders. “None but a good mother could have so +good a son.” + +“Then thou wilt send him home, daddy?” asked Cicely. + +Carew took her hand in his, but answered nothing. + +They had come to the landing. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + + +THE MAKING OF A PLAYER + +Master Will Shakspere was in town! The thought ran through Nick +Attwood’s head like a half-remembered tune. Once or twice he had all but +sung it instead of the words of his part. Master Will Shakspere was +in town! + +Could he but just find Master Shakspere, all his trouble would be over; +for the husband of his mother’s own cousin would see justice done him in +spite of the master-player and the bandy-legged man with the ribbon in +his ear—of that he was sure. + +But there seemed small chance of its coming about; for the doors of +Gaston Carew’s house were locked and barred by day and by night, as much +to keep Nick in as to keep thieves out; and all day long, when Carew was +away, the servants went about the lower halls, and Gregory Goole’s +uncanny face peered after him from every shadowy corner; and when he +went with Carew anywhere, the master-player watched him like a hawk, +while always at his heels he could hear the clump, clump, clump of the +bandy-legged man following after him. + +Even were he free to go as he pleased, he knew not where to turn; for +the Lord Chamberlain’s company would not be at the Blackfriars +play-house until Martinmas; and before that time to look for even Master +Will Shakspere at random in London town would be worse than hunting for +a needle in a haystack. + +To be sure, he knew that the Lord Chamberlain’s men were still playing +at the theater in Shoreditch; for Master Carew had taken Cicely there to +see the “Two Gentlemen of Verona.” But just where Shoreditch was, Nick +had only the faintest idea—somewhere away off by Finsbury Fields, +beyond the city walls to the north of London town—and all the wide +world seemed north of London town; and the way thither lay through a +bewildering tangle of streets in which the din and the rush of the crowd +were never still. + +From a hopeless chase like that Nick shrank back like a snail into its +shell. He was not too young to know that there were worse things than to +be locked in Gaston Carew’s house. It were better to be a safe-kept +prisoner there than to be lost in the sinks of London. And so, knowing +this, he made the best of it. + +But Master Shakspere was come back to town, and that was something. It +seemed somehow less lonely just to think of it. + +Yet in truth he had but little time to think of it; for the +master-player kept him closely at his strange, new work, and taught him +daily with the most amazing patience. + +He had Nick learn no end of stage parts off by heart, with their cues +and “business,” entrances and exits; and worked fully as hard as his +pupil, reading over every sentence twenty times until Nick had the +accent perfectly. He would have him stamp, too, and turn about, and +gesture in accordance with the speech, until the boy’s arms ached, going +with him through the motions one by one, over and over again, +unsatisfied, but patient to the last, until Nick wondered. “Nick, my +lad,” he would often say, with a tired but determined smile, “one little +thing done wrong may spoil the finest play, as one bad apple rots the +barrelful. We’ll have it right, or not at all, if it takes a month +of Sundays.” + +So, often, he kept Nick before a mirror for an hour at a time, making +faces while he spoke his lines, smiling, frowning, or grimacing as best +seemed to fit the part, until the boy grew fairly weary of his own +looks. Then sometimes, more often as the time slipped by, Carew would +clap his hands with a boyish laugh, and have a pie brought and a cup of +Spanish cordial for them both, declaring that he loved the lad with all +his heart, upon the remnant of his honour: from which Nick knew that he +was coming on. + +Cicely Carew’s governess was a Mistress Agnes Anstey. By birth she had +been a Harcourt of Ankerwyke, and she was therefore everywhere esteemed +fit by birth and breeding to teach the young mind when to bow and when +to beckon. She came each morning to the house, and Carew paid her double +shillings to see to it that Nick learned such little tricks of cap and +cloak as a lady’s page need have, the carriage best fitted for his +place, and how to come into a room where great folks were. Moreover, how +to back out again, bowing, and not fall over the stools—which was no +little art, until Nick caught the knack of peeping slyly between his +legs when he bowed. + +His hair, too, was allowed to grow long, and was combed carefully every +day by the tiring-woman; and soon, as it was naturally curly, it fell in +rolling waves about his neck. + +On the heels of the governess came M’sieu de Fleury, who, it was said, +had been dancing-master to Hatton, the late Lord Chancellor of England, +and had taught him those tricks with his nimble heels which had capered +him into the Queen’s good graces, and so got him the chancellorship. +M’sieu spoke dreadful English, but danced like the essence of agility, +and taught both Nick and Cicely the latest Italian coranto, playing the +tune upon his queer little pochette. + +Cicely already danced like a pixy, and laughed merrily at her comrade’s +first awkward antics, until he flushed with embarrassment. At that she +instantly became grave, and, when M’sieu had gone, came across the room, +and putting her arm about Nick, said repentantly, “Don’t thou mind me, +Nick. Father saith the French all laugh too soon at nothing; and I have +caught it from my mother’s blood. A boy is not good friends with his +feet as a girl is; but thou wilt do beautifully, I know; and M’sieu +shall teach us the galliard together.” + +And often, after the lesson was over and M’sieu departed, she would +have Nick try his steps over and over again in the great room, while she +stood upon the stool to make her tall, and cried, “Sa—sa!” as the +master did, scolding and praising him by turns, or jumping down in +pretty impatience to tuck up her little silken skirts and show him the +step herself; while the cook’s knave and the scullery-maids peeped at +the door and cried: “La, now, look ’e, Moll!” at every coupee. + +It made a picture quaint and pretty to see them dancing there. The smoky +light, stealing in through the narrow casements over the woodwork dark +with age, dropped in little yellow chequers upon old chests of oak, of +walnut, and of strange, purple-black wood from foreign lands, giving a +weird life to the griffins and twisted traceries carved upon their +sides. High-backed, narrow chairs stood along the wall, with cushioned +stools inlaid with shell. Twinklings of light glinted from the brass +candlesticks. On the wall above the wainscot the faded hangings wavered +in the draught, crusted thickly with strange embroidered flowers. And +dancing there together in the semi-gloom, the children seemed quaint +little figures stepped down from the tapestry at the touch of a +magic wand. + +And so the time went slipping by, very pleasantly upon the whole, and +Nick’s young heart grew stout again within his breast; for he was strong +and well, and in those days the very air was full of hope, and no man +knew what might betide with the rising of to-morrow’s sun. + +Every day, from two till three o’clock, he was at Master Gyles’s +private singing-room at the old cathedral school, learning to read music +at first sight, and to sing offhand the second, third, and fourth parts +of queer intermingled fugues or wonderfully constructed canons. + +At first his head felt stuffed like a feasted glutton with all the +learning that the old precentor poured into it; but by and by he found +it plain enough, and no very difficult thing to follow up the prickings +in the paper with his voice, and to sing parts written at fifths and +fourths and thirds with other voices as easily as to carry a song alone. +But still he sang best his own unpointed songs, the call and challenge +of the throstle and the merle, the morning glory of the lark, songs that +were impossible to write. And those were the songs that the precentor +was at the greatest pains to have him sing in perfect tones, making him +open his mouth like a little round and let the music float out +of itself. + +Like the master-player, nothing short of perfection pleased old +Nathaniel Gyles, and Nick’s voice often wavered with sheer weariness as +he ran his endless scales and sang absurd fa-la-la-las while his teacher +beat the time in the air with his lean forefinger like a grim automaton. + +The old man, too, was chary of his praise, though Nick tried hard to +please him, and it was only by little things he told his satisfaction. +He touzed the ears of the other boys, and sometimes smartly thumped +their crowns; but with Nick he only nipped his ruddy cheek between his +thumb and finger, or laid his hand upon his shoulder when the hard day’s +work was done, saying, “_Satis cantorum_—it is enough. Now be off to +thy nest, sir; and do not forget to wash thy throat with good cold water +every day.” + + * * * * * + +All this time the busy sand kept running in the glass. July was gone, +and August at its heels. The hot breath of the summer had cooled, and +the sun no longer burned the face when it came in through the windows. +Nick often shut his eyes and let the warm light fall upon his closed +lids. It made a ruddy glow like the wild red poppies that grow in the +pale green rye. In fancy he could almost smell the queer, rancid odor of +the crimson bloom crushed beneath the feet of the farmers’ boys who cut +the butter-yellow mustard from among the bearded grain. + +“Heigh-ho and alackaday!” thought Nick. “It is better in the country +than in town!” For there was no smell in all the town like the clean, +sweet smell of the open fields just after a summer rain, no colors like +the bright heart’s-ease and none-so-pretty, or the honeysuckle over the +cottage door, and no song ever to be heard among the sooty chimney-pots +like the song of the throstle piping to the daisies on the hill. + +But he had little time to dream such dreams, for every day from four to +six o’clock the children’s company played and sang in public, at their +own school-hall, or in the courtyard of the Mitre Inn on Bread street +near St. Paul’s. + +They were the pets of London town, and their playing-place was thronged +day after day. For the bright young faces and sweet, unbroken voices of +the richly costumed lads made a spot in sordid London life like a pot of +posies in a window on a dark street; so that both the high and the low, +the rich and the poor, came in to see them play and dance, to hear them +sing, and to laugh again at the witty things which were written for +them to say. + +The songs that were set for Nick to sing were always short, sweet, +simple things that even the dull-eyed, toil-worn folk upon the rough +plank benches in the pit could understand. Many a silver shilling came +clinking down at the heels of the other boys from the galleries of the +inn, where the people of the better classes, wealthy merchants, ladies +and their dashing gallants, watched the children’s company; but when +Nick’s songs were done the common people down below seemed all gone +daft. They tossed red apples after him, ripe yellow pears, fat purple +plums by handfuls, called him by name and brought him back, and cried +for more and more and more, until the old precentor shook his head +behind the prompters-screen, and waved Nick off with a forbidding frown. +Yet all the while he chuckled to himself until it seemed as if his dry +old ribs would rattle in his sides; and every day, before Nick sang, he +had him up to his little room for a broken egg and a cup of +rosy cordial. + +“To clear thy voice and to cheer the cockles of thine heart,” said he; +“and to tune that pretty throat of thine _ad gustum Reginae_—which is +to say, ‘to the Queen’s own taste,’—God bless Her Majesty!” + +The other boys were cast for women’s parts, for women never acted then; +and a queer sight it was to Nick to see his fellows in great +farthingales of taffeta and starchy cambric that rustled as they +walked, with popinjay blue ribbon in their hair, and flowered stomachers +sparkling with paste jewels. + +And, truth, it was no easy thing to tell them from the real affair, or +to guess the made from the maiden, so slender and so graceful were they +all, with their ruffs and their muffs and their feathered fans, and all +the airs and mincing graces of the daintiest young miss. + +But old Nat Gyles would never have Nick Attwood play the girl. “The lad +is good enough for me just as he is,” said he; and that was all there +was of it. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV + + +THE WANING OF THE YEAR + +In September the Lord Admiral’s company made a tour of the Midlands +during the great English fairing-time; but Carew did not go with them. +For, though still by name master-player with Henslowe and Alleyn, his +business with them had come to be but little more than pocketing his +share of the profits; and for the rest, nothing but to take Nick daily +to and from St. Paul’s, and to draw his wages week by week. + +Of those wages Nick saw never a penny: Carew took good care of that. Yet +he gave him everything that any boy could need, and bought him whatever +he fancied the instant he so much as expressed a wish for it: which, in +truth, was not much; for Nick had lived in only a country town, and knew +not many things to want. + +But with money a-plenty thus coming so easily into his hands,—money for +dicing, for luxuries, for all his wild sports, money for Cicely, money +for keeps, money to play chuckie-stones with if he chose,—there was no +bridle to Gaston Carew’s wild career. His boon companions were +spendthrifts and gamesters, dissolute fellows, of whom the least said +soonest mended; and with them he was brawling early and late, very often +all night long. And though money came in fast, he wasted it faster, so +that matters went from bad to worse. Duns came spying about his door, +and bailiffs hunted after him around the town with unpaid tradesmen’s +bills. Yet still he laughed and clapped his hand upon his poniard in the +old bold way. + +September faded away in wistful haze along the Hampstead hills. The +Admiral’s men came riding back with keen October ringing at their heels, +and all the stalls were full of red-cheeked apples striped with emerald +and gold. November followed, with its nipping frost, and all St. +George’s merry green fields turned brown and purple-gray. The old year +was waning fast. + +The Queen’s Day was but a poor holiday, in spite of the shut-up shops; +for it was grown so cold with sleet and rain that it was hard to get +about, the gutters and streets being very foul, and the by-lanes +impassable. And now the children of Paul’s gave no more plays in the +yard of the Mitre Inn, but sang in their own warm hall; for winter +was at hand. + +There came black nights when an ugly wind moaned in the shivering +chimneys and howled across the peaked roofs, nights when there was no +playing at the Rose, but it was hearty to be by the fire. Then sometimes +Carew sat at home all evening long, with Cicely upon his knee, and told +strange tales of lands across the sea, where he had traveled when he was +young, and where none spoke English but chance travelers, and even the +loudest shouting could not serve to make the people understand. + +While he spun these wondrous yarns Nick would curl up on the hearth and +blow the crackling fire, sometimes staring at the master-player’s +stories, sometimes laughing to himself at the funny faces carved upon +the sides of the chubby Dutch bellows, and sometimes neither laughing +nor listening, but thinking silently of home. Then Carew, looking at him +there, would quickly turn his face away and tell another tale. + +But oftener the master-player stayed all night at the Falcon Inn with +Dick Jones, Tom Hearne, Humphrey Jeffs, and other reckless roysterers, +dicing and flipping shillings at shovel-board until his finger-nails +were sore. Then Nick would read aloud to Cicely out of the “Hundred +Merry Tales,” or pop old riddles at her puzzled head until she, +laughing, cried, “Enough!” But most of all he liked the story of brave +Guy of Warwick, and would tell it again and again, with other legends of +Arden Wood, till bedtime came. + +In the gray of the morning Carew would come home, unshaven and +leaden-eyed, with his bandy-legged varlet trotting like a watch-dog at +his heels; and then, if the gaming had gone well, he was a lord, an +earl, a duke, at least, so merry and so sprightly would he be withal; +but if the dice had fallen wrong, he would by turns be raving mad or +sodden as a sunken pie. + +Yet, be his temper what it might, he was but one thing always to Cicely, +and doffed ill humor like a shabby hat when she came running to meet +him in the shadows of the hall; so that when he came into the lighted +room, with her upon his shoulder, his face was smiles, his step a +frolic, and his bearing that of a happy boy. + +But day by day the weather grew worse, with snow and ice paving the +streets with a glassy glare and choking the frozen drains; and there was +trouble and want among the poor in the wretched alleys near Carew’s +house: for fuel was high and food scarce, and there were many deaths, so +that the knell was tolling constantly. + +Cicely cried until her eyes were red for the very sadness of it all, +since she might do nothing for them, and hated the sound of the +sullen bell. + +“Pshaw, Cicely!” said Nick; “why should ye cry? Ye do na know them; so +ye need na care.” + +“But, Nick,” said she, “_nobody_ seems to care! And, sure, _somebody_ +ought to care; for it may be some one’s mother that is dead.” + +At that Nick felt a very queer choking in his own throat, and did not +rest quite easy in his mind until he had given the silver buckle from +his cloak to a boy who stood crying with cold and hunger in the street, +and begged a farthing of him for the love of the good God. + +Then came a thaw, with mist and fog so thick that people were lost in +their own streets, and knocked at their next-door neighbor’s gate to ask +the way home. All day long, down by the Thames drums beat upon the +wharves and bells ding-donged to guide the watermen ashore; but most of +those who needs must fare abroad went over London Bridge, because +there, although they might in no wise see, it felt, at least, as if the +world were still beneath their feet. + +At noon the air was muddy brown, with a bitter taste like watered smoke; +at night it was a blinding pall; and though, after mid-December, by +order of the Council, every alderman and burgess hung a light before his +door, torches, links, and candles only sputtered feebly in the gloom, of +no more use than jack-o’-lanterns gone astray, and none but blind men +knew the roads. + +The city watch was doubled everywhere; and all night long their shouts +went up and down—“’Tis what o’clock, and a foggy night!”—and right and +left their hurrying staves came thumping helplessly along the walls to +answer cries of “Murder!” and of “Help! Watch! Help!” For under cover of +the fog great gangs of thieves came down from Hampstead Heath, and +robberies were done in the most frequented thoroughfares, between the +very lights set up by the corporation; so that it was dangerous to go +about save armed and wary as a cat in a crowd. + +While such foul days endured there was no singing at St. Paul’s, nor +stage-plays anywhere, save at Blackfriars play-house, which was roofed +against the weather. And even there at last the fog crept in through +cracks and crannies until the players seemed but moving shadows talking +through a choking cloud; and Master Will Shakspere’s famous new piece of +“Romeo and Juliet,” which had been playing to crowded houses, taking ten +pound twelve the day, was fairly smothered off the boards. + +[Illustration: “NICK GAVE THE SILVER BUCKLE FROM HIS CLOAK TO A BOY WHO +STOOD CRYING WITH COLD AND HUNGER IN THE STREET.”] + +Nick was eager to be out in all this blindman’s holiday; but, “Nay,” +said Carew; “not so much as thy nose. A fog like this would steal the +croak from a raven’s throat, let alone the sweetness from a honey-pot +like thine—and bottom crust is the end of pie!” With which, bang went +the door, creak went the key, and Carew was off to the Falcon Inn. + + * * * * * + +So went the winter weather, and so went Carew; for there was no denying +that both had fallen into a very bad way. Yet another change came +creeping over Carew all unaware. + +Nick’s face had from the first attracted him; and now, living with the +boy day after day, housed up, a prisoner, yet cheerful through it all, +the master-player began to feel what in a better man had been the prick +of conscience, but in him was only an indefinite uneasiness like a +blunted cockle-bur. For the lad’s patient perseverance at his work, his +delight in singing, and the tone of longing threaded through his voice, +crept into the master-player’s heart in spite of him; and Nick’s gentle +ways with Cicely touched him more than all the rest: for if there was +one thing in all the world that Gaston Carew truly loved, it was his +daughter Cicely. So for her sake, as well as for Nick’s own, the +master-player came to love the lad. And this was shown in queer ways. + +In the wainscot of the dining-hall there was a carven panel just above +the Spanish chest. At night, when the house was still and all the rest +asleep, Carew often came and stood before this panel, with a queer, +hesitating look upon his hard, bold face; and stretching out his hand, +would press upon the head of a cherub cut in the bevel edge. Whereupon +the panel slipped away within the wainscot, leaving a little closet in +the hollow of the wall, in which a few strange things were stowed: an +empty flask, an inlaid rosewood box, a little slipper, and a dusty +gittern with its strings all snapped and a faded ribbon tied about +its neck. + +The rosewood box he would take down, and with it open in his lap would +sit beside the fire like a man within a dream, until the hearth grew +white and cold, and the draught had blown the ashes out in streaks +across the floor. In the box was a woman’s riding-glove and a miniature +upon ivory, Cicely’s mother’s face, painted at Paris in other days. + +One night, while they were sitting all together by the fire, Nick and +Cicely snug in the chimney-seat, Carew spoke up suddenly out of a little +silence which had fallen upon them all. “Nick,” said he, quite softly, +with a look on his face as if he were thinking of other things, “I +wonder if thou couldst play?” + +“What, sir?” asked Nick; “a game?” and made the bellows whistle in his +mouth. + +“Nay, lad; a gittern.” + +Nick and Cicely looked up, for his manner was very odd. + +“Why, sir, I do na know. I could try. I ha’ heard one played, and it is +passing sweet.” “Ay, Nick, ’tis passing sweet,” said Carew, +quickly—and no more; but spoke of France, how the lilies grow in the +ditches there, and the tall trees stand like soldiers by the road that +runs to the land of sunny hills and wine; and of the radiant women +there, with hair like night and eyes like the summer stars. Then all at +once he stopped as if some one had clapped a hand upon his mouth, and +sat and stared into the fire. + +But in the morning at breakfast there was a gittern at Nick’s place—a +rare old yellow gittern, with silver scrolls about the tail-piece, ivory +pegs, and a head that ended in an angel’s face. It was strung with +bright new silver strings, but near the bridge of it there was a little +rut worn into the wood by the tips of the fingers that had rested there +while playing, and the silken shoulder-ribbon was faded and worn. + +Nick stopped, then put out both his hands as if to touch it, yet did +not, being half afraid. + +“Tut, take it up!” said Carew, sharply, though he had not seemed to +heed. “Take it up—it is for thee.” + +“For me?” cried Nick—“not for mine own?” + +Carew turned and struck the table with his hand, as if suddenly wroth. +“Why should I say it was for thee? if it were not to be thine own?” + +“But, Master Carew—” Nick began. + +“‘Master Carew’ fiddlesticks! Hold thy prate. Do I know my own mind, or +do I filter my wits through thee? Did I not say that it is thine? Good, +then—’tis thine, although it were thrice somebody else’s; and thrice as +much thy very own through having other owners. Dost hear? Well, then, +enough—we’ll have no words about it!” + +Rising abruptly as he spoke, he clapped his hat upon his head and left +the room, Nick standing there beside the table, staring after him, with +the gittern in his hands. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + + +TO SING BEFORE THE QUEEN + + “Sir Fly hangs dead on the window-pane; + The frost doth wind his shroud; + Through the halls of his little summer house + The north wind cries aloud. + We will bury his bones in the mouldy wall, + And mourn for the noble slain: + A southerly wind and a sunny sky— + Buzz! up he comes again! + Oh, Master Fly!” + +Nick looked up from the music-rack and shivered. He had forgotten the +fire in studying his song, and the blackened ends of the burnt-out logs +lay smouldering on the hearth. The draught, too, whistled shrilly under +the door, in spite of the rushes that he had piled along the crack. + +The fog had been gone for a week. It was snapping cold; and through the +peep-holes he had thawed upon the window-pane with his breath, he could +see the hoar-frost lying in the shadow of the wall in the court below. + +How forlorn the green old dial looked out there alone in the cold, with +the winter dust whirling around it in little eddies upon the wind! The +dial was fringed with icicles, like an old man’s beard; and even the +creeping shadow on its face, which told mid-afternoon, seemed frozen +where it fell. + +Mid-afternoon already, and he so much to do! Nick pulled his cloak about +him, and turned to his song again: + + “Sir Fly hangs dead on the window-pane; + The frost doth wind his shroud—” + +But there he stopped; for the boys were singing in the great hall below, +and the whole house rang with the sound of the roaring chorus: + + “Down-a-down, hey, down-a-down, + Hey derry derry down-a-down!” + +Nick put his fingers in his ears, and began all over again: + + “Sir Fly hangs dead on the window-pane; + The frost doth wind his shroud; + Through the halls of his little summer house + The north wind cries aloud.” + +But it was no use; all he could hear was: + + “Down-a-down, hey, down-a-down, + Hey derry derry down-a-down!” + +How could a fellow study in a noise like that? He gave it up in despair, +and kicking the chunks together, stood upon the hearth, warming his +hands by the gathering blaze while he listened to the song: + + “Cold’s the wind, and wet’s the rain; + Saint Hugh, be our good speed! + Ill is the weather that bringeth no gain, + Nor helps good hearts in need. + + “Down-a-down, hey, down-a-down, + Hey derry derry down-a-down!” + +He could hear Colley Warren above them all. What a voice the boy had! +Like a golden horn blowing in the fresh of a morning breeze. It made +Nick tingle, he could not tell why. He and Colley often sang together, +and their voices made a quivering in the air like the ringing of a bell. +And often, while they sang, the viols standing in the corner of the room +would sound aloud a deep, soft note in harmony with them, although +nobody had touched the strings; so that the others cried out that the +instruments were bewitched, and would not let the boys sing any more. +Colley Warren was Nick’s best friend—a dark-eyed, quiet lad, as gentle +as a girl, and with a mouth like a girl’s mouth, for which the others +sometimes mocked him, though they loved him none the less. + +It was not because his voice was loud that it could be so distinctly +heard; but it was nothing like the rest, and came through all the others +like sunshine through a mist. Nick pulled the stool up closer, and sat +down in the chimney-corner, humming a second to the tune, and blowing +little glory-holes in the embers with the bellows. He liked the smell +of a wood fire, and liked to toast his toes. He was a trifle drowsy, +too, now that he was warm again to the marrow of his bones; perhaps he +dozed a little. + +But suddenly he came to himself again with a sense of a great stillness +fallen over everything—no singing in the room below, and silence +everywhere but in the court, where there was a trampling as of horses +standing at the gate. And while he was still lazily wondering, a great +cheer broke out in the room below, and there was a stamping of feet like +cattle galloping over a bridge; and then, all at once, the door opened +into the hallway at the foot of the stair, and the sound burst out as +fire bursts from the cock-loft window of a burning barn, and through the +noise and over it Colley Warren’s voice calling him by name: “Skylark! +Nick Skylark! Ho there, Nick! where art thou?” + +He sprang to the door and kicked the rushes away. All the hall was full +of voices, laughing, shouting, singing, and cheering. There were +footsteps coming up the stair. “What there, Skylark! Ho, boy! Nick, +where art thou?” he could hear Colley calling above them all. Out he +popped his nose: “Here I am, Colley—what’s to do? _Whatever in the +world!_” and he ducked his head like a mandarin; for whizz—flap! two +books came whirling up the stair and thumped against the panel by +his ears. + +“The news—the news, Nick! Have ye heard the news?” the lads were +shouting as if possessed. “We’re going to court! Hurrah, hurrah!” And +some, with their arms about one another, went whirling out at the door +and around the windy close like very madcaps, cutting such capers that +the horses standing at the gate kicked up their heels, and jerked the +horse-boys right and left like bundles of hay. + +Nick leaned over the railing and stared. + +“Come down and help us sing!” they cried. “Come down and shout with us +in the street!” + +“I can na come down—there’s work to do!” + +“Thy ‘can na’ be hanged, and thy work likewise! Come down and sing, or +we’ll fetch thee down. The Queen hath sent for us!” + +“The Queen—hath sent—for us?” + +“Ay, sent for us to come to court and play on Christmas day! Hurrah for +Queen Bess!” + +At that shrill cheer the startled horses fairly plunged into the street, +and the carts that were passing along the way were jammed against the +opposite wall. The carriers bellowed, the horse-boys bawled, the people +came running to see the row, and the apprentices flew out of the shops +bareheaded, waving their dirty aprons and cheering lustily, just for the +fun of the chance to cheer. + +“It’s true!” called Colley, his dark eyes dancing like stars on the sea. +“Come down, Nick, and sing in the street with us all! We are going to +Greenwich Palace on Christmas day to play before the Queen and the +court—for the first time, Nick, in a good six years; and we’re not to +work till the new masque comes from the Master of the Revels! Come down, +Nick, and sing with us out in the street; for we’re going to court, +we’re going to court to sing before the Queen! Hurrah, hurrah!” + +“Hurrah for good Queen Bess!” cried Nick; and up went his cap and down +went he on the baluster-rail like a runaway sled, head first into the +crowd, who caught him laughing as he came. Then all together they +cantered out like a parcel of colts in a fresh, green field, and sang in +the street before the school till the people cheered themselves hoarse +to hear such music on such a wintry day; sang until there was no other +business on all the thoroughfare but just to listen to their songs; sang +until the under-masters came out with their staves and drove them into +the school again, to keep them from straining their throats by singing +so loudly and so long in the frosty open air. + +But a fig for staves and for under-masters! The boys clapped fast the +gates behind them, and barred the under-masters out in the street, +singing twice as loudly as before, and mocking at them with wry faces +through the bars; and then trooped off up the old precentor’s private +stair and sang at his door until the old man could not hear his own +ears, and came out storming and grim as grief. + +But when he saw the boys all there, and heard them cheering him three +times three, he could not storm to save his life, but only stood there, +black and thin, against the yellow square of light, smiling a quaint +smile that half was wrinkles and half was pride, shaking his lean +forefinger at them as if he were beating time, and nodding until his +head seemed almost nodding off. + +“Hurrah for Master Nathaniel Gyles!” they shouted. + +“_Primus Magister Scholarum, Custos Morum, Quartus Custos Rotulorum_,” +said the old man softly to himself, the firelight from behind him +falling in a glory on his thin white hair. “Be off, ye rogues! Ye are +not fit to waste good language on; or, faith, I’d Latin ye all as dumb +as fishes in the depths of the briny sea!” + +“Hurrah for the fishes in the sea!” + +“Soft, ye knaves! Save thy throats for good Queen Bess!” + +“Hurrah for good Queen Bess!” + +“Be still, I say, ye good-for-nothing varlets; or ye sha’n’t have pie +and ale to-night. But marry, now, ye _shall_ have pie—ay, pie and ale +without a stint; for ye are good lads, and ye have pleased the Queen at +last; and I am as proud of ye as a peacock is of his own tail!” + +“Hurrah for the Queen—and the pie—and the ale! Hurrah for the peacock +and his tail!” shouted the boys; and straightway, seeing that they had +made a rhyme, they gave a cheer shriller and longer than all the others +put together, and went clattering down the stairway, singing at the top +of their lungs: + + Hurrah for the Queen, and the pie and the ale! + Hurrah for the peacock, hurrah for his tail! + Hurrah for hurrah, and hurrah again— + We’re going to court on Christmas day + To sing before the Queen!” + +“Good lads, good lads!” said the old precentor to himself, as he turned +back into his little room. His eyes were shining proudly in the +candle-light, yet the tears were running down his cheeks. A queer old +man, Nat Gyles, and dead this many a long, long year; yet that night no +man was happier than he. + +But Master Gaston Carew, who had come for Nick, stood in the gathering +dusk by the gate below, and stared up at the yellow square of light with +a troubled look upon his reckless face. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + + +THE QUEEN’S PLAISANCE + +It was a frosty morning when they all marched down to the boats that +bumped along Paul’s wharf. + +The roofs of London were white with frost and rosy with the dawn. In the +shadow of the walls the air lay in still pools of smoky blue; and in the +east the horizon stretched like a swamp of fire. The winking lights on +London Bridge were pale. The bridge itself stood cold and gray, +mysterious and dim as the stream below, but here and there along its +crest red-hot with a touch of flame from the burning eastern sky. Out of +the river, running inland with the tide, came steamy shreds that drifted +here and there. Then over the roofs of London town the sun sprang up +like a thing of life, and the veil of twilight vanished in bright day +with a million sparkles rippling on the stream. + +Warm with piping roast and cordial, keen with excitement, and blithe +with the sharp, fresh air, the red-cheeked lads skipped and chattered +along the landing like a flock of sparrows alighted by chance in a land +of crumbs. + +“Into the wherries, every one!” cried the old precentor. _“Ad unum +omnes_, great and small!” + +“Into the wherries!” echoed the under-masters. + +“Into the wherries, my bullies!” roared old Brueton the boatman, fending +off with a rusty hook as red as his bristling beard. “Into the wherries, +yarely all, and we’s catch the turn o’ the tide! ’Tis gone high +water now!” + +Then away they went, three wherries full, and Master Gyles behind them +in a brisk sixpenny tilt-boat, resplendent in new ash-colored hose, a +cloak of black velvet fringed with gold, and a brand-new periwig curled +and frizzed like a brush-heap in a gale of wind. + +How they had worked for the last few days! New songs, new dances, new +lines to learn; gallant compliments for the Queen, who was as fond of +flattery as a girl; new clothes, new slippers and caps to try, and a +thousand what-nots more. The school had hummed like a busy mill from +morning until night. And now that the grinding was done and they had +come at last to their reward,—the hoped-for summons to the court, which +had been sought so long in vain,—the boys of St. Paul’s bubbled with +glee until the under-masters were in a cold sweat for fear their +precious charges would pop from the wherries into the Thames, like so +many exuberant corks. + +They cheered with delight as London Bridge was shot and the boats went +flying down the Pool, past Billingsgate and the oystermen, the White +Tower and the Traitors’ Gate, past the shipping, where brown, +foreign-looking faces stared at them above sea-battered bulwarks. + +The sun was bright and the wind was keen; the air sparkled, and all the +world was full of life. Hammers beat in the builders’ yards; wild +bargees sang hoarsely as they drifted down to the Isle of Dogs; and in +slow ships that crept away to catch the wind in the open stream below, +with tawny sails drooping and rimmed with frost, they heard the hail of +salty mariners. + +The tide ran strong, and the steady oars carried them swiftly down. +London passed; then solitary hamlets here and there; then dun fields +running to the river’s edge like thirsty deer. + +In Deptford Reach some lords who were coming down by water passed them, +racing with a little Dutch boat from Deptford to the turn. Their boats +had holly-bushes at their prows and holiday garlands along their sides. +They were all shouting gaily, and the stream was bright with their +scarlet cloaks, Lincoln-green jerkins, and gold embroidery. But they +were very badly beaten, at which they laughed, and threw the Dutchmen a +handful of silver pennies. Thereupon the Dutchmen stood up in their boat +and bowed like jointed ninepins; and the lords, not to be outdone, stood +up likewise in their boats and bowed very low in return, with their +hands upon their breasts. Then everybody on the river laughed, and the +boys gave three cheers for the merry lords and three more for the sturdy +Dutchmen. The Dutchmen shouted back, “Goot Yule!” and bowed and bowed +until their boat turned round and went stern foremost down the stream, +so that they were bowing to the opposite bank, where no one was at all. +At this the rest all laughed again till their sides ached, and cheered +them twice as much as they had before. + +And while they were cheering and waving their caps, the boatmen rested +upon their oars and let the boats swing with the tide, which thereabout +set strong against the shore, and a trumpeter in the Earl of Arundel’s +barge stood up and blew upon a long horn bound with a banner of blue +and gold. + +Instantly he had blown, another trumpet answered from the south, and +when Nick turned, the shore was gay with men in brilliant livery. Beyond +was a wood of chestnut-trees as blue and leafless as a grove of spears; +and in the plain between the river and the wood stood a great palace of +gray stone, with turrets, pinnacles, and battlemented walls, over the +topmost tower of which a broad flag, blazoned with golden lions and +silver lilies square for square, whipped the winter wind. Amid a group +of towers large and small a lofty stack poured out a plume of sea-coal +smoke against the milky sky, and on the countless windows in the wall +the sunlight flashed with dazzling radiance. + +There were people on the battlements, and at the port between two towers +where the Queen went in and out the press was so thick that men’s heads +looked like the cobbles in the street. + +The shore was stayed with piling and with timbers like a wharf, so that +a hundred boats might lie there cheek by jowl and scarcely rub their +paint. The lords made way, and the children players came ashore through +an aisle of uplifted oars. They were met by the yeomen of the guard, +tall, brawny fellows clad in red, with golden roses on their breasts and +backs, and with them marched up to the postern two and two, Master Gyles +the last of all, as haughty as a Spanish don come courting fair +Queen Bess. + +A smoking dinner was waiting them, of whitebait with red pepper, and a +yellow juice so sour that Nick’s mouth drew up in a knot; but it was +very good. There were besides, silver dishes full of sugared red +currants, and heaps of comfits and sweetmeats, which Master Gyles would +not allow them even to touch, and saffron cakes with raisins in them, +and spiced hot cordial out of tiny silver cups. Bareheaded pages clad in +silk and silver lace waited upon them as if they were fledgling kings; +but the boys were too hungry to care for that or to try to put on airs, +and waded into the meat and drink as if they had been starved for a +fortnight. + +But when they were done Nick saw that the table off which they had eaten +was inlaid with pearl and silver filigree, and that the table-cloth was +of silk with woven metal-work and gems set in it worth more than a +thousand crowns. He was very glad he had eaten first, for such wonderful +service would have taken away his appetite. + +And truly a wonderful palace was the Queen’s Plaisance, as Greenwich +House was called. Elizabeth was born in it, and so loved it most of all. +There she pleased oftenest to receive and grant audiences to envoys from +foreign courts. And there, on that account, as was always her proud, +jealous way, she made a blinding show of glory and of wealth, of +science, art, and power, that England, to the eyes which saw her there, +might stand in second place to no dominion in the world, however rich +or great. + +It was a very house of gold. + +Over the door where the lads marched in was the Queen’s device, a golden +rose, with a motto set below in letters of gold, “Dieu et mon droit”; +and upon the walls were blazoned coats of noble arms on branching golden +trees, of purest metal and finest silk, costly beyond compare. The royal +presence-chamber shone with tapestries of gold, of silver, and of +oriental silks, of as many shifting colors as the birds of paradise, and +wrought in exquisite design, The throne was set with diamonds, with +rubies, garnets, and sapphires, glittering like a pastry-crust of stars, +and garnished with gold-lace work, pearls, and ornament; and under the +velvet canopy which hung above the throne was embroidered in +seed-pearls, “Vivat Regina Elizabetha!” There was no door without a +gorgeous usher, no room without a page, no corridor without a guard, no +post without a man of noble birth to fill it. + +On the walls of the great gallery were masterly paintings of great folk, +globes showing all the stars fast in the sky, and drawings of the world +and all its parts, so real that one could see the savages in the New +World hanging to the under side by their feet, like flies upon the +ceiling. How they stuck was more than Nick could make out; and where +they landed if they chanced to slip and fall troubled him a deal, until +in the sheer multiplication of wonders he could not wonder any more. + +When they came to rehearse in the afternoon the stage was hung with +stiff, rich silks that had come in costly cedar chests from the looms of +old Cathay; and the curtain behind which the players came and went was +broidered with gold thread in flowers and birds like meteors for +splendor. The gallery, too, where the musicians sat, was draped with +silk and damask. + +Some of the lads would have made out by their great airs as if this were +all a common thing to them; but Nick stared honestly with round eyes, +and went about with cautious feet, chary of touching things, and feeling +very much out of place and shy. + +It was all too grand, too wonderful,—amazing to look upon, no doubt, +and good to outface foreign envy with, but not to be endured every day +nor lived with comfortably. And as the day went by, each passing moment +with new marvels, Nick grew more and more uneasy for some simple little +nook where he might just sit down and be quiet for a while, as one could +do at home, without fine pages peering at him from the screens, or +splendid guards patrolling at his heels wherever he went, or obsequious +ushers bowing to the floor at every turn, and asking him what he might +be pleased to wish. And by the time night fell and the attendant came to +light them to their beds, he felt like a fly on the rim of a wheel that +went so fast he could scarcely get his breath or see what passed him by, +yet of which he durst not let go. + +The palace was much too much for him. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII + + +CHRISTMAS WITH QUEEN BESS + +Christmas morning came and went as if on swallow-wings, in a gale of +royal merriment. Four hundred sat to dinner that day in Greenwich halls, +and all the palace streamed with banners and green garlands. + +Within the courtyard two hundred horses neighed and stamped around a +water-fountain playing in a bowl of ice and evergreen. Grooms and pages, +hostlers and dames, went hurry-scurrying to and fro; cooks, bakers, and +scullions steamed about, leaving hot, mouth-watering streaks of +fragrance in the air; bluff men-at-arms went whistling here and there; +and serving-maids with rosy cheeks ran breathlessly up and down the +winding stairways. + +The palace stirred like a mighty pot that boils to its utmost verge, for +the hour of the revelries was come. + +Over the beech-wood and far across the black heath where Jack Cade +marshaled the men of Kent, the wind trembled with the boom of the castle +bell. Within the walls of the palace its clang was muffled by a sound of +voices that rose and fell like the wind upon the sea. + +The ambassadors of Venice and France were there, with their courtly +trains. The Lord High Constable of England was come to sit below the +Queen. The earls, too, of Southampton, Montgomery, Pembroke, and +Huntington were there; and William Cecil, Lord Burleigh, the Queen’s +High Treasurer, to smooth his care-lined forehead with a Yuletide jest. + +Up from the entry ports came shouts of “Room! room! room for my Lord +Strange! Room for the Duke of Devonshire!” and about the outer gates +there was a tumult like the cheering of a great crowd. + +The palace corridors were lined with guards. Gentlemen pensioners under +arms went flashing to and fro. Now and then through the inner throng +some handsome page with wind-blown hair and rainbow-colored cloak pushed +to the great door, calling: “Way, sirs, way for my Lord—way for my Lady +of Alderstone!” and one by one, or in blithe groups, the courtiers, clad +in silks and satins, velvets, jewels, and lace of gold, came up through +the lofty folding-doors to their places in the hall. + +There, where the Usher of the Black Rod stood, and the gentlemen of the +chamber came and went with golden chains about their necks, was bowing +and scraping without stint, and reverent civility; for men that were +wise and noble were passing by, men that were handsome and brave; and +ladies sweet as a summer day, and as fair to see as spring, laughed by +their sides and chatted behind their fans, or daintily nibbled comfits, +lacking anything to say. + +The windows were all curtained in, making a night-time in midday; and +from the walls and galleries flaring links and great bouquets of candles +threw an eddying flood of yellow light across the stirring scene. From +clump to clump of banner-staves and burnished arms, spiked above the +wainscot, garlands of red-berried holly, spruce, and mistletoe were +twined across the tapestry, till all the room was bound about with a +chain of living green. + +There were sweet odors floating through the air, and hazy threads of +fragrant smoke from perfumes burning in rich braziers; and under foot +was the crisp, clean rustle of new rushes. + +From time to time, above the hum of voices, came the sound of music from +a room beyond—cornets and flutes, fifes, lutes, and harps, with an +organ exquisitely played, and voices singing to it; and from behind the +players’ curtain, swaying slowly on its rings at the back of the stage, +came a murmur of whispering childish voices, now high in eager +questioning, now low, rehearsing some doubtful fragment of a song. + +Behind the curtain it was dark—not total darkness, but twilight; for a +dull glow came down overhead from the lights in the hall without, and +faint yellow bars went up and down the dusk from crevices in the screen. +The boys stood here and there in nervous groups. Now and then a sharp +complaint was heard from the tire-woman when an impatient lad would not +stand still to be dressed. + +Master Gyles went to and fro, twisting the manuscript of the Revel in +his hands, or pausing kindly to pat some faltering lad upon the back. +Nick and Colley were peeping by turns through a hole in the screen at +the throng in the audience-chamber. + +They could see a confusion of fans, jewels, and faces, and now and again +could hear a burst of subdued laughter over the steadily increasing buzz +of voices. Then from the gallery above, all at once there came a murmur +of instruments tuning together; a voice in the corridor was heard +calling, “Way here, way here!” in masterful tones; the tall +folding-doors at the side of the hall swung wide, and eight dapper pages +in white and gold came in with the Master of Revels. After them came +fifty ladies and noblemen clad in white and gold, and a guard of +gentlemen pensioners with glittering halberds. + +There was a sharp rustle. Every head in the audience-chamber louted low. +Nick’s heart gave a jump—for the Queen was there! + +She came with an air that was at once serious and royal, bearing herself +haughtily, yet with a certain grace and sprightliness that became her +very well. She was quite tall and well made, and her quickly changing +face was long and fair, though wrinkled and no longer young. Her +complexion was clear and of an olive hue; her nose was a little hooked; +her firm lips were thin; and her small black eyes, though keen and +bright, were pleasant and merry withal. Her hair was a coppery, tawny +red, and false, moreover. In her ears hung two great pearls; and there +was a fine small crown studded with diamonds upon her head, beside a +necklace of exceeding fine gold and jewels about her neck. She was +attired in a white silk gown bordered with pearls the size of beans, and +over it wore a mantle of black silk, cunningly shot with silver threads. +Her ruff was vast, her farthingale vaster; and her train, which was very +long, was borne by a marchioness who made more ado about it than +Elizabeth did of ruling her realm. + +“The Queen!” gasped Colley. + +“Dost think I did na know it?” answered Nick, his heart beginning to +beat tattoo as he stared through the peep-hole in the screen. + +He saw the great folk bowing like a gardenful of flowers in a storm, and +in its midst Elizabeth erect, speaking to those about her in a lively +and good-humored way, and addressing all the foreigners according to +their tongue—in French, Italian, Spanish, Dutch; but hers was funny +Dutch, and while she spoke she smiled and made a joke upon it in Latin, +at which they all laughed heartily, whether they understood what it +meant or not. Then, with her ladies in waiting, she passed to a dais +near the stage, and stood a moment, stately, fair, and proud, while all +her nobles made obeisance, then sat and gave a signal for the players +to begin. + +“Rafe Fullerton!” the prompter whispered shrilly; and out from behind +the screen slipped Rafe, the smallest of them all, and down the stage to +speak the foreword of the piece. He was frightened, and his voice shook +as he spoke, but every one was smiling, so he took new heart. + +“It is a masque of Summer-time and Spring,” said he, “wherein both +claim to be best-loved, and have their say of wit and humor, and each +her part of songs and dances suited to her time, the sprightly galliard +and the nimble jig for Spring, the slow pavone, the stately peacock +dance, for Summer-time. And win who may, fair Summer-time or merry +Spring, the winner is but that beside our Queen!”—with which he snapped +his fingers in the faces of them all—“God save Queen Bess!” + +At that the Queen’s eyes twinkled, and she nodded, highly pleased, so +that every one clapped mightily. + +The play soon ran its course amid great laughter and applause. Spring +won. The English ever loved her best, and the quick-paced galliard took +their fancy, too. “Up and be doing!” was its tune, and it gave one a +chance to cut fine capers with his heels. + +Then the stage stood empty and the music stopped. + +At this strange end a whisper of surprise ran through the hall. The +Queen tapped with the inner side of her rings upon the broad arm of her +chair. From the look on her face she was whetting her tongue. But before +she could speak, Nick and Colley, dressed as a farmer boy and girl, with +a garland of house-grown flowers about them, came down the stage from +the arras, hand in hand, bowing. + +The audience-chamber grew very still—_this_ was something new. Nick +felt a swallowing in his throat, and Colley’s hand winced in his grip. +There was no sound but a silky rustling in the room. + +Then suddenly the boys behind the players’ curtain laughed together, +not loud, but such a jolly little laugh that all the people smiled to +hear it. After the laughter came a hush. + +Then the pipes overhead made a merry sound as of shepherds piping on +oaten straws in new grass where there are daisies; and there was a +little elfish laughter of clarionets, and a fluttering among the cool +flutes like spring wind blowing through crisp young leaves in April. The +harps began to pulse and throb with a soft cadence like raindrops +falling into a clear pool where brown leaves lie upon the bottom and +bubbles float above green stones and smooth white pebbles. Nick lifted +up his head and sang. + +It was a happy little song of the coming and the triumph of the spring. +The words were all forgotten long ago. They were not much: enough to +serve the turn, no more; but the notes to which they went were like barn +swallows twittering under the eaves, goldfinches clinking in purple +weeds beside old roads, and robins singing in common gardens at dawn. +And wherever Nick’s voice ran Colley’s followed, the pipes laughing +after them a note or two below; while the flutes kept gurgling softly to +themselves as a hill brook gurgles through the woods, and the harps ran +gently up and down like rain among the daffodils. One voice called, the +other answered; there were echo-like refrains; and as they sang Nick’s +heart grew full. He cared not a stiver for the crowd, the golden palace, +or the great folk there—the Queen no more—he only listened for +Colley’s voice coming up lovingly after his own and running away when he +followed it down, like a lad and a lass through the bloom of the May. +And Colley was singing as if his heart would leap out of his round mouth +for joy to follow after the song they sung, till they came to the end +and the skylark’s song. + +There Colley ceased, and Nick went singing on alone, forgetting, caring +for, heeding nought but the song that was in his throat. + +The Queen’s fan dropped from her hand upon the floor. No one saw it or +picked it up. The Venetian ambassador scarcely breathed. + +Nick came down the stage, his hands before him, lifted as if he saw the +very lark he followed with his song, up, up, up into the sun. His cheeks +were flushed and his eyes were wet, though his voice was a song and a +laugh in one. + +Then they were gone behind the curtain, into the shadow and the twilight +there, Colley with his arms about Nick’s neck, not quite laughing, not +quite sobbing. The manuscript of the Revel lay torn in two upon the +floor, and Master Gyles had a foot upon each piece. + +In the hall beyond the curtain was a silence that was deeper than a +hush, a stillness rising from the hearts of men. + +Then Elizabeth turned in the chair where she sat. Her eyes were as +bright as a blaze. And out of the sides of her eyes she looked at the +Venetian ambassador. He was sitting far out on the edge of his chair, +and his lips had fallen apart. She laughed to herself. “It is a good +song, signor,” said she, and those about her started at the sound of her +voice. “_Chi tace confessa—_it is so! There are no songs like English +songs—there is no spring like an English spring—there is no land like +England, _my_ England!” She clapped her hands. “I will speak with those +lads,” said she. + +Straightway certain pages ran through the press and came behind the +curtain where Nick and Colley stood together, still trembling with the +music not yet gone out of them, and brought them through the hall to +where the Queen sat, every one whispering, “Look!” as they passed. + +On the dais they knelt together, bowing, side by side. Elizabeth, with a +kindly smile, leaning a little forward, raised them with her slender +hand. “Stand, dear lads,” said she, heartily. “Be lifted up by thine own +singing, as our hearts have been uplifted by thy song. And name me the +price of that same song—’twas sweeter than the sweetest song we ever +heard before.” + +“Or ever shall hear again,” said the Venetian ambassador, under his +breath, rubbing his forehead as if just wakening out of a dream. + +“Come,” said Elizabeth, tapping Colley’s cheek with her fan, “what wilt +thou have of me, fair maid?” + +Colley turned red, then very pale. “That I may stay in the palace +forever and sing for your Majesty,” said he. His fingers shivered +in Nick’s. + +“Now that is right prettily asked,” she cried, and was well pleased. +“Thou shalt indeed stay for a singing page in our household—a voice and +a face like thine are merry things upon a rainy Monday. And thou, Master +Lark,” said she, fanning the hair back from Nick’s forehead with her +perfumed fan—“thou that comest up out of the field with a song like the +angels sing—what wilt thou have: that thou mayst sing in our choir and +play on the lute for us?” + +Nick looked up at the torches on the wall, drawing a deep, long breath. +When he looked down again his eyes were dazzled and he could not see +the Queen. + +“What wilt thou have?” he heard her ask. + +“Let me go home,” said he. + +There were red and green spots in the air. He tried to count them, since +he could see nothing else, and everything was very still; but they all +ran into one purple spot which came and went like a firefly’s glow, and +in the middle of the purple spot he saw the Queen’s face coming +and going. + +“Surely, boy, that is an ill-considered speech,” said she, “or thou dost +deem us very poor, or most exceeding stingy!” Nick hung his head, for +the walls seemed tapestried with staring eyes. “Or else this home of +thine must be a very famous place.” + +The maids of honour tittered. Further off somebody laughed. Nick looked +up, and squared his shoulders. + +They had rubbed the cat the wrong way. + +It is hard to be a stranger in a palace, young, country-bred, and +laughed at all at once; but down in Nick Attwood’s heart was a stubborn +streak that all the flattery on earth could not cajole nor ridicule +efface. He might be simple, shy, and slow, but what he loved he loved: +that much he knew; and when they laughed at him for loving home they +seemed to mock not him, but home—and _that_ touched the fighting-spot. + +“I would rather be there than here,” said he. + +The Queen’s face flushed. “Thou art more curt than courteous,” said she. +“Is it not good enough for thee here?” + +“I could na live in such a place.” + +The Queen’s eyes snapped. “In such a place? Marry, art thou so choice? +These others find no fault with the life.” + +“Then they be born to it,” said Nick, “or they could abide no more than +I—they would na fit.” + +“Haw, haw!” said the Lord High Constable. + +The Queen shot one quick glance at him. “Old pegs have been made to fit +new holes before to-day,” said she; “and the trick can be done again.” +The Constable smothered the rest of that laugh in his hand, “But come, +boy, speak up; what hath put thee so out of conceit with our +best-beloved palace?” + +“There is na one thing likes me here. I can na bide in a place so fine, +for there’s not so much as a corner in it feels like home. I could na +sleep in the bed last night.” + +“What, how? We commanded good beds!” exclaimed Elizabeth, angrily, for +the Venetian ambassador was smiling in his beard. “This shall be +seen to.” + +“Oh, it _was_ a good bed—a very good bed indeed, your Majesty!” cried +Nick. “But the mattress puffed up like a cloud in a bag, and almost +smothered me; and it was so soft and so hot that it gave me a fever.” + +Elizabeth leaned back in her chair and laughed. The Lord High Constable +hastily finished the laugh that he had hidden in his hand. Everybody +laughed. “Upon my word,” said the Queen, “it is an odd skylark cannot +sleep in feathers! What didst thou do, forsooth?” + +“I slept in the coverlid on the floor,” said Nick. “It was na hurt,—I +dusted the place well,—and I slept like a top.” + +“Now verily,” laughed Elizabeth, “if it be floors that thou dost desire, +we have acres to spare—thou shalt have thy pick of the lot. Come, we +are ill used to begging people to be favored—thou’lt stay?” + +Nick shook his head. + +“_Ma foi!”_ exclaimed the Queen, “it is a queer fancy makes a face at +such a pleasant dwelling! What is it sticks in thy throat?” + +Nick stood silent. What was there to say? If he came here he never would +see Stratford town again; and _this_ was no abiding-place for him. They +would not even let him go to the fountain himself to draw water with +which to wash, but fetched it, three at a time, in a silver ewer and a +copper basin with towels and a flask of perfume. + +Elizabeth was tapping with her fan. “Thou art be-dazzled like,” she +said. “Think twice—preferment does not gooseberry on the hedge-row +every day; and this is a rare chance which hangs ripening on thy tongue. +Consider well. Come, thou wilt accept?” + +Nick slowly shook his head. + +“Go then, if thou wilt go!” said she; and as she spoke she shrugged her +shoulders, illy pleased, and turning toward Colley, took him by the hand +and drew him closer to her, smiling at his guise. “Thy comrade hath +more wit.” + +“He hath no mother,” Nick said quietly, loosing his hold at last on +Colley’s hand. “I would rather have my mother than his wit.” + +Elizabeth turned sharply back. Her keen eyes were sparkling, yet soft. + +“Thou art no fool,” said she. + +A little murmur ran through the room. + +She sat a moment, silent, studying his face. “Or if thou art, upon my +word I like the breed. It is a stubborn, froward dog; but Hold-fast is +his name. Ay, sirs,” she said, and sat up very straight, looking into +the faces of her court, “Brag is a good dog, but Hold-fast is better. A +lad who loves his mother thus makes a man who loveth his native +land—and it’s no bad streak in the blood. Master Skylark, thou shalt +have thy wish; to London thou shalt go this very night.” + +“I do na live in London,” Nick began. + +“What matters the place?” said she. “Live wheresoever thine heart doth +please. It is enough—so. Thou mayst kiss our hand.” She held her hand +out, bright with jewels. He knelt and kissed it as if it were all a +doing in a dream, or in some unlikely story he had read. But a long +while after he could smell the perfume from her slender fingers on +his lips. + +Then a page standing by him touched his arm as he arose, and bowing +backward from the throne, came with him to the curtain and the rest. Old +Master Gyles was standing there apart. It was too dark to see his face, +but he laid his hand upon Nick’s head. + +“Thy cake is burned to a coal,” said he. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX + + +BACK TO GASTON CAREW + +So they marched back out of the palace gates, down to the landing-place, +the last red sunlight gleaming on the basinets of the tall halberdiers +who marched on either side. + +Nick looked out toward London, where the river lay like a serpent, +bristling with masts; and beyond the river and the town to the forests +of Epping and Hainault; and beyond the forests to the hills, where the +waning day still lingered in a mist of frosty blue. At their back, +midway of the Queen’s park, stood up the old square tower Mirefleur, and +on its top one yellow light like the flame of a gigantic candle. The day +seemed builded of memories strange and untrue. + +A belated gull flapped by them heavily, and the red sun went down. +England was growing lonely. A great barge laden with straw came out of +the dusk, and was gone without a sound, its ghostly sail drawing in a +wind that the wherry sat too low to feel. Nick held his breath as the +barge went by: it was unreal, fantastical. + +Then the river dropped between its banks, and the woods and the hills +were gone. The tide ran heavily against the shore, and the wake of the +wherry broke the floating stars into cold white streaks and zigzag +ripplings of raveled light that ran unsteadily after them. The craft at +anchor in the Pool had swung about upon the flow, and pointed down to +Greenwich. A hush had fallen upon the never-ending bustle of the town; +and the air was full of a gray, uncanny afterglow which seemed to come +up out of the water, for the sky was grown quite dark. + +They were all wrapped in their boat-cloaks, tired and silent. Now and +then Nick dipped his fingers into the cold water over the gunwale. + +This was the end of the glory. + +He wished the boat would go a little faster. Yet when they came to the +landing he was sorry. + +The man-at-arms who went with him to Master Carew’s house was one of the +Earl of Arundel’s men, in a stiff-wadded jacket of heron-blue, with the +earls colors richly worked upon its back and his badge upon the sleeves. +Prowlers gave way before him in the streets, for he was broad and tall +and mighty, and the fear of any man was not in the look of his eye. + +As they came up the slow hill, Nick sighed, for the long-legged +man-at-arms walked fast. “What, there!” said he, and clapped Nick on the +shoulder with his bony hand; “art far spent, lad? Why, marry, get thee +upon my back. I’ll jog thee home in the shake of a black sheep’s tail.” + +So Nick rode home upon the back of the Earl of Arundel’s man-at-arms; +and that, too, seemed a dream like all the rest. + +When they came to Master Carew’s house the street was dark, and Nick’s +foot was asleep. He stamped it, tingling, upon the step, and the empty +passage echoed with the sound. Then the earl’s man beat the door with +the pommel of his dagger-hilt, and stood with his hands upon his hips, +carelessly whistling a little tune. + +Nick heard a sound of some one coming through the hall, and felt that at +last the day was done. A tired wonder wakened in his heart at how so +much had come to pass in such a little while; yet more he wondered why +it had ever come to pass at all. And what was the worth of it, anyway, +now it was over and gone? + +Then the door opened, and he went in. + +Master Gaston Carew himself had come to the door, walking quickly +through the hallway, with a queer, nervous twitching in his face. But +when he made out through the dusk that it was Nick, he seemed in no wise +moved, and said quite simply, as he gave the man-at-arms a penny: “Oh, +is it thou? Why, we have heard somewhat of thee; and upon my word I +thought, since thou wert grown so great, thou wouldst come home in a +coach-and-four, all blowing horns!” + +Nevertheless he drew Nick quickly in, and kissed him thrice; and after +he had kissed him kept fast hold of his hand until they came together +through the hall into the great room where Cicely was sitting quite +dismally in the chimney-seat alone. + +[Illustration: “SO NICK RODE HOME UPON THE BACK OF THE EARL OF ARUNDEL’S +MAN-AT-ARMS.”] + +“There, Nick,” said he; “tell her thyself that thou hast come back. She +thought she had lost thee for good and all, and hath sung, ‘Hey ho, my +heart is full of woe!’ the whole twilight, and would not be comforted. +Come, Cicely, doff thy doleful willow—the proverb lies. ‘Out of sight, +out of mind’—fudge! the boy’s come back again! A plague take +proverbs, anyway!” + +But when the children were both long since abed, and all the house was +still save for the scamper of rats in the wall, the heavy door of Nick’s +room opened stealthily, with a little grating upon the uneven sill, and +Master Carew stood there, peeping in, his hand upon the bolt outside. + +He held a rush-light in the other. Its glimmer fell across the bed upon +Nick’s tousled hair; and when the master-player saw the boy’s head upon +the pillow he started eagerly, with brightening eyes. “My soul!” he +whispered to himself, a little quaver in his tone, “I would have sworn +my own desire lied to me, and that he had not come at all! It cannot +be—yet, verily, I am not blind. _Ma foil_ it passeth understanding—a +freed skylark come back to its cage! I thought we had lost him forever.” + +Nick stirred in his sleep. Carew set the light on the floor. “Thou +fool!” said he, and he fumbled at his pouch; “thou dear-beloved little +fool! To catch the skirts of glory in thine hand, and tread the heels of +happy chance, and yet come back again to ill-starred twilight—and to +me! Ai, lad, I would thou wert my son—mine own, own son; yet Heaven +spare thee father such as I! For, Nick, I love thee. Yet thou dost hate +me like a poison thing. And still I love thee, on my word, and on the +remnant of mine honour!” His voice was husky. “Let thee go?—send thee +back?—eat my sweet and have it too?—how? Nay, nay; thy happy cake +would be my dough—it will not serve.” He shook his head, and looked +about to see that all was fast. “Yet, Nick, I say I love thee, on +my soul!” + +Slipping to the bedside with stealthy step, he laid a fat little Banbury +cheese and some brown sweet cakes beside Nick’s pillow; then came out +hurriedly and barred the door. + +The fire in the great hall had gone out, and the room was growing cold. +The table stood by the chimney-side, where supper had been laid, Carew +brought a napkin from the linen-chest, and spread it upon the board. +Then he went to the server’s screen and looked behind it, and tried the +latches of the doors; and having thus made sure that all was safe, came +back to the table again, and setting the rush-light there, turned the +contents of his purse into the napkin. + +There were both gold and silver. The silver he put back into the purse +again; the gold he counted carefully; and as he counted, laying the +pieces one by one in little heaps upon the cloth, he muttered under his +breath, like a small boy adding up his sums in school, saying over and +over again, “One for me, and one for thee, and two for Cicely Carew. One +for me, and one for thee, and two for Cicely Carew”; and told the coins +off in keeping with the count, so that the last pile was as large as +both the others put together. Then slowly ending, “None for me, and one +for thee, and two for Cicely Carew,” he laid the last three nobles +with the rest. + +Then he arose and stood a moment listening to the silence in the house. +An old he rat that was gnawing a rind on the hearth looked up, and ran a +little nearer to his hole. “Tsst! come back,” said Carew, “I’m no cat!” +and from the sliding panel in the wall took out a buckskin bag tied like +a meal-sack with a string. + +As he slipped the knot the throat of the bag sagged down, and a gold +piece jangled on the floor. Carew started as if all his nerves had +leaped within him at the unexpected sound, and closed the panel like a +flash. Then, setting his foot upon the fallen coin, he stopped its +spinning, and with one hand on his poniard, peering right and left, blew +the candle out. + +A little while he stood and listened in the dark; a little while his +feet went to and fro in the darkness. The wind cried in the chimney. Now +and then the casements shivered. The timbers in the wall creaked with +the cold, and the boards in the stairway cracked. Then the old he rat +came back to his rind, and his mate came out of the crack in the wall, +working her whiskers hungrily and snuffing the smell of the candle-drip; +for there was no sound, and the coast of rat-land was clear. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX + + +AT THE FALCON INN + + And then there came both mist and snow, + And it grew wondrous cold; + And ice mast-high came floating by, + As green as emerald. + +So says that wonder-ballad of the sea. + +But over London came a gale that made the chimneys rock; and after it +came ice and snow, sharp, stinging sleet, and thumping hail, with +sickening winds from the gray west, sour yellow fogs, and plunging rain, +till all the world was weary of the winter and the cold. + +But winter could not last forever. March crept onward, and the streets +of London came up out of the slush again with a glad surprise of +cobblestones. The sickly mist no longer hung along the river; and +sometimes upon a breezy afternoon it was pleasant and fair, the sun +shone warmly on one’s back, and the rusty sky grew bluer overhead. The +trees in Paris Garden put out buds; the lilac-tips began to swell; there +was a stirring in the roadside grass, and now and then a questing bird +went by upon the wind, piping a little silver thread of song. Nick’s +heart grew hungry for the woods of Arden and the gathering rush of the +waking water-brooks among the old dead leaves. The rain beat in at his +window, but he did not care for that, and kept it open day and night; +for when he wakened in the dark he loved to feel the fingers of the wind +across his face. + +Sometimes the moonlight through the ragged clouds came in upon the +floor, and in the hurry of the wind he almost fancied he could hear the +Avon, bank-full, rushing under the old mill-bridge. + +Then one day there came a shower with a warm south wind, sweet and +healthful and serene; and through the shower, out of the breaking +clouds, a sun-gleam like a path of gold straight down to the heart of +London town; and on the south wind, down that path of gold, came April. + +That night the wind in the chimney fluted a glad, new tune; and when +Nick looked out at his casement the free stars danced before him in the +sky. And when he felt that fluting wind blow warm and cool together on +his cheek, the chimneys mocked him, and the town was hideous. + + * * * * * + +It fell upon an April night, when the moon was at its full, that Master +Carew had come to the Falcon Inn, on the Southwark side of the river, +and had brought Nick with him for the air. Master Heywood was along, and +it was very pleasant there. + +The night breeze smelled of green fields, and the inn was thronged with +company. The windows were bright, and the air was full of voices. Tables +had been brought out into the garden and set beneath the arbor toward +the riverside. The vines of the arbor were shooting forth their first +pink-velvet leaves, and in the moonlight their shadows fell like +lacework across the linen cloths, blurred by the glow of the lanterns +hung upon the posts. + +The folds in the linen marked the table-tops with squares like a +checker-board, and Nick stood watching from the tap-room door, as if it +were a game. Not that he cared for any game; but that watching dulled +the teeth of the hunger in his heart to be out of the town and back +among the hills of Warwickshire, now that the spring was there. + +“What, there!—a pot of sack!” cried one gay fellow with a +silver-bordered cloak. “A pot of sack?” cried out another with a feather +like a rose-bush in his cap; “two pots ye mean, my buck!” “Ods-fish my +skin!” bawled out a third—“ods-fish my skin! Two pots of beggarly sack +on a Saturday night and a moon like this? Three pots, say I—and make it +malmsey, at my cost! What, there, knave! the table full of pots—I’ll +pay the score.” + +At that they all began to laugh and to slap one another on the back, and +to pound with their fists upon the board until the pewter tankards +hopped; and when the tapster’s knave came back they were singing at the +top of their lungs, for the spring had gotten into their wits, and they +were beside themselves with merriment. + +Master Tom Heywood had a little table to himself off in a corner, and +was writing busily upon a new play. “A sheet a day,” said he, “doth do +a wonder in a year”; so he was always at it. + +Gaston Carew sat beyond, dicing with a silky rogue who had the coldest, +hardest face that Nick had ever seen. His eyes were black and beady as a +rat’s, and were circled about by a myriad of little crowfoot lines; and +his hooked nose lay across his thin blue lips like a finger across a +slit in a dried pie. His long, slim hands were white as any woman’s; and +his fingers slipped among the laces at his cuffs like a weasel in a +tangle-patch. + +They had been playing for an hour, and the game had gone beyond all +reason. The other players had put aside the dice to watch the two, and +the nook in which their table stood was ringed with curious faces. A +lantern had been hung above, but Carew had had it taken down, as its +bottom made a shadow on the board. Carew’s face was red and white by +turns; but the face of the other had no more color than candle-wax. + +At the end of the arbor some one was strumming upon a gittern. It was +strung in a different key from that in which the men were singing, and +the jangle made Nick feel all puckered up inside. By and by the playing +ceased, and the singers came to the end of their song. In the brief hush +the sharp rattle of the dice sounded like the patter of cold hail +against the shutter in the lull of a winter storm. + +Then there came a great shouting outside, and, looking through the +arbor, Nick saw two couriers on galloway nags come galloping over the +bowling-green to the arbor-side, calling for ale. They drank it in +their saddles, while their panting horses sniffed at the fresh young +grass. Then they galloped on. Through the vines, as he looked after +them, Nick could see the towers of London glittering strangely in the +moonlight. It was nearly high tide, and up from the river came the sound +of women’s voices and laughter, with the pulse-like throb of oars and +the hoarse calling of the watermen. + +In the great room of the inn behind him the gallants were taking their +snuff in little silver ladles, and talking of princesses they had met, +and of whose coach they had ridden home in last from tennis at my +lord’s. Some were eating, some were drinking, and some were puffing at +long clay pipes, while others, by twos, locked arm in arm, went +swaggering up and down the room, with a huge talking of foreign lands +which they had never so much as seen. + +“A murrain on the luck!” cried Carew, suddenly. “Can I throw nothing but +threes and fours?” + +A muffled stir ran round. Nick turned from the glare of the open door, +and looked out into the moonlight. It seemed quite dark at first. The +master-player’s face was bitter white, and his fingers were tapping a +queer staccato upon the table-top. + +“A plague on the bedlam dice!” said he. “I think they are bewitched.” + +“Huff, ruff, and snuff!” the other replied. “Don’t get the +mubble-fubbles, Carew: there’s nought the matter with the dice.” + +A man came down from the tap-room door. Nick stepped aside to let him +pass. He was a player, by his air. + +He wore a riding-cloak of Holland cloth, neither so good nor so bad as a +riding-cloak might be, but under it a handsome jerkin overlaid with +lace, and belted with a buff girdle in which was a light Spanish rapier. +His boots were russet cordovan, mid-thigh tall, and the rowels of his +clinking spurs were silver stars. He was large of frame, and his curly +hair was short and brown; so was his pointed beard. His eyes were +singularly bright and fearless, and bluff self-satisfaction marked his +stride; but his under lip was petulant, and he flicked his boot with his +riding-whip as he shouldered his way along. + +“Ye cannot miss the place, sir,” called the tapster after him. “’Tis +just beyond Ned Alleyn’s, by the ditch. Ye’ll never mistake the ditch, +sir—Billingsgate is roses to it.” + +“Oh, I’ll find it fast enough,” the stranger answered; “but he should +have sent to meet me, knowing I might come at any hour. ’Tis a felon +place for thieves; and I’ve not heart to skewer even a goose on such a +night as this.” + +At the sudden breaking of voices upon the silence, Carew looked up, with +a quarrel ripe for picking in his eye. But seeing who spoke, such a +smile came rippling from the corners of his mouth across his dark, +unhappy face that it was as if a lamp of welcome had been lighted there. +“What, Ben!” he cried; “thou here? Why, bless thine heart, old gossip, +’tis good to see an honest face amid this pack of rogues.” + +There was a surly muttering in the crowd. Carew threw his head back +haughtily and set his knuckles to his hip. “A pack of rogues, I say,” he +repeated sharply; “and a fig for the whole pack!” There was a certain +wildness in his eyes. No one stirred or made reply. + +“Good! Gaston,” laughed the stranger, with a shrug; “picking thy company +still, I see, for quantity, and not for quality. No, thank ’e; none of +the tap for me. My Lord Hunsdon was made chamberlain in his father’s +stead to-day, and I’m off hot-foot with the news to Will’s.” + +He gathered his cloak about him, and was gone. + +“Ye’ve lost,” said the man who was dicing with Carew. + +Nick stepped down from the tap-room door. His ears were tingling with +the sound: “I’m off hot-foot with the news to Will’s.” + +“Hot-foot with the news to Will’s”? + +To “Will’s”? “Will” who? + +The man was a player, by his air. + +Nick hurriedly looked around. Carew’s wild eyes were frozen upon the +dice. The bandy-legged man was drinking at a table near the door. The +crimson ribbon in his ear looked like a patch of blood. + +He saw Nick looking at him, and made a horrible face. He would have +sworn likewise, but there was half a quart of ale in his can; so he +turned it up and drank instead. It was a long, long drink, and half his +face was buried in the pot. + +When he put it down the boy was gone. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI + + +IN THE TWINKLING OF AN EYE + +In a garden near the old bear-yard, among tall rose-trees which would +soon be in bloom, a merry company of men were sitting around a table +which stood in the angle of a quick-set hedge beside a path graveled +with white stones and bordered with mussel-shells. + +There was a house hard by with creamy-white walls, green-shuttered +windows, and a red-tiled roof. The door of the house was open, showing a +little ruddy fire upon a great hearth, kindled to drive away the damp; +and in the windows facing the garden there were lights shining warmly +out among the rose-trees. + +The table was spread with a red damask cloth, on which were a tray of +raisins and nuts and a small rally of silver cups. Above the table an +apple-tree nodded its new leaves, and from an overhanging bough a +lantern hung glowing like a great yellow bee. + +There was a young fellow with a white apron and a jolly little whisper +of a whistle on his puckered lips going around with a plate of cakes and +a tray of honey-bowls; and the men were eating and drinking and +chatting together so gaily, and seemed to be all such good friends, that +it was a pleasant thing just to see them sitting there in their +comfortable leather-bottomed chairs, taking life easily because the +spring had come again. + +One tall fellow was smoking a pipe. He held the bowl in one hand, and +kept tamping down the loose tobacco with his forefinger. Now and again +he would be so eagerly talking he would forget that his finger was in +the bowl, and it would be burned. He would take it out with a look of +quaint surprise, whereat the rest all roared. Another was a fat, round +man who chuckled constantly to himself, as if this life were all a joke; +and there was a quite severe, important-seeming, oldish man who said, +“Hem—hem!” from time to time, as if about to speak forthwith, yet never +spoke a word. There was also among the rest a raw-boned, lanky fellow +who had bitten the heart out of an oat-cake and held the rim of it in +his fingers like a new moon, waving it around while he talked, until the +little man beside him popped it deftly out of his grasp and ate it +before the other saw where it was gone. But when he made out what was +become of that oat-cake he rose up solemnly, took the little man by the +collar as a huntsman takes a pup, and laid him softly in the grass +without a word. + +What a laughing and going-on was then! It was as if they all were +growing young again. And in the middle of the row a head popped over the +quick-set hedge, and a most stentorian voice called out, “Here, here! Go +slow—I want a piece of that!” + +They all looked up, and the moment they spied that laughing face and +cloak of Holland cloth, raised a shout of “What, there!” “Well met!” +“Come in, Ben.” “Where hast thou tarried so long?” and the like; while +the waiter ran to open the gate and let the stranger in. + +A quiet man with a little chestnut-colored beard and hazel eyes, which +lit up quickly at sight of the stranger over the hedge, arose from his +place by the table and went down the path with hands outstretched to +greet him. + +“Welcome, welcome, hurly-burly Ben,” said he. “We’ve missed thee from +the feast. Art well? And what’s the good word?” + +“Ah, Will, thou gentle rogue!” the other cried, catching the hands of +the quiet man and holding him off while he looked at him there. “How +thou stealest one’s heart with the glance of thine eye! I was going to +give thee a piece of my mind; but a plague, old heart! who could chide +thee to thy face? Am I well? Ay, exceedingly well. And the news? Jove! +the best that was baked at the Queen’s to-day, and straight from the +oven-door! The thing is done—huff, puff, and away we go! But come +on—this needs telling to the rest.” + +They came up the path together, the big man crunching the mussel-shells +beneath his sturdy tread, and so into the circle of yellow light that +came down from the lantern among the apple-leaves, the big man with his +arm around the quiet man’s shoulders, holding his hand; for the quiet +man was not so large as the other, although withal no little man +himself, and very well built and straight. + +His tabard was black, without sleeves, and his doublet was scarlet +silk. His collar and wrist-bands were white Holland linen turned loosely +back, and his face was frank and fair and free. He was not old, but his +hair was thin upon his brow. His nose and his full, high forehead were +as cleanly cut as a finely chiseled stone; and his sensitive mouth had a +curve that was tender and sad, though he smiled all the while, a glimpse +of his white teeth showing through, and his little mustache twitching +with the ripple of his long upper lip. His flowing hair was +chestnut-colored, like his beard, and curly at the ends; and his +melancholy eyelids told of study and of thought; but under them the +kindly eyes were bright with pleasant fancy. + +“What, there, all of you!” said he; “a good investment for your ears!” + +“Out with it, Will!” they cried, and whirled around. + +“The Queen hath made Lord Hunsdon chamberlain,” the big man said. + +An instant’s hush fell on the garden. No one spoke; but they caught each +other by the hand, and, suddenly, the silence there seemed somehow +louder than a shout. + +“We’ll build the new Globe play-house, lads, and sweep the Bankside +clean from end to end!” a sturdy voice broke sharply on the hush. And +then they cheered—a cheer so loud that people on the river stopped +their boats, and came ashore asking where the fire was. And over all the +cheering rose the big man’s voice; for the quiet man was silent, and the +big man cheered for two. + +“Pull up thy rose-bushes, Will,” cried one, “and set out laurels in +their stead—thou’lt need them all for crowns.” + +“Ay, Will, our savor is not gone—Queen Bess knows salt!” + +“With Will and Ben for meat and crust, and the rest of us for seasoning, +the court shall say it never ate such master pie!” + +“We’ll make the walls of Whitehall ring come New Year next, or Twelfth +Night and Shrove Tuesday.” + +“Ay, that we will, old gossip! Here’s to thee!” + +“Here’s to the company, all of us!” + +“And a health to the new Lord Chamberlain!” + +“God save the Queen!” + +With that, they shook each other’s hands, as merry as men could be, and +laughed, because their hearts ran short of words; for these were young +Lord Hunsdon’s men, late players to the Queen in the old Lord +Chamberlain’s troupe; who, for a while deprived of favor by _his_ death, +were now, by this succession of his son, restored to prestige at the +court, and such preferment as none beside them ever won, not even the +Earl of Pembroke’s company. + +There was Kemp, the stout tragedian; gray John Lowin, the walking-man; +Diccon Burbage, and Cuthbert his brother, master-players and managers; +Robin Armin, the humorsome jester; droll Dick Tarlton, the king of +fools. There was Blount, and Pope, and Hemynge, and Thomas Greene, and +Joey Taylor, the acting-boy, deep in the heart of a honey-bowl, yet who +one day was to play “Hamlet” as no man ever has played it since. And +there were others, whose names and doings have vanished with them; and +beside these—“What, merry hearts!” the big man cried, and clapped his +neighbor on the back; “we’ll have a supper at the Mermaid Inn. We’ll +feast on reason, reason on the feast, toast the company with wit, and +company the wit with toast—why, pshaw, we are good fellows all!” He +laughed, and they laughed with him. _That_ was “rare Ben Jonson’s” way. + +“There’s some one knocking, master,” said the boy. + +A quick tap-tapping rattled on the wicket-gate. + +“Who is it?” asked the quiet man. + +“’Tis Edmund with the news,” cried one. + +“I’ve dished him,” said Ben Jonson. + +“’Tis Condell come to raise our wages,” said Robin Armin, with a grin. + +“Thou’lt raise more hopes than wages, Rob,” said Tarlton, mockingly. + +“It is a boy,” the waiter said, “who saith that he must see thee, +master, on his life.” + +The quiet man arose. + +“Sit down, Will,” said Greene; “he’ll pick thy pocket with a doleful +lie.” + +“There’s nothing in it, Tom, to pick.” + +“Then give him no more than half,” said Armin, soberly, “lest he +squander it!” + +“He saith he comes from Stratford town,” the boy went on. + +“Then tell him to go back again,” said Master Ben Jonson; “we’ve sucked +the sweet from Stratford town—be off with his seedy dregs!” + +“Go bring him in,” said the quiet man. + +“Nay, Will, don’t have him in. This makes the third within the +month—wilt father all the strays from Stratford town? Here, Ned, give +him this shilling, and tell him to be off to his cony-burrow as fast as +his legs can trot.” + +“We’ll see him first,” said the quiet man, stopping the other’s shilling +with his hand. + +“Oh, Willy-nilly!” the big man cried; “wilt be a kite to float all the +draggle-tails that flutter down from Warwickshire?” + +“Why, Ben,” replied the quiet man, “’tis not the kite that floats the +tail, but the wind which floats both kite and tail. Thank God, we’ve +caught the rising wind; so, hey for draggle-tails!—we’ll take up all +we can.” + +The waiter was coming up the path, and by his side, a little back, +bareheaded and flushed with running, came Nicholas Attwood. He had +followed the big man through the fields from the gates of the +Falcon Inn. + +He stopped at the edge of the lantern’s glow and looked around +uncertain, for the light was in his eyes. + +“Come, boy, what is it?” asked Ben Jonson. + +Nick peered through the brightness. “Master Will—Master Will +Shakspere!” he gasped. + +“_Well, my lady_,” said the quiet man; “_what wilt thou have of me_?” + +Nick Attwood had come to his fellow-townsman at last. + +Over the hedge where the lantern shone through the green of the +apple-leaves came a sound of voices talking fast, a listening hush, then +a clapping of hands, with mingled cries of “Good boy!” “Right, lad; do +not leave her till thou must!” and at the last, “What! take thee home to +thy mother, lad? Ay, marry, that will I!” And the _last_ was the voice +of the quiet man. + +Then followed laughter and scraps of song, merry talking, and good +cheer, for they all made glad together. + + * * * * * + +Across the fields beyond the hedge the pathway ran through Paris Garden, +stark and clear in the white moon-shine, save here and there where the +fog from the marsh crept down to meet the river-mist, and blotted out +the landscape as it went. In the north lay London, stirring like a +troubled sea. In the south was drowsy silence, save for the crowing of +the cocks, and now and then the baying of a hound far off. The smell of +bears was on the air; the river-wind breathed kennels. The Swan +play-house stood up, a great, blue blank against the sky. The sound of +voices was remote. The river made a constant murmur in the murk beyond +the landing-place; the trees moved softly. + +Low in the west, the lights of the Falcon Inn were shrunk to pin-pricks +in the dark. They seemed to wink and to shut their eyes. It was too far +to see the people passing by. + +On a sudden one light winked and did not open any more; and through the +night a faint, far cry came drifting down the river-wind—a long, thin +cry, like the wavering screech of an owl—a shrill, high, ugly sound; +the lights began to wink, wink, wink, to dance, to shift, to gather into +one red star. Out of the darkness came a wisp of something moving in +the path. + +Where the moonlight lay it scudded like the shadow of a windy cloud, now +lost to sight, now seen again. Out of the shadow came a man, with hands +outstretched and cap awry, running as if he were mad. As he ran he +looked from side to side, and turned his head for the keener ear. He was +panting hard. + +When he reached the ditch he paused in fault, ran on a step or two, went +back, stood hesitating there, clenching his hands in the empty wind, +listening; for the mist was grown so thick that he could scarcely see. + +But as he stood there doubtfully, uncertain of the way, catching the +wind in his nervous hands, and turning about in a little space like an +animal in a cage, over the hedge through the apple-boughs a boy’s clear +voice rose suddenly, singing a rollicking tune, with a snapping of +fingers and tapping of feet in time to its merry lilt. + +Then the man in the mist, when he heard that clear, high voice, turned +swiftly to it, crying out, “The Skylark! Zooks! It is the place!” and +ran through the fog to where the lantern glimmered through the hedge. +The light fell in a yellow stream across his face. He was pale as a +ghost. “What, there, within! What, there!” he panted. “Shakspere! +Jonson! Any one!” + +The song stopped short. “Who’s there?” called the voice of the quiet +man. + +“’Tis I, Tom Heywood. there’s to-do for players at the Falcon Inn. +Gaston Carew hath stabbed Fulk Sandells, for cheating at the dice, as +dead as a door-nail, and hath been taken by the watch!” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII + + +THE LAST OF GASTON CAREW + +It was Monday morning, and a beautiful day. + +Master Will Shakspere was reading a new play to Masters Ben Jonson and +Diccon Burbage at the Mermaid Inn. + +Thomas Pope, the player, and Peter Hemynge, the manager, were there with +them at the table under the little window. The play was a comedy of a +wicked money-lender named Shylock; but it was a comedy that made Nick +shudder as he sat on the bench by the door and listened to it through +happy thoughts of going home. + +Sunday had passed like a wondrous dream. He was free. Master Carew was +done for. On Saturday morning Master Will Shakspere would set out on the +journey to Stratford town, for his regular summer visit there; and Nick +was going with him—going to Stratford—going home! + +The comedy-reading went on. Master Burbage, his moving face alive, +leaned forward on his elbows, nodding now and then, and saying, “Fine, +fine!” under his breath. Master Pope was making faces suited to the +words, not knowing that he did so. Nick watched him, fascinated. + +A man came hurrying down Cheapside, and peered in at the open door. It +was Master Dick Jones of the Admiral’s company. He looked worried and as +if he had not slept. His hair was uncombed, and the skin under his eyes +hung in little bags. He squinted so that he might see from the broad +daylight outside into the darker room. + +“Gaston Carew wants to see thee, Skylark,” said he, quickly, seeing Nick +beside the door. + +Nick drew back. It seemed as if the master-player must be lying in wait +outside to catch him if he stirred abroad. + +“He says that he must see thee without fail, and that straightway. He is +in Newgate prison. Wilt come?” + +Nick shook his head. + +“But he says indeed he _must_ see thee. Come, Skylark, I will bring thee +back. I am no kidnapper. Why, it is the last thing he will ever ask of +thee. ’Tis hard to refuse so small a favor to a doomed man.” + +“Thou’lt surely fetch me back?” + +“Here, Master Will Shakspere,” called the Admiral’s player; “I am to +fetch the boy to Carew in Newgate on an urgent matter. My name is +Jones—Dick Jones, of Henslowe’s company. Burbage knows me. I’ll bring +him back.” + +Master Shakspere nodded, reading on; and Burbage waved his hand, +impatient of interruption. Nick arose and went with Jones. + +As they came up Newgate street to the crossing of Giltspur and the Old +Bailey, the black arch of the ancient gate loomed grimly against the +sky, its squinting window-slits peering down like the eyes of an old +ogre. The bell of St. Sepulchre’s was tolling, and there was a crowd +about the door, which opened, letting out a black cart in which was a +priest praying and a man in irons going to be hanged on Tyburn Hill. His +sweating face was ashen gray; and when the cart came to the church door +they gave him mockingly a great bunch of fresh, bright flowers. Nick +could not bear to watch. + +The turnkey at the prison gate was a crop-headed fellow with jowls like +a bulldog, and no more mercy in his face than a chopping-block. “Gaston +Carew, the player?” he growled. “Ye can’t come in without a permit from +the warden.” + +“We must,” said Jones. + +“Must?” said the turnkey. “I am the only one who says ‘must’ in +Newgate!” and slammed the door in their faces. + +The player clinked a shilling on the bar. + +“It was a boy he said would come,” growled the turnkey through the +wicket, pocketing the shilling; “so just the boy goes up. A shilling’s +worth, ye mind, and not another wink.” He drew Nick in, and dropped +the bars. + +It was a foul, dark place, and full of evil smells. Drops of water stood +on the cold stone walls, and a green mould crept along the floor. The +air was heavy and dank, and it began to be hard for Nick to breathe. The +men in the dungeons were singing a horrible song, and in the corner was +a half-naked fellow shackled to the floor. “Give me a penny,” he said, +“or I will curse thee.” Nick shuddered. + +“Up with thee,” said the turnkey, gruffly, unlocking the door to the +stairs. + +The common room above was packed with miserable wretches, fighting, +dancing, gibbering like apes. Some were bawling ribald songs, others +moaning with fever. The strongest kept the window-ledges near light and +air by sheer main force, and were dicing on the dirty sill. The turnkey +pushed and banged his way through them, Nick clinging desperately to +his jerkin. + +In a cell at the end of the corridor there was a Spanish renegade who +cursed the light when the door was opened, and cursed the darkness when +it closed. “Cesare el Moro, Cesare el Moro,” he was saying over and over +again to himself, as if he feared that he might forget his own name. + +Carew was in the middle cell, ironed hand and foot. He had torn his +sleeves and tucked the lace under the rough edges of the metal to keep +it from chafing the skin. He sat on a pile of dirty straw, with his face +in his folded arms upon his knees. By his side was a broken biscuit and +an empty stone jug. He had his fingers in his ears to shut out the +tolling of the knell for the man who had gone to be hanged. + +The turnkey shook the bars. “Here, wake up!” he said. + +Carew looked up. His eyes were swollen, and his face was covered with a +two days’ beard. He had slept in his clothes, and they were full of +broken straw and creases. But his haggard face lit up when he saw the +boy, and he came to the grating with an eager exclamation: “And thou +hast truly come? To the man thou dost hate so bitterly, but wilt not +hate any more. Come, Nick, thou wilt not hate me any more. ’Twill not +be worth thy while, Nick; the night is coming fast.” + +“Why, sir,” said Nick, “it is not so dark outside—’tis scarcely noon; +and thou wilt soon be out.” + +“Out? Ay, on Tyburn Hill,” said the master-player, quietly. “I’ve spent +my whole life for a bit of hempen cord. I’ve taken my last cue. Last +night, at twelve o’clock, I heard the bellman under the prison walls +call my name with the names of those already condemned. The play is +nearly out, Nick, and the people will be going home. It has been a wild +play, Nick, and ill played.” + +“Here, if ye’ve anything to say, be saying it,” said the turnkey. “’Tis +a shilling’s worth, ye mind.” + +Carew lifted up his head in the old haughty way, and clapped his +shackled hand to his hip—they had taken his poniard when he came into +the gaol. A queer look came over his face; taking his hand away, he +wiped it hurriedly upon his jerkin. There were dark stains upon +the silk. + +“Ye sent for me, sir,” said Nick. + +Carew passed his hand across his brow. “Yes, yes, I sent for thee. I +have something to tell thee, Nick.” He hesitated, and looked through the +bars at the boy, as if to read his thoughts. “Thou’lt be good and true +to Cicely—thou’lt deal fairly with my girl? Why, surely, yes.” He +paused again, as if irresolute. “I’ll trust thee, Nick. We’ve taken +money, thou and I; good gold and silver—tsst! what’s that?” He +stopped suddenly. + +Nick heard no sound but the Spaniard’s cursing. + +“’Tis my fancy,” Carew said. “Well, then, we’ve taken much good money, +Nick; and I have not squandered all of it. Hark’e—thou knowest the old +oak wainscot in the dining-hall, and the carven panel by the Spanish +chest? Good, then! Upon the panel is a cherubin, and—tsst! what’s +that, I say?” + +There was a stealthy rustling in the right-hand cell. The fellow in it +had his ear pressed close against the bars. “He is listening,” +said Nick. + +The fellow cursed and shook his fist, and then, when Master Carew +dropped his voice and would have gone on whispering, set up so loud a +howling and clanking of his chains that the lad could not make out one +word the master-player said. + +“Peace, thou dog!” cried Carew, and kicked the grating. But the fellow +only yelled the louder. + +Carew looked sorely troubled. “I dare not let him hear,” said he. “The +very walls of Newgate leak.” + +“_Yak, yah, yah, thou gallows-bird!_” + +“Yet I must tell thee, Nick.” + +“_Yah, yah, dangle-rope!_” + +“Stay! would Will Shakspere come? Why, here, I’ll send him word. He’ll +come—Will Shakspere never bore a grudge; and I shall so soon go where +are no grudges, envy, storms, or noise, but silence and the soft lap of +everlasting sleep. He’ll come—Nick, bid him come, upon his life, to +the Old Bailey when I am taken up.” + +Nick nodded. It was strange to have his master beg. + +Carew was looking up at a thin streak of light that came in through the +narrow window at the stair. “Nick,” said he, huskily, “last night I +dreamed I heard thee singing; but ’twas where there was a sweet, green +field and a stream flowing through a little wood. Methought ’twas on the +road past Warwick toward Coventry. Thou’lt go there some day and +remember Gaston Carew, wilt not, lad? And, Nick, for thine own mother’s +sake, do not altogether hate him; he was not so bad a man as he might +easily have been.” + +“Come,” growled the turnkey, who was pacing up and down like a surly +bear; “have done. ’Tis a fat shilling’s worth.” + +“’Twas there I heard thee sing first, Nick,” said Carew, holding to the +boy’s hands through the bars. “I’ll never hear thee sing again.” + +“Why, sir, I’ll sing for thee now,” said Nick, choking. + +The turnkey was coming back when Nick began suddenly to sing. He looked +up, staring. Such a thing dumfounded him. He had never heard a song like +that in Newgate. There were rules in prison. “Here, here,” he cried, “be +still!” But Nick sang on. + +The groaning, quarreling, and cursing were silent all at once. The guard +outside, who had been sharpening his pike upon the window-ledge, stopped +the shrieking sound. Silence like a restful sleep fell upon the weary +place. Through dark corridors and down the mildewed stairs the quaint +old song went floating as a childhood memory into an old man’s dream; +and to Gaston Carew’s ear it seemed as if the melody of earth had all +been gathered in that little song—all but the sound of the voice of his +daughter Cicely. + +It ceased, and yet a gentle murmur seemed to steal through the mouldy +walls, of birds and flowers, sunlight and the open air, of once-loved +mothers, and of long-forgotten homes. The renegade had ceased his +cursing, and was whispering a fragment of a Spanish prayer he had not +heard for many a day. + +Carew muttered to himself. “And now old cares are locked in charmèd +sleep, and new griefs lose their bitterness, to hear thee sing—to hear +thee sing. God bless thee, Nick!” + +“’Tis three good shillings’ worth o’ time,” the turnkey growled, and +fumbled with the keys. “All for one shilling, too,” said he, and kicked +the door-post sulkily. “But a plague, I say, a plague! ’Tis no one’s +business but mine. I’ve a good two shillings’ worth in my ears. ’Tis +thirty year since I ha’ heard the like o’ that. But what’s a gaol +for?—man’s delight? Nay, nay. Here, boy, time’s up! Come out o’ that.” +But he spoke so low that he scarcely heard himself; and going to the end +of the corridor, he marked at random upon the wall. + +“Oh, Nick, I love thee,” said the master-player, holding the boy’s hands +with a bitter grip. “Dost thou not love me just a little? Come, lad, say +that thou lovest me.” + +[Illustration: “‘WHY, SIR, I’LL SING FOR THEE NOW.’ SAID NICK, +CHOKING.”] + +“Nay, Master Carew,” Nick answered soberly, “I do na love +thee, and I will na say I do, sir; but I pity thee with all my heart. +And, sir, if thy being out would keep me stolen, still I think I’d wish +thee out—for Cicely. But, Master Carew, do na break my hands.” + +The master-player loosed his grasp. “I will not seek to be excused to +thee,” he said huskily. “I’ve prisoned thee as that clod prisons me; +but, Nick, the play is almost out, down comes the curtain on my heels, +and thy just blame will find no mark. Yet, Nick, now that I am fast and +thou art free, it makes my heart ache to feel that ’twas not I who set +thee free. Thou canst go when pleaseth thee, and thank me nothing for +it. And, Nick, as my sins be forgiven me, I truly meant to set thee free +and send thee home. I did, upon my word, and on the remnant of +mine honour!” + +“Time’s good and up, sirs,” said the turnkey, coming back. + +Carew thrust his hand into his breast. + +“I must be going, sir,” said Nick. + +“Ay, so thou must—all things must go. Oh, Nick, be friendly with me +now, if thou wert never friendly before. Kiss me, lad. There—now thy +hand.” The master-player clasped it closely in his own, and pressing +something into the palm, shut down the fingers over it. “Quick! Keep it +hid,” he whispered. “’Tis the chain I had from Stratford’s burgesses, to +some good usage come at last.” + +“Must I come and fetch thee out?” growled the turnkey. + +“I be coming, sir.” + +“Thou’lt send Will Shakspere? And, oh, Nick,” cried Carew, holding him +yet a little longer, “thou’lt keep my Cicely from harm?” + +“I’ll do my best,” said Nick, his own eyes full. + +The turnkey raised his heavy bunch of keys. “I’ll ding thee out o’ this” +said he. + +And the last Nick Attwood saw of Gaston Carew was his wistful eyes +hunting down the stairway after him, and his hand, with its torn fine +laces, waving at him through the bars. + +And when he came to the Mermaid Inn Master Shakspere’s comedy was done, +and Master Ben Jonson was telling a merry tale that made the tapster +sick with laughing. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII + + +CICELY DISAPPEARS + +That Master Will Shakspere should be so great seemed passing strange to +Nick, he felt so soon at home with him. It seemed as if the master-maker +of plays had a magic way of going out to and about the people he met, +and of fitting his humor to them as though he were a glover with their +measure in his hand. + +With Nick he was nothing all day long but a jolly, wise, and +gentle-hearted boy, wearing his greatness like an old cloth coat, as if +it were a long-accustomed thing, and quite beyond all pride, and went +about his business in a very simple way. But in the evening when the +wits were met together at his house, and Nick sat on the hindmost bench +and watched the noble gentlemen who came to listen to the sport, Master +Will Shakspere seemed to have the knack of being ever best among them +all, yet of never too much seeming to be better than the rest. + +And though, for the most part, he said but little, save when some pet +fancy moved him, when he did speak his conversation sparkled like a +little meadow brook that drew men’s best thoughts out of them like +water from a spring. + +And when they fell to bantering, he could turn the fag-end of another +man’s nothing to good account in a way so shrewd that not even Master +Ben Jonson could better him—and Master Ben Jonson set up for a wit. But +Master Shakspere came about as quickly as an English man-of-war, dodged +here and there on a breath of wind, and seemed quite everywhere at once; +while Master Jonson tacked and veered, and loomed across the elements +like a great galleon, pouring forth learned broadsides with a most +prodigious boom, riddling whatever was in the way, to be sure, but often +quite missing the point—because Master Shakspere had come about, hey, +presto, change! and was off with the argument, point and all, upon a +totally different tack. + +Then “Tush!” and “Fie upon thee, Will!” Master Jonson would cry with his +great bluff-hearted laugh, “thou art a regular flibbertigibbet! I’ll +catch thee napping yet, old heart, and fill thee so full of pepper-holes +that thou wilt leak epigrams. But quits—I must be home, or I shall +catch it from my wife. Faith, Will, thou shouldst see my little Ben!” + +“I’ll come some day,” Master Shakspere would say; “give him my love”; +and his mouth would smile, though his eyes were sad, for his own son +Hamnet was dead. + +Then, when the house was still again, and all had said good-by, Nick +doffed his clothes and laid him down to sleep in peace. Yet he often +wakened in the night, because his heart was dancing so. + +In the morning, when the world began to stir outside, and the early +light came in at the window, he slipped out of bed across the floor, and +threw the casement wide. Over the river, and over the town, and over the +hills that lay blue in the north, was Stratford! + +The damp, cool air from the garden below seemed a primrose whiff from +the lane behind his father’s house. He could hear the cocks crowing in +Surrey, and the lowing of the kine. There was a robin singing in a bush +under the window, and there was some one in the garden with a pair of +pruning-shears. Snip-snip! snip-snip! he heard them going. The light in +the east was pink as a peach-bloom and too intense to bear. + +“Good-morrow, Master Early-bird!” a merry voice called up to him, and a +nosegay dropped on the window-ledge at his side. He looked down. There +in the path among the rose-trees was Master Will Shakspere, laughing. He +had on an ancient leathern jacket and a hat with a hole in its crown; +and the skirts of the jacket were dripping with dew from the bushes. + +“Good-morrow, sir,” said Nick, and bowed. “It is a lovely day.” + +“Most beautiful indeed! How comes the sun?” + +“Just up, sir; the river is afire with it now. O-oh!” Nick held his +breath, and watched the light creep down the wall, darting long bars of +rosy gold through the snowy bloom of the apple-trees, until it rested +upon Master Shakspere’s face, and made a fleeting glory there. + +Then Master Shakspere stretched himself a little in the sun, laughing +softly, and said, “It is the sweetest music in the world—morning, +spring, and God’s dear sunshine; it starteth kindness brewing in the +heart, like sap in a withered bud. What sayest, lad? We’ll fetch the +little maid to-day; and then—away for Stratford town!” + + * * * * * + +But when Master Shakspere and Nicholas Attwood came to Gaston Carew’s +house, the constables had taken charge, the servants were scattering +hither and thither, and Cicely Carew was gone. + +The bandy-legged man, the butler said, had come on Sunday in great +haste, and packing up his goods, without a word of what had befallen his +master, had gone away, no one knew whither, and had taken Cicely with +him. Nor had they questioned what he did, for they all feared the rogue, +and judged him to have authority. + +Nick caught a moment at the lintel of the door. The house was full of +voices, and the sound of trampling feet went up and down from room to +room; but all he heard was Gaston Carew’s worn voice saying, “Thou’lt +keep my Cicely from harm?” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV + + +THE BANDY-LEGGED MAN + +Until night fell they sought the town over for a trace of Cicely; but +all to no avail. The second day likewise. + +The third day passed, and still there were no tidings. Master +Shakspere’s face grew very grave, and Nick’s heart sickened till he +quite forgot that he was going home. + +But on the morning of the fourth day, which chanced to be the 1st of +May, as he was standing in the door of a printer’s stall in St. Paul’s +Churchyard, watching the gaily dressed holiday crowds go up and down, +while Robin Dexter’s apprentices bound white-thorn boughs about the +brazen serpent overhead, he spied the bandy-legged man among the rout +that passed the north gate by St. Martin’s le Grand. + +He had a yellow ribbon in his ear, and wore a bright plum-colored cloak, +at sight of which Nick cried aloud, for it was the very cloak which +Master Gaston Carew wore when he first met him in the Warwick road. The +rogue was making for the way which ran from Cheapside to the river, and +was walking very fast. + +“Master Shakspere! Master Shakspere!” Nick called out. But Master +Shakspere was deep in the proofs of a newly published play, and did +not hear. + +The yellow ribbon fluttered in the sun—was gone behind the churchyard +wall. + +“Quick, Master Shakspere! quick!” Nick cried; but the master-writer +frowned at the inky page; for the light in the printer’s shop was dim, +and the proof was very bad. + +The ribbon was gone down the river-way—and with it the hope of finding +Cicely. Nick shot one look into the stall. Master Shakspere, deep in his +proofs, was deaf to the world outside. Nick ran to the gate at the top +of his speed. In the crowd afar off a yellow spot went fluttering like a +butterfly along a country road. Without a single second thought, he +followed it as fast as his legs could go. + +Twice he lost it in the throng. But the yellow patch bobbed up again in +the sunlight far beyond, and led him on, and on, and on, a breathless +chase, down empty lanes and alley-ways, through unfrequented courts, +among the warehouses and wharf-sheds along the river-front, into the +kennels of Billingsgate, where the only sky was a ragged slit between +the leaning roofs. His heart sank low and lower as they went, for only +thieves and runagates who dared not face the day in honest streets were +gathered in wards like these. + +In a filthy purlieu under Fish-street Hill, where mackerel-heads and +herrings strewed the drains, and sour kits of whitebait stood +fermenting in the sun, the bandy-legged man turned suddenly into a dingy +court, and when Nick reached the corner of the entry-way was gone as +though the earth had swallowed him. + +Nick stopped dismayed, and looked about, His forehead was wet and his +breath was gone. He had no idea where they were, but it was a dismal +hole. Six forbidding doorways led off from the unkempt court, and a +rotting stairway sagged along the wall. A crop-eared dog, that lay in +the sun beside a broken cart, sprang up with its hair all pointing to +its head, and snarled at him with a vicious grin. “Begone, thou cur!” he +cried, and let drive with a stone. The dog ran under the cart, and +crouched there barking at him. + +Through an open door beyond there came a sound of voices as of people in +some further thoroughfare. Perchance the bandy-legged man had passed +that way? He ran across the court, and up the steps; but came back +faster than he went, for the passageway there was blind and black, a +place unspeakable for dirt, and filled with people past description. A +woman peered out after him with red eyes blinking in the sun. “Ods +bobs!” she croaked, “a pretty thing! Come hither, knave; I want the +buckle off thy cloak.” + +Nick, shuddering, started for the street. But just as he reached the +entry-port a door in the courtyard opened, and the bandy-legged man came +out with a bag upon his back, leading Cicely by the hand. + +Seeing Nick, he gave a cry, believing himself pursued, and made for the +open door again; but almost instantly perceiving the boy to be alone, +slammed shut the door and followed him instead, dragging Cicely over the +stones, and shouting hoarsely, “Stop there! stop!” + +Nick’s heart came up in his very throat. His legs went water-weak. He +ran for the open thoroughfare without once looking back. Yet while he +ran he heard Cicely cry out suddenly in pain, “Oh, Gregory, Gregory, +thou art hurting me so!” and at the sound the voice of Gaston Carew rang +like a bugle in his ears: “Thou’lt keep my Cicely from harm?” He stopped +as short as if he had butted his head against a wall, whirled on his +heel, stood fast, though he was much afraid; and standing there, his +head thrown back and his fists tight clenched, as if some one had struck +him in the face, he waited until they came to where he was. “Thou +hulking, cowardly rogue!” said he to the bandy-legged man. + +But the bandy-legged man caught him fast by the arm, and hurried on into +the street, scanning it swiftly up and down. “Two birds with one stone, +by hen!” he chuckled, when he saw that the coast was clear. “They’ll +fetch a pretty penny by and by.” + +Poor Cicely smiled through her tears at Nick. “I knew thou wouldst come +for me soon,” said she. “But where is my father?” + +“He’s dead as a herring,” snarled Gregory. + +“That’s a lie,” said Nick; “he is na dead.” + +“Don’t call me liar, knave—by hen, I’ll put a stopper on thy voice!” + +“Thou wilt na put a stopper on a jug!” cried Nick, his heart so hot for +Cicely that he quite forgot himself. “I’d sing so well without a +voice—it would butter thy bread for thee! Loose my arm, thou rogue.” + +“Not for a thousand golden crowns! I’m no tom-noddy, to be gulled. And, +hark ’e, be less glib with that ‘rogue’ of thine, or I’ll baste thy back +for thee.” + +“Oh, don’t beat Nick!” gasped Cicely. + +“Do na fret for me,” said Nick; “I be na feared of the cowardly rogue!” + +Crack! the man struck him across the face. Nick’s eyes flashed hot as a +fire-coal. He set his teeth, but he did not flinch. “Do na thou strike +me again, _thou rogue!_” said he. + +As he spoke, on a sudden his heart leaped up and his fear was utterly +gone. In its place was a something fierce and strange—a bitter +gladness, a joy that stung and thrilled him like great music in the +night. A tingling ran from head to foot; the little hairs of his flesh +stood up; he trampled the stones as he hurried on. In his breast his +heart was beating like a bell; his breath came hotly, deep and slow; the +whole world widened on his gaze. Oh, what a thing is the heart of a boy! +how quickly great things are done therein! One instant, put him to the +touch—the thing is done, and he is nevermore the same. Like a keen, +cold wind that blows through a window in the night, life’s courage had +breathed on Nick Attwood’s heart; the _man_ that slept in the heart of +the boy awoke and was aware. The old song roared in Nick’s ears: + + Sir Francis Drake sailed round the world, + Round the world, round the world; + John Hawkins fought the “Victory,” + And we ha’ beaten Spain! + +Whither they were going he did not know. Whither they were going he did +not care. He was English: this was England still! He set his teeth and +threw back his shoulders. “I be na feared of him!” said he. + +“But my father will come for us soon, won’t he, Nick?” faltered Cicely. + +“Eigh! just don’t he wish that he might!” laughed Goole. + +“Oh, ay,” said she, and nodded bravely to herself; “he may be very busy +now, and so he cannot come. But presently he will come for me and fetch +me home again.” She gave a joyous little skip. “To fetch me home +again—ay, surely, my father will come for me anon.” + +A lump came up in Nick Attwood’s throat. “But what hath he done to thee, +Cicely, and where is thy pretty gown?” he asked, as they hurried on +through the crooked way; for the gown she wore was in rags. + +Cicely choked down a sob. “He hath kept me locked up in a horrible +place, where an old witch came in the night and stole my clothes away. +And he says that if money doth not come for me soon he will turn me out +to starve.” + +“To starve? Nay, Cicely; I will na leave thee starve. I’ll go with thee +wherever he taketh thee; I’ll fend for thee with all my might and main, +and none shall harm thee if I can help. So cheer up—we will get away! +Thou needst na gripe me so, thou rogue; I am going wherever she goes.” + +[Illustration: ““DO NA THOU STRIKE ME AGAIN, _THOU ROGUE!_” SAID NICK”] + +“I’ll see that ye do,” growled the bandy-legged man. “But take the other +hand of her, thou jackanapes, and fetch a better pace than this—I’ll +not be followed again.” + +His tone was bold, but his eyes were not; for they were faring through +the slums toward Whitechapel way, and the hungry crowd eyed Nick’s silk +cloak greedily. One burly rascal with a scar across his face turned back +and snatched at it. For his own safety’s sake, the bandy-legged man +struck up into a better thoroughfare, where he skulked along like a fox +overtaken by dawn, fearing to meet some dog he knew. + +“Oh, Gregory, go slow!” pleaded Cicely, panting for breath, and +stumbling over the cobblestones. Goole’s only answer was a scowl. Nick +trotted on sturdily, holding her hand, and butting his shoulder against +the crowd so that she might not be jostled; for the press grew thick and +thicker as they went. All London was a-Maying, and the foreigners from +Soho, too. Up in the belfries, as they passed, the bells were clanging +until the whole town rang like a smithy on the eve of war, for madcap +apprentices had the ropes, and were ringing for exercise. + +Thicker and thicker grew the throng, as though the sea were sweeping +through the town. Then, at the corner of Mincing Lane, where the +cloth-workers’ shops were thick, all at once there came an uproarious +din of men’s voices singing together: + + “Three merry boys, and three merry boys, + And three merry boys are we, + As ever did sing in a hempen string + Beneath the gallows-tree!” + +And before the bandy-legged man could chance upon a doorway in which to +stand out of the rush, they were pressed against the wall flat as cakes +by a crowd of bold apprentices in holiday attire going out to a wager of +archery to be shot in Finsbury Fields. + +At first all Nick could see was legs: red legs, yellow legs, blue legs, +green legs, long legs, strong legs—in truth, a very many of all sorts +of legs, all stepping out together like a hundred-bladed shears; for +these were the Saddlers of Cheapside and the Cutters of Mincing Lane, +tall, ruddy-faced fellows, all armed with clubs, which they twirled and +tossed and thwacked one another with in sport. Some wore straw hats with +steeple-crowns, and some flat caps of green and white, or red and +orange-tawny. Some had long yew bows and sheaves of arrows decked with +garlands; and they were all exceedingly daubed in the face with dripping +cherry-juice and with cheese, which they munched as they strode along. + +“What, there, Tom Webster, I say,” cried one, catching sight of Cicely’s +face, “here is a Queen o’ the May for thee!” + +His broad-shouldered comrade stopped in the way, and with him all the +rest. “My faith, Jem Armstrong, ’tis the truth, for once in thy life!” +quoth he, and stared at Cicely. Her cheeks were flushed, and her panting +red lips were fallen apart so that her little white teeth showed +through. Her long, dark lashes cast shadow circles under her eyes. Her +curly hair in elfin locks tossed all about her face, and through it was +tied a crimson ribbon, mocking the quick color of the blood which came +and went beneath her delicate skin. “My faith!” cried Tommy Webster, +“her face be as fair as a K in a copy-book! Hey, bullies, what? let’s +make her queen!” + +“A queen?” “What queen?” “Where is a queen?” “I granny! Tom Webster hath +catched a queen!” “Where is she, Tom?” “Up with her, mate, and let a +fellow see.” + +“Hands off, there!” snarled the bandy-legged man. + +“Up with her, Tom!” cried out the strapping fellow at his back. “A queen +it is; and a right good smacking toll all round—I have not bussed a +maid this day! Up with her, Tom!” + +“Stand back, ye rogues, and let us pass!” + +But alas and alack for the bandy-legged man! He could not ruffle and +swagger it off as Gaston Carew had done of old; a London apprentice was +harder nuts than his cowardly heart could crack. + +“Stand back, ye rogues!” he cried again. + +“Rogues? Rogues? Who calls us rogues? Hi, Martin Allston, crack me his +crown!” + +“Good masters,” faltered Gregory, seeing that bluster would not serve, +“I meant ye no offense. I pr’ythee, do not keep a father and his +children from their dying mother’s bed!” + +“Nay—is that so?” asked Webster, sobering instantly “Here, lads, give +way—their mother be a-dying.” + +The crowd fell back. “Ah, sirs,” whined Goole, scarce hiding the joy in +his face, “she’ll thank ye with her dying breath. Get on, thou knave!” +he muttered fiercely in Nick’s ear. + +But Nick stood fast, and caught Tom Webster by the arm. “The fellow +lieth in his throat,” said he. “My mother is in Stratford town; and +Cicely’s mother is dead.” + +“Thou whelp!” cried the bandy-legged man, and aimed a sudden blow at +Nick, “I’ll teach thee to hold thy tongue.” + +“Oh, no, ye won’t,” quoth Thomas Webster, interposing his long oak +staff, and thrusting the fellow away so hard that he thumped against the +wall; “there is no school on holidays! Thou’lt teach nobody here to hold +his tongue but thine own self—and start at that straightway. Dost take +me?—say? Now, Jacky Sprat, what’s all the coil about? Hath this sweet +fellow kidnapped thee?” + +“Nay, sir, not me, but Cicely; and do na leave him take her, sir, for he +treats her very ill!” + +“The little rascal lies,” sneered Goole, though his lips were the color +of lead; “I am her legal guardian!” + +“What! How? Thou wast her father but a moment since!” + +“Nay, nay,” Goole stammered, turning a sickly hue; “her father’s nearest +friend, I said,—he gave her in my charge.” + +“My father’s friend!” cried Cicely. “Thou? Thou? His common groom! Why, +he would not give my finger in thy charge.” + +“He is the wiser daddy, then!” laughed Jemmy Armstrong, “for the fellow +hath a T for Tyburn writ upon his face.” + +The eyes of the bandy-legged man began to shift from side to side; but +still he put a bold front on. “Stand off,” said he, and tried to thrust +Tom Webster back. “Thou’lt pay the piper dear for this! The knave is a +lying vagabond. He hath stolen this pack of goods.” + +“Why, fie for shame!” cried Cicely, and stamped her little foot. “Nick +doth not steal, and thou knowest it, Gregory Goole! It is thou who hast +stolen my pretty clothes, and the wine from my father’s house!” + +“Good, sweetheart!” quoth Tom Webster, eying the bandy-legged man with a +curious snap in his honest eyes. “So the rascal hath stolen other things +than thee? I thought that yellow bow of his was tied tremendous high! +Why, mates, the dog is a branded rogue—that ribbon is tied through the +hole in his ear!” + +Gregory Goole made a dash through the throng where the press was least. + +Thump! went Tommy Webster’s club, and a little puff of dust went up from +Gregory’s purple cloak. But he was off so sharply, and dodged with such +amazing skill, that most of the blows aimed at his head hummed through +the empty air, or thwacked some stout apprentice in the ribs as they all +went whooping after him. He was out of the press and away like a deer +down a covert lane between two shops ere one could say, “Jack, Robin’s +son,” and left the stout apprentices at every flying leap. So presently +they all gave over the chase, and came back with the bag he had dropped +as he ran; and were so well pleased with themselves for what they had +done that they gave three cheers for all the Cloth-workers and Saddlers +in London, and then three more for Cicely and Nick. They would no doubt +have gone right on and given three for the bag likewise, being strongly +in the humor of it; but “Hi, Tom Webster!” shouted one who could hardly +speak for cherries and cheese and puffing, “what’s gone with the queen +we’re to have so fast, and the toll that we’re to take?” + +Tom Webster pulled at his yellow beard, for he saw that Cicely was no +common child, and of gentler birth than they. “I do not think she’ll +bide the toll,” said he, in half apology. + +“What! is there anything to pay?” she asked with a rueful quaver in her +voice. “Oh, Nick, there is to pay!” + +“We have no money, sirs,” said Nick; “I be very sorry.” + +“If my father were here,” said Cicely, “he would give thee a handful of +silver; but I have not a penny to my name.” She looked up into Tom +Webster’s face. “But, sir,” said she, and laid her hand upon his arm, +“if ye care, I will kiss thee upon the cheek.” + +“Why, marry come up! My faith!” quoth he, and suddenly blushed—to his +own surprise the most of all—“why, what? Who’d want a sweeter penny +for his pains?” But “Here—nay, nay!” the others cried; “ye’ve left us +out. Fair play, fair play!” + +All Cicely could see was a forest of legs that filled the lane from wall +to wall, and six great fellows towering over her. “Why, sirs,” cried +she, confusedly, while her face grew rosy red, “ye all shall kiss my +hand—if—if—” + +“If what?” they roared. + +“If ye will but wipe your faces clean.” + +At the shout of laughter they sent up the constable of the cloth-men’s +ward awoke from a sudden dream of war and bloody insurrection, and came +down Cheapside bawling, “Peace, in the name of the Queen!” But when he +found it was only the apprentices of Mincing Lane out Maying, he stole +away around a shop, and made as if it were some other fellow. + +They took the humor of it like a jolly lot of bears, and all came +crowding round about, wiping their mouths on what came first, with a +lick and a promise,—kerchief, doublet, as it chanced,—laughing, and +shouldering each to be first. “Up with the little maid there, Tom!” they +roared lustily. + +Cicely gave him both her hands, and—“Upsydaisy!”—she was on the top of +the corner post, where she stood with one hand on his brawny shoulder to +steady herself, like a flower growing by a wall, bowing gravely all +about, and holding out her hand to be kissed with as graceful an air as +a princess born, and withal a sweet, quaint dignity that abashed the +wildest there. + +Some one or two came blustering as if her hand were not enough; but +Jemmy Armstrong rapped them so sharply over the pate, with “Soft, ye +loons, her hand!” that they dabbed at her little finger-tips, and were +out of his reach in a jiffy, rubbing their polls with a sheepish grin; +for Jemmy Armstrong’s love-pats would have cracked a hazelnut. + +Some came again a second time. One came even a third. But Cicely knew +him by his steeple-hat, and tucked her hand behind her, saying, “Fie, +sir, thou art greedy!” Whereupon the others laughed and punched him in +the ribs with their clubs, until he bellowed, “Quits! We’ll all be late +to the archery if we be not trotting on.” + +Nick’s face fell at the merry shout of “Finsbury, Finsbury, ho!” “I dare +na try to take her home alone,” said he; “that rogue may lie in wait +for us.” + +“Oh, Nick, he is not coming back?” cried Cicely; and with that she threw +her arms around Tom Webster’s neck. “Oh, take us with thee, sir—don’t +leave us all alone!” + +Webster pulled his yellow beard. “Nay, lass, it would not do,” said he; +“we’ll be mad larks by evening. But there, sweetheart, don’t weep no +more! That rogue shall not catch thee again, I promise that.” + +“Why, Tom,” quoth Armstrong, “what’s the coil? We’ll leave them at the +Boar’s Head Inn with sixpence each until their friends can come for +them. Hey, mates, up Great East Cheap!” And off they marched to the +Boar’s Head Inn. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXV + + +A SUDDEN RESOLVE + +Nick and Cicely were sitting on a bench in the sun beside the tap-room +door, munching a savory mutton-pie which Tommy Webster had bought for +them. Beside them over the window-sill the tapster twirled his spigot +cheerfully, and in the door the carrier was bidding the +serving-maids good-by. + +Around the inn-yard stood a row of heavy, canvas-covered wains and +lumbering two-wheeled carts, each surmounted by a well-armed guard, and +drawn by six strong horses with harness stout as cannon-leathers. The +hostlers stood at the horses’ heads, chewing at wisps of barley-straw as +though their other fare was scant, which, from their sleek rotundity, +was difficult to believe. The stable-boy, with a pot of slush, and a +head of hair like a last year’s haycock, was hastily greasing a +forgotten wheel; while, out of the room where the servants ate, the +drivers came stumbling down the steps with a mighty smell of onions and +brawn. The weekly train from London into the north was ready to be off. + +A portly, well-clad countryman, with a shrewd but good-humored +countenance, and a wife beside him round and rosy of face as he, came +bustling out of the private door. “How far yet, Master John?” he asked +as he buckled on his cloak. “Forty-two miles to Oxford, sir,” replied +the carrier. “We must be off if we’re to lie at Uxbridge overnight; for +there hath been rain beyond, sir, and the roads be werry deep.” + +Nick stared at the man for Oxford. Forty-two miles to Oxford! And Oxford +lay to the south of Stratford fifty miles and two. Ninety-four miles +from Stratford town! Ninety-four miles from home! + +“When will my father come for us, Nick?” asked Cicely, turning her hand +in the sun to see the red along the edges of her fingers. + +“Indeed, I can na tell,” said Nick; “Master Will Shakspere is coming +anon, and I shall go with him.” + +“And leave me by myself?” + +“Nay; thou shalt go, too. Thou’lt love to see his garden and the +rose-trees—it is like a very country place. He is a merry gentleman, +and, oh, so kind! He is going to take me home.” + +“But my father will take us home when he comes.” + +“To Stratford town, I mean.” + +“Away from daddy and me? Why, Nick!” + +“But my mother is in Stratford town.” + +Cicely was silent. “Then I think I would go, too,” she said quite +softly, looking down as if there were a picture on the ground. “When +one’s mother is gone there is a hurting-place that nought doth ever +come into any more—excepting daddy, and—and thee. We shall miss thee, +Nick, at supper-times. Thou’lt come back soon?” + +“I am na coming back.” + +“Not coming back?” She laid the mutton-pie down on the bench. + +“No—I am na coming back” + +“Never?” + +“Never.” + +She looked at him as if she had not altogether understood. + +Nick turned away. A strange uneasiness had come upon him, as if some one +were staring at him fixedly. But no one was. There was a Dutchman in the +gate who had not been there just before. “He must have sprung up out of +the ground,” thought Nick, “or else he is a very sudden Dutchman!” He +had on breeches like two great meal-sacks, and a Flemish sea-cloth +jacket full of wrinkles, as if it had been lying in a chest. His back +was turned, and Nick could not help smiling, for the fellow’s shanks +came out of his breeches’ bottoms like the legs of a letter A. He looked +like a pudding on two skewers. + +Cicely slowly took up the mutton-pie once more, but did not eat. “Is na +the pasty good?” asked Nick. + +“Not now,” said she. + +Nick turned away again. + +The Dutchman was not in the gate. He had crossed the inn-yard suddenly, +and was sitting close within the shadow of the wall, though the sunny +side was pleasanter by far. His wig was hanging down about his face, +and he was talking with the tapster’s knave, a hungry-looking fellow +clad in rusty black as if some one were dead, although it was a holiday +and he had neither kith nor kin. The knave was biting his under lip and +staring straight at Nick. + +“And will I never see thee more?” asked Cicely. + +“Oh, yes,” said Nick; “oh, yes.” + +But he did not know whether she ever would or no. + +“Gee-wup, Dobbin! Yoicks, Ned! Tschk—tschk!” The leading cart rolled +slowly through the gate. A second followed it. The drivers made a +cracking with their whips, and all the guests came out to see them off. +But the Dutchman, as the rest came out, arose, and with the tapster’s +knave went in at a narrow entrance beyond the tap-room steps. + +“And when will Master Shakspere come for thee?” asked Cicely once more, +the cold pie lying in her lap. + +“I do na know. How can I tell? Do na bother me so!” cried Nick, and dug +his heels into the cracks between the paving-stones; for after all that +had come to pass the starting of the baggage-train had made him sick +for home. + +Cicely looked up at him; she thought she had not heard aright. He was +staring after the last cart as it rolled through the inn-yard gate; his +throat was working, and his eyes were full of tears. + +“Why, Nick!” said she, “art crying?” + +“Nay,” said he, “but very near,” and dashed his hand across his face. +“Everything doth happen so all-at-once—and I am na big enough, Cicely. +Oh, Cicely, I would I were a mighty king—I’d make it all up +different somehow!” + +“Perhaps thou wilt be some day, Nick,” she answered quietly. “Thou’ldst +make a very lovely king. I could be queen; and daddy should be Lord +Admiral, and own the finest play-house in the town.” + +But Nick was staring at the tap-room door. A voice somewhere had +startled him. The guests were gone, and none was left but the tapster’s +knave leaning against the inner wall. + +“Thy mother should come to live with us, and thy father, and all thy +kin,” said Cicely, dreamily smiling; “and the people would love us, +there would be no more war, and we should be happy forevermore.” + +But Nick was listening,—not to her,—and his face was a little pale. He +felt a strange, uneasy sense of some one staring at his back. He whirled +about—looked in at the tap-room window. For an instant a peering face +was there; then it was gone—there was only the Dutchman’s frowzy wig +and striped woolen cap. But the voice he had heard and the face he had +seen were the voice and the face of Gregory Goole. + +“I should love to see thy mother, Nick,” said Cicely. + +He got up steadily, though his heart was jolting his very ribs. “Thou +shalt right speedily!” said he. + +The carts were standing in a line. The carrier came down the steps with +his stirrup-cup in hand. Nick’s heart gave a sudden, wild, resolute +leap, and he touched the carrier on the arm. “What will ye charge to +carry two as far as Stratford town?” he asked. His mouth was dry as a +dusty road, for the Dutchman had risen from his seat and was coming +toward the door. + +“I do na haul past Oxford,” said the man. + +“To Oxford, then—how much? Be quick!” Nick thrust his hand into his +breast where he carried the burgesses’ chain. + +“Eightpence the day, for three days out—two shilling ’tis, and find +yourself; it is an honest fare.” + +The tapster’s knave came down the steps; the Dutchman stood within the +shadow of the door. + +“Wilt carry us for this?” Nick cried, and thrust the chain into the +fellow’s hands. + +He gasped and almost let it fall. “Beshrew my heart! Gadzooks!” said he, +“art thou a prince in hiding, boy? ’T would buy me, horses, wains, and +all. Why, man alive, ’tis but a nip o’ this!” + +“Good, then,” said Nick, “’tis done—we’ll go. Come, Cicely, we’re +going home!” + +Staring, the carrier followed him, weighing the chain in his hairy hand. +“Who art thou, boy?” he cried again. “This matter hath a queer look.” + +“’Twas honestly come by, sir,” cried Nick, no longer able to conceal a +quiver in his voice, “and my name is Nicholas Attwood; I come from +Stratford town.” + +“Stratford-on-Avon? Why, art kin to Tanner Simon Attwood there, Attwood +of Old Town?” + +“He is my father, sir. Oh, leave us go with thee—take the whole +chain!” + +Slap went the carrier’s cap in the dirt! “Leave thee go wi’ me? +Gadzooks!” he cried, “my name be John Saddler—why, what? my daddy +liveth in Chapel lane, behind Will Underhill’s. I stole thy father’s +apples fifteen years. What! go wi’ me? Get on the wain, thou little +fool—get on all the wains I own, and a plague upon thine eightpence, +lad! Why, here; Hal telled me thou wert dead, or lost, or some such +fairy tale! Up on the sheepskin, both o’ ye!” + +The Dutchman came from the tap-room door and spoke to the tapster’s +knave; but the words which he spoke to that tapster’s knave were +anything but Dutch. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVI + + +WAYFARING HOME + +At Kensington watering-place, five miles from London town, Nick held the +pail for the horses of the Oxford man. “Hello, my buck!” quoth he, and +stared at Nick; “where under the sun didst pop from all at once?” and, +looking up, spied Cicely upon the carrier’s wain. “What, John!” he +shouted, “thou saidst there were no more!” + +“No more there weren’t, sir,” said John, “but there be now”; and out +with the whole story. + +“Well, I ha’ farmed for fifty year,” cried honest Roger Clout, “yet +never have I seen the mate to yonder little maid, nor heard the like o’ +such a tale! Wife, wife!” he cried, in a voice as round and full of +hearty cheer as one who calls his own cattle home across his own fat +fields. “Come hither, Moll—here’s company for thee. For sure, John, +they’ll ride wi’ Moll and I; ’tis godsend—angels on a baggage-cart! +Moll ha’ lost her only one, and the little maid will warm the cockles o’ +her heart, say nought about mine own. La, now, she is na feared o’ me; +God bless thee, child! Look at her, Moll—as sweet as honey and the +cream o’ the brindle cow.” + +So they rode with kindly Roger Clout and his good wife by Hanwell, +Hillingdon Hill, and Uxbridge, where they rested at the inn near old St. +Margaret’s, Cicely with Mistress Clout, and Nick with her good man. And +in the morning there was nothing to pay, for Roger Clout had footed all +the score. + +Then on again, through Beaconsfield and High Wycombe, into and over the +Chiltern Hills in Buckinghamshire. In parts the land was passing fair, +with sheep in flocks upon the hills, and cattle knee-deep in the grass; +but otherwhere the way was wild, with bogs and moss in all the deeps, +and dense beech forests on the heights; and more than once the guards +made ready their match-locks warily. But stout John Saddler’s train was +no soft cakes for thieves, and they came up through Bucks scot-free. + +At times it drizzled fitfully, and the road was rough and bad; but the +third day was a fair, sweet day, and most exceeding bright and fresh. +The shepherds whistled on the hills, and the milkmaids sang in the +winding lanes among the white-thorn hedges, the smell of which was +everywhere. The singing, the merry voices calling, the comfortable +lowing of the kine, the bleating of the sheep, the clinking of the +bridle-chains, and the heavy ruttle of the carts filled the air with +life and cheer. The wind was blowing both warm and cool; and, oh, the +blithe breeze of the English springtime! Nick went up the green hills, +and down the white dells like a leaf in the wind, now ahead and now +behind the winding train, or off into the woods and over the fields for +a posy-bunch for Cicely, calling and laughing back at her, and filling +her lap with flowers and ferns until the cart was all one great, +sweet-smelling bower. + +As for Cicely, Nick was there, so she was very well content. She had +never gone a-visiting in all her life before; and she would see Nick’s +mother, and the flowers in the yard, the well, and that wondrous stream, +the Avon, of which Nick talked so much. “Stratford is a fair, fair town, +though very full of fools,” her father often said. But she had nothing +to do with the fools, and daddy would come for her again; so her +laughter bubbled like a little spring throughout the livelong day. + +As the sun went down in the yellow west they came into Oxford from the +south on the easterly side. The Cherwell burned with the orange light +reflected from the sky, and the towers of the famous town of olden +schools and scholars stood up black-purple against the western glow, +with rims of gold on every roof and spire. + +Up the High street into the corn-market rolled the tired train, and +turned into the rambling square of the old Crown Inn near Carfax church, +a large, substantial hostelry, one of merry England’s best, +clean-chambered, homelike, full of honest cheer. + +There was a shout of greeting everywhere. The hostlers ran to walk the +horses till they cooled, and to rub them down before they fed, for they +were all afoam. Master Davenant himself saw to the storing of the wains; +and Mistress Davenant, a comely dame, with smooth brown hair and ruddy +cheeks, and no less wit than sprightly grace, was in the porch to meet +the company. “Well, good Dame Clout,” said she, “art home again? What +tales we’ll have! Didst see Tom Lane? No? Pshaw! But buss me, Moll; +we’ve missed thy butter parlously.” And then quite free she kissed both +Nick and Cicely. + +“What, there, Dame Davenant!” cried Roger Clout, “art passing them +around?” and laughed, “Do na forget me.” + +“Nay, nay,” she answered, “but I’m out. Here, Nan,” she called to the +smutty-faced scullery-maid, “a buss for Master Clout; his own Moll’s +busses be na fine enough since he hath been to town.” + +So, joking, laughing, they went in; while plain John Saddler backed out +of the porch as sooty Nan came running up, for fear the jilt might offer +somewhat of the sort to him, and was off in haste to see to his teams. +“There’s no leaving it to the boys,” said he, “for they’d rub ’em down +wi’ a water-pail, and give ’em straw to drink.” + +When the guests all came to the fourpenny table to sup, Nick spoke to +Master Roger Clout. “Ye’ve done enough for us, sir; thank ye with all my +heart; but I’ve a turn will serve us here, and, sir, I’d rather stand on +mine own legs. Ye will na mind?” And when they all were seated at the +board, he rose up stoutly at the end, and called out brave and clear: +“Sirs, and good dames all, will ye be pleased to have some music while +ye eat? For, if ye will, the little maid and I will sing you the latest +song from London town, a merry thing, with a fine trolly-lolly, sirs, +to glad your hearts with hearing.” + +Would they have music? To be sure! Who would not music while he ate must +be a Flemish dunderkopf, said they. So Nick and Cicely stood at one side +of the room upon a bench by the server’s board, and sang together, while +he played upon Mistress Davenant’s gittern: + + “Hey, laddie, hark to the merry, merry lark! + How high he singeth clear: + ‘Oh, a morn in spring is the sweetest thing + That cometh in all the year! + Oh, a morn in spring is the sweetest thing + That cometh in all the year!’ + + “Ring, ting! it is the merry springtime; + How full of heart a body feels! + Sing hey, trolly-lolly! oh, to live is to be jolly, + When springtime cometh with the summer at her heels! + + “God save us all, my jolly gentlemen, + We’ll merry be to-day; + For the cuckoo sings till the greenwood rings, + And it is the month of May! + For the cuckoo sings till the greenwood rings, + And it is the month of May!” + +Then the men at the table all waved their pewter pots, and thumped upon +the board, roaring, “Hey, trolly-lolly! oh, to live is to be jolly!” +until the rafters rang. + +[Illustration: + +1. Hey! lad-die, hark, to the mer-ry, mer-ry lark, How high he sing-eth +clear. O a morn in Spring is the sweeter thing That cometh in all the +year; O a morn in Spring is the sweet-est thing That com-eth in all +the year! + +REFRAIN. Piano. + +Ring! Ting! It is the mer-ry Spring-time. How full of heart a bod-y +feels! Sing hey trol-ly lol-ly! O to live is to be jol-ly, When +Spring-time cometh with the Summer at her heels! + +2. God save us all, my jol-ly gen-tle-men! We’ll mer-ry be to-day; For +the cuc-koo sings till the greenwood rings, And it is the month of May; +For the cuc-koo sings till the greenwood rings, And it is the month +of May! + +_Repeat Refrain after 2d Stanza._] + +“What, lad!” cried good Dame Davenant, “come, stay with me all year and +sing, thou and this little maid o’ thine. ’Twill cost thee neither cash +nor care. Why, thou’ldst fill the house with such a throng as it hath +never seen!” And in the morning she would not take a penny for their +lodging nor their keep. “Nay, nay,” said she; “they ha’ brought good +custom to the house, and left me a brave little tale to tell for many a +good long year. We inns-folk be not common penny-grabbers; marry, no!” +and, furthermore, she made interest with a carrier to give them a lift +to Woodstock on their way. + +When they came to Woodstock the carrier set them down by the gates of a +park built round by a high stone wall over which they could not see, and +with his wain went in at the gate, leaving them to journey on together +through a little rain-shower. + +The land grew flatter than before. There were few trees upon the hills, +and scarcely any springs at which to drink, but much tender grass, with +countless sheep nibbling everywhere. The shower was soon blown away; the +sun came out; and a pleasant wind sprang up out of the south. Here and +there beside some cottage wall the lilacs bloomed, and the later +orchard-trees were apple-pink and cherry-white with May. + +They came to a puddle in the road where there was a dance of +butterflies. Cicely clapped her hands with glee. A goldfinch dipped +across the path like a little yellow streak of laughter in the sun. “Oh, +Nick, what is it?” she cried. + +“A bird,” said he. + +“A truly bird?” and she clasped her hands. “Will it ever come again?” + +[Illustration: ““OH, NICK, WHAT IS IT?” SHE CRIED.”] + +“Again? Oh, yes, or, la! another one—there’s plenty in the weeds.” + +And so they fared all afternoon, until at dusk they came to Chipping +Norton across the fields, a short cut to where the thin blue +supper-smoke curled up. The mists were rising from the meadows; earth +and sky were blending on the hills; a little silver sickle moon hung in +the fading violet, low in the western sky. Under an old oak in a green +place a fiddler and a piper were playing, and youths and maidens were +dancing in the brown light. Some little chaps were playing +blindman’s-buff near by, and the older folk were gathered by the tree. + +Nick came straight to where they stood, and bowing, he and Cicely +together, doffed his cap, and said in his most London tone, “We bid ye +all good-e’en, good folk.” + +His courtly speech and manner, as well as his clothes and Cicely’s +jaunty gown, no little daunted the simple country folk. Nobody spoke, +but, standing silent, all stared at the two quaint little vagabonds as +mild kine stare at passing sheep in a quiet lane. + +“We need somewhat to eat this night, and we want a place to sleep,” said +Nick. “The beds must be right clean—we have good appetites. If ye can +do for us, we will dance for you anything that ye may desire—the +‘Queen’s Own Measure,’ ‘La Donzella,’ the new ‘Allemand’ of my Lord +Pembroke, a pavone or a tinternell, or the ‘Galliard of Savoy.’ Which +doth it please you, mistresses?” and he bowed to the huddling young +women, who scarcely knew what to make of it. + +“La! Joan,” whispered one, “he calleth thee ‘mistress’! Speak up, +wench.” But Joan stoutly held her peace. + +“Or if ye will, the little maid will dance the coranto for you, straight +from my Lord Chancellor’s dancing-master; and while she dances I +will sing.” + +“Why, hark ’e, Rob,” spoke out one motherly dame, “they two do look +clean-like. Children, too—who’d gi’ them stones when they beg for +bread? I’ll do for them this night myself; and thou, the good man, and +Kit can sleep in the hutch. So there, dears; now let’s see the Lord +Chancellor’s tantrums.” + +“’Tis not a tantrums, goody,” said Nick, politely, “but a coranto.” + +“La! young master, what’s the odds, just so we sees it done? Some folks +calls whittles ‘knives,’ and thinks ’t wunnot cut theys fingers!” + +Nick took his place at the side of the ring. “Now, Cicely!” said he. + +“Thou’lt call ‘Sa—sa!’ and give me the time of the coup d’archet?” she +whispered, timidly hesitant, as she stepped to the midst of the ring. + +“Ay, then,” said he, “’tis off, ’tis off!” and struck up a lively tune, +snapping his fingers for the time. + +Cicely, bowing all about her, slowly began to dance. + +It was a pretty sight to see: her big eyes wide and earnest, her cheeks +a little flushed, her short hair curling, and her crimson gown +fluttering about her as she danced the quaint running step forward and +back across the grass, balancing archly, with her hands upon her hips +and a little smile upon her lips, in the swaying motion of the coupee, +courtesying gracefully as one tiny slippered foot peeped out from her +rustling skirt, tapping on the turf, now in front and now behind. Nick +sang like a blackbird in the hedge. And how those country lads and +lasses stared to see such winsome, dainty grace! “La me!” gaped one, +“’tis fairy folk—she doth na even touch the ground!” “The pretty dear!” +the mothers said. “Doll, why canst thou na do the like, thou lummox?” +“Tut,” sighed the buxom Doll, “I have na wingses on my feet!” + +Then Cicely, breathless, bowed, and ran to Nick’s side asking, “Was it +all right, Nick?” + +“Right?” said he, and stroked her hair; “’twas better than thou didst +ever dance it for M’sieu.” + +“For why?” said she, and flushed, with a quick light in her eyes; “for +why—because this time I danced for thee.” + +The country folk, enchanted, called for more and more. + +Nick sang another song, and he and Cicely danced the galliard together, +while the piper piped and the fiddler fiddled away like mad; and the +moon went down, and the cottage doors grew ruddy with the light inside. +Then Dame Pettiford gave them milk and oat-cakes in a bowl, a bit of +honey in the comb, and a cup of strawberries; and Cicely fell fast +asleep with the last of the strawberries in her hand. + +So they came up out of the south through Shipston-on-Stour, in the +main-traveled way, and with every mile Nick felt home growing nearer. +Streams sprang up in the meadow-lands, with sedgy islands, and lines of +silvery willows bordering their banks. Flocks and herds cropped beneath +tofts of ash and elm and beech. Snug homes peeped out of hazel copses by +the road. The passing carts had a familiar look, and at Alderminster +Nick saw a man he thought he recognized. + +Before he knew that he was there they topped Edge Hill. + +There lay Stratford! as he had left it lying; not one stick or stack or +stone but he could put his finger on and say, “This place I know!” Green +pastures, grassy levels, streams, groves, mills, the old grange and the +manor-house, the road that forked in three, and the hills of Arden +beyond it all. There was the tower of the guildhall chapel above the +clustering, dun-thatched roofs among the green and blossom-white; to +left the spire of Holy Trinity sprang up beside the shining Avon. Bull +Lane he made out dimly, and a red-tiled roof among the trees. “There, +Cicely,” he said, “_there—there!_” and laughed a queer little shaky +laugh next door to crying for joy. + +Wat Raven was sweeping old Clopton bridge. “Hullo, there, Wat! I be come +home again!” Nick cried. Wat stared at him, but knew him not at all. + +Around the corner, and down High street. Fynes Morrison burst in at the +guildschool door. “Nick Attwood’s home!” he shouted; and his eyes were +like two plates. + +Then the last lane—and the smoke from his father’s house! + +The garden gate stood open, and there was some one working in the yard. +“It is my father, Cicely,” he laughed. “Father!” he cried, and hurried +in the lane. + +Simon Attwood straightened up and looked across the fence. His arms were +held a little out, and his hands hung down with bits of moist earth +clinging to them. His brows were darker than a year before, and his hair +was grown more gray; his back, too, stooped. “Art thou a-calling me?” +he asked. + +Nick laughed. “Why, father, do ye na know me?” he cried out. “’Tis +I—’tis Nick—come home!” + +Two steps the stern old tanner took—two steps to the latchet-gate. Not +one word did he speak; but he set his hand to the latchet-gate and +closed it in Nick’s face. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVII + + +TURNED ADRIFT + +Down the path and under the gate the rains had washed a shallow rut in +the earth. Two pebbles, loosened by the closing of the gate, rolled down +the rut and out upon the little spreading fan of sand that whitened in +the grass. + +There was the house with the black beams checkering its yellow walls. +There was the old bench by the door, and the lettuce in the garden-bed. +There were the beehives, and the bees humming among the orchard boughs. + +“Why, father, what!” cried Nick, “dost na know me yet? See, ’tis I, +Nick, thy son.” + +A strange look came into the tanner’s face. “I do na know thee, boy,” he +answered heavily; “thou canst na enter here.” + +“But, father, indeed ’tis I!” + +Simon Attwood looked across the town; yet he did not see the town: +across the town into the sky, yet he did not see the sky, nor the +drifting banks of cloud, nor the sunlight shining on the clouds. “I say +I do na know thee,” he replied; “be off to the place whence ye +ha’ come.” + +Nick’s hand was almost on the latch. He stopped. He looked up into his +father’s face. “Why, father, I’ve come home!” he gasped. + +The gate shook in the tanner’s grip. “Have I na telled thee twice I do +na know thee, boy? No house o’ mine shall e’er be home for thee. Thou +hast no part nor parcel here. Get thee out o’ my sight.” + +“Oh, father, father, what do ye mean?” cried Nick, his lips scarcely +able to shape the words. + +“Do na ye ‘father’ me no more,” said Simon Attwood, bitterly; “I be na +father to stage-playing, vagabond rogues. And be gone, I say. Dost hear? +Must I e’en thrust thee forth?” He raised his hand as if to strike. + +Nick fell away from the latchet-gate, dumb-stricken with amazement, +shame, and grief. + +“Oh, Nick,” cried Cicely, “come away—the wicked, wicked man!” + +“It is my father, Cicely.” + +She stared at him. “And thou dost hate _my_ father so? Oh, Nick! oh, +Nick!” + +“Will ye be gone?” called Simon Attwood, half-way opening the gate; +“must I set constables on thee?” + +Nick did not move. A numbness had crept over him like palsy. Cicely +caught him by the hand. “Come, let us go back to my father,” she said. +“He will not turn us out.” + +Scarcely knowing what he did, he followed her, stumbling in the level +path as though he were half blind or had been beaten upon the head. He +did not cry. This was past all crying. He let himself be led along—it +made no matter where. + +In Chapel lane there was a crowd along the Great House wall; and on the +wall Ned Cooke and Martin Addenbroke were sitting. There were heads of +people moving on the porch and in the court, and the yard was all +a-bustle and to-do. But there was nobody in the street, and no one +looked at Nick and Cicely. + +The Great House did look very fair in the sun of that May day, with its +homely gables of warm red brick and sunburnt timber, its cheery roof of +Holland tile, and with the sunlight flashing from the diamond panes that +were leaded into the sashes of the great bay-window on the eastern +garden side. + +In the garden all was stir-about and merry voices. There was a little +green court before the house, and a pleasant lawn coming down to the +lane from the doorway porch. The house stood to the left of the +entry-drive, and the barn-yard to the right was loud with the blithe +crowing of the cocks. But the high brick wall shut out the street where +Nick and Cicely trudged dolefully along, and to Nick the lane seemed +very full of broken crockery and dirt, and the sunlight all a mockery. +The whole of the year had not yet been so dark as this, for there had +ever been the dream of coming home. But _now_—he suffered himself to be +led along; that was enough. + +They had come past the Great House up from Chapel street, when a girl +came out of the western gate, and with her hand above her eyes looked +after them. She seemed in doubt, but looked again, quite searchingly. +Then, as one who is not sure, but does not wish to miss a chance, called +out, “Nick Attwood! Nick Attwood!” + +Cicely looked back to see who called. She did not know the girl, but saw +her beckon. “There is some one calling, Nick,” said she. + +Nick stopped in a hopeless sort of way, and looked back down the street. + +When he had turned so that the girl at the gate could see his face, she +left the gate wide open behind her, and came running quickly up the +street after them. As she drew nearer he saw that it was Susanna +Shakspere, though she was very much grown since he had seen her last. He +watched her running after them as if it were none of his affair. But +when she had caught up with them, she took him by the shoulder smartly +and drew him back toward the gate. “Why, Nicholas Attwood,” she cried, +all out of breath, “come straightway into the house with me. My father +hath been hunting after thee the whole way up from London town!” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVIII + + +A STRANGE DAY + +There in the Great House garden under the mulberry-trees stood Master +Will Shakspere, with Masters Jonson, Burbage, Hemynge, Condell, and a +goodly number more, who had just come up from London town, as well as +Alderman Henry Walker of Stratford, good old John Combe of the college, +and Michael Drayton, the poet of Warwick. For Master Shakspere had that +morning bought the Great House, with its gardens and barns, of Master +William Underhill, for sixty pounds sterling, and was making a great +feast for all his friends to celebrate the day. + +The London players all clapped their hands as Nick and Cicely came up +the garden-path, and, “Upon my word, Will,” declared Master Jonson, “the +lad is a credit to this old town of thine. A plucky fellow, I say, a +right plucky fellow. Found the lass and brought her home all safe and +sound—why, ’tis done like a true knight-errant!” + +[Illustration: “MASTER SHAKSPERE MET THEM WITH OUTSTRETCHED HANDS.”] + +Master Shakspere met them with outstretched hands. “Thou young rogue,” +said he, smiling, “how thou hast forestalled us! Why, here we have +been weeping for thee as lost, strayed, or stolen; and all the while +thou wert nestling in the bosom of thine own sweet home. How is the +beloved little mother?” + +“I ha’ na seen my mother,” faltered Nick. “Father will na let me in.” + +“What? How?” + +“My father will na have me any more, sir—saith I shall never be his son +again. Oh, Master Shakspere, why did they steal me from home?” + +They were all crowding about now, and Master Shakspere had hold of the +boy. “Why, what does this mean?” he asked. “What on earth has happened?” + +Between the two children, in broken words, the story came out. + +“Why, this is a sorry tale!” said Master Shakspere. “Does the man not +know that thou wert stolen, that thou wert kept against thy will, that +thou hast trudged half-way from London for thy mother’s sake?” + +“He will na leave me tell him, sir. He would na even listen to me!” + +“The muckle shrew!” quoth Master Jonson. “Why, I’ll have this out with +him! By Jupiter, I’ll read him reason with a vengeance!” With a clink of +his rapier he made as if to be off at once. + +“Nay, Ben,” said Master Shakspere; “cool thy blood—a quarrel will not +serve. This tanner is a bitter-minded, heavy-handed man—he’d only throw +thee in a pickling-vat” + +“What? Then he’d never tan another hide!” + +“And would that serve the purpose, Ben? The cure should better the +disease—the children must be thought about.” + +“The children? Why, as for them,” said Master Jonson, in his blunt, +outspoken way, “I’ll think thee a thought offhand to serve the turn. +What? Why, this tanner calls us vagabonds. Vagabonds, forsooth! Yet +vagabonds are gallows-birds, and gallows-birds are ravens. And ravens, +men say, do foster forlorn children. Take my point? Good, then; let us +ravenous vagabonds take these two children for our own, Will,—thou one, +I t’ other,—and by praiseworthy fostering singe this fellow’s very +brain with shame.” + +“Why, here, here, Ben Jonson,” spoke up Master Burbage, “this is all +very well for Will and thee; but, pray, where do Hemynge, Condell, and I +come in upon the bill? Come, man, ’tis a pity if we cannot all stand +together in this real play as well as in all the make-believe.” + +“That’s my sort!” cried Master Hemynge. “Why, what? Here is a player’s +daughter who has no father, and a player whose father will not have +him,—orphaned by fate, and disinherited by folly,—common stock with us +all! Marry, ’tis a sort of stock I want some of. Kind hearts are +trumps, my honest Ben—make it a stock company, and let us all be in.” + +“That’s no bad fancy,” added Condell, slowly, for Henry Condell was a +cold, shrewd man. “There’s merit in the lad beside his voice—_that_ +cannot keep its freshness long; but his figure’s good, his wit is +quick, and he has a very taking style. It would be worth while, Dick. +And, Will,” said he, turning to Master Shakspere, who listened with half +a smile to all that the others said, “he’ll make a better _Rosalind_ +than Roger Prynne for thy new play.” + +“So he would,” said Master Shakspere; “but before we put him into ‘As +You Like It,’ suppose we ask him how he does like it? Nick, thou hast +heard what all these gentlemen have said—what hast thou to say, +my lad?” + +“Why, sirs, ye are all kind,” said Nick, his voice beginning to tremble, +“very, very kind indeed, sirs; but—I—I want my mother—oh, masters, I +do want my mother!” + +At that John Combe turned on his heel and walked out of the gate. Out of +the garden-gate walked he, and down the dirty lane, setting his cane +down stoutly as he went, past gravel-pits and pens to Southam’s lane, +and in at the door of Simon Attwood’s tannery. + + * * * * * + +It was noon when he went in; yet the hour struck, and no one came or +went from the tannery. Mistress Attwood’s dinner grew cold upon the +board, and Dame Combe looked vainly across the fields toward the town. + +But about the middle of the afternoon John Combe came out of the tannery +door, and Simon Attwood came behind him. And as John Combe came down the +cobbled way, a trail of brown vat-liquor followed him, dripping from his +clothes, for he was soaked to the skin. His long gray hair had partly +dried in strings about his ears, and his fine lace collar was a +drabbled shame; but there was a singular untroubled smile upon his +plain old face. + +Simon Attwood stayed to lock the door, fumbling his keys as if his sight +had failed; but when the heavy bolt was shut, he turned and called after +John Combe, so that the old man stopped in the way and dripped a puddle +until the tanner came up to where he stood. And as he came up Attwood +asked, in such a tone as none had ever heard from his mouth before, +“Combe, John Combe, what’s done ’s done,—and oh, John, the pity of +it,—yet will ye still shake hands wi’ me, John, afore ye go?” + +John Combe took Simon Attwood’s bony hand and wrung it hard in his stout +old grip, and looked the tanner squarely in the eyes; then, still +smiling serenely to himself, and setting his cane down stoutly as he +walked, dripped home, and got himself into dry clothes without a word. + +But Simon Attwood went down to the river, and sat upon a flat stone +under some pollard willows, and looked into the water. + +What his thoughts were no one knew, nor ever shall know; but he was +fighting with himself, and more than once groaned bitterly. At first he +only shut his teeth and held his temples in his hands; but after a while +he began to cry to himself, over and over again, “O Absalom, my son, my +son! O my son Absalom!” and then only “My son, my son!” And when the day +began to wane above the woods of Arden, he arose, and came up from the +river, walking swiftly; and, looking neither to the right nor to the +left, came up to the Great House garden, and went in at the gate. + +At the door the servant met him, but saw his face, and let him pass +without a word; for he looked like a desperate man whom there was +no stopping. + +So, with a grim light burning in his eyes, his hat in his hand, and his +clothes all drabbled with the liquor from his vats, the tanner strode +into the dining-hall. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIX + + +ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL + +The table had been cleared of trenchers and napkins, the crumbs brushed +away, and a clean platter set before each guest with pared cheese, fresh +cherries, biscuit, caraways, and wine. + +There were about the long table, beside Master Shakspere himself, who +sat at the head of the board, Masters Richard and Cuthbert Burbage, +Henry Condell, and Peter Hemynge, Master Shakspere’s partners; Master +Ben Jonson, his dearest friend; Thomas Pope, who played his finest +parts; John Lowin, Samuel Gilburne, Robert Nash, and William Kemp, +players of the Lord Chamberlain’s company; Edmund Shakspere, the actor, +who was Master William Shakspere’s younger brother, and Master John +Shakspere, his father; Michael Drayton, the Midland bard; Burgess +Robert Getley, Alderman Henry Walker, and William Hart, the Stratford +hatter, brother-in-law to Master Shakspere. + +On one side of the table, between Master Jonson and Master Richard +Burbage, Cicely was seated upon a high chair, with a wreath of early +crimson roses in her hair, attired in the gown in which Nick saw her +first a year before. On the other side of the table Nick had a place +between Master Drayton and Robert Getley, father of his friend Robin. +Half-way down there was an empty chair. Master John Combe was absent. + +It was no common party. In all England better company could not have +been found. Some few of them the whole round world could not have +matched then, and could not match now. + +It would be worth a fortune to know the things they said,—the quips, +the jests, the merry tales that went around that board,—but time has +left too little of what such men said and did, and it can be imagined +only by the brightest wits. + +’Twas Master Shakspere on his feet, welcoming his friends to his “New +Place” with quiet words that made them glad to live and to be there, +when suddenly he stopped, his hands upon the table by his chair, +and stared. + +The tanner stood there, silent, in the door. + +Nick’s face turned pale. Cicely clung to Master Jonson’s arm. + +Simon Attwood stepped into the room, and Master Shakspere went quickly +to meet him in the middle of the floor. + +“Master Will Shakspere,” said the tanner, hoarsely, “I ha’ come about a +matter.” There he stopped, not knowing what to say, for he was +overwrought. + +“Out with it, sir,” said Master Shakspere, sternly. “There is much here +to be said.” + +The tanner wrung his hat within his hands, and looked about the ring of +cold, averted faces. Soft words with him were few; he had forgotten +tender things; and, indeed, what he meant to do was no easy thing +for any man. + +“Come, say what thou hast to say,” said Master Shakspere, resolutely; +“and say it quickly, that we may have done.” + +“There’s nought that I can say,” said Simon Attwood, “but that I be +sorry, and I want my son! Nick! Nick!” he faltered brokenly, “I be wrung +for thee; will ye na come home—just for thy mother’s sake, Nick, if ye +will na come for mine?” + +Nick started from his seat with a glad cry—then stopped. “But Cicely?” +he said. + +The tanner wrung his hat within his hands, and his face was dark with +trouble. Master Shakspere looked at Master Jonson. + +Nick stood hesitating between Cicely and his father, faithful to his +promise, though his heart was sick for home. + +An odd light had been struggling dimly in Simon Attwood’s troubled eyes. +Then all at once it shone out bright and clear, and he clapped his bony +hand upon the stout oak chair. “Bring her along,” he said. “I ha’ little +enough, but I will do the best I can. Maybe ’twill somehow right the +wrong I ha’ done,” he added huskily. “And, neighbors, I’ll go surety to +the Council that she shall na fall a pauper or a burden to the town. My +trade is ill enough, but, sirs, it will stand for forty pound the year +at a fair cast-up. Bring the lass wi’ thee, Nick—we’ll make out, lad, +we’ll make out. God will na let it all go wrong.” + +Master Jonson and Master Shakspere had been nodding and talking together +in a low tone, smiling like men very well pleased about something, and +directly Master Shakspere left the room. + +“Wilt thou come, lad?” asked the tanner, holding out his hands. + +“Oh, father!” cried Nick; then he choked so that he could say no more, +and his eyes were so full of mist that he could scarcely find his father +where he stood. + +But there was no need of more; Simon Attwood was answered. + +Voices buzzed about the room. The servants whispered in the hall. Nick +held his father’s gnarled hand in his own, and looked curiously up into +his face, as if for the first time knowing what it was to have a father. + +“Well, lad, what be it?” asked the tanner, huskily, laying his hand on +his son’s curly head, which was nearly up to his shoulder now. + +“Nothing,” said Nick, with a happy smile, “only mother will be glad to +have Cicely—won’t she?” + +Master Shakspere came into the room with something in his hand, and +walking to the table, laid it down. + +It was a heavy buckskin bag, tied tightly with a silken cord, and sealed +with red wax stamped with the seals of Master Shakspere and +Master Jonson. + +Every one was watching him intently, and one or two of the gentlemen +from London were smiling in a very knowing way. + +He broke the seals, and loosening the thong which closed the bag, took +out two other bags, one of which was just double its companion’s size. +They also were tied with silken cord and sealed with the two seals on +red wax. There was something printed roughly with a quill pen upon each +bag, but Master Shakspere kept that side turned toward himself so that +the others could not see. + +“Come, come, Will,” broke in Master Jonson, “don’t be all day about it!” + +“The more haste the worse speed, Ben,” said Master Shakspere, quietly. +“I have a little story to tell ye all.” + +So they all listened. + +“When Gaston Carew, lately master-player of the Lord High Admiral’s +company, was arraigned before my Lord Justice for the killing of that +rascal, Fulk Sandells, there was not a man of his own company had the +grace to lend him even so much as sympathy. But there were still some in +London who would not leave him totally friendless in such straits.” + +“Some?” interrupted Master Jonson, bluntly; “then o-n-e spells ‘some.’ +The names of them all were Will Shakspere.” + +“Tut, tut, Ben!” said Master Shakspere, and went on: “But when the +charge was read, and those against him showed their hand, it was easy to +see that the game was up. No one saw this any sooner than Carew himself; +yet he carried himself like a man, and confessed the indictment without +a quiver. They brought him the book, to read a verse and save his neck, +perhaps, by pleading benefit of clergy. But he knew the temper of those +against him, and that nothing might avail; so he refused the plea +quietly, saying, ‘I am no clerk, sirs. All I wish to read in this case +is what my own hand wrote upon that scoundrel Sandells.’ It was soon +over. When the judge pronounced his doom, all Carew asked was for a +friend to speak with a little while aside. This the court allowed; so he +sent for me—we played together with Henslowe, he and I, ye know. He had +not much to say—for once in his life,”—here Master Shakspere smiled +pityingly,—“but he sent his love forever to his only daughter Cicely.” + +Cicely was sitting up, listening with wide eyes, and eagerly nodded her +head as if to say, “Of course.” + +“He also begged of Nicholas Attwood that he would forgive him whatever +wrong he had done him.” + +“Why, that I will, sir,” choked Nick, brokenly; “he was wondrous kind to +me, except that he would na leave me go.” + +“After that,” continued Master Shakspere, “he made known to me a sliding +panel in the wainscot of his house, wherein was hidden all he had on +earth to leave to those he loved the best, and who, he hoped, +loved him.” + +“Everybody loves my father,” said Cicely, smiling and nodding again. +Master Jonson put his arm around the back of her chair, and she leaned +her head upon it. + +“Carew said that he had marked upon the bags which were within the panel +the names of the persons to whom they were to go, and had me swear, +upon my faith as a Christian man, that I would see them safely delivered +according to his wish. This being done, and the end come, he kissed me +on both cheeks, and standing bravely up, spoke to them all, saying that +for a man such as he had been it was easier to end even so than to go +on. I never saw him again.” + +The great writer of plays paused a moment, and his lips moved as if he +were saying a prayer. Master Burbage crossed himself. + +“The bags were found within the wall, as he had said, and were sealed by +Ben Jonson and myself until we should find the legatees—for they had +disappeared as utterly as if the earth had gaped and swallowed them. +But, by the Father’s grace, we have found them safe and sound at last; +and all’s well that ends well!” + +Here he turned the buckskin bags around. + +On one, in Master Carew’s school-boy scrawl, was printed, “For myne +Onelie Beeloved Doghter, Cicely Carew”; on the other, “For Nicholas +Attewode, alias Mastre Skie-lark, whom I, Gaston Carew, Player, Stole +Away from Stratford Toune, Anno Domini 1596.” + +Nick stared; Cicely clapped her hands; and Simon Attwood sat down +dizzily. + +“There,” said Master Shakspere, pointing to the second bag, “are one +hundred and fifty gold rose-nobles. In the other just three hundred +more. Neighbor Attwood, we shall have no paupers here.” + +Everybody laughed then and clapped their hands, and the London players +gave a rousing cheer. Master Ben Jonson’s shout might have been heard in +Market Square. + +At this tremendous uproar the servants peeped at the doors and windows; +and Tom Boteler, peering in from the buttery hall, and seeing the two +round money-bags plumping on the table, crept away with such a look of +amazement upon his face that Mollikins, the scullery-maid, thought he +had seen a ghost, and fled precipitately into the pantry. + +“And what’s more, Neighbor Tanner,” said Master Richard Burbage, “had +Carew’s daughter not sixpence to her name, we vagabond players, as ye +have had the scanty grace to dub us, would have cared for her for the +honour of the craft, and reared her gently in some quiet place where +there never falls even the shadow of such evil things as have been the +end of many a right good fellow beside old Kit Marlowe and +Gaston Carew.” + +“And to that end, Neighbor Attwood,” Master Shakspere added, “we have, +through my young Lord Hunsdon, who has just been made State Chamberlain, +Her Majesty’s gracious permission to hold this money in trust for the +little maid as guardians under the law.” + +Cicely stared around perplexed. “Won’t Nick be there?” she asked. “Why, +then I will not go—they shall not take thee from me, Nick!” and she +threw her arms around him. “I’m going to stay with thee till daddy +comes, and be thine own sister forever.” + +Master Jonson laughed gently, not his usual roaring laugh, but one that +was as tender as his own bluff heart. “Why, good enough, good enough! +The woman who mothered a lad like Master Skylark here is surely fit to +rear the little maid.” + +The London players thumped the table. “Why, ’tis the very trick,” said +Hemynge. “Marry, this is better than a play.” + +“It is indeed,” quoth Condell. “See the plot come out!” + +“Thou’lt do it, Attwood—why, of course thou’lt do it,” said Master +Shakspere. “’Tis an excellent good plan. These funds we hold in trust +will keep thee easy-minded, and warrant thee in doing well by both our +little folks. And what’s more,” he cried, for the thought had just come +in his head, “I have ever heard thee called an honest man; hard, indeed, +perhaps too hard, but honest as the day is long. Now I need a tenant for +this New Place of mine—some married man with a good housewife, and +children to be delving in the posy-beds outside. What sayst thou, Simon +Attwood? They tell me thy ’prentice, Job Hortop, is to marry in +July—he’ll take thine old house at a fair rental. Why, here, Neighbor +Attwood, thou toil-worn, time-damaged tanner, bless thy hard old heart, +man, come, be at ease—thou hast ground thy soul out long enough! Come, +take me at mine offer—be my fellow. The rent shall trickle off thy +finger-tips as easily as water off a duck’s back!” + +Simon Attwood arose from the chair where he had been sitting. There was +a bewildered look upon his face, and he was twisting his horny fingers +together until the knuckles were white. His lips parted as if to speak, +but he only swallowed very hard once or twice instead, and looked around +at them all. “Why, sir,” he said at length, looking at Master Shakspere, +“why, sirs, all of ye—I ha’ been a hard man, and summat of a fool, +sirs, ay, sirs, a very fool. I ha’ misthought and miscalled ye foully +many a time, and many a time. God knows I be sorry for it from the +bottom of my heart!” And with that he sat down and buried his face in +his arms among the dishes on the buffet. + +“Nay, Simon Attwood,” said Master Shakspere, going to his side and +putting his hand upon the tanner’s shoulder, “thou hast only been +mistaken, that is all. Come, sit thee up. To see thyself mistaken is but +to be the wiser. Why, never the wisest man but saw himself a fool a +thousand times. Come, I have mistaken thee more than thou hast me; for, +on my word, I thought thou hadst no heart at all—and that is far worse +than having one which has but gone astray. Come, Neighbor Attwood, sit +thee up and eat with us.” + +“Nay, I’ll go home,” said the tanner, turning his face away that they +might not see his tears. “I be a spoil-sport and a mar-feast here.” + +“Why, by Jupiter, man!” cried Master Jonson, bringing his fist down upon +the board with a thump that made the spoons all clink, “thou art the +very merry-maker of the feast. A full heart’s better than a surfeit any +day. Don’t let him go, Will—this sort of thing doth make the whole +world kin! Come, Master Attwood, sit thee down, and make thyself at +home. ’Tis not my house, but ’tis my friend’s, and so ’tis all the +same in the Lowlands. Be free of us and welcome.” + +“I thank ye, sirs,” said the tanner, slowly, turning to the table with +rough dignity. “Ye ha’ been good to my boy. I’ll ne’er forget ye while I +live. Oh, sirs, there be kind hearts in the world that I had na dreamed +of. But, masters, I ha’ said my say, and know na more. Your pleasure +wunnot be my pleasure, sirs, for I be only a common man. I will go home +to my wife. There be things to say before my boy comes home; and I ha’ +muckle need to tell her that I love her—I ha’ na done so these +many years.” + +“Why, Neighbor Tanner,” cried Master Jonson, with flushing cheeks, “thou +art a right good fellow! And here was I, no later than this morning, +red-hot to spit thee upon my bilbo like a Michaelmas goose!” He laughed +a boyish laugh that did one’s heart good to hear. + +“Ay,” said Master Shakspere, smiling, as he and Simon Attwood looked +into each other’s eyes. “Come, neighbor, I know thou art my man—so do +not go until thou drinkest one good toast with us, for we are all good +friends and true from this day forth. Come, Ben, a toast to fit +the cue.” + +“Why, then,” replied Master Jonson, in a good round voice, rising in his +place, “_here’s to all kind hearts!_” + +“Wherever they may be!” said Master Shakspere, softly. “It is a good +toast, and we will all drink it together.” + +And so they did. And Simon Attwood went away with a warmth and a +tingling in his heart he had never known before. + +“Margaret,” said he, coming quickly in at the door, as she went silently +about the house with a heavy heart preparing the supper, “Margaret.” + +She dropped the platter upon the board, and came to him hurriedly, +fearing evil tidings. + +He took her by the hands. This, even more than his unusual manner, +alarmed her. “Why, Simon,” she cried, “what is it? What has come +over thee?” + +“Nought,” he replied, looking down at her, his hard face quivering; “but +I love thee, Margaret.” + +“Simon, what dost thou mean?” faltered Mistress Attwood, her heart going +down like lead. + +“Nought, sweetheart—but that I love thee, Margaret, and that our lad is +coming home!” + +Her heart seemed to stop beating. + +“Margaret,” said he, huskily, “I do love thee, lass. Is it too late to +tell thee so?” + +“Nay, Simon,” answered his wife, simply, “’tis never too late to mend.” +And with that she laughed—but in the middle of her laughing a tear ran +down her cheek. + +FROM the windows of the New Place there came a great sound of men +singing together, and this was the quaint old song they sang: + + “Then here’s a health to all kind hearts + Wherever they may be; + For kindly hearts make but one kin + Of all humanity. + + “And here’s a rouse to all kind hearts + Wherever they be found; + For it is the throb of kindred hearts + Doth make the world go round!” + +“Why, Will,” said Master Burbage, slowly setting down his glass, “’tis +altogether a midsummer night’s dream.” + +“So it is, Dick,” answered Master Shakspere, with a smile, and a +far-away look in his eyes. “Come, Nicholas, wilt thou not sing for us +just the last few little lines of ‘When Thou Wakest,’ out of the play?” + +Then Nick stood up quietly, for they all were his good friends there, +and Master Drayton held his hand while he sang: + + “Every man shall take his own, + In your waking shall be shown: + Jack shall have Jill, + Nought shall go ill, + The man shall have his mare again, and all shall be well!” + +They were very still for a little while after he had done, and the +setting sun shone in at the windows across the table. Then Master +Shakspere said gently, “It is a good place to end.” + +“Ay,” said Master Jonson, “it is.” + +So they all got up softly and went out into the garden, where there were +seats under the trees among the rose-bushes, and talked quietly among +themselves, saying not much, yet meaning a great deal. + +But Nick and Cicely said “Good-night, sirs,” to them all, and bowed; and +Master Shakspere himself let them out at the gate, the others shaking +Nick by the hand with many kind wishes, and throwing kisses to Cicely +until they went out of sight around the chapel corner. + +When the children came to the garden-gate in front of Nick’s father’s +house, the red roses still twined in Cicely’s hair, Simon Attwood and +his wife Margaret were sitting together upon the old oaken settle by the +door, looking out into the sunset. And when they saw the children +coming, they arose and came through the garden to meet them, Nick’s +mother with outstretched hands, and her face bright with the glory of +the setting sun. And when she came to where he was, the whole of that +long, bitter year was nothing any more to Nick. + +For then—ah, then—a lad and his mother; a son come home, the wandering +ended, and the sorrow done! + +She took him to her breast as though he were a baby still; her tears ran +down upon his face, yet she was smiling—a smile like which there is no +other in all the world: a mother’s smile upon her only son, who was +astray, but has come home again. + +Oh, the love of a lad for his mother, the love of a mother for her +son—unchanged, unchanging, for right, for wrong, through grief and +shame, in joy, in peace, in absence, in sickness, and in the shadow of +death! Oh, mother-love, beyond all understanding, so holy that words but +make it common! + +“My boy!” was all she said; and then, “My boy—my little boy!” + +And after a while, “Mother,” said he, and took her face between his +strong young hands, and looked into her happy eyes, “mother dear, I ha? +been to London town; I ha’ been to the palace, and I ha’ seen the Queen; +but, mother,” he said, with a little tremble in his voice, for all he +smiled so bravely, “I ha’ never seen the place where I would rather be +than just where thou art, mother dear!” + +The soft gray twilight gathered in the little garden; far-off voices +drifted faintly from the town. The day was done. Cool and still, and +filled with gentle peace, the starlit night came down from the dewy +hills; and Cicely lay fast asleep in Simon Attwood’s arms. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MASTER SKYLARK *** + +***** This file should be named 11574-0.txt or 11574-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/1/5/7/11574/ + +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +concept and trademark. 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Birch</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Master Skylark</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: John Bennett</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Release Date: March 14, 2004 [eBook #11574]<br /> +[Most recently updated: September 8, 2021]</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Juliet Sutherland, Charlie Kirschner, + and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team<br /> +Revised by Richard Tonsing.</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em;margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MASTER SKYLARK ***</div> + +<p><br /> +<br /></p> +<hr class="full" /> +<p><br /> +<br /> +<a name="Frontspiece"></a></p> +<p class='ctr'> +<a href="images/illus0338.jpg"> +<img src="images/illus0338.jpg" width = "40%" alt="" /> +</a><br /> +<br /> +<b>“‘MASTER SKYLARK, THOU SHALT HAVE THY WISH,’ SAID QUEEN ELIZABETH.”</b> +<br /></p> +<p><br /> +<br /></p> + +<h1>MASTER SKYLARK<br /> + +<span class='ph2'>A Story of<br /> + +Shakspere’s Time</span></h1> + +<div class='ph4'>BY</div> + +<div class='ph3'>JOHN BENNETT</div> + +<p><br /></p> +<div class='ph4'>ILLUSTRATIONS BY REGINALD B. BIRCH</div> + +<p class='ctr'><img src="images/002.jpg" width="15%" alt="" /> +<br /></p> + + + +<div class='poetry'> +ALL THAT NICHOLAS ATTWOOD’S MOTHER<br /> +WAS TO HIM, AND MORE, MY OWN MOTHER HAS BEEN TO ME<br /> +AND TO HER HERE I INSCRIBE THIS BOOK<br /> +WITH A NEVER-FAILING LOVE<br /> +</div> + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2>CONTENTS</h2> +<p><br /></p> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_I">I THE LORD ADMIRAL’S PLAYERS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_II">II NICHOLAS ATTWOOD’S HOME</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_III">III THE LAST STRAW</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_IV">IV OFF FOR COVENTRY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_V">V IN THE WARWICK ROAD</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_VI">VI THE MASTER-PLAYER</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_VII">VII “WELL SUNG, MASTER SKYLARK!”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">VIII THE ADMIRAL’S COMPANY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_IX">IX THE MAY-DAY PLAY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_X">X AFTER THE PLAY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XI">XI DISOWNED</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XII">XII A STRANGE RIDE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">XIII A DASH FOR FREEDOM</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">XIV AT BAY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XV">XV LONDON TOWN</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">XVI MA’M’SELLE CICELY CAREW</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">XVII CAREW’S OFFER</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">XVIII MASTER HEYWOOD PROTESTS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XIX">XIX THE ROSE PLAY-HOUSE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XX">XX DISAPPOINTMENT</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXI">XXI “THE CHILDREN OF PAUL’S”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXII">XXII THE SKYLARK’S SONG</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII">XXIII A NEW LIFE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV">XXIV THE MAKING OF A PLAYER</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXV">XXV THE WANING OF THE YEAR</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXVI">XXVI TO SING BEFORE THE QUEEN</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXVII">XXVII THE QUEEN’S PLAISANCE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXVIII">XXVIII CHRISTMAS WITH QUEEN BESS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXIX">XXIX BACK TO GASTON CAREW</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXX">XXX AT THE FALCON INN</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXXI">XXXI IN THE TWINKLING OF AN EYE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXXII">XXXII THE LAST OF GASTON CAREW</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIII">XXXIII CICELY DISAPPEARS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIV">XXXIV THE BANDY-LEGGED MAN</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXXV">XXXV A SUDDEN RESOLVE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVI">XXXVI WAYFARING HOME</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVII">XXXVII TURNED ADRIFT</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVIII">XXXVIII A STRANGE DAY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIX">XXXIX ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2>LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS</h2> +<p><br /></p> + + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#Frontspiece">“MASTER SKYLARK, THOU SHALT HAVE THY WISH,” SAID QUEEN ELIZABETH</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus0340">THE LORD ADMIRAL’S PLAYERS. THE TRUMPETERS AND THE DRUMMERS LED, THEIR HORSES PRANCING, WHITE PLUMES WAVING IN THE BREEZE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus0342">“WHUR BE-EST GOING, NICK?” ASKED ROGER DAWSON</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus0344">“WHAT! HOW NOW?” CRIED THE STRANGER, SHARPLY. “DOST LIKE OR LIKE ME NOT?”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus0346">“NICK THOUGHT OF HIS MOTHER’S SINGING ON A SUMMER’S EVENING—DREW A DEEP BREATH AND BEGAN TO SING</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus0354">“NOBODY BREAKS NOBODY’S HEARTS IN OLD JO-OHN SMITHSES SHO-OP,” DRAWLED THE SMITH, IN HIS DEEP VOICE; “NOR STEALS NOBODY, NOTHER”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus0348">“DICCON HAD OFTEN MADE NICK WHISTLES FROM THE WILLOWS ALONG THE AVON WHEN NICK WAS A TODDLER”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus0350">NICK PUT ONE LEG OVER THE SILL AND LOOKED BACK</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#i_142">“OH, NICK, THOU ART MOST BEAUTIFUL TO SEE!” CRIED CICELY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus0352">“THAT VOICE, THAT VOICE!” NAT GILES PANTED TO HIMSELF</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#i_174">NICK GAVE THE SILVER BUCKLE FROM HIS CLOAK TO A BOY WHO STOOD CRYING WITH COLD AND HUNGER IN THE STREET</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus0356">SO NICK RODE HOME UPON THE BACK OF THE EARL OF ARUNDEL’S MAN-AT-ARMS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus0358">“WHY, SIR, I’LL SING FOR THEE NOW,” SAID NICK, CHOKING</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#i_250">“DO NA THOU STRIKE ME AGAIN, THOU ROGUE!” SAID NICK</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#i_272">“OH, NICK, WHAT IS IT?” SHE CRIED</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus0360">MASTER SHAKSPERE MET THEM WITH OUTSTRETCHED HANDS</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2>MASTER SKYLARK</h2> + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I<br /> +<span class='ph3'>THE LORD ADMIRAL’S PLAYERS</span></h2> +<p><br /></p> + +<p>There was an unwonted buzzing in the east end of Stratford on that next +to the last day of April, 1596. It was as if some one had thrust a stick +into a hive of bees and they had come whirling out to see.</p> + +<p>The low stone guard-wall of old Clopton bridge, built a hundred years +before by rich Sir Hugh, sometime Mayor of London, was lined with +straddling boys, like strawberries upon a spear of grass, and along the +low causeway from the west across the lowland to the town, brown-faced, +barefoot youngsters sat beside the roadway with their chubby legs +a-dangle down the mossy stones, staring away into the south across the +grassy levels of the valley of the Stour.</p> + +<p>Punts were poling slowly up the Avon to the bridge; and at the outlets +of the town, where the streets came down to the waterside among the +weeds, little knots of men and serving-maids stood looking into the +south and listening. Some had waited for an hour, some for two; yet +still there was no sound but the piping of the birds in white-thorn +hedges, the hollow lowing of kine knee-deep in grassy meadows, and the +long rush of the river through the sedge beside the pebbly shore; and +naught to see but quiet valleys, primrose lanes, and Warwick orchards +white with bloom, stretching away to the misty hills.</p> + +<p>But still they stood and looked and listened.</p> + +<p>The wind came stealing up out of the south, soft and warm and sweet and +still, moving the ripples upon the river with gray gusts; and, scudding +free before the wind, a dog came trotting up the road with wet pink +tongue and sidelong gait. At the throat of Clopton bridge he stopped and +scanned the way with dubious eye, then clapped his tail between his legs +and bolted for the town. The laughing shout that followed him into the +Warwick road seemed not to die away, but to linger in the air like the +drowsy hum of bees—a hum that came and went at intervals upon the +shifting wind, and grew by littles, taking body till it came unbroken as +a long, low, distance-muffled murmur from the south, so faint as +scarcely to be heard.</p> + +<p>Nick Attwood pricked his keen young ears. “They’re coming, Robin—hark +’e to the trampling!”</p> + +<p>Robin Getley held his breath and turned his ear toward the south. The +far-off murmur was a mutter now, defined and positive, and, as the two +friends listened, grew into a drumming roll, and all at once above it +came a shrill, high sound like the buzzing of a gnat close by the ear.</p> + +<p>Little Tom Davenant dropped from the finger-post, and came running up +from the fork of the Banbury road, his feet making little white puffs in +the dust as he flew. “They are coming! they are coming!” he shrieked +as he ran.</p> + +<p>Then up to his feet sprang Robin Getley, upon the saddle-backed +coping-stones, his hand upon Nick Attwood’s head to steady himself, and +looked away where the rippling Stour ran like a thread of silver beside +the dust-buff London road, and the little church of Atherstone stood +blue against the rolling Cotswold Hills.</p> + +<p>“They are coming! they are coming!” shrilled little Tom, and scrambled +up the coping like a squirrel up a rail.</p> + +<p>A stir ran out along the guard-wall, some crying out, some starting up. +“Sit down! sit down!” cried others, peering askance at the water +gurgling green down below. “Sit down, or we shall all be off!”</p> + +<p>Robin held his hand above his eyes. A cloud of dust was rising from the +London road and drifting off across the fields like smoke when the old +ricks burn in damp weather—a long, broad-sheeted mist; and in it were +bits of moving gold, shreds of bright colors vaguely seen, and silvery +gleams like the glitter of polished metal in the sun. And as he looked +the shifty wind came down out of the west again and whirled the cloud of +dust away, and there he saw a long line of men upon horses coming at an +easy canter up the highway. Just as he had made this out the line came +rattling to a stop, the distant drumming of hoofs was still, and as the +long file knotted itself into a rosette of ruddy color amid the April +green, a clear, shrill trumpet blew and blew again.</p> + +<p>“They are coming!” shouted Robin, “they are coming!” and, turning, waved +his cap.</p> + +<p>A shout went up along the bridge. Those down below came clambering up, +the punts came poling with a rush of foam, and a ripple ran along the +edge of Stratford town like the wind through a field of wheat. Windows +creaked and doors swung wide, and the workmen stopped in the +garden-plots to lean upon their mattocks and to look.</p> + +<p>“They are coming!” bellowed Rafe Hickathrift, the butcher’s boy, +standing far out in the street, with his red hands to his mouth for a +trumpet, “they are coming!” and at that the doors of Bridge street grew +alive with eager eyes.</p> + +<p>At early dawn the Oxford carrier had brought the news that the players +of the Lord High Admiral were coming up to Stratford out of London from +the south, to play on May-day there; and this was what had set the town +to buzzing like a swarm. For there were in England then but three great +companies, the High Chamberlain’s, the Earl of Pembroke’s men, and the +stage-players of my Lord Charles Howard, High Admiral of the Realm; and +the day on which they came into a Midland market-town to play was one to +mark with red and gold upon the calendar of the uneventful year.</p> + +<p>Away by the old mill-bridge there were fishermen angling for dace and +perch; but when the shout came down from the London road they dropped +their poles and ran, through the willows and over the gravel, splashing +and thrashing among the rushes and sandy shallows, not to be last when +the players came. And old John Carter coming down the Warwick road with +a load of hay, laid on the lash until piebald Dobbin snorted in dismay +and broke into a lumbering run to reach the old stone bridge in time.</p> + +<p>The distant horsemen now were coming on again, riding in double file. +They had flung their banners to the breeze, and on the changing wind, +with the thumping of horses’ hoofs, came by snatches the sound of a +kettledrummer drawing his drumhead tight, and beating as he drew, and +the muffled blasts of a trumpeter proving his lips.</p> + +<p>Fynes Morrison and Walter Stirley, who had gone to Cowslip lane to meet +the march, were running on ahead, and shouting as they ran: “There’s +forty men, and sumpter-mules! and, oh, the bravest banners and +attire—and the trumpets are a cloth-yard long! Make room for us, make +room for us, and let us up!”</p> + +<p>A bowshot off, the trumpets blew a blast so high, so clear, so keen, +that it seemed a flame of fire in the air, and as the brassy fanfare +died away across the roofs of the quiet town, the kettledrums clanged, +the cymbals clashed, and all the company began to sing the famous old +song of the hunt:</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +“The hunt is up, the hunt is up,<br /> +Sing merrily we, the hunt is up!<br /> +The wild birds sing,<br /> +The dun deer fling,<br /> +The forest aisles with music ring!<br /> +Tantara, tantara, tantara!<br /><br /> + +“Then ride along, ride along,<br /> +Stout and strong!<br /> +Farewell to grief and care;<br /> +With a rollicking cheer<br /> +For the high dun deer<br /> +And a life in the open air!<br /> +Tantara, the hunt is up, lads;<br /> +Tantara, the bugles bray!<br /> +Tantara, tantara, tantara,<br /> +Hio, hark away!”<br /><br /> +</div> + +<p>The first of the riders had reached old Clopton bridge, and the banners +strained upon their staves in the freshening river-wind. The trumpeters +and the drummers led, their horses prancing, white plumes waving in the +breeze, and the April sunlight dancing on the brazen horns and the +silver bellies of the kettledrums.</p> + +<p>Then came the banners of the company, curling down with a silky swish, +and unfurling again with a snap, like a broad-lashed whip. The greatest +one was rosy red, and on it was a gallant ship upon a flowing sea, +bearing upon its mainsail the arms of my Lord Charles Howard, High +Admiral of England. Upon its mate was a giant-bearded man with a fish’s +tail, holding a trident in his hand and blowing upon a shell, the Triton +of the seas which England ruled; this flag was bright sea-blue. The +third was white, and on it was a red wild rose with a golden heart, the +common standard of the company.</p> + +<p><a name="illus0340"></a></p> +<p class='ctr'> +<a href="images/illus0340.jpg"> +<img src="images/illus0340.jpg" width="40%" alt="" /> +</a><br /> +<b>THE LORD ADMIRAL’S PLAYERS. “THE TRUMPETERS AND THE +DRUMMERS LED, THEIR HORSES PRANCING, WHITE PLUMES WAVING IN THE BREEZE.”</b> +<br /></p> + +<p>After the flags came twoscore men, the players of the Admiral, the +tiring-men, grooms, horse-boys, and serving-knaves, well mounted on good +horses, and all of them clad in scarlet tabards blazoned with the +coat-armor of their master. Upon their caps they wore the famous badge +of the Howards, a rampant silver demi-lion; and beneath their tabards at +the side could be seen their jerkins of many-colored silk, their +silver-buckled belts, and long, thin Spanish rapiers, slapping their +horses on the flanks at every stride. Their legs were cased in +high-topped riding-boots of tawny cordovan, with gilt spurs, and the +housings of their saddles were of blue with the gilt anchors of the +admiralty upon them. On their bridles were jingling bits of steel, which +made a constant tinkling, like a thousand little bells very far away.</p> + +<p>Some had faces smooth as boys and were quite young; and others wore +sharp-pointed beards with stiff-waxed mustaches, and were older men, +with a tinge of iron in their hair and lines of iron in their faces, +hardened by the life they led; and some, again, were smooth-shaven, so +often and so closely that their faces were blue with the beard beneath +the skin. But, oh, to Nicholas Attwood and the rest of Stratford boys, +they were a dashing, rakish, admirable lot, with the air of something +even greater than lords, and a keen knowingness in their sparkling, +worldly eyes that made a common wise man seem almost a fool beside them!</p> + +<p>And so they came riding up out of the south:</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +“Then ride along, ride along,<br /> +Stout and strong!<br /> + Farewell to grief and care;<br /> +With a rollicking cheer<br /> +For the high dun deer<br /> + And a life in the open air!”<br /> +</div> + +<p>“Hurrah! hurrah! God save the Queen!”</p> + +<p>A dropping shout went up the street like an arrow-flight scattering over +the throng; and the players, waving their scarlet caps until the long +line tossed like a poppy-garden in a summer rain, gave a cheer that +fairly set the crockery to dancing upon the shelves of the stalls in +Middle Bow.</p> + +<p>“Hurrah!” shouted Nicholas Attwood, his blue eyes shining with delight. +“Hurrah, hurrah, for the Admiral’s men!” And high in the air he threw +his cap, as a wild cheer broke from the eddying crowd, and the arches of +the long gray bridge rang hollow with the tread of hoofs. Whiff, came +the wind; down dropped the hat upon the very saddle-peak of one tall +fellow riding along among the rest. Catching it quickly as it fell, he +laughed and tossed it back; and when Nick caught it whirling in the air, +a shilling jingled from it to the ground.</p> + +<p>Then up Fore Bridge street they all trooped after into Stratford town.</p> + +<p>“Oh,” cried Robin, “it is brave, brave!”</p> + +<p>“Brave?” cried Nick. “It makes my very heart jump. And see, Robin, ’tis +a shilling, a real silver shilling—oh, what fellows they all be! Hurrah +for the Lord High Admiral’s men!”</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II<br /> +<span class='ph3'>NICHOLAS ATTWOOD’S HOME<br /></span></h2> + +<p>Nick Attwood’s father came home that night bitterly wroth.</p> + +<p>The burgesses of the town council had ordered him to build a chimney +upon his house, or pay ten shillings fine; and shillings were none too +plenty with Simon Attwood, the tanner of Old Town.</p> + +<p>“Soul and body o’ man!” said he, “they talk as if they owned the world, +and a man could na live upon it save by their leave. I must build my +fire in a pipe, or pay ten shillings fine? Things ha’ come to a pretty +pass—a pretty pass, indeed!” He kicked the rushes that were strewn upon +the floor, and ground the clay with his heel. “This litter will ha’ to +be all took out. Atkins will be here at six i’ the morning to do the +job, and a lovely mess he will make o’ the house!”</p> + +<p>“Do na fret thee, Simon,” said Mistress Attwood, gently. “The rushes +need a changing, and I ha’ pined this long while to lay the floor wi’ +new clay from Shottery common. ’Tis the sweetest earth! Nick shall take +the hangings down, and right things up when the chimley ’s done.”</p> + +<p>So at cockcrow next morning Nick slipped out of his straw bed, into his +clothes, and down the winding stair, while his parents were still asleep +in the loft, and, sousing his head in the bucket at the well, began his +work before the old town clock in the chapel tower had yet struck four.</p> + +<p>The rushes had not been changed since Easter, and were full of dust and +grease from the cooking and the table. Even the fresher sprigs of mint +among them smelled stale and old. When they were all in the barrow, Nick +sighed with relief and wiped his hands upon the dripping grass.</p> + +<p>It had rained in the night,—a soft, warm rain,—and the air was full of +the smell of the apple-bloom and pear from the little orchard behind the +house. The bees were already humming about the straw-bound hives along +the garden wall, and a misguided green woodpecker clung upside down to +the eaves, and thumped at the beams of the house.</p> + +<p>It was very still there in the gray of the dawn. He could hear the rush +of the water through the sedge in the mill-race, and then, all at once, +the roll of the wheel, the low rumble of the mill-gear, and the cool +whisper of the wind in the willows.</p> + +<p>When he went back into the house again the painted cloths upon the wall +seemed dingier than ever compared with the clean, bright world outside. +The sky-blue coat of the Prodigal Son was brown with the winter’s smoke; +the Red Sea towered above Pharaoh’s ill-starred host like an inky +mountain; and the homely maxims on the next breadth—“Do no Wrong,” +“Beware of Sloth,” “Overcome Pride,” and “Keep an Eye on the +Pence”—could scarcely be read.</p> + +<p>Nick jumped up on the three-legged stool and began to take them down. +The nails were crooked and jammed in the wall, and the last came out +with an unexpected jerk. Losing his balance, Nick caught at the +table-board which leaned against the wall; but the stool capsized, and +he came down on the floor with such a flap of tapestry that the ashes +flew out all over the room.</p> + +<p>He sat up dazed, and rubbed his elbows, then looked around and began to +laugh.</p> + +<p>He could hear heavy footsteps overhead. A door opened, and his father’s +voice called sternly from the head of the stair: “What madcap folly art +thou up to now?”</p> + +<p>“I be up to no folly at all,” said Nick, “but down, sir. I fell from the +stool. There is no harm done.”</p> + +<p>“Then be about thy business,” said Attwood, coming slowly down the +stairs.</p> + +<p>He was a gaunt man, smelling of leather and untanned hides. His short +iron-gray hair grew low down upon his forehead, and his hooked nose, +grim wide mouth, and heavy under jaw gave him a look at once forbidding +and severe. His doublet of serge and his fustian hose were stained with +liquor from the vats, and his eyes were heavy with sleep.</p> + +<p>The smile faded from Nick’s face. “Shall I throw the rushes into the +street, sir?” “Nay; take them to the muck-hill. The burgesses ha’ made +a great to-do about folk throwing trash into the highways. Soul and body +o’ man!” he growled, “a man must ask if he may breathe. And good hides +going a-begging, too!”</p> + +<p>Nick hurried away, for he dreaded his father’s sullen moods.</p> + +<p>The swine were squealing in their styes, the cattle bawled about the +straw-thatched barns in Chapel lane, and long files of gabbling ducks +waddled hurriedly down to the river through the primroses under the +hedge. He could hear the milkmaids calling in the meadows; and when he +trundled slowly home the smoke was creeping up in pale-blue threads from +the draught-holes in the wall.</p> + +<p>The tanner’s house stood a little back from the thoroughfare, in that +part of Stratford-on-Avon where the south end of Church street turns +from Bull lane toward the river. It was roughly built of timber and +plaster, the black beams showing through the yellow lime in curious +squares and triangles. The roof was of red tiles, and where the +spreading elms leaned over it the peaked gable was green with moss.</p> + +<p>At the side of the house was a garden of lettuce; beyond the garden a +rough wall on which the grass was growing. Sometimes wild primroses grew +on top of this wall, and once a yellow daffodil. Beyond the wall were +other gardens owned by thrifty neighbors, and open lands in common to +them all, where foot-paths wandered here and there in a free, +haphazard way.</p> + +<p>Behind the house was a well and a wood-pile, and along the lane ran a +whitewashed paling fence with a little gate, from which the path went up +to the door through rows of bright, old-fashioned flowers.</p> + +<p>Nick’s mother was getting the breakfast. She was a gentle woman with a +sweet, kind face, and a little air of quiet dignity that made her doubly +dear to Nick by contrast with his father’s unkempt ways. He used to +think that, in her worsted gown, with its falling collar of Antwerp +linen, and a soft, silken coif upon her fading hair, she was the most +beautiful woman in all the world.</p> + +<p>She put one arm about his shoulders, brushed back his curly hair, and +kissed him on the forehead.</p> + +<p>“Thou art mine own good little son,” said she, tenderly, “and I will +bake thee a cake in the new chimley on the morrow for thy +May-day-feast.”</p> + +<p>Then she helped him fetch the trestles from the buttery, set the board, +spread the cloth, and lay the wooden platters, pewter cups, and old horn +spoons in place. Breakfast being ready, she then called his father from +the yard. Nick waited deftly upon them both, so that they were soon done +with the simple meal of rye-bread, lettuce, cheese, and milk.</p> + +<p>As he carried away the empty platters and brought water and a towel for +them to wash their hands, he said quietly, although his eyes were bright +and eager, “The Lord High Admiral’s company is to act a stage-play at +the guildhall to-morrow before Master Davenant the Mayor and the town +burgesses.”</p> + +<p>Simon Attwood said nothing, but his brows drew down.</p> + +<p>“They came yestreen from London town by Oxford way to play in Stratford +and at Coventry, and are at the Swan Inn with Master Geoffrey +Inchbold—oh, ever so many of them, in scarlet jerkins, and cloth of +gold, and doublets of silk laced up like any lord! It is a very good +company, they say.”</p> + +<p>Mistress Attwood looked quickly at her husband. “What will they play?” +she asked.</p> + +<p>“I can na say surely, mother—‘Tamburlane,’ perhaps, or ‘The Troublesome +Reign of Old King John.’ The play will be free, father—may I go, sir?”</p> + +<p>“And lose thy time from school?”</p> + +<p>“There is no school to-morrow, sir.”</p> + +<p>“Then have ye naught to do, that ye waste the day in idle folly?” asked +the tanner, sternly.</p> + +<p>“I will do my work beforehand, sir,” replied Nick, quietly, though his +hand trembled a little as he brushed up the crumbs.</p> + +<p>“It is May-day, Simon,” interceded Mistress Attwood, “and a bit of +pleasure will na harm the lad.”</p> + +<p>“Pleasure?” said the tanner, sharply. “If he does na find pleasure +enough in his work, his book, and his home, he shall na seek it of low +rogues and strolling scape-graces.”</p> + +<p>“But, Simon,” said Mistress Attwood, “’tis the Lord Admiral’s own +company—surely they are not all graceless! And,” she continued with +very quiet dignity, “since mine own cousin Anne Hathaway married Will +Shakspere the play-actor, ’tis scarcely kind to call all players +rogues and low.”</p> + +<p>“No more o’ this, Margaret,” cried Attwood, flushing angrily. “Thou art +ever too ready with the boy’s part against me. He shall na go—I’ll find +a thing or two for him to do among the vats that will take this taste +for idleness out of his mouth. He shall na go: so that be all there is +on it.” Rising abruptly, he left the room.</p> + +<p>Nick clenched his hands.</p> + +<p>“Nicholas,” said his mother, softly.</p> + +<p>“Yes, mother,” said he; “I know. But he should na flout thee so! And, +mother, the Queen goes to the play—father himself saw her at Coventry +ten years ago. Is what the Queen does idle folly?”</p> + +<p>His mother took him by the hand and drew him to her side, with a smile +that was half a sigh. “Art thou the Queen?”</p> + +<p>“Nay,” said he; “and it’s all the better for England, like enough. But +surely, mother, it can na be wrong—”</p> + +<p>“To honour thy father?” said she, quickly, laying her finger across his +lips. “Nay, lad; it is thy bounden duty.”</p> + +<p>Nick turned and looked up at her wonderingly. “Mother,” said he, “art +thou an angel come down out of heaven?”</p> + +<p>“Nay,” she answered, patting his flushed cheek; “I be only the every-day +mother of a fierce little son who hath many a hard, hard lesson to +learn. Now eat thy breakfast—thou hast been up a long while.”</p> + +<p>Nick kissed her impetuously and sat down, but his heart still rankled +within him.</p> + +<p>All Stratford would go to the play. He could hear the murmur of voices +and music, the bursts of laughter and applause, the tramp of happy feet +going up the guildhall stairs to the Mayor’s show. Everybody went in +free at the Mayor’s show. The other boys could stand on stools and see +it all. They could hold horses at the gate of the inn at the September +fair, and so see all the farces. They could see the famous Norwich +puppet-play. But he—what pleasure did he ever have? A tawdry pageant by +a lot of clumsy country bumpkins at Whitsuntide or Pentecost, or a silly +school-boy masque at Christmas, with the master scolding like a heathen +Turk. It was not fair.</p> + +<p>And now he’d have to work all May-day. May-day out of all the year! Why, +there was to be a May-pole and a morris-dance, and a roasted calf, too, +in Master Wainwright’s field, since Margery was chosen Queen of the May. +And Peter Finch was to be Robin Hood, and Nan Rogers Maid Marian, and +wear a kirtle of Kendal green—and, oh, but the May-pole would be brave; +high as the ridge of the guildschool roof, and hung with ribbons like a +rainbow! Geoffrey Hall was to lead the dance, too, and the other boys +and girls would all be there. And where would he be? Sousing hides in +the tannery vats. Truly his father was a hard man!</p> + +<p>He pushed the cheese away.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III<br /> +<span class='ph3'>THE LAST STRAW<br /></span></h2> + +<p>Little John Summer had a new horn-book that cost a silver penny. The +handle was carven and the horn was clear as honey. The other little boys +stood round about in speechless envy, or murmured their A B C’s and “ba +be bi’s” along the chapel steps. The lower-form boys were playing +leap-frog past the almshouse, and Geoffrey Gosse and the vicar’s son +were in the public gravel-pit, throwing stones at the robins in the +Great House elms across the lane.</p> + +<p>Some few dull fellows sat upon the steps behind the school-house, +anxiously poring over their books. But the larger boys of the Fable +Class stood in an excited group beneath the shadow of the overhanging +second story of the grammar-school, talking all at once, each louder +than the other, until the noise was deafening.</p> + +<p>“Oh, Nick, such goings on!” called Robin Getley, whose father was a +burgess, as Nick Attwood came slowly up the street, saying his sentences +for the day over and over to himself in hopeless desperation, having had +no time to learn them at home. “Stratford Council has had a quarrel, +and there’s to be no stage-play after all.”</p> + +<p>“What?” cried Nick, in amazement. “No stage-play? And why not?”</p> + +<p>“Why,” said Robin, “it was just this way—my father told me of it. Sir +Thomas Lucy, High Sheriff of Worcester, y’ know, rode in from Charlcote +yesternoon, and with him Sir Edward Greville of Milcote. So the +burgesses made a feast for them at the Swan Inn. Sir Thomas fetched a +fine, fat buck, and the town stood good for ninepence wine and twopence +bread, and broached a keg of sturgeon. And when they were all met +together there, eating, and drinking, and making merry—what? Why, in +came my Lord Admiral’s players from London town, ruffling it like high +dukes, and not caring two pops for Sir Thomas, or Sir Edward, or for +Stratford burgesses all in a heap; but sat them down at the table +straightway, and called for ale, as if they owned the place; and not +being served as soon as they desired, they laid hands upon Sir Thomas’s +server as he came in from the buttery with his tray full, and took both +meat and drink.”</p> + +<p>“What?” cried Nick.</p> + +<p>“As sure as shooting, they did!” said Robin; “and when Sir Thomas’s +gentry yeomen would have seen to it—what? Why, my Lord Admiral’s +master-player clapped his hand to his poniard-hilt, and dared them come +and take it if they could.”</p> + +<p>“To Sir Thomas Lucy’s men?” exclaimed Nick, aghast.</p> + +<p>“Ay, to their teeth! Sir Edward sprang up then, and said it was a shame +for players to behave so outrageously in Will Shakspere’s own home town. +And at that Sir Thomas, who, y’ know, has always misliked Will, flared +up like a bull at a red rag, and swore that all stage-players be +runagate rogues, anyway, and Will Shakspere neither more nor less than a +deer-stealing scape-gallows.”</p> + +<p>“Surely he did na say that in Stratford Council?” protested Nick.</p> + +<p>“Ay, but he did—that very thing,” said Robin; “and when that was out, +the master-player sprang upon the table, overturning half the ale, and +cried out that Will Shakspere was his very own true friend, and the +sweetest fellow in all England, and that whosoever gainsaid it was a +hemp-cracking rascal, and that he would prove it upon his back with a +quarter-staff whenever and wherever he chose, be he Sir Thomas Lucy, St. +George and the Dragon, Guy of Warwick, and the great dun cow, all rolled +up in one!”</p> + +<p>“Robin Getley, is this the very truth, or art thou cozening me?”</p> + +<p>“Upon my word, it is the truth,” said Robin. “And that’s not all. Sir +Edward cried out ‘Fie!’ upon the player for a saucy varlet; but the +fellow only laughed, and bowed quite low, and said that he took no +offense from Sir Edward for saying that, since it could not honestly be +denied, but that Sir Thomas did not know the truth from a truckle-bed in +broad daylight, and was but the remnant of a gentleman to boot.”</p> + +<p>“The bold-faced rogue!”</p> + +<p>“Ay, that he is,” nodded Robin; “and for his boldness Sir Thomas +straightway demanded that the High Bailiff refuse the company license to +play in Stratford.”</p> + +<p>“Refuse the Lord High Admiral’s players?”</p> + +<p>“Marry, no one else. And then Master John Shakspere, wroth at what Sir +Thomas had said of his son Will, vowed that he would send a letter down +to London town, and lay the whole coil before the Lord High Admiral +himself. For ever since that he was High Bailiff, the best companies of +England had always been bidden to play in Stratford, and it would be an +ill thing now to refuse the Lord Admiral’s company after granting +licenses to both my Lord Pembroke’s and the High Chamberlain’s.”</p> + +<p>“And so it would,” spoke up Walter Roche; “for there are our own +townsmen, Richard and Cuthbert Burbage, who are cousins of mine, and +John Hemynge and Thomas Greene, besides Will Shakspere and his brother +Edmund, all playing in the Lord Chamberlain’s company in London before +the Queen. It would be a black score against them all with the Lord +Admiral—I doubt not he would pay them out.”</p> + +<p>“That he would,” said Robin, “and so said my father and Alderman Henry +Walker, who, y’ know, is Will Shakspere’s own friend. And some of the +burgesses who cared not a rap for that were afeard of offending the Lord +Admiral. But Sir Thomas vowed that my Lord Howard was at Cadiz with +Walter Raleigh and the young Earl of Sussex, and would by no means hear +of it. So Master Bailiff Stubbes, who, ’tis said, doth owe Sir Thomas +forty pound, and is therefore under his thumb, forthwith refused the +company license to play in Stratford guildhall, inn-yard, or common. And +at that the master-player threw his glove into Master Stubbes’s face, +and called Sir Thomas a stupid old bell-wether, and Stratford burgesses +silly sheep for following wherever he chose to jump.”</p> + +<p>“And so they be,” sneered Hal Saddler.</p> + +<p>“How?” cried Robin, hotly. “My father is a burgess. Dost thou call him a +sheep, Hal Saddler?”</p> + +<p>“Nay, nay,” stammered Hal, hastily; “’twas not thy father I meant.”</p> + +<p>“Then hold thy tongue with both hands,” said Robin, sharply, “or it will +crack thy pate for thee some of these fine days.”</p> + +<p>“But come, Robin,” asked Nick, eagerly, “what became of the quarrel?”</p> + +<p>“Well, when the master-player threw his glove into Master Stubbes’s +face, the Chief Constable seized him for contempt of Stratford Council, +and held him for trial. At that some cried ‘Shame!’ and some ‘Hurrah!’ +but the rest of the players fled out of town in the night, lest their +baggage be taken by the law and they be fined.”</p> + +<p>“Whither did they go?” asked Nick, both sorry and glad to hear that they +were gone.</p> + +<p>“To Coventry, and left the master-player behind in gaol.”</p> + +<p>“Why, they dare na use him so—the Lord Admiral’s own man!”</p> + +<p>“Ay, that they don’t! Why, hark ’e, Nick! This morning, since Sir +Thomas has gone home, and the burgesses’ heads have all cooled down from +the sack and the clary they were in last night, la! but they are in a +pretty stew, my father says, for fear that they have given offense to +the Lord Admiral. So they have spoken the master-player softly, and +given him his freedom out of hand, and a long gold chain to twine about +his cap, to mend the matter with, beside.”</p> + +<p>“Whee-ew!” whistled Nick. “I wish I were a master-player!”</p> + +<p>“Oh, but he will not be pleased, and says he will have his revenge on +Stratford town if he must needs wait until the end of the world or go to +the Indies after it. And he has had his breakfast served in Master +Geoffrey Inchbold’s own room at the Swan, and swears that he will walk +the whole way to Coventry sooner than straddle the horse that the +burgesses have sent him to ride.”</p> + +<p>“What! Is he at the inn? Why, let’s go down and see him.”</p> + +<p>“Master Brunswood says that he will birch whoever cometh late,” objected +Hal Saddler.</p> + +<p>“Birch?” groaned Nick. “Why, he does nothing but birch! A fellow can na +say his ‘<i>sum, es, est</i>’ without catching it. And as for getting through +the ‘genitivo’ and ‘vocativo’ without a downright threshing—” He +shrugged his shoulders ruefully as he remembered his unlearned lesson. +Everything had gone wrong with him that morning, and the thought of the +birching that he was sure to get was more than he could bear. “I will +na stand it any longer—I’ll run away!”</p> + +<p>Kit Sedgewick laughed ironically. “And when the skies fall we’ll catch +sparrows, Nick Attwood,” said he. “Whither wilt thou run?”</p> + +<p>Stung by his tone of ridicule, Nick out with the first thing that came +into his head. “To Coventry, after the stage-players,” said he, +defiantly.</p> + +<p>The whole crowd gave an incredulous hoot.</p> + +<p>Nick’s face flushed. To be crossed at home, to be birched at school, to +work all May-day in the tannery vats, and to be laughed at—it was +too much.</p> + +<p>“Ye think that I will na? Well, I’ll show ye! ’Tis only eight miles to +Warwick, and hardly more than that beyond—no walk at all; and Diccon +Haggard, my mother’s cousin, lives in Coventry. So out upon your musty +Latin—English is good enough for me this day! There’s bluebells blowing +in the dingles, and cuckoo-buds no end. And while ye are all grinding at +your old Aesop I shall be roaming over the hills wherever I please.”</p> + +<p>As he spoke he thought of the dark, wainscoted walls of the school-room +with their narrow little windows overhead, of the foul-smelling floors +of the tannery in Southam’s lane, and his heart gave a great, rebellious +leap. “Ay,” said he, exultantly, “I shall be out where the birds can +sing and the grass is green, and I shall see the stage-play, while ye +will be mewed up all day long in school, and have nothing but a beggarly +morris and a farthing May-pole on the morrow.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, no doubt, no doubt,” said Hal Saddler, mockingly “We shall have +but bread and milk, and thou shalt have—a most glorious threshing from +thy father when thou comest home again!”</p> + +<p>That was the last straw to Nick’s unhappy heart.</p> + +<p>“’Tis a threshing either way,” said he, squaring his shoulders +doggedly. “Father will thresh me if I run away, and Master Brunswood +will thresh me if I don’t. I’ll not be birched four times a week for +merely tripping on a word, and have nothing to show for it but stripes. +If I must take a threshing, I’ll have my good day’s game out first.”</p> + +<p>“But wilt thou truly go to Coventry, Nick?” asked Robin Getley, +earnestly, for he liked Nick more than all the rest.</p> + +<p>“Ay, truly, Robin—that I will”; and, turning, Nick walked swiftly away +toward the market-place, never looking back.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV<br /> +<span class='ph3'>OFF FOR COVENTRY<br /></span></h2> + +<p>At the Bridge street crossing Nick paused irresolute. Around the public +pump a chattering throng of housewives were washing out their towels and +hanging them upon the market-cross to dry. Along the stalls in Middle +Row the grumbling shopmen were casting up their sales from tallies +chalked upon their window-ledges, or cuffing their tardy apprentices +with no light hand.</p> + +<p>John Gibson’s cart was hauling gravel from the pits in Henley street to +mend the causeway at the bridge, which had been badly washed by the late +spring floods, and the fine sand dribbled from the cart-tail like the +sand in an hour-glass.</p> + +<p>Here and there loutish farm-hands waited for work; and at the corner two +or three stout cudgel-men leaned upon their long staves, although the +market was two days closed, and there was not a Coventry merchant in +sight to be driven away from Stratford trade.</p> + +<p>Goody Baker with her shovel and broom of twigs was sweeping up the +market litter in the square. Nick wondered if his own mother’s back +would be so bent when she grew old.</p> + +<p>“Whur be-est going, Nick?”</p> + +<p>Roger Dawson sat astride a stick of timber in front of Master Geoffrey +Thompson’s new house, watching Tom Carpenter the carver cut fleur-de-lis +and curling traceries upon the front wall beams. He was a +tenant-farmer’s son, this Roger, and a likely good-for-naught.</p> + +<p>“To Coventry,” said Nick, curtly.</p> + +<p>“Wilt take a fellow wi’ thee?”</p> + +<p>Poor company might be better than none.</p> + +<p>“Come on.”</p> + +<p>Roger lumbered to his feet and trotted after.</p> + +<p>“No school to-day?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“Not for me,” answered Nick, shortly, for he did not care to talk about +it.</p> + +<p>“Faither wull na have I go to school, since us ha’ comed to town, an’ +plough-land sold for grazings,” drawled Roger; “Muster Pine o’ Welford +saith that I ha’ learned as much as faither ever knowed, an’ ’tis enow +for I. Faither saith it maketh saucy rogues o’ sons to know more than +they’s own dads.”</p> + +<p>Nick wondered if it did. His own father could neither read nor write, +while he could do both and had some Latin, too. At the thought of the +Latin he made a wry face.</p> + +<p>“Joe Carter be-eth in the stocks,” said Roger, peering through the +jeering crowd about the pillory and post; “a broke Tom Samson’s pate wi’ +’s ale-can yestreen.”</p> + +<p class='ctr'><a name="illus0342"></a> +<a href="images/illus0342.jpg"> +<img src="images/illus0342.jpg" width="40%" alt="" /> +</a><br /> +<b>“‘WHUR BE-EST GOING, NICK?’ ASKED ROGER DAWSON.”</b> +<br /></p> + +<p>But Nick pushed on. A few ruddy-faced farmers and drovers from the +Bed Horse Vale still lingered at the Boar Inn door and by the tap-room +of the Crown; and in the middle of the street a crowd of salters, +butchers, and dealers in hides, with tallow-smeared doublets and +doubtful hose, were squabbling loudly about the prices set upon +their wares.</p> + +<p>In the midst of them Nick saw his father, and scurried away into Back +Bridge street as fast as he could, feeling very near a sneak, but far +from altering his purpose.</p> + +<p>“Job Hortop,” said Simon Attwood to his apprentice at his side, looking +out suddenly over the crowd, “was that my Nick yonder?”</p> + +<p>“Nay, master, could na been,” said Job, stolidly; “Nick be-eth in school +by now—the clock ha’ struck. ’Twas Dawson’s Hodge and some like +ne’er-do-well.”</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V<br /> +<span class='ph3'>IN THE WARWICK ROAD<br /></span></h2> + +<p>The land was full of morning sounds as the lads trudged along the +Warwick road together. An ax rang somewhere deep in the woods of Arden; +cart-wheels ruttled on the stony road; a blackbird whistled shrilly in +the hedge, and they heard the deep-tongued belling of hounds far off in +Fulbroke park.</p> + +<p>Now and then a heron, rising from the river, trailed its long legs +across the sky, or a kingfisher sparkled in his own splash. Once a +lonely fisherman down by the Avon started a wild duck from the sedge, +and away it went pattering up-stream with frightened wings and red feet +running along the water. And then a river-rat plumped into the stream +beneath the willows, and left a long string of bubbles behind him.</p> + +<p>Nick’s ill humor soon wore off as he breathed the fresh air, moist from +lush meadows, and sweet from hedges pink and white with hawthorn bloom. +The thought of being pent up on such a day grew more and more +unbearable, and a blithe sense of freedom from all restraint blunted the +prick of conscience.</p> + +<p>“Why art going to Coventry, Nick?” inquired Roger suddenly, startled by +a thought coming into his wits like a child by a bat in the room.</p> + +<p>“To see the stage-play that the burgesses would na allow in Stratford.”</p> + +<p>“Wull I see, too?”</p> + +<p>“If thou hast eyes—the Mayor’s show is free.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, feckins, wun’t it be fine?” gaped Hodge. “Be it a tailors’ show, +Nick, wi’ Herod the King, and a rope for to hang Judas? An’ wull they +set the world afire wi’ a torch, an’ make the earth quake fearful wi’ a +barrel full o’ stones? Or wull it be Sin in a motley gown a-thumping the +Black Man over the pate wi’ a bladder full o’ peasen—an’ angels wi’ +silver wingses, an’ saints wi’ goolden hair? Or wull it be a giant nine +yards high, clad in the beards o’ murdered kings, like granny saith she +used to see?”</p> + +<p>“Pshaw! no,” said Nick; “none of those old-fashioned things. These be +players from London town, and I hope they’ll play a right good English +history-play, like ‘The Famous Victories of Henry Fift,’ to turn a +fellow’s legs all goose-flesh!”</p> + +<p>Hodge stopped short in the road. “La!” said he, “I’ll go no furder if +they turn me to a goose. I wunnot be turned goose, Nick Attwood—an’ a +plague on all witches, says I!”</p> + +<p>“Oh, pshaw!” laughed Nick; “come on. No witch in the world could turn +thee bigger goose than thou art now. Come along wi’ thee; there be no +witches there at all.”</p> + +<p>“Art sure thou ’rt not bedaffing me?” hesitated Hodge. “Good, then; I +be na feared. Art sure there be no witches?”</p> + +<p>“Why,” said Nick, “would Master Burgess John Shakspere leave his son +Will to do with witches?”</p> + +<p>“I dunno,” faltered Hodge; “a told Muster Robin Bowles it was na right +to drownd ’em in the river.”</p> + +<p>Nick hesitated. “Maybe it kills the fish,” said he; “and Master Will +Shakspere always liked to fish. But they burn witches in London, Hodge, +and he has na put a stop to it—and he’s a great man in London town.”</p> + +<p>Hodge came on a little way, shaking his head like an old sheep in a +corner. “Wully Shaxper a great man?” said he. “Why, a’s name be cut on +the old beech-tree up Snitterfield lane, where’s uncle Henry Shaxper +lives, an’ ’tis but poorly done. I could do better wi’ my own whittle.”</p> + +<p>“Ay, Hodge,” cried Nick; “and that’s about all thou canst do. Dost think +that a man’s greatness hangs on so little a thing as his sleight of hand +at cutting his name on a tree?”</p> + +<p>“Wull, maybe; maybe not; but if a be a great man, Nick Attwood, a might +do a little thing passing well—so there, now!”</p> + +<p>Nick pondered for a moment. “I do na know,” said he, slowly; “heaps of +men can do the little things, but parlous few the big. So some one must +be bigging it, or folks would all sing very small. And he doeth the big +most beautiful, they say. They call him the Swan of Avon.”</p> + +<p>“Avon swans be mostly geese,” said Hodge, vacantly.</p> + +<p>“Now, look ’e here, Hodge Dawson, don’t thou be calling Master Will +Shakspere goose. He married my own mother’s cousin, and I will na +have it.”</p> + +<p>“La, now,” drawled Hodge, staring, “’tis nowt to me. Thy Muster Wully +Shaxper may be all the long-necked fowls in Warrickshire for all I care. +And, anyway, I’d like to know, Nick Attwood, since when hath a been +‘<i>Muster</i> Shaxper’—that ne’er-do-well, play-actoring fellow?”</p> + +<p>“Ne’er-do-well? It is na so. When he was here last summer he was bravely +dressed, and had a heap of good gold nobles in his purse. And he gave +Rick Hawkins, that’s blind of an eye, a shilling for only holding +his horse.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, ay,” drawled Hodge; “a fool and a’s money be soon parted.”</p> + +<p>“Will Shakspere is no fool,” declared Nick, hotly. “He’s made a peck o’ +money there in London town, and ’s going to buy the Great House in +Chapel lane, and come back here to live.”</p> + +<p>“Then a ’s a witless azzy!” blurted Hodge. “If a ’s so great a man +amongst the lords and earlses, a ’d na come back to Stratford. An’ I say +a ’s a witless loon—so there!”</p> + +<p>Nick whirled around in the road. “And I say, Hodge Dawson,” he exclaimed +with flashing eyes, “that ’tis a shame for a lout like thee to so +miscall thy thousand-time betters. And what’s more, thou shalt unsay +that, or I will make thee swallow thy words right here and now!”</p> + +<p>“I’d loike to see thee try,” Hodge began; but the words were scarcely +out of his mouth when he found himself stretched on the grass, Nick +Attwood bending over him.</p> + +<p>“There! thou hast seen it tried. Now come, take that back, or I will +surely box thine ears for thee.”</p> + +<p>Hodge blinked and gaped, collecting his wits, which had scattered to the +four winds. “Whoy,” said he, vaguely, “if ’tis all o’ that to thee, I +take it back.”</p> + +<p>Nick rose, and Hodge scrambled clumsily to his feet. “I’ll na go wi’ +thee,” said he, sulkily; “I will na go whur I be whupped.”</p> + +<p>Nick turned on his heel without a word, and started on.</p> + +<p>“An’ what’s more,” bawled Hodge after him, “thy Muster Wully Shaxper +be-eth an old gray goose, an’ boo to he, says I!”</p> + +<p>As he spoke he turned, dived through the thin hedge, and galloped across +the field as if an army were at his heels.</p> + +<p>Nick started back, but quickly paused. “Thou needst na run,” he called; +“I’ve not the time to catch thee now. But mind ye this, Hodge Dawson: +when I do come back, I’ll teach thee who thy betters be—Will Shakspere +first of all!”</p> + +<p>“Well crowed, well crowed, my jolly cockerel!” on a sudden called a +keen, high voice beyond the hedge behind him.</p> + +<p>Nick, startled, whirled about just in time to see a stranger leap the +hedge and come striding up the road.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI<br /> +<span class='ph3'>THE MASTER-PLAYER<br /></span></h2> + +<p>He had trim, straight legs, this stranger, and a slender, lithe body in +a tawny silken jerkin. Square-shouldered, too, was he, and over one +shoulder hung a plum-colored cloak bordered with gold braid. His long +hose were the color of his cloak, and his shoes were russet leather, +with rosettes of plum, and such high heels as Nick had never seen +before. His bonnet was of tawny velvet, with a chain twisted round it, +fastened by a jeweled brooch through which was thrust a curly +cock-feather. A fine white Holland-linen shirt peeped through his jerkin +at the throat, with a broad lace collar; and his short hair curled +crisply all over his head. He had a little pointed beard, and the ends +of his mustache were twisted so that they stood up fiercely on either +side of his sharp nose. At his side was a long Italian poniard in a +sheath of russet leather and silver filigree, and he had a reckless, +high and mighty fling about his stride that strangely took the eye.</p> + +<p>Nick stood, all taken by surprise, and stared.</p> + +<p>The stranger seemed to like it, but scowled nevertheless. “What! How +now?” he cried sharply. “Dost like or like me not?”</p> + +<p>“Why, sir,” stammered Nick, utterly lost for anything to say—“why, +sir,—” and knowing nothing else to do, he took off his cap and bowed.</p> + +<p>“Come, come,” snapped the stranger, stamping his foot, “I am a swashing, +ruffling, desperate Dick, and not to be made a common jest for Stratford +dolts to giggle at. What! These legs, that have put on the very gentleman +in proud Verona’s streets, laid in Stratford’s common stocks, like a +silly apprentice’s slouching heels? Nay, nay; some one should taste old +Bless-his-heart here first!” and with that he clapped his hand upon the +hilt of his poniard, with a wonderful swaggering tilt of his shoulders. +“Dost take me, boy?”</p> + +<p>“Why, sir,” hesitated Nick, no little awed by the stranger’s wild words +and imperious way, “ye surely are the master-player.”</p> + +<p>“There!” cried the stranger, whirling about, as if defying some one in +the hedge. “Who said I could not act? Why, see, he took me at a touch! +Say, boy,” he laughed, and turned to Nick, “thou art no fool. Why, boy, +I say I love thee now for this, since what hath passed in Stratford. A +murrain on the town! Dost hear me, boy?—a black murrain on the town!” +And all at once he made such a fierce stride toward Nick, gritting his +white teeth, and clapping his hand upon his poniard, that Nick drew back +afraid of him.</p> + +<p class='ctr'><a name="illus0344"></a> +<a href="images/illus0344.jpg"> +<img src="images/illus0344.jpg" width="40%" alt="" /> +</a><br /> +<b>“‘WHAT! HOW NOW?’ CRIED THE STRANGER, SHARPLY. ‘DOST LIKE +OR LIKE ME NOT?’”</b> +<br /></p> + +<p>“But nay,” hissed the stranger, and spat with scorn, “a town like +that is its own murrain—let it sicken on itself!”</p> + +<p>He struck an attitude, and waved his hand as if he were talking quite as +much to the trees and sky as he was to Nick Attwood, and looked about +him as if waiting for applause. Then all at once he laughed,—a +rollicking, merry laugh,—and threw off his furious manner as one does +an old coat. “Well, boy,” said he, with a quiet smile, looking kindly at +Nick, “thou art a right stanch little friend to all of us stage-players. +And I thank thee for it in Will Shakspere’s name; for he is the sweetest +fellow of us all.”</p> + +<p>His voice was simple, frank, and free—so different from the mad tone in +which he had just been ranting that Nick caught his breath +with surprise.</p> + +<p>“Nay, lad, look not so dashed,” said the master-player, merrily; “that +was only old Jem Burbage’s mighty tragic style; and I—I am only Gaston +Carew, hail-fellow-well-met with all true hearts. Be known to me, lad; +what is thy name? I like thy open, pretty face.”</p> + +<p>Nick flushed. “Nicholas Attwood is my name, sir.”</p> + +<p>“Nicholas Attwood? Why, it is a good name. Nick Attwood,—young Nick,—I +hope Old Nick will never catch thee—upon my word I do, and on the +remnant of mine honour! Thou hast taken a player’s part like a man, and +thou art a good fellow, Nicholas Attwood, and I love thee. So thou art +going to Coventry to see the players act? Surely thine is a nimble wit +to follow fancy nineteen miles. Come; I am going to Coventry to join my +fellows. Wilt thou go with me, Nick, and dine with us this night at the +best inn in all Coventry—the Blue Boar? Thou hast quite plucked up my +downcast heart for me, lad, indeed thou hast; for I was sore of +Stratford town—and I shall not soon forget thy plucky fending for our +own sweet Will. Come, say thou wilt go with me.”</p> + +<p>“Indeed, sir,” said Nick, bowing again, his head all in a whirl of +excitement at this wonderful adventure, “indeed I will, and that right +gladly, sir.” And with heart beating like a trip-hammer he walked along, +cap in hand, not knowing that his head was bare.</p> + +<p>The master-player laughed a simple, hearty laugh. “Why, Nick,” said he, +laying his hand caressingly upon the boy’s shoulder, “I am no such great +to-do as all that—upon my word, I’m not! A man of some few parts, +perhaps, not common in the world; but quite a plain fellow, after all. +Come, put off this high humility and be just friendly withal. Put on thy +cap; we are but two good faring-fellows here.”</p> + +<p>So Nick put on his cap, and they went on together, Nick in the seventh +heaven of delight.</p> + +<p>About a mile beyond Stratford, Welcombe wood creeps down along the left. +Just beyond, the Dingles wind irregularly up from the foot-path below to +the crest of Welcombe hill, through straggling clumps and briery +hollows, sweet with nodding bluebells, ash, and hawthorn.</p> + +<p>Nick and the master-player paused a moment at the top to catch their +breath and to look back.</p> + +<p>Stratford and the valley of the Avon lay spread before them like a +picture of peace, studded with blossoming orchards and girdled with +spring. Northward the forest of Arden clad the rolling hills. Southward +the fields of Feldon stretched away to the blue knolls beyond which lay +Oxford and Northamptonshire. The ragged stretches of Snitterfield downs +scrambled away to the left; and on the right, beyond Bearley, were the +wooded uplands where Guy of Warwick and Heraud of Arden slew the wild ox +and the boar. And down through the midst ran the Avon southward, like a +silver ribbon slipped through Kendal green, to where the Stour comes +down, past Luddington, to Bidford, and away to the misty hills.</p> + +<p>“Why,” exclaimed the master-player—“why, upon my word, it is a fair +town—as fair a town as the heart of man could wish. Wish? I wish ’t +were sunken in the sea, with all its pack of fools! Why,” said he, +turning wrathfully upon Nick, “that old Sir Thingumbob of thine, down +there, called me a caterpillar on the kingdom of England, a vagabond, +and a common player of interludes! Called me vagabond! Me! Why, I have +more good licenses than he has wits. And as to Master Bailiff Stubbes, I +have permits to play from more justices of the peace than he can shake a +stick at in a month of Sundays!” He shook his fist wrathfully at the +distant town, and gnawed his mustache until one side pointed up and the +other down. “But, hark ’e, boy, I’ll have my vengeance on them all—ay, +that will I, upon my word, and on the remnant of mine honour—or else my +name’s not Gaston Carew!”</p> + +<p>“Is it true, sir,” asked Nick, hesitatingly, “that they despitefully +handled you?”</p> + +<p>“With their tongues, ay,” said Carew, bitterly; “but not otherwise.” He +clapped his hand upon his poniard, and threw back his head defiantly. +“They dared not come to blows—they knew my kind! Yet John Shakspere is +no bad sort—he knoweth what is what. But Master Bailiff Stubbes, I +ween, is a long-eared thing that brays for thistles. I’ll thistle him! +He called Will Shakspere rogue. Hast ever looked through a red glass?”</p> + +<p>“Nay,” said Nick.</p> + +<p>“Well, it turns the whole world red. And so it is with Master Stubbes. +He looks through a pair of rogue’s eyes and sees the whole world rogue. +Why, boy,” cried the master-player, vehemently, “he thought to buy my +tongue! Marry, if tongues were troubles he has bought himself a peck! +What! Buy my silence? Nay, he’ll see a deadly flash of silence when I +come to my Lord the Admiral again!”</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII<br /> +<span class='ph3'>“WELL SUNG, MASTER SKYLARK!”<br /></span></h2> + +<p>It was past high noon, and they had long since left Warwick castle far +behind. “Nicholas,” said the master-player, in the middle of a stream of +amazing stories of life in London town, “there is Blacklow knoll.” He +pointed to a little hill off to the left.</p> + +<p>Nick stared; he knew the tale: how grim old Guy de Beauchamp had Piers +Gaveston’s head upon that hill for calling him the Black Hound of Arden.</p> + +<p>“Ah!” said Carew, “times have changed since then, boy, when thou couldst +have a man’s head off for calling thee a name—or I would have yon +Master Bailiff Stubbes’s head off short behind the ears—and Sir Thomas +Lucy’s too!” he added, with a sudden flash of anger, gritting his teeth +and clenching his hand upon his poniard. “But, Nicholas, hast +anything to eat?”</p> + +<p>“Nothing at all, sir.”</p> + +<p>Master Carew pulled from his pouch some barley-cakes and half a small +Banbury cheese, yellow as gold and with a keen, sharp savour. “’Tis +enough for both of us,” said he, as they came to a shady little wood +with a clear, mossy-bottomed spring running down into a green meadow +with a mild noise, murmuring among the stones. “Come along, Nicholas; +we’ll eat it under the trees.”</p> + +<p>He had a small flask of wine, but Nick drank no wine, and went down to +the spring instead. There was a wild bird singing in a bush there, and +as he trotted down the slope it hushed its wandering tune. Nick took the +sound up softly, and stood by the wet stones a little while, imitating +the bird’s trilling note, and laughing to hear it answer timidly, as if +it took him for some great new bird without wings. Cocking its shy head +and watching him shrewdly with its beady eye, it sat, almost persuaded +that it was only size which made them different, until Nick clapped his +cap upon his head and strolled back, singing as he went.</p> + +<p>It was only the thread of an old-fashioned madrigal which he had often +heard his mother sing, with quaint words long since gone out of style +and hardly to be understood, and between the staves a warbling, wordless +refrain which he had learned out on the hills and in the +fields, picked up from a bird’s glad-throated morning-song.</p> + +<p>He had always sung the plain-tunes in church without taking any +particular thought about it; and he sang easily, with a clear young +voice which had a full, flute-like note in it like the high, sweet song +of a thrush singing in deep woods.</p> + +<p>Gaston Carew, the master-player, was sitting with his back against an +oak, placidly munching the last of the cheese, when Nick began to sing. +He started, straightening up as if some one had called him suddenly out +of a sound sleep, and, turning his head, listened eagerly.</p> + +<p>Nick mocked the wild bird, called again with a mellow, warbling trill, +and then struck up the quaint old madrigal with the bird’s song running +through it. Carew leaped to his feet, with a flash in his dark eyes. “My +soul! my soul!” he exclaimed in an excited undertone. “It is not—nay, +it cannot be—why, ’tis—it is the boy! Upon my heart, he hath a skylark +prisoned in his throat! <i>Well sung, well sung, Master Skylark!”</i> he +cried, clapping his hands in real delight, as Nick came singing up the +bank. “Why, lad, I vow I thought thou wert up in the sky somewhere, with +wings to thy back! Where didst thou learn that wonder-song?”</p> + +<p>Nick colored up, quite taken aback. “I do na know, sir,” said he; +“mother learned me part, and the rest just came, I think, sir.”</p> + +<p>The master-player, his whole face alive and eager, now stared at +Nicholas Attwood as fixedly as Nick had stared at him.</p> + +<p>It was a hearty little English lad he saw, about eleven years of age, +tall, slender, trimly built, and fair. A gray cloth cap clung to the +side of his curly yellow head, and he wore a sleeveless jerkin of +dark-blue serge, gray home-spun hose, and heelless shoes of russet +leather. The white sleeves of his linen shirt were open to the elbow, +and his arms were lithe and brown. His eyes were frankly clear and +blue, and his red mouth had a trick of smiling that went straight to a +body’s heart.</p> + +<p>“Why, lad, lad,” cried Carew, breathlessly, “thou hast a very fortune in +thy throat!”</p> + +<p>Nick looked up in great surprise; and at that the master-player broke +off suddenly and said no more, though such a strange light came creeping +into his eyes that Nick, after meeting his fixed stare for a moment, +asked uneasily if they would not better be going on.</p> + +<p>Without a word the master-player started. Something had come into his +head which seemed to more than fill his mind; for as he strode along he +whistled under his breath and laughed softly to himself. Then again he +snapped his fingers and took a dancing step or two across the road, and +at last fell to talking aloud to himself, though Nick could not make out +a single word he said, for it was in some foreign language.</p> + +<p>“Nicholas,” he said suddenly, as they passed the winding lane that leads +away to Kenilworth—“Nicholas, dost know any other songs like that?”</p> + +<p>“Not just like that, sir,” answered Nick, not knowing what to make of +his companion’s strange new mood; “but I know Master Will Shakspere’s +‘Then nightly sings the staring owl, tu-who, tu-whit, tu-who!’ and ‘The +ousel-cock so black of hue, with orange-tawny bill,’ and then, too, I +know the throstle’s song that goes with it.”</p> + +<p>“Why, to be sure—to be sure thou knowest old Nick Bottom’s song, for +isn’t thy name Nick? Well met, both song and singer—well met, I say! +Nay,” he said hastily, seeing Nick about to speak; “I do not care to +hear thee talk. Sing me all thy songs. I am hungry as a wolf for songs. +Why, Nicholas, I must have songs! Come, lift up that honeyed throat of +thine and sing another song. Be not so backward; surely I love thee, +Nick, and thou wilt sing all of thy songs for me.”</p> + +<p>He laid his hand on Nick’s shoulder in his kindly way, and kept step +with him like a bosom friend, so that Nick’s heart beat high with pride, +and he sang all the songs he knew as they walked along.</p> + +<p>Carew listened intently, and sometimes with a fierce eagerness that +almost frightened the boy; and sometimes he frowned, and said under his +breath, “Tut, tut, that will not do!” but oftener he laughed without a +sound, nodding his head in time to the lilting tune, and seeming vastly +pleased with Nick, the singing, and last, but not least, with himself.</p> + +<p>And when Nick had ended the master-player had not a word to say, but for +half a mile gnawed his mustache in nervous silence, and looked Nick all +over with a long and earnest look.</p> + +<p>Then suddenly he slapped his thigh, and tossed his head back boldly. +“I’ll do it,” he said; “I’ll do it if I dance on air for it! I’ll have +it out of Master Stubbes and canting Stratford town, or may I never +thrive! My soul! it is the very thing. His eyes are like twin holidays, +and he breathes the breath of spring. Nicholas, Nicholas +Skylark,—Master Skylark,—why, it is a good name, in sooth, a very +good name! I’ll do it—I will, upon my word, and on the remnant of +mine honour!”</p> + +<p>“Did ye speak to me, sir?” asked Nick, timidly.</p> + +<p>“Nay, Nicholas; I was talking to the moon.”</p> + +<p>“Why, sir, the moon has not come yet,” said Nick, staring into the +western sky.</p> + +<p>“To be sure,” replied Master Carew, with a queer laugh. “Well, the +silvery jade has missed the first act.”</p> + +<p>“Oh,” cried Nick, reminded of the purpose of his long walk, “what will +ye play for the Mayor’s play, sir?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know,” replied Carew, carelessly; “it will all be done before I +come. They will have had the free play this afternoon, so as to catch +the pence of all the May-day crowd to-morrow.”</p> + +<p>Nick stopped in the road, and his eyes filled up with tears, so quick +and bitter was the disappointment. “Why,” he cried, with a tremble in +his tired voice, “I thought the free play would be on the morrow—and +now I have not a farthing to go in!”</p> + +<p>“Tut, tut, thou silly lad!” laughed Carew, frankly; “am I thy friend for +naught? What! let thee walk all the way to Coventry, and never see the +play? Nay, on my soul! Why, Nick, I love thee, lad; and I’ll do for thee +in the twinkling of an eye. Canst thou speak lines by heart? Well, then, +say these few after me, and bear them in thy mind.”</p> + +<p>And thereupon he hastily repeated some half a dozen disconnected lines +in a high, reciting tone.</p> + +<p>“Why, sir,” cried Nick, bewildered, “it is a part!”</p> + +<p>“To be sure,” said Carew, laughing, “it is a part—and a part of a very +good whole, too—a comedy by young Tom Heywood, that would make a graven +image split its sides with laughing; and do thou just learn that part, +good Master Skylark, and thou shalt say it in to-morrow’s play.”</p> + +<p>“What, Master Carew!” gasped Nick. “I—truly? With the Lord Admiral’s +players?”</p> + +<p>“Why, to be sure!” cried the master-player, in great glee, clapping him +upon the back. “Didst think I meant a parcel of dirty tinkers? Nay, lad; +thou art just the very fellow for the part—my lady’s page should be a +pretty lad, and, soul o’ me, thou art that same! And, Nick, thou shalt +sing Tom Heywood’s newest song. It is a pretty song; it is a lark-song +like thine own.”</p> + +<p>Nick could hardly believe his ears. To act with the Lord Admiral’s +company! To sing with them before all Coventry! It passed the wildest +dream that he had ever dreamed. What would the boys in Stratford say? +Aha! they would laugh on the other side of their mouths now!</p> + +<p>“But will they have me, sir?” he asked doubtfully.</p> + +<p>“Have thee?” said Master Carew, haughtily. “If I say go, thou shalt go. +I am master here. And I tell thee, Nick, that thou shalt see the play, +and be the play, in part, and—well, we shall see what we shall see.”</p> + +<p>With that he fell to humming and chuckling to himself, as if he had +swallowed a water-mill, while Nick turned ecstatic cart-wheels along the +grass beside the road, until presently Coventry came in sight.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII<br /> +<span class='ph3'>THE ADMIRAL’S COMPANY<br /></span></h2> + +<p>The ancient city of Coventry stands upon a little hill, with old St. +Michael’s steeple and the spire of Holy Trinity church rising above it +against the sky; and as the master-player and the boy came climbing +upward from the south, walls, towers, chimneys, and red-tiled roofs were +turned to gold by the glow of the setting sun.</p> + +<p>To Nick it seemed as if a halo overhung the town—a ruddy glory and a +wonder bright; for here the Grey Friars of the great monastery had +played their holy mysteries and miracle-plays for over a hundred years; +here the trade-guilds had held their pageants when the friars’ day was +done; here were all the wonders that old men told by winter fires.</p> + +<p>People were coming and going through the gates like bees about a hive, +and in the distance Nick could hear the sound of many voices, the rush +of feet, wheels, and hoofs, and the shrill pipe of music. Here and there +were little knots of country folk making holiday: a father and mother +with a group of rosy children; a lad and his lass, spruce in new +finery, and gay with bits of ribbon—merry groups that were ever +changing. Gay banners flapped on tall ash staves. The suburb fields were +filled with booths and tents and stalls and butts for archery. The very +air seemed eager with the eve of holiday.</p> + +<p>But what to Nick was breathless wonder was to Carew only a twice-told +tale; so he pushed through the crowded thoroughfares, amid a throng that +made Nick’s head spin round, and came quickly to the Blue Boar Inn.</p> + +<p>The court was crowded to the gates with horses, travelers, and +serving-men; and here and there and everywhere rushed the busy +innkeeper, with a linen napkin fluttering on his arm, his cap half off, +and in his hot hand a pewter flagon, from which the brown ale dripped in +spatters on his fat legs as he flew.</p> + +<p>“They’re here,” said Carew, looking shrewdly about; “for there is +Gregory Goole, my groom, and Stephen Magelt, the tire-man. In with thee, +Nicholas.”</p> + +<p>He put Nick before him with a little air of patronage, and pushed him +into the room.</p> + +<p>It was a large, low chamber with heavy beams overhead, hung with leather +jacks and pewter tankards. Around the walls stood rough tables, at which +a medley of guests sat eating, drinking, dicing, playing at cards, and +talking loudly all at once, while the tapster and the cook’s knave sped +wildly about.</p> + +<p>At a great table in the midst of the riot sat the Lord High Admiral’s +players—a score or more loud-swashing gallants, richly clad in ruffs +and bands, embroidered shirts, Italian doublets slashed and laced, +Venetian hose, gay velvet caps with jeweled bands, and every man a +poniard or a rapier at his hip. Nick felt very much like a little brown +sparrow in a flock of gaudy Indian birds.</p> + +<p>The board was loaded down with meat and drink, and some of the players +were eating with forks, a new trick from the London court, which Nick +had never seen before. But all the diners looked up when Carew’s face +was recognized, and welcomed him with a deafening shout.</p> + +<p>He waved his hand for silence.</p> + +<p>“Thanks for these kind plaudits, gentle friends,” said he, with a +mocking air; “I have returned.”</p> + +<p>“Yes; we see that ye have, Gaston,” they all shouted, and laughed again.</p> + +<p>“Ay,” said he, thrusting his hand into his pouch, “ye fled, and left me +to be spoiled by the spoiler, but ye see I have left the +spoiler spoiled.”</p> + +<p>Lifting his hand triumphantly, he shook in their faces the golden chain +that the burgesses of Stratford had given him, and then, laying his hand +upon Nick’s shoulder, bowed to them all, and to him with courtly grace, +and said: “Be known, be known, all! Gentlemen, my Lord Admiral’s +Players, Master Nicholas Skylark, the sweetest singer in all the kingdom +of England!”</p> + +<p>Nick’s cheeks flushed hotly, and his eyes fell; for they all stared +curiously, first at him, and then at Carew standing up behind him, and +several grinned mockingly and winked in a knowing way. He stole a look +at Carew; but the master-player’s face was frank and quite unmoved, so +that Nick felt reassured.</p> + +<p>“Why, sirs,” said Carew, as some began to laugh and to speak to one +another covertly, “it is no jest. He hath a sweeter voice than Cyril +Davy’s, the best woman’s-voice in all London town. Upon my word, it is +the sweetest voice a body ever heard—outside of heaven and the holy +angels!” He lowered his tone and bowed his head a little. “I’ll stake +mine honour on it!”</p> + +<p>“Hast any, Gaston?” called a jeering voice, whereat the whole room +roared.</p> + +<p>But Carew cried again in a high voice that would be heard above the +noise: “Now, hark ’e; what I say is so. It is, upon my word, and on the +remnant of mine honour! And to-morrow ye shall see, for Master Skylark +is to sing and play with us.”</p> + +<p>When he had said that, nothing would do but Nick must sit down and eat +with them; so they made a place for him and for Master Carew.</p> + +<p>Nick bent his head and said a grace, at which some of them laughed, +until Carew shook his head with a stern frown; and before he ate he +bowed politely to them all, as his mother had taught him to do. They all +bowed mockingly, and hilariously offered him wine, which, when he +refused, they pressed upon him, until Carew stopped them, saying that he +would have no more of that. As he spoke he clapped his hand upon his +poniard and scowled blackly. They all laughed, but offered Nick no more +wine; instead, they picked him choice morsels, and made a great deal of +him, until his silly young head was quite turned, and he sat up and gave +himself a few airs—not many, for Stratford was no great place in which +to pick up airs.</p> + +<p>When they had eaten they wanted Nick to sing; but again Carew +interposed. “Nay,” said he; “he hath just eaten his fill, so he cannot +sing. Moreover, he is no jackdaw to screech in such a cage as this. He +shall not sing until to-morrow in the play.”</p> + +<p>At this some of the leading players who held shares in the venture +demurred, doubting if Nick could sing at all; but—“Hark ’e,” said +Master Carew, shortly, clapping his hand upon his poniard, “I say that +he can. Do ye take me?”</p> + +<p>So they said no more; and shortly after he took Nick away, and left them +over their tankards, singing uproariously.</p> + +<p>The Blue Boar Inn had not a bed to spare, nor had the players kept a +place for Carew; at which he smiled grimly, said he’d not forget it, and +took lodgings for himself and Nick at the Three Tuns in the next street.</p> + +<p>Nick spoke indeed of his mother’s cousin, with whom he had meant to +stay, but the master-player protested warmly; so, little loath, and much +flattered by the attentions of so great a man, Nick gave over the idea +and said no more about it.</p> + +<p>When the chamberlain had shown them to their room and they were both +undressed, Nick knelt beside the bed and said a prayer, as he always did +at home. Carew watched him curiously. It was quiet there, and the light +dim; Nick was young, and his yellow hair was very curly. Carew could +hear the faint breath murmuring through the boy’s lips as he prayed, and +while he stared at the little white figure his mouth twitched in a queer +way. But he tossed his head, and muttered to himself, “What, Gaston +Carew, turning soft? Nay, nay. I’ll do it—on my soul, I will!” rolled +into bed, and was soon fast asleep.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>As for Nick, what with the excitement of the day, the dazzling fancies +in his brain, his tired legs, the weird night noises in the town, and +strange, tremendous dreams, he scarce could get to sleep at all; but +toward morning he fell into a refreshing doze, and did not wake until +the town was loud with May.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX<br /> +<span class='ph3'>THE MAY-DAY PLAY<br /></span></h2> + +<p>It was soon afternoon. All Coventry was thronged with people keeping +holiday, and at the Blue Boar a scene of wild confusion reigned.</p> + +<p>Tap-room and hall were crowded with guests, and in the cobbled court +horses innumerable stamped and whinnied. The players, with knitted +brows, stalked about the quieter nooks, going over their several parts, +and looking to their costumes, which were for the most part upon their +backs; while the thumping and pounding of the carpenters at work upon +the stage in the inn-yard were enough to drive a quiet-loving +person wild.</p> + +<p>Nick scarcely knew whether he were on his head or on his heels. The +master-player would not let him eat at all after once breaking his fast, +for fear it might affect his voice, and had him say his lines a hundred +times until he had them pat. Then he was off, directing here, there, and +everywhere, until the court was cleared of all that had no business +there, and the last surreptitious small boy had been duly projected +from the gates by Peter Hostler’s hobnailed boot.</p> + +<p>“Now, Nick,” said Carew, coming up all in a gale, and throwing a +sky-blue silken cloak about Nick’s shoulders, “thou’lt enter here”; and +he led him to a hallway door just opposite the gates. “When Master +Whitelaw, as the Duke, calls out, ‘How now, who comes?—I’ll match him +for the ale!’ be quickly in and answer to thy part; and, marry, boy, +don’t miss thy cues, or—tsst, thy head’s not worth a peascod!” With +that he clapped his hand upon his poniard and glared into Nick’s eyes, +as if to look clear through to the back of the boy’s wits. Nick heard +his white teeth grind, and was all at once very much afraid of him, for +he did indeed look dreadful.</p> + +<p>So Nicholas Attwood stood by the entry door, with his heart in his +throat, waiting his turn.</p> + +<p>He could hear the pages in the courtyard outside shouting for stools for +their masters, and squabbling over the best places upon the stage. Then +the gates creaked, and there came a wild rush of feet and a great crying +out as the ’prentices and burghers trooped into the inn-yard, pushing +and crowding for places near the stage. Those who had the money bawled +aloud for farthing stools. The rest stood jostling in a wrangling crowd +upon the ground, while up and down a girl’s shrill voice went all the +time, crying high, “Cherry ripe, cherry ripe! Who’ll buy my sweet May +cherries?”</p> + +<p>Then there was another shout, and a rattling tread of feet along the +wooden balconies that ran around the walls of the inn-yard, and cries +from the apprentices below: “Good-day, fair Master Harrington! Good-day, +Sir Thomas Parkes! Good-day, sweet Mistress Nettleby and Master +Nettleby! Good-day, good-day, good-day!” for the richer folk were coming +in at twopence each, and all the galleries were full. And then he heard +the baker’s boy with sugared cakes and ginger-nuts go stamping up +the stairs.</p> + +<p>The musicians in the balcony overhead were tuning up. There was a flute, +a viol, a gittern, a fiddle, and a drum; and behind the curtain, just +outside the door, Nick could hear the master-player’s low voice giving +hasty orders to the others.</p> + +<p>So he said his lines all over to himself, and cleared his throat. Then +on a sudden a shutter opened high above the orchestra, a trumpet blared, +the kettledrum crashed, and he heard a loud voice shout:</p> + +<p>“Good citizens of Coventry, and high-born gentles all: know ye now that +we, the players of the company of His Grace, Charles, Lord Howard, High +Admiral of England, Ireland, Wales, Calais, and Boulogne, the marches of +Normandy, Gascony, and Aquitaine, Captain-General of the Navy and the +Seas of Her Gracious Majesty the Queen—”</p> + +<p>At that the crowd in the courtyard cheered and cheered again.</p> + +<p>“—will, with your kind permission, play forthwith the laughable comedy +of ‘The Three Grey Gowns,’ by Master Thomas Heywood, in which will be +spoken many good things, old and new, and a brand-new song will be sung. +Now, hearken all—the play begins!”</p> + +<p>The trumpet blared, the kettledrum crashed again, and as a sudden hush +fell over the throng without Nick heard the voices of the players +going on.</p> + +<p>It was a broad farce, full of loud jests and nonsense, a great thwacking +of sticks and tumbling about; and Nick, with his eye to the crack of the +door, listened with all his ears for his cue, far too excited even to +think of laughing at the rough jokes, though the crowd in the inn-yard +roared till they held their sides.</p> + +<p>Carew came hurrying up, with an anxious look in his restless eyes.</p> + +<p>“Ready, Nicholas!” said he, sharply, taking Nick by the arm and lifting +the latch. “Go straight down front now as I told thee—mind thy +cues—speak boldly—sing as thou didst sing for me—and if thou wouldst +not break mine heart, do not fail me now! I have staked it all upon thee +here—and we <i>must</i> win!”</p> + +<p>“How now, who comes?” Nick heard a loud voice call outside—the +door-latch clicked behind him—he was out in the open air and down the +stage before he quite knew where he was.</p> + +<p>The stage was built against the wall just opposite the gates. It was but +a temporary platform of planks laid upon trestles. One side of it was +against the wall, and around the three other sides the crowd was packed +close to the platform rail.</p> + +<p>At the ends, upon the boards, several wealthy gallants sat on high, +three-legged stools, within arm’s reach of the players acting there. The +courtyard was a sea of heads, and the balconies were filled with +gentlefolk in holiday attire, eating cakes and chaffing gaily at the +play. All was one bewildered cloud of staring eyes to Nick, and the only +thing which he was sure he saw was the painted sign that hung upon the +curtain at the rear, which in the lack of other scenery announced in +large red print: “This is a Room in Master Jonah Jackdawe’s House.”</p> + +<p>And then he heard the last quick words, “I’ll match him for the ale!” +and started on his lines.</p> + +<p>It was not that he said so ill what little he had to say, but that his +voice was homelike and familiar in its sound, one of their own, with no +amazing London accent to the words—just the speech of every-day, the +sort that they all knew.</p> + +<p>First, some one in the yard laughed out—a shock-headed ironmonger’s +apprentice, “Whoy, bullies, there be hayseed in his hair. ’Tis took off +pasture over-soon. I fecks! they’ve plucked him green!”</p> + +<p>There was a hoarse, exasperating laugh. Nick hesitated in his lines. The +player at his back tried to prompt him, but only made the matter worse, +and behind the green curtain at the door a hand went “clap” upon a +dagger-hilt. The play lagged, and the crowd began to jeer. Nick’s heart +was full of fear and of angry shame that he had dared to try. Then all +at once there came a brief pause, in which he vaguely realized that no +one spoke. The man behind him thrust him forward, and whispering +wrathfully, “Quick, quick—sing up, thou little fool!” stepped back and +left him there alone.</p> + +<p class='ctr'><a name="illus0346"></a> +<a href="images/illus0346.jpg"> +<img src="images/illus0346.jpg" width = "40%" alt="" /> +</a><br /> +<b>“NICK THOUGHT OF HIS MOTHER’S SINGING ON A SUMMER’S +EVENING—DREW A DEEP BREATH AND BEGAN TO SING.”</b> +<br /></p> + +<p>A viol overhead took up the time, the gittern struck a few sharp +notes. This unexpected music stopped the noise, and all was still. Nick +thought of his mother’s voice singing on a summer’s evening among the +hollyhocks, and as the viol’s droning died away he drew a deep breath +and began to sing the words of “Heywood’s newest song”:</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +“Pack, clouds, away, and welcome, day;<br /> + With night we banish sorrow;<br /> +Sweet air, blow soft; mount, lark, aloft,<br /> + To give my love good-morrow!”<br /> +</div> + +<p>It was only a part of a madrigal, the air to which they had fitted the +words,—the same air that Nick had sung in the woods,—a thing scarce +meant ever to be sung alone, a simple strain, a few plain notes, and at +the close one brief, queer, warbling trill like a bird’s wild song, that +rose and fell and rose again like a silver ripple.</p> + +<p>The instruments were still; the fresh young voice came out alone, and it +was done so soon that Nick hardly knew that he had sung at all. For a +moment no one seemed to breathe. Then there was a very great noise, and +all the court seemed hurling at him. A man upon the stage sprang to his +feet. What they were going to do to him Nick did not know. He gave a +frightened cry, and ran past the green curtain, through the open door, +and into the master-player’s excited arms.</p> + +<p>“Quick, quick!” cried Carew. “Go back, go back! There, hark!—dost not +hear them call? Quick, out again—they call thee back!” With that he +thrust Nick through the door. The man upon the stage came up, slipped +something into his hand—Nick, all bewildered, knew not what; and there +he stood, quite stupefied, not knowing what to do. Then Carew came out +hastily and led him down the stage, bowing, and pressing his hand to his +heart, and smiling like a summer sunrise; so that Nick, seeing this, did +the same, and bowed as neatly as he could; though, to be sure, his was +only a simple, country-bred bow, and no such ceremonious to-do as Master +Carew’s courtly London obeisance.</p> + +<p>Every one was standing up and shouting so that not a soul could hear his +ears, until the ironmonger’s apprentice bellowed above the rest; “Whoy, +bullies!” he shouted, amid a chorus of cheers and laughter, “didn’t I +say ’twas catched out in the fields—it be a skylark, sure enough! Come, +Muster Skylark, sing that song again, an’ thou shalt ha’ my +brand-new cap!”</p> + +<p>Then many voices cried out together, “Sing it again! The Skylark—the +Skylark!”</p> + +<p>Nick looked up, startled. “Why, Master Carew,” said he, with a tremble +in his voice, “do they mean me ?”</p> + +<p>Carew put one hand beneath Nick’s chin and turned his face up, smiling. +The master-player’s cheeks were flushed with triumph, and his dark eyes +danced with pride. “Ay, Nicholas Skylark; ’tis thou they mean.”</p> + +<p>The viol and the music came again from overhead, and when they ceased +Nick sang the little song once more. And when the master-player had +taken him outside, and the play was over, some fine ladies came and +kissed him, to his great confusion; for no one but his mother or his +kin had ever done so before, and these had much perfume about them, musk +and rose-attar, so that they smelled like rose-mallows in July. The +players of the Lord Admiral’s company were going about shaking hands +with Carew and with each other as if they had not met for years, and +slapping one another upon the back; and one came over, a tall, solemn, +black-haired man, he who had written the song, and stood with his feet +apart and stared at Nick, but spoke never a word, which Nick thought was +very singular. But as he turned away he said, with a world of pity in +his voice, “And I have writ two hundred plays, yet never saw thy like. +Lad, lad, thou art a jewel in a wild swine’s snout!” which Nick did not +understand at all; nor why Master Carew said so sharply, “Come, Heywood, +hold thy blabbing tongue; we are all in the same sty.”</p> + +<p>“Speak for thyself, Gat Carew!” answered Master Heywood, firmly. “I’ll +have no hand in this affair, I tell thee once for all!”</p> + +<p>Master Carew flushed queerly and bit his lip, and, turning hastily away, +took Nick to walk about the town. Nick then, for the first time, looked +into his hand to see what the man upon the stage had given him. It was a +gold rose-noble.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X<br /> +<span class='ph3'>AFTER THE PLAY<br /></span></h2> + +<p>Through the high streets of the third city of the realm Master Gaston +Carew strode as if he were a very king, and Coventry his kingdom.</p> + +<p>There was music everywhere,—of pipers and fiddlers, drums, tabrets, +flutes, and horns,—and there were dancing bears upon the corners, with +minstrels, jugglers, chapmen crying their singsong wares, and such a +mighty hurly-burly as Nick had never seen before. And wherever there was +a wonder to be seen, Carew had Nick see it, though it cost a penny a +peep, and lifted him to watch the fencing and quarter-staff play in the +market-place. And at one of the gay booths he bought gilt ginger-nuts +and caraway cakes with currants on the top, and gave them all to Nick, +who thanked him kindly, but said, if Master Carew pleased, he’d rather +have his supper, for he was very hungry.</p> + +<p>“Why, to be sure,” said Carew, and tossed a silver penny for a scramble +to the crowd; “thou shalt have the finest supper in the town.”</p> + +<p>Whereupon, bowing to all the great folk they met, and being bowed to +most politely in return, they came to the Three Tuns.</p> + +<p>Stared at by a hundred curious eyes, made way for everywhere, and +followed by wondering exclamations of envy, it was little wonder that +Nick, a simple country lad, at last began to think that there was not in +all the world another gentleman so grand as Master Gaston Carew, and +also to have a pleasant notion that Nicholas Attwood was no bad +fellow himself.</p> + +<p>The lordly innkeeper came smirking and bobbing obsequiously about, with +his freshest towel on his arm, and took the master-player’s order as a +dog would take a bone.</p> + +<p>“Here, sirrah,” said Carew, haughtily; “fetch us some repast, I care not +what, so it be wholesome food—a green Banbury cheese, some simnel bread +and oat-cakes; a pudding, hark ’e, sweet and full of plums, with honey +and a pasty—a meat pasty, marry, a pasty made of fat and toothsome +eels; and moreover, fellow, ale to wash it down—none of thy penny ale, +mind ye, too weak to run out of the spigot, but snapping good brew—dost +take me?—with beef and mustard, tripe, herring, and a good fat capon +broiled to a turn!”</p> + +<p>The innkeeper gaped like a fish.</p> + +<p>“How now, sirrah? Dost think I cannot pay thy score?” quoth Carew, +sharply.</p> + +<p>“Nay, nay,” stammered the host; “but, sir, where—where will ye put it +all without bursting into bits?”</p> + +<p>“Be off with thee!” cried Carew, sharply. “That is my affair. Nay, +Nick,” said he, laughing at the boy’s, astonished look; “we shall not +burst. What we do not have to-night we’ll have in the morning. ’Tis the +way with these inns,—to feed the early birds with scraps,—so the more +we leave from supper the more we’ll have for breakfast. And thou wilt +need a good breakfast to ride on all day long.”</p> + +<p>“Ride?” exclaimed Nick. “Why, sir, I was minded to walk back to +Stratford, and keep my gold rose-noble whole.”</p> + +<p>“Walk?” cried the master-player, scornfully. “Thou, with thy golden +throat? Nay, Nicholas, thou shalt ride to-morrow like a very king, if I +have to pay for the horse myself, twelvepence the day!” and with that he +began chuckling as if it were a joke.</p> + +<p>But Nick stood up, and, bowing, thanked him gratefully; at which the +master-player went from chuckling to laughing, and leered at Nick so +oddly that the boy would have thought him tipsy, save that there had +been nothing yet to drink. And a queer sense of uneasiness came creeping +over him as he watched the master-player’s eyes opening and shutting, +opening and shutting, so that one moment he seemed to be staring and the +next almost asleep; though all the while his keen, dark eyes peered out +from between the lids like old dog-foxes from their holes, looking Nick +over from head to foot, and from foot to head again, as if measuring him +with an ellwand.</p> + +<p>When the supper came, filling the whole table and the sideboard too, +Nick arose to serve the meat as he was used at home; but, “Nay, Nicholas +Skylark, my honey-throat,” cried Carew, “sit thee down! Thou wait on +me—thou songster of the silver tongue? Nay, nay, sweetheart; the knave +shall wait on thee, or I’ll wait on thee myself—I will, upon my word! +Why, Nick, I tell thee I love thee, and dost think I’d let thee wait or +walk? nay, nay, thou’lt ride to-morrow like a king, and have all +Stratford wait for thee!” At this he chuckled so that he almost choked +upon a mouthful of bread and meat.</p> + +<p>“Canst ride, Nicholas?”</p> + +<p>“Fairly, sir.”</p> + +<p>“Fairly? Fie, modesty! I warrant thou canst ride like a very centaur. +What sayest—I’ll ride a ten-mile race with thee to-morrow as we go?”</p> + +<p>“Why,” cried Nick, “are ye going back to Stratford to play, after all?”</p> + +<p>“To Stratford? Nay; not for a bushel of good gold Harry shovel-boards! +Bah! That town is ratsbane and nightshade in my mouth! Nay, we’ll not go +back to Stratford town; but we shall ride a piece with thee, +Nicholas,—we shall ride a piece with thee.”</p> + +<p>Chuckling again to himself, he fell to upon the pasty and said no more.</p> + +<p>Nick held his peace, as he was taught to do unless first spoken to; but +he could not help thinking that stage-players, and master-players in +particular, were very queer folk.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI<br /> +<span class='ph3'>DISOWNED<br /></span></h2> + +<p>Night came down on Stratford town that last sweet April day, and the +pastured kine came lowing home. Supper-time passed, and the cool stars +came twinkling out; but still Nick Attwood did not come.</p> + +<p>“He hath stayed to sleep with Robin, Master Burgess Getley’s son,” said +Mistress Attwood, standing in the door, and staring out into the dusk; +“he is often lonely here.”</p> + +<p>“He should ha’ telled thee on it, then,” said Simon Attwood. “This be no +way to do. I’ve a mind to put him to a trade.”</p> + +<p>“Nay, Simon,” protested his wife; “he may be careless,—he is young +yet,—but Nicholas is a good lad. Let him have his schooling out—he’ll +be the better for it.”</p> + +<p>“Then let him show it as he goes along,” said Attwood, grimly, as he +blew the candle out.</p> + +<p>But May-day dawned; mid-morning came, mid-afternoon, then supper-time +again; and supper-time crept into dusk—and still no Nicholas Attwood.</p> + +<p>His mother grew uneasy; but his father only growled: “We’ll reckon up +when he cometh home. Master Brunswood tells me he was na at the school +the whole day yesterday—and he be feared to show his face. I’ll <i>fear</i> +him with a bit of birch!”</p> + +<p>“Do na be too hard with the lad, Simon,” pleaded Mistress Attwood. “Who +knows what hath happened to him? He must be hurt, or he’d ’a’ come home +to his mother”—and she began to wring her hands. “He may ha’ fallen +from a tree, and lieth all alone out on the hill—or, Simon, the Avon! +Thou dost na think our lad be drowned?”</p> + +<p>“Fudge!” said Simon Attwood. “Born to hang’ll never drown!”</p> + +<p>When, however, the next day crept around and still his son did not come +home, a doubt stole into the tanner’s own heart. Yet when his wife was +for starting out to seek some tidings of the boy, he stopped her +wrathfully.</p> + +<p>“Nay, Margaret,” said he; “thou shalt na go traipsing around the town +like a hen wi’ but one chick. I wull na ha’ thee made a laughing-stock +by all the fools in Stratford.”</p> + +<p>But as the third day rolled around, about the middle of the afternoon +the tanner himself sneaked out at the back door of his tannery in +Southam’s lane, and went up into the town.</p> + +<p>“Robin Getley,” he asked at the guildschool door, “was my son wi’ thee +overnight?”</p> + +<p>“Nay, Master Attwood. Has he not come back?”</p> + +<p>“Come back? From where?”</p> + +<p>Robin hung his head.</p> + +<p>“From, where?” demanded the tanner. “Come, boy!”</p> + +<p>“From Coventry,” said Robin, knowing that the truth would out at last, +anyway.</p> + +<p>“He went to see the players, sir,” spoke up Hal Saddler, briskly, not +heeding Robin’s stealthy kick. “He said he’d bide wi’ Diccon Haggard +overnight; an’ he said he wished he were a master-player himself, +sir, too.”</p> + +<p>Simon Attwood, frowning blackly, hurried on. It <i>was</i> Nick, then, whom +he had seen crossing the market-square.</p> + +<p>Wat Raven, who swept Clopton bridge, had seen two boys go up the Warwick +road. “One were thy Nick, Muster Attwood,” said he, thumping the dirt +from his broom across the coping-stone, “and the other were +Dawson’s Hodge.”</p> + +<p>The angry tanner turned again into the market-place. His brows were +knit, and his eyes were hot, yet his step was heavy and slow. Above all +things, he hated disobedience, yet in his surly way he loved his only +son; and far worse than disobedience, he hated that <i>his</i> son +should disobey.</p> + +<p>Astride a beam in front of Master Thompson’s house sat Roger Dawson. +Simon Attwood took him by the collar none too gently.</p> + +<p>“Here, leave be!” choked Roger, wriggling hard; but the tanner’s grip +was like iron. “Wert thou in Coventry May-day?” he asked sternly.</p> + +<p>“Nay, that I was na,” sputtered Hodge. “A plague on Coventry!”</p> + +<p>“Do na lie to me—thou wert there wi’ my son Nicholas.”</p> + +<p>“I was na,” snarled Hodge. “Nick Attwood threshed me in the Warrick +road; an’ I be no dawg to follow at the heels o’ folks as threshes me.”</p> + +<p>“Where be he, then?” demanded Attwood, with a sudden sinking at heart in +spite of his wrath.</p> + +<p>“How should I know? A went away wi’ a play-actoring fellow in a +plum-colored cloak; and play-actoring fellow said a loved him like a’s +own, and patted a’s back, and flung me hard names, like stones at a lost +dawg. Now le’ me go, Muster Attwood—cross my heart, ’tis all I know!”</p> + +<p>“Is’t Nicholas ye seek, Master Attwood?” asked Tom Carpenter, turning +from his fleurs-de-lis. “Why, sir, he’s gone got famous, sir. I was in +Coventry mysel’ May-day; and—why, sir, Nick was all the talk! He sang +there at the Blue Boar inn-yard with the Lord High Admiral’s players, +and took a part in the play; and, sir, ye’d scarce believe me, but the +people went just daft to hear him sing, sir.”</p> + +<p>Simon Attwood heard no more. He walked down High street in a daze. With +hard men bitter blows strike doubly deep. He stopped before the +guildhall school. The clock struck five; each iron clang seemed beating +upon his heart. He raised his hand as if to shut the clangor out, and +then his face grew stern and hard. “He hath gone his own wilful way,” +said he, bitterly. “Let him follow it to the end.”</p> + +<p>Mistress Attwood came to meet him, running in the garden-path. +“Nicholas?” was all that she could say.</p> + +<p>“Never speak to me of him, again,” he said, and passed her by into the +house. “He hath gone away with a pack of stage-playing rascals and +vagabonds, whither no man knoweth.”</p> + +<p>Taking the heavy Bible down from the shelf, he lit a rushlight at the +fire, although it was still broad daylight, and sat there with the great +book open in his lap until the sun went down and the chill night wind +crept in along the floor; yet he could not read a single word and never +turned a page.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII<br /> +<span class='ph3'>A STRANGE RIDE<br /></span></h2> + +<p>Rat-a-tat-tat at the first dim hint of dawn went the chamberlain’s +knuckles upon the door. To Nick it seemed scarce midnight yet, so sound +had been his sleep.</p> + +<p>Master Carew having gotten into his high-topped riding-boots with a +great puffing and tugging, they washed their faces at the inn-yard pump +by the smoky light of the hostler’s lantern, and then in a subdued, +half-wakened way made a hearty breakfast off the fragments of the last +night’s feast. Part of the remaining cold meat, cheese, and cakes Carew +stowed in his leather pouch. The rest he left in the lap of a beggar +sleeping beside the door.</p> + +<p>The street was dim with a chilly fog, through which a few pale stars +still struggled overhead. The houses were all shut and barred; nobody +was abroad, and the night-watch slept in comfortable doorways here and +there, with lolling heads and lanterns long gone out. As they came along +the crooked street, a stray cat scurried away with scared green eyes, +and a kenneled hound set up a lonesome howl.</p> + +<p>But the Blue Boar Inn was stirring like an ant-hill, with firefly +lanterns flitting up and down, and a cheery glow about the open door. +The horses of the company, scrubbed unreasonably clean, snorted and +stamped in little bridled clumps about the courtyard, and the +stable-boys, not scrubbed at all, clanked at the pump or shook out +wrinkled saddle-cloths with most prodigious yawns. The grooms were +buckling up the packs; the chamberlain and sleepy-lidded maids stood at +the door, waiting their fare-well farthings.</p> + +<p>Some of the company yawned in the tap-room; some yawned out of doors +with steaming stirrup-cup in hand; and some came yawning down the +stairways pulling on their riding-cloaks, booted, spurred, and ready for +a long day’s ride.</p> + +<p>“Good-morrow, sirs,” said Carew, heartily. “Good-morrow, sir, to you,” +said they, and all came over to speak to Nicholas in a very kindly way; +and one or two patted him on the cheek and walked away speaking in +under-tones among themselves, keeping one eye on Carew all the while. +And Master Tom Heywood, the play-writer, came out with a great slice of +fresh wheat-bread, thick with butter and dripping with yellow honey, and +gave it to Nick; and stood there silently with a very queer expression +watching him eat it, until Carew’s groom led up a stout hackney and a +small roan palfrey to the block, and the master-player, crying +impatiently, “Up with thee, Nick; we must be ambling!” sprang into the +saddle of the gray.</p> + +<p>The sleepy inn-folk roused a bit to send a cheery volley of, “Fare ye +well, sirs; come again,” after the departing players, and the long +cavalcade cantered briskly out of the inn-yard, in double rank, with a +great clinking of bridle-chains and a drifting odor of wet leather and +heavy perfume.</p> + +<p>Nick sat very erect and rode his best, feeling like some errant knight +of the great Round Table, ready to right the whole world’s wrongs. “But +what about the horse?” said he. “We can na keep him in Stratford, sir.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, that’s all seen to,” said the master-player. “’Tis to be sent back +by the weekly carrier.”</p> + +<p>“And where do I turn into the Stratford road, sir?” asked Nick, as the +players clattered down the cobbled street in a cloud of mist that +steamed up so thickly from the stones that the horses seemed to have no +legs, but to float like boats.</p> + +<p>“Some distance further on,” replied Carew, carelessly. “’Tis not the +way we came that thou shalt ride to-day; that is t’ other end of town, +and the gate not open yet. But the longest way round is the shortest way +home, so let’s be spurring on.”</p> + +<p>At the corner of the street a cross and sleepy cobbler was strapping a +dirty urchin, who bellowed lustily. Nick winced.</p> + +<p>“Hollo!” cried Carew. “What’s to do?”</p> + +<p>“Why, sir,” said Nick, ruefully, “father will thresh me well this +night.”</p> + +<p>“Nay,” said Carew, in a quite decided tone; “that he’ll not, I promise +thee!”—and as he spoke he chuckled softly to himself.</p> + +<p>The man before them turned suddenly around and grinned queerly; but, +catching the master-player’s eye, whipped his head about like a +weather-vane in a gale, and cantered on.</p> + +<p>As they came down the narrow street the watchmen were just swinging wide +the city gates, and gave a cheer to speed the parting guests, who gave a +rouse in turn, and were soon lost to sight in the mist which hid the +valley in a great gray sea.</p> + +<p>“How shall I know where to turn off, sir?” asked Nick, a little +anxiously. “’Tis all alike.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll tell thee,” said the master-player; “rest thee easy on that score. +I know the road thou art to ride much better than thou dost thyself.”</p> + +<p>He smiled quite frankly as he spoke, and Nick could not help wondering +why the man before them again turned around and eyed him with that +sneaking grin.</p> + +<p>He did not like the fellow’s looks. He had scowling black brows, hair +cut as close as if the rats had gnawed it off, a pair of ill-shaped +bandy-legs, a wide, unwholesome slit of a mouth, and a nose like a +raspberry tart. His whole appearance was servile and mean, and there was +a sly malice in his furtive eyes. Besides that, and a thing which +strangely fascinated Nick’s gaze, there was a hole through the gristle +of his right ear, scarred about as if it had been burned, and through +this hole the fellow had tied a bow of crimson ribbon, like a butterfly +alighted upon his ear.</p> + +<p>“A pretty fellow!” said Carew, with a shrug. “He’ll be hard put to dodge +the hangman yet; but he’s a right good fellow in his way, and he has +served me—he has served me.”</p> + +<p>The first loud burst of talk had ceased, and all rode silently along. +The air was chill, and Nick was grateful for the cloak that Carew threw +around him. There was no sound but the beat of many hoofs in the +dust-padded road, and now and then the crowing of a cock somewhere +within the cloaking fog. The stars were gone, and the sky was lighting +up; and all at once, as they rode, the clouds ahead, low down and to the +right, broke raggedly away and let a red sun-gleam shoot through across +the mist, bathing the riders in dazzling rosy light.</p> + +<p>“Why, Master Carew,” cried Nick, no little startled, “there comes the +sun, almost ahead! We’re riding east-ward, sir. We’ve missed the road!”</p> + +<p>“Oh, no, we’ve not,” said Carew; “nothing of the sort.” His tone was so +peremptory and sharp that Nick said nothing more, but rode along, +vaguely wishing that he was already clattering down Stratford +High street.</p> + +<p>The clouds scattered as the sun came up, and the morning haze drifted +away into cool dales, and floated off upon the breeze. And as the world +woke up the players wakened too, and rode gaily along, laughing, +singing, and chattering together, until Nick thought he had never in all +his life before seen such a jolly fellowship. His heart was blithe as he +reined his curveting palfrey by the master-player’s side, and watched +the sunlight dance and sparkle along the dashing line from dagger-hilts +and jeweled clasps, and the mist-lank plumes curl crisp again in the +warmth of the rising sun.</p> + +<p>The master-player, too, had a graceful, taking way of being half +familiar with the lad; he was besides a marvelous teller of wonderful +tales, and whiled away the time with jests and quips, mile after mile, +till Nick forgot both road and time, and laughed until his sides +were sore.</p> + +<p>Yet slowly, as they rode along, it came home to him with the passing of +the land that this was country new and strange. So he began to take +notice of this and that beside the way; and as he noticed he began to +grow uneasy. Thrice had he come to Coventry, but surely never by a road +like this.</p> + +<p>Yet still the master-player joked and laughed and pleased the boy with +little things—until Nick laughed too, and let the matter go. At last, +however, when they had ridden fully an hour, they passed a moss-grown +abbey on the left-hand side of the road, a strange old place that Nick +could not recall.</p> + +<p>“Are ye sure, Master Carew,” he ventured timidly—</p> + +<p>At that the master-player took on so offended an air that Nick was sorry +he had spoken.</p> + +<p>“Why, now,” said Carew, haughtily, “if thou dost know the roads of +England better than I, who have trudged and ridden them all these years, +I’ll sit me down and learn of thee how to follow mine own nose. I tell +thee I know the road thou art to ride this day better than thou dost +thyself; and I’ll see to it that thou dost come without fail to the very +place that thou art going. I will, upon my word, and on the remnant of +mine honour!”</p> + +<p>But in spite of this assurance, and in spite of the master-player’s +ceaseless stream of gaiety and marvels, Nick became more and more +uneasy. The road was certainly growing stranger and stranger as they +passed. The company, too, instead of ambling leisurely along, as they +had done at first, were now spurring ahead at a good round gallop, in +answer to a shrill whistle from the master-player; and the horses were +wet with sweat.</p> + +<p>They passed a country village, too, that was quite unknown to Nick, and +a great highway running to the north that he had never seen before; and +when they had ridden for about two hours, the road swerved southward to +a shining ford, and on a little tableland beyond he saw the gables of a +town he did not know.</p> + +<p>“Why, Master Carew!” he cried out, half indignant, half perplexed, and +thoroughly frightened, “this is na the Stratford road at all. I’m going +back. I will na ride another mile!”</p> + +<p>As he spoke he wheeled the roan sharply out of the clattering file with +a slash of the rein across the withers, and started back along the hill +past the rest of the company, who came thumping down behind.</p> + +<p>“Stop him! Stop him there!” he heard the master-player shout, and there +was something in the fierce, high voice that turned his whole heart +sick. What right had they to stop him? This was not the Stratford road; +he was certain of that now. But “Stop him—stop him there!” he heard the +master-player call, and a wild, unreasoning fright came over him. He dug +his heels into the palfrey’s heaving sides and urged him up the hill +through the cloud of dust that came rolling down behind the horsemen. +The hindmost riders had plunged into those before, and the whole array +was struggling, shouting, and wrangling in wild disorder; but out of the +flurry Carew and the bandy-legged man with the ribbon in his ear spurred +furiously and came galloping after him at the top of their speed.</p> + +<p>Nick cried out, and beat the palfrey with the rein; but the chase was +short. They overtook him as he topped the hill, one on each side, and, +leaning over, Carew snatched the bridle from his hand. “Thou little +imp!” he panted, as he turned the roan around and started down the hill. +“Don’t try this on again!”</p> + +<p>“Oh, Master Carew,” gasped Nick, “what are ye going to do wi’ me?”</p> + +<p>“Do with thee?” cried the master-player, savagely clapping his hand upon +his poniard,—“why, I am going to do with thee just whatever I please. +Dost hear? And, hark ’e, this sort of caper doth not please me at all; +and by the whistle of the Lord High Admiral, if thou triest it on again, +thy life is not worth a rotten peascod!”</p> + +<p>Unbuckling the rein, he tossed one end to the bandy-legged man, and +holding the other in his own hand, with Nick riding helplessly between +them, they trotted down the hill again, took their old places in the +ranks, and spattered through the shallow ford.</p> + +<p>The bandy-legged man had pulled a dagger from beneath his coat, and held +it under his bridle-rein, shining through the horse’s mane as they +dashed through the still half-sleeping town. Nick was speechless +with terror.</p> + +<p>Beyond the town’s end they turned sharply to the northeast, galloping +steadily onward for what was perhaps half an hour, though to Nick it +seemed a forever, until they came out into a great highway running +southward. “Watling street!” he heard the man behind him say, and knew +that they were in the old Roman road that stretched from London to the +north. Still they were galloping, though long strings dribbled from the +horses’ mouths, and the saddle-leathers dripped with foam. One or two +looked back at him and bit their lips; but Carew’s eyes were hot and +fierce, and his hand was on his poniard. The rest, after a curious +glance or two, shrugged their shoulders carelessly and galloped on: this +affair was Master Gaston Carew’s business, not theirs.</p> + +<p>Until high noon they hurried on with neither stop nor stay. Then they +came to a place where a little brook sang through the grass by the +roadside in a shady nook beneath some mighty oaks, and there the +master-player whistled for a halt, to give the horses breath and rest, +and to water them at the brook-pools. Some of the players sauntered up +and down to stretch their tired legs, munching meat and bread; and some +lay down upon the grass and slept a little. Two of them came, offering +Nick some cakes and cheese; but he was crying hard and would neither +eat nor drink, though Carew urged him earnestly. Then Master Tom +Heywood, with an ugly look at Carew, and without so much as an +if-ye-please or a by-your-leave, led Nick up the brook to a spot where +it had not been muddied by the horses, and made him wash his dusty face +and hands in the cool water and dampen his hair, though he complied as +if in a daze. And indeed Nick rode on through the long afternoon, +clinging helplessly to the pommel of his saddle, sobbing bitterly until +for very weariness he could no longer sob.</p> + +<p>It was after nine o’clock that night when they rode into Towcester, and +all that was to be seen was a butcher’s boy carting garbage out of the +town and whistling to keep his courage up. The watch had long since gone +to sleep about the silent streets, but a dim light burned in the +tap-room of the Old Brown Cow; and there the players rested for +the night.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII<br /> +<span class='ph3'>A DASH FOR FREEDOM<br /></span></h2> + +<p>Nick awoke from a heavy, burning sleep, aching from head to foot. The +master-player, up and dressed, stood by the window, scowling grimly out +into the ashy dawn. Nick made haste to rise, but could not stifle a +sharp cry of pain as he staggered to his feet, he was so racked and sore +with riding.</p> + +<p>At the boy’s smothered cry Carew turned, and his dark face softened with +a sudden look of pity and concern. “Why, Nick, my lad,” he cried, and +hurried to his side, “this is too bad, indeed!” and without more words +took him gently in his arms and carried him down to the courtyard well, +where he bathed him softly from neck to heel in the cold, refreshing +water, and wiped him with a soft, clean towel as tenderly as if he had +been the lad’s own mother. And having dried him thoroughly, he rubbed +him with a waxy ointment that smelled of henbane and poppies, until the +aching was almost gone. So soft and so kind was he withal that Nick took +heart after a little and asked timidly, “And ye will let me go home +to-day, sir, will ye not?”</p> + +<p>The master-player frowned.</p> + +<p>“Please, Master Carew, let me go.”</p> + +<p>“Come, come,” said Carew, impatiently, “enough of this!” and stamped his +foot.</p> + +<p>“But, oh, Master Carew,” pleaded Nick, with a sob in his throat, “my +mother’s heart will surely break if I do na come home!”</p> + +<p>Carew started, and his mouth twitched queerly. “Enough, I say—enough!” +he cried. “I will not hear; I’ll have no more. I tell thee hold thy +tongue—be dumb! I’ll not have ears—thou shalt not speak! Dost hear?” +He dashed the towel to the ground. “I bid thee hold thy tongue.”</p> + +<p>Nick hid his face between his hands, and leaned against the rough stone +wall, a naked, shivering, wretched little chap indeed. “Oh, mother, +mother, mother!” he sobbed pitifully.</p> + +<p>A singular expression came over the master-player’s face. “I will not +hear—I tell thee I will not hear!” he choked, and, turning suddenly +away, he fell upon the sleepy hostler, who was drawing water at the +well, and rated him outrageously, to that astounded worthy’s +great amazement.</p> + +<p>Nick crept into his clothes, and stole away to the kitchen door. There +was a red-faced woman there who bade him not to cry—’t would soon be +breakfast-time. Nick thought he could not eat at all; but when the +savory smell crept out and filled the chilly air, his poor little empty +stomach would not be denied, and he ate heartily. Master Heywood sat +beside him and gave him the choicest bits from his own trencher; and +Carew himself, seeing that he ate, looked strangely pleased, and ordered +him a tiny mutton-pie, well spiced. Nick pushed it back indignantly; but +Heywood took the pie and cut it open, saying quietly: “Come, lad, the +good God made the sheep that is in this pie, not Gaston Carew. Eat +it—come, ’twill do thee good!” and saw him finish the last crumb.</p> + +<p>From Towcester south through Northamptonshire is a pretty country of +rolling hills and undulating hollows, ribboned with pebbly rivers, and +dotted with fair parks and tofts of ash and elm and oak. Straggling +villages now and then were threaded on the road like beads upon a +string, and here and there the air was damp and misty from the grassy +fens along some winding stream.</p> + +<p>It was against nature that a healthy, growing lad should be so much cast +down as not to see and be interested in the strange, new, passing world +of things about him; and little by little Nick roused from his +wretchedness and began to look about him. And a wonder grew within his +brain: why had they stolen him?—where were they taking him?—what would +they do with him there?—or would they soon let him go again?</p> + +<p>Every yellow cloud of dust arising far ahead along the road wrought up +his hopes to a Bluebeard pitch, as regularly to fall. First came a +cast-off soldier from the war in the Netherlands, rakishly forlorn, his +breastplate full of rusty dents, his wild hair worn by his steel cap, +swaggering along on a sorry hack with an old belt full of pistolets, and +his long sword thumping Rosinante’s ribs. Then a peddling chapman, with +a dust-white pack and a cunning Hebrew look, limped by, sulkily doffing +his greasy hat. Two sturdy Midland journeymen, in search of southern +handicraft, trudged down with tool-bags over their shoulders and stout +oak staves in hand. Of wretched beggars and tattered rogues there was an +endless string. But of any help no sign.</p> + +<p>Here and there, like a moving dot, a ploughman turned a belated furrow; +or a sweating ditcher leaned upon his reluctant spade and longed for +night; or a shepherd, quite as silly as his sheep, gawked up the morning +hills. But not a sign of help for Nick.</p> + +<p>Once, passing through a little town, he raised a sudden cry of “Help! +Help—they be stealing me away!” But at that the master-player and the +bandy-legged man waved their hands and set up such a shout that his +shrill outcry was not even heard. And the simple country bumpkins, +standing in a grinning row like so many Old Aunt Sallys at a fair, +pulled off their caps and bowed, thinking it some company of great +lords, and fetched a clownish cheer as the players galloped by.</p> + +<p>Then the hot dust got into Nick’s throat, and he began to cough. Carew +started with a look of alarm. “Come, come, Nicholas, this will never +do—never do in the world; thou’lt spoil thy voice.”</p> + +<p>“I do na care,” said Nick.</p> + +<p>“But I do,” said Carew, sharply. “So we’ll have no more of it!” and he +clapped his hand upon his poniard. “But, nay—nay, lad, I did not mean +to threaten thee—’tis but a jest. Come, smooth thy throat, and do not +shriek no more. We play in old St. Albans town to-night, and thou art to +sing thy song for us again.”</p> + +<p>Nick pressed his lips tight shut and shook his head. He would not sing +for them again.</p> + +<p>“Come, Nick, I’ve promised Tom Heywood that thou shouldst sing his song; +and, lad, there’s no one left in all the land to sing it if thou’lt not. +Tom doth dearly love thee, lad—why, sure, thou hast seen that! And, +Nick, I’ve promised all the company that thou wouldst sing Tom’s song +with us to-night. ’Twill break their hearts if thou wilt not. Come, +Nick, thou’lt sing it for us all, and set old Albans town afire!” said +Carew, pleadingly.</p> + +<p>Nick shook his head.</p> + +<p>“Come, Nick,” said Carew, coaxingly, “we must hear that sweet voice of +thine in Albans town to-night. Come, there’s a dear, good lad, and give +us just one little song! Come, act the man and sing, as thou alone in +all the world canst sing, in Albans town this night; and on my word, and +on the remnant of mine honour, I’ll leave thee go back to Stratford town +to-morrow morning!”</p> + +<p>“To Stratford—to-morrow?” stammered Nick, with a glad, incredulous cry, +while his heart leaped up within him.</p> + +<p>“Ay, verily; upon my faith as the fine fag-end of a very proper +gentleman—thou shalt go back to Stratford town to-morrow if thou wilt +but do thy turn with us to-night.”</p> + +<p>Nick caught the master-player’s arm as they rode along, almost crying +for very joy: “Oh, that I will, sir—and do my very best. And, oh, +Master Carew, I ha’ thought so ill o’ thee! Forgive me, sir; I did na +know thee well.”</p> + +<p>Carew winced. Hastily throwing the rein to Nick, he left him to master +his own array.</p> + +<p>As for Nick, as happy as a lark he learned his new lines as he rode +along, Master Carew saying them over to him from the manuscript and over +again until he made not a single mistake; and was at great pains to +teach him the latest fashionable London way of pronouncing all the +words, and of emphasizing his set phrases. “Nay, nay,” he would cry +laughingly, “not that way, lad; but this: ‘Good my lord, I bring a +letter from the duke’—as if thou hadst indeed a letter, see, and not an +empty fist. And when thou dost hand it to him, do it thus—and not as if +thou wert about to stab him in the paunch with a cheese-knife!” And at +the end he clapped him upon the back and said again and again that he +loved him, that he was a dear, sweet figure of a lad, and that his voice +among the rest of England’s singers, was like clear honey dropping into +a pot of grease.</p> + +<p>But it is a long ride from Towcester to St. Albans town in Herts, though +the road runs through a pleasant, billowy land of oak-walled lanes, wide +pastures, and quiet parks; and the steady jog, jog of the little roan +began to rack Nick’s tired bones before the day was done.</p> + +<p>Yet when they marched into the quaint old town to the blare of trumpets +and the crash of the kettledrums, all the long line gaudy with the +coat-armour of the Lord High Admiral beneath their flaunting banners, +and the horses pricked up their ears and arched their necks and pranced +along the crowded streets, Nick, stared at by all the good townsfolk, +could not help feeling a thrill of pride that he was one of the great +company of players, and sat up very straight and held his head up +haughtily as Master Carew did, and bore himself with as lordly an air as +he knew how.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>But when morning came, and he danced blithely back from washing himself +at the horse-trough, all ready to start for home, he found the little +roan cross-bridled as before between the master-player’s gray and the +bandy-legged fellow’s sorrel mare.</p> + +<p>“What, there! cast him loose,” said he to the horse-boy who held the +three. “I am not going on with the players—I’m to go back to +Stratford.”</p> + +<p>“Then ye go afoot,” coolly rejoined the other, grinning, “for the hoss +goeth on wi’ the rest.”</p> + +<p>“What is this, Master Carew?” cried Nick, indignantly, bursting into the +tap-room, where the players were at ale. “They will na let me have the +horse, sir. Am I to walk the whole way back to Stratford town?”</p> + +<p>“To Stratford?” asked Master Carew, staring with an expression of most +innocent surprise, as he set his ale-can down and turned around. “Why, +thou art not going to Stratford.”</p> + +<p>“Not going to Stratford!” gasped Nick, catching at the table with a +sinking heart. “Why, sir, ye promised that I should to-day.”</p> + +<p>“Nay, now, that I did not, Nicholas. I promised thee that thou shouldst +go back to-morrow—were not those my very words!”</p> + +<p>“Ay, that they were,” cried Nick; “and why will ye na leave me go?”</p> + +<p>“Why, this is not to-morrow, Nick. Why, see, I cannot leave thee go +to-day. Thou knowest that I said to-morrow; and this is not +to-morrow—on thine honour, is it now?”</p> + +<p>“How can I tell?” cried Nick, despairingly. “Yesterday ye said it would +be, and now ye say that it is na. Ye’ve twisted it all up so that a body +can na tell at all. But there is a falsehood—a wicked, black +falsehood—somewhere betwixt you and me, sir; and ye know that I have na +lied to you, Master Carew!”</p> + +<p>Through the tap-room door he saw the open street and the hills beyond +the town. Catching his breath, he sprang across the sill, and ran for +the free fields at the top of his speed.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV<br /> +<span class='ph3'>AT BAY<br /></span></h2> + +<p>“After him!—stop him!—catch the rogue!” cried Carew, running out on +the cobbles with his ale-can in his hand. “A shilling to the man that +brings him back unharmed! No blows, nor clubs, nor stabbing, hark ’e, +but catch me the knave straightway; he hath snatched a fortune from +my hands!”</p> + +<p>At that the hostler, whip in hand, and the tapster with his bit, were +off as fast as their legs could carry them, bawling “Stop, thief, stop!” +at the top of their lungs; and at their backs every idle varlet about +the inn—grooms, stable-boys, and hangers-on—ran whooping, howling, and +hallooing like wild huntsmen.</p> + +<p>Nick’s frightened heart was in his mouth, and his breath came quick and +sharp. Tap-a-tap, tap-a-tap went his feet on the cobblestones as down +the long street he flew, running as he had never run before.</p> + +<p>It seemed as if the whole town bellowed at his back; for windows creaked +above his head, and doors banged wildly after him; curs from every +alley-way came yelping at his heels; apprentices let go the +shutter-bars, and joined in the chase; and near and nearer came the cry +of “Stop, thief, stop!” and the kloppety-klop of hob-nailed shoes in +wild pursuit.</p> + +<p>The rabble filled the dark old street from wall to wall, as if a cloud +of good-for-naughts had burst above the town; and far in front sped one +small, curly-headed lad, running like a frightened fawn. He had lost his +cap, and his breath came short, half sobbing in his throat as the sound +of footfalls gained upon his ear; but even yet he might have beaten them +all and reached the open fields but for the dirt and garbage in the +street. Three times he slipped upon a rancid bacon-rind and almost fell; +and the third time, as he plunged across the oozing drain, a dog dashed +right between his feet.</p> + +<p>He staggered, nearly fell, threw out his hand against the house and +saved himself; but as he started on again he saw the town-watch, wakened +by the uproar, standing with their long staves at the end of the street, +barring the way.</p> + +<p>The door of a smithy stood open just ahead, with forge-fires glowing and +the hammer ringing on the anvil. Nick darted in, past the horses, +hostlers, and blacksmith’s boys, and caught at the leather apron of the +sturdy smith himself.</p> + +<p>“Hoo, man, what a dickens!” snorted he, dropping the red-hot shoe on +which he was at work, and staring like a startled ox at the panting +little fugitive.</p> + +<p>“Do na leave them take me!” panted Nick. “They ha’ stolen me away from +Stratford town and will na leave me go!”</p> + +<p>At that Will Hostler bolted in, red-faced and scant of wind, “Thou +young rascal,” quoth he, “I have thee now! Come out o’ that!” and he +tried to take Nick by the collar.</p> + +<p>“So-oftly, so-oftly!” rumbled the smith, tweaking up the glowing shoe in +his great pincers, and sweeping a sputtering half-circle in front of the +cowering lad. “Droive slow through the cro-owd! What hath youngster here +did no-ow?”</p> + +<p>“He hath stolen a fortune from his master at the Three Lions—and the +shilling for him’s mine!”</p> + +<p>“Hath stealed a fortune? Whoy, huttlety-tut!” roared the burly smith, +turning ponderously upon Nick, who was dodging around him like a boy at +tag around a tree. “Whoy, lad,” said he, scratching his puzzled head +with his great, grimy fingers, “where hast putten it?”</p> + +<p>All the rout and the riot now came plunging into the smithy, breathless +with the chase. Master Carew himself, his ale-can still clutched in his +hand, and bearing himself with a high air of dignity, followed after +them, frowning.</p> + +<p>“What?” said he, angrily, “have ye earthed the cub and cannot dig him +out? Hast caught him there, fellow?”</p> + +<p>“Ay, master, that I have!” shouted Will Hostler. “Shilling’s mine, sir.”</p> + +<p>“Then fetch him out of this hole!” cried Carew, sniffing disdainfully at +the low, smoky door.</p> + +<p>“But he will na be fetched,” stammered the doughty Will, keeping a most +respectful distance from the long black pincers and the sputtering shoe +with which the farrier stolidly mowed the air round about Nick Attwood +and himself.</p> + +<p>At that the crowd set up a shout.</p> + +<p>Carew thrust fiercely into the press, the louts and loafers giving way. +“What, here! Nicholas Attwood,” said he, harshly, “come hither.”</p> + +<p>“Do na leave him take me,” begged Nick. “He is not my master; I am not +bound out apprentice—they are stealing me away from my own home, and it +will break my mother’s heart.”</p> + +<p class='ctr'><a name="illus0354"></a> +<a href="images/illus0354.jpg"> +<img src="images/illus0354.jpg" width = "60%" alt="" /> +</a><br /> +<b>“NOBODY BREAKS NOBODY’S HEARTS IN OLD JO-OHN SMITHSES +SHO-OP,’ DRAWLED THE SMITH, IN HIS DEEP VOICE; NOR STEALS +NOBODY, NOTHER”</b> +<br /></p> + +<p>“Nobody breaks nobody’s hearts in old Jo-ohn Smithses sho-op,” drawled +the smith, in his deep voice; “nor steals nobody, nother. We be +honest-dealing folk in Albans town, an’ makes as good horse-shoes as be +forged in all England”—and he went placidly on mowing the air with the +glimmering shoe.</p> + +<p>“Here, fellow, stand aside,” commanded Master Carew, haughtily. “Stand +aside and let me pass!” As he spoke he clapped his hand upon his poniard +with a fierce snarl, showing his white teeth like a wolf-hound.</p> + +<p>The men about him fell back with unanimous alacrity, making out each to +put himself behind the other. But the huge smith only puffed out his +sooty cheeks as if to blow a fly off the next bite of cheese. “So-oftly, +so-oftly, muster,” drawled he; “do na go to ruffling it here. This shop +be mine, and I be free-born Englishman. I’ll stand aside for no +swash-buckling rogue on my own ground. Come, now, what wilt thou o’ the +lad?—and speak thee fair, good muster, or thou’lt get a dab o’ the +red-hot shoe.” As he spoke he gave the black tongs an extra whirl.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV<br /> +<span class='ph3'>LONDON TOWN<br /></span></h2> + +<p>“Come,” growled the blacksmith, gripping his tongs, “what wilt thou have +o’ the lad?”</p> + +<p>“What will I have o’ the lad?” said Master Carew, mimicking the +blacksmith in a most comical way, with a wink at the crowd, as if he had +never been angry at all, so quickly could he change his face—“What will +I have o’ the lad?” and all the crowd laughed. “Why, bless thy gentle +heart, good man, I want to turn his farthings into round gold crowns—if +thou and thine infernal hot shoe do not make zanies of us all! Why, +Master Smith, ’tis to London town I’d take him, and fill his hands with +more silver shillings than there be cast-off shoes in thy whole shop.”</p> + +<p>“La, now, hearken till him!” gaped the smith, staring in amazement.</p> + +<p>“And here thou needs must up and spoil it all, because, forsooth, the +silly child goes a trifle sick for home and whimpers for his minnie!”</p> + +<p>“But the lad saith thou hast stealed him awa-ay from ’s ho-ome,” +rumbled the smith, like a doubtful earthquake; “and we’ll ha’ no +stealing o’ lads awa-ay from ho-ome in County Herts!”</p> + +<p>“Nay, that we won’t!” cried one. “Hurrah, John Smith—fair play, fair +play!” and there came an ugly, threatening murmur from the crowd.</p> + +<p>“What! Fair play?” cried Master Carew, turning so sharply about, with +his hand upon his poniard, that each made as if it were not he but his +neighbor had growled. “Why, sirs, what if I took any one of ye out of +your poverty and common clothes down into London town, horseback like a +king, and had ye sing before the Queen, and play for earls, and talk +with the highest dames in all the land; and fed ye well, and spoke ye +fair, and lodged ye soft, and clad ye fine, and wrought the whole town +on to cheer ye, and to fill your purses full of gold? What, sir,” said +he, turning to the gaping farrier—“what if I promised thee to turn +thine every word to a silver sixpence, and thy smutty grins to golden +angels—what wouldst thou? Knock me in the head with thy dirty sledge, +and bawl foul play?”</p> + +<p>“Nay, that I’d not,” roared the burly smith, with a stupid, ox-like +grin, scratching his tousled head; “I’d say, ‘Go it, bully, and a plague +on him that said thee nay!’”</p> + +<p>“And yet when I would fill this silly fellow’s jerkin full of good gold +Harry shovel-boards for the simple drawing of his breath, ye bawl +‘Foul play!’”</p> + +<p>“What, here! come out, lad,” roared the smith, with a great horse-laugh, +swinging Nick forward and thwacking him jovially between the shoulders +with his brawny hand; “come out, and go along o’ the master here,—’tis +for thy good,—and ho-ome wull keep, I trow, till thou dost come again.”</p> + +<p>But Nick hung back, and clung to the blacksmith’s grimy arm, crying in +despair: “I will na—oh, I will na!”</p> + +<p>“Tut, tut!” cried Master Carew. “Come, Nicholas; I mean thee well, I’ll +speak thee fair, and I’ll treat thee true”—and he smiled so frankly +that even Nick’s doubts almost wavered. “Come, I’ll swear it on my +hilt,” said he.</p> + +<p>The smith’s brow clouded. “Nay,” said he; “we’ll no swearing by hilts or +by holies here; the bailiff will na have it, sir.”</p> + +<p>“Good! then upon mine honour as an Englishman!” cried Carew. “What, how, +bullies? Upon mine honour as an Englishman!—how is it? Here we be, all +Englishmen together!” and he clapped his hand to Will Hostler’s +shoulder, whereat Will stood up very straight and looked around, as if +all at once he were somebody instead of somewhat less than nobody at all +of any consequence. “What!—ye are all for fair play?—and I am for fair +play, and good Master Smith, with his beautiful shoe, here, is for fair +play! Why, sirs, my bullies, we are all for fair play; and what more can +a man ask than good, downright English fair play? Nothing, say I. Fair +play first, last, and all the time!” and he waved his hand. “Hurrah for +downright English fair play!”</p> + +<p>“Hurrah, hurrah!” bellowed the crowd, swept along like bubbles in a +flood. “Fair play, says we—English fair play—hurrah!” And those inside +waved their hands, and those that were outside tossed up their caps, in +sheer delight of good fair play.</p> + +<p>“Hurrah, my bullies! That’s the cry!” said Carew, in his +hail-fellow-well-met, royal way. “Why, we’re the very best of fellows, +and the very fastest friends! Come, all to the old Three Lions inn, and +douse a can of brown March brew at my expense. To the Queen, to good +fair play, and to all the fine fellows in Albans town!”</p> + +<p>And what did the crowd do but raise a shout, like a parcel of +school-boys loosed for a holiday, and troop off to the Three Lions inn +at Master Carew’s heels, Will Hostler and the brawny smith bringing up +the rear with Nick between them, hand to collar, half forgotten by the +rest, and his heart too low for further grief.</p> + +<p>And while the crowd were still roaring over their tankards and cheering +good fair play, Master Gaston Carew up with his prisoner into the +saddle, and, mounting himself, with the bandy-legged man grinning +opposite, shook the dust of old St. Albans from his horse’s heels.</p> + +<p>“Now, Nicholas Attwood,” said he, grimly, as they galloped away, “hark +’e well to what I have to say, and do not let it slip thy mind. I am +willed to take thee to London town—dost mark me?—and to London town +thou shalt go, warm or cold. By the whistle of the Lord High Admiral, I +mean just what I say! So thou mayst take thy choice.”</p> + +<p>He gripped Nick’s shoulder as they rode, and glared into his eyes as if +to sear them with his own. Nick heard his poniard grating in its sheath, +and shut his eyes so that he might not see the master-player’s horrid +stare; for the opening and shutting, opening and shutting, of the blue +lids made him shudder.</p> + +<p>“And what’s more,” said Carew, sternly, “I shall call thee Master +Skylark from this time forth—dost hear? And when I bid thee go, thou’lt +go; and when I bid thee come, thou’lt come; and when I say, ‘Here, +follow me!’ thou’lt follow like a dog to heel!” He drew up his lip until +his white teeth showed, and Nick, hearing them gritting together, shrank +back dismayed.</p> + +<p>“There!” laughed Carew, scornfully. “He that knows better how to tame a +vixen or to cozen a pack of gulls, now let him speak!” and said no more +until they passed by Chipping Barnet. Then, “Nick,” said he, in a quiet, +kindly tone, as if they had been friends for years, “this is the place +where Warwick fell”; and pointed down the field. “There in the corner of +that croft they piled the noble dead like corn upon a threshing-floor. +Since then,” said he, with quiet irony, “men have stopped making English +kings as the Dutch make dolls, of a stick and a poll thereon.”</p> + +<p>Pleased with hearing his own voice, he would have gone on with many +another thing; but seeing that Nick listened not at all to what he said, +he ceased, and rode on silently or chatting with the others.</p> + +<p>The country through Middlesex was in most part flat, and heavy forests +overhung the road from time to time. There the players slipped their +poniards, and rode with rapier in hand; for many a dark deed and cruel +robbery had been done along this stretch of Watling street. And as they +passed, more than one dark-visaged rogue with branded hand and a price +upon his head peered at them from the copses by the way.</p> + +<p>In places where the woods crept very near they pressed closer together +and rode rapidly; and the horse-boy and the grooms lit up the matches of +their pistolets, and laid their harquebuses ready in rest, and blew the +creeping sparkle snapping red at every turn; not so much really fearing +an attack upon so stout a party of reckless, dashing blades, as being +overawed by the great, mysterious silence of the forest, the +semi-twilight all about, and the cold, strange-smelling wind that fanned +their faces.</p> + +<p>The wild spattering of hoofs in water-pools that lay unsucked by the sun +in shadowy stretches, the grim silence of the riders, and the wary eying +of each covert as they passed, sent a thrill of excitement into Nick’s +heart too keen for any boy to resist.</p> + +<p>Then, too, it was no everyday tale to be stolen away from home. It was a +wild, strange thing with a strange, wild sound to it, not altogether +terrible or unpleasant to a brave boy’s ears in that wonder-filled age, +when all the world was turned adventurer, and England led the fore; when +Francis Drake and the “Golden Hind,” John Hawkins and the “Victory,” +Frobisher and his cockleshells, were gossip for every English fireside; +when the whole world rang with English steel, and the wide sea foamed +with English keels, and the air was full of the blaze of the living and +the ghosts of the mighty dead. And down in Nick’s plucky young English +heart there came a spark like that which burns in the soul of a mariner +when for the first time an unknown ocean rolls before his eyes.</p> + +<p>So he rode on bravely, filled with a sense of daring and the thrill of +perils more remote than Master Carew’s altogether too adjacent poniard, +as well as with a sturdy determination to escape at the first +opportunity, in spite of all the master-player’s threats.</p> + +<p>Up Highgate Hill they rattled in a bracing northeast wind, the rugged +country bowling back against the tumbled sky. Far to south a rusty haze +had gloomed against the sun like a midday fog, mile after mile; and +suddenly, as they topped the range and cleared the last low hill, they +saw a city in the south spreading away until it seemed to Nick to girdle +half the world and to veil the sky in a reek of murky sea-coal smoke.</p> + +<p>“There!” said Carew, reining in the gray, as Nick looked up and felt his +heart almost stand still; “since Parma burned old Antwerp, and the Low +Countries are dead, there lies the market-heart of all the big +round world!”</p> + +<p>“London!” cried Nick, and, catching his breath with a quick gasp, sat +speechless, staring.</p> + +<p>Carew smiled. “Ay, Nick,” said he, cheerily; “’tis London town. Pluck +up thine heart, lad, and be no more cast down; there lies a New World +ready to thine hand. Thou canst win it if thou wilt. Come, let it be +thine Indies, thou Francis Drake, and I thy galleon to carry home the +spoils! And cheer up. It grieves my heart to see thee sad. Be merry +for my sake.”</p> + +<p>“For thy sake?” gasped Nick, staring blankly in his face. “Why, what +hast thou done for me?” A sudden sob surprised him, and he clenched his +fists—it was too cruel irony. “Why, sir, if thou wouldst only leave +me go!”</p> + +<p>“Tut, tut!” cried Carew, angrily. “Still harping on that same old +string? Why, from thy waking face I thought thou hadst dropped it long +ago. Let thee go? Not for all the wealth in Lombard street! Dost think +me a goose-witted gull?—and dost ask what I have done for thee? Thou +simpleton! I have made thee rise above the limits of thy wildest +dream—have shod thy feet with gold—have filled thy lap with +glory—have crowned thine head with fame! And yet, ‘What have I done for +thee?’ Fie! Thou art a stubborn-hearted little fool. But, marry come up! +I’ll mend thy mind. I’ll bend thy will to suit my way, or break it in +the bending!”</p> + +<p>Clapping his hand upon his poniard, he turned his back, and did not +speak to Nick again.</p> + +<p>And so they came down the Kentish Town road through a meadow-land +threaded with flowing streams, the wild hill thickets of Hampstead Heath +to right, the huddling villages of Islington, Hoxton, and Clerkenwell to +left. And as they passed through Kentish Town, past Primrose Hill into +Hampstead way, solitary farm-houses and lowly cottages gave way to +burgher dwellings in orderly array, with manor-houses here and there, +and in the distance palaces and towers reared their heads above the +crowding chimney-pots.</p> + +<p>Then the players dressed themselves in fair array, and flung their +banners out, and came through Smithfield to Aldersgate, mocking the grim +old gibbet there with railing gaiety; and through the gate rode into +London town, with a long, loud cheer that brought the people crowding to +their doors, and set the shutters creaking everywhere.</p> + +<p>Nick was bewildered by the countless shifting gables and the throngs of +people flowing onward like a stream, and stunned by the roar that seemed +to boil out of the very ground. The horses’ hoofs clashed on the +unevenly paved street with a noise like a thousand smithies. The houses +hung above him till they almost hid the sky, and seemed to be reeling +and ready to fall upon his head when he looked up; so that he urged the +little roan with his uneasy heels, and wished himself out of this +monstrous ruck where the walls were so close together that there was not +elbow-room to live, and the air seemed only heat, thick and stifling, +full of dust and smells.</p> + +<p>Shop after shop, and booth on booth, until Nick wondered where the +gardens were; and such a maze of lanes, byways, courts, blind alleys, +and passages that his simple country footpath head went all into a +tangle, and he could scarcely have told Tottenham Court road from the +river Thames.</p> + +<p>All that he remembered afterward was that, turning from High Holborn +into the Farringdon road, he saw a great church, under Ludgate Hill, +with spire burned and fallen, and its massive tower, black with age and +smoke, staring on the town. But he was too confused to know whither they +went or what he saw in passing; for of such a forest of houses he had +never even dreamed, with people swarming everywhere like ants upon a +hill, and among them all not one kind face he knew. Through the spirit +of adventure that had roused him for a time welled up a great +heart-sickness for his mother and his home.</p> + +<p>Out of a bewildered daze he came at last to realize this much: that the +master-player’s house was very tall and very dark, standing in a dismal, +dirty street, and that it had a gloomy hallway full of shadows that +crept and wavered along the wall in the dim light of the late afternoon.</p> + +<p>Then the master-player pushed him up a narrow staircase and along a +black corridor to a door at the end of the passage, through which he +thrust him into a darkness like night, and slammed the door behind him.</p> + +<p>Nick heard the bolts shoot heavily, and Master Carew call through the +heavy panels: “Now, Jackanapes, sit down and chew the cud of solitude +awhile. It may cool thy silly pate for thee, since nothing else will +serve. When thou hast found thy common sense, perchance thou’lt find thy +freedom, not before.” Then his step went down the corridor, down the +stair, through the long hall—a door banged with a hollow sound that +echoed through the house, and all was still.</p> + +<p>At first, in the utter darkness, Nick could not see at all, and did not +move for fear of falling down some awful hole; but as his eyes grew +used to the gloom he saw that he was in a little room. The only window +was boarded up, but a dim light crept in through narrow cracks and made +faint bars across the air. Little motes floated up and down these thin +blue bars, wavering in the uncertain light and then lost in the +darkness. Upon the floor was a pallet of straw, covered with a coarse +sheet, and having a rough coverlet of sheepskin. A round log was the +only pillow.</p> + +<p>Something moved. Nick, startled, peered into the shadows: it was a strip +of ragged tapestry which fluttered on the wall. As he watched it +flapping fitfully there came a hollow rattle in the wainscot, and an +uncanny sound like the moaning of wind in the chimney.</p> + +<p>“Let me out!” he cried, beating upon the door. “Let me out, I say!” A +stealthy footstep seemed to go away outside. “Mother, mother!” he cried +shrilly, now quite unstrung by fright, and beat frantically upon the +door until his hands ached; but no one answered. The window was beyond +his reach. Throwing himself upon the hard pallet, he hid his eyes in the +coverlet, and cried as if his heart would break.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI<br /> +<span class='ph3'>MA’M’SELLE CICELY CAREW<br /></span></h2> + +<p>How long he lay there in a stupor of despair Nick Attwood never knew. It +might have been days or weeks, for all that he took heed; for he was +thinking of his mother, and there was no room for more.</p> + +<p>The night passed by. Then the day came, by the lines of light that crept +across the floor. The door was opened at his back, and a trencher of +bread and meat thrust in. He did not touch it, and the rats came out of +the wall and pulled the meat about, and gnawed holes in the bread, and +squeaked, and ran along the wainscot; but he did not care.</p> + +<p>The afternoon dragged slowly by, and the creeping light went up the wall +until the roofs across the street shut out the sunset. Sometimes Nick +waked and sometimes he slept, he scarce knew which nor cared; nor did he +hear the bolts grate cautiously, or see the yellow candle-light steal in +across the gloom.</p> + +<p>“Boy!” said a soft little voice.</p> + +<p>He started up and looked around.</p> + +<p>For an instant he thought that he was dreaming, and was glad to think +that he would waken by and by from what had been so sad a dream, and +find himself safe in his own little bed in Stratford town. For the +little maid who stood in the doorway was such a one as his eyes had +never looked upon before.</p> + +<p>She was slight and graceful as a lily of the field, and her skin was +white as the purest wax, save where a damask rose-leaf red glowed +through her cheeks. Her black hair curled about her slender neck. Her +gown was crimson, slashed with gold, cut square across the breast and +simply made, with sleeves just elbow-long, wide-mouthed, and lined with +creamy silk. Her slippers, too, were of crimson silk, high-heeled, +jaunty bits of things; her silken stockings black. In one hand she held +a tall brass candlestick, and through the fingers of the other the +candle-flame made a ruddy glow like the sun in the heart of a hollyhock. +And in the shadow of her hand her eyes looked out, as Nick said long +afterward, like stars in a summer night.</p> + +<p>Thinking it was all a dream, he sat and stared at her.</p> + +<p>“Boy!” she said again, quite gently, but with a quaint little air of +reproof, “where are thy manners?”</p> + +<p>Nick got up quickly and bowed as best he knew how. If not a dream, this +was certainly a princess—and perchance—his heart leaped up—perchance +she came to set him free! He wondered who had told her of him? Diccon +Field, perhaps, whose father had been Simon Attwood’s partner till he +died, last Michaelmas. Diccon was in London now, printing books, he had +heard. Or maybe it was John, Hal Saddler’s older brother. No, it could +not be John, for John was with a carrier; and Nick had doubts if +carriers were much acquainted at court.</p> + +<p>Wondering, he stared, and bowed again.</p> + +<p>“Why, boy,” said she, with a quaint air of surprise, “thou art a very +pretty fellow! Why, indeed, thou lookest like a good boy! Why wilt thou +be so bad and break my father’s heart?”</p> + +<p>“Break thy father’s heart?” stammered Nick. “Pr’ythee, who is thy +father, Mistress Princess?”</p> + +<p>“Nay,” said the little maid, simply; “I am no princess. I am Cicely +Carew.”</p> + +<p>“Cicely Carew?” cried Nick, clenching his fists. “Art thou the daughter +of that wicked man, Gaston Carew?”</p> + +<p>“My father is not wicked!” said she, passionately, drawing back from the +threshold with her hand trembling upon the latch. “Thou shalt not say +that—I will not speak with thee at all!”</p> + +<p>“I do na care! If Master Gaston Carew is thy father, he is the wickedest +man in the world!”</p> + +<p>“Why, fie, for shame!” she cried, and stamped her little foot. “How +darest thou say such a thing?”</p> + +<p>“He hath stolen me from home,” exclaimed Nick, indignantly; “and I shall +never see my mother any more!” With that he choked, and hid his face in +his arm against the wall.</p> + +<p>The little maid looked at him with an air of troubled surprise, and, +coming into the room, touched him on the arm. “There,” she said +soothingly, “don’t cry!” and stroked him gently as one would a little +dog that was hurt. “My father will send thee home to thy mother, I know; +for he is very kind and good. Some one hath lied to thee about him.”</p> + +<p>Nick wiped his swollen eyes dubiously upon his sleeve; yet the little +maid seemed positive. Perhaps, after all, there was a mistake somewhere.</p> + +<p>“Art hungry, boy?” she asked suddenly, spying the empty trencher on the +floor. “There is a pasty and a cake in the buttery, and thou shalt have +some of it if thou wilt not cry any more. Come, I cannot bear to see +thee cry—it makes me weep myself; and that will blear mine eyes, and +father will feel bad.”</p> + +<p>“If he but felt as bad as he hath made me feel—” began Nick, +wrathfully; but she laid her little hand across his mouth. It was a very +white, soft, sweet little hand.</p> + +<p>“Come,” said she; “thou art hungry, and it hath made thee cross!” and, +with no more ado, took him by the hand and led him down the corridor +into a large room where the last daylight shone with a smoky glow.</p> + +<p>The walls were wainscoted with many panels, dark, old, and mysterious; +and in a burnished copper brazier at the end of the room cinnamon, +rosemary, and bay were burning with a pleasant smell. Along the walls +were joined-work chests for linen and napery, of brass-bound oak—one a +black, old, tragic sea-chest, carved with grim faces and weird griffins, +that had been cast up by the North Sea from the wreck of a Spanish +galleon of war. The floor was waxed in the French fashion, and was so +smooth that Nick could scarcely keep his feet. The windows were high up +in the wall, with their heads among the black roof-beams, which with +their grotesquely carven brackets were half lost in the dusk. Through +the windows Nick could see nothing but a world of chimney-pots.</p> + +<p>“Is London town all smoke-pipes?” he asked confusedly.</p> + +<p>“Nay,” replied the little maid; “there are people.”</p> + +<p>Pushing a chair up to the table, she bade him sit down. Then pulling a +tall, curiously-made stool to the other side of the board, she perched +herself upon it like a fairy upon a blade of grass. “Greg!” she called +imperiously, “Greg! What, how! Gregory Goole, I say!”</p> + +<p>“Yes, ma’m’selle,” replied a hoarse voice without; and through a door at +the further end of the room came the bandy-legged man with the bow of +crimson ribbon in his ear.</p> + +<p>Nick turned a little pale; and when the fellow saw him sitting there, he +came up hastily, with a look like a crock of sour milk. “Tut, tut! +ma’m’selle,” said he; “Master Carew will not like this.”</p> + +<p>She turned upon him with an air of dainty scorn. “Since when hath father +left his wits to thee, Gregory Goole? I know his likes as well as +thou—and it likes him not to let this poor boy starve, I’ll warrant. +Go, fetch the pasty and the cake that are in the buttery, with a glass +of cordial,—the Certosa cordial,—and that in the shaking of a black +sheep’s tail, or I will tell my father what thou wottest of.” And she +looked the very picture of diminutive severity.</p> + +<p>“Very good, ma’m’selle; just as ye say,” said Gregory, fawning, with +very poor grace, however. “But, knave,” he snarled, as he turned away, +with a black scowl at Nick, “if thou dost venture on any of thy scurvy +pranks while I be gone, I’ll break thy pate.”</p> + +<p>Cicely Carew knitted her brows. “That is a saucy rogue,” said she; “but +he hath served my father well. And, what is much in London town, he is +an honest man withal, though I have caught him at the Spanish wine +behind my father’s back; so he doth butter his tongue with smooth words +when he hath speech with me, for I am the lady of the house.” She held +up her head with a very pretty pride. “My mother—”</p> + +<p>Nick caught his breath, and his eyes filled.</p> + +<p>“Nay, boy,” said she, gently; “’tis I should weep, not thou; for <i>my</i> +mother is dead. I do not think I ever saw her that I know,” she went on +musingly; “but she was a Frenchwoman who served a murdered queen, and +she was the loveliest woman that ever lived.” Cicely clasped her hands +and moved her lips. Nick saw that she was praying, and bent his head.</p> + +<p>“Thou art a good boy,” she said softly; “my father will like that”; and +then went quietly on: “That is why Gregory Goole doth call me +‘ma’m’selle’—because my mother was a Frenchwoman. But I am a right +English girl for all that; and when they shout, ‘God save the Queen!’ at +the play, why, I do too! And, oh, boy,” she cried, “it is a brave thing +to hear!” and she clapped her hands with sparkling eyes. “It drove the +Spaniards off the sea, my father ofttimes saith.”</p> + +<p>“Poh!” said Nick, stoutly, for he saw the pasty coming in, “they can na +beat us Englishmen!” and with that fell upon the pasty as if it were the +Spanish Armada in one lump and he Sir Francis Drake set on to do the +job alone.</p> + +<p>As he ate his spirits rose again, and he almost forgot that he was +stolen from his home, and grew eager to be seeing the wonders of the +great town whose ceaseless roar came over the housetops like a distant +storm. He was still somewhat in awe of this beautiful, flower-like +little maid, and listened in shy silence to the wonderful tales she +told: how that she had seen the Queen, who had red hair, and pearls like +gooseberries on her cloak; and how the court went down to Greenwich. But +the bandy-legged man kept popping his head in at the door, and, after +all, Nick was but in a prison-house; so he grew quite dismal after +a while.</p> + +<p>“Dost truly think thy father will leave me go?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“Of course he will,” said she. “I cannot see why thou dost hate him so?”</p> + +<p>“Why, truly,” hesitated Nick, “perhaps it is not thy father that I hate, +but only that he will na leave me go. And if he would but leave me go, +perhaps I’d love him very much indeed.”</p> + +<p>“Good, Nick! thou art a trump!” cried Master Carew’s voice suddenly from +the further end of the hall, where in spite of all the candles it was +dark; and, coming forward, the master-player held out his hands in a +most genial way. “Come, lad, thy hand—’tis spoken like a gentleman. +Nay, I will kiss thee—for I love thee, Nick, upon my word, and on the +remnant of mine honour!” Taking the boy’s half-unwilling hands in his +own, he stooped and kissed him upon the forehead.</p> + +<p>“Father,” said Cicely, gravely, “hast thou forgotten me?”</p> + +<p>“Nay, sweetheart, nay,” cried Carew, with a wonderful laugh that somehow +warmed the cockles of Nick’s forlorn heart; and turning quickly, the +master-player caught up the little maid and kissed her again and again, +so tenderly that Nick was amazed to see how one so cruel could be so +kind, and how so good a little maid could love so bad a man; for she +twined her arms about his neck, and then lay back with her head upon his +shoulder, purring like a kitten in his arms.</p> + +<p>“Father,” said she, patting his cheek, “some one hath told him naughty +things of thee. Come, daddy, say they are not so!”</p> + +<p>The master-player’s face turned red as flame. He coughed and looked up +among the roof-beams. “Why, of course they’re not,” said he, uneasily.</p> + +<p>“There, boy!” cried she; “I told thee so. Why, daddy, think!—they said +that thou hadst stolen him away from his own mother, and wouldst not +leave him go!”</p> + +<p>“Hollo!” ejaculated the master-player, abruptly, with a quiver in his +voice; “what a hole thou hast made in the pasty, Nick!”</p> + +<p>“Ah, daddy,” persisted Cicely, “and what a hole it would make in his +mother’s heart if he had been stolen away!”</p> + +<p>“Wouldst like another draught of cordial, Nick?” cried Carew, hurriedly, +reaching out for the tall flagon with a trembling hand. “’Tis good to +cheer the troubled heart, lad. Not that thou hast any reason in the +world to let thy heart be troubled,” he added hastily. “No, indeed, upon +my word; for thou art on the doorstep of a golden-lined success. See, +Nick, how the light shines through!” and he tilted up the flagon. “It is +one of old Jake Vessaline’s Murano-Venetian glasses; a beautiful thing, +now, is it not? ’Tis good as any made abroad!” but his hand was shaking +so that half the cordial missed the cup and ran into a little shimmering +pool upon the table-top.</p> + +<p>“And thou’lt send him home again, daddy, wilt thou not?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, yes, of course—why, to be sure—we’ll send him anywhere that thou +dost say, Golden-heart: to Persia or Cathay—ay, to the far side of the +green-cheese moon, or to the court of Tamburlaine the Great,” and he +laughed a quick, dry, nervous laugh that had no laughter in it. “I had +one of De Lannoy’s red Bohemian bottles, Nick,” he rattled on +feverishly; “but that butter-fingered rogue”—he nodded his head at the +outer stair—“dropped it, smash! and made a thousand most counterfeit +fourpences out of what cost me two pound sterling.”</p> + +<p>“But will ye truly leave me go, sir?” faltered Nick.</p> + +<p>“Why, of course—to be sure—yes, certainly—yes, yes. But, Nick, it is +too late this night. Why, come, thou couldst not go to-night. See, ’tis +dark, and thou a stranger in the town. ’Tis far to Stratford town—thou +couldst not walk it, lad; there will be carriers anon. Come, stay awhile +with Cicely and me—we will make thee a right welcome guest!”</p> + +<p>“That we will,” cried Cicely, clapping her hands. “Oh, do stay; I am so +lonely here! The maid is silly, Margot old, and the rats run in +the wall.”</p> + +<p>“And thou must to the theater, my lad, and sing for London town—ay, +Nicholas,” and Carew’s voice rang proudly. “The highest heads in London +town must hear that voice of thine, or I shall die unshrift. What! +lad?—come all the way from Coventry, and never show that face of thine, +nor let them hear thy skylark’s song? Why, ’twere a shame! And, Nick, my +lord the Admiral shall hear thee sing when he comes home again; +perchance the Queen herself. Why, Nick, of course thou’lt sing. Thou +hast not heart to say thou wilt not sing—even for me whom thou hatest.”</p> + +<p>Nick smiled in spite of himself, for Cicely was leaning on the arm of +his chair, devouring him with her great dark eyes: “Dost truly, truly +sing?” she asked.</p> + +<p>Nick laughed and blushed, and Carew laughed. “What, doth he sing? Why, +Nick, come, tune that skylark note of thine for little Golden-heart and +me. ’Twill make her think she hears the birds in verity—and, Nick, the +lass hath never seen a bird that sang, except within a cage. Nay, lad, +this is no cage!” he cried, as Nick looked about and sighed. “We will +make it very home for thee—will Cicely and I.”</p> + +<p>“That we will!” cried Cicely. “Come, boy, sing for me—my mother used to +sing.”</p> + +<p>At that Gaston Carew went white as a sheet, and put his hand quickly up +to his face. Cicely darted to his side with a frightened cry, and caught +his hand away. He tried to smile, but it was a ghastly attempt. “Tush, +tush! little one; ’twas something stung me!” said he, huskily, “Sing, +Nicholas, I beg of thee!”</p> + +<p>There was such a sudden world of weariness and sorrow in his voice that +Nick felt a pity for he knew not what, and lifting up his clear young +voice, he sang the quaint old madrigal.</p> + +<p>Carew sat with his face in his hand, and after it was done arose +unsteadily and said, “Come, Golden-heart; ’tis music such as charmeth +care and lureth sleep out of her dark valley—we must be trotting off +to bed.”</p> + +<p>That night Nick slept upon a better bed, with a sheet and a blue serge +coverlet, and a pillow stuffed with chaff.</p> + +<p>But as he drifted off into a troubled dreamland, he heard the door-bolt +throb into its socket, and knew that he was fastened in.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVII"></a>CHAPTER XVII<br /> +<span class='ph3'>CAREW’S OFFER<br /></span></h2> + +<p>Next morning Carew donned his plum-colored cloak, and with Nick’s hand +held tightly in his own went out of the door and down the steps into a +drifting fog which filled the street, the bandy-legged man with the +ribbon in his ear following close upon their heels.</p> + +<p>People passed them like shadows in the mist, and all the houses were a +blur until they came into a wide, open place where the wind blew free +above a wall with many great gates.</p> + +<p>In the middle of this open place a huge gray building stood, staring out +over the housetops—a great cathedral, wonderful and old. Its walls were +dark with time and smoke and damp, and the lofty tower that rose above +it was in part but a hollow shell split by lightning and blackened by +fire. But crowded between its massive buttresses were booths and +chapmen’s stalls; against its hoary side a small church leaned like a +child against a mother’s breast; and in and round about it eddied a +throng of men like ants upon a busy hill.</p> + +<p>All around the outer square were shops with gilded fronts and most +amazing signs: golden angels with outstretched wings, tiger heads, +bears, brazen serpents, and silver cranes; and in and out of the +shop-doors darted apprentices with new-bound books and fresh-printed +slips; for this was old St. Paul’s, the meeting-place of London town, +and in Paul’s Yard the printers and the bookmen dealt.</p> + +<p>With a deal of elbowing the master-player came up the broad steps into +the cathedral, and down the aisle to the pillars where the +merchant-tailors stood with table-books in hand, and there ordered a +brand-new suit of clothes for Nick of old Roger Shearman, the best +cloth-cutter in Threadneedle street.</p> + +<p>While they were deep in silk and silver thread, Haerlem linen, and +Leyden camelot, Nick stared about him half aghast; for it was to him +little less than monstrous to see a church so thronged with merchants +plying their trades as if the place were no more sacred than a booth in +the public square.</p> + +<p>The long nave of the cathedral was crowded with mercers from Cheapside, +drapers from Throgmorton street, stationers from Ludgate Hill, and +goldsmiths from Foster lane, hats on, loud-voiced, and using the very +font itself for a counter. By the columns beyond, sly, foxy-faced +lawyers hobnobbed; and on long benches by the wall, cast-off +serving-men, varlets, grooms, pastry-bakers, and pages sat, waiting to +be hired by some new master. Besides these who came on business there +was a host of gallants in gold-laced silk and velvet promenading up and +down the aisle, with no business there at all but to show their faces +and their clothes. And all about were solemn shrines and monuments and +tombs, and overhead a splendid window burned like a wheel of fire in the +eastern wall.</p> + +<p>While Nick stared, speechless, a party of the Admiral’s placers came +strolling by, their heads half hidden in their huge starched ruffs, and +with prodigious swords that would have dragged along the ground had they +not been cocked up behind so fiercely in the air. Seeing Master Carew +and the boy, they stopped in passing to greet them gaily.</p> + +<p>Master Heywood was there, and bowed to Nick with a kindly smile. His +companion was a handsome, proud-mouthed man with a blue, smooth-shaven +face and a jet-black periwig. Him Carew drew aside and spoke with in an +earnest undertone. As he talked, the other began to stare at Nick as if +he were some curious thing in a cage.</p> + +<p>“Upon my soul,” said Carew, “ye never heard the like of it. He hath a +voice as sweet and clear as if Puck had burst a honey-bag in +his throat.”</p> + +<p>“No doubt,” replied the other, carelessly; “and all the birds will hide +their heads when he begins to sing. But we don’t want him, Carew—not if +he had a voice like Miriam the Jew. Henslowe has just bought little Jem +Bristow of Will Augusten for eight pound sterling, and business is too +bad to warrant any more.”</p> + +<p>“Who spoke of selling?” said Carew, sharply. “Don’t flatter your chances +so, Master Alleyn. I wouldn’t sell the boy for a world full of Jem +Bristows. Why, his mouth is a mint where common words are coined into +gold! Sell him? I think I see myself in Bedlam for a fool! Nay, Master +Alleyn, what I am coming at is this: I’ll place him at the Rose, to do +his turn in the play with the rest of us, or out of it alone, as ye +choose, for one fourth of the whole receipts over and above my old share +in the venture. Do ye take me?”</p> + +<p>“Take you? One fourth the whole receipts! Zounds! man, do ye think we +have a spigot in El Dorado?”</p> + +<p>“Tush! Master Alleyn, don’t make a poor mouth; you’re none so needy. You +and Henslowe have made a heap of money out of us all.”</p> + +<p>“And what of that? Yesterday’s butter won’t smooth to-day’s bread. ’Tis +absurd of you, Carew, to ask one fourth and leave all the risk on us, +with the outlook as it is! Here’s that fellow Langley has built a new +play-house in Paris Garden, nearer to the landing than we are, and is +stealing our business most scurvily!”</p> + +<p>Carew shrugged his shoulders.</p> + +<p>“And what’s more, the very comedy for which Ben Jonson left us, because +we would not put it on, has been taken up by the Burbages on Will +Shakspere’s say-so, and is running famously at the Curtain.”</p> + +<p>“I told you so, Master Alleyn, when the fellow was fresh from the +Netherlands,” said Carew; “but your ears were plugged with your own +conceit. Young Jonson is no flatfish, if he did lay brick; he’s a plum +worth anybody’s picking.”</p> + +<p>“But, plague take it, Carew, those Burbages have all the plums! Since +they weaned Will Shakspere from us everything has gone wrong. Kemp has +left us; old John Lowin, too; and now the Lord Mayor and Privy Council +have soured on the play again and forbidden all playing on the Bankside, +outside the City or no.”</p> + +<p>Carew whistled softly to himself.</p> + +<p>“And since my Lord Chamberlain has been patron of the Burbages he will +not so much as turn a hand to revive the old game of bull- and +bear-baiting, and Phil and I have kept the Queen’s bulldogs going on a +twelvemonth now at our own expense—a pretty canker on our profits! Why, +Carew, as Will Shakspere used to say, ‘One woe doth tread the other’s +heels, so fast they follow!’ And what’s to do?”</p> + +<p>“What’s to do?” said Carew. “Why, I’ve told ye what’s to do. Ye’ve heard +Will say, ‘There is a tide leads on to fortune if ye take it at the +flood’? Well, Master Alleyn, here’s the tide, and at the flood. I have +offered you an argosy. Will ye sail or stick in the mud? Ye’ll never +have such a chance again. Come, one fourth over my old share, and I will +fill your purse so full of gold that it will gape like a stuffed toad. +His is the sweetest skylark voice that ever sugared ears!”</p> + +<p>“But, man, man, one fourth!”</p> + +<p>“Better one fourth than lose it all,” said Carew. “But, pshaw! Master +Ned Alleyn, I’ll not beg a man to swim that’s bent on drowning! We will +be at the play-house this afternoon; mayhap thou’lt have thought better +of it by then.” With a curt bow he was off through the crowd, Nick’s +hand in his own clenched very tight.</p> + +<p>They had hard work getting down the steps, for two hot-headed gallants +were quarreling there as to who should come up first, and there was a +great press. But Carew scowled and showed his teeth, and clenched his +poniard-hilt so fiercely that the commoners fell away and let them down.</p> + +<p>Nick’s eyes were hungry for the printers’ stalls where ballad-sheets +were sold for a penny, and where the books were piled along the shelves +until he wondered if all London were turned printer. He looked about to +see if he might chance upon Diccon Field; but Carew came so quickly +through the crowd that Nick had not time to recognize Diccon if he had +been there. Diccon had often made Nick whistles from the pollard willows +along the Avon below the tannery when Nick was a toddler in smocks, and +the lad thought he would like to see him before going back to Stratford. +Then, too, his mother had always liked Diccon Field, and would be glad +to hear from him. At thought of his mother he gave a happy little skip; +and as they turned into Paternoster Bow, “Master Carew,” said he, “how +soon shall I go home?”</p> + +<p>Carew walked a little faster.</p> + +<p>There had arisen a sound of shouting and a trampling of feet. The +constables had taken a purse-cutting thief, and were coming up to the +Newgate prison with a great rabble behind them. The fellow’s head was +broken, and his haggard face was all screwed up with pain; but that +did not stop the boys from hooting at him, and asking in mockery how he +thought he would like to be hanged and to dance on nothing at +Tyburn Hill.</p> + +<p class='ctr'><a name="illus0348"></a> +<a href="images/illus0348.jpg"> +<img src="images/illus0348.jpg" width = "40%" alt="" /> +</a><br /> +<b>“DICCON HAD OFTEN MADE NICK WHISTLES FROM THE WILLOWS +ALONG THE AVON WHEN NICK WAS A TODDLER.”</b> +<br /></p> + +<p>“Did ye hear me, Master Carew?” asked Nick.</p> + +<p>The master-player stepped aside a moment into a doorway to let the mob +go by, and then strode on.</p> + +<p>Nick tried again: “I pray thee, sir—”</p> + +<p>“Do not pray me,” said Carew, sharply; “I am no Indian idol.”</p> + +<p>“But, good Master Carew—”</p> + +<p>“Nor call me good—I am not good.”</p> + +<p>“But, Master Carew,” faltered Nick, with a sinking sensation around his +heart, “when will ye leave me go home?”</p> + +<p>The master-player did not reply, but strode on rapidly, gnawing his +mustache.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVIII"></a>CHAPTER XVIII<br /> +<span class='ph3'>MASTER HEYWOOD PROTESTS<br /></span></h2> + +<p>It was a cold, raw day. All morning long the sun had shone through the +choking fog as the candle-flame through the dingy yellow horn of an old +stable-lantern. But at noon a wind sprang up that drove the mist through +London streets in streaks and strings mixed with smoke and the reek of +steaming roofs. Now and then the blue gleamed through in ragged patches +overhead; so that all the town turned out on pleasure bent, not minding +if it rained stewed turnips, so they saw the sky.</p> + +<p>But the fog still sifted through the streets, and all was damp and +sticky to the touch, so Cicely was left behind to loneliness and +disappointment.</p> + +<p>Nick and the master-player came down Ludgate Hill to Blackfriars landing +in a stream of merrymakers, high and low, rich and poor, faring forth to +London’s greatest thoroughfare, the Thames; and as the river and the +noble mansions along the Strand came into view, Nick’s heart beat fast. +It was a sight to stir the pulse.</p> + +<p>Far down the stream, the grim old Tower loomed above the drifting mist; +and, higher up, old London Bridge, lined with tall houses, stretched +from shore to shore. There were towers on it with domes and gilded +vanes, and the river foamed and roared under it, strangled by the piers. +From the dock at St. Mary Averies by the Bridge to Barge-house stairs, +the landing-stages all along the river-bank were thronged with boats; +and to and fro across the stream, wherries, punts, barges, and +water-craft of every kind were plying busily. In middle stream +sail-boats tugged along with creaking sweeps, or brown-sailed +trading-vessels slipped away to sea, with costly freight for Muscovy, +Turkey, and the Levant. And amid the countless water-craft a multitude +of stately swans swept here and there like snow-flakes on the +dusky river.</p> + +<p>Nick sniffed at the air, for it was full of strange odors—the smell of +breweries, of pitchy oakum, Norway tar, spices from hot countries, +resinous woods, and chilly whiffs from the water; and as they came out +along the wharf, there were brown-faced, hard-eyed sailors there, who +had been to the New World—wild fellows with silver rings in their ears +and a swaggering stagger in their petticoated legs. Some of them held +short, crooked brown tubes between their lips, and puffed great clouds +of pale brown smoke from their noses in a most amazing way.</p> + +<p>Broad-beamed Dutchmen, too, were there, and swarthy Spanish renegades, +with sturdy craftsmen of the City guilds and stalwart yeomen of the +guard in the Queen’s rich livery.</p> + +<p>But ere Nick had fairly begun to stare, confused by such a rout, Carew +had hailed a wherry, and they were half-way over to the Southwark side.</p> + +<p>Landing amid a deafening din of watermen bawling hoarsely for a place +along the Paris Garden stairs, the master-player hurried up the lane +through the noisy crowd. Some were faring afoot into Surrey, and some to +green St. George’s Fields to buy fresh fruit and milk from the +farm-houses and to picnic on the grass. Some turned aside to the Falcon +Inn for a bit of cheese and ale, and others to the play-houses beyond +the trees and fishing-ponds. And coming down from the inn they met a +crowd of players, with Master Tom Heywood at their head, frolicking and +cantering along like so many overgrown school-boys.</p> + +<p>“So we are to have thee with us awhile?” said Heywood, and put his arm +around Nick’s shoulders as they trooped along.</p> + +<p>“Awhile, sir, yes,” replied Nick, nodding; “but I am going home soon, +Master Carew says.”</p> + +<p>“Carew,” said Heywood, suddenly turning, “how can ye have the heart?”</p> + +<p>“Come, Heywood,” quoth the master-player, curtly, though his whole face +colored up, “I have heard enough of this. Will ye please to mind your +own affairs?”</p> + +<p>The writer of comedies lifted his brows, “Very well,” he answered +quietly; “but, lad, this much for thee,” said he, turning to Nick, “if +ever thou dost need a friend, Tom Heywood’s one will never speak +thee false.”</p> + +<p>“Sir!” cried Carew, clapping his hand upon his poniard Heywood looked +up steadily. “How? Wilt thou quarrel with me, Carew? What ugly poison +hath been filtered through thy wits? Why, thou art even falser than I +thought! Quarrel with me, who took thy new-born child from her dying +mother’s arms when thou wert fast in Newgate gaol?”</p> + +<p>Carew’s angry face turned sickly gray. He made as if to speak, but no +sound came. He shut his eyes and pushed out his hand in the air as if to +stop the voice of the writer of comedies.</p> + +<p>“Come,” said Heywood, with deep feeling; “thou canst not quarrel with me +yet—nay, though thou dost try thy very worst. It would be a sorry story +for my soul or thine to tell to hers.”</p> + +<p>Carew groaned. The rest of the players had passed on, and the three +stood there alone. “Don’t, Tom, don’t!” he cried.</p> + +<p>“Then how can ye have the heart?” the other asked again.</p> + +<p>The master-player lifted up his head, and his lips were trembling. “’Tis +not the heart, Tom,” he cried bitterly, “upon my word, and on the +remnant of mine honour! ’Tis the head which doeth this. For, Tom, I +cannot leave him go. Why, Tom, hast thou not heard him sing? A voice +which would call back the very dead that we have loved if they might +only hear. Why, Tom, ’tis worth a thousand pound! How can I leave +him go?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, fie for shame upon the man I took thee for!” cried Heywood.</p> + +<p>“But, Tom,” cried Carew, brokenly, “look it straightly in the face; I +am no such player as I was,—this reckless life hath done the trick for +me, Tom,—and here is ruin staring Henslowe and Alleyn in the eye. They +cannot keep me master if their luck doth not change soon; and Burbage +would not have me as a gift. So, Tom, what is there left to do? How can +I shift without the boy? Nay, Tom, it will not serve. There’s +Cicely—not one penny laid by for her against a rainy day; and I’ll be +gone, Tom, I’ll be gone—it is not morning all day long—we cannot last +forever. Nay, I cannot leave him go!”</p> + +<p>“But, sir,” broke in Nick, wretchedly, holding fast to Hey wood’s arm, +“ye said that I should go!”</p> + +<p>“Said!” cried the master-player, with a bitter smile; “why, Nick, I’d +say ten times more in one little minute just to hear thee sing than I +would stand to in a month of Easters afterward. Come, Nick, be fair. +I’ll feed thee full and dress thee well and treat thee true—all for +that song of thine.”</p> + +<p>“But, sir, my mother—”</p> + +<p>“Why, Carew, hath the boy a mother, too?” cried the writer of comedies.</p> + +<p>“Now, Heywood, on thy soul, no more of this!” cried the master-player, +with quivering lips. “Ye will make me out no man, or else a fiend. I +cannot let the fellow go—I will not let him go.” His hands were +twitching, and his face was pale, but his lips were set determinedly. +“And, Tom, there’s that within me will not abide even <i>thy</i> pestering. +So come, no more of it! Upon my soul, I sour over soon!”</p> + +<p>So they came on gloomily past the bear-houses and the Queen’s kennels. +The river-wind was full of the wild smell of the bears; but what were +bears to poor Nick, whose last faint hope that the master-player meant +to keep his word and send him home again was gone?</p> + +<p>They passed the Paris Garden and the tall round play-house that Francis +Langley had just built. A blood-red banner flaunted overhead, with a +large white swan painted thereon; but Nick saw neither the play-house +nor the swan; he saw only, deep in his heart, a little gable-roof among +old elms, with blue smoke curling softly up among the rippling leaves; +an open door with tall pink hollyhocks beside it; and in the door, +watching for him till he came again, his own mother’s face. He began to +cry silently.</p> + +<p>“Nay, Nick, my lad, don’t cry,” said Heywood, gently; “’twill only make +bad matters worse. <i>Never</i> is a weary while; but the longest lane will +turn at last: some day thou’lt find thine home again all in the +twinkling of an eye. Why, Nick, ’tis England still, and thou an +Englishman. Come, give the world as good as it can send.”</p> + +<p>Nick raised his head again, and, throwing the hair back from his eyes, +walked stoutly along, though the tears still trickled down his cheeks.</p> + +<p>“Sing thou my songs,” said Heywood, heartily, “and I will be thy +friend—let this be thine earnest.” As he spoke he slipped upon the +boy’s finger a gold ring with a green stone in it cut with a tall tree: +this was his seal.</p> + +<p>They had now come through the garden to the Rose Theatre, where the Lord +Admiral’s company played; and Carew was himself again. “Come, +Nicholas,” said he, half jestingly, “be done with thy doleful +dumps—care killed a cat, they say, lad. Why, if thy hateful looks could +stab, I’d be a dead man forty times. Come, cheer up, lad, that I may +know thou lovest me.”</p> + +<p>“But I do na love thee!” cried Nick, indignantly.</p> + +<p>“Tut! Do not be so dour. Thou’lt soon be envied by ten thousand men. +Come, don’t make a face at thy good fortune as though it were a tripe +fried in tar. Come, lad, be pleased; thou’lt be the pet of every +high-born dame in London town.”</p> + +<p>“I’d rather be my mother’s boy,” Nick answered simply.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIX"></a>CHAPTER XIX<br /> +<span class='ph3'>THE ROSE PLAY-HOUSE<br /></span></h2> + +<p>The play-house was an eight-sided, three-storied, tower-like building of +oak and plastered lath, upon a low foundation of yellow brick. Two +outside stairways ran around the wall, and the roof was of bright-red +English tiles with a blue lead gutter at the eaves. There was a little +turret, from the top of which a tall ash stave went up; and on the +stave, whenever there was to be a play, there floated a great white flag +on which was a crimson rose with a golden heart, just like the one that +Nick with such delight had seen come up the Oxford road a few short +days before.</p> + +<p>Under the stairway was a narrow door marked “For the Playeres Onelie”; +and in the doorway stood a shrewd-faced, common-looking man, writing +upon a tablet which he held in his hand. There was a case of quills at +his side, with one of which he was scratching busily, now and then +prodding the ink-horn at his girdle. He held his tongue in his cheek, +and moved his head about as the pen formed the letters: he was no +expert penman, this Phil Henslowe, the stager of plays.</p> + +<p>He looked up as they came to the step.</p> + +<p>“A poor trip, Carew,” said he, running his finger down the column of +figures he was adding. “The play was hardly worth the candle—cleared +but five pound; and then, after I had paid the carman three shilling fip +to bring the stuff down from the City, ’twas lost in the river from the +barge at Paul’s wharf! A good two pound.”</p> + +<p>“Hard luck!” said Carew.</p> + +<p>“Hard? Adamantine, I say! Why, ’tis very stones for luck, and the whole +road rocky! Here’s Burbage, Condell, and Will Shakspere ha’ rebuilt +Blackfriars play-house in famous shape; and, marry, where are we?”</p> + +<p>Nick started. An idea came creeping into his head. Will Shakspere had +married his mother’s own cousin, Anne Hathaway of Shottery; and he had +often heard his mother say that Master Shakspere had ever been her own +good friend when they were young.</p> + +<p>“He and Jonson be thick as thieves,” said Henslowe; “and Chettle says +that Will hath near done the book of a new play for the autumn—a master +fine thing!—‘Romulus and Juliana,’ or something of that Italian sort, +to follow Ben Jonson’s comedy. Ned Alleyn played a sweet fool about +Ben’s comedy. Called it monstrous bad; and now it has taken the money +out of our mouths to the tune of nine pound six the day—and here, while +ye were gone, I ha’ played my Lord of Pembroke’s men in your ‘Robin +Hood,’ Heywood, to scant twelve shilling in the house!”</p> + +<p>Heywood flushed.</p> + +<p>“Nay, Tom, don’t be nettled; ’tis not the fault of thy play. There’s +naught will serve. We’ve tried old Marlowe and Robin Greene, Peele, +Nash, and all the rest; but, what! they will not do—’tis Shakspere, +Shakspere; our City flat-caps will ha’ nothing but Shakspere!”</p> + +<p>Nick listened eagerly. Master Will Shakspere must indeed be somebody in +London town! He stared across into the drifting cloud of mist and smoke +which hid the city like a pall, and wondered how and where, in that +terrible hive of more than a hundred thousand men, he could find +one man.</p> + +<p>“I tell thee, Tom Heywood, there’s some magic in the fellow, or my +name’s not Henslowe!” cried the manager. “His very words bewitch one’s +wits as nothing else can do. Why, I’ve tried them with ‘Pierce +Penniless,’ ‘Groat’s Worth of Wit,’ ‘Friar Bacon,’ ‘Orlando,’ and the +‘Battle of Alcazar.’ Why, tush! they will not even listen! And here I’ve +put Martin Gosset into purple and gold, and Jemmy Donstall into a +peach-colored gown laid down with silver-gilt, for ‘Volteger’; and what? +Why, we play to empty stools; and the rascals owe me for those costumes +yet—sixty shillings full! A murrain on Burbage and Will Shakspere +too!—but I wish we had him back again. We’d make their old Blackfriars +sick!” He shook his fist at a great gray pile of buildings that rose +above the rest out of the fog by the landing-place beyond the river.</p> + +<p>Nick stared. <i>That</i> the play-house of Master Shakspere and the Burbages? +Will Shakspere playing there, just across the river? Oh, if Nick could +only find him, he would not let the son of his wife’s own cousin be +stolen away!</p> + +<p>Nick looked around quickly.</p> + +<p>The play-house stood a bowshot from the river, in the open fields. There +was a moated manor-house near by, and beyond it a little stream with +some men fishing. Between the play-house and the Thames were gardens and +trees, and a thin fringe of buildings along the bank by the landings. It +was not far, and there were places where one could get a boat every +fifty yards or so at the Bankside.</p> + +<p>But—“Come in, come in,” said Henslowe. “Growling never fed a dog; and +we must be doing.”</p> + +<p>“Go ahead, Nick,” said Carew, pushing him by the shoulder, and they all +went in. The door opened on a flight of stairs leading to the lowest +gallery at the right of the stage, where the orchestra sat. A man was +tuning up a viol as they came in.</p> + +<p>“I want you to hear this boy sing,” said Carew to Henslowe. “’Tis the +best thing ye ever lent ear to.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, this is the boy?” said the manager, staring at Nick. “Why, Alleyn +told me he was a country gawk!”</p> + +<p>“He lied, then,” said Carew, very shortly. “’Twas cheaper than the +truth at my price. There, Nick, go look about the place—we have +business.”</p> + +<p>Nick went slowly along the gallery. His hands were beginning to tremble +as he put them out touching the stools. Along the rail were ornamental +columns which supported the upper galleries and looked like beautiful +blue-veined white marble; but when he took hold of them to steady +himself he found they were only painted wood.</p> + +<p>There were two galleries above. They ran all around the inside of the +building, like the porches of the inn at Coventry, and he could see them +across the house. There were no windows in the gallery where he was, but +there were some in the second one. They looked high. He went on around +the gallery until he came to some steps going down into the open space +in the center of the building. The stage was already set up on the +trestles, and the carpenters were putting a shelter-roof over it on +copper-gilt pillars; for it was beginning to drizzle, and the middle of +the play-house was open to the sky.</p> + +<p>The spectators were already coming into the pit at a penny apiece, +although the play would not begin until early evening. Those for the +galleries paid another penny to a man in a red cloak at the foot of the +stairs where Nick was standing. There was a great uproar at the +entrance. Some apprentices had caught a cutpurse in the crowd, and were +beating him unmercifully. Every one pushed and shoved about, cursing the +thief, and those near enough kicked and struck him.</p> + +<p>Nick looked back. Carew and the manager had gone into the tiring-room +behind the stage. He took hold of the side-rail and started down the +steps. The man in the red cloak looked up. “Go back there,” said he, +sharply; “there’s enough down here now.” Nick went on around +the gallery.</p> + +<p>At the back of the stage were two doors for the players, and between +them hung a painted cloth or arras behind which the prompter stood. Over +these doors were two plastered rooms, twopenny private boxes for +gentlefolk. In one of them were three young men and a beautiful girl, +wonderfully dressed. The men were speaking to her, but she looked down +at Nick instead. “What a pretty boy!” she said, and tossed him a flower +that one of the men had just given her. It fell at Nick’s feet. He +started back, looking up. The girl smiled, so he took off his cap and +bowed; but the men looked sour.</p> + +<p>At the side of the stage was a screen with long leather fire-buckets and +a pole-ax hanging upon it, and behind it was a door through which Nick +saw the river and the gray walls of the old Dominican friary. As he came +down to it, some one thrust out a staff and barred the way. It was the +bandy-legged man with the ribbon in his ear, Nick looked out longingly; +it seemed so near!</p> + +<p>“Master Carew saith thou art not to stir outside—dost hear?” said the +bandy-legged man.</p> + +<p>“Ay,” said Nick, and turned back.</p> + +<p>There was a narrow stairway leading to the second gallery. He went up +softly. There was no one in the gallery, and there was a window on the +side next to the river; he had seen it from below. He went toward it +slowly that he might not arouse suspicion. It was above his head.</p> + +<p class='ctr'><a name="illus0350"></a> +<a href="images/illus0350.jpg"> +<img src="images/illus0350.jpg" width = "35%" alt="" /> +</a><br /> +<b>“NICK PUT ONE LEG OVER THE SILL AND LOOKED BACK.”</b> +<br /></p> + +<p>There were stools for hire standing near. He brought one and set it +under the window. It stood unevenly upon the floor, and made a wabbling +noise. He was afraid some one would hear him; but the apprentices in +the pit were rattling dice, and two or three gentlemen’s pages were +wrangling for the best places on the platform; while, to add to the +general riot, two young gallants had brought gamecocks and were fighting +them in one corner, amid such a whooping and swashing that one could +hardly have heard the skies fall.</p> + +<p>A printer’s man was bawling, “Will ye buy a new book?” and the +fruit-sellers, too, were raising such a cry of “Apples, cherries, cakes, +and ale!” that the little noise Nick might make would be lost in the +wild confusion.</p> + +<p>Master Carew and the manager had not come out of the tiring-room. Nick +got up on the stool and looked out. It was not very far to the +ground—not so far as from the top of the big haycock in Master John +Combe’s field from which he had often jumped.</p> + +<p>The sill was just breast-high when he stood upon the stool. Putting his +hands upon it, he gave a little spring, and balanced on his arms a +moment. Then he put one leg over the window-sill and looked back. No one +was paying the slightest attention to him. Over all the noise he could +hear the man tuning the viol. Swinging himself out slowly and silently, +with his toes against the wall to steady him, he hung down as far as he +could, gave a little push away from the house with his feet, caught a +quick breath, and dropped.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XX"></a>CHAPTER XX<br /> +<span class='ph3'>DISAPPOINTMENT<br /></span></h2> + +<p>Nick landed upon a pile of soft earth. It broke away under his feet and +threw him forward upon his hands and knees. He got up, a little shaken +but unhurt, and stood close to the wall, looking all about quickly. A +party of gaily dressed gallants were haggling with the horse-boys at the +sheds; but they did not even look at him. A passing carter stared up at +the window, measuring the distance with his eye, whistled incredulously, +and trudged on.</p> + +<p>Nick listened a moment, but heard only the clamor of voices inside, and +the zoon, zoon, zoon of the viol. He was trembling all over, and his +heart was beating like a trip-hammer. He wanted to run, but was fearful +of exciting suspicion. Heading straight for the river, he walked as fast +as he could through the gardens and the trees, brushing the dirt from +his hose as he went.</p> + +<p>There was a wherry just pushing out from Old Marigold stairs with a +single passenger, a gardener with a basket of truck.</p> + +<p>“Holloa!” cried Nick, hurrying down; “will ye take me across?”</p> + +<p>“For thrippence,” said the boatman, hauling the wherry alongside again +with his hook.</p> + +<p>Thrippence? Nick stopped, dismayed. Master Carew had his gold +rose-noble, and he had not thought of the fare. They would soon find +that he was gone.</p> + +<p>“Oh, I must be across, sir!” he cried. “Can ye na take me free? I be +little and not heavy; and I will help the gentleman with his basket.”</p> + +<p>The boatman’s only reply was to drop his hook and push off with the oar.</p> + +<p>But the gardener, touched by the boy’s pitiful expression, to say +nothing of being tickled by Nick’s calling him gentleman, spoke up: +“Here, jack-sculler,” said he; “I’ll toss up wi’ thee for it.” He pulled +a groat from his pocket and began spinning it in the air. “Come, thou +lookest a gamesome fellow—cross he goes, pile he stays; best two in +three flips—what sayst?”</p> + +<p>“Done!” said the waterman. “Pop her up!”</p> + +<p>Up went the groat.</p> + +<p>Nick held his breath.</p> + +<p>“Pile it is,” said the gardener. “One for thee—and up she goes again!” +The groat twirled in the air and came down <i>clink</i> upon the thwart.</p> + +<p>“Aha!” cried the boatman, “’tis mine, or I’m a horse!”</p> + +<p>“Nay, jack-sculler,” laughed the gardener; “cross it is! Ka me, ka thee, +my pretty groat—I never lose with this groat.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, sir, do be brisk!” begged Nick, fearing every instant to see the +master-player and the bandy-legged man come running down the bank.</p> + +<p>“More haste, worse speed,” said the gardener; “only evil weeds grow +fast!” and he rubbed the groat on his jerkin. “Now, jack-sculler, hold +thy breath; for up she goes again!”</p> + +<p>A man came running over the rise. Nick gave a little frightened cry. It +was only a huckster’s knave with a roll of fresh butter. The groat came +down with a splash in the bottom of the wherry. The boatman picked it up +out of the water and wiped it with his sleeve. “Here, boy, get aboard,” +said he, shoving off; “and be lively about it!”</p> + +<p>The huckster’s knave came running down the landing. He pushed Nick +aside, and scrambled into the wherry, puffing for breath. The boat fell +off into the current. Nick, making a plunge for it into the water, just +managed to catch the gunwale and get aboard, wet to the knees. But he +did not care for that; for although there were people going up Paris +Garden lane, and a crowd about the entrance of the Rose, he could not +see Master Carew or the bandy-legged man anywhere. So he breathed a +little freer, yet kept his eyes fast upon the play-house until the +wherry bumped against Blackfriars stairs.</p> + +<p>Picking up the basket of truck, he sprang ashore, and, dropping it upon +the landing, took to his heels up the bank, without stopping to thank +either gardener or boatman.</p> + +<p>The gray walls of the old friary were just ahead, scarcely a stone’s +throw from the river. With heart beating high, he ran along the close, +looking eagerly for the entrance. He came to a wicket-gate that was +standing half ajar, and went through it into the old cloisters.</p> + +<p>Everything there was still. He was glad of that, for the noise and the +rush of the crowd outside confused him.</p> + +<p>The place had once been a well-kept garden-plot, but now was become a +mere stack of odds and ends of boards and beams, shavings, mortar, and +broken brick. A long-legged fellow with a green patch over one eye was +building a pair of stairs to a door beside which a sign read: “Playeres +Here: None Elles.”</p> + +<p>Nick doffed his cap. “Good-day,” said he; “is Master Will Shakspere in?”</p> + +<p>The man put down his saw and sat back upon one of the trestles, staring +stupidly. “Didst za-ay zummat?”</p> + +<p>“I asked if Master Will Shakspere was in?”</p> + +<p>The fellow scratched his head with a bit of shaving. “Noa; Muster Wull +Zhacksper beant in.”</p> + +<p>Nick’s heart stopped with a thump. “Where is he—do ye know?”</p> + +<p>“A’s gone awa-ay,” drawled the workman, vaguely.</p> + +<p>“Away? Whither!”</p> + +<p>“A’s gone to Ztratvoard to-own, whur’s woife do li-ive—went +a-yesterday.”</p> + +<p>Nick sat blindly down upon the other trestle. He did not put his cap on +again: he had quite forgotten it.</p> + +<p>Master Will Shakspere gone to Stratford—and only the day before!</p> + +<p>Too late—just one little day too late! It seemed like cruel mockery. +Why, he might be almost home! The thought was more than he could bear: +who could be brave in the face of such a blow? The bitter tears ran +down his face again.</p> + +<p>“Here, here, odzookens, lad!” grinned the workman, stolidly, “thou’lt +vetch t’ river up if weeps zo ha-ard. Ztop un, ztop un; do now.”</p> + +<p>Nick sat staring at the ground. A beetle was trying to crawl over a +shaving. It was a curly shaving, and as fast as the beetle crept up to +the top the shaving rolled over, and dropped the beetle upon its back in +the dust; but it only got up and tried again. Nick looked up.</p> + +<p>“Is—is Master Richard Burbage here, then?”</p> + +<p>Perhaps Burbage, who had been a Stratford man, would help him.</p> + +<p>“Noa,” drawled the carpenter; “Muster Bubbage beant here; doan’t want +un, nuther—nuvver do moind a’s owen business—always jawin’ volks. A +beant here, an’ doan’t want un, nuther.”</p> + +<p>Nick’s heart went down. “And where is he?”</p> + +<p>“Who? Muster Bubbage? Whoy, a be-eth out to Zhoreditch, a-playin’ at t’ +theater.”</p> + +<p>“And where may Shoreditch be?”</p> + +<p>“Whur be Zhoreditch?” gaped the workman, vacantly. “Whoy—whoy, zummers +over there a bit yon, zure”; and he waved his hand about in a way that +pointed to nowhere at all.</p> + +<p>“When will he be back?” asked Nick, desperately.</p> + +<p>“Be ba-ack?” drawled the workman, slowly taking up his saw again; “back +whur?—here? Whoy, a wun’t pla-ay here no mo-ore avore next Martlemas.”</p> + +<p>Martinmas? That was almost mid-November. It was now but middle May.</p> + +<p>Nick got up and went out at the wicket-gate. He was beginning to feel +sick and a little faint. The rush in the street made him dizzy, and the +sullen roar that came down on the wind from the town, mingled with the +tramping of feet, the splash of oars, the bumping of boats along the +wharves, and the shouts and cries of a thousand voices, stupefied him.</p> + +<p>He was standing there motionless in the narrow way, as if dazed by a +heavy fall, when Gaston Carew came running up from the river-front, with +the bandy-legged man at his heels.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXI"></a>CHAPTER XXI<br /> +<span class='ph3'>“THE CHILDREN OF PAUL’S”<br /></span></h2> + +<p>An old gray rat came out of its hole, ran swiftly across the floor, and, +sitting up, crouched there, peering at Nick. He thought its bare, scaly +tail was not a pleasant thing to see; yet he looked at it, with his +elbows on his knees, and his chin in his hands.</p> + +<p>He had been locked in for two days now. They had put in plenty of food, +and he had eaten it all; for if he starved to death he would certainly +never get home.</p> + +<p>It was quite warm, and the boards had been taken from the window, so +that there was plenty of light. The window faced the north, and in the +night, wakened by some outcry in the street below, Nick had leaned his +log-pillow against the wainscot, and, climbing up, looked out into the +sky. It was clear, for a wonder, and the stars were very bright. The +moon, like a smoky golden platter, rose behind the eastern towers of the +town, and in the north hung the Great Wain pointing at the polar star.</p> + +<p>Somewhere underneath those stars was Stratford. The throstles would be +singing in the orchard there now, when the sun was low and the cool +wind came up from the river with a little whispering in the lane. The +purple-gray doves, too, would be cooing softly in the elms over the +cottage gable. In fancy he heard the whistle of their wings as they +flew. But all the sound that came in over the roofs of London town was a +hollow murmur as from a kennel of surly hounds.</p> + +<p>“Nick!—oh, Nick!”</p> + +<p>Cicely Carew was calling at the door. The rat scurried off to its hole +in the wall.</p> + +<p>“What there, Nick! Art thou within?” Cicely called again; but Nick made +no reply.</p> + +<p>“Nick, <i>dear</i> Nick, art crying?”</p> + +<p>“No,” said he; “I’m not.”</p> + +<p>There was a short silence.</p> + +<p>“Nick, I say, wilt thou be good if I open the door?”</p> + +<p>“No.”</p> + +<p>“Then I will open it anyway; thou durstn’t be bad to me!”</p> + +<p>The bolts thumped, and then the heavy door swung slowly back.</p> + +<p>“Why, where art thou?”</p> + +<p>He was sitting in the corner behind the door.</p> + +<p>“Here,” said he.</p> + +<p>She came in, but he did not look up.</p> + +<p>“Nick,” she asked earnestly, “why wilt thou be so bad, and try to run +away from my father?”</p> + +<p>“I hate thy father!” said he, and brought his fist down upon his knee.</p> + +<p>“Hate him? Oh, Nick! Why?”</p> + +<p>“If thou be asking whys,” said Nick, bitterly, “why did he steal me away +from my mother?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, surely, Nick, that cannot be true—no, no, it cannot be true. Thou +hast forgotten, or thou hast slept too hard and had bad dreams. My +father would not steal a pin. It was a nightmare. Doth thine head hurt +thee?” She came over and stroked his forehead with her cool hand. She +was a graceful child, and gentle in all her ways. “I am sorry thou dost +not feel well, Nick. But my father will come presently, and he will heal +thee soon. Don’t cry any more.”</p> + +<p>“I’m not crying,” said Nick, stoutly, though as he spoke a tear ran down +his cheek, and fell upon his hand.</p> + +<p>“Then it is the roof leaks,” she said, looking up as if she had not seen +his tear-blinded eyes. “But cheer up, Nick, and be a good boy—wilt thou +not? ’Tis dinner-time, and thy new clothes have come; and thou art to +come down now and try them on.”</p> + +<p>When Nick came out of the tiring-room and found the master-player come, +he knew not what to say or do. “Oh, brave, brave, brave!” cried Cicely, +and danced around him, clapping her hands. “Why, it is a very prince—a +king! Oh, Nick, thou art most beautiful to see!”</p> + +<p>And Master Carew’s own eyes sparkled; for truly it was a pleasant sight +to see a fair young lad like Nick in such attire.</p> + +<p class='ctr'><a name="i_142"></a> +<a href="images/i_142.jpg"> +<img src="images/i_142.jpg" width="35%" alt="" /> +</a><br /> +<b>““OH, NICK, THOU ART MOST BEAUTIFUL TO SEE!” CRIED CICELY.”</b> +<br /></p> + +<p>There was a fine white shirt of Holland linen, and long hose of grayish +blue, with puffed and slashed trunks of velvet so blue as to be almost +black. The sleeveless jerkin was of the same dark color, trellised with +roses embroidered in silk, and loose from breast to broad lace collar so +that the waistcoat of dull gold silk beneath it might show. A cloak of +damask with a silver clasp, a buff-leather belt with a chubby purse hung +to it by a chain, tan-colored slippers, and a jaunty velvet cap with a +short white plume, completed the array. Everything, too, had been laid +down with perfume, so that from head to foot he smelt as sweet and clean +as a drift of rose-mallows.</p> + +<p>“My soul!” cried Carew, stepping back and snapping his fingers with +delight. “Thou art the bravest skylark that ever broke a shell! Fine +feathers—fine bird—my soul, how ye do set each other off!” He took +Nick by the shoulders, twirled him around, and, standing off again, +stared at him like a man who has found two pound sterling in a +cast-off coat.</p> + +<p>“I can na pay for them, sir,” said Nick, slowly.</p> + +<p>“There’s nought to pay—it is a gift.”</p> + +<p>Nick hung his head, much troubled. What could he say; what could he +think? This man had stolen him from home,—ay, made him tremble for his +very life a dozen times,—and with his whole heart he knew he hated +him—yet here, a gift!</p> + +<p>“Yes, Nick, it is a gift—and all because I love thee, lad.”</p> + +<p>“Love me?”</p> + +<p>“Why, surely! Who could see thee without liking, or hear thy voice and +not love thee? Love thee, Nick? Why, on my word and honour, lad, I love +thee with all my heart.”</p> + +<p>“Thou hast chosen strange ways to show it, Master Carew,” said Nick, and +looked straight up into the master player’s eyes.</p> + +<p>Carew turned upon his heel and ordered the dinner.</p> + +<p>It was a good dinner: fat roast capon stuffed with spiced carrots; +asparagus, biscuit, barley-cakes, and honey; and to end with, a flaky +pie, and Spanish cordial sprinkled with burnt sugar. With such fare and +a keen appetite, a marvelous brand-new suit of clothes, and Cicely +chattering gaily by his side, Nick could not be sulky or doleful long. +He was soon laughing; and Carew’s spirits seemed to rise with the boy’s.</p> + +<p>“Here, here!” he cried, as Nick was served the third time to the pie; +“art hollow to thy very toes? Why, thou’lt eat us out of house and +home—hey, Cicely? Marry come up, I think I’d best take Ned Alleyn’s +five shillings for thine hire, after all! What! Five shillings? Set me +in earth and bowl me to death with boiled turnips!—do they think to +play bob-fool with me? Five shillings! A fico for their five +shillings—and this for them!” and he squeezed the end of his thumb +between his fingers. “Cicely, what dost think?—Phil Henslowe had the +face to match Jem Bristow with our Nick!”</p> + +<p>“Why, daddy, Jem hath a face like a halibut!”</p> + +<p>“And a voice like a husky crow. Why, Nick’s mere shadow on the stage is +worth a ton of Jemmy Bristows. ’Twas casting pearls before swine, Nick, +to offer thee to Henslowe and Alleyn; but we’ve found a better trough +than theirs—hey, Cicely Goldenheart, haven’t we? Thou art to be one of +Paul’s boys.”</p> + +<p>“Paul who?”</p> + +<p>Carew lay back in his chair and laughed. “Paul who? Why, Saint Paul, +Nick,—’tis Paul’s Cathedral boys I mean. Marry, what dost say to that?”</p> + +<p>“I’d like another barley-cake.”</p> + +<p>“You’d <i>what</i>?” cried the master-player, letting the front legs of his +chair come down on the floor with a thump.</p> + +<p>“I’d like another barley-cake,” said Nick, quietly, helping himself to +the honey.</p> + +<p>“Upon my word, and on the remnant of mine honour!” ejaculated Carew. +“Tell a man his fortune’s made, and he calls for barley-cakes! Why, +thou’dst say ‘Pooh!’ to a cannon-ball! My faith, boy, dost understand +what this doth mean?”</p> + +<p>“Ay,” said Nick; “that I be hungry.”</p> + +<p>“But, Nick, upon my soul, thou art to sing with the Children of Paul’s; +to play with the cathedral company; to be a bright particular star in +the sweetest galaxy that ever shone in English sky! Dost take me yet?”</p> + +<p>“Ay,” said Nick, and sopped the honey with his cake.</p> + +<p>Carew played with his glass uneasily, and tapped his heel upon the +floor. “And is that all thou hast to say—hast turned oyster? There’s no +R in May—nobody will eat thee! Come, don’t make a mouth as though the +honey of the world were all turned gall upon thy tongue. ’Tis the +flood-tide of thy fortune, boy! Thou art to sing before the school +to-morrow, so that Master Nathaniel Gyles may take thy range and worth. +Now, truly, thou wilt do thy very best?”</p> + +<p>The bandy-legged man had brought water in a ewer, and poured some in a +basin for Nick to wash his hands. There was a green ribbon in his ear, +and the towel hung across his arm. Nick wiped his hands in silence.</p> + +<p>“Come,” said Master Carew, with an ugly sharpness in his voice, “thou’lt +sing thy very best?”</p> + +<p>“There’s nothing else to do,” replied Nick, doggedly.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXII"></a>CHAPTER XXII<br /> +<span class='ph3'>THE SKYLARK’S SONG<br /></span></h2> + +<p>Master Nathaniel Gyles, Precentor of St. Paul’s, had pipe-stem legs, and +a face like an old parchment put in a box to keep. His sandy hair was +thin and straggling, and his fine cloth hose wrinkled around his +shrunken shanks; but his eye was sharp, and he wore about his neck a +broad gold chain that marked him as no common man.</p> + +<p>For Master Nathaniel Gyles was head of the Cathedral schools of acting +and of music, and he stood upon his dignity.</p> + +<p>“My duty is laid down,” said he, “in most specific terms, sir,—<i>lex +cathedralis</i>,—that is to say, by the laws of the cathedral; and has +been, sir, since the reign of Richard the Third. <i>Primus Magister +Scholarum, Custos Morum, Quartus Custos Rotulorum</i>,—so the title +stands, sir; and I know my place.”</p> + +<p>He pushed Nick into the anteroom, and turned to Carew with an irritated +air.</p> + +<p>“I likewise know, sir, what is what. In plain words, Master Gaston +Carew, ye have grossly misrepresented this boy to me, to the waste of +much good time. Why, sir, he does not dance a step, and cannot act +at all.”</p> + +<p>“Soft, Master Gyles—be not so fast!” said Carew, haughtily, drawing +himself up, with his hand on his poniard; “dost mean to tell me that I +have lied to thee? Marry, sir, thy tongue will run thee into a blind +alley! I told thee that the boy could sing, but not that he could act +or dance.”</p> + +<p>“Pouf, sir,—words! I know my place: one peg below the dean, sir, +nothing less: ‘<i>Magister, et cetera’</i>—’tis so set down. And I tell +thee, sir, he has no training, not a bit; can’t tell a pricksong from a +bottle of hay; doesn’t know a canon from a crocodile, or a fugue from a +hole in the ground!”</p> + +<p>“Oh, fol-de-riddle de fol-de-rol! What has that to do with it? I tell +thee, sir, the boy can sing.”</p> + +<p>“And, sir, I say I know my place. Music does not grow like weeds.”</p> + +<p>“And fa-la-las don’t make a voice.”</p> + +<p>“What! How? Wilt thou teach me?” The master’s voice rose angrily. “Teach +me, who learned descant and counterpoint in the Gallo-Belgic schools, +sir; the best in all the world! Thou, who knowest not a staccato from a +stick of liquorice!”</p> + +<p>Carew shrugged his shoulders impatiently. “Come, Master Gyles, this is +fool play. I told thee that the boy could sing, and thou hast not yet +heard him try. Thou knowest right well I am no such simple gull as to +mistake a jay for a nightingale; and I tell thee, sir, upon my word, +and on the remnant of mine honour, he has the voice that thou dost need +if thou wouldst win the favor of the Queen. He has the voice, and thou +the thingumbobs to make the most of it. Don’t be a fool, now; hear him +sing. That’s all I ask. Just hear him once. Thou’lt pawn thine ears to +hear him twice.”</p> + +<p>The music-school stood within the old cathedral grounds. Through the +windows came up distantly the murmur of the throng in Paul’s Yard. It +was mid-afternoon, quite warm; blundering flies buzzed up and down the +lozenged panes, and through the dark hall crept the humming sound of +childish voices reciting eagerly, with now and then a sharp, small cry +as some one faltered in his lines and had his fingers rapped. Somewhere +else there were boyish voices running scales, now up, now down, without +a stop, and other voices singing harmonies, two parts and three +together, here and there a little flat from weariness.</p> + +<p>The stairs were very dark, Nick thought, as they went up to another +floor; but the long hall they came into there was quite bright with +the sun.</p> + +<p>At one end was a little stage, like the one at the Rose play-house, with +a small gallery for musicians above it; but everything here was painted +white and gold, and was most scrupulously clean. The rush-strewn floor +was filled with oaken benches, and there were paintings hanging upon the +wall, portraits of old head-masters and precentors. Some of them were so +dark with time that Nick wondered if they had been blackamoors.</p> + +<p>Master Gyles closed the great door and pulled a cord that hung by the +stage. A bell jangled faintly somewhere in the wall. Nick heard the +muffled voices hush, and then a shuffling tramp of slippered feet came +up the outer stair.</p> + +<p>“Pouf!” said the precentor, crustily. “<i>Tempus fugit</i>—that is to say, +we have no time to waste. So, marry, boy, <i>venite, exultemus</i>—in other +words, if thou canst sing, be up and at it. Come, <i>cantate</i>—sing, I bid +thee, and that instanter—if thou canst sing at all.”</p> + +<p>The under-masters and monitors were pushing the boys into their seats. +Carew pointed to the stage. “Thou’lt do thy level best!” he said in a +low, hard tone, and something clashed beneath his cloak like steel +on steel.</p> + +<p>Nick went up the steps behind the screen. It seemed cold in the room; he +had not noticed it before. Yet there were sweat-drops upon his forehead. +He felt as if he were a jackanapes he had seen once at the Stratford +fair, which wore a crimson jerkin and a cap. The man who had the +jackanapes played upon a pipe and a tabor; and when he said, “Dance!” +the jackanapes danced, for it was sorely afraid of the man. Yet when +Nick looked around and did not see the master-player anywhere in the +hall, he felt exceedingly lonely all at once without him, though he both +feared and hated him.</p> + +<p>There still was a shuffling of feet and a low talking; but soon it +became very quiet, and they all seemed to be waiting for him to begin. +He did not care, but supposed he might as well: what else could he do?</p> + +<p>There was a clock somewhere ticking quickly with its sharp, metallic +ring. As he listened, lonely, his heart cried out for home. In his +fancy the wind seemed rippling over the Avon, and the elm-leaves rustled +like rain upon the roof above his bed. There were red and white +wild-roses in the hedge, and in the air a smell of clover and of +new-mown hay. The mowers would be working in the clover in the +moonlight. He could almost see the sweep of the shining scythes, and +hear the chink-a-chank, chink-a-chank of the whetstone on the long, +curving blades. Chink-a-chank, chink-a-chank—’twas but the clock, and +he in London town.</p> + +<p>Carew, sitting there behind the carven prompter’s-screen, put down his +head between his hands and listened. There were murmurings a little +while, then silence. Would the boy never begin? He pressed his knuckles +into his temples and waited. Bow Bells rang out the hour; but the room +was as still as a deep sleep. Would the boy never begin?</p> + +<p>The precentor sniffed. It was a contemptuous, incredulous sniff. Carew +looked up—his lips white, a fierce red spot in each cheek. He was +talking to himself. “By the whistle of the Lord High Admiral!” he +said—but there he stopped and held his breath. Nick was singing.</p> + +<p>Only the old madrigal, with its half-forgotten words that other +generations sang before they fell asleep. How queer it sounded there! It +was a very simple tune, too; yet, as he sang, the old precentor started +from his chair and pressed his wrinkled hands together against his +breast. He quite forgot the sneer upon his face, and it went fading out +like breath from a frosty pane.</p> + +<p>He had twelve boys who could sing a hundred songs at sight from +unfamiliar notes; who kept the beat and marked the time as if their +throats were pendulums; could syncopate and floriate as readily as +breathe. And this was only a common country song.</p> + +<p>But—“That voice, that voice!” he panted to himself: for old Nat Gyles +was music-mad; melody to him was like the very breath of life. And the +boy’s high, young voice, soft as a flute and silver clear, throbbed in +the air as if his very heart were singing out of his body in the sound. +And then, like the skylark rising, up, up it went, and up, up, up, till +the older choristers held their breath and feared that the vibrant tone +would break, so slender, film-like was the trembling thread of the boy’s +wild skylark song. But no; it trembled there, high, sweet, and clear, a +moment in the air; and then came running, rippling, floating down, as +though some one had set a song on fire in the sky, and dropped it +quivering and bright into a shadow world. Then suddenly it was gone, and +the long hall was still.</p> + +<p>The old precentor stepped beyond the screen.</p> + +<p>Gaston Carew’s face was in his hands, and his shoulders shook +convulsively. “I’ll leave thee go, lad,<i>—ma foi</i>, I’ll leave thee go. +But, nay, I dare not leave thee go!”</p> + +<p>Some one came and tapped him on the shoulder. It was the sub-precentor. +“Master Gyles would speak with thee, sir,” said he, in a low tone, as if +half afraid of the sound of his own voice in the quiet that was in +the hall.</p> + +<p>Carew drew his hand hastily over his face, as if to take the old one off +and put a new one on, then arose and followed the man.</p> + +<p class='ctr'><a name="illus0352"></a> +<a href="images/illus0352.jpg"> +<img src="images/illus0352.jpg" width = "50%" alt="" /> +</a><br /> +<b>“‘THAT VOICE, THAT VOICE,’ NAT GYLES PANTED TO HIMSELF.”</b> +<br /></p> + +<p>The old precentor stood with his hands still clasped against his +breast. “<i>Mirabile</i>!” he was saying with bated breath. “It is +impossible, and I have dreamed! Yet <i>credo</i>—I believe—<i>quia +impossibile est</i>—because it is impossible. Tell me, Carew, do I wake or +dream—or, stay, was it a soul I heard? Ay, Carew, ’twas a soul: the +lad’s own white, young soul. My faith, I said he was of no account! +<i>Satis verborum</i>—say no more. <i>Humanum est errare</i>—I am a poor old +fool; and there’s a sour bug flown in mine eye that makes it water so!” +He wiped his eyes, for the tears were running down his cheeks.</p> + +<p>“Thou’lt take him, then?” asked Carew.</p> + +<p>“Take him?” cried the old precentor, catching the master-player by the +hand. “Marry, that will I; a voice like that grows not on every bush. +Take him? Pouf! I know my place—he shall be entered on the rolls +at once.”</p> + +<p>“Good!” said Carew. “I shall have him learn to dance, and teach him how +to act myself. He stays with me, ye understand; thy school fare is +miserly. I’ll dress him, too; for these students’ robes are shabby +stuff. But for the rest—”</p> + +<p>“Trust me,” said Master Gyles; “he shall be the first singer of them +all. He shall be taught—but who can teach the lark its song, and not do +horrid murder on it? Faith, Carew, I’ll teach the lad myself; ay, all I +know. I studied in the best schools in the world.”</p> + +<p>“And, hark ’e, Master Gyles,” said Carew, sternly all at once; “thou’lt +come no royal placard and seizure on me—ye have sworn. The boy is mine +to have and to hold with all that he earns, in spite of thy +prerogatives.”</p> + +<p>For the kings of old had given the masters of this school the right to +take for St. Paul’s choir whatever voices pleased them, wherever they +might be found, by force if not by favor, barring only the royal singers +at Windsor; and when men have such privileges it is best to be wary how +one puts temptation in their way.</p> + +<p>“Thou hadst mine oath before I even saw the boy,” said the precentor, +haughtily. “Dost think me perjured—<i>Primus Magister Scholarum, Custos +Morum, Quartus Custos Rotulorum?</i> Pouf! I know my place. My oath’s my +oath. But, soft; enough—here comes the boy. Who could have told a +skylark in such popinjay attire?”</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXIII<br /> +<span class='ph3'>A NEW LIFE<br /></span></h2> + +<p>And now a strange, new life began for Nicholas Attwood, in some things +so grand and kind that he almost hated to dislike it.</p> + +<p>It was different in every way from the simple, pinching round in +Stratford, and full of all the comforts of richness and plenty that make +life happy—excepting home and mother.</p> + +<p>Master Gaston Carew would have nothing but the best, and what he wanted, +whether he needed it or not; so with him money came like a summer rain, +and went like water out of a sieve: for he was a wild blade.</p> + +<p>They ate their breakfast when they pleased; dined at eleven, like the +nobility; supped at five, as was the fashion of the court. They had +wheat-bread the whole week round, as only rich folk could afford, with +fruit and berries in their season, and honey from the Surrey bee-farms +that made one’s mouth water with the sight of it dripping from the flaky +comb; and on Fridays spitchcocked eels, pickled herrings, and plums, +with simnel-cakes, poached eggs and milk, cream cheese and cordial, +like very kings; so that Nick could not help thriving.</p> + +<p>The master-player very seldom left him by himself to mope or to be +melancholy; but, while ever vaguely promising to let him go, did +everything in his power to make him rather wish to stay; so that Nick +was constantly surprised by the free-handed kindness of this man whom he +had every other reason in the world, he thought, for deeming his +worst enemy.</p> + +<p>When there were any new curiosities in Fleet street,—wild men with +rings in their noses, wondrous fishes, puppet-shows, or red-capped +baboons whirling on a pole,—Carew would have Nick see them as well as +Cicely; and often took them both to Bartholomew’s Fair, where there was +a giant eating raw beef and a man dancing upon a rope high over the +heads of the people. He would have had Nick every Thursday to the +bear-baiting in the Paris Garden circus beside; but one sight of that +brutal sport made the boy so sick that they never went again, but to the +stage-plays at the Rose instead, which Nick enjoyed immensely, for Carew +himself acted most excellently, and Master Tom Heywood always came and +spoke kindly to the lonely boy.</p> + +<p>For, in spite of all, Nick’s heart ached so at times that he thought it +would surely break with longing for his mother. And at night, when all +the house was still and dark, and he alone in bed, all the little, +unconsidered things of home—the beehives and the fragrant mint beside +the kitchen door, the smell of the baking bread or frying carrots, the +sound of the red-cheeked harvest apples dropping in the orchard, and the +plump of the old bucket in the well—came back to him so vividly that +many a time he cried himself to sleep, and could not have forgotten +if he would.</p> + +<p>On Midsummer Day there was a Triumph on the river at Westminster, with a +sham-fight and a great shooting of guns and hurling of balls of +wild-fire. The Queen was there, and the ambassadors of France and +Venice, with the Duke of Lennox and the Earls of Arundel and +Southampton. Master Carew took a wherry to Whitehall, and from the green +there they watched the show.</p> + +<p>The Thames was fairly hidden by the boats, and there was a grand state +bark all trimmed with silk and velvet for the Queen to be in to see the +pastime. But as for that, all Nick could make out was the high carved +stern of the bark, painted with England’s golden lions, and the bark was +so far away that he could not even tell which was the Queen.</p> + +<p>Coming home by Somerset House, a large barge passed them with many +watermen rowing, and fine carpets about the seats; and in it the old +Lord Chamberlain and his son my Lord Hunsdon, who, it was said, was to +be the Lord Chamberlain when his father died; for the old lord was +failing, and the Queen liked handsome young men about her.</p> + +<p>In the barge, beside their followers, were a company of richly dressed +gentlemen, who were having a very gay time together, and seemed to +please the old Lord Chamberlain exceedingly with the things they said. +They were somebodies, as Nick could very well see from their carriage +and address; and, so far as the barge allowed, they were all clustered +about one fellow in the seat by my Lord Hunsdon. He seemed to be the +chiefest spokesman of them all, and every one appeared very glad indeed +to be friendly with him. My Lord Hunsdon himself made free with his own +nobility, and sat beside him arm in arm.</p> + +<p>What he was saying they were too far away to hear in the shouting and +splash; but those with him in the barge were listening as eagerly as +children to a merry tale. Sometimes they laughed until they held their +sides; and then again as suddenly they were very quiet, and played +softly with their tankards and did not look at one another as he went +gravely on telling his story. Then all at once he would wave his hand +gaily, and his smile would sparkle out; and the whole company, from the +old Lord Chamberlain down, would brighten up again, as if a new dawn had +come over the hills into their hearts from the light of his hazel eyes.</p> + +<p>Nick made no doubt that this was some young earl rolling in wealth; for +who else could have such listeners? Yet there was, nevertheless, +something so familiar in his look that he could not help staring at him +as the barge came thumping through the jam.</p> + +<p>They passed along an oar’s-length or two away; and as they came abeam, +Carew, rising, doffed his hat, and bowed politely to them all.</p> + +<p>In spite of his wild life, he was a striking, handsome man.</p> + +<p>The old Lord Chamberlain said something to his son, and pointed with his +hand. All the company in the barge turned round to look; and he who had +been talking stood up quickly with his hand upon the young lord’s arm, +and, smiling, waved his cap.</p> + +<p>Nick gave a sharp cry.</p> + +<p>Then the barge pushed through, and shot away down stream like a wild +swan.</p> + +<p>“Why, Nick,” exclaimed Cicely, “how dreadful thou dost look!” and, +frightened, she caught him by the hand. “Why, oh!—what is it, +Nick—thou art not ill?”</p> + +<p>“It was Will Shakspere!” cried Nick, and sank into the bottom of the +wherry with his head upon the master-player’s knee. “Oh, Master Carew,” +he cried, “will ye never leave me go?”</p> + +<p>Carew laid his hand upon the boy’s head, and patted it gently.</p> + +<p>“Why, Nick,” said he, and cleared his throat, “is not this better than +Stratford?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, Master Carew—mother’s there!” was the reply.</p> + +<p>There was no sound but the thud of oars in the rowlocks and the hollow +bubble of the water at the stern, for they had fallen out of the hurry +and were coming down alone.</p> + +<p>“Is thy mother a good woman, Nick?” asked Cicely.</p> + +<p>Carew was staring out into the fading sky. “Ay, sweetheart,” he answered +in a queer, husky voice, suddenly putting one arm about her and the +other around Nick’s shoulders. “None but a good mother could have so +good a son.”</p> + +<p>“Then thou wilt send him home, daddy?” asked Cicely.</p> + +<p>Carew took her hand in his, but answered nothing.</p> + +<p>They had come to the landing.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXIV<br /> +<span class='ph3'>THE MAKING OF A PLAYER<br /></span></h2> + +<p>Master Will Shakspere was in town! The thought ran through Nick +Attwood’s head like a half-remembered tune. Once or twice he had all but +sung it instead of the words of his part. Master Will Shakspere was +in town!</p> + +<p>Could he but just find Master Shakspere, all his trouble would be over; +for the husband of his mother’s own cousin would see justice done him in +spite of the master-player and the bandy-legged man with the ribbon in +his ear—of that he was sure.</p> + +<p>But there seemed small chance of its coming about; for the doors of +Gaston Carew’s house were locked and barred by day and by night, as much +to keep Nick in as to keep thieves out; and all day long, when Carew was +away, the servants went about the lower halls, and Gregory Goole’s +uncanny face peered after him from every shadowy corner; and when he +went with Carew anywhere, the master-player watched him like a hawk, +while always at his heels he could hear the clump, clump, clump of the +bandy-legged man following after him.</p> + +<p>Even were he free to go as he pleased, he knew not where to turn; for +the Lord Chamberlain’s company would not be at the Blackfriars +play-house until Martinmas; and before that time to look for even Master +Will Shakspere at random in London town would be worse than hunting for +a needle in a haystack.</p> + +<p>To be sure, he knew that the Lord Chamberlain’s men were still playing +at the theater in Shoreditch; for Master Carew had taken Cicely there to +see the “Two Gentlemen of Verona.” But just where Shoreditch was, Nick +had only the faintest idea—somewhere away off by Finsbury Fields, +beyond the city walls to the north of London town—and all the wide +world seemed north of London town; and the way thither lay through a +bewildering tangle of streets in which the din and the rush of the crowd +were never still.</p> + +<p>From a hopeless chase like that Nick shrank back like a snail into its +shell. He was not too young to know that there were worse things than to +be locked in Gaston Carew’s house. It were better to be a safe-kept +prisoner there than to be lost in the sinks of London. And so, knowing +this, he made the best of it.</p> + +<p>But Master Shakspere was come back to town, and that was something. It +seemed somehow less lonely just to think of it.</p> + +<p>Yet in truth he had but little time to think of it; for the +master-player kept him closely at his strange, new work, and taught him +daily with the most amazing patience.</p> + +<p>He had Nick learn no end of stage parts off by heart, with their cues +and “business,” entrances and exits; and worked fully as hard as his +pupil, reading over every sentence twenty times until Nick had the +accent perfectly. He would have him stamp, too, and turn about, and +gesture in accordance with the speech, until the boy’s arms ached, going +with him through the motions one by one, over and over again, +unsatisfied, but patient to the last, until Nick wondered. “Nick, my +lad,” he would often say, with a tired but determined smile, “one little +thing done wrong may spoil the finest play, as one bad apple rots the +barrelful. We’ll have it right, or not at all, if it takes a month +of Sundays.”</p> + +<p>So, often, he kept Nick before a mirror for an hour at a time, making +faces while he spoke his lines, smiling, frowning, or grimacing as best +seemed to fit the part, until the boy grew fairly weary of his own +looks. Then sometimes, more often as the time slipped by, Carew would +clap his hands with a boyish laugh, and have a pie brought and a cup of +Spanish cordial for them both, declaring that he loved the lad with all +his heart, upon the remnant of his honour: from which Nick knew that he +was coming on.</p> + +<p>Cicely Carew’s governess was a Mistress Agnes Anstey. By birth she had +been a Harcourt of Ankerwyke, and she was therefore everywhere esteemed +fit by birth and breeding to teach the young mind when to bow and when +to beckon. She came each morning to the house, and Carew paid her double +shillings to see to it that Nick learned such little tricks of cap and +cloak as a lady’s page need have, the carriage best fitted for his +place, and how to come into a room where great folks were. Moreover, how +to back out again, bowing, and not fall over the stools—which was no +little art, until Nick caught the knack of peeping slyly between his +legs when he bowed.</p> + +<p>His hair, too, was allowed to grow long, and was combed carefully every +day by the tiring-woman; and soon, as it was naturally curly, it fell in +rolling waves about his neck.</p> + +<p>On the heels of the governess came M’sieu de Fleury, who, it was said, +had been dancing-master to Hatton, the late Lord Chancellor of England, +and had taught him those tricks with his nimble heels which had capered +him into the Queen’s good graces, and so got him the chancellorship. +M’sieu spoke dreadful English, but danced like the essence of agility, +and taught both Nick and Cicely the latest Italian coranto, playing the +tune upon his queer little pochette.</p> + +<p>Cicely already danced like a pixy, and laughed merrily at her comrade’s +first awkward antics, until he flushed with embarrassment. At that she +instantly became grave, and, when M’sieu had gone, came across the room, +and putting her arm about Nick, said repentantly, “Don’t thou mind me, +Nick. Father saith the French all laugh too soon at nothing; and I have +caught it from my mother’s blood. A boy is not good friends with his +feet as a girl is; but thou wilt do beautifully, I know; and M’sieu +shall teach us the galliard together.”</p> + +<p>And often, after the lesson was over and M’sieu departed, she would +have Nick try his steps over and over again in the great room, while she +stood upon the stool to make her tall, and cried, “Sa—sa!” as the +master did, scolding and praising him by turns, or jumping down in +pretty impatience to tuck up her little silken skirts and show him the +step herself; while the cook’s knave and the scullery-maids peeped at +the door and cried: “La, now, look ’e, Moll!” at every coupee.</p> + +<p>It made a picture quaint and pretty to see them dancing there. The smoky +light, stealing in through the narrow casements over the woodwork dark +with age, dropped in little yellow chequers upon old chests of oak, of +walnut, and of strange, purple-black wood from foreign lands, giving a +weird life to the griffins and twisted traceries carved upon their +sides. High-backed, narrow chairs stood along the wall, with cushioned +stools inlaid with shell. Twinklings of light glinted from the brass +candlesticks. On the wall above the wainscot the faded hangings wavered +in the draught, crusted thickly with strange embroidered flowers. And +dancing there together in the semi-gloom, the children seemed quaint +little figures stepped down from the tapestry at the touch of a +magic wand.</p> + +<p>And so the time went slipping by, very pleasantly upon the whole, and +Nick’s young heart grew stout again within his breast; for he was strong +and well, and in those days the very air was full of hope, and no man +knew what might betide with the rising of to-morrow’s sun.</p> + +<p>Every day, from two till three o’clock, he was at Master Gyles’s +private singing-room at the old cathedral school, learning to read music +at first sight, and to sing offhand the second, third, and fourth parts +of queer intermingled fugues or wonderfully constructed canons.</p> + +<p>At first his head felt stuffed like a feasted glutton with all the +learning that the old precentor poured into it; but by and by he found +it plain enough, and no very difficult thing to follow up the prickings +in the paper with his voice, and to sing parts written at fifths and +fourths and thirds with other voices as easily as to carry a song alone. +But still he sang best his own unpointed songs, the call and challenge +of the throstle and the merle, the morning glory of the lark, songs that +were impossible to write. And those were the songs that the precentor +was at the greatest pains to have him sing in perfect tones, making him +open his mouth like a little round and let the music float out +of itself.</p> + +<p>Like the master-player, nothing short of perfection pleased old +Nathaniel Gyles, and Nick’s voice often wavered with sheer weariness as +he ran his endless scales and sang absurd fa-la-la-las while his teacher +beat the time in the air with his lean forefinger like a grim automaton.</p> + +<p>The old man, too, was chary of his praise, though Nick tried hard to +please him, and it was only by little things he told his satisfaction. +He touzed the ears of the other boys, and sometimes smartly thumped +their crowns; but with Nick he only nipped his ruddy cheek between his +thumb and finger, or laid his hand upon his shoulder when the hard day’s +work was done, saying, “<i>Satis cantorum</i>—it is enough. Now be off to +thy nest, sir; and do not forget to wash thy throat with good cold water +every day.”</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>All this time the busy sand kept running in the glass. July was gone, +and August at its heels. The hot breath of the summer had cooled, and +the sun no longer burned the face when it came in through the windows. +Nick often shut his eyes and let the warm light fall upon his closed +lids. It made a ruddy glow like the wild red poppies that grow in the +pale green rye. In fancy he could almost smell the queer, rancid odor of +the crimson bloom crushed beneath the feet of the farmers’ boys who cut +the butter-yellow mustard from among the bearded grain.</p> + +<p>“Heigh-ho and alackaday!” thought Nick. “It is better in the country +than in town!” For there was no smell in all the town like the clean, +sweet smell of the open fields just after a summer rain, no colors like +the bright heart’s-ease and none-so-pretty, or the honeysuckle over the +cottage door, and no song ever to be heard among the sooty chimney-pots +like the song of the throstle piping to the daisies on the hill.</p> + +<p>But he had little time to dream such dreams, for every day from four to +six o’clock the children’s company played and sang in public, at their +own school-hall, or in the courtyard of the Mitre Inn on Bread street +near St. Paul’s.</p> + +<p>They were the pets of London town, and their playing-place was thronged +day after day. For the bright young faces and sweet, unbroken voices of +the richly costumed lads made a spot in sordid London life like a pot of +posies in a window on a dark street; so that both the high and the low, +the rich and the poor, came in to see them play and dance, to hear them +sing, and to laugh again at the witty things which were written for +them to say.</p> + +<p>The songs that were set for Nick to sing were always short, sweet, +simple things that even the dull-eyed, toil-worn folk upon the rough +plank benches in the pit could understand. Many a silver shilling came +clinking down at the heels of the other boys from the galleries of the +inn, where the people of the better classes, wealthy merchants, ladies +and their dashing gallants, watched the children’s company; but when +Nick’s songs were done the common people down below seemed all gone +daft. They tossed red apples after him, ripe yellow pears, fat purple +plums by handfuls, called him by name and brought him back, and cried +for more and more and more, until the old precentor shook his head +behind the prompters-screen, and waved Nick off with a forbidding frown. +Yet all the while he chuckled to himself until it seemed as if his dry +old ribs would rattle in his sides; and every day, before Nick sang, he +had him up to his little room for a broken egg and a cup of +rosy cordial.</p> + +<p>“To clear thy voice and to cheer the cockles of thine heart,” said he; +“and to tune that pretty throat of thine <i>ad gustum Reginae</i>—which is +to say, ‘to the Queen’s own taste,’—God bless Her Majesty!”</p> + +<p>The other boys were cast for women’s parts, for women never acted then; +and a queer sight it was to Nick to see his fellows in great +farthingales of taffeta and starchy cambric that rustled as they +walked, with popinjay blue ribbon in their hair, and flowered stomachers +sparkling with paste jewels.</p> + +<p>And, truth, it was no easy thing to tell them from the real affair, or +to guess the made from the maiden, so slender and so graceful were they +all, with their ruffs and their muffs and their feathered fans, and all +the airs and mincing graces of the daintiest young miss.</p> + +<p>But old Nat Gyles would never have Nick Attwood play the girl. “The lad +is good enough for me just as he is,” said he; and that was all there +was of it.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXV"></a>CHAPTER XXV<br /> +<span class='ph3'>THE WANING OF THE YEAR<br /></span></h2> + +<p>In September the Lord Admiral’s company made a tour of the Midlands +during the great English fairing-time; but Carew did not go with them. +For, though still by name master-player with Henslowe and Alleyn, his +business with them had come to be but little more than pocketing his +share of the profits; and for the rest, nothing but to take Nick daily +to and from St. Paul’s, and to draw his wages week by week.</p> + +<p>Of those wages Nick saw never a penny: Carew took good care of that. Yet +he gave him everything that any boy could need, and bought him whatever +he fancied the instant he so much as expressed a wish for it: which, in +truth, was not much; for Nick had lived in only a country town, and knew +not many things to want.</p> + +<p>But with money a-plenty thus coming so easily into his hands,—money for +dicing, for luxuries, for all his wild sports, money for Cicely, money +for keeps, money to play chuckie-stones with if he chose,—there was no +bridle to Gaston Carew’s wild career. His boon companions were +spendthrifts and gamesters, dissolute fellows, of whom the least said +soonest mended; and with them he was brawling early and late, very often +all night long. And though money came in fast, he wasted it faster, so +that matters went from bad to worse. Duns came spying about his door, +and bailiffs hunted after him around the town with unpaid tradesmen’s +bills. Yet still he laughed and clapped his hand upon his poniard in the +old bold way.</p> + +<p>September faded away in wistful haze along the Hampstead hills. The +Admiral’s men came riding back with keen October ringing at their heels, +and all the stalls were full of red-cheeked apples striped with emerald +and gold. November followed, with its nipping frost, and all St. +George’s merry green fields turned brown and purple-gray. The old year +was waning fast.</p> + +<p>The Queen’s Day was but a poor holiday, in spite of the shut-up shops; +for it was grown so cold with sleet and rain that it was hard to get +about, the gutters and streets being very foul, and the by-lanes +impassable. And now the children of Paul’s gave no more plays in the +yard of the Mitre Inn, but sang in their own warm hall; for winter +was at hand.</p> + +<p>There came black nights when an ugly wind moaned in the shivering +chimneys and howled across the peaked roofs, nights when there was no +playing at the Rose, but it was hearty to be by the fire. Then sometimes +Carew sat at home all evening long, with Cicely upon his knee, and told +strange tales of lands across the sea, where he had traveled when he was +young, and where none spoke English but chance travelers, and even the +loudest shouting could not serve to make the people understand.</p> + +<p>While he spun these wondrous yarns Nick would curl up on the hearth and +blow the crackling fire, sometimes staring at the master-player’s +stories, sometimes laughing to himself at the funny faces carved upon +the sides of the chubby Dutch bellows, and sometimes neither laughing +nor listening, but thinking silently of home. Then Carew, looking at him +there, would quickly turn his face away and tell another tale.</p> + +<p>But oftener the master-player stayed all night at the Falcon Inn with +Dick Jones, Tom Hearne, Humphrey Jeffs, and other reckless roysterers, +dicing and flipping shillings at shovel-board until his finger-nails +were sore. Then Nick would read aloud to Cicely out of the “Hundred +Merry Tales,” or pop old riddles at her puzzled head until she, +laughing, cried, “Enough!” But most of all he liked the story of brave +Guy of Warwick, and would tell it again and again, with other legends of +Arden Wood, till bedtime came.</p> + +<p>In the gray of the morning Carew would come home, unshaven and +leaden-eyed, with his bandy-legged varlet trotting like a watch-dog at +his heels; and then, if the gaming had gone well, he was a lord, an +earl, a duke, at least, so merry and so sprightly would he be withal; +but if the dice had fallen wrong, he would by turns be raving mad or +sodden as a sunken pie.</p> + +<p>Yet, be his temper what it might, he was but one thing always to Cicely, +and doffed ill humor like a shabby hat when she came running to meet +him in the shadows of the hall; so that when he came into the lighted +room, with her upon his shoulder, his face was smiles, his step a +frolic, and his bearing that of a happy boy.</p> + +<p>But day by day the weather grew worse, with snow and ice paving the +streets with a glassy glare and choking the frozen drains; and there was +trouble and want among the poor in the wretched alleys near Carew’s +house: for fuel was high and food scarce, and there were many deaths, so +that the knell was tolling constantly.</p> + +<p>Cicely cried until her eyes were red for the very sadness of it all, +since she might do nothing for them, and hated the sound of the +sullen bell.</p> + +<p>“Pshaw, Cicely!” said Nick; “why should ye cry? Ye do na know them; so +ye need na care.”</p> + +<p>“But, Nick,” said she, “<i>nobody</i> seems to care! And, sure, <i>somebody</i> +ought to care; for it may be some one’s mother that is dead.”</p> + +<p>At that Nick felt a very queer choking in his own throat, and did not +rest quite easy in his mind until he had given the silver buckle from +his cloak to a boy who stood crying with cold and hunger in the street, +and begged a farthing of him for the love of the good God.</p> + +<p>Then came a thaw, with mist and fog so thick that people were lost in +their own streets, and knocked at their next-door neighbor’s gate to ask +the way home. All day long, down by the Thames drums beat upon the +wharves and bells ding-donged to guide the watermen ashore; but most of +those who needs must fare abroad went over London Bridge, because +there, although they might in no wise see, it felt, at least, as if the +world were still beneath their feet.</p> + +<p>At noon the air was muddy brown, with a bitter taste like watered smoke; +at night it was a blinding pall; and though, after mid-December, by +order of the Council, every alderman and burgess hung a light before his +door, torches, links, and candles only sputtered feebly in the gloom, of +no more use than jack-o’-lanterns gone astray, and none but blind men +knew the roads.</p> + +<p>The city watch was doubled everywhere; and all night long their shouts +went up and down—“’Tis what o’clock, and a foggy night!”—and right and +left their hurrying staves came thumping helplessly along the walls to +answer cries of “Murder!” and of “Help! Watch! Help!” For under cover of +the fog great gangs of thieves came down from Hampstead Heath, and +robberies were done in the most frequented thoroughfares, between the +very lights set up by the corporation; so that it was dangerous to go +about save armed and wary as a cat in a crowd.</p> + +<p>While such foul days endured there was no singing at St. Paul’s, +nor stage-plays anywhere, save at Blackfriars play-house, +which was roofed against the weather. And even there at last the fog +crept in through cracks and crannies until the players seemed but moving +shadows talking through a choking cloud; and Master Will Shakspere’s +famous new piece of “Romeo and Juliet,” which had been playing to +crowded houses, taking ten pound twelve the day, was fairly smothered +off the boards.</p> + +<p class='ctr'><a name="i_174"></a> +<a href="images/i_174.jpg"> +<img src="images/i_174.jpg" width="35%" alt="" /> +</a><br /> +<b>“NICK GAVE THE SILVER BUCKLE FROM HIS CLOAK TO A BOY WHO +STOOD CRYING WITH COLD AND HUNGER IN THE STREET.”</b> +<br /></p> + +<p>Nick was eager to be out in all this blindman’s +holiday; but, “Nay,” said Carew; “not so much as thy nose. A fog like +this would steal the croak from a raven’s throat, let alone the +sweetness from a honey-pot like thine—and bottom crust is the end of +pie!” With which, bang went the door, creak went the key, and Carew was +off to the Falcon Inn.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>So went the winter weather, and so went Carew; for there was no denying +that both had fallen into a very bad way. Yet another change came +creeping over Carew all unaware.</p> + +<p>Nick’s face had from the first attracted him; and now, living with the +boy day after day, housed up, a prisoner, yet cheerful through it all, +the master-player began to feel what in a better man had been the prick +of conscience, but in him was only an indefinite uneasiness like a +blunted cockle-bur. For the lad’s patient perseverance at his work, his +delight in singing, and the tone of longing threaded through his voice, +crept into the master-player’s heart in spite of him; and Nick’s gentle +ways with Cicely touched him more than all the rest: for if there was +one thing in all the world that Gaston Carew truly loved, it was his +daughter Cicely. So for her sake, as well as for Nick’s own, the +master-player came to love the lad. And this was shown in queer ways.</p> + +<p>In the wainscot of the dining-hall there was a carven panel just above +the Spanish chest. At night, when the house was still and all the rest +asleep, Carew often came and stood before this panel, with a queer, +hesitating look upon his hard, bold face; and stretching out his hand, +would press upon the head of a cherub cut in the bevel edge. Whereupon +the panel slipped away within the wainscot, leaving a little closet in +the hollow of the wall, in which a few strange things were stowed: an +empty flask, an inlaid rosewood box, a little slipper, and a dusty +gittern with its strings all snapped and a faded ribbon tied about +its neck.</p> + +<p>The rosewood box he would take down, and with it open in his lap would +sit beside the fire like a man within a dream, until the hearth grew +white and cold, and the draught had blown the ashes out in streaks +across the floor. In the box was a woman’s riding-glove and a miniature +upon ivory, Cicely’s mother’s face, painted at Paris in other days.</p> + +<p>One night, while they were sitting all together by the fire, Nick and +Cicely snug in the chimney-seat, Carew spoke up suddenly out of a little +silence which had fallen upon them all. “Nick,” said he, quite softly, +with a look on his face as if he were thinking of other things, “I +wonder if thou couldst play?”</p> + +<p>“What, sir?” asked Nick; “a game?” and made the bellows whistle in his +mouth.</p> + +<p>“Nay, lad; a gittern.”</p> + +<p>Nick and Cicely looked up, for his manner was very odd.</p> + +<p>“Why, sir, I do na know. I could try. I ha’ heard one played, and it is +passing sweet.” “Ay, Nick, ’tis passing sweet,” said Carew, +quickly—and no more; but spoke of France, how the lilies grow in the +ditches there, and the tall trees stand like soldiers by the road that +runs to the land of sunny hills and wine; and of the radiant women +there, with hair like night and eyes like the summer stars. Then all at +once he stopped as if some one had clapped a hand upon his mouth, and +sat and stared into the fire.</p> + +<p>But in the morning at breakfast there was a gittern at Nick’s place—a +rare old yellow gittern, with silver scrolls about the tail-piece, ivory +pegs, and a head that ended in an angel’s face. It was strung with +bright new silver strings, but near the bridge of it there was a little +rut worn into the wood by the tips of the fingers that had rested there +while playing, and the silken shoulder-ribbon was faded and worn.</p> + +<p>Nick stopped, then put out both his hands as if to touch it, yet did +not, being half afraid.</p> + +<p>“Tut, take it up!” said Carew, sharply, though he had not seemed to +heed. “Take it up—it is for thee.”</p> + +<p>“For me?” cried Nick—“not for mine own?”</p> + +<p>Carew turned and struck the table with his hand, as if suddenly wroth. +“Why should I say it was for thee? if it were not to be thine own?”</p> + +<p>“But, Master Carew—” Nick began.</p> + +<p>“‘Master Carew’ fiddlesticks! Hold thy prate. Do I know my own mind, or +do I filter my wits through thee? Did I not say that it is thine? Good, +then—’tis thine, although it were thrice somebody else’s; and thrice as +much thy very own through having other owners. Dost hear? Well, then, +enough—we’ll have no words about it!”</p> + +<p>Rising abruptly as he spoke, he clapped his hat upon his head and left +the room, Nick standing there beside the table, staring after him, with +the gittern in his hands.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVI"></a>CHAPTER XXVI<br /> +<span class='ph3'>TO SING BEFORE THE QUEEN<br /></span></h2> + +<div class='poetry'> +“Sir Fly hangs dead on the window-pane;<br /> + The frost doth wind his shroud;<br /> +Through the halls of his little summer house<br /> + The north wind cries aloud.<br /> +We will bury his bones in the mouldy wall,<br /> + And mourn for the noble slain:<br /> +A southerly wind and a sunny sky—<br /> + Buzz! up he comes again!<br /> + Oh, Master Fly!”<br /> +</div> + +<p>Nick looked up from the music-rack and shivered. He had forgotten the +fire in studying his song, and the blackened ends of the burnt-out logs +lay smouldering on the hearth. The draught, too, whistled shrilly under +the door, in spite of the rushes that he had piled along the crack.</p> + +<p>The fog had been gone for a week. It was snapping cold; and through the +peep-holes he had thawed upon the window-pane with his breath, he could +see the hoar-frost lying in the shadow of the wall in the court below.</p> + +<p>How forlorn the green old dial looked out there alone in the cold, with +the winter dust whirling around it in little eddies upon the wind! The +dial was fringed with icicles, like an old man’s beard; and even the +creeping shadow on its face, which told mid-afternoon, seemed frozen +where it fell.</p> + +<p>Mid-afternoon already, and he so much to do! Nick pulled his cloak about +him, and turned to his song again:</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +“Sir Fly hangs dead on the window-pane;<br /> + The frost doth wind his shroud—”<br /> +</div> + +<p>But there he stopped; for the boys were singing in the great hall below, +and the whole house rang with the sound of the roaring chorus:</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +“Down-a-down, hey, down-a-down,<br /> + Hey derry derry down-a-down!”<br /> +</div> + +<p>Nick put his fingers in his ears, and began all over again:</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +“Sir Fly hangs dead on the window-pane;<br /> + The frost doth wind his shroud;<br /> +Through the halls of his little summer house<br /> + The north wind cries aloud.”<br /> +</div> + +<p>But it was no use; all he could hear was:</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +“Down-a-down, hey, down-a-down,<br /> + Hey derry derry down-a-down!”<br /> +</div> + +<p>How could a fellow study in a noise like that? He gave it up in despair, +and kicking the chunks together, stood upon the hearth, warming his +hands by the gathering blaze while he listened to the song:</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +“Cold’s the wind, and wet’s the rain;<br /> + Saint Hugh, be our good speed!<br /> +Ill is the weather that bringeth no gain,<br /> + Nor helps good hearts in need.<br /><br /> + +“Down-a-down, hey, down-a-down,<br /> + Hey derry derry down-a-down!”<br /> +</div> + +<p>He could hear Colley Warren above them all. What a voice the boy had! +Like a golden horn blowing in the fresh of a morning breeze. It made +Nick tingle, he could not tell why. He and Colley often sang together, +and their voices made a quivering in the air like the ringing of a bell. +And often, while they sang, the viols standing in the corner of the room +would sound aloud a deep, soft note in harmony with them, although +nobody had touched the strings; so that the others cried out that the +instruments were bewitched, and would not let the boys sing any more. +Colley Warren was Nick’s best friend—a dark-eyed, quiet lad, as gentle +as a girl, and with a mouth like a girl’s mouth, for which the others +sometimes mocked him, though they loved him none the less.</p> + +<p>It was not because his voice was loud that it could be so distinctly +heard; but it was nothing like the rest, and came through all the others +like sunshine through a mist. Nick pulled the stool up closer, and sat +down in the chimney-corner, humming a second to the tune, and blowing +little glory-holes in the embers with the bellows. He liked the smell +of a wood fire, and liked to toast his toes. He was a trifle drowsy, +too, now that he was warm again to the marrow of his bones; perhaps he +dozed a little.</p> + +<p>But suddenly he came to himself again with a sense of a great stillness +fallen over everything—no singing in the room below, and silence +everywhere but in the court, where there was a trampling as of horses +standing at the gate. And while he was still lazily wondering, a great +cheer broke out in the room below, and there was a stamping of feet like +cattle galloping over a bridge; and then, all at once, the door opened +into the hallway at the foot of the stair, and the sound burst out as +fire bursts from the cock-loft window of a burning barn, and through the +noise and over it Colley Warren’s voice calling him by name: “Skylark! +Nick Skylark! Ho there, Nick! where art thou?”</p> + +<p>He sprang to the door and kicked the rushes away. All the hall was full +of voices, laughing, shouting, singing, and cheering. There were +footsteps coming up the stair. “What there, Skylark! Ho, boy! Nick, +where art thou?” he could hear Colley calling above them all. Out he +popped his nose: “Here I am, Colley—what’s to do? <i>Whatever in the +world!</i>” and he ducked his head like a mandarin; for whizz—flap! two +books came whirling up the stair and thumped against the panel by +his ears.</p> + +<p>“The news—the news, Nick! Have ye heard the news?” the lads were +shouting as if possessed. “We’re going to court! Hurrah, hurrah!” And +some, with their arms about one another, went whirling out at the door +and around the windy close like very madcaps, cutting such capers that +the horses standing at the gate kicked up their heels, and jerked the +horse-boys right and left like bundles of hay.</p> + +<p>Nick leaned over the railing and stared.</p> + +<p>“Come down and help us sing!” they cried. “Come down and shout with us +in the street!”</p> + +<p>“I can na come down—there’s work to do!”</p> + +<p>“Thy ‘can na’ be hanged, and thy work likewise! Come down and sing, or +we’ll fetch thee down. The Queen hath sent for us!”</p> + +<p>“The Queen—hath sent—for us?”</p> + +<p>“Ay, sent for us to come to court and play on Christmas day! Hurrah for +Queen Bess!”</p> + +<p>At that shrill cheer the startled horses fairly plunged into the street, +and the carts that were passing along the way were jammed against the +opposite wall. The carriers bellowed, the horse-boys bawled, the people +came running to see the row, and the apprentices flew out of the shops +bareheaded, waving their dirty aprons and cheering lustily, just for the +fun of the chance to cheer.</p> + +<p>“It’s true!” called Colley, his dark eyes dancing like stars on the sea. +“Come down, Nick, and sing in the street with us all! We are going to +Greenwich Palace on Christmas day to play before the Queen and the +court—for the first time, Nick, in a good six years; and we’re not to +work till the new masque comes from the Master of the Revels! Come down, +Nick, and sing with us out in the street; for we’re going to court, we’re +going to court to sing before the Queen! Hurrah, hurrah!”</p> + +<p>“Hurrah for good Queen Bess!” cried Nick; and up went his cap and down +went he on the baluster-rail like a runaway sled, head first into the +crowd, who caught him laughing as he came. Then all together they +cantered out like a parcel of colts in a fresh, green field, and sang in +the street before the school till the people cheered themselves hoarse +to hear such music on such a wintry day; sang until there was no other +business on all the thoroughfare but just to listen to their songs; sang +until the under-masters came out with their staves and drove them into +the school again, to keep them from straining their throats by singing +so loudly and so long in the frosty open air.</p> + +<p>But a fig for staves and for under-masters! The boys clapped fast the +gates behind them, and barred the under-masters out in the street, +singing twice as loudly as before, and mocking at them with wry faces +through the bars; and then trooped off up the old precentor’s private +stair and sang at his door until the old man could not hear his own +ears, and came out storming and grim as grief.</p> + +<p>But when he saw the boys all there, and heard them cheering him three +times three, he could not storm to save his life, but only stood there, +black and thin, against the yellow square of light, smiling a quaint +smile that half was wrinkles and half was pride, shaking his lean +forefinger at them as if he were beating time, and nodding until his +head seemed almost nodding off.</p> + +<p>“Hurrah for Master Nathaniel Gyles!” they shouted.</p> + +<p>“<i>Primus Magister Scholarum, Custos Morum, Quartus Custos Rotulorum</i>,” +said the old man softly to himself, the firelight from behind him +falling in a glory on his thin white hair. “Be off, ye rogues! Ye are +not fit to waste good language on; or, faith, I’d Latin ye all as dumb +as fishes in the depths of the briny sea!”</p> + +<p>“Hurrah for the fishes in the sea!”</p> + +<p>“Soft, ye knaves! Save thy throats for good Queen Bess!”</p> + +<p>“Hurrah for good Queen Bess!”</p> + +<p>“Be still, I say, ye good-for-nothing varlets; or ye sha’n’t have pie +and ale to-night. But marry, now, ye <i>shall</i> have pie—ay, pie and ale +without a stint; for ye are good lads, and ye have pleased the Queen at +last; and I am as proud of ye as a peacock is of his own tail!”</p> + +<p>“Hurrah for the Queen—and the pie—and the ale! Hurrah for the peacock +and his tail!” shouted the boys; and straightway, seeing that they had +made a rhyme, they gave a cheer shriller and longer than all the others +put together, and went clattering down the stairway, singing at the top +of their lungs:</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +Hurrah for the Queen, and the pie and the ale!<br /> +Hurrah for the peacock, hurrah for his tail!<br /> +Hurrah for hurrah, and hurrah again—<br /> +We’re going to court on Christmas day<br /> + To sing before the Queen!”<br /> +</div> + +<p>“Good lads, good lads!” said the old precentor to himself, as he turned +back into his little room. His eyes were shining proudly in the +candle-light, yet the tears were running down his cheeks. A queer old +man, Nat Gyles, and dead this many a long, long year; yet that night no +man was happier than he.</p> + +<p>But Master Gaston Carew, who had come for Nick, stood in the gathering +dusk by the gate below, and stared up at the yellow square of light with +a troubled look upon his reckless face.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVII"></a>CHAPTER XXVII<br /> +<span class='ph3'>THE QUEEN’S PLAISANCE<br /></span></h2> + +<p>It was a frosty morning when they all marched down to the boats that +bumped along Paul’s wharf.</p> + +<p>The roofs of London were white with frost and rosy with the dawn. In the +shadow of the walls the air lay in still pools of smoky blue; and in the +east the horizon stretched like a swamp of fire. The winking lights on +London Bridge were pale. The bridge itself stood cold and gray, +mysterious and dim as the stream below, but here and there along its +crest red-hot with a touch of flame from the burning eastern sky. Out of +the river, running inland with the tide, came steamy shreds that drifted +here and there. Then over the roofs of London town the sun sprang up +like a thing of life, and the veil of twilight vanished in bright day +with a million sparkles rippling on the stream.</p> + +<p>Warm with piping roast and cordial, keen with excitement, and blithe +with the sharp, fresh air, the red-cheeked lads skipped and chattered +along the landing like a flock of sparrows alighted by chance in a land +of crumbs.</p> + +<p>“Into the wherries, every one!” cried the old precentor. <i>“Ad unum +omnes</i>, great and small!”</p> + +<p>“Into the wherries!” echoed the under-masters.</p> + +<p>“Into the wherries, my bullies!” roared old Brueton the boatman, fending +off with a rusty hook as red as his bristling beard. “Into the wherries, +yarely all, and we’s catch the turn o’ the tide! ’Tis gone high +water now!”</p> + +<p>Then away they went, three wherries full, and Master Gyles behind them +in a brisk sixpenny tilt-boat, resplendent in new ash-colored hose, a +cloak of black velvet fringed with gold, and a brand-new periwig curled +and frizzed like a brush-heap in a gale of wind.</p> + +<p>How they had worked for the last few days! New songs, new dances, new +lines to learn; gallant compliments for the Queen, who was as fond of +flattery as a girl; new clothes, new slippers and caps to try, and a +thousand what-nots more. The school had hummed like a busy mill from +morning until night. And now that the grinding was done and they had +come at last to their reward,—the hoped-for summons to the court, which +had been sought so long in vain,—the boys of St. Paul’s bubbled with +glee until the under-masters were in a cold sweat for fear their +precious charges would pop from the wherries into the Thames, like so +many exuberant corks.</p> + +<p>They cheered with delight as London Bridge was shot and the boats went +flying down the Pool, past Billingsgate and the oystermen, the White +Tower and the Traitors’ Gate, past the shipping, where brown, +foreign-looking faces stared at them above sea-battered bulwarks.</p> + +<p>The sun was bright and the wind was keen; the air sparkled, and all the +world was full of life. Hammers beat in the builders’ yards; wild +bargees sang hoarsely as they drifted down to the Isle of Dogs; and in +slow ships that crept away to catch the wind in the open stream below, +with tawny sails drooping and rimmed with frost, they heard the hail of +salty mariners.</p> + +<p>The tide ran strong, and the steady oars carried them swiftly down. +London passed; then solitary hamlets here and there; then dun fields +running to the river’s edge like thirsty deer.</p> + +<p>In Deptford Reach some lords who were coming down by water passed them, +racing with a little Dutch boat from Deptford to the turn. Their boats +had holly-bushes at their prows and holiday garlands along their sides. +They were all shouting gaily, and the stream was bright with their +scarlet cloaks, Lincoln-green jerkins, and gold embroidery. But they +were very badly beaten, at which they laughed, and threw the Dutchmen a +handful of silver pennies. Thereupon the Dutchmen stood up in their boat +and bowed like jointed ninepins; and the lords, not to be outdone, stood +up likewise in their boats and bowed very low in return, with their +hands upon their breasts. Then everybody on the river laughed, and the +boys gave three cheers for the merry lords and three more for the sturdy +Dutchmen. The Dutchmen shouted back, “Goot Yule!” and bowed and bowed +until their boat turned round and went stern foremost down the stream, +so that they were bowing to the opposite bank, where no one was at all. +At this the rest all laughed again till their sides ached, and cheered +them twice as much as they had before.</p> + +<p>And while they were cheering and waving their caps, the boatmen rested +upon their oars and let the boats swing with the tide, which thereabout +set strong against the shore, and a trumpeter in the Earl of Arundel’s +barge stood up and blew upon a long horn bound with a banner of blue +and gold.</p> + +<p>Instantly he had blown, another trumpet answered from the south, and +when Nick turned, the shore was gay with men in brilliant livery. Beyond +was a wood of chestnut-trees as blue and leafless as a grove of spears; +and in the plain between the river and the wood stood a great palace of +gray stone, with turrets, pinnacles, and battlemented walls, over the +topmost tower of which a broad flag, blazoned with golden lions and +silver lilies square for square, whipped the winter wind. Amid a group +of towers large and small a lofty stack poured out a plume of sea-coal +smoke against the milky sky, and on the countless windows in the wall +the sunlight flashed with dazzling radiance.</p> + +<p>There were people on the battlements, and at the port between two towers +where the Queen went in and out the press was so thick that men’s heads +looked like the cobbles in the street.</p> + +<p>The shore was stayed with piling and with timbers like a wharf, so that +a hundred boats might lie there cheek by jowl and scarcely rub their +paint. The lords made way, and the children players came ashore through +an aisle of uplifted oars. They were met by the yeomen of the guard, +tall, brawny fellows clad in red, with golden roses on their breasts and +backs, and with them marched up to the postern two and two, Master Gyles +the last of all, as haughty as a Spanish don come courting fair +Queen Bess.</p> + +<p>A smoking dinner was waiting them, of whitebait with red pepper, and a +yellow juice so sour that Nick’s mouth drew up in a knot; but it was +very good. There were besides, silver dishes full of sugared red +currants, and heaps of comfits and sweetmeats, which Master Gyles would +not allow them even to touch, and saffron cakes with raisins in them, +and spiced hot cordial out of tiny silver cups. Bareheaded pages clad in +silk and silver lace waited upon them as if they were fledgling kings; +but the boys were too hungry to care for that or to try to put on airs, +and waded into the meat and drink as if they had been starved for a +fortnight.</p> + +<p>But when they were done Nick saw that the table off which they had eaten +was inlaid with pearl and silver filigree, and that the table-cloth was +of silk with woven metal-work and gems set in it worth more than a +thousand crowns. He was very glad he had eaten first, for such wonderful +service would have taken away his appetite.</p> + +<p>And truly a wonderful palace was the Queen’s Plaisance, as Greenwich +House was called. Elizabeth was born in it, and so loved it most of all. +There she pleased oftenest to receive and grant audiences to envoys from +foreign courts. And there, on that account, as was always her proud, +jealous way, she made a blinding show of glory and of wealth, of +science, art, and power, that England, to the eyes which saw her there, +might stand in second place to no dominion in the world, however rich +or great.</p> + +<p>It was a very house of gold.</p> + +<p>Over the door where the lads marched in was the Queen’s device, a golden +rose, with a motto set below in letters of gold, “Dieu et mon droit”; +and upon the walls were blazoned coats of noble arms on branching golden +trees, of purest metal and finest silk, costly beyond compare. The royal +presence-chamber shone with tapestries of gold, of silver, and of +oriental silks, of as many shifting colors as the birds of paradise, and +wrought in exquisite design, The throne was set with diamonds, with +rubies, garnets, and sapphires, glittering like a pastry-crust of stars, +and garnished with gold-lace work, pearls, and ornament; and under the +velvet canopy which hung above the throne was embroidered in +seed-pearls, “Vivat Regina Elizabetha!” There was no door without a +gorgeous usher, no room without a page, no corridor without a guard, no +post without a man of noble birth to fill it.</p> + +<p>On the walls of the great gallery were masterly paintings of great folk, +globes showing all the stars fast in the sky, and drawings of the world +and all its parts, so real that one could see the savages in the New +World hanging to the under side by their feet, like flies upon the +ceiling. How they stuck was more than Nick could make out; and where +they landed if they chanced to slip and fall troubled him a deal, until +in the sheer multiplication of wonders he could not wonder any more.</p> + +<p>When they came to rehearse in the afternoon the stage was hung with +stiff, rich silks that had come in costly cedar chests from the looms of +old Cathay; and the curtain behind which the players came and went was +broidered with gold thread in flowers and birds like meteors for +splendor. The gallery, too, where the musicians sat, was draped with +silk and damask.</p> + +<p>Some of the lads would have made out by their great airs as if this were +all a common thing to them; but Nick stared honestly with round eyes, +and went about with cautious feet, chary of touching things, and feeling +very much out of place and shy.</p> + +<p>It was all too grand, too wonderful,—amazing to look upon, no doubt, +and good to outface foreign envy with, but not to be endured every day +nor lived with comfortably. And as the day went by, each passing moment +with new marvels, Nick grew more and more uneasy for some simple little +nook where he might just sit down and be quiet for a while, as one could +do at home, without fine pages peering at him from the screens, or +splendid guards patrolling at his heels wherever he went, or obsequious +ushers bowing to the floor at every turn, and asking him what he might +be pleased to wish. And by the time night fell and the attendant came to +light them to their beds, he felt like a fly on the rim of a wheel that +went so fast he could scarcely get his breath or see what passed him by, +yet of which he durst not let go.</p> + +<p>The palace was much too much for him.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVIII"></a>CHAPTER XXVIII<br /> +<span class='ph3'>CHRISTMAS WITH QUEEN BESS<br /></span></h2> + +<p>Christmas morning came and went as if on swallow-wings, in a gale of +royal merriment. Four hundred sat to dinner that day in Greenwich halls, +and all the palace streamed with banners and green garlands.</p> + +<p>Within the courtyard two hundred horses neighed and stamped around a +water-fountain playing in a bowl of ice and evergreen. Grooms and pages, +hostlers and dames, went hurry-scurrying to and fro; cooks, bakers, and +scullions steamed about, leaving hot, mouth-watering streaks of +fragrance in the air; bluff men-at-arms went whistling here and there; +and serving-maids with rosy cheeks ran breathlessly up and down the +winding stairways.</p> + +<p>The palace stirred like a mighty pot that boils to its utmost verge, for +the hour of the revelries was come.</p> + +<p>Over the beech-wood and far across the black heath where Jack Cade +marshaled the men of Kent, the wind trembled with the boom of the castle +bell. Within the walls of the palace its clang was muffled by a sound of +voices that rose and fell like the wind upon the sea.</p> + +<p>The ambassadors of Venice and France were there, with their courtly +trains. The Lord High Constable of England was come to sit below the +Queen. The earls, too, of Southampton, Montgomery, Pembroke, and +Huntington were there; and William Cecil, Lord Burleigh, the Queen’s +High Treasurer, to smooth his care-lined forehead with a Yuletide jest.</p> + +<p>Up from the entry ports came shouts of “Room! room! room for my Lord +Strange! Room for the Duke of Devonshire!” and about the outer gates +there was a tumult like the cheering of a great crowd.</p> + +<p>The palace corridors were lined with guards. Gentlemen pensioners under +arms went flashing to and fro. Now and then through the inner throng +some handsome page with wind-blown hair and rainbow-colored cloak pushed +to the great door, calling: “Way, sirs, way for my Lord—way for my Lady +of Alderstone!” and one by one, or in blithe groups, the courtiers, clad +in silks and satins, velvets, jewels, and lace of gold, came up through +the lofty folding-doors to their places in the hall.</p> + +<p>There, where the Usher of the Black Rod stood, and the gentlemen of the +chamber came and went with golden chains about their necks, was bowing +and scraping without stint, and reverent civility; for men that were +wise and noble were passing by, men that were handsome and brave; and +ladies sweet as a summer day, and as fair to see as spring, laughed by +their sides and chatted behind their fans, or daintily nibbled comfits, +lacking anything to say.</p> + +<p>The windows were all curtained in, making a night-time in midday; and +from the walls and galleries flaring links and great bouquets of candles +threw an eddying flood of yellow light across the stirring scene. From +clump to clump of banner-staves and burnished arms, spiked above the +wainscot, garlands of red-berried holly, spruce, and mistletoe were +twined across the tapestry, till all the room was bound about with a +chain of living green.</p> + +<p>There were sweet odors floating through the air, and hazy threads of +fragrant smoke from perfumes burning in rich braziers; and under foot +was the crisp, clean rustle of new rushes.</p> + +<p>From time to time, above the hum of voices, came the sound of music from +a room beyond—cornets and flutes, fifes, lutes, and harps, with an +organ exquisitely played, and voices singing to it; and from behind the +players’ curtain, swaying slowly on its rings at the back of the stage, +came a murmur of whispering childish voices, now high in eager +questioning, now low, rehearsing some doubtful fragment of a song.</p> + +<p>Behind the curtain it was dark—not total darkness, but twilight; for a +dull glow came down overhead from the lights in the hall without, and +faint yellow bars went up and down the dusk from crevices in the screen. +The boys stood here and there in nervous groups. Now and then a sharp +complaint was heard from the tire-woman when an impatient lad would not +stand still to be dressed.</p> + +<p>Master Gyles went to and fro, twisting the manuscript of the Revel in +his hands, or pausing kindly to pat some faltering lad upon the back. +Nick and Colley were peeping by turns through a hole in the screen at +the throng in the audience-chamber.</p> + +<p>They could see a confusion of fans, jewels, and faces, and now and again +could hear a burst of subdued laughter over the steadily increasing buzz +of voices. Then from the gallery above, all at once there came a murmur +of instruments tuning together; a voice in the corridor was heard +calling, “Way here, way here!” in masterful tones; the tall +folding-doors at the side of the hall swung wide, and eight dapper pages +in white and gold came in with the Master of Revels. After them came +fifty ladies and noblemen clad in white and gold, and a guard of +gentlemen pensioners with glittering halberds.</p> + +<p>There was a sharp rustle. Every head in the audience-chamber louted low. +Nick’s heart gave a jump—for the Queen was there!</p> + +<p>She came with an air that was at once serious and royal, bearing herself +haughtily, yet with a certain grace and sprightliness that became her +very well. She was quite tall and well made, and her quickly changing +face was long and fair, though wrinkled and no longer young. Her +complexion was clear and of an olive hue; her nose was a little hooked; +her firm lips were thin; and her small black eyes, though keen and +bright, were pleasant and merry withal. Her hair was a coppery, tawny +red, and false, moreover. In her ears hung two great pearls; and there +was a fine small crown studded with diamonds upon her head, beside a +necklace of exceeding fine gold and jewels about her neck. She was +attired in a white silk gown bordered with pearls the size of beans, and +over it wore a mantle of black silk, cunningly shot with silver threads. +Her ruff was vast, her farthingale vaster; and her train, which was very +long, was borne by a marchioness who made more ado about it than +Elizabeth did of ruling her realm.</p> + +<p>“The Queen!” gasped Colley.</p> + +<p>“Dost think I did na know it?” answered Nick, his heart beginning to +beat tattoo as he stared through the peep-hole in the screen.</p> + +<p>He saw the great folk bowing like a gardenful of flowers in a storm, and +in its midst Elizabeth erect, speaking to those about her in a lively +and good-humored way, and addressing all the foreigners according to +their tongue—in French, Italian, Spanish, Dutch; but hers was funny +Dutch, and while she spoke she smiled and made a joke upon it in Latin, +at which they all laughed heartily, whether they understood what it +meant or not. Then, with her ladies in waiting, she passed to a dais +near the stage, and stood a moment, stately, fair, and proud, while all +her nobles made obeisance, then sat and gave a signal for the players +to begin.</p> + +<p>“Rafe Fullerton!” the prompter whispered shrilly; and out from behind +the screen slipped Rafe, the smallest of them all, and down the stage to +speak the foreword of the piece. He was frightened, and his voice shook +as he spoke, but every one was smiling, so he took new heart.</p> + +<p>“It is a masque of Summer-time and Spring,” said he, “wherein both +claim to be best-loved, and have their say of wit and humor, and each +her part of songs and dances suited to her time, the sprightly galliard +and the nimble jig for Spring, the slow pavone, the stately peacock +dance, for Summer-time. And win who may, fair Summer-time or merry +Spring, the winner is but that beside our Queen!”—with which he snapped +his fingers in the faces of them all—“God save Queen Bess!”</p> + +<p>At that the Queen’s eyes twinkled, and she nodded, highly pleased, so +that every one clapped mightily.</p> + +<p>The play soon ran its course amid great laughter and applause. Spring +won. The English ever loved her best, and the quick-paced galliard took +their fancy, too. “Up and be doing!” was its tune, and it gave one a +chance to cut fine capers with his heels.</p> + +<p>Then the stage stood empty and the music stopped.</p> + +<p>At this strange end a whisper of surprise ran through the hall. The +Queen tapped with the inner side of her rings upon the broad arm of her +chair. From the look on her face she was whetting her tongue. But before +she could speak, Nick and Colley, dressed as a farmer boy and girl, with +a garland of house-grown flowers about them, came down the stage from +the arras, hand in hand, bowing.</p> + +<p>The audience-chamber grew very still—<i>this</i> was something new. Nick +felt a swallowing in his throat, and Colley’s hand winced in his grip. +There was no sound but a silky rustling in the room.</p> + +<p>Then suddenly the boys behind the players’ curtain laughed together, +not loud, but such a jolly little laugh that all the people smiled to +hear it. After the laughter came a hush.</p> + +<p>Then the pipes overhead made a merry sound as of shepherds piping on +oaten straws in new grass where there are daisies; and there was a +little elfish laughter of clarionets, and a fluttering among the cool +flutes like spring wind blowing through crisp young leaves in April. The +harps began to pulse and throb with a soft cadence like raindrops +falling into a clear pool where brown leaves lie upon the bottom and +bubbles float above green stones and smooth white pebbles. Nick lifted +up his head and sang.</p> + +<p>It was a happy little song of the coming and the triumph of the spring. +The words were all forgotten long ago. They were not much: enough to +serve the turn, no more; but the notes to which they went were like barn +swallows twittering under the eaves, goldfinches clinking in purple +weeds beside old roads, and robins singing in common gardens at dawn. +And wherever Nick’s voice ran Colley’s followed, the pipes laughing +after them a note or two below; while the flutes kept gurgling softly to +themselves as a hill brook gurgles through the woods, and the harps ran +gently up and down like rain among the daffodils. One voice called, the +other answered; there were echo-like refrains; and as they sang Nick’s +heart grew full. He cared not a stiver for the crowd, the golden palace, +or the great folk there—the Queen no more—he only listened for +Colley’s voice coming up lovingly after his own and running away when he +followed it down, like a lad and a lass through the bloom of the May. +And Colley was singing as if his heart would leap out of his round mouth +for joy to follow after the song they sung, till they came to the end +and the skylark’s song.</p> + +<p>There Colley ceased, and Nick went singing on alone, forgetting, caring +for, heeding nought but the song that was in his throat.</p> + +<p>The Queen’s fan dropped from her hand upon the floor. No one saw it or +picked it up. The Venetian ambassador scarcely breathed.</p> + +<p>Nick came down the stage, his hands before him, lifted as if he saw the +very lark he followed with his song, up, up, up into the sun. His cheeks +were flushed and his eyes were wet, though his voice was a song and a +laugh in one.</p> + +<p>Then they were gone behind the curtain, into the shadow and the twilight +there, Colley with his arms about Nick’s neck, not quite laughing, not +quite sobbing. The manuscript of the Revel lay torn in two upon the +floor, and Master Gyles had a foot upon each piece.</p> + +<p>In the hall beyond the curtain was a silence that was deeper than a +hush, a stillness rising from the hearts of men.</p> + +<p>Then Elizabeth turned in the chair where she sat. Her eyes were as +bright as a blaze. And out of the sides of her eyes she looked at the +Venetian ambassador. He was sitting far out on the edge of his chair, +and his lips had fallen apart. She laughed to herself. “It is a good +song, signor,” said she, and those about her started at the sound of her +voice. “<i>Chi tace confessa—</i>it is so! There are no songs like English +songs—there is no spring like an English spring—there is no land like +England, <i>my</i> England!” She clapped her hands. “I will speak with those +lads,” said she.</p> + +<p>Straightway certain pages ran through the press and came behind the +curtain where Nick and Colley stood together, still trembling with the +music not yet gone out of them, and brought them through the hall to +where the Queen sat, every one whispering, “Look!” as they passed.</p> + +<p>On the dais they knelt together, bowing, side by side. Elizabeth, with a +kindly smile, leaning a little forward, raised them with her slender +hand. “Stand, dear lads,” said she, heartily. “Be lifted up by thine own +singing, as our hearts have been uplifted by thy song. And name me the +price of that same song—’twas sweeter than the sweetest song we ever +heard before.”</p> + +<p>“Or ever shall hear again,” said the Venetian ambassador, under his +breath, rubbing his forehead as if just wakening out of a dream.</p> + +<p>“Come,” said Elizabeth, tapping Colley’s cheek with her fan, “what wilt +thou have of me, fair maid?”</p> + +<p>Colley turned red, then very pale. “That I may stay in the palace +forever and sing for your Majesty,” said he. His fingers shivered +in Nick’s.</p> + +<p>“Now that is right prettily asked,” she cried, and was well pleased. +“Thou shalt indeed stay for a singing page in our household—a voice and +a face like thine are merry things upon a rainy Monday. And thou, Master +Lark,” said she, fanning the hair back from Nick’s forehead with her +perfumed fan—“thou that comest up out of the field with a song like the +angels sing—what wilt thou have: that thou mayst sing in our choir and +play on the lute for us?”</p> + +<p>Nick looked up at the torches on the wall, drawing a deep, long breath. +When he looked down again his eyes were dazzled and he could not see +the Queen.</p> + +<p>“What wilt thou have?” he heard her ask.</p> + +<p>“Let me go home,” said he.</p> + +<p>There were red and green spots in the air. He tried to count them, since +he could see nothing else, and everything was very still; but they all +ran into one purple spot which came and went like a firefly’s glow, and +in the middle of the purple spot he saw the Queen’s face coming +and going.</p> + +<p>“Surely, boy, that is an ill-considered speech,” said she, “or thou dost +deem us very poor, or most exceeding stingy!” Nick hung his head, for +the walls seemed tapestried with staring eyes. “Or else this home of +thine must be a very famous place.”</p> + +<p>The maids of honour tittered. Further off somebody laughed. Nick looked +up, and squared his shoulders.</p> + +<p>They had rubbed the cat the wrong way.</p> + +<p>It is hard to be a stranger in a palace, young, country-bred, and +laughed at all at once; but down in Nick Attwood’s heart was a stubborn +streak that all the flattery on earth could not cajole nor ridicule +efface. He might be simple, shy, and slow, but what he loved he loved: +that much he knew; and when they laughed at him for loving home they +seemed to mock not him, but home—and <i>that</i> touched the fighting-spot.</p> + +<p>“I would rather be there than here,” said he.</p> + +<p>The Queen’s face flushed. “Thou art more curt than courteous,” said she. +“Is it not good enough for thee here?”</p> + +<p>“I could na live in such a place.”</p> + +<p>The Queen’s eyes snapped. “In such a place? Marry, art thou so choice? +These others find no fault with the life.”</p> + +<p>“Then they be born to it,” said Nick, “or they could abide no more than +I—they would na fit.”</p> + +<p>“Haw, haw!” said the Lord High Constable.</p> + +<p>The Queen shot one quick glance at him. “Old pegs have been made to fit +new holes before to-day,” said she; “and the trick can be done again.” +The Constable smothered the rest of that laugh in his hand, “But come, +boy, speak up; what hath put thee so out of conceit with our +best-beloved palace?”</p> + +<p>“There is na one thing likes me here. I can na bide in a place so fine, +for there’s not so much as a corner in it feels like home. I could na +sleep in the bed last night.”</p> + +<p>“What, how? We commanded good beds!” exclaimed Elizabeth, angrily, for +the Venetian ambassador was smiling in his beard. “This shall be +seen to.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, it <i>was</i> a good bed—a very good bed indeed, your Majesty!” cried +Nick. “But the mattress puffed up like a cloud in a bag, and almost +smothered me; and it was so soft and so hot that it gave me a fever.”</p> + +<p>Elizabeth leaned back in her chair and laughed. The Lord High Constable +hastily finished the laugh that he had hidden in his hand. Everybody +laughed. “Upon my word,” said the Queen, “it is an odd skylark cannot +sleep in feathers! What didst thou do, forsooth?”</p> + +<p>“I slept in the coverlid on the floor,” said Nick. “It was na hurt,—I +dusted the place well,—and I slept like a top.”</p> + +<p>“Now verily,” laughed Elizabeth, “if it be floors that thou dost desire, +we have acres to spare—thou shalt have thy pick of the lot. Come, we +are ill used to begging people to be favored—thou’lt stay?”</p> + +<p>Nick shook his head.</p> + +<p>“<i>Ma foi!”</i> exclaimed the Queen, “it is a queer fancy makes a face at +such a pleasant dwelling! What is it sticks in thy throat?”</p> + +<p>Nick stood silent. What was there to say? If he came here he never would +see Stratford town again; and <i>this</i> was no abiding-place for him. They +would not even let him go to the fountain himself to draw water with +which to wash, but fetched it, three at a time, in a silver ewer and a +copper basin with towels and a flask of perfume.</p> + +<p>Elizabeth was tapping with her fan. “Thou art be-dazzled like,” she +said. “Think twice—preferment does not gooseberry on the hedge-row +every day; and this is a rare chance which hangs ripening on thy tongue. +Consider well. Come, thou wilt accept?”</p> + +<p>Nick slowly shook his head.</p> + +<p>“Go then, if thou wilt go!” said she; and as she spoke she shrugged her +shoulders, illy pleased, and turning toward Colley, took him by the hand +and drew him closer to her, smiling at his guise. “Thy comrade hath +more wit.”</p> + +<p>“He hath no mother,” Nick said quietly, loosing his hold at last on +Colley’s hand. “I would rather have my mother than his wit.”</p> + +<p>Elizabeth turned sharply back. Her keen eyes were sparkling, yet soft.</p> + +<p>“Thou art no fool,” said she.</p> + +<p>A little murmur ran through the room.</p> + +<p>She sat a moment, silent, studying his face. “Or if thou art, upon my +word I like the breed. It is a stubborn, froward dog; but Hold-fast is +his name. Ay, sirs,” she said, and sat up very straight, looking into +the faces of her court, “Brag is a good dog, but Hold-fast is better. A +lad who loves his mother thus makes a man who loveth his native +land—and it’s no bad streak in the blood. Master Skylark, thou shalt +have thy wish; to London thou shalt go this very night.”</p> + +<p>“I do na live in London,” Nick began.</p> + +<p>“What matters the place?” said she. “Live wheresoever thine heart doth +please. It is enough—so. Thou mayst kiss our hand.” She held her hand +out, bright with jewels. He knelt and kissed it as if it were all a +doing in a dream, or in some unlikely story he had read. But a long +while after he could smell the perfume from her slender fingers on +his lips.</p> + +<p>Then a page standing by him touched his arm as he arose, and bowing +backward from the throne, came with him to the curtain and the rest. Old +Master Gyles was standing there apart. It was too dark to see his face, +but he laid his hand upon Nick’s head.</p> + +<p>“Thy cake is burned to a coal,” said he.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIX"></a>CHAPTER XXIX<br /> +<span class='ph3'>BACK TO GASTON CAREW<br /></span></h2> + +<p>So they marched back out of the palace gates, down to the landing-place, +the last red sunlight gleaming on the basinets of the tall halberdiers +who marched on either side.</p> + +<p>Nick looked out toward London, where the river lay like a serpent, +bristling with masts; and beyond the river and the town to the forests +of Epping and Hainault; and beyond the forests to the hills, where the +waning day still lingered in a mist of frosty blue. At their back, +midway of the Queen’s park, stood up the old square tower Mirefleur, and +on its top one yellow light like the flame of a gigantic candle. The day +seemed builded of memories strange and untrue.</p> + +<p>A belated gull flapped by them heavily, and the red sun went down. +England was growing lonely. A great barge laden with straw came out of +the dusk, and was gone without a sound, its ghostly sail drawing in a +wind that the wherry sat too low to feel. Nick held his breath as the +barge went by: it was unreal, fantastical.</p> + +<p>Then the river dropped between its banks, and the woods and the hills +were gone. The tide ran heavily against the shore, and the wake of the +wherry broke the floating stars into cold white streaks and zigzag +ripplings of raveled light that ran unsteadily after them. The craft at +anchor in the Pool had swung about upon the flow, and pointed down to +Greenwich. A hush had fallen upon the never-ending bustle of the town; +and the air was full of a gray, uncanny afterglow which seemed to come +up out of the water, for the sky was grown quite dark.</p> + +<p>They were all wrapped in their boat-cloaks, tired and silent. Now and +then Nick dipped his fingers into the cold water over the gunwale.</p> + +<p>This was the end of the glory.</p> + +<p>He wished the boat would go a little faster. Yet when they came to the +landing he was sorry.</p> + +<p>The man-at-arms who went with him to Master Carew’s house was one of the +Earl of Arundel’s men, in a stiff-wadded jacket of heron-blue, with the +earls colors richly worked upon its back and his badge upon the sleeves. +Prowlers gave way before him in the streets, for he was broad and tall +and mighty, and the fear of any man was not in the look of his eye.</p> + +<p>As they came up the slow hill, Nick sighed, for the long-legged +man-at-arms walked fast. “What, there!” said he, and clapped Nick on the +shoulder with his bony hand; “art far spent, lad? Why, marry, get thee +upon my back. I’ll jog thee home in the shake of a black sheep’s tail.”</p> + +<p>So Nick rode home upon the back of the Earl of Arundel’s man-at-arms; +and that, too, seemed a dream like all the rest.</p> + +<p>When they came to Master Carew’s house the street was dark, and Nick’s +foot was asleep. He stamped it, tingling, upon the step, and the empty +passage echoed with the sound. Then the earl’s man beat the door with +the pommel of his dagger-hilt, and stood with his hands upon his hips, +carelessly whistling a little tune.</p> + +<p>Nick heard a sound of some one coming through the hall, and felt that at +last the day was done. A tired wonder wakened in his heart at how so +much had come to pass in such a little while; yet more he wondered why +it had ever come to pass at all. And what was the worth of it, anyway, +now it was over and gone?</p> + +<p>Then the door opened, and he went in.</p> + +<p>Master Gaston Carew himself had come to the door, walking quickly +through the hallway, with a queer, nervous twitching in his face. But +when he made out through the dusk that it was Nick, he seemed in no wise +moved, and said quite simply, as he gave the man-at-arms a penny: “Oh, +is it thou? Why, we have heard somewhat of thee; and upon my word I +thought, since thou wert grown so great, thou wouldst come home in a +coach-and-four, all blowing horns!”</p> + +<p>Nevertheless he drew Nick quickly in, and kissed him thrice; and after +he had kissed him kept fast hold of his hand until they came together +through the hall into the great room where Cicely was sitting quite +dismally in the chimney-seat alone.</p> + +<p class='ctr'><a name="illus0356"></a> +<a href="images/illus0356.jpg"> +<img src="images/illus0356.jpg" width = "50%" alt="" /> +</a><br /> +<b>“SO NICK RODE HOME UPON THE BACK OF THE EARL OF ARUNDEL’S +MAN-AT-ARMS.”</b> +<br /></p> + +<p>“There, Nick,” said he; “tell her thyself that thou hast come back. She +thought she had lost thee for good and all, and hath sung, ‘Hey ho, my +heart is full of woe!’ the whole twilight, and would not be comforted. +Come, Cicely, doff thy doleful willow—the proverb lies. ‘Out of sight, +out of mind’—fudge! the boy’s come back again! A plague take +proverbs, anyway!”</p> + +<p>But when the children were both long since abed, and all the house was +still save for the scamper of rats in the wall, the heavy door of Nick’s +room opened stealthily, with a little grating upon the uneven sill, and +Master Carew stood there, peeping in, his hand upon the bolt outside.</p> + +<p>He held a rush-light in the other. Its glimmer fell across the bed upon +Nick’s tousled hair; and when the master-player saw the boy’s head upon +the pillow he started eagerly, with brightening eyes. “My soul!” he +whispered to himself, a little quaver in his tone, “I would have sworn +my own desire lied to me, and that he had not come at all! It cannot +be—yet, verily, I am not blind. <i>Ma foil</i> it passeth understanding—a +freed skylark come back to its cage! I thought we had lost him forever.”</p> + +<p>Nick stirred in his sleep. Carew set the light on the floor. “Thou +fool!” said he, and he fumbled at his pouch; “thou dear-beloved little +fool! To catch the skirts of glory in thine hand, and tread the heels of +happy chance, and yet come back again to ill-starred twilight—and to +me! Ai, lad, I would thou wert my son—mine own, own son; yet Heaven +spare thee father such as I! For, Nick, I love thee. Yet thou dost hate +me like a poison thing. And still I love thee, on my word, and on the +remnant of mine honour!” His voice was husky. “Let thee go?—send thee +back?—eat my sweet and have it too?—how? Nay, nay; thy happy cake +would be my dough—it will not serve.” He shook his head, and looked +about to see that all was fast. “Yet, Nick, I say I love thee, on +my soul!”</p> + +<p>Slipping to the bedside with stealthy step, he laid a fat little Banbury +cheese and some brown sweet cakes beside Nick’s pillow; then came out +hurriedly and barred the door.</p> + +<p>The fire in the great hall had gone out, and the room was growing cold. +The table stood by the chimney-side, where supper had been laid, Carew +brought a napkin from the linen-chest, and spread it upon the board. +Then he went to the server’s screen and looked behind it, and tried the +latches of the doors; and having thus made sure that all was safe, came +back to the table again, and setting the rush-light there, turned the +contents of his purse into the napkin.</p> + +<p>There were both gold and silver. The silver he put back into the purse +again; the gold he counted carefully; and as he counted, laying the +pieces one by one in little heaps upon the cloth, he muttered under his +breath, like a small boy adding up his sums in school, saying over and +over again, “One for me, and one for thee, and two for Cicely Carew. One +for me, and one for thee, and two for Cicely Carew”; and told the coins +off in keeping with the count, so that the last pile was as large as +both the others put together. Then slowly ending, “None for me, and one +for thee, and two for Cicely Carew,” he laid the last three nobles +with the rest.</p> + +<p>Then he arose and stood a moment listening to the silence in the house. +An old he rat that was gnawing a rind on the hearth looked up, and ran a +little nearer to his hole. “Tsst! come back,” said Carew, “I’m no cat!” +and from the sliding panel in the wall took out a buckskin bag tied like +a meal-sack with a string.</p> + +<p>As he slipped the knot the throat of the bag sagged down, and a gold +piece jangled on the floor. Carew started as if all his nerves had +leaped within him at the unexpected sound, and closed the panel like a +flash. Then, setting his foot upon the fallen coin, he stopped its +spinning, and with one hand on his poniard, peering right and left, blew +the candle out.</p> + +<p>A little while he stood and listened in the dark; a little while his +feet went to and fro in the darkness. The wind cried in the chimney. Now +and then the casements shivered. The timbers in the wall creaked with +the cold, and the boards in the stairway cracked. Then the old he rat +came back to his rind, and his mate came out of the crack in the wall, +working her whiskers hungrily and snuffing the smell of the candle-drip; +for there was no sound, and the coast of rat-land was clear.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXX"></a>CHAPTER XXX<br /> +<span class='ph3'>AT THE FALCON INN<br /></span></h2> + +<div class='poetry'> +And then there came both mist and snow,<br /> + And it grew wondrous cold;<br /> +And ice mast-high came floating by,<br /> + As green as emerald.<br /> +</div> + +<p>So says that wonder-ballad of the sea.</p> + +<p>But over London came a gale that made the chimneys rock; and after it +came ice and snow, sharp, stinging sleet, and thumping hail, with +sickening winds from the gray west, sour yellow fogs, and plunging rain, +till all the world was weary of the winter and the cold.</p> + +<p>But winter could not last forever. March crept onward, and the streets +of London came up out of the slush again with a glad surprise of +cobblestones. The sickly mist no longer hung along the river; and +sometimes upon a breezy afternoon it was pleasant and fair, the sun +shone warmly on one’s back, and the rusty sky grew bluer overhead. The +trees in Paris Garden put out buds; the lilac-tips began to swell; there +was a stirring in the roadside grass, and now and then a questing bird +went by upon the wind, piping a little silver thread of song. Nick’s +heart grew hungry for the woods of Arden and the gathering rush of the +waking water-brooks among the old dead leaves. The rain beat in at his +window, but he did not care for that, and kept it open day and night; +for when he wakened in the dark he loved to feel the fingers of the wind +across his face.</p> + +<p>Sometimes the moonlight through the ragged clouds came in upon the +floor, and in the hurry of the wind he almost fancied he could hear the +Avon, bank-full, rushing under the old mill-bridge.</p> + +<p>Then one day there came a shower with a warm south wind, sweet and +healthful and serene; and through the shower, out of the breaking +clouds, a sun-gleam like a path of gold straight down to the heart of +London town; and on the south wind, down that path of gold, came April.</p> + +<p>That night the wind in the chimney fluted a glad, new tune; and when +Nick looked out at his casement the free stars danced before him in the +sky. And when he felt that fluting wind blow warm and cool together on +his cheek, the chimneys mocked him, and the town was hideous.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>It fell upon an April night, when the moon was at its full, that Master +Carew had come to the Falcon Inn, on the Southwark side of the river, +and had brought Nick with him for the air. Master Heywood was along, and +it was very pleasant there.</p> + +<p>The night breeze smelled of green fields, and the inn was thronged with +company. The windows were bright, and the air was full of voices. Tables +had been brought out into the garden and set beneath the arbor toward +the riverside. The vines of the arbor were shooting forth their first +pink-velvet leaves, and in the moonlight their shadows fell like +lacework across the linen cloths, blurred by the glow of the lanterns +hung upon the posts.</p> + +<p>The folds in the linen marked the table-tops with squares like a +checker-board, and Nick stood watching from the tap-room door, as if it +were a game. Not that he cared for any game; but that watching dulled +the teeth of the hunger in his heart to be out of the town and back +among the hills of Warwickshire, now that the spring was there.</p> + +<p>“What, there!—a pot of sack!” cried one gay fellow with a +silver-bordered cloak. “A pot of sack?” cried out another with a feather +like a rose-bush in his cap; “two pots ye mean, my buck!” “Ods-fish my +skin!” bawled out a third—“ods-fish my skin! Two pots of beggarly sack +on a Saturday night and a moon like this? Three pots, say I—and make it +malmsey, at my cost! What, there, knave! the table full of pots—I’ll +pay the score.”</p> + +<p>At that they all began to laugh and to slap one another on the back, and +to pound with their fists upon the board until the pewter tankards +hopped; and when the tapster’s knave came back they were singing at the +top of their lungs, for the spring had gotten into their wits, and they +were beside themselves with merriment.</p> + +<p>Master Tom Heywood had a little table to himself off in a corner, and +was writing busily upon a new play. “A sheet a day,” said he, “doth do +a wonder in a year”; so he was always at it.</p> + +<p>Gaston Carew sat beyond, dicing with a silky rogue who had the coldest, +hardest face that Nick had ever seen. His eyes were black and beady as a +rat’s, and were circled about by a myriad of little crowfoot lines; and +his hooked nose lay across his thin blue lips like a finger across a +slit in a dried pie. His long, slim hands were white as any woman’s; and +his fingers slipped among the laces at his cuffs like a weasel in a +tangle-patch.</p> + +<p>They had been playing for an hour, and the game had gone beyond all +reason. The other players had put aside the dice to watch the two, and +the nook in which their table stood was ringed with curious faces. A +lantern had been hung above, but Carew had had it taken down, as its +bottom made a shadow on the board. Carew’s face was red and white by +turns; but the face of the other had no more color than candle-wax.</p> + +<p>At the end of the arbor some one was strumming upon a gittern. It was +strung in a different key from that in which the men were singing, and +the jangle made Nick feel all puckered up inside. By and by the playing +ceased, and the singers came to the end of their song. In the brief hush +the sharp rattle of the dice sounded like the patter of cold hail +against the shutter in the lull of a winter storm.</p> + +<p>Then there came a great shouting outside, and, looking through the +arbor, Nick saw two couriers on galloway nags come galloping over the +bowling-green to the arbor-side, calling for ale. They drank it in +their saddles, while their panting horses sniffed at the fresh young +grass. Then they galloped on. Through the vines, as he looked after +them, Nick could see the towers of London glittering strangely in the +moonlight. It was nearly high tide, and up from the river came the sound +of women’s voices and laughter, with the pulse-like throb of oars and +the hoarse calling of the watermen.</p> + +<p>In the great room of the inn behind him the gallants were taking their +snuff in little silver ladles, and talking of princesses they had met, +and of whose coach they had ridden home in last from tennis at my +lord’s. Some were eating, some were drinking, and some were puffing at +long clay pipes, while others, by twos, locked arm in arm, went +swaggering up and down the room, with a huge talking of foreign lands +which they had never so much as seen.</p> + +<p>“A murrain on the luck!” cried Carew, suddenly. “Can I throw nothing but +threes and fours?”</p> + +<p>A muffled stir ran round. Nick turned from the glare of the open door, +and looked out into the moonlight. It seemed quite dark at first. The +master-player’s face was bitter white, and his fingers were tapping a +queer staccato upon the table-top.</p> + +<p>“A plague on the bedlam dice!” said he. “I think they are bewitched.”</p> + +<p>“Huff, ruff, and snuff!” the other replied. “Don’t get the +mubble-fubbles, Carew: there’s nought the matter with the dice.”</p> + +<p>A man came down from the tap-room door. Nick stepped aside to let him +pass. He was a player, by his air.</p> + +<p>He wore a riding-cloak of Holland cloth, neither so good nor so bad as a +riding-cloak might be, but under it a handsome jerkin overlaid with +lace, and belted with a buff girdle in which was a light Spanish rapier. +His boots were russet cordovan, mid-thigh tall, and the rowels of his +clinking spurs were silver stars. He was large of frame, and his curly +hair was short and brown; so was his pointed beard. His eyes were +singularly bright and fearless, and bluff self-satisfaction marked his +stride; but his under lip was petulant, and he flicked his boot with his +riding-whip as he shouldered his way along.</p> + +<p>“Ye cannot miss the place, sir,” called the tapster after him. “’Tis +just beyond Ned Alleyn’s, by the ditch. Ye’ll never mistake the ditch, +sir—Billingsgate is roses to it.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I’ll find it fast enough,” the stranger answered; “but he should +have sent to meet me, knowing I might come at any hour. ’Tis a felon +place for thieves; and I’ve not heart to skewer even a goose on such a +night as this.”</p> + +<p>At the sudden breaking of voices upon the silence, Carew looked up, with +a quarrel ripe for picking in his eye. But seeing who spoke, such a +smile came rippling from the corners of his mouth across his dark, +unhappy face that it was as if a lamp of welcome had been lighted there. +“What, Ben!” he cried; “thou here? Why, bless thine heart, old gossip, +’tis good to see an honest face amid this pack of rogues.”</p> + +<p>There was a surly muttering in the crowd. Carew threw his head back +haughtily and set his knuckles to his hip. “A pack of rogues, I say,” he +repeated sharply; “and a fig for the whole pack!” There was a certain +wildness in his eyes. No one stirred or made reply.</p> + +<p>“Good! Gaston,” laughed the stranger, with a shrug; “picking thy company +still, I see, for quantity, and not for quality. No, thank ’e; none of +the tap for me. My Lord Hunsdon was made chamberlain in his father’s +stead to-day, and I’m off hot-foot with the news to Will’s.”</p> + +<p>He gathered his cloak about him, and was gone.</p> + +<p>“Ye’ve lost,” said the man who was dicing with Carew.</p> + +<p>Nick stepped down from the tap-room door. His ears were tingling with +the sound: “I’m off hot-foot with the news to Will’s.”</p> + +<p>“Hot-foot with the news to Will’s”?</p> + +<p>To “Will’s”? “Will” who?</p> + +<p>The man was a player, by his air.</p> + +<p>Nick hurriedly looked around. Carew’s wild eyes were frozen upon the +dice. The bandy-legged man was drinking at a table near the door. The +crimson ribbon in his ear looked like a patch of blood.</p> + +<p>He saw Nick looking at him, and made a horrible face. He would have +sworn likewise, but there was half a quart of ale in his can; so he +turned it up and drank instead. It was a long, long drink, and half his +face was buried in the pot.</p> + +<p>When he put it down the boy was gone.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXI"></a>CHAPTER XXXI<br /> +<span class='ph3'>IN THE TWINKLING OF AN EYE<br /></span></h2> + +<p>In a garden near the old bear-yard, among tall rose-trees which would +soon be in bloom, a merry company of men were sitting around a table +which stood in the angle of a quick-set hedge beside a path graveled +with white stones and bordered with mussel-shells.</p> + +<p>There was a house hard by with creamy-white walls, green-shuttered +windows, and a red-tiled roof. The door of the house was open, showing a +little ruddy fire upon a great hearth, kindled to drive away the damp; +and in the windows facing the garden there were lights shining warmly +out among the rose-trees.</p> + +<p>The table was spread with a red damask cloth, on which were a tray of +raisins and nuts and a small rally of silver cups. Above the table an +apple-tree nodded its new leaves, and from an overhanging bough a +lantern hung glowing like a great yellow bee.</p> + +<p>There was a young fellow with a white apron and a jolly little whisper +of a whistle on his puckered lips going around with a plate of cakes and +a tray of honey-bowls; and the men were eating and drinking and +chatting together so gaily, and seemed to be all such good friends, that +it was a pleasant thing just to see them sitting there in their +comfortable leather-bottomed chairs, taking life easily because the +spring had come again.</p> + +<p>One tall fellow was smoking a pipe. He held the bowl in one hand, and +kept tamping down the loose tobacco with his forefinger. Now and again +he would be so eagerly talking he would forget that his finger was in +the bowl, and it would be burned. He would take it out with a look of +quaint surprise, whereat the rest all roared. Another was a fat, round +man who chuckled constantly to himself, as if this life were all a joke; +and there was a quite severe, important-seeming, oldish man who said, +“Hem—hem!” from time to time, as if about to speak forthwith, yet never +spoke a word. There was also among the rest a raw-boned, lanky fellow +who had bitten the heart out of an oat-cake and held the rim of it in +his fingers like a new moon, waving it around while he talked, until the +little man beside him popped it deftly out of his grasp and ate it +before the other saw where it was gone. But when he made out what was +become of that oat-cake he rose up solemnly, took the little man by the +collar as a huntsman takes a pup, and laid him softly in the grass +without a word.</p> + +<p>What a laughing and going-on was then! It was as if they all were +growing young again. And in the middle of the row a head popped over the +quick-set hedge, and a most stentorian voice called out, “Here, here! Go +slow—I want a piece of that!”</p> + +<p>They all looked up, and the moment they spied that laughing face and +cloak of Holland cloth, raised a shout of “What, there!” “Well met!” +“Come in, Ben.” “Where hast thou tarried so long?” and the like; while +the waiter ran to open the gate and let the stranger in.</p> + +<p>A quiet man with a little chestnut-colored beard and hazel eyes, which +lit up quickly at sight of the stranger over the hedge, arose from his +place by the table and went down the path with hands outstretched to +greet him.</p> + +<p>“Welcome, welcome, hurly-burly Ben,” said he. “We’ve missed thee from +the feast. Art well? And what’s the good word?”</p> + +<p>“Ah, Will, thou gentle rogue!” the other cried, catching the hands of +the quiet man and holding him off while he looked at him there. “How +thou stealest one’s heart with the glance of thine eye! I was going to +give thee a piece of my mind; but a plague, old heart! who could chide +thee to thy face? Am I well? Ay, exceedingly well. And the news? Jove! +the best that was baked at the Queen’s to-day, and straight from the +oven-door! The thing is done—huff, puff, and away we go! But come +on—this needs telling to the rest.”</p> + +<p>They came up the path together, the big man crunching the mussel-shells +beneath his sturdy tread, and so into the circle of yellow light that +came down from the lantern among the apple-leaves, the big man with his +arm around the quiet man’s shoulders, holding his hand; for the quiet +man was not so large as the other, although withal no little man +himself, and very well built and straight.</p> + +<p>His tabard was black, without sleeves, and his doublet was scarlet +silk. His collar and wrist-bands were white Holland linen turned loosely +back, and his face was frank and fair and free. He was not old, but his +hair was thin upon his brow. His nose and his full, high forehead were +as cleanly cut as a finely chiseled stone; and his sensitive mouth had a +curve that was tender and sad, though he smiled all the while, a glimpse +of his white teeth showing through, and his little mustache twitching +with the ripple of his long upper lip. His flowing hair was +chestnut-colored, like his beard, and curly at the ends; and his +melancholy eyelids told of study and of thought; but under them the +kindly eyes were bright with pleasant fancy.</p> + +<p>“What, there, all of you!” said he; “a good investment for your ears!”</p> + +<p>“Out with it, Will!” they cried, and whirled around.</p> + +<p>“The Queen hath made Lord Hunsdon chamberlain,” the big man said.</p> + +<p>An instant’s hush fell on the garden. No one spoke; but they caught each +other by the hand, and, suddenly, the silence there seemed somehow +louder than a shout.</p> + +<p>“We’ll build the new Globe play-house, lads, and sweep the Bankside +clean from end to end!” a sturdy voice broke sharply on the hush. And +then they cheered—a cheer so loud that people on the river stopped +their boats, and came ashore asking where the fire was. And over all the +cheering rose the big man’s voice; for the quiet man was silent, and the +big man cheered for two.</p> + +<p>“Pull up thy rose-bushes, Will,” cried one, “and set out laurels in +their stead—thou’lt need them all for crowns.”</p> + +<p>“Ay, Will, our savor is not gone—Queen Bess knows salt!”</p> + +<p>“With Will and Ben for meat and crust, and the rest of us for seasoning, +the court shall say it never ate such master pie!”</p> + +<p>“We’ll make the walls of Whitehall ring come New Year next, or Twelfth +Night and Shrove Tuesday.”</p> + +<p>“Ay, that we will, old gossip! Here’s to thee!”</p> + +<p>“Here’s to the company, all of us!”</p> + +<p>“And a health to the new Lord Chamberlain!”</p> + +<p>“God save the Queen!”</p> + +<p>With that, they shook each other’s hands, as merry as men could be, and +laughed, because their hearts ran short of words; for these were young +Lord Hunsdon’s men, late players to the Queen in the old Lord +Chamberlain’s troupe; who, for a while deprived of favor by <i>his</i> death, +were now, by this succession of his son, restored to prestige at the +court, and such preferment as none beside them ever won, not even the +Earl of Pembroke’s company.</p> + +<p>There was Kemp, the stout tragedian; gray John Lowin, the walking-man; +Diccon Burbage, and Cuthbert his brother, master-players and managers; +Robin Armin, the humorsome jester; droll Dick Tarlton, the king of +fools. There was Blount, and Pope, and Hemynge, and Thomas Greene, and +Joey Taylor, the acting-boy, deep in the heart of a honey-bowl, yet who +one day was to play “Hamlet” as no man ever has played it since. And +there were others, whose names and doings have vanished with them; and +beside these—“What, merry hearts!” the big man cried, and clapped his +neighbor on the back; “we’ll have a supper at the Mermaid Inn. We’ll +feast on reason, reason on the feast, toast the company with wit, and +company the wit with toast—why, pshaw, we are good fellows all!” He +laughed, and they laughed with him. <i>That</i> was “rare Ben Jonson’s” way.</p> + +<p>“There’s some one knocking, master,” said the boy.</p> + +<p>A quick tap-tapping rattled on the wicket-gate.</p> + +<p>“Who is it?” asked the quiet man.</p> + +<p>“’Tis Edmund with the news,” cried one.</p> + +<p>“I’ve dished him,” said Ben Jonson.</p> + +<p>“’Tis Condell come to raise our wages,” said Robin Armin, with a grin.</p> + +<p>“Thou’lt raise more hopes than wages, Rob,” said Tarlton, mockingly.</p> + +<p>“It is a boy,” the waiter said, “who saith that he must see thee, +master, on his life.”</p> + +<p>The quiet man arose.</p> + +<p>“Sit down, Will,” said Greene; “he’ll pick thy pocket with a doleful +lie.”</p> + +<p>“There’s nothing in it, Tom, to pick.”</p> + +<p>“Then give him no more than half,” said Armin, soberly, “lest he +squander it!”</p> + +<p>“He saith he comes from Stratford town,” the boy went on.</p> + +<p>“Then tell him to go back again,” said Master Ben Jonson; “we’ve sucked +the sweet from Stratford town—be off with his seedy dregs!”</p> + +<p>“Go bring him in,” said the quiet man.</p> + +<p>“Nay, Will, don’t have him in. This makes the third within the +month—wilt father all the strays from Stratford town? Here, Ned, give +him this shilling, and tell him to be off to his cony-burrow as fast as +his legs can trot.”</p> + +<p>“We’ll see him first,” said the quiet man, stopping the other’s shilling +with his hand.</p> + +<p>“Oh, Willy-nilly!” the big man cried; “wilt be a kite to float all the +draggle-tails that flutter down from Warwickshire?”</p> + +<p>“Why, Ben,” replied the quiet man, “’tis not the kite that floats the +tail, but the wind which floats both kite and tail. Thank God, we’ve +caught the rising wind; so, hey for draggle-tails!—we’ll take up all +we can.”</p> + +<p>The waiter was coming up the path, and by his side, a little back, +bareheaded and flushed with running, came Nicholas Attwood. He had +followed the big man through the fields from the gates of the +Falcon Inn.</p> + +<p>He stopped at the edge of the lantern’s glow and looked around +uncertain, for the light was in his eyes.</p> + +<p>“Come, boy, what is it?” asked Ben Jonson.</p> + +<p>Nick peered through the brightness. “Master Will—Master Will +Shakspere!” he gasped.</p> + +<p>“<i>Well, my lady</i>,” said the quiet man; “<i>what wilt thou have of me</i>?”</p> + +<p>Nick Attwood had come to his fellow-townsman at last.</p> + +<p>Over the hedge where the lantern shone through the green of the +apple-leaves came a sound of voices talking fast, a listening hush, then +a clapping of hands, with mingled cries of “Good boy!” “Right, lad; do +not leave her till thou must!” and at the last, “What! take thee home to +thy mother, lad? Ay, marry, that will I!” And the <i>last</i> was the voice +of the quiet man.</p> + +<p>Then followed laughter and scraps of song, merry talking, and good +cheer, for they all made glad together.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>Across the fields beyond the hedge the pathway ran through Paris Garden, +stark and clear in the white moon-shine, save here and there where the +fog from the marsh crept down to meet the river-mist, and blotted out +the landscape as it went. In the north lay London, stirring like a +troubled sea. In the south was drowsy silence, save for the crowing of +the cocks, and now and then the baying of a hound far off. The smell of +bears was on the air; the river-wind breathed kennels. The Swan +play-house stood up, a great, blue blank against the sky. The sound of +voices was remote. The river made a constant murmur in the murk beyond +the landing-place; the trees moved softly.</p> + +<p>Low in the west, the lights of the Falcon Inn were shrunk to pin-pricks +in the dark. They seemed to wink and to shut their eyes. It was too far +to see the people passing by.</p> + +<p>On a sudden one light winked and did not open any more; and through the +night a faint, far cry came drifting down the river-wind—a long, thin +cry, like the wavering screech of an owl—a shrill, high, ugly sound; +the lights began to wink, wink, wink, to dance, to shift, to gather into +one red star. Out of the darkness came a wisp of something moving in +the path.</p> + +<p>Where the moonlight lay it scudded like the shadow of a windy cloud, now +lost to sight, now seen again. Out of the shadow came a man, with hands +outstretched and cap awry, running as if he were mad. As he ran he +looked from side to side, and turned his head for the keener ear. He was +panting hard.</p> + +<p>When he reached the ditch he paused in fault, ran on a step or two, went +back, stood hesitating there, clenching his hands in the empty wind, +listening; for the mist was grown so thick that he could scarcely see.</p> + +<p>But as he stood there doubtfully, uncertain of the way, catching the +wind in his nervous hands, and turning about in a little space like an +animal in a cage, over the hedge through the apple-boughs a boy’s clear +voice rose suddenly, singing a rollicking tune, with a snapping of +fingers and tapping of feet in time to its merry lilt.</p> + +<p>Then the man in the mist, when he heard that clear, high voice, turned +swiftly to it, crying out, “The Skylark! Zooks! It is the place!” and +ran through the fog to where the lantern glimmered through the hedge. +The light fell in a yellow stream across his face. He was pale as a +ghost. “What, there, within! What, there!” he panted. “Shakspere! +Jonson! Any one!”</p> + +<p>The song stopped short. “Who’s there?” called the voice of the quiet +man.</p> + +<p>“’Tis I, Tom Heywood. There’s to-do for players at the Falcon Inn. +Gaston Carew hath stabbed Fulk Sandells, for cheating at the dice, as +dead as a door-nail, and hath been taken by the watch!”</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXII"></a>CHAPTER XXXII<br /> +<span class='ph3'>THE LAST OF GASTON CAREW<br /></span></h2> + +<p>It was Monday morning, and a beautiful day.</p> + +<p>Master Will Shakspere was reading a new play to Masters Ben Jonson and +Diccon Burbage at the Mermaid Inn.</p> + +<p>Thomas Pope, the player, and Peter Hemynge, the manager, were there with +them at the table under the little window. The play was a comedy of a +wicked money-lender named Shylock; but it was a comedy that made Nick +shudder as he sat on the bench by the door and listened to it through +happy thoughts of going home.</p> + +<p>Sunday had passed like a wondrous dream. He was free. Master Carew was +done for. On Saturday morning Master Will Shakspere would set out on the +journey to Stratford town, for his regular summer visit there; and Nick +was going with him—going to Stratford—going home!</p> + +<p>The comedy-reading went on. Master Burbage, his moving face alive, +leaned forward on his elbows, nodding now and then, and saying, “Fine, +fine!” under his breath. Master Pope was making faces suited to the +words, not knowing that he did so. Nick watched him, fascinated.</p> + +<p>A man came hurrying down Cheapside, and peered in at the open door. It +was Master Dick Jones of the Admiral’s company. He looked worried and as +if he had not slept. His hair was uncombed, and the skin under his eyes +hung in little bags. He squinted so that he might see from the broad +daylight outside into the darker room.</p> + +<p>“Gaston Carew wants to see thee, Skylark,” said he, quickly, seeing Nick +beside the door.</p> + +<p>Nick drew back. It seemed as if the master-player must be lying in wait +outside to catch him if he stirred abroad.</p> + +<p>“He says that he must see thee without fail, and that straightway. He is +in Newgate prison. Wilt come?”</p> + +<p>Nick shook his head.</p> + +<p>“But he says indeed he <i>must</i> see thee. Come, Skylark, I will bring thee +back. I am no kidnapper. Why, it is the last thing he will ever ask of +thee. ’Tis hard to refuse so small a favor to a doomed man.”</p> + +<p>“Thou’lt surely fetch me back?”</p> + +<p>“Here, Master Will Shakspere,” called the Admiral’s player; “I am to +fetch the boy to Carew in Newgate on an urgent matter. My name is +Jones—Dick Jones, of Henslowe’s company. Burbage knows me. I’ll bring +him back.”</p> + +<p>Master Shakspere nodded, reading on; and Burbage waved his hand, +impatient of interruption. Nick arose and went with Jones.</p> + +<p>As they came up Newgate street to the crossing of Giltspur and the Old +Bailey, the black arch of the ancient gate loomed grimly against the +sky, its squinting window-slits peering down like the eyes of an old +ogre. The bell of St. Sepulchre’s was tolling, and there was a crowd +about the door, which opened, letting out a black cart in which was a +priest praying and a man in irons going to be hanged on Tyburn Hill. His +sweating face was ashen gray; and when the cart came to the church door +they gave him mockingly a great bunch of fresh, bright flowers. Nick +could not bear to watch.</p> + +<p>The turnkey at the prison gate was a crop-headed fellow with jowls like +a bulldog, and no more mercy in his face than a chopping-block. “Gaston +Carew, the player?” he growled. “Ye can’t come in without a permit from +the warden.”</p> + +<p>“We must,” said Jones.</p> + +<p>“Must?” said the turnkey. “I am the only one who says ‘must’ in +Newgate!” and slammed the door in their faces.</p> + +<p>The player clinked a shilling on the bar.</p> + +<p>“It was a boy he said would come,” growled the turnkey through the +wicket, pocketing the shilling; “so just the boy goes up. A shilling’s +worth, ye mind, and not another wink.” He drew Nick in, and dropped +the bars.</p> + +<p>It was a foul, dark place, and full of evil smells. Drops of water stood +on the cold stone walls, and a green mould crept along the floor. The +air was heavy and dank, and it began to be hard for Nick to breathe. The +men in the dungeons were singing a horrible song, and in the corner was +a half-naked fellow shackled to the floor. “Give me a penny,” he said, +“or I will curse thee.” Nick shuddered.</p> + +<p>“Up with thee,” said the turnkey, gruffly, unlocking the door to the +stairs.</p> + +<p>The common room above was packed with miserable wretches, fighting, +dancing, gibbering like apes. Some were bawling ribald songs, others +moaning with fever. The strongest kept the window-ledges near light and +air by sheer main force, and were dicing on the dirty sill. The turnkey +pushed and banged his way through them, Nick clinging desperately to +his jerkin.</p> + +<p>In a cell at the end of the corridor there was a Spanish renegade who +cursed the light when the door was opened, and cursed the darkness when +it closed. “Cesare el Moro, Cesare el Moro,” he was saying over and over +again to himself, as if he feared that he might forget his own name.</p> + +<p>Carew was in the middle cell, ironed hand and foot. He had torn his +sleeves and tucked the lace under the rough edges of the metal to keep +it from chafing the skin. He sat on a pile of dirty straw, with his face +in his folded arms upon his knees. By his side was a broken biscuit and +an empty stone jug. He had his fingers in his ears to shut out the +tolling of the knell for the man who had gone to be hanged.</p> + +<p>The turnkey shook the bars. “Here, wake up!” he said.</p> + +<p>Carew looked up. His eyes were swollen, and his face was covered with a +two days’ beard. He had slept in his clothes, and they were full of +broken straw and creases. But his haggard face lit up when he saw the +boy, and he came to the grating with an eager exclamation: “And thou +hast truly come? To the man thou dost hate so bitterly, but wilt not +hate any more. Come, Nick, thou wilt not hate me any more. ’Twill not +be worth thy while, Nick; the night is coming fast.”</p> + +<p>“Why, sir,” said Nick, “it is not so dark outside—’tis scarcely noon; +and thou wilt soon be out.”</p> + +<p>“Out? Ay, on Tyburn Hill,” said the master-player, quietly. “I’ve spent +my whole life for a bit of hempen cord. I’ve taken my last cue. Last +night, at twelve o’clock, I heard the bellman under the prison walls +call my name with the names of those already condemned. The play is +nearly out, Nick, and the people will be going home. It has been a wild +play, Nick, and ill played.”</p> + +<p>“Here, if ye’ve anything to say, be saying it,” said the turnkey. “’Tis +a shilling’s worth, ye mind.”</p> + +<p>Carew lifted up his head in the old haughty way, and clapped his +shackled hand to his hip—they had taken his poniard when he came into +the gaol. A queer look came over his face; taking his hand away, he +wiped it hurriedly upon his jerkin. There were dark stains upon +the silk.</p> + +<p>“Ye sent for me, sir,” said Nick.</p> + +<p>Carew passed his hand across his brow. “Yes, yes, I sent for thee. I +have something to tell thee, Nick.” He hesitated, and looked through the +bars at the boy, as if to read his thoughts. “Thou’lt be good and true +to Cicely—thou’lt deal fairly with my girl? Why, surely, yes.” He +paused again, as if irresolute. “I’ll trust thee, Nick. We’ve taken +money, thou and I; good gold and silver—tsst! what’s that?” He +stopped suddenly.</p> + +<p>Nick heard no sound but the Spaniard’s cursing.</p> + +<p>“’Tis my fancy,” Carew said. “Well, then, we’ve taken much good money, +Nick; and I have not squandered all of it. Hark’e—thou knowest the old +oak wainscot in the dining-hall, and the carven panel by the Spanish +chest? Good, then! Upon the panel is a cherubin, and—tsst! what’s +that, I say?”</p> + +<p>There was a stealthy rustling in the right-hand cell. The fellow in it +had his ear pressed close against the bars. “He is listening,” +said Nick.</p> + +<p>The fellow cursed and shook his fist, and then, when Master Carew +dropped his voice and would have gone on whispering, set up so loud a +howling and clanking of his chains that the lad could not make out one +word the master-player said.</p> + +<p>“Peace, thou dog!” cried Carew, and kicked the grating. But the fellow +only yelled the louder.</p> + +<p>Carew looked sorely troubled. “I dare not let him hear,” said he. “The +very walls of Newgate leak.”</p> + +<p>“<i>Yak, yah, yah, thou gallows-bird!</i>”</p> + +<p>“Yet I must tell thee, Nick.”</p> + +<p>“<i>Yah, yah, dangle-rope!</i>”</p> + +<p>“Stay! would Will Shakspere come? Why, here, I’ll send him word. He’ll +come—Will Shakspere never bore a grudge; and I shall so soon go where +are no grudges, envy, storms, or noise, but silence and the soft lap of +everlasting sleep. He’ll come—Nick, bid him come, upon his life, to +the Old Bailey when I am taken up.”</p> + +<p>Nick nodded. It was strange to have his master beg.</p> + +<p>Carew was looking up at a thin streak of light that came in through the +narrow window at the stair. “Nick,” said he, huskily, “last night I +dreamed I heard thee singing; but ’twas where there was a sweet, green +field and a stream flowing through a little wood. Methought ’twas on the +road past Warwick toward Coventry. Thou’lt go there some day and +remember Gaston Carew, wilt not, lad? And, Nick, for thine own mother’s +sake, do not altogether hate him; he was not so bad a man as he might +easily have been.”</p> + +<p>“Come,” growled the turnkey, who was pacing up and down like a surly +bear; “have done. ’Tis a fat shilling’s worth.”</p> + +<p>“’Twas there I heard thee sing first, Nick,” said Carew, holding to the +boy’s hands through the bars. “I’ll never hear thee sing again.”</p> + +<p>“Why, sir, I’ll sing for thee now,” said Nick, choking.</p> + +<p>The turnkey was coming back when Nick began suddenly to sing. He looked +up, staring. Such a thing dumfounded him. He had never heard a song like +that in Newgate. There were rules in prison. “Here, here,” he cried, “be +still!” But Nick sang on.</p> + +<p>The groaning, quarreling, and cursing were silent all at once. The guard +outside, who had been sharpening his pike upon the window-ledge, stopped +the shrieking sound. Silence like a restful sleep fell upon the weary +place. Through dark corridors and down the mildewed stairs the quaint +old song went floating as a childhood memory into an old man’s dream; +and to Gaston Carew’s ear it seemed as if the melody of earth had all +been gathered in that little song—all but the sound of the voice of his +daughter Cicely.</p> + +<p>It ceased, and yet a gentle murmur seemed to steal through the mouldy +walls, of birds and flowers, sunlight and the open air, of once-loved +mothers, and of long-forgotten homes. The renegade had ceased his +cursing, and was whispering a fragment of a Spanish prayer he had not +heard for many a day.</p> + +<p>Carew muttered to himself. “And now old cares are locked in charmèd +sleep, and new griefs lose their bitterness, to hear thee sing—to hear +thee sing. God bless thee, Nick!”</p> + +<p>“’Tis three good shillings’ worth o’ time,” the turnkey growled, and +fumbled with the keys. “All for one shilling, too,” said he, and kicked +the door-post sulkily. “But a plague, I say, a plague! ’Tis no one’s +business but mine. I’ve a good two shillings’ worth in my ears. ’Tis +thirty year since I ha’ heard the like o’ that. But what’s a gaol +for?—man’s delight? Nay, nay. Here, boy, time’s up! Come out o’ that.” +But he spoke so low that he scarcely heard himself; and going to the end +of the corridor, he marked at random upon the wall.</p> + +<p>“Oh, Nick, I love thee,” said the master-player, holding the boy’s hands +with a bitter grip. “Dost thou not love me just a little? Come, lad, say +that thou lovest me.”</p> + +<p class='ctr'><a name="illus0358"></a> +<a href="images/illus0358.jpg"> +<img src="images/illus0358.jpg" width = "40%" alt="" /> +</a><br /> +<b>“‘WHY, SIR, I’LL SING FOR THEE NOW.’ SAID NICK, CHOKING.”</b> +<br /></p> + +<p>“Nay, Master Carew,” Nick answered soberly, “I do na love +thee, and I will na say I do, sir; but I pity thee with all my heart. +And, sir, if thy being out would keep me stolen, still I think I’d wish +thee out—for Cicely. But, Master Carew, do na break my hands.”</p> + +<p>The master-player loosed his grasp. “I will not seek to be excused to +thee,” he said huskily. “I’ve prisoned thee as that clod prisons me; +but, Nick, the play is almost out, down comes the curtain on my heels, +and thy just blame will find no mark. Yet, Nick, now that I am fast and +thou art free, it makes my heart ache to feel that ’twas not I who set +thee free. Thou canst go when pleaseth thee, and thank me nothing for +it. And, Nick, as my sins be forgiven me, I truly meant to set thee free +and send thee home. I did, upon my word, and on the remnant of +mine honour!”</p> + +<p>“Time’s good and up, sirs,” said the turnkey, coming back.</p> + +<p>Carew thrust his hand into his breast.</p> + +<p>“I must be going, sir,” said Nick.</p> + +<p>“Ay, so thou must—all things must go. Oh, Nick, be friendly with me +now, if thou wert never friendly before. Kiss me, lad. There—now thy +hand.” The master-player clasped it closely in his own, and pressing +something into the palm, shut down the fingers over it. “Quick! Keep it +hid,” he whispered. “’Tis the chain I had from Stratford’s burgesses, to +some good usage come at last.”</p> + +<p>“Must I come and fetch thee out?” growled the turnkey.</p> + +<p>“I be coming, sir.”</p> + +<p>“Thou’lt send Will Shakspere? And, oh, Nick,” cried Carew, holding him +yet a little longer, “thou’lt keep my Cicely from harm?”</p> + +<p>“I’ll do my best,” said Nick, his own eyes full.</p> + +<p>The turnkey raised his heavy bunch of keys. “I’ll ding thee out o’ this” +said he.</p> + +<p>And the last Nick Attwood saw of Gaston Carew was his wistful eyes +hunting down the stairway after him, and his hand, with its torn fine +laces, waving at him through the bars.</p> + +<p>And when he came to the Mermaid Inn Master Shakspere’s comedy was done, +and Master Ben Jonson was telling a merry tale that made the tapster +sick with laughing.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXXIII<br /> +<span class='ph3'>CICELY DISAPPEARS<br /></span></h2> + +<p>That Master Will Shakspere should be so great seemed passing strange to +Nick, he felt so soon at home with him. It seemed as if the master-maker +of plays had a magic way of going out to and about the people he met, +and of fitting his humor to them as though he were a glover with their +measure in his hand.</p> + +<p>With Nick he was nothing all day long but a jolly, wise, and +gentle-hearted boy, wearing his greatness like an old cloth coat, as if +it were a long-accustomed thing, and quite beyond all pride, and went +about his business in a very simple way. But in the evening when the +wits were met together at his house, and Nick sat on the hindmost bench +and watched the noble gentlemen who came to listen to the sport, Master +Will Shakspere seemed to have the knack of being ever best among them +all, yet of never too much seeming to be better than the rest.</p> + +<p>And though, for the most part, he said but little, save when some pet +fancy moved him, when he did speak his conversation sparkled like a +little meadow brook that drew men’s best thoughts out of them like +water from a spring.</p> + +<p>And when they fell to bantering, he could turn the fag-end of another +man’s nothing to good account in a way so shrewd that not even Master +Ben Jonson could better him—and Master Ben Jonson set up for a wit. But +Master Shakspere came about as quickly as an English man-of-war, dodged +here and there on a breath of wind, and seemed quite everywhere at once; +while Master Jonson tacked and veered, and loomed across the elements +like a great galleon, pouring forth learned broadsides with a most +prodigious boom, riddling whatever was in the way, to be sure, but often +quite missing the point—because Master Shakspere had come about, hey, +presto, change! and was off with the argument, point and all, upon a +totally different tack.</p> + +<p>Then “Tush!” and “Fie upon thee, Will!” Master Jonson would cry with his +great bluff-hearted laugh, “thou art a regular flibbertigibbet! I’ll +catch thee napping yet, old heart, and fill thee so full of pepper-holes +that thou wilt leak epigrams. But quits—I must be home, or I shall +catch it from my wife. Faith, Will, thou shouldst see my little Ben!”</p> + +<p>“I’ll come some day,” Master Shakspere would say; “give him my love”; +and his mouth would smile, though his eyes were sad, for his own son +Hamnet was dead.</p> + +<p>Then, when the house was still again, and all had said good-by, Nick +doffed his clothes and laid him down to sleep in peace. Yet he often +wakened in the night, because his heart was dancing so.</p> + +<p>In the morning, when the world began to stir outside, and the early +light came in at the window, he slipped out of bed across the floor, and +threw the casement wide. Over the river, and over the town, and over the +hills that lay blue in the north, was Stratford!</p> + +<p>The damp, cool air from the garden below seemed a primrose whiff from +the lane behind his father’s house. He could hear the cocks crowing in +Surrey, and the lowing of the kine. There was a robin singing in a bush +under the window, and there was some one in the garden with a pair of +pruning-shears. Snip-snip! snip-snip! he heard them going. The light in +the east was pink as a peach-bloom and too intense to bear.</p> + +<p>“Good-morrow, Master Early-bird!” a merry voice called up to him, and a +nosegay dropped on the window-ledge at his side. He looked down. There +in the path among the rose-trees was Master Will Shakspere, laughing. He +had on an ancient leathern jacket and a hat with a hole in its crown; +and the skirts of the jacket were dripping with dew from the bushes.</p> + +<p>“Good-morrow, sir,” said Nick, and bowed. “It is a lovely day.”</p> + +<p>“Most beautiful indeed! How comes the sun?”</p> + +<p>“Just up, sir; the river is afire with it now. O-oh!” Nick held his +breath, and watched the light creep down the wall, darting long bars of +rosy gold through the snowy bloom of the apple-trees, until it rested +upon Master Shakspere’s face, and made a fleeting glory there.</p> + +<p>Then Master Shakspere stretched himself a little in the sun, laughing +softly, and said, “It is the sweetest music in the world—morning, +spring, and God’s dear sunshine; it starteth kindness brewing in the +heart, like sap in a withered bud. What sayest, lad? We’ll fetch the +little maid to-day; and then—away for Stratford town!”</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>But when Master Shakspere and Nicholas Attwood came to Gaston Carew’s +house, the constables had taken charge, the servants were scattering +hither and thither, and Cicely Carew was gone.</p> + +<p>The bandy-legged man, the butler said, had come on Sunday in great +haste, and packing up his goods, without a word of what had befallen his +master, had gone away, no one knew whither, and had taken Cicely with +him. Nor had they questioned what he did, for they all feared the rogue, +and judged him to have authority.</p> + +<p>Nick caught a moment at the lintel of the door. The house was full of +voices, and the sound of trampling feet went up and down from room to +room; but all he heard was Gaston Carew’s worn voice saying, “Thou’lt +keep my Cicely from harm?”</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXXIV<br /> +<span class='ph3'>THE BANDY-LEGGED MAN<br /></span></h2> + +<p>Until night fell they sought the town over for a trace of Cicely; but +all to no avail. The second day likewise.</p> + +<p>The third day passed, and still there were no tidings. Master +Shakspere’s face grew very grave, and Nick’s heart sickened till he +quite forgot that he was going home.</p> + +<p>But on the morning of the fourth day, which chanced to be the 1st of +May, as he was standing in the door of a printer’s stall in St. Paul’s +Churchyard, watching the gaily dressed holiday crowds go up and down, +while Robin Dexter’s apprentices bound white-thorn boughs about the +brazen serpent overhead, he spied the bandy-legged man among the rout +that passed the north gate by St. Martin’s le Grand.</p> + +<p>He had a yellow ribbon in his ear, and wore a bright plum-colored cloak, +at sight of which Nick cried aloud, for it was the very cloak which +Master Gaston Carew wore when he first met him in the Warwick road. The +rogue was making for the way which ran from Cheapside to the river, and +was walking very fast.</p> + +<p>“Master Shakspere! Master Shakspere!” Nick called out. But Master +Shakspere was deep in the proofs of a newly published play, and did +not hear.</p> + +<p>The yellow ribbon fluttered in the sun—was gone behind the churchyard +wall.</p> + +<p>“Quick, Master Shakspere! quick!” Nick cried; but the master-writer +frowned at the inky page; for the light in the printer’s shop was dim, +and the proof was very bad.</p> + +<p>The ribbon was gone down the river-way—and with it the hope of finding +Cicely. Nick shot one look into the stall. Master Shakspere, deep in his +proofs, was deaf to the world outside. Nick ran to the gate at the top +of his speed. In the crowd afar off a yellow spot went fluttering like a +butterfly along a country road. Without a single second thought, he +followed it as fast as his legs could go.</p> + +<p>Twice he lost it in the throng. But the yellow patch bobbed up again in +the sunlight far beyond, and led him on, and on, and on, a breathless +chase, down empty lanes and alley-ways, through unfrequented courts, +among the warehouses and wharf-sheds along the river-front, into the +kennels of Billingsgate, where the only sky was a ragged slit between +the leaning roofs. His heart sank low and lower as they went, for only +thieves and runagates who dared not face the day in honest streets were +gathered in wards like these.</p> + +<p>In a filthy purlieu under Fish-street Hill, where mackerel-heads and +herrings strewed the drains, and sour kits of whitebait stood +fermenting in the sun, the bandy-legged man turned suddenly into a dingy +court, and when Nick reached the corner of the entry-way was gone as +though the earth had swallowed him.</p> + +<p>Nick stopped dismayed, and looked about, His forehead was wet and his +breath was gone. He had no idea where they were, but it was a dismal +hole. Six forbidding doorways led off from the unkempt court, and a +rotting stairway sagged along the wall. A crop-eared dog, that lay in +the sun beside a broken cart, sprang up with its hair all pointing to +its head, and snarled at him with a vicious grin. “Begone, thou cur!” he +cried, and let drive with a stone. The dog ran under the cart, and +crouched there barking at him.</p> + +<p>Through an open door beyond there came a sound of voices as of people in +some further thoroughfare. Perchance the bandy-legged man had passed +that way? He ran across the court, and up the steps; but came back +faster than he went, for the passageway there was blind and black, a +place unspeakable for dirt, and filled with people past description. A +woman peered out after him with red eyes blinking in the sun. “Ods +bobs!” she croaked, “a pretty thing! Come hither, knave; I want the +buckle off thy cloak.”</p> + +<p>Nick, shuddering, started for the street. But just as he reached the +entry-port a door in the courtyard opened, and the bandy-legged man came +out with a bag upon his back, leading Cicely by the hand.</p> + +<p>Seeing Nick, he gave a cry, believing himself pursued, and made for the +open door again; but almost instantly perceiving the boy to be alone, +slammed shut the door and followed him instead, dragging Cicely over the +stones, and shouting hoarsely, “Stop there! stop!”</p> + +<p>Nick’s heart came up in his very throat. His legs went water-weak. He +ran for the open thoroughfare without once looking back. Yet while he +ran he heard Cicely cry out suddenly in pain, “Oh, Gregory, Gregory, +thou art hurting me so!” and at the sound the voice of Gaston Carew rang +like a bugle in his ears: “Thou’lt keep my Cicely from harm?” He stopped +as short as if he had butted his head against a wall, whirled on his +heel, stood fast, though he was much afraid; and standing there, his +head thrown back and his fists tight clenched, as if some one had struck +him in the face, he waited until they came to where he was. “Thou +hulking, cowardly rogue!” said he to the bandy-legged man.</p> + +<p>But the bandy-legged man caught him fast by the arm, and hurried on into +the street, scanning it swiftly up and down. “Two birds with one stone, +by hen!” he chuckled, when he saw that the coast was clear. “They’ll +fetch a pretty penny by and by.”</p> + +<p>Poor Cicely smiled through her tears at Nick. “I knew thou wouldst come +for me soon,” said she. “But where is my father?”</p> + +<p>“He’s dead as a herring,” snarled Gregory.</p> + +<p>“That’s a lie,” said Nick; “he is na dead.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t call me liar, knave—by hen, I’ll put a stopper on thy voice!”</p> + +<p>“Thou wilt na put a stopper on a jug!” cried Nick, his heart so hot for +Cicely that he quite forgot himself. “I’d sing so well without a +voice—it would butter thy bread for thee! Loose my arm, thou rogue.”</p> + +<p>“Not for a thousand golden crowns! I’m no tom-noddy, to be gulled. And, +hark ’e, be less glib with that ‘rogue’ of thine, or I’ll baste thy back +for thee.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, don’t beat Nick!” gasped Cicely.</p> + +<p>“Do na fret for me,” said Nick; “I be na feared of the cowardly rogue!”</p> + +<p>Crack! the man struck him across the face. Nick’s eyes flashed hot as a +fire-coal. He set his teeth, but he did not flinch. “Do na thou strike +me again, <i>thou rogue!</i>” said he.</p> + +<p>As he spoke, on a sudden his heart leaped up and his fear was utterly +gone. In its place was a something fierce and strange—a bitter +gladness, a joy that stung and thrilled him like great music in the +night. A tingling ran from head to foot; the little hairs of his flesh +stood up; he trampled the stones as he hurried on. In his breast his +heart was beating like a bell; his breath came hotly, deep and slow; the +whole world widened on his gaze. Oh, what a thing is the heart of a boy! +how quickly great things are done therein! One instant, put him to the +touch—the thing is done, and he is nevermore the same. Like a keen, +cold wind that blows through a window in the night, life’s courage had +breathed on Nick Attwood’s heart; the <i>man</i> that slept in the heart of +the boy awoke and was aware. The old song roared in Nick’s ears:</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +Sir Francis Drake sailed round the world,<br /> + Round the world, round the world;<br /> +John Hawkins fought the “Victory,”<br /> + And we ha’ beaten Spain!<br /> +</div> + +<p>Whither they were going he did not know. Whither they were going he did +not care. He was English: this was England still! He set his teeth and +threw back his shoulders. “I be na feared of him!” said he.</p> + +<p>“But my father will come for us soon, won’t he, Nick?” faltered Cicely.</p> + +<p>“Eigh! just don’t he wish that he might!” laughed Goole.</p> + +<p>“Oh, ay,” said she, and nodded bravely to herself; “he may be very busy +now, and so he cannot come. But presently he will come for me and fetch +me home again.” She gave a joyous little skip. “To fetch me home +again—ay, surely, my father will come for me anon.”</p> + +<p>A lump came up in Nick Attwood’s throat. “But what hath he done to thee, +Cicely, and where is thy pretty gown?” he asked, as they hurried on +through the crooked way; for the gown she wore was in rags.</p> + +<p>Cicely choked down a sob. “He hath kept me locked up in a horrible +place, where an old witch came in the night and stole my clothes away. +And he says that if money doth not come for me soon he will turn me out +to starve.”</p> + +<p>“To starve? Nay, Cicely; I will na leave thee starve. I’ll go with thee +wherever he taketh thee; I’ll fend for thee with all my might and main, +and none shall harm thee if I can help. So cheer up—we will get away! +Thou needst na gripe me so, thou rogue; I am going wherever she goes.”</p> + +<p class='ctr'><a name="i_250"></a> +<a href="images/i_250.jpg"> +<img src="images/i_250.jpg" width="35%" alt="" /> +</a><br /> +<b>““DO NA THOU STRIKE ME AGAIN, <i>THOU ROGUE!</i>” SAID NICK”</b> +<br /></p> + +<p>“I’ll see that ye do,” growled the bandy-legged man. “But take the other +hand of her, thou jackanapes, and fetch a better pace than this—I’ll +not be followed again.”</p> + +<p>His tone was bold, but his eyes were not; for they were faring through +the slums toward Whitechapel way, and the hungry crowd eyed Nick’s silk +cloak greedily. One burly rascal with a scar across his face turned back +and snatched at it. For his own safety’s sake, the bandy-legged man +struck up into a better thoroughfare, where he skulked along like a fox +overtaken by dawn, fearing to meet some dog he knew.</p> + +<p>“Oh, Gregory, go slow!” pleaded Cicely, panting for breath, and +stumbling over the cobblestones. Goole’s only answer was a scowl. Nick +trotted on sturdily, holding her hand, and butting his shoulder against +the crowd so that she might not be jostled; for the press grew thick and +thicker as they went. All London was a-Maying, and the foreigners from +Soho, too. Up in the belfries, as they passed, the bells were clanging +until the whole town rang like a smithy on the eve of war, for madcap +apprentices had the ropes, and were ringing for exercise.</p> + +<p>Thicker and thicker grew the throng, as though the sea were sweeping +through the town. Then, at the corner of Mincing Lane, where the +cloth-workers’ shops were thick, all at once there came an uproarious +din of men’s voices singing together:</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +“Three merry boys, and three merry boys,<br /> + And three merry boys are we,<br /> +As ever did sing in a hempen string<br /> + Beneath the gallows-tree!”<br /> +</div> + +<p>And before the bandy-legged man could chance upon a doorway in which to +stand out of the rush, they were pressed against the wall flat as cakes +by a crowd of bold apprentices in holiday attire going out to a wager of +archery to be shot in Finsbury Fields.</p> + +<p>At first all Nick could see was legs: red legs, yellow legs, blue legs, +green legs, long legs, strong legs—in truth, a very many of all sorts +of legs, all stepping out together like a hundred-bladed shears; for +these were the Saddlers of Cheapside and the Cutters of Mincing Lane, +tall, ruddy-faced fellows, all armed with clubs, which they twirled and +tossed and thwacked one another with in sport. Some wore straw hats with +steeple-crowns, and some flat caps of green and white, or red and +orange-tawny. Some had long yew bows and sheaves of arrows decked with +garlands; and they were all exceedingly daubed in the face with dripping +cherry-juice and with cheese, which they munched as they strode along.</p> + +<p>“What, there, Tom Webster, I say,” cried one, catching sight of Cicely’s +face, “here is a Queen o’ the May for thee!”</p> + +<p>His broad-shouldered comrade stopped in the way, and with him all the +rest. “My faith, Jem Armstrong, ’tis the truth, for once in thy life!” +quoth he, and stared at Cicely. Her cheeks were flushed, and her panting +red lips were fallen apart so that her little white teeth showed +through. Her long, dark lashes cast shadow circles under her eyes. Her +curly hair in elfin locks tossed all about her face, and through it was +tied a crimson ribbon, mocking the quick color of the blood which came +and went beneath her delicate skin. “My faith!” cried Tommy Webster, +“her face be as fair as a K in a copy-book! Hey, bullies, what? let’s +make her queen!”</p> + +<p>“A queen?” “What queen?” “Where is a queen?” “I granny! Tom Webster hath +catched a queen!” “Where is she, Tom?” “Up with her, mate, and let a +fellow see.”</p> + +<p>“Hands off, there!” snarled the bandy-legged man.</p> + +<p>“Up with her, Tom!” cried out the strapping fellow at his back. “A queen +it is; and a right good smacking toll all round—I have not bussed a +maid this day! Up with her, Tom!”</p> + +<p>“Stand back, ye rogues, and let us pass!”</p> + +<p>But alas and alack for the bandy-legged man! He could not ruffle and +swagger it off as Gaston Carew had done of old; a London apprentice was +harder nuts than his cowardly heart could crack.</p> + +<p>“Stand back, ye rogues!” he cried again.</p> + +<p>“Rogues? Rogues? Who calls us rogues? Hi, Martin Allston, crack me his +crown!”</p> + +<p>“Good masters,” faltered Gregory, seeing that bluster would not serve, +“I meant ye no offense. I pr’ythee, do not keep a father and his +children from their dying mother’s bed!”</p> + +<p>“Nay—is that so?” asked Webster, sobering instantly “Here, lads, give +way—their mother be a-dying.”</p> + +<p>The crowd fell back. “Ah, sirs,” whined Goole, scarce hiding the joy in +his face, “she’ll thank ye with her dying breath. Get on, thou knave!” +he muttered fiercely in Nick’s ear.</p> + +<p>But Nick stood fast, and caught Tom Webster by the arm. “The fellow +lieth in his throat,” said he. “My mother is in Stratford town; and +Cicely’s mother is dead.”</p> + +<p>“Thou whelp!” cried the bandy-legged man, and aimed a sudden blow at +Nick, “I’ll teach thee to hold thy tongue.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, no, ye won’t,” quoth Thomas Webster, interposing his long oak +staff, and thrusting the fellow away so hard that he thumped against the +wall; “there is no school on holidays! Thou’lt teach nobody here to hold +his tongue but thine own self—and start at that straightway. Dost take +me?—say? Now, Jacky Sprat, what’s all the coil about? Hath this sweet +fellow kidnapped thee?”</p> + +<p>“Nay, sir, not me, but Cicely; and do na leave him take her, sir, for he +treats her very ill!”</p> + +<p>“The little rascal lies,” sneered Goole, though his lips were the color +of lead; “I am her legal guardian!”</p> + +<p>“What! How? Thou wast her father but a moment since!”</p> + +<p>“Nay, nay,” Goole stammered, turning a sickly hue; “her father’s nearest +friend, I said,—he gave her in my charge.”</p> + +<p>“My father’s friend!” cried Cicely. “Thou? Thou? His common groom! Why, +he would not give my finger in thy charge.”</p> + +<p>“He is the wiser daddy, then!” laughed Jemmy Armstrong, “for the fellow +hath a T for Tyburn writ upon his face.”</p> + +<p>The eyes of the bandy-legged man began to shift from side to side; but +still he put a bold front on. “Stand off,” said he, and tried to thrust +Tom Webster back. “Thou’lt pay the piper dear for this! The knave is a +lying vagabond. He hath stolen this pack of goods.”</p> + +<p>“Why, fie for shame!” cried Cicely, and stamped her little foot. “Nick +doth not steal, and thou knowest it, Gregory Goole! It is thou who hast +stolen my pretty clothes, and the wine from my father’s house!”</p> + +<p>“Good, sweetheart!” quoth Tom Webster, eying the bandy-legged man with a +curious snap in his honest eyes. “So the rascal hath stolen other things +than thee? I thought that yellow bow of his was tied tremendous high! +Why, mates, the dog is a branded rogue—that ribbon is tied through the +hole in his ear!”</p> + +<p>Gregory Goole made a dash through the throng where the press was least.</p> + +<p>Thump! went Tommy Webster’s club, and a little puff of dust went up from +Gregory’s purple cloak. But he was off so sharply, and dodged with such +amazing skill, that most of the blows aimed at his head hummed through +the empty air, or thwacked some stout apprentice in the ribs as they all +went whooping after him. He was out of the press and away like a deer +down a covert lane between two shops ere one could say, “Jack, Robin’s +son,” and left the stout apprentices at every flying leap. So presently +they all gave over the chase, and came back with the bag he had dropped +as he ran; and were so well pleased with themselves for what they had +done that they gave three cheers for all the Cloth-workers and Saddlers +in London, and then three more for Cicely and Nick. They would no doubt +have gone right on and given three for the bag likewise, being strongly +in the humor of it; but “Hi, Tom Webster!” shouted one who could hardly +speak for cherries and cheese and puffing, “what’s gone with the queen +we’re to have so fast, and the toll that we’re to take?”</p> + +<p>Tom Webster pulled at his yellow beard, for he saw that Cicely was no +common child, and of gentler birth than they. “I do not think she’ll +bide the toll,” said he, in half apology.</p> + +<p>“What! is there anything to pay?” she asked with a rueful quaver in her +voice. “Oh, Nick, there is to pay!”</p> + +<p>“We have no money, sirs,” said Nick; “I be very sorry.”</p> + +<p>“If my father were here,” said Cicely, “he would give thee a handful of +silver; but I have not a penny to my name.” She looked up into Tom +Webster’s face. “But, sir,” said she, and laid her hand upon his arm, +“if ye care, I will kiss thee upon the cheek.”</p> + +<p>“Why, marry come up! My faith!” quoth he, and suddenly blushed—to his +own surprise the most of all—“why, what? Who’d want a sweeter penny +for his pains?” But “Here—nay, nay!” the others cried; “ye’ve left us +out. Fair play, fair play!”</p> + +<p>All Cicely could see was a forest of legs that filled the lane from wall +to wall, and six great fellows towering over her. “Why, sirs,” cried +she, confusedly, while her face grew rosy red, “ye all shall kiss my +hand—if—if—”</p> + +<p>“If what?” they roared.</p> + +<p>“If ye will but wipe your faces clean.”</p> + +<p>At the shout of laughter they sent up the constable of the cloth-men’s +ward awoke from a sudden dream of war and bloody insurrection, and came +down Cheapside bawling, “Peace, in the name of the Queen!” But when he +found it was only the apprentices of Mincing Lane out Maying, he stole +away around a shop, and made as if it were some other fellow.</p> + +<p>They took the humor of it like a jolly lot of bears, and all came +crowding round about, wiping their mouths on what came first, with a +lick and a promise,—kerchief, doublet, as it chanced,—laughing, and +shouldering each to be first. “Up with the little maid there, Tom!” they +roared lustily.</p> + +<p>Cicely gave him both her hands, and—“Upsydaisy!”—she was on the top of +the corner post, where she stood with one hand on his brawny shoulder to +steady herself, like a flower growing by a wall, bowing gravely all +about, and holding out her hand to be kissed with as graceful an air as +a princess born, and withal a sweet, quaint dignity that abashed the +wildest there.</p> + +<p>Some one or two came blustering as if her hand were not enough; but +Jemmy Armstrong rapped them so sharply over the pate, with “Soft, ye +loons, her hand!” that they dabbed at her little finger-tips, and were +out of his reach in a jiffy, rubbing their polls with a sheepish grin; +for Jemmy Armstrong’s love-pats would have cracked a hazelnut.</p> + +<p>Some came again a second time. One came even a third. But Cicely knew +him by his steeple-hat, and tucked her hand behind her, saying, “Fie, +sir, thou art greedy!” Whereupon the others laughed and punched him in +the ribs with their clubs, until he bellowed, “Quits! We’ll all be late +to the archery if we be not trotting on.”</p> + +<p>Nick’s face fell at the merry shout of “Finsbury, Finsbury, ho!” “I dare +na try to take her home alone,” said he; “that rogue may lie in wait +for us.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, Nick, he is not coming back?” cried Cicely; and with that she threw +her arms around Tom Webster’s neck. “Oh, take us with thee, sir—don’t +leave us all alone!”</p> + +<p>Webster pulled his yellow beard. “Nay, lass, it would not do,” said he; +“we’ll be mad larks by evening. But there, sweetheart, don’t weep no +more! That rogue shall not catch thee again, I promise that.”</p> + +<p>“Why, Tom,” quoth Armstrong, “what’s the coil? We’ll leave them at the +Boar’s Head Inn with sixpence each until their friends can come for +them. Hey, mates, up Great East Cheap!” And off they marched to the +Boar’s Head Inn.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXV"></a>CHAPTER XXXV<br /> +<span class='ph3'>A SUDDEN RESOLVE<br /></span></h2> + +<p>Nick and Cicely were sitting on a bench in the sun beside the tap-room +door, munching a savory mutton-pie which Tommy Webster had bought for +them. Beside them over the window-sill the tapster twirled his spigot +cheerfully, and in the door the carrier was bidding the +serving-maids good-by.</p> + +<p>Around the inn-yard stood a row of heavy, canvas-covered wains and +lumbering two-wheeled carts, each surmounted by a well-armed guard, and +drawn by six strong horses with harness stout as cannon-leathers. The +hostlers stood at the horses’ heads, chewing at wisps of barley-straw as +though their other fare was scant, which, from their sleek rotundity, +was difficult to believe. The stable-boy, with a pot of slush, and a +head of hair like a last year’s haycock, was hastily greasing a +forgotten wheel; while, out of the room where the servants ate, the +drivers came stumbling down the steps with a mighty smell of onions and +brawn. The weekly train from London into the north was ready to be off.</p> + +<p>A portly, well-clad countryman, with a shrewd but good-humored +countenance, and a wife beside him round and rosy of face as he, came +bustling out of the private door. “How far yet, Master John?” he asked +as he buckled on his cloak. “Forty-two miles to Oxford, sir,” replied +the carrier. “We must be off if we’re to lie at Uxbridge overnight; for +there hath been rain beyond, sir, and the roads be werry deep.”</p> + +<p>Nick stared at the man for Oxford. Forty-two miles to Oxford! And Oxford +lay to the south of Stratford fifty miles and two. Ninety-four miles +from Stratford town! Ninety-four miles from home!</p> + +<p>“When will my father come for us, Nick?” asked Cicely, turning her hand +in the sun to see the red along the edges of her fingers.</p> + +<p>“Indeed, I can na tell,” said Nick; “Master Will Shakspere is coming +anon, and I shall go with him.”</p> + +<p>“And leave me by myself?”</p> + +<p>“Nay; thou shalt go, too. Thou’lt love to see his garden and the +rose-trees—it is like a very country place. He is a merry gentleman, +and, oh, so kind! He is going to take me home.”</p> + +<p>“But my father will take us home when he comes.”</p> + +<p>“To Stratford town, I mean.”</p> + +<p>“Away from daddy and me? Why, Nick!”</p> + +<p>“But my mother is in Stratford town.”</p> + +<p>Cicely was silent. “Then I think I would go, too,” she said quite +softly, looking down as if there were a picture on the ground. “When +one’s mother is gone there is a hurting-place that nought doth ever +come into any more—excepting daddy, and—and thee. We shall miss thee, +Nick, at supper-times. Thou’lt come back soon?”</p> + +<p>“I am na coming back.”</p> + +<p>“Not coming back?” She laid the mutton-pie down on the bench.</p> + +<p>“No—I am na coming back”</p> + +<p>“Never?”</p> + +<p>“Never.”</p> + +<p>She looked at him as if she had not altogether understood.</p> + +<p>Nick turned away. A strange uneasiness had come upon him, as if some one +were staring at him fixedly. But no one was. There was a Dutchman in the +gate who had not been there just before. “He must have sprung up out of +the ground,” thought Nick, “or else he is a very sudden Dutchman!” He +had on breeches like two great meal-sacks, and a Flemish sea-cloth +jacket full of wrinkles, as if it had been lying in a chest. His back +was turned, and Nick could not help smiling, for the fellow’s shanks +came out of his breeches’ bottoms like the legs of a letter A. He looked +like a pudding on two skewers.</p> + +<p>Cicely slowly took up the mutton-pie once more, but did not eat. “Is na +the pasty good?” asked Nick.</p> + +<p>“Not now,” said she.</p> + +<p>Nick turned away again.</p> + +<p>The Dutchman was not in the gate. He had crossed the inn-yard suddenly, +and was sitting close within the shadow of the wall, though the sunny +side was pleasanter by far. His wig was hanging down about his face, +and he was talking with the tapster’s knave, a hungry-looking fellow +clad in rusty black as if some one were dead, although it was a holiday +and he had neither kith nor kin. The knave was biting his under lip and +staring straight at Nick.</p> + +<p>“And will I never see thee more?” asked Cicely.</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes,” said Nick; “oh, yes.”</p> + +<p>But he did not know whether she ever would or no.</p> + +<p>“Gee-wup, Dobbin! Yoicks, Ned! Tschk—tschk!” The leading cart rolled +slowly through the gate. A second followed it. The drivers made a +cracking with their whips, and all the guests came out to see them off. +But the Dutchman, as the rest came out, arose, and with the tapster’s +knave went in at a narrow entrance beyond the tap-room steps.</p> + +<p>“And when will Master Shakspere come for thee?” asked Cicely once more, +the cold pie lying in her lap.</p> + +<p>“I do na know. How can I tell? Do na bother me so!” cried Nick, and dug +his heels into the cracks between the paving-stones; for after all that +had come to pass the starting of the baggage-train had made him sick +for home.</p> + +<p>Cicely looked up at him; she thought she had not heard aright. He was +staring after the last cart as it rolled through the inn-yard gate; his +throat was working, and his eyes were full of tears.</p> + +<p>“Why, Nick!” said she, “art crying?”</p> + +<p>“Nay,” said he, “but very near,” and dashed his hand across his face. +“Everything doth happen so all-at-once—and I am na big enough, Cicely. +Oh, Cicely, I would I were a mighty king—I’d make it all up +different somehow!”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps thou wilt be some day, Nick,” she answered quietly. “Thou’ldst +make a very lovely king. I could be queen; and daddy should be Lord +Admiral, and own the finest play-house in the town.”</p> + +<p>But Nick was staring at the tap-room door. A voice somewhere had +startled him. The guests were gone, and none was left but the tapster’s +knave leaning against the inner wall.</p> + +<p>“Thy mother should come to live with us, and thy father, and all thy +kin,” said Cicely, dreamily smiling; “and the people would love us, +there would be no more war, and we should be happy forevermore.”</p> + +<p>But Nick was listening,—not to her,—and his face was a little pale. He +felt a strange, uneasy sense of some one staring at his back. He whirled +about—looked in at the tap-room window. For an instant a peering face +was there; then it was gone—there was only the Dutchman’s frowzy wig +and striped woolen cap. But the voice he had heard and the face he had +seen were the voice and the face of Gregory Goole.</p> + +<p>“I should love to see thy mother, Nick,” said Cicely.</p> + +<p>He got up steadily, though his heart was jolting his very ribs. “Thou +shalt right speedily!” said he.</p> + +<p>The carts were standing in a line. The carrier came down the steps with +his stirrup-cup in hand. Nick’s heart gave a sudden, wild, resolute +leap, and he touched the carrier on the arm. “What will ye charge to +carry two as far as Stratford town?” he asked. His mouth was dry as a +dusty road, for the Dutchman had risen from his seat and was coming +toward the door.</p> + +<p>“I do na haul past Oxford,” said the man.</p> + +<p>“To Oxford, then—how much? Be quick!” Nick thrust his hand into his +breast where he carried the burgesses’ chain.</p> + +<p>“Eightpence the day, for three days out—two shilling ’tis, and find +yourself; it is an honest fare.”</p> + +<p>The tapster’s knave came down the steps; the Dutchman stood within the +shadow of the door.</p> + +<p>“Wilt carry us for this?” Nick cried, and thrust the chain into the +fellow’s hands.</p> + +<p>He gasped and almost let it fall. “Beshrew my heart! Gadzooks!” said he, +“art thou a prince in hiding, boy? ’T would buy me, horses, wains, and +all. Why, man alive, ’tis but a nip o’ this!”</p> + +<p>“Good, then,” said Nick, “’tis done—we’ll go. Come, Cicely, we’re +going home!”</p> + +<p>Staring, the carrier followed him, weighing the chain in his hairy hand. +“Who art thou, boy?” he cried again. “This matter hath a queer look.”</p> + +<p>“’Twas honestly come by, sir,” cried Nick, no longer able to conceal a +quiver in his voice, “and my name is Nicholas Attwood; I come from +Stratford town.”</p> + +<p>“Stratford-on-Avon? Why, art kin to Tanner Simon Attwood there, Attwood +of Old Town?”</p> + +<p>“He is my father, sir. Oh, leave us go with thee—take the whole +chain!”</p> + +<p>Slap went the carrier’s cap in the dirt! “Leave thee go wi’ me? +Gadzooks!” he cried, “my name be John Saddler—why, what? my daddy +liveth in Chapel lane, behind Will Underhill’s. I stole thy father’s +apples fifteen years. What! go wi’ me? Get on the wain, thou little +fool—get on all the wains I own, and a plague upon thine eightpence, +lad! Why, here; Hal telled me thou wert dead, or lost, or some such +fairy tale! Up on the sheepskin, both o’ ye!”</p> + +<p>The Dutchman came from the tap-room door and spoke to the tapster’s +knave; but the words which he spoke to that tapster’s knave were +anything but Dutch.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVI"></a>CHAPTER XXXVI<br /> +<span class='ph3'>WAYFARING HOME<br /></span></h2> + +<p>At Kensington watering-place, five miles from London town, Nick held the +pail for the horses of the Oxford man. “Hello, my buck!” quoth he, and +stared at Nick; “where under the sun didst pop from all at once?” and, +looking up, spied Cicely upon the carrier’s wain. “What, John!” he +shouted, “thou saidst there were no more!”</p> + +<p>“No more there weren’t, sir,” said John, “but there be now”; and out +with the whole story.</p> + +<p>“Well, I ha’ farmed for fifty year,” cried honest Roger Clout, “yet +never have I seen the mate to yonder little maid, nor heard the like o’ +such a tale! Wife, wife!” he cried, in a voice as round and full of +hearty cheer as one who calls his own cattle home across his own fat +fields. “Come hither, Moll—here’s company for thee. For sure, John, +they’ll ride wi’ Moll and I; ’tis godsend—angels on a baggage-cart! +Moll ha’ lost her only one, and the little maid will warm the cockles o’ +her heart, say nought about mine own. La, now, she is na feared o’ me; +God bless thee, child! Look at her, Moll—as sweet as honey and the +cream o’ the brindle cow.”</p> + +<p>So they rode with kindly Roger Clout and his good wife by Hanwell, +Hillingdon Hill, and Uxbridge, where they rested at the inn near old St. +Margaret’s, Cicely with Mistress Clout, and Nick with her good man. And +in the morning there was nothing to pay, for Roger Clout had footed all +the score.</p> + +<p>Then on again, through Beaconsfield and High Wycombe, into and over the +Chiltern Hills in Buckinghamshire. In parts the land was passing fair, +with sheep in flocks upon the hills, and cattle knee-deep in the grass; +but otherwhere the way was wild, with bogs and moss in all the deeps, +and dense beech forests on the heights; and more than once the guards +made ready their match-locks warily. But stout John Saddler’s train was +no soft cakes for thieves, and they came up through Bucks scot-free.</p> + +<p>At times it drizzled fitfully, and the road was rough and bad; but the +third day was a fair, sweet day, and most exceeding bright and fresh. +The shepherds whistled on the hills, and the milkmaids sang in the +winding lanes among the white-thorn hedges, the smell of which was +everywhere. The singing, the merry voices calling, the comfortable +lowing of the kine, the bleating of the sheep, the clinking of the +bridle-chains, and the heavy ruttle of the carts filled the air with +life and cheer. The wind was blowing both warm and cool; and, oh, the +blithe breeze of the English springtime! Nick went up the green hills, +and down the white dells like a leaf in the wind, now ahead and now +behind the winding train, or off into the woods and over the fields for +a posy-bunch for Cicely, calling and laughing back at her, and filling +her lap with flowers and ferns until the cart was all one great, +sweet-smelling bower.</p> + +<p>As for Cicely, Nick was there, so she was very well content. She had +never gone a-visiting in all her life before; and she would see Nick’s +mother, and the flowers in the yard, the well, and that wondrous stream, +the Avon, of which Nick talked so much. “Stratford is a fair, fair town, +though very full of fools,” her father often said. But she had nothing +to do with the fools, and daddy would come for her again; so her +laughter bubbled like a little spring throughout the livelong day.</p> + +<p>As the sun went down in the yellow west they came into Oxford from the +south on the easterly side. The Cherwell burned with the orange light +reflected from the sky, and the towers of the famous town of olden +schools and scholars stood up black-purple against the western glow, +with rims of gold on every roof and spire.</p> + +<p>Up the High street into the corn-market rolled the tired train, and +turned into the rambling square of the old Crown Inn near Carfax church, +a large, substantial hostelry, one of merry England’s best, +clean-chambered, homelike, full of honest cheer.</p> + +<p>There was a shout of greeting everywhere. The hostlers ran to walk the +horses till they cooled, and to rub them down before they fed, for they +were all afoam. Master Davenant himself saw to the storing of the wains; +and Mistress Davenant, a comely dame, with smooth brown hair and ruddy +cheeks, and no less wit than sprightly grace, was in the porch to meet +the company. “Well, good Dame Clout,” said she, “art home again? What +tales we’ll have! Didst see Tom Lane? No? Pshaw! But buss me, Moll; +we’ve missed thy butter parlously.” And then quite free she kissed both +Nick and Cicely.</p> + +<p>“What, there, Dame Davenant!” cried Roger Clout, “art passing them +around?” and laughed, “Do na forget me.”</p> + +<p>“Nay, nay,” she answered, “but I’m out. Here, Nan,” she called to the +smutty-faced scullery-maid, “a buss for Master Clout; his own Moll’s +busses be na fine enough since he hath been to town.”</p> + +<p>So, joking, laughing, they went in; while plain John Saddler backed out +of the porch as sooty Nan came running up, for fear the jilt might offer +somewhat of the sort to him, and was off in haste to see to his teams. +“There’s no leaving it to the boys,” said he, “for they’d rub ’em down +wi’ a water-pail, and give ’em straw to drink.”</p> + +<p>When the guests all came to the fourpenny table to sup, Nick spoke to +Master Roger Clout. “Ye’ve done enough for us, sir; thank ye with all my +heart; but I’ve a turn will serve us here, and, sir, I’d rather stand on +mine own legs. Ye will na mind?” And when they all were seated at the +board, he rose up stoutly at the end, and called out brave and clear: +“Sirs, and good dames all, will ye be pleased to have some music while +ye eat? For, if ye will, the little maid and I will sing you the latest +song from London town, a merry thing, with a fine trolly-lolly, sirs, +to glad your hearts with hearing.”</p> + +<p>Would they have music? To be sure! Who would not music while he ate must +be a Flemish dunderkopf, said they. So Nick and Cicely stood at one side +of the room upon a bench by the server’s board, and sang together, while +he played upon Mistress Davenant’s gittern:</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +“Hey, laddie, hark to the merry, merry lark!<br /> + How high he singeth clear:<br /> + ‘Oh, a morn in spring is the sweetest thing<br /> + That cometh in all the year!<br /> + Oh, a morn in spring is the sweetest thing<br /> + That cometh in all the year!’<br /><br /> + +“Ring, ting! it is the merry springtime;<br /> + How full of heart a body feels!<br /> + Sing hey, trolly-lolly! oh, to live is to be jolly,<br /> + When springtime cometh with the summer at her heels!<br /><br /> + +“God save us all, my jolly gentlemen,<br /> + We’ll merry be to-day;<br /> + For the cuckoo sings till the greenwood rings,<br /> + And it is the month of May!<br /> + For the cuckoo sings till the greenwood rings,<br /> + And it is the month of May!”<br /> +</div> + +<p>Then the men at the table all waved their pewter pots, and thumped upon +the board, roaring, “Hey, trolly-lolly! oh, to live is to be jolly!” +until the rafters rang.</p> + +<p><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /></p> + +<p class='ctr'> +<a href="images/i_271.jpg"> +<img src="images/i_271.jpg" width="35%" alt="" /> +</a></p> + +<p>1. Hey! lad-die, hark, to the mer-ry, mer-ry lark, How high he sing-eth +clear. O a morn in Spring is the sweeter thing That cometh in all the +year; O a morn in Spring is the sweet-est thing That com-eth in all +the year!</p> + +<p>REFRAIN. Piano.</p> + +<p>Ring! Ting! It is the mer-ry Spring-time. How full of heart a bod-y +feels! Sing hey trol-ly lol-ly! O to live is to be jol-ly, When +Spring-time cometh with the Summer at her heels!</p> + +<p>2. God save us all, my jol-ly gen-tle-men! We’ll mer-ry be to-day; For +the cuc-koo sings till the greenwood rings, And it is the month of May; +For the cuc-koo sings till the greenwood rings, And it is the month +of May!</p> + +<p><i>Repeat Refrain after 2d Stanza.</i></p> + +<p><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /></p> + +<p>“What, lad!” cried good Dame Davenant, “come, stay with me all year and +sing, thou and this little maid o’ thine. ’Twill cost thee neither cash +nor care. Why, thou’ldst fill the house with such a throng as it hath +never seen!” And in the morning she would not take a penny for their +lodging nor their keep. “Nay, nay,” said she; “they ha’ brought good +custom to the house, and left me a brave little tale to tell for many a +good long year. We inns-folk be not common penny-grabbers; marry, no!” +and, furthermore, she made interest with a carrier to give them a lift +to Woodstock on their way.</p> + +<p>When they came to Woodstock the carrier set them down by the gates of a +park built round by a high stone wall over which they could not see, and +with his wain went in at the gate, leaving them to journey on together +through a little rain-shower.</p> + +<p>The land grew flatter than before. There were few trees upon the hills, +and scarcely any springs at which to drink, but much tender grass, with +countless sheep nibbling everywhere. The shower was soon blown away; the +sun came out; and a pleasant wind sprang up out of the south. Here and +there beside some cottage wall the lilacs bloomed, and the later +orchard-trees were apple-pink and cherry-white with May.</p> + +<p>They came to a puddle in the road where there was a dance of +butterflies. Cicely clapped her hands with glee. A goldfinch dipped +across the path like a little yellow streak of laughter in the sun. “Oh, +Nick, what is it?” she cried.</p> + +<p>“A bird,” said he.</p> + +<p>“A truly bird?” and she clasped her hands. “Will it ever come again?”</p> + +<p class='ctr'><a name="i_272"></a> +<a href="images/i_272.jpg"> +<img src="images/i_272.jpg" width="35%" alt="" /> +</a><br /> +<b>““OH, NICK, WHAT IS IT?” SHE CRIED.”</b> +<br /></p> + +<p>“Again? Oh, yes, or, la! another one—there’s plenty in the weeds.”</p> + +<p>And so they fared all afternoon, until at dusk they came to Chipping +Norton across the fields, a short cut to where the thin blue +supper-smoke curled up. The mists were rising from the meadows; earth +and sky were blending on the hills; a little silver sickle moon hung in +the fading violet, low in the western sky. Under an old oak in a green +place a fiddler and a piper were playing, and youths and maidens were +dancing in the brown light. Some little chaps were playing +blindman’s-buff near by, and the older folk were gathered by the tree.</p> + +<p>Nick came straight to where they stood, and bowing, he and Cicely +together, doffed his cap, and said in his most London tone, “We bid ye +all good-e’en, good folk.”</p> + +<p>His courtly speech and manner, as well as his clothes and Cicely’s +jaunty gown, no little daunted the simple country folk. Nobody spoke, +but, standing silent, all stared at the two quaint little vagabonds as +mild kine stare at passing sheep in a quiet lane.</p> + +<p>“We need somewhat to eat this night, and we want a place to sleep,” said +Nick. “The beds must be right clean—we have good appetites. If ye can +do for us, we will dance for you anything that ye may desire—the +‘Queen’s Own Measure,’ ‘La Donzella,’ the new ‘Allemand’ of my Lord +Pembroke, a pavone or a tinternell, or the ‘Galliard of Savoy.’ Which +doth it please you, mistresses?” and he bowed to the huddling young +women, who scarcely knew what to make of it.</p> + +<p>“La! Joan,” whispered one, “he calleth thee ‘mistress’! Speak up, +wench.” But Joan stoutly held her peace.</p> + +<p>“Or if ye will, the little maid will dance the coranto for you, straight +from my Lord Chancellor’s dancing-master; and while she dances I +will sing.”</p> + +<p>“Why, hark ’e, Rob,” spoke out one motherly dame, “they two do look +clean-like. Children, too—who’d gi’ them stones when they beg for +bread? I’ll do for them this night myself; and thou, the good man, and +Kit can sleep in the hutch. So there, dears; now let’s see the Lord +Chancellor’s tantrums.”</p> + +<p>“’Tis not a tantrums, goody,” said Nick, politely, “but a coranto.”</p> + +<p>“La! young master, what’s the odds, just so we sees it done? Some folks +calls whittles ‘knives,’ and thinks ’t wunnot cut theys fingers!”</p> + +<p>Nick took his place at the side of the ring. “Now, Cicely!” said he.</p> + +<p>“Thou’lt call ‘Sa—sa!’ and give me the time of the coup d’archet?” she +whispered, timidly hesitant, as she stepped to the midst of the ring.</p> + +<p>“Ay, then,” said he, “’tis off, ’tis off!” and struck up a lively tune, +snapping his fingers for the time.</p> + +<p>Cicely, bowing all about her, slowly began to dance.</p> + +<p>It was a pretty sight to see: her big eyes wide and earnest, her cheeks +a little flushed, her short hair curling, and her crimson gown +fluttering about her as she danced the quaint running step forward and +back across the grass, balancing archly, with her hands upon her hips +and a little smile upon her lips, in the swaying motion of the coupee, +courtesying gracefully as one tiny slippered foot peeped out from her +rustling skirt, tapping on the turf, now in front and now behind. Nick +sang like a blackbird in the hedge. And how those country lads and +lasses stared to see such winsome, dainty grace! “La me!” gaped one, “’tis fairy folk—she doth na even touch the ground!” “The pretty dear!” +the mothers said. “Doll, why canst thou na do the like, thou lummox?” +“Tut,” sighed the buxom Doll, “I have na wingses on my feet!”</p> + +<p>Then Cicely, breathless, bowed, and ran to Nick’s side asking, “Was it +all right, Nick?”</p> + +<p>“Right?” said he, and stroked her hair; “’twas better than thou didst +ever dance it for M’sieu.”</p> + +<p>“For why?” said she, and flushed, with a quick light in her eyes; “for +why—because this time I danced for thee.”</p> + +<p>The country folk, enchanted, called for more and more.</p> + +<p>Nick sang another song, and he and Cicely danced the galliard together, +while the piper piped and the fiddler fiddled away like mad; and the +moon went down, and the cottage doors grew ruddy with the light inside. +Then Dame Pettiford gave them milk and oat-cakes in a bowl, a bit of +honey in the comb, and a cup of strawberries; and Cicely fell fast +asleep with the last of the strawberries in her hand.</p> + +<p>So they came up out of the south through Shipston-on-Stour, in the +main-traveled way, and with every mile Nick felt home growing nearer. +Streams sprang up in the meadow-lands, with sedgy islands, and lines of +silvery willows bordering their banks. Flocks and herds cropped beneath +tofts of ash and elm and beech. Snug homes peeped out of hazel copses by +the road. The passing carts had a familiar look, and at Alderminster +Nick saw a man he thought he recognized.</p> + +<p>Before he knew that he was there they topped Edge Hill.</p> + +<p>There lay Stratford! as he had left it lying; not one stick or stack or +stone but he could put his finger on and say, “This place I know!” Green +pastures, grassy levels, streams, groves, mills, the old grange and the +manor-house, the road that forked in three, and the hills of Arden +beyond it all. There was the tower of the guildhall chapel above the +clustering, dun-thatched roofs among the green and blossom-white; to +left the spire of Holy Trinity sprang up beside the shining Avon. Bull +Lane he made out dimly, and a red-tiled roof among the trees. “There, +Cicely,” he said, “<i>there—there!</i>” and laughed a queer little shaky +laugh next door to crying for joy.</p> + +<p>Wat Raven was sweeping old Clopton bridge. “Hullo, there, Wat! I be come +home again!” Nick cried. Wat stared at him, but knew him not at all.</p> + +<p>Around the corner, and down High street. Fynes Morrison burst in at the +guildschool door. “Nick Attwood’s home!” he shouted; and his eyes were +like two plates.</p> + +<p>Then the last lane—and the smoke from his father’s house!</p> + +<p>The garden gate stood open, and there was some one working in the yard. +“It is my father, Cicely,” he laughed. “Father!” he cried, and hurried +in the lane.</p> + +<p>Simon Attwood straightened up and looked across the fence. His arms were +held a little out, and his hands hung down with bits of moist earth +clinging to them. His brows were darker than a year before, and his hair +was grown more gray; his back, too, stooped. “Art thou a-calling me?” +he asked.</p> + +<p>Nick laughed. “Why, father, do ye na know me?” he cried out. “’Tis +I—’tis Nick—come home!”</p> + +<p>Two steps the stern old tanner took—two steps to the latchet-gate. Not +one word did he speak; but he set his hand to the latchet-gate and +closed it in Nick’s face.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVII"></a>CHAPTER XXXVII<br /> +<span class='ph3'>TURNED ADRIFT<br /></span></h2> + +<p>Down the path and under the gate the rains had washed a shallow rut in +the earth. Two pebbles, loosened by the closing of the gate, rolled down +the rut and out upon the little spreading fan of sand that whitened in +the grass.</p> + +<p>There was the house with the black beams checkering its yellow walls. +There was the old bench by the door, and the lettuce in the garden-bed. +There were the beehives, and the bees humming among the orchard boughs.</p> + +<p>“Why, father, what!” cried Nick, “dost na know me yet? See, ’tis I, +Nick, thy son.”</p> + +<p>A strange look came into the tanner’s face. “I do na know thee, boy,” he +answered heavily; “thou canst na enter here.”</p> + +<p>“But, father, indeed ’tis I!”</p> + +<p>Simon Attwood looked across the town; yet he did not see the town: +across the town into the sky, yet he did not see the sky, nor the +drifting banks of cloud, nor the sunlight shining on the clouds. “I say +I do na know thee,” he replied; “be off to the place whence ye +ha’ come.”</p> + +<p>Nick’s hand was almost on the latch. He stopped. He looked up into his +father’s face. “Why, father, I’ve come home!” he gasped.</p> + +<p>The gate shook in the tanner’s grip. “Have I na telled thee twice I do +na know thee, boy? No house o’ mine shall e’er be home for thee. Thou +hast no part nor parcel here. Get thee out o’ my sight.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, father, father, what do ye mean?” cried Nick, his lips scarcely +able to shape the words.</p> + +<p>“Do na ye ‘father’ me no more,” said Simon Attwood, bitterly; “I be na +father to stage-playing, vagabond rogues. And be gone, I say. Dost hear? +Must I e’en thrust thee forth?” He raised his hand as if to strike.</p> + +<p>Nick fell away from the latchet-gate, dumb-stricken with amazement, +shame, and grief.</p> + +<p>“Oh, Nick,” cried Cicely, “come away—the wicked, wicked man!”</p> + +<p>“It is my father, Cicely.”</p> + +<p>She stared at him. “And thou dost hate <i>my</i> father so? Oh, Nick! oh, +Nick!”</p> + +<p>“Will ye be gone?” called Simon Attwood, half-way opening the gate; +“must I set constables on thee?”</p> + +<p>Nick did not move. A numbness had crept over him like palsy. Cicely +caught him by the hand. “Come, let us go back to my father,” she said. +“He will not turn us out.”</p> + +<p>Scarcely knowing what he did, he followed her, stumbling in the level +path as though he were half blind or had been beaten upon the head. He +did not cry. This was past all crying. He let himself be led along—it +made no matter where.</p> + +<p>In Chapel lane there was a crowd along the Great House wall; and on the +wall Ned Cooke and Martin Addenbroke were sitting. There were heads of +people moving on the porch and in the court, and the yard was all +a-bustle and to-do. But there was nobody in the street, and no one +looked at Nick and Cicely.</p> + +<p>The Great House did look very fair in the sun of that May day, with its +homely gables of warm red brick and sunburnt timber, its cheery roof of +Holland tile, and with the sunlight flashing from the diamond panes that +were leaded into the sashes of the great bay-window on the eastern +garden side.</p> + +<p>In the garden all was stir-about and merry voices. There was a little +green court before the house, and a pleasant lawn coming down to the +lane from the doorway porch. The house stood to the left of the +entry-drive, and the barn-yard to the right was loud with the blithe +crowing of the cocks. But the high brick wall shut out the street where +Nick and Cicely trudged dolefully along, and to Nick the lane seemed +very full of broken crockery and dirt, and the sunlight all a mockery. +The whole of the year had not yet been so dark as this, for there had +ever been the dream of coming home. But <i>now</i>—he suffered himself to be +led along; that was enough.</p> + +<p>They had come past the Great House up from Chapel street, when a girl +came out of the western gate, and with her hand above her eyes looked +after them. She seemed in doubt, but looked again, quite searchingly. +Then, as one who is not sure, but does not wish to miss a chance, called +out, “Nick Attwood! Nick Attwood!”</p> + +<p>Cicely looked back to see who called. She did not know the girl, but saw +her beckon. “There is some one calling, Nick,” said she.</p> + +<p>Nick stopped in a hopeless sort of way, and looked back down the street.</p> + +<p>When he had turned so that the girl at the gate could see his face, she +left the gate wide open behind her, and came running quickly up the +street after them. As she drew nearer he saw that it was Susanna +Shakspere, though she was very much grown since he had seen her last. He +watched her running after them as if it were none of his affair. But +when she had caught up with them, she took him by the shoulder smartly +and drew him back toward the gate. “Why, Nicholas Attwood,” she cried, +all out of breath, “come straightway into the house with me. My father +hath been hunting after thee the whole way up from London town!”</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVIII"></a>CHAPTER XXXVIII<br /> +<span class='ph3'>A STRANGE DAY<br /></span></h2> + +<p>There in the Great House garden under the mulberry-trees stood Master +Will Shakspere, with Masters Jonson, Burbage, Hemynge, Condell, and a +goodly number more, who had just come up from London town, as well as +Alderman Henry Walker of Stratford, good old John Combe of the college, +and Michael Drayton, the poet of Warwick. For Master Shakspere had that +morning bought the Great House, with its gardens and barns, of Master +William Underhill, for sixty pounds sterling, and was making a great +feast for all his friends to celebrate the day.</p> + +<p>The London players all clapped their hands as Nick and Cicely came up +the garden-path, and, “Upon my word, Will,” declared Master Jonson, “the +lad is a credit to this old town of thine. A plucky fellow, I say, a +right plucky fellow. Found the lass and brought her home all safe and +sound—why, ’tis done like a true knight-errant!”</p> + +<p class='ctr'><a name="illus0360"></a> +<a href="images/illus0360.jpg"> +<img src="images/illus0360.jpg" width = "40%" alt="" /> +</a><br /> +<b>“MASTER SHAKSPERE MET THEM WITH OUTSTRETCHED HANDS.”</b> +<br /></p> + +<p>Master Shakspere met them with outstretched hands. “Thou young rogue,” +said he, smiling, “how thou hast forestalled us! Why, here we have +been weeping for thee as lost, strayed, or stolen; and all the while +thou wert nestling in the bosom of thine own sweet home. How is the +beloved little mother?”</p> + +<p>“I ha’ na seen my mother,” faltered Nick. “Father will na let me in.”</p> + +<p>“What? How?”</p> + +<p>“My father will na have me any more, sir—saith I shall never be his son +again. Oh, Master Shakspere, why did they steal me from home?”</p> + +<p>They were all crowding about now, and Master Shakspere had hold of the +boy. “Why, what does this mean?” he asked. “What on earth has happened?”</p> + +<p>Between the two children, in broken words, the story came out.</p> + +<p>“Why, this is a sorry tale!” said Master Shakspere. “Does the man not +know that thou wert stolen, that thou wert kept against thy will, that +thou hast trudged half-way from London for thy mother’s sake?”</p> + +<p>“He will na leave me tell him, sir. He would na even listen to me!”</p> + +<p>“The muckle shrew!” quoth Master Jonson. “Why, I’ll have this out with +him! By Jupiter, I’ll read him reason with a vengeance!” With a clink of +his rapier he made as if to be off at once.</p> + +<p>“Nay, Ben,” said Master Shakspere; “cool thy blood—a quarrel will not +serve. This tanner is a bitter-minded, heavy-handed man—he’d only throw +thee in a pickling-vat”</p> + +<p>“What? Then he’d never tan another hide!”</p> + +<p>“And would that serve the purpose, Ben? The cure should better the +disease—the children must be thought about.”</p> + +<p>“The children? Why, as for them,” said Master Jonson, in his blunt, +outspoken way, “I’ll think thee a thought offhand to serve the turn. +What? Why, this tanner calls us vagabonds. Vagabonds, forsooth! Yet +vagabonds are gallows-birds, and gallows-birds are ravens. And ravens, +men say, do foster forlorn children. Take my point? Good, then; let us +ravenous vagabonds take these two children for our own, Will,—thou one, +I t’ other,—and by praiseworthy fostering singe this fellow’s very +brain with shame.”</p> + +<p>“Why, here, here, Ben Jonson,” spoke up Master Burbage, “this is all +very well for Will and thee; but, pray, where do Hemynge, Condell, and I +come in upon the bill? Come, man, ’tis a pity if we cannot all stand +together in this real play as well as in all the make-believe.”</p> + +<p>“That’s my sort!” cried Master Hemynge. “Why, what? Here is a player’s +daughter who has no father, and a player whose father will not have +him,—orphaned by fate, and disinherited by folly,—common stock with us +all! Marry, ’tis a sort of stock I want some of. Kind hearts are +trumps, my honest Ben—make it a stock company, and let us all be in.”</p> + +<p>“That’s no bad fancy,” added Condell, slowly, for Henry Condell was a +cold, shrewd man. “There’s merit in the lad beside his voice—<i>that</i> +cannot keep its freshness long; but his figure’s good, his wit is +quick, and he has a very taking style. It would be worth while, Dick. +And, Will,” said he, turning to Master Shakspere, who listened with half +a smile to all that the others said, “he’ll make a better <i>Rosalind</i> +than Roger Prynne for thy new play.”</p> + +<p>“So he would,” said Master Shakspere; “but before we put him into ‘As +You Like It,’ suppose we ask him how he does like it? Nick, thou hast +heard what all these gentlemen have said—what hast thou to say, +my lad?”</p> + +<p>“Why, sirs, ye are all kind,” said Nick, his voice beginning to tremble, +“very, very kind indeed, sirs; but—I—I want my mother—oh, masters, I +do want my mother!”</p> + +<p>At that John Combe turned on his heel and walked out of the gate. Out of +the garden-gate walked he, and down the dirty lane, setting his cane +down stoutly as he went, past gravel-pits and pens to Southam’s lane, +and in at the door of Simon Attwood’s tannery.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>It was noon when he went in; yet the hour struck, and no one came or +went from the tannery. Mistress Attwood’s dinner grew cold upon the +board, and Dame Combe looked vainly across the fields toward the town.</p> + +<p>But about the middle of the afternoon John Combe came out of the tannery +door, and Simon Attwood came behind him. And as John Combe came down the +cobbled way, a trail of brown vat-liquor followed him, dripping from his +clothes, for he was soaked to the skin. His long gray hair had partly +dried in strings about his ears, and his fine lace collar was a +drabbled shame; but there was a singular untroubled smile upon his +plain old face.</p> + +<p>Simon Attwood stayed to lock the door, fumbling his keys as if his sight +had failed; but when the heavy bolt was shut, he turned and called after +John Combe, so that the old man stopped in the way and dripped a puddle +until the tanner came up to where he stood. And as he came up Attwood +asked, in such a tone as none had ever heard from his mouth before, +“Combe, John Combe, what’s done ’s done,—and oh, John, the pity of +it,—yet will ye still shake hands wi’ me, John, afore ye go?”</p> + +<p>John Combe took Simon Attwood’s bony hand and wrung it hard in his stout +old grip, and looked the tanner squarely in the eyes; then, still +smiling serenely to himself, and setting his cane down stoutly as he +walked, dripped home, and got himself into dry clothes without a word.</p> + +<p>But Simon Attwood went down to the river, and sat upon a flat stone +under some pollard willows, and looked into the water.</p> + +<p>What his thoughts were no one knew, nor ever shall know; but he was +fighting with himself, and more than once groaned bitterly. At first he +only shut his teeth and held his temples in his hands; but after a while +he began to cry to himself, over and over again, “O Absalom, my son, my +son! O my son Absalom!” and then only “My son, my son!” And when the day +began to wane above the woods of Arden, he arose, and came up from the +river, walking swiftly; and, looking neither to the right nor to the +left, came up to the Great House garden, and went in at the gate.</p> + +<p>At the door the servant met him, but saw his face, and let him pass +without a word; for he looked like a desperate man whom there was +no stopping.</p> + +<p>So, with a grim light burning in his eyes, his hat in his hand, and his +clothes all drabbled with the liquor from his vats, the tanner strode +into the dining-hall.</p> + + + +<p><br /><br /></p><hr style="width: 35%;" /><p><br /><br /></p> +<div class='chapter' /><h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIX"></a>CHAPTER XXXIX<br /> +<span class='ph3'>ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL<br /></span></h2> + +<p>The table had been cleared of trenchers and napkins, the crumbs brushed +away, and a clean platter set before each guest with pared cheese, fresh +cherries, biscuit, caraways, and wine.</p> + +<p>There were about the long table, beside Master Shakspere himself, who +sat at the head of the board, Masters Richard and Cuthbert Burbage, +Henry Condell, and Peter Hemynge, Master Shakspere’s partners; Master +Ben Jonson, his dearest friend; Thomas Pope, who played his finest +parts; John Lowin, Samuel Gilburne, Robert Nash, and William Kemp, +players of the Lord Chamberlain’s company; Edmund Shakspere, the actor, +who was Master William Shakspere’s younger brother, and Master John +Shakspere, his father; Michael Drayton, the Midland bard; Burgess +Robert Getley, Alderman Henry Walker, and William Hart, the Stratford +hatter, brother-in-law to Master Shakspere.</p> + +<p>On one side of the table, between Master Jonson and Master Richard +Burbage, Cicely was seated upon a high chair, with a wreath of early +crimson roses in her hair, attired in the gown in which Nick saw her +first a year before. On the other side of the table Nick had a place +between Master Drayton and Robert Getley, father of his friend Robin. +Half-way down there was an empty chair. Master John Combe was absent.</p> + +<p>It was no common party. In all England better company could not have +been found. Some few of them the whole round world could not have +matched then, and could not match now.</p> + +<p>It would be worth a fortune to know the things they said,—the quips, +the jests, the merry tales that went around that board,—but time has +left too little of what such men said and did, and it can be imagined +only by the brightest wits.</p> + +<p>’Twas Master Shakspere on his feet, welcoming his friends to his “New +Place” with quiet words that made them glad to live and to be there, +when suddenly he stopped, his hands upon the table by his chair, +and stared.</p> + +<p>The tanner stood there, silent, in the door.</p> + +<p>Nick’s face turned pale. Cicely clung to Master Jonson’s arm.</p> + +<p>Simon Attwood stepped into the room, and Master Shakspere went quickly +to meet him in the middle of the floor.</p> + +<p>“Master Will Shakspere,” said the tanner, hoarsely, “I ha’ come about a +matter.” There he stopped, not knowing what to say, for he was +overwrought.</p> + +<p>“Out with it, sir,” said Master Shakspere, sternly. “There is much here +to be said.”</p> + +<p>The tanner wrung his hat within his hands, and looked about the ring of +cold, averted faces. Soft words with him were few; he had forgotten +tender things; and, indeed, what he meant to do was no easy thing +for any man.</p> + +<p>“Come, say what thou hast to say,” said Master Shakspere, resolutely; +“and say it quickly, that we may have done.”</p> + +<p>“There’s nought that I can say,” said Simon Attwood, “but that I be +sorry, and I want my son! Nick! Nick!” he faltered brokenly, “I be wrung +for thee; will ye na come home—just for thy mother’s sake, Nick, if ye +will na come for mine?”</p> + +<p>Nick started from his seat with a glad cry—then stopped. “But Cicely?” +he said.</p> + +<p>The tanner wrung his hat within his hands, and his face was dark with +trouble. Master Shakspere looked at Master Jonson.</p> + +<p>Nick stood hesitating between Cicely and his father, faithful to his +promise, though his heart was sick for home.</p> + +<p>An odd light had been struggling dimly in Simon Attwood’s troubled eyes. +Then all at once it shone out bright and clear, and he clapped his bony +hand upon the stout oak chair. “Bring her along,” he said. “I ha’ little +enough, but I will do the best I can. Maybe ’twill somehow right the +wrong I ha’ done,” he added huskily. “And, neighbors, I’ll go surety to +the Council that she shall na fall a pauper or a burden to the town. My +trade is ill enough, but, sirs, it will stand for forty pound the year +at a fair cast-up. Bring the lass wi’ thee, Nick—we’ll make out, lad, +we’ll make out. God will na let it all go wrong.”</p> + +<p>Master Jonson and Master Shakspere had been nodding and talking together +in a low tone, smiling like men very well pleased about something, and +directly Master Shakspere left the room.</p> + +<p>“Wilt thou come, lad?” asked the tanner, holding out his hands.</p> + +<p>“Oh, father!” cried Nick; then he choked so that he could say no more, +and his eyes were so full of mist that he could scarcely find his father +where he stood.</p> + +<p>But there was no need of more; Simon Attwood was answered.</p> + +<p>Voices buzzed about the room. The servants whispered in the hall. Nick +held his father’s gnarled hand in his own, and looked curiously up into +his face, as if for the first time knowing what it was to have a father.</p> + +<p>“Well, lad, what be it?” asked the tanner, huskily, laying his hand on +his son’s curly head, which was nearly up to his shoulder now.</p> + +<p>“Nothing,” said Nick, with a happy smile, “only mother will be glad to +have Cicely—won’t she?”</p> + +<p>Master Shakspere came into the room with something in his hand, and +walking to the table, laid it down.</p> + +<p>It was a heavy buckskin bag, tied tightly with a silken cord, and sealed +with red wax stamped with the seals of Master Shakspere and +Master Jonson.</p> + +<p>Every one was watching him intently, and one or two of the gentlemen +from London were smiling in a very knowing way.</p> + +<p>He broke the seals, and loosening the thong which closed the bag, took +out two other bags, one of which was just double its companion’s size. +They also were tied with silken cord and sealed with the two seals on +red wax. There was something printed roughly with a quill pen upon each +bag, but Master Shakspere kept that side turned toward himself so that +the others could not see.</p> + +<p>“Come, come, Will,” broke in Master Jonson, “don’t be all day about it!”</p> + +<p>“The more haste the worse speed, Ben,” said Master Shakspere, quietly. +“I have a little story to tell ye all.”</p> + +<p>So they all listened.</p> + +<p>“When Gaston Carew, lately master-player of the Lord High Admiral’s +company, was arraigned before my Lord Justice for the killing of that +rascal, Fulk Sandells, there was not a man of his own company had the +grace to lend him even so much as sympathy. But there were still some in +London who would not leave him totally friendless in such straits.”</p> + +<p>“Some?” interrupted Master Jonson, bluntly; “then o-n-e spells ‘some.’ +The names of them all were Will Shakspere.”</p> + +<p>“Tut, tut, Ben!” said Master Shakspere, and went on: “But when the +charge was read, and those against him showed their hand, it was easy to +see that the game was up. No one saw this any sooner than Carew himself; +yet he carried himself like a man, and confessed the indictment without +a quiver. They brought him the book, to read a verse and save his neck, +perhaps, by pleading benefit of clergy. But he knew the temper of those +against him, and that nothing might avail; so he refused the plea +quietly, saying, ‘I am no clerk, sirs. All I wish to read in this case +is what my own hand wrote upon that scoundrel Sandells.’ It was soon +over. When the judge pronounced his doom, all Carew asked was for a +friend to speak with a little while aside. This the court allowed; so he +sent for me—we played together with Henslowe, he and I, ye know. He had +not much to say—for once in his life,”—here Master Shakspere smiled +pityingly,—“but he sent his love forever to his only daughter Cicely.”</p> + +<p>Cicely was sitting up, listening with wide eyes, and eagerly nodded her +head as if to say, “Of course.”</p> + +<p>“He also begged of Nicholas Attwood that he would forgive him whatever +wrong he had done him.”</p> + +<p>“Why, that I will, sir,” choked Nick, brokenly; “he was wondrous kind to +me, except that he would na leave me go.”</p> + +<p>“After that,” continued Master Shakspere, “he made known to me a sliding +panel in the wainscot of his house, wherein was hidden all he had on +earth to leave to those he loved the best, and who, he hoped, +loved him.”</p> + +<p>“Everybody loves my father,” said Cicely, smiling and nodding again. +Master Jonson put his arm around the back of her chair, and she leaned +her head upon it.</p> + +<p>“Carew said that he had marked upon the bags which were within the panel +the names of the persons to whom they were to go, and had me swear, +upon my faith as a Christian man, that I would see them safely delivered +according to his wish. This being done, and the end come, he kissed me +on both cheeks, and standing bravely up, spoke to them all, saying that +for a man such as he had been it was easier to end even so than to go +on. I never saw him again.”</p> + +<p>The great writer of plays paused a moment, and his lips moved as if he +were saying a prayer. Master Burbage crossed himself.</p> + +<p>“The bags were found within the wall, as he had said, and were sealed by +Ben Jonson and myself until we should find the legatees—for they had +disappeared as utterly as if the earth had gaped and swallowed them. +But, by the Father’s grace, we have found them safe and sound at last; +and all’s well that ends well!”</p> + +<p>Here he turned the buckskin bags around.</p> + +<p>On one, in Master Carew’s school-boy scrawl, was printed, “For myne +Onelie Beeloved Doghter, Cicely Carew”; on the other, “For Nicholas +Attewode, alias Mastre Skie-lark, whom I, Gaston Carew, Player, Stole +Away from Stratford Toune, Anno Domini 1596.”</p> + +<p>Nick stared; Cicely clapped her hands; and Simon Attwood sat down +dizzily.</p> + +<p>“There,” said Master Shakspere, pointing to the second bag, “are one +hundred and fifty gold rose-nobles. In the other just three hundred +more. Neighbor Attwood, we shall have no paupers here.”</p> + +<p>Everybody laughed then and clapped their hands, and the London players +gave a rousing cheer. Master Ben Jonson’s shout might have been heard in +Market Square.</p> + +<p>At this tremendous uproar the servants peeped at the doors and windows; +and Tom Boteler, peering in from the buttery hall, and seeing the two +round money-bags plumping on the table, crept away with such a look of +amazement upon his face that Mollikins, the scullery-maid, thought he +had seen a ghost, and fled precipitately into the pantry.</p> + +<p>“And what’s more, Neighbor Tanner,” said Master Richard Burbage, “had +Carew’s daughter not sixpence to her name, we vagabond players, as ye +have had the scanty grace to dub us, would have cared for her for the +honour of the craft, and reared her gently in some quiet place where +there never falls even the shadow of such evil things as have been the +end of many a right good fellow beside old Kit Marlowe and +Gaston Carew.”</p> + +<p>“And to that end, Neighbor Attwood,” Master Shakspere added, “we have, +through my young Lord Hunsdon, who has just been made State Chamberlain, +Her Majesty’s gracious permission to hold this money in trust for the +little maid as guardians under the law.”</p> + +<p>Cicely stared around perplexed. “Won’t Nick be there?” she asked. “Why, +then I will not go—they shall not take thee from me, Nick!” and she +threw her arms around him. “I’m going to stay with thee till daddy +comes, and be thine own sister forever.”</p> + +<p>Master Jonson laughed gently, not his usual roaring laugh, but one that +was as tender as his own bluff heart. “Why, good enough, good enough! +The woman who mothered a lad like Master Skylark here is surely fit to +rear the little maid.”</p> + +<p>The London players thumped the table. “Why, ’tis the very trick,” said +Hemynge. “Marry, this is better than a play.”</p> + +<p>“It is indeed,” quoth Condell. “See the plot come out!”</p> + +<p>“Thou’lt do it, Attwood—why, of course thou’lt do it,” said Master +Shakspere. “’Tis an excellent good plan. These funds we hold in trust +will keep thee easy-minded, and warrant thee in doing well by both our +little folks. And what’s more,” he cried, for the thought had just come +in his head, “I have ever heard thee called an honest man; hard, indeed, +perhaps too hard, but honest as the day is long. Now I need a tenant for +this New Place of mine—some married man with a good housewife, and +children to be delving in the posy-beds outside. What sayst thou, Simon +Attwood? They tell me thy ’prentice, Job Hortop, is to marry in +July—he’ll take thine old house at a fair rental. Why, here, Neighbor +Attwood, thou toil-worn, time-damaged tanner, bless thy hard old heart, +man, come, be at ease—thou hast ground thy soul out long enough! Come, +take me at mine offer—be my fellow. The rent shall trickle off thy +finger-tips as easily as water off a duck’s back!”</p> + +<p>Simon Attwood arose from the chair where he had been sitting. There was +a bewildered look upon his face, and he was twisting his horny fingers +together until the knuckles were white. His lips parted as if to speak, +but he only swallowed very hard once or twice instead, and looked around +at them all. “Why, sir,” he said at length, looking at Master Shakspere, +“why, sirs, all of ye—I ha’ been a hard man, and summat of a fool, +sirs, ay, sirs, a very fool. I ha’ misthought and miscalled ye foully +many a time, and many a time. God knows I be sorry for it from the +bottom of my heart!” And with that he sat down and buried his face in +his arms among the dishes on the buffet.</p> + +<p>“Nay, Simon Attwood,” said Master Shakspere, going to his side and +putting his hand upon the tanner’s shoulder, “thou hast only been +mistaken, that is all. Come, sit thee up. To see thyself mistaken is but +to be the wiser. Why, never the wisest man but saw himself a fool a +thousand times. Come, I have mistaken thee more than thou hast me; for, +on my word, I thought thou hadst no heart at all—and that is far worse +than having one which has but gone astray. Come, Neighbor Attwood, sit +thee up and eat with us.”</p> + +<p>“Nay, I’ll go home,” said the tanner, turning his face away that they +might not see his tears. “I be a spoil-sport and a mar-feast here.”</p> + +<p>“Why, by Jupiter, man!” cried Master Jonson, bringing his fist down upon +the board with a thump that made the spoons all clink, “thou art the +very merry-maker of the feast. A full heart’s better than a surfeit any +day. Don’t let him go, Will—this sort of thing doth make the whole +world kin! Come, Master Attwood, sit thee down, and make thyself at +home. ’Tis not my house, but ’tis my friend’s, and so ’tis all the +same in the Lowlands. Be free of us and welcome.”</p> + +<p>“I thank ye, sirs,” said the tanner, slowly, turning to the table with +rough dignity. “Ye ha’ been good to my boy. I’ll ne’er forget ye while I +live. Oh, sirs, there be kind hearts in the world that I had na dreamed +of. But, masters, I ha’ said my say, and know na more. Your pleasure +wunnot be my pleasure, sirs, for I be only a common man. I will go home +to my wife. There be things to say before my boy comes home; and I ha’ +muckle need to tell her that I love her—I ha’ na done so these +many years.”</p> + +<p>“Why, Neighbor Tanner,” cried Master Jonson, with flushing cheeks, “thou +art a right good fellow! And here was I, no later than this morning, +red-hot to spit thee upon my bilbo like a Michaelmas goose!” He laughed +a boyish laugh that did one’s heart good to hear.</p> + +<p>“Ay,” said Master Shakspere, smiling, as he and Simon Attwood looked +into each other’s eyes. “Come, neighbor, I know thou art my man—so do +not go until thou drinkest one good toast with us, for we are all good +friends and true from this day forth. Come, Ben, a toast to fit +the cue.”</p> + +<p>“Why, then,” replied Master Jonson, in a good round voice, rising in his +place, “<i>here’s to all kind hearts!</i>”</p> + +<p>“Wherever they may be!” said Master Shakspere, softly. “It is a good +toast, and we will all drink it together.”</p> + +<p>And so they did. And Simon Attwood went away with a warmth and a +tingling in his heart he had never known before.</p> + +<p>“Margaret,” said he, coming quickly in at the door, as she went silently +about the house with a heavy heart preparing the supper, “Margaret.”</p> + +<p>She dropped the platter upon the board, and came to him hurriedly, +fearing evil tidings.</p> + +<p>He took her by the hands. This, even more than his unusual manner, +alarmed her. “Why, Simon,” she cried, “what is it? What has come +over thee?”</p> + +<p>“Nought,” he replied, looking down at her, his hard face quivering; “but +I love thee, Margaret.”</p> + +<p>“Simon, what dost thou mean?” faltered Mistress Attwood, her heart going +down like lead.</p> + +<p>“Nought, sweetheart—but that I love thee, Margaret, and that our lad is +coming home!”</p> + +<p>Her heart seemed to stop beating.</p> + +<p>“Margaret,” said he, huskily, “I do love thee, lass. Is it too late to +tell thee so?”</p> + +<p>“Nay, Simon,” answered his wife, simply, “’tis never too late to mend.” +And with that she laughed—but in the middle of her laughing a tear ran +down her cheek.</p> + +<p>FROM the windows of the New Place there came a great sound of men +singing together, and this was the quaint old song they sang:</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +“Then here’s a health to all kind hearts<br /> + Wherever they may be;<br /> + For kindly hearts make but one kin<br /> + Of all humanity.<br /><br /> + +“And here’s a rouse to all kind hearts<br /> + Wherever they be found;<br /> + For it is the throb of kindred hearts<br /> + Doth make the world go round!”<br /> +</div> + +<p>“Why, Will,” said Master Burbage, slowly setting down his glass, “’tis +altogether a midsummer night’s dream.”</p> + +<p>“So it is, Dick,” answered Master Shakspere, with a smile, and a +far-away look in his eyes. “Come, Nicholas, wilt thou not sing for us +just the last few little lines of ‘When Thou Wakest,’ out of the play?”</p> + +<p>Then Nick stood up quietly, for they all were his good friends there, +and Master Drayton held his hand while he sang:</p> + +<div class='poetry'> + “Every man shall take his own,<br /> + In your waking shall be shown:<br /> + Jack shall have Jill,<br /> + Nought shall go ill,<br /> +The man shall have his mare again, and all shall be well!”<br /> +</div> + +<p>They were very still for a little while after he had done, and the +setting sun shone in at the windows across the table. Then Master +Shakspere said gently, “It is a good place to end.”</p> + +<p>“Ay,” said Master Jonson, “it is.”</p> + +<p>So they all got up softly and went out into the garden, where there were +seats under the trees among the rose-bushes, and talked quietly among +themselves, saying not much, yet meaning a great deal.</p> + +<p>But Nick and Cicely said “Good-night, sirs,” to them all, and bowed; and +Master Shakspere himself let them out at the gate, the others shaking +Nick by the hand with many kind wishes, and throwing kisses to Cicely +until they went out of sight around the chapel corner.</p> + +<p>When the children came to the garden-gate in front of Nick’s father’s +house, the red roses still twined in Cicely’s hair, Simon Attwood and +his wife Margaret were sitting together upon the old oaken settle by the +door, looking out into the sunset. And when they saw the children +coming, they arose and came through the garden to meet them, Nick’s +mother with outstretched hands, and her face bright with the glory of +the setting sun. And when she came to where he was, the whole of that +long, bitter year was nothing any more to Nick.</p> + +<p>For then—ah, then—a lad and his mother; a son come home, the wandering +ended, and the sorrow done!</p> + +<p>She took him to her breast as though he were a baby still; her tears ran +down upon his face, yet she was smiling—a smile like which there is no +other in all the world: a mother’s smile upon her only son, who was +astray, but has come home again.</p> + +<p>Oh, the love of a lad for his mother, the love of a mother for her +son—unchanged, unchanging, for right, for wrong, through grief and +shame, in joy, in peace, in absence, in sickness, and in the shadow of +death! Oh, mother-love, beyond all understanding, so holy that words but +make it common!</p> + +<p>“My boy!” was all she said; and then, “My boy—my little boy!”</p> + +<p>And after a while, “Mother,” said he, and took her face between his +strong young hands, and looked into her happy eyes, “mother dear, I ha? +been to London town; I ha’ been to the palace, and I ha’ seen the Queen; +but, mother,” he said, with a little tremble in his voice, for all he +smiled so bravely, “I ha’ never seen the place where I would rather be +than just where thou art, mother dear!”</p> + +<p>The soft gray twilight gathered in the little garden; far-off voices +drifted faintly from the town. The day was done. Cool and still, and +filled with gentle peace, the starlit night came down from the dewy +hills; and Cicely lay fast asleep in Simon Attwood’s arms. +<br /></p> +<hr class="full" /> + + + + +<div style='display:block;margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MASTER SKYLARK ***</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0;'>This file should be named 11574-h.htm or 11574-h.zip</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0;'>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in https://www.gutenberg.org/1/1/5/7/11574/</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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Birch + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Master Skylark + +Author: John Bennett + +Release Date: March 14, 2004 [eBook #11574] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: US-ASCII + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MASTER SKYLARK*** + + +E-text prepared by Juliet Sutherland, Charlie Kirschner, and the Project +Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + + +Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this + file which includes the original illustrations. + See 11574-h.htm or 11574-h.zip: + (http://www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg/1/1/5/7/11574/11574-h/11574-h.htm) + or + (http://www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg/1/1/5/7/11574/11574-h.zip) + + + + + +MASTER SKYLARK + +A Story of Shakspere's Time + +BY + +JOHN BENNETT + +ILLUSTRATIONS BY REGINALD B. BIRCH + +1897 + + + + + + +[Illustration: "'MASTER SKYLARK, THOU SHALT HAVE THY WISH,' +SAID QUEEN ELIZABETH."] + + + + ALL THAT NICHOLAS ATTWOOD'S MOTHER + WAS TO HIM, AND MORE, MY OWN MOTHER HAS BEEN TO ME + AND TO HER HERE I INSCRIBE THIS BOOK + WITH A NEVER-FAILING LOVE + + + + +CONTENTS + + +CHAPTER + + I THE LORD ADMIRAL'S PLAYERS + II NICHOLAS ATTWOOD'S HOME + III THE LAST STRAW + IV OFF FOR COVENTRY + V IN THE WARWICK ROAD + VI THE MASTER-PLAYER + VII "WELL SUNG, MASTER SKYLARK!" + VIII THE ADMIRAL'S COMPANY + IX THE MAY-DAY PLAY + X AFTER THE PLAY + XI DISOWNED + XII A STRANGE RIDE + XIII A DASH FOR FREEDOM + XIV AT BAY + XV LONDON TOWN + XVI MA'M'SELLE CICELY CAREW + XVII CAREW'S OFFER + XVIII MASTER HEYWOOD PROTESTS + XIX THE ROSE PLAY-HOUSE + XX DISAPPOINTMENT + XXI "THE CHILDREN OF PAUL'S" + XXII THE SKYLARK'S SONG + XXIII A NEW LIFE + XXIV THE MAKING OF A PLAYER + XXV THE WANING OF THE YEAR + XXVI TO SING BEFORE THE QUEEN + XXVII THE QUEEN'S PLAISANCE + XXVIII CHRISTMAS WITH QUEEN BESS + XXIX BACK TO GASTON CAREW + XXX AT THE FALCON INN + XXXI IN THE TWINKLING OF AN EYE + XXXII THE LAST OF GASTON CAREW + XXXIII CICELY DISAPPEARS + XXXIV THE BANDY-LEGGED MAN + XXXV A SUDDEN RESOLVE + XXXVI WAYFARING HOME + XXXVII TURNED ADRIFT +XXXVIII A STRANGE DAY + XXXIX ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL + + + + +LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS + + +"MASTER SKYLARK, THOU SHALT HAVE THY WISH," SAID QUEEN +ELIZABETH + +THE LORD ADMIRAL'S PLAYERS. THE TRUMPETERS AND THE +DRUMMERS LED, THEIR HORSES PRANCING, WHITE PLUMES +WAVING IN THE BREEZE + +"WHUR BE-EST GOING, NICK?" ASKED ROGER DAWSON + +"WHAT! HOW NOW?" CRIED THE STRANGER, SHARPLY. "DOST +LIKE OR LIKE ME NOT?" + +"NICK THOUGHT OF HIS MOTHER'S SINGING ON A SUMMER'S EVENING--DREW +A DEEP BREATH AND BEGAN TO SING + +"NOBODY BREAKS NOBODY'S HEARTS IN OLD JO-OHN SMITHSES +SHO-OP," DRAWLED THE SMITH, IN HIS DEEP VOICE; "NOR +STEALS NOBODY, NOTHER" + +"DICCON HAD OFTEN MADE NICK WHISTLES FROM THE WILLOWS +ALONG THE AVON WHEN NICK WAS A TODDLER" + +NICK PUT ONE LEG OVER THE SILL AND LOOKED BACK + +"OH, NICK, THOU ART MOST BEAUTIFUL TO SEE!" CRIED CICELY + +"THAT VOICE, THAT VOICE!" NAT GILES PANTED TO HIMSELF + +NICK GAVE THE SILVER BUCKLE FROM HIS CLOAK TO A BOY WHO +STOOD CRYING WITH COLD AND HUNGER IN THE STREET + +SO NICK RODE HOME UPON THE BACK OF THE EARL OF ARUNDEL'S +MAN-AT-ARMS + +"WHY, SIR, I'LL SING FOR THEE NOW," SAID NICK, CHOKING + +"DO NA THOU STRIKE ME AGAIN, THOU ROGUE!" SAID NICK + +"OH, NICK, WHAT Is IT?" SHE CRIED + +MASTER SHAKSPERE MET THEM WITH OUTSTRETCHED HANDS + + + + +MASTER SKYLARK + + + +CHAPTER I + + +THE LORD ADMIRAL'S PLAYERS + +There was an unwonted buzzing in the east end of Stratford on that next +to the last day of April, 1596. It was as if some one had thrust a stick +into a hive of bees and they had come whirling out to see. + +The low stone guard-wall of old Clopton bridge, built a hundred years +before by rich Sir Hugh, sometime Mayor of London, was lined with +straddling boys, like strawberries upon a spear of grass, and along the +low causeway from the west across the lowland to the town, brown-faced, +barefoot youngsters sat beside the roadway with their chubby legs +a-dangle down the mossy stones, staring away into the south across the +grassy levels of the valley of the Stour. + +Punts were poling slowly up the Avon to the bridge; and at the outlets +of the town, where the streets came down to the waterside among the +weeds, little knots of men and serving-maids stood looking into the +south and listening. Some had waited for an hour, some for two; yet +still there was no sound but the piping of the birds in white-thorn +hedges, the hollow lowing of kine knee-deep in grassy meadows, and the +long rush of the river through the sedge beside the pebbly shore; and +naught to see but quiet valleys, primrose lanes, and Warwick orchards +white with bloom, stretching away to the misty hills. + +But still they stood and looked and listened. + +The wind came stealing up out of the south, soft and warm and sweet and +still, moving the ripples upon the river with gray gusts; and, scudding +free before the wind, a dog came trotting up the road with wet pink +tongue and sidelong gait. At the throat of Clopton bridge he stopped and +scanned the way with dubious eye, then clapped his tail between his legs +and bolted for the town. The laughing shout that followed him into the +Warwick road seemed not to die away, but to linger in the air like the +drowsy hum of bees--a hum that came and went at intervals upon the +shifting wind, and grew by littles, taking body till it came unbroken as +a long, low, distance-muffled murmur from the south, so faint as +scarcely to be heard. + +Nick Attwood pricked his keen young ears. "They're coming, Robin--hark +'e to the trampling!" + +Robin Getley held his breath and turned his ear toward the south. The +far-off murmur was a mutter now, defined and positive, and, as the two +friends listened, grew into a drumming roll, and all at once above it +came a shrill, high sound like the buzzing of a gnat close by the ear. + +Little Tom Davenant dropped from the finger-post, and came running up +from the fork of the Banbury road, his feet making little white puffs in +the dust as he flew. "They are coming! they are coming!" he shrieked +as he ran. + +Then up to his feet sprang Robin Getley, upon the saddle-backed +coping-stones, his hand upon Nick Attwood's head to steady himself, and +looked away where the rippling Stour ran like a thread of silver beside +the dust-buff London road, and the little church of Atherstone stood +blue against the rolling Cotswold Hills. + +"They are coming! they are coming!" shrilled little Tom, and scrambled +up the coping like a squirrel up a rail. + +A stir ran out along the guard-wall, some crying out, some starting up. +"Sit down! sit down!" cried others, peering askance at the water +gurgling green down below. "Sit down, or we shall all be off!" + +Robin held his hand above his eyes. A cloud of dust was rising from the +London road and drifting off across the fields like smoke when the old +ricks burn in damp weather--a long, broad-sheeted mist; and in it were +bits of moving gold, shreds of bright colors vaguely seen, and silvery +gleams like the glitter of polished metal in the sun. And as he looked +the shifty wind came down out of the west again and whirled the cloud of +dust away, and there he saw a long line of men upon horses coming at an +easy canter up the highway. Just as he had made this out the line came +rattling to a stop, the distant drumming of hoofs was still, and as the +long file knotted itself into a rosette of ruddy color amid the April +green, a clear, shrill trumpet blew and blew again. + +"They are coming!" shouted Robin, "they are coming!" and, turning, waved +his cap. + +A shout went up along the bridge. Those down below came clambering up, +the punts came poling with a rush of foam, and a ripple ran along the +edge of Stratford town like the wind through a field of wheat. Windows +creaked and doors swung wide, and the workmen stopped in the +garden-plots to lean upon their mattocks and to look. + +"They are coming!" bellowed Rafe Hickathrift, the butcher's boy, +standing far out in the street, with his red hands to his mouth for a +trumpet, "they are coming!" and at that the doors of Bridge street grew +alive with eager eyes. + +At early dawn the Oxford carrier had brought the news that the players +of the Lord High Admiral were coming up to Stratford out of London from +the south, to play on May-day there; and this was what had set the town +to buzzing like a swarm. For there were in England then but three great +companies, the High Chamberlain's, the Earl of Pembroke's men, and the +stage-players of my Lord Charles Howard, High Admiral of the Realm; and +the day on which they came into a Midland market-town to play was one to +mark with red and gold upon the calendar of the uneventful year. + +Away by the old mill-bridge there were fishermen angling for dace and +perch; but when the shout came down from the London road they dropped +their poles and ran, through the willows and over the gravel, splashing +and thrashing among the rushes and sandy shallows, not to be last when +the players came. And old John Carter coming down the Warwick road with +a load of hay, laid on the lash until piebald Dobbin snorted in dismay +and broke into a lumbering run to reach the old stone bridge in time. + +The distant horsemen now were coming on again, riding in double file. +They had flung their banners to the breeze, and on the changing wind, +with the thumping of horses' hoofs, came by snatches the sound of a +kettledrummer drawing his drumhead tight, and beating as he drew, and +the muffled blasts of a trumpeter proving his lips. + +Fynes Morrison and Walter Stirley, who had gone to Cowslip lane to meet +the march, were running on ahead, and shouting as they ran: "There's +forty men, and sumpter-mules! and, oh, the bravest banners and +attire--and the trumpets are a cloth-yard long! Make room for us, make +room for us, and let us up!" + +A bowshot off, the trumpets blew a blast so high, so clear, so keen, +that it seemed a flame of fire in the air, and as the brassy fanfare +died away across the roofs of the quiet town, the kettledrums clanged, +the cymbals clashed, and all the company began to sing the famous old +song of the hunt: + + "The hunt is up, the hunt is up, + Sing merrily we, the hunt is up! + The wild birds sing, + The dun deer fling, + The forest aisles with music ring! + Tantara, tantara, tantara! + + "Then ride along, ride along, + Stout and strong! + Farewell to grief and care; + With a rollicking cheer + For the high dun deer + And a life in the open air! + Tantara, the hunt is up, lads; + Tantara, the bugles bray! + Tantara, tantara, tantara, + Hio, hark away!" + +The first of the riders had reached old Clopton bridge, and the banners +strained upon their staves in the freshening river-wind. The trumpeters +and the drummers led, their horses prancing, white plumes waving in the +breeze, and the April sunlight dancing on the brazen horns and the +silver bellies of the kettledrums. + +Then came the banners of the company, curling down with a silky swish, +and unfurling again with a snap, like a broad-lashed whip. The greatest +one was rosy red, and on it was a gallant ship upon a flowing sea, +bearing upon its mainsail the arms of my Lord Charles Howard, High +Admiral of England. Upon its mate was a giant-bearded man with a fish's +tail, holding a trident in his hand and blowing upon a shell, the Triton +of the seas which England ruled; this flag was bright sea-blue. The +third was white, and on it was a red wild rose with a golden heart, the +common standard of the company. + +[Illustration: THE LORD ADMIRAL'S PLAYERS. "THE TRUMPETERS AND THE +DRUMMERS LED, THEIR HORSES PRANCING, WHITE PLUMES WAVING IN THE BREEZE."] + +After the flags came twoscore men, the players of the Admiral, the +tiring-men, grooms, horse-boys, and serving-knaves, well mounted on good +horses, and all of them clad in scarlet tabards blazoned with the +coat-armor of their master. Upon their caps they wore the famous badge +of the Howards, a rampant silver demi-lion; and beneath their tabards at +the side could be seen their jerkins of many-colored silk, their +silver-buckled belts, and long, thin Spanish rapiers, slapping their +horses on the flanks at every stride. Their legs were cased in +high-topped riding-boots of tawny cordovan, with gilt spurs, and the +housings of their saddles were of blue with the gilt anchors of the +admiralty upon them. On their bridles were jingling bits of steel, which +made a constant tinkling, like a thousand little bells very far away. + +Some had faces smooth as boys and were quite young; and others wore +sharp-pointed beards with stiff-waxed mustaches, and were older men, +with a tinge of iron in their hair and lines of iron in their faces, +hardened by the life they led; and some, again, were smooth-shaven, so +often and so closely that their faces were blue with the beard beneath +the skin. But, oh, to Nicholas Attwood and the rest of Stratford boys, +they were a dashing, rakish, admirable lot, with the air of something +even greater than lords, and a keen knowingness in their sparkling, +worldly eyes that made a common wise man seem almost a fool beside them! + +And so they came riding up out of the south: + + "Then ride along, ride along, + Stout and strong! + Farewell to grief and care; + With a rollicking cheer + For the high dun deer + And a life in the open air!" + +"Hurrah! hurrah! God save the Queen!" + +A dropping shout went up the street like an arrow-flight scattering over +the throng; and the players, waving their scarlet caps until the long +line tossed like a poppy-garden in a summer rain, gave a cheer that +fairly set the crockery to dancing upon the shelves of the stalls in +Middle Bow. + +"Hurrah!" shouted Nicholas Attwood, his blue eyes shining with delight. +"Hurrah, hurrah, for the Admiral's men!" And high in the air he threw +his cap, as a wild cheer broke from the eddying crowd, and the arches of +the long gray bridge rang hollow with the tread of hoofs. Whiff, came +the wind; down dropped the hat upon the very saddle-peak of one tall +fellow riding along among the rest. Catching it quickly as it fell, he +laughed and tossed it back; and when Nick caught it whirling in the air, +a shilling jingled from it to the ground. + +Then up Fore Bridge street they all trooped after into Stratford town. + +"Oh," cried Robin, "it is brave, brave!" + +"Brave?" cried Nick. "It makes my very heart jump. And see, Robin, 'tis +a shilling, a real silver shilling--oh, what fellows they all be! Hurrah +for the Lord High Admiral's men!" + + + + +CHAPTER II + + +NICHOLAS ATTWOOD'S HOME + +Nick Attwood's father came home that night bitterly wroth. + +The burgesses of the town council had ordered him to build a chimney +upon his house, or pay ten shillings fine; and shillings were none too +plenty with Simon Attwood, the tanner of Old Town. + +"Soul and body o' man!" said he, "they talk as if they owned the world, +and a man could na live upon it save by their leave. I must build my +fire in a pipe, or pay ten shillings fine? Things ha' come to a pretty +pass--a pretty pass, indeed!" He kicked the rushes that were strewn upon +the floor, and ground the clay with his heel. "This litter will ha' to +be all took out. Atkins will be here at six i' the morning to do the +job, and a lovely mess he will make o' the house!" + +"Do na fret thee, Simon," said Mistress Attwood, gently. "The rushes +need a changing, and I ha' pined this long while to lay the floor wi' +new clay from Shottery common. 'Tis the sweetest earth! Nick shall take +the hangings down, and right things up when the chimley 's done." + +So at cockcrow next morning Nick slipped out of his straw bed, into his +clothes, and down the winding stair, while his parents were still asleep +in the loft, and, sousing his head in the bucket at the well, began his +work before the old town clock in the chapel tower had yet struck four. + +The rushes had not been changed since Easter, and were full of dust and +grease from the cooking and the table. Even the fresher sprigs of mint +among them smelled stale and old. When they were all in the barrow, Nick +sighed with relief and wiped his hands upon the dripping grass. + +It had rained in the night,--a soft, warm rain,--and the air was full of +the smell of the apple-bloom and pear from the little orchard behind the +house. The bees were already humming about the straw-bound hives along +the garden wall, and a misguided green woodpecker clung upside down to +the eaves, and thumped at the beams of the house. + +It was very still there in the gray of the dawn. He could hear the rush +of the water through the sedge in the mill-race, and then, all at once, +the roll of the wheel, the low rumble of the mill-gear, and the cool +whisper of the wind in the willows. + +When he went back into the house again the painted cloths upon the wall +seemed dingier than ever compared with the clean, bright world outside. +The sky-blue coat of the Prodigal Son was brown with the winter's smoke; +the Red Sea towered above Pharaoh's ill-starred host like an inky +mountain; and the homely maxims on the next breadth--"Do no Wrong," +"Beware of Sloth," "Overcome Pride," and "Keep an Eye on the +Pence"--could scarcely be read. + +Nick jumped up on the three-legged stool and began to take them down. +The nails were crooked and jammed in the wall, and the last came out +with an unexpected jerk. Losing his balance, Nick caught at the +table-board which leaned against the wall; but the stool capsized, and +he came down on the floor with such a flap of tapestry that the ashes +flew out all over the room. + +He sat up dazed, and rubbed his elbows, then looked around and began to +laugh. + +He could hear heavy footsteps overhead. A door opened, and his father's +voice called sternly from the head of the stair: "What madcap folly art +thou up to now?" + +"I be up to no folly at all," said Nick, "but down, sir. I fell from the +stool. There is no harm done." + +"Then be about thy business," said Attwood, coming slowly down the +stairs. + +He was a gaunt man, smelling of leather and untanned hides. His short +iron-gray hair grew low down upon his forehead, and his hooked nose, +grim wide mouth, and heavy under jaw gave him a look at once forbidding +and severe. His doublet of serge and his fustian hose were stained with +liquor from the vats, and his eyes were heavy with sleep. + +The smile faded from Nick's face. "Shall I throw the rushes into the +street, sir?" "Nay; take them to the muck-hill. The burgesses ha' made +a great to-do about folk throwing trash into the highways. Soul and body +o' man!" he growled, "a man must ask if he may breathe. And good hides +going a-begging, too!" + +Nick hurried away, for he dreaded his father's sullen moods. + +The swine were squealing in their styes, the cattle bawled about the +straw-thatched barns in Chapel lane, and long files of gabbling ducks +waddled hurriedly down to the river through the primroses under the +hedge. He could hear the milkmaids calling in the meadows; and when he +trundled slowly home the smoke was creeping up in pale-blue threads from +the draught-holes in the wall. + +The tanner's house stood a little back from the thoroughfare, in that +part of Stratford-on-Avon where the south end of Church street turns +from Bull lane toward the river. It was roughly built of timber and +plaster, the black beams showing through the yellow lime in curious +squares and triangles. The roof was of red tiles, and where the +spreading elms leaned over it the peaked gable was green with moss. + +At the side of the house was a garden of lettuce; beyond the garden a +rough wall on which the grass was growing. Sometimes wild primroses grew +on top of this wall, and once a yellow daffodil. Beyond the wall were +other gardens owned by thrifty neighbors, and open lands in common to +them all, where foot-paths wandered here and there in a free, +haphazard way. + +Behind the house was a well and a wood-pile, and along the lane ran a +whitewashed paling fence with a little gate, from which the path went up +to the door through rows of bright, old-fashioned flowers. + +Nick's mother was getting the breakfast. She was a gentle woman with a +sweet, kind face, and a little air of quiet dignity that made her doubly +dear to Nick by contrast with his father's unkempt ways. He used to +think that, in her worsted gown, with its falling collar of Antwerp +linen, and a soft, silken coif upon her fading hair, she was the most +beautiful woman in all the world. + +She put one arm about his shoulders, brushed back his curly hair, and +kissed him on the forehead. + +"Thou art mine own good little son," said she, tenderly, "and I will +bake thee a cake in the new chimley on the morrow for thy +May-day-feast." + +Then she helped him fetch the trestles from the buttery, set the board, +spread the cloth, and lay the wooden platters, pewter cups, and old horn +spoons in place. Breakfast being ready, she then called his father from +the yard. Nick waited deftly upon them both, so that they were soon done +with the simple meal of rye-bread, lettuce, cheese, and milk. + +As he carried away the empty platters and brought water and a towel for +them to wash their hands, he said quietly, although his eyes were bright +and eager, "The Lord High Admiral's company is to act a stage-play at +the guildhall to-morrow before Master Davenant the Mayor and the town +burgesses." + +Simon Attwood said nothing, but his brows drew down. + +"They came yestreen from London town by Oxford way to play in Stratford +and at Coventry, and are at the Swan Inn with Master Geoffrey +Inchbold--oh, ever so many of them, in scarlet jerkins, and cloth of +gold, and doublets of silk laced up like any lord! It is a very good +company, they say." + +Mistress Attwood looked quickly at her husband. "What will they play?" +she asked. + +"I can na say surely, mother--'Tamburlane,' perhaps, or 'The Troublesome +Reign of Old King John.' The play will be free, father--may I go, sir?" + +"And lose thy time from school?" + +"There is no school to-morrow, sir." + +"Then have ye naught to do, that ye waste the day in idle folly?" asked +the tanner, sternly. + +"I will do my work beforehand, sir," replied Nick, quietly, though his +hand trembled a little as he brushed up the crumbs. + +"It is May-day, Simon," interceded Mistress Attwood, "and a bit of +pleasure will na harm the lad." + +"Pleasure?" said the tanner, sharply. "If he does na find pleasure +enough in his work, his book, and his home, he shall na seek it of low +rogues and strolling scape-graces." + +"But, Simon," said Mistress Attwood, "'tis the Lord Admiral's own +company--surely they are not all graceless! And," she continued with +very quiet dignity, "since mine own cousin Anne Hathaway married Will +Shakspere the play-actor, 'tis scarcely kind to call all players +rogues and low." + +"No more o' this, Margaret," cried Attwood, flushing angrily. "Thou art +ever too ready with the boy's part against me. He shall na go--I'll find +a thing or two for him to do among the vats that will take this taste +for idleness out of his mouth. He shall na go: so that be all there is +on it." Rising abruptly, he left the room. + +Nick clenched his hands. + +"Nicholas," said his mother, softly. + +"Yes, mother," said he; "I know. But he should na flout thee so! And, +mother, the Queen goes to the play--father himself saw her at Coventry +ten years ago. Is what the Queen does idle folly?" + +His mother took him by the hand and drew him to her side, with a smile +that was half a sigh. "Art thou the Queen?" + +"Nay," said he; "and it's all the better for England, like enough. But +surely, mother, it can na be wrong--" + +"To honour thy father?" said she, quickly, laying her finger across his +lips. "Nay, lad; it is thy bounden duty." + +Nick turned and looked up at her wonderingly. "Mother," said he, "art +thou an angel come down out of heaven?" + +"Nay," she answered, patting his flushed cheek; "I be only the every-day +mother of a fierce little son who hath many a hard, hard lesson to +learn. Now eat thy breakfast--thou hast been up a long while." + +Nick kissed her impetuously and sat down, but his heart still rankled +within him. + +All Stratford would go to the play. He could hear the murmur of voices +and music, the bursts of laughter and applause, the tramp of happy feet +going up the guildhall stairs to the Mayor's show. Everybody went in +free at the Mayor's show. The other boys could stand on stools and see +it all. They could hold horses at the gate of the inn at the September +fair, and so see all the farces. They could see the famous Norwich +puppet-play. But he--what pleasure did he ever have? A tawdry pageant by +a lot of clumsy country bumpkins at Whitsuntide or Pentecost, or a silly +school-boy masque at Christmas, with the master scolding like a heathen +Turk. It was not fair. + +And now he'd have to work all May-day. May-day out of all the year! Why, +there was to be a May-pole and a morris-dance, and a roasted calf, too, +in Master Wainwright's field, since Margery was chosen Queen of the May. +And Peter Finch was to be Robin Hood, and Nan Rogers Maid Marian, and +wear a kirtle of Kendal green--and, oh, but the May-pole would be brave; +high as the ridge of the guildschool roof, and hung with ribbons like a +rainbow! Geoffrey Hall was to lead the dance, too, and the other boys +and girls would all be there. And where would he be? Sousing hides in +the tannery vats. Truly his father was a hard man! + +He pushed the cheese away. + + + + +CHAPTER III + + +THE LAST STRAW + +Little John Summer had a new horn-book that cost a silver penny. The +handle was carven and the horn was clear as honey. The other little boys +stood round about in speechless envy, or murmured their A B C's and "ba +be bi's" along the chapel steps. The lower-form boys were playing +leap-frog past the almshouse, and Geoffrey Gosse and the vicar's son +were in the public gravel-pit, throwing stones at the robins in the +Great House elms across the lane. + +Some few dull fellows sat upon the steps behind the school-house, +anxiously poring over their books. But the larger boys of the Fable +Class stood in an excited group beneath the shadow of the overhanging +second story of the grammar-school, talking all at once, each louder +than the other, until the noise was deafening. + +"Oh, Nick, such goings on!" called Robin Getley, whose father was a +burgess, as Nick Attwood came slowly up the street, saying his sentences +for the day over and over to himself in hopeless desperation, having had +no time to learn them at home. "Stratford Council has had a quarrel, +and there's to be no stage-play after all." + +"What?" cried Nick, in amazement. "No stage-play? And why not?" + +"Why," said Robin, "it was just this way--my father told me of it. Sir +Thomas Lucy, High Sheriff of Worcester, y' know, rode in from Charlcote +yesternoon, and with him Sir Edward Greville of Milcote. So the +burgesses made a feast for them at the Swan Inn. Sir Thomas fetched a +fine, fat buck, and the town stood good for ninepence wine and twopence +bread, and broached a keg of sturgeon. And when they were all met +together there, eating, and drinking, and making merry--what? Why, in +came my Lord Admiral's players from London town, ruffling it like high +dukes, and not caring two pops for Sir Thomas, or Sir Edward, or for +Stratford burgesses all in a heap; but sat them down at the table +straightway, and called for ale, as if they owned the place; and not +being served as soon as they desired, they laid hands upon Sir Thomas's +server as he came in from the buttery with his tray full, and took both +meat and drink." + +"What?" cried Nick. + +"As sure as shooting, they did!" said Robin; "and when Sir Thomas's +gentry yeomen would have seen to it--what? Why, my Lord Admiral's +master-player clapped his hand to his poniard-hilt, and dared them come +and take it if they could." + +"To Sir Thomas Lucy's men?" exclaimed Nick, aghast. + +"Ay, to their teeth! Sir Edward sprang up then, and said it was a shame +for players to behave so outrageously in Will Shakspere's own home town. +And at that Sir Thomas, who, y' know, has always misliked Will, flared +up like a bull at a red rag, and swore that all stage-players be +runagate rogues, anyway, and Will Shakspere neither more nor less than a +deer-stealing scape-gallows." + +"Surely he did na say that in Stratford Council?" protested Nick. + +"Ay, but he did--that very thing," said Robin; "and when that was out, +the master-player sprang upon the table, overturning half the ale, and +cried out that Will Shakspere was his very own true friend, and the +sweetest fellow in all England, and that whosoever gainsaid it was a +hemp-cracking rascal, and that he would prove it upon his back with a +quarter-staff whenever and wherever he chose, be he Sir Thomas Lucy, St. +George and the Dragon, Guy of Warwick, and the great dun cow, all rolled +up in one!" + +"Robin Getley, is this the very truth, or art thou cozening me?" + +"Upon my word, it is the truth," said Robin. "And that's not all. Sir +Edward cried out 'Fie!' upon the player for a saucy varlet; but the +fellow only laughed, and bowed quite low, and said that he took no +offense from Sir Edward for saying that, since it could not honestly be +denied, but that Sir Thomas did not know the truth from a truckle-bed in +broad daylight, and was but the remnant of a gentleman to boot." + +"The bold-faced rogue!" + +"Ay, that he is," nodded Robin; "and for his boldness Sir Thomas +straightway demanded that the High Bailiff refuse the company license to +play in Stratford." + +"Refuse the Lord High Admiral's players?" + +"Marry, no one else. And then Master John Shakspere, wroth at what Sir +Thomas had said of his son Will, vowed that he would send a letter down +to London town, and lay the whole coil before the Lord High Admiral +himself. For ever since that he was High Bailiff, the best companies of +England had always been bidden to play in Stratford, and it would be an +ill thing now to refuse the Lord Admiral's company after granting +licenses to both my Lord Pembroke's and the High Chamberlain's." + +"And so it would," spoke up Walter Roche; "for there are our own +townsmen, Richard and Cuthbert Burbage, who are cousins of mine, and +John Hemynge and Thomas Greene, besides Will Shakspere and his brother +Edmund, all playing in the Lord Chamberlain's company in London before +the Queen. It would be a black score against them all with the Lord +Admiral--I doubt not he would pay them out." + +"That he would," said Robin, "and so said my father and Alderman Henry +Walker, who, y' know, is Will Shakspere's own friend. And some of the +burgesses who cared not a rap for that were afeard of offending the Lord +Admiral. But Sir Thomas vowed that my Lord Howard was at Cadiz with +Walter Raleigh and the young Earl of Sussex, and would by no means hear +of it. So Master Bailiff Stubbes, who, 'tis said, doth owe Sir Thomas +forty pound, and is therefore under his thumb, forthwith refused the +company license to play in Stratford guildhall, inn-yard, or common. And +at that the master-player threw his glove into Master Stubbes's face, +and called Sir Thomas a stupid old bell-wether, and Stratford burgesses +silly sheep for following wherever he chose to jump." + +"And so they be," sneered Hal Saddler. + +"How?" cried Robin, hotly. "My father is a burgess. Dost thou call him a +sheep, Hal Saddler?" + +"Nay, nay," stammered Hal, hastily; "'twas not thy father I meant." + +"Then hold thy tongue with both hands," said Robin, sharply, "or it will +crack thy pate for thee some of these fine days." + +"But come, Robin," asked Nick, eagerly, "what became of the quarrel?" + +"Well, when the master-player threw his glove into Master Stubbes's +face, the Chief Constable seized him for contempt of Stratford Council, +and held him for trial. At that some cried 'Shame!' and some 'Hurrah!' +but the rest of the players fled out of town in the night, lest their +baggage be taken by the law and they be fined." + +"Whither did they go?" asked Nick, both sorry and glad to hear that they +were gone. + +"To Coventry, and left the master-player behind in gaol." + +"Why, they dare na use him so--the Lord Admiral's own man!" + +"Ay, that they don't! Why, hark 'e, Nick! This morning, since Sir +Thomas has gone home, and the burgesses' heads have all cooled down from +the sack and the clary they were in last night, la! but they are in a +pretty stew, my father says, for fear that they have given offense to +the Lord Admiral. So they have spoken the master-player softly, and +given him his freedom out of hand, and a long gold chain to twine about +his cap, to mend the matter with, beside." + +"Whee-ew!" whistled Nick. "I wish I were a master-player!" + +"Oh, but he will not be pleased, and says he will have his revenge on +Stratford town if he must needs wait until the end of the world or go to +the Indies after it. And he has had his breakfast served in Master +Geoffrey Inchbold's own room at the Swan, and swears that he will walk +the whole way to Coventry sooner than straddle the horse that the +burgesses have sent him to ride." + +"What! Is he at the inn? Why, let's go down and see him." + +"Master Brunswood says that he will birch whoever cometh late," objected +Hal Saddler. + +"Birch?" groaned Nick. "Why, he does nothing but birch! A fellow can na +say his '_sum, es, est_' without catching it. And as for getting through +the 'genitivo' and 'vocativo' without a downright threshing--" He +shrugged his shoulders ruefully as he remembered his unlearned lesson. +Everything had gone wrong with him that morning, and the thought of the +birching that he was sure to get was more than he could bear. "I will +na stand it any longer--I'll run away!" + +Kit Sedgewick laughed ironically. "And when the skies fall we'll catch +sparrows, Nick Attwood," said he. "Whither wilt thou run?" + +Stung by his tone of ridicule, Nick out with the first thing that came +into his head. "To Coventry, after the stage-players," said he, +defiantly. + +The whole crowd gave an incredulous hoot. + +Nick's face flushed. To be crossed at home, to be birched at school, to +work all May-day in the tannery vats, and to be laughed at--it was +too much. + +"Ye think that I will na? Well, I'll show ye! 'Tis only eight miles to +Warwick, and hardly more than that beyond--no walk at all; and Diccon +Haggard, my mother's cousin, lives in Coventry. So out upon your musty +Latin--English is good enough for me this day! There's bluebells blowing +in the dingles, and cuckoo-buds no end. And while ye are all grinding at +your old Aesop I shall be roaming over the hills wherever I please." + +As he spoke he thought of the dark, wainscoted walls of the school-room +with their narrow little windows overhead, of the foul-smelling floors +of the tannery in Southam's lane, and his heart gave a great, rebellious +leap. "Ay," said he, exultantly, "I shall be out where the birds can +sing and the grass is green, and I shall see the stage-play, while ye +will be mewed up all day long in school, and have nothing but a beggarly +morris and a farthing May-pole on the morrow." + +"Oh, no doubt, no doubt," said Hal Saddler, mockingly "We shall have +but bread and milk, and thou shalt have--a most glorious threshing from +thy father when thou comest home again!" + +That was the last straw to Nick's unhappy heart. + +"'Tis a threshing either way," said he, squaring his shoulders +doggedly. "Father will thresh me if I run away, and Master Brunswood +will thresh me if I don't. I'll not be birched four times a week for +merely tripping on a word, and have nothing to show for it but stripes. +If I must take a threshing, I'll have my good day's game out first." + +"But wilt thou truly go to Coventry, Nick?" asked Robin Getley, +earnestly, for he liked Nick more than all the rest. + +"Ay, truly, Robin--that I will"; and, turning, Nick walked swiftly away +toward the market-place, never looking back. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +OFF FOR COVENTRY + +At the Bridge street crossing Nick paused irresolute. Around the public +pump a chattering throng of housewives were washing out their towels and +hanging them upon the market-cross to dry. Along the stalls in Middle +Row the grumbling shopmen were casting up their sales from tallies +chalked upon their window-ledges, or cuffing their tardy apprentices +with no light hand. + +John Gibson's cart was hauling gravel from the pits in Henley street to +mend the causeway at the bridge, which had been badly washed by the late +spring floods, and the fine sand dribbled from the cart-tail like the +sand in an hour-glass. + +Here and there loutish farm-hands waited for work; and at the corner two +or three stout cudgel-men leaned upon their long staves, although the +market was two days closed, and there was not a Coventry merchant in +sight to be driven away from Stratford trade. + +Goody Baker with her shovel and broom of twigs was sweeping up the +market litter in the square. Nick wondered if his own mother's back +would be so bent when she grew old. + +"Whur be-est going, Nick?" + +Roger Dawson sat astride a stick of timber in front of Master Geoffrey +Thompson's new house, watching Tom Carpenter the carver cut fleur-de-lis +and curling traceries upon the front wall beams. He was a +tenant-farmer's son, this Roger, and a likely good-for-naught. + +"To Coventry," said Nick, curtly. + +"Wilt take a fellow wi' thee?" + +Poor company might be better than none. + +"Come on." + +Roger lumbered to his feet and trotted after. + +"No school to-day?" he asked. + +"Not for me," answered Nick, shortly, for he did not care to talk about +it. + +"Faither wull na have I go to school, since us ha' comed to town, an' +plough-land sold for grazings," drawled Roger; "Muster Pine o' Welford +saith that I ha' learned as much as faither ever knowed, an' 'tis enow +for I. Faither saith it maketh saucy rogues o' sons to know more than +they's own dads." + +Nick wondered if it did. His own father could neither read nor write, +while he could do both and had some Latin, too. At the thought of the +Latin he made a wry face. + +"Joe Carter be-eth in the stocks," said Roger, peering through the +jeering crowd about the pillory and post; "a broke Tom Samson's pate wi' +'s ale-can yestreen." + +[Illustration: "'WHUR BE-EST GOING, NICK?' ASKED ROGER DAWSON."] + +But Nick pushed on. A few ruddy-faced farmers and drovers from the +Bed Horse Vale still lingered at the Boar Inn door and by the tap-room +of the Crown; and in the middle of the street a crowd of salters, +butchers, and dealers in hides, with tallow-smeared doublets and +doubtful hose, were squabbling loudly about the prices set upon +their wares. + +In the midst of them Nick saw his father, and scurried away into Back +Bridge street as fast as he could, feeling very near a sneak, but far +from altering his purpose. + +"Job Hortop," said Simon Attwood to his apprentice at his side, looking +out suddenly over the crowd, "was that my Nick yonder?" + +"Nay, master, could na been," said Job, stolidly; "Nick be-eth in school +by now--the clock ha' struck. 'Twas Dawson's Hodge and some like +ne'er-do-well." + + + + +CHAPTER V + + +IN THE WARWICK ROAD + +The land was full of morning sounds as the lads trudged along the +Warwick road together. An ax rang somewhere deep in the woods of Arden; +cart-wheels ruttled on the stony road; a blackbird whistled shrilly in +the hedge, and they heard the deep-tongued belling of hounds far off in +Fulbroke park. + +Now and then a heron, rising from the river, trailed its long legs +across the sky, or a kingfisher sparkled in his own splash. Once a +lonely fisherman down by the Avon started a wild duck from the sedge, +and away it went pattering up-stream with frightened wings and red feet +running along the water. And then a river-rat plumped into the stream +beneath the willows, and left a long string of bubbles behind him. + +Nick's ill humor soon wore off as he breathed the fresh air, moist from +lush meadows, and sweet from hedges pink and white with hawthorn bloom. +The thought of being pent up on such a day grew more and more +unbearable, and a blithe sense of freedom from all restraint blunted the +prick of conscience. + +"Why art going to Coventry, Nick?" inquired Roger suddenly, startled by +a thought coming into his wits like a child by a bat in the room. + +"To see the stage-play that the burgesses would na allow in Stratford." + +"Wull I see, too?" + +"If thou hast eyes--the Mayor's show is free." + +"Oh, feckins, wun't it be fine?" gaped Hodge. "Be it a tailors' show, +Nick, wi' Herod the King, and a rope for to hang Judas? An' wull they +set the world afire wi' a torch, an' make the earth quake fearful wi' a +barrel full o' stones? Or wull it be Sin in a motley gown a-thumping the +Black Man over the pate wi' a bladder full o' peasen--an' angels wi' +silver wingses, an' saints wi' goolden hair? Or wull it be a giant nine +yards high, clad in the beards o' murdered kings, like granny saith she +used to see?" + +"Pshaw! no," said Nick; "none of those old-fashioned things. These be +players from London town, and I hope they'll play a right good English +history-play, like 'The Famous Victories of Henry Fift,' to turn a +fellow's legs all goose-flesh!" + +Hodge stopped short in the road. "La!" said he, "I'll go no furder if +they turn me to a goose. I wunnot be turned goose, Nick Attwood--an' a +plague on all witches, says I!" + +"Oh, pshaw!" laughed Nick; "come on. No witch in the world could turn +thee bigger goose than thou art now. Come along wi' thee; there be no +witches there at all." + +"Art sure thou 'rt not bedaffing me?" hesitated Hodge. "Good, then; I +be na feared. Art sure there be no witches?" + +"Why," said Nick, "would Master Burgess John Shakspere leave his son +Will to do with witches?" + +"I dunno," faltered Hodge; "a told Muster Robin Bowles it was na right +to drownd 'em in the river." + +Nick hesitated. "Maybe it kills the fish," said he; "and Master Will +Shakspere always liked to fish. But they burn witches in London, Hodge, +and he has na put a stop to it--and he's a great man in London town." + +Hodge came on a little way, shaking his head like an old sheep in a +corner. "Wully Shaxper a great man?" said he. "Why, a's name be cut on +the old beech-tree up Snitterfield lane, where's uncle Henry Shaxper +lives, an' 'tis but poorly done. I could do better wi' my own whittle." + +"Ay, Hodge," cried Nick; "and that's about all thou canst do. Dost think +that a man's greatness hangs on so little a thing as his sleight of hand +at cutting his name on a tree?" + +"Wull, maybe; maybe not; but if a be a great man, Nick Attwood, a might +do a little thing passing well--so there, now!" + +Nick pondered for a moment. "I do na know," said he, slowly; "heaps of +men can do the little things, but parlous few the big. So some one must +be bigging it, or folks would all sing very small. And he doeth the big +most beautiful, they say. They call him the Swan of Avon." + +"Avon swans be mostly geese," said Hodge, vacantly. + +"Now, look 'e here, Hodge Dawson, don't thou be calling Master Will +Shakspere goose. He married my own mother's cousin, and I will na +have it." + +"La, now," drawled Hodge, staring, "'tis nowt to me. Thy Muster Wully +Shaxper may be all the long-necked fowls in Warrickshire for all I care. +And, anyway, I'd like to know, Nick Attwood, since when hath a been +'_Muster_ Shaxper'--that ne'er-do-well, play-actoring fellow?" + +"Ne'er-do-well? It is na so. When he was here last summer he was bravely +dressed, and had a heap of good gold nobles in his purse. And he gave +Rick Hawkins, that's blind of an eye, a shilling for only holding +his horse." + +"Oh, ay," drawled Hodge; "a fool and a's money be soon parted." + +"Will Shakspere is no fool," declared Nick, hotly. "He's made a peck o' +money there in London town, and 's going to buy the Great House in +Chapel lane, and come back here to live." + +"Then a 's a witless azzy!" blurted Hodge. "If a 's so great a man +amongst the lords and earlses, a 'd na come back to Stratford. An' I say +a 's a witless loon--so there!" + +Nick whirled around in the road. "And I say, Hodge Dawson," he exclaimed +with flashing eyes, "that 'tis a shame for a lout like thee to so +miscall thy thousand-time betters. And what's more, thou shalt unsay +that, or I will make thee swallow thy words right here and now!" + +"I'd loike to see thee try," Hodge began; but the words were scarcely +out of his mouth when he found himself stretched on the grass, Nick +Attwood bending over him. + +"There! thou hast seen it tried. Now come, take that back, or I will +surely box thine ears for thee." + +Hodge blinked and gaped, collecting his wits, which had scattered to the +four winds. "Whoy," said he, vaguely, "if 'tis all o' that to thee, I +take it back." + +Nick rose, and Hodge scrambled clumsily to his feet. "I'll na go wi' +thee," said he, sulkily; "I will na go whur I be whupped." + +Nick turned on his heel without a word, and started on. + +"An' what's more," bawled Hodge after him, "thy Muster Wully Shaxper +be-eth an old gray goose, an' boo to he, says I!" + +As he spoke he turned, dived through the thin hedge, and galloped across +the field as if an army were at his heels. + +Nick started back, but quickly paused. "Thou needst na run," he called; +"I've not the time to catch thee now. But mind ye this, Hodge Dawson: +when I do come back, I'll teach thee who thy betters be--Will Shakspere +first of all!" + +"Well crowed, well crowed, my jolly cockerel!" on a sudden called a +keen, high voice beyond the hedge behind him. + +Nick, startled, whirled about just in time to see a stranger leap the +hedge and come striding up the road. + + + + +CHAPTER VI + + +THE MASTER-PLAYER + +He had trim, straight legs, this stranger, and a slender, lithe body in +a tawny silken jerkin. Square-shouldered, too, was he, and over one +shoulder hung a plum-colored cloak bordered with gold braid. His long +hose were the color of his cloak, and his shoes were russet leather, +with rosettes of plum, and such high heels as Nick had never seen +before. His bonnet was of tawny velvet, with a chain twisted round it, +fastened by a jeweled brooch through which was thrust a curly +cock-feather. A fine white Holland-linen shirt peeped through his jerkin +at the throat, with a broad lace collar; and his short hair curled +crisply all over his head. He had a little pointed beard, and the ends +of his mustache were twisted so that they stood up fiercely on either +side of his sharp nose. At his side was a long Italian poniard in a +sheath of russet leather and silver filigree, and he had a reckless, +high and mighty fling about his stride that strangely took the eye. + +Nick stood, all taken by surprise, and stared. + +The stranger seemed to like it, but scowled nevertheless. "What! How +now?" he cried sharply. "Dost like or like me not?" + +"Why, sir," stammered Nick, utterly lost for anything to say--"why, +sir,--" and knowing nothing else to do, he took off his cap and bowed. + +"Come, come," snapped the stranger, stamping his foot, "I am a swashing, +ruffling, desperate Dick, and not to be made a common jest for Stratford +dolts to giggle at. What! These legs, that have put on the very gentleman +in proud Verona's streets, laid in Stratford's common stocks, like a +silly apprentice's slouching heels? Nay, nay; some one should taste old +Bless-his-heart here first!" and with that he clapped his hand upon the +hilt of his poniard, with a wonderful swaggering tilt of his shoulders. +"Dost take me, boy?" + +"Why, sir," hesitated Nick, no little awed by the stranger's wild words +and imperious way, "ye surely are the master-player." + +"There!" cried the stranger, whirling about, as if defying some one in +the hedge. "Who said I could not act? Why, see, he took me at a touch! +Say, boy," he laughed, and turned to Nick, "thou art no fool. Why, boy, +I say I love thee now for this, since what hath passed in Stratford. A +murrain on the town! Dost hear me, boy?--a black murrain on the town!" +And all at once he made such a fierce stride toward Nick, gritting his +white teeth, and clapping his hand upon his poniard, that Nick drew back +afraid of him. + +[Illustration: "'WHAT! HOW NOW?' CRIED THE STRANGER, SHARPLY. 'DOST LIKE +OR LIKE ME NOT?'"] + +"But nay," hissed the stranger, and spat with scorn, "a town like +that is its own murrain--let it sicken on itself!" + +He struck an attitude, and waved his hand as if he were talking quite as +much to the trees and sky as he was to Nick Attwood, and looked about +him as if waiting for applause. Then all at once he laughed,--a +rollicking, merry laugh,--and threw off his furious manner as one does +an old coat. "Well, boy," said he, with a quiet smile, looking kindly at +Nick, "thou art a right stanch little friend to all of us stage-players. +And I thank thee for it in Will Shakspere's name; for he is the sweetest +fellow of us all." + +His voice was simple, frank, and free--so different from the mad tone in +which he had just been ranting that Nick caught his breath +with surprise. + +"Nay, lad, look not so dashed," said the master-player, merrily; "that +was only old Jem Burbage's mighty tragic style; and I--I am only Gaston +Carew, hail-fellow-well-met with all true hearts. Be known to me, lad; +what is thy name? I like thy open, pretty face." + +Nick flushed. "Nicholas Attwood is my name, sir." + +"Nicholas Attwood? Why, it is a good name. Nick Attwood,--young Nick,--I +hope Old Nick will never catch thee--upon my word I do, and on the +remnant of mine honour! Thou hast taken a player's part like a man, and +thou art a good fellow, Nicholas Attwood, and I love thee. So thou art +going to Coventry to see the players act? Surely thine is a nimble wit +to follow fancy nineteen miles. Come; I am going to Coventry to join my +fellows. Wilt thou go with me, Nick, and dine with us this night at the +best inn in all Coventry--the Blue Boar? Thou hast quite plucked up my +downcast heart for me, lad, indeed thou hast; for I was sore of +Stratford town--and I shall not soon forget thy plucky fending for our +own sweet Will. Come, say thou wilt go with me." + +"Indeed, sir," said Nick, bowing again, his head all in a whirl of +excitement at this wonderful adventure, "indeed I will, and that right +gladly, sir." And with heart beating like a trip-hammer he walked along, +cap in hand, not knowing that his head was bare. + +The master-player laughed a simple, hearty laugh. "Why, Nick," said he, +laying his hand caressingly upon the boy's shoulder, "I am no such great +to-do as all that--upon my word, I'm not! A man of some few parts, +perhaps, not common in the world; but quite a plain fellow, after all. +Come, put off this high humility and be just friendly withal. Put on thy +cap; we are but two good faring-fellows here." + +So Nick put on his cap, and they went on together, Nick in the seventh +heaven of delight. + +About a mile beyond Stratford, Welcombe wood creeps down along the left. +Just beyond, the Dingles wind irregularly up from the foot-path below to +the crest of Welcombe hill, through straggling clumps and briery +hollows, sweet with nodding bluebells, ash, and hawthorn. + +Nick and the master-player paused a moment at the top to catch their +breath and to look back. + +Stratford and the valley of the Avon lay spread before them like a +picture of peace, studded with blossoming orchards and girdled with +spring. Northward the forest of Arden clad the rolling hills. Southward +the fields of Feldon stretched away to the blue knolls beyond which lay +Oxford and Northamptonshire. The ragged stretches of Snitterfield downs +scrambled away to the left; and on the right, beyond Bearley, were the +wooded uplands where Guy of Warwick and Heraud of Arden slew the wild ox +and the boar. And down through the midst ran the Avon southward, like a +silver ribbon slipped through Kendal green, to where the Stour comes +down, past Luddington, to Bidford, and away to the misty hills. + +"Why," exclaimed the master-player--"why, upon my word, it is a fair +town--as fair a town as the heart of man could wish. Wish? I wish 't +were sunken in the sea, with all its pack of fools! Why," said he, +turning wrathfully upon Nick, "that old Sir Thingumbob of thine, down +there, called me a caterpillar on the kingdom of England, a vagabond, +and a common player of interludes! Called me vagabond! Me! Why, I have +more good licenses than he has wits. And as to Master Bailiff Stubbes, I +have permits to play from more justices of the peace than he can shake a +stick at in a month of Sundays!" He shook his fist wrathfully at the +distant town, and gnawed his mustache until one side pointed up and the +other down. "But, hark 'e, boy, I'll have my vengeance on them all--ay, +that will I, upon my word, and on the remnant of mine honour--or else my +name's not Gaston Carew!" + +"Is it true, sir," asked Nick, hesitatingly, "that they despitefully +handled you?" + +"With their tongues, ay," said Carew, bitterly; "but not otherwise." He +clapped his hand upon his poniard, and threw back his head defiantly. +"They dared not come to blows--they knew my kind! Yet John Shakspere is +no bad sort--he knoweth what is what. But Master Bailiff Stubbes, I +ween, is a long-eared thing that brays for thistles. I'll thistle him! +He called Will Shakspere rogue. Hast ever looked through a red glass?" + +"Nay," said Nick. + +"Well, it turns the whole world red. And so it is with Master Stubbes. +He looks through a pair of rogue's eyes and sees the whole world rogue. +Why, boy," cried the master-player, vehemently, "he thought to buy my +tongue! Marry, if tongues were troubles he has bought himself a peck! +What! Buy my silence? Nay, he'll see a deadly flash of silence when I +come to my Lord the Admiral again!" + + + + +CHAPTER VII + + +"WELL SUNG, MASTER SKYLARK!" + +It was past high noon, and they had long since left Warwick castle far +behind. "Nicholas," said the master-player, in the middle of a stream of +amazing stories of life in London town, "there is Blacklow knoll." He +pointed to a little hill off to the left. + +Nick stared; he knew the tale: how grim old Guy de Beauchamp had Piers +Gaveston's head upon that hill for calling him the Black Hound of Arden. + +"Ah!" said Carew, "times have changed since then, boy, when thou couldst +have a man's head off for calling thee a name--or I would have yon +Master Bailiff Stubbes's head off short behind the ears--and Sir Thomas +Lucy's too!" he added, with a sudden flash of anger, gritting his teeth +and clenching his hand upon his poniard. "But, Nicholas, hast +anything to eat?" + +"Nothing at all, sir." + +Master Carew pulled from his pouch some barley-cakes and half a small +Banbury cheese, yellow as gold and with a keen, sharp savour. "'Tis +enough for both of us," said he, as they came to a shady little wood +with a clear, mossy-bottomed spring running down into a green meadow +with a mild noise, murmuring among the stones. "Come along, Nicholas; +we'll eat it under the trees." + +He had a small flask of wine, but Nick drank no wine, and went down to +the spring instead. There was a wild bird singing in a bush there, and +as he trotted down the slope it hushed its wandering tune. Nick took the +sound up softly, and stood by the wet stones a little while, imitating +the bird's trilling note, and laughing to hear it answer timidly, as if +it took him for some great new bird without wings. Cocking its shy head +and watching him shrewdly with its beady eye, it sat, almost persuaded +that it was only size which made them different, until Nick clapped his +cap upon his head and strolled back, singing as he went. + +It was only the thread of an old-fashioned madrigal which he had often +heard his mother sing, with quaint words long since gone out of style +and hardly to be understood, and between the staves a warbling, wordless +refrain which he had learned out on the hills and in the +fields, picked up from a bird's glad-throated morning-song. + +He had always sung the plain-tunes in church without taking any +particular thought about it; and he sang easily, with a clear young +voice which had a full, flute-like note in it like the high, sweet song +of a thrush singing in deep woods. + +Gaston Carew, the master-player, was sitting with his back against an +oak, placidly munching the last of the cheese, when Nick began to sing. +He started, straightening up as if some one had called him suddenly out +of a sound sleep, and, turning his head, listened eagerly. + +Nick mocked the wild bird, called again with a mellow, warbling trill, +and then struck up the quaint old madrigal with the bird's song running +through it. Carew leaped to his feet, with a flash in his dark eyes. "My +soul! my soul!" he exclaimed in an excited undertone. "It is not--nay, +it cannot be--why, 'tis--it is the boy! Upon my heart, he hath a skylark +prisoned in his throat! _Well sung, well sung, Master Skylark!"_ he +cried, clapping his hands in real delight, as Nick came singing up the +bank. "Why, lad, I vow I thought thou wert up in the sky somewhere, with +wings to thy back! Where didst thou learn that wonder-song?" + +Nick colored up, quite taken aback. "I do na know, sir," said he; +"mother learned me part, and the rest just came, I think, sir." + +The master-player, his whole face alive and eager, now stared at +Nicholas Attwood as fixedly as Nick had stared at him. + +It was a hearty little English lad he saw, about eleven years of age, +tall, slender, trimly built, and fair. A gray cloth cap clung to the +side of his curly yellow head, and he wore a sleeveless jerkin of +dark-blue serge, gray home-spun hose, and heelless shoes of russet +leather. The white sleeves of his linen shirt were open to the elbow, +and his arms were lithe and brown. His eyes were frankly clear and +blue, and his red mouth had a trick of smiling that went straight to a +body's heart. + +"Why, lad, lad," cried Carew, breathlessly, "thou hast a very fortune in +thy throat!" + +Nick looked up in great surprise; and at that the master-player broke +off suddenly and said no more, though such a strange light came creeping +into his eyes that Nick, after meeting his fixed stare for a moment, +asked uneasily if they would not better be going on. + +Without a word the master-player started. Something had come into his +head which seemed to more than fill his mind; for as he strode along he +whistled under his breath and laughed softly to himself. Then again he +snapped his fingers and took a dancing step or two across the road, and +at last fell to talking aloud to himself, though Nick could not make out +a single word he said, for it was in some foreign language. + +"Nicholas," he said suddenly, as they passed the winding lane that leads +away to Kenilworth--"Nicholas, dost know any other songs like that?" + +"Not just like that, sir," answered Nick, not knowing what to make of +his companion's strange new mood; "but I know Master Will Shakspere's +'Then nightly sings the staring owl, tu-who, tu-whit, tu-who!' and 'The +ousel-cock so black of hue, with orange-tawny bill,' and then, too, I +know the throstle's song that goes with it." + +"Why, to be sure--to be sure thou knowest old Nick Bottom's song, for +isn't thy name Nick? Well met, both song and singer--well met, I say! +Nay," he said hastily, seeing Nick about to speak; "I do not care to +hear thee talk. Sing me all thy songs. I am hungry as a wolf for songs. +Why, Nicholas, I must have songs! Come, lift up that honeyed throat of +thine and sing another song. Be not so backward; surely I love thee, +Nick, and thou wilt sing all of thy songs for me." + +He laid his hand on Nick's shoulder in his kindly way, and kept step +with him like a bosom friend, so that Nick's heart beat high with pride, +and he sang all the songs he knew as they walked along. + +Carew listened intently, and sometimes with a fierce eagerness that +almost frightened the boy; and sometimes he frowned, and said under his +breath, "Tut, tut, that will not do!" but oftener he laughed without a +sound, nodding his head in time to the lilting tune, and seeming vastly +pleased with Nick, the singing, and last, but not least, with himself. + +And when Nick had ended the master-player had not a word to say, but for +half a mile gnawed his mustache in nervous silence, and looked Nick all +over with a long and earnest look. + +Then suddenly he slapped his thigh, and tossed his head back boldly. +"I'll do it," he said; "I'll do it if I dance on air for it! I'll have +it out of Master Stubbes and canting Stratford town, or may I never +thrive! My soul! it is the very thing. His eyes are like twin holidays, +and he breathes the breath of spring. Nicholas, Nicholas +Skylark,--Master Skylark,--why, it is a good name, in sooth, a very +good name! I'll do it--I will, upon my word, and on the remnant of +mine honour!" + +"Did ye speak to me, sir?" asked Nick, timidly. + +"Nay, Nicholas; I was talking to the moon." + +"Why, sir, the moon has not come yet," said Nick, staring into the +western sky. + +"To be sure," replied Master Carew, with a queer laugh. "Well, the +silvery jade has missed the first act." + +"Oh," cried Nick, reminded of the purpose of his long walk, "what will +ye play for the Mayor's play, sir?" + +"I don't know," replied Carew, carelessly; "it will all be done before I +come. They will have had the free play this afternoon, so as to catch +the pence of all the May-day crowd to-morrow." + +Nick stopped in the road, and his eyes filled up with tears, so quick +and bitter was the disappointment. "Why," he cried, with a tremble in +his tired voice, "I thought the free play would be on the morrow--and +now I have not a farthing to go in!" + +"Tut, tut, thou silly lad!" laughed Carew, frankly; "am I thy friend for +naught? What! let thee walk all the way to Coventry, and never see the +play? Nay, on my soul! Why, Nick, I love thee, lad; and I'll do for thee +in the twinkling of an eye. Canst thou speak lines by heart? Well, then, +say these few after me, and bear them in thy mind." + +And thereupon he hastily repeated some half a dozen disconnected lines +in a high, reciting tone. + +"Why, sir," cried Nick, bewildered, "it is a part!" + +"To be sure," said Carew, laughing, "it is a part--and a part of a very +good whole, too--a comedy by young Tom Heywood, that would make a graven +image split its sides with laughing; and do thou just learn that part, +good Master Skylark, and thou shalt say it in to-morrow's play." + +"What, Master Carew!" gasped Nick. "I--truly? With the Lord Admiral's +players?" + +"Why, to be sure!" cried the master-player, in great glee, clapping him +upon the back. "Didst think I meant a parcel of dirty tinkers? Nay, lad; +thou art just the very fellow for the part--my lady's page should be a +pretty lad, and, soul o' me, thou art that same! And, Nick, thou shalt +sing Tom Heywood's newest song. It is a pretty song; it is a lark-song +like thine own." + +Nick could hardly believe his ears. To act with the Lord Admiral's +company! To sing with them before all Coventry! It passed the wildest +dream that he had ever dreamed. What would the boys in Stratford say? +Aha! they would laugh on the other side of their mouths now! + +"But will they have me, sir?" he asked doubtfully. + +"Have thee?" said Master Carew, haughtily. "If I say go, thou shalt go. +I am master here. And I tell thee, Nick, that thou shalt see the play, +and be the play, in part, and--well, we shall see what we shall see." + +With that he fell to humming and chuckling to himself, as if he had +swallowed a water-mill, while Nick turned ecstatic cart-wheels along the +grass beside the road, until presently Coventry came in sight. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + + +THE ADMIRAL'S COMPANY + +The ancient city of Coventry stands upon a little hill, with old St. +Michael's steeple and the spire of Holy Trinity church rising above it +against the sky; and as the master-player and the boy came climbing +upward from the south, walls, towers, chimneys, and red-tiled roofs were +turned to gold by the glow of the setting sun. + +To Nick it seemed as if a halo overhung the town--a ruddy glory and a +wonder bright; for here the Grey Friars of the great monastery had +played their holy mysteries and miracle-plays for over a hundred years; +here the trade-guilds had held their pageants when the friars' day was +done; here were all the wonders that old men told by winter fires. + +People were coming and going through the gates like bees about a hive, +and in the distance Nick could hear the sound of many voices, the rush +of feet, wheels, and hoofs, and the shrill pipe of music. Here and there +were little knots of country folk making holiday: a father and mother +with a group of rosy children; a lad and his lass, spruce in new +finery, and gay with bits of ribbon--merry groups that were ever +changing. Gay banners flapped on tall ash staves. The suburb fields were +filled with booths and tents and stalls and butts for archery. The very +air seemed eager with the eve of holiday. + +But what to Nick was breathless wonder was to Carew only a twice-told +tale; so he pushed through the crowded thoroughfares, amid a throng that +made Nick's head spin round, and came quickly to the Blue Boar Inn. + +The court was crowded to the gates with horses, travelers, and +serving-men; and here and there and everywhere rushed the busy +innkeeper, with a linen napkin fluttering on his arm, his cap half off, +and in his hot hand a pewter flagon, from which the brown ale dripped in +spatters on his fat legs as he flew. + +"They're here," said Carew, looking shrewdly about; "for there is +Gregory Goole, my groom, and Stephen Magelt, the tire-man. In with thee, +Nicholas." + +He put Nick before him with a little air of patronage, and pushed him +into the room. + +It was a large, low chamber with heavy beams overhead, hung with leather +jacks and pewter tankards. Around the walls stood rough tables, at which +a medley of guests sat eating, drinking, dicing, playing at cards, and +talking loudly all at once, while the tapster and the cook's knave sped +wildly about. + +At a great table in the midst of the riot sat the Lord High Admiral's +players--a score or more loud-swashing gallants, richly clad in ruffs +and bands, embroidered shirts, Italian doublets slashed and laced, +Venetian hose, gay velvet caps with jeweled bands, and every man a +poniard or a rapier at his hip. Nick felt very much like a little brown +sparrow in a flock of gaudy Indian birds. + +The board was loaded down with meat and drink, and some of the players +were eating with forks, a new trick from the London court, which Nick +had never seen before. But all the diners looked up when Carew's face +was recognized, and welcomed him with a deafening shout. + +He waved his hand for silence. + +"Thanks for these kind plaudits, gentle friends," said he, with a +mocking air; "I have returned." + +"Yes; we see that ye have, Gaston," they all shouted, and laughed again. + +"Ay," said he, thrusting his hand into his pouch, "ye fled, and left me +to be spoiled by the spoiler, but ye see I have left the +spoiler spoiled." + +Lifting his hand triumphantly, he shook in their faces the golden chain +that the burgesses of Stratford had given him, and then, laying his hand +upon Nick's shoulder, bowed to them all, and to him with courtly grace, +and said: "Be known, be known, all! Gentlemen, my Lord Admiral's +Players, Master Nicholas Skylark, the sweetest singer in all the kingdom +of England!" + +Nick's cheeks flushed hotly, and his eyes fell; for they all stared +curiously, first at him, and then at Carew standing up behind him, and +several grinned mockingly and winked in a knowing way. He stole a look +at Carew; but the master-player's face was frank and quite unmoved, so +that Nick felt reassured. + +"Why, sirs," said Carew, as some began to laugh and to speak to one +another covertly, "it is no jest. He hath a sweeter voice than Cyril +Davy's, the best woman's-voice in all London town. Upon my word, it is +the sweetest voice a body ever heard--outside of heaven and the holy +angels!" He lowered his tone and bowed his head a little. "I'll stake +mine honour on it!" + +"Hast any, Gaston?" called a jeering voice, whereat the whole room +roared. + +But Carew cried again in a high voice that would be heard above the +noise: "Now, hark 'e; what I say is so. It is, upon my word, and on the +remnant of mine honour! And to-morrow ye shall see, for Master Skylark +is to sing and play with us." + +When he had said that, nothing would do but Nick must sit down and eat +with them; so they made a place for him and for Master Carew. + +Nick bent his head and said a grace, at which some of them laughed, +until Carew shook his head with a stern frown; and before he ate he +bowed politely to them all, as his mother had taught him to do. They all +bowed mockingly, and hilariously offered him wine, which, when he +refused, they pressed upon him, until Carew stopped them, saying that he +would have no more of that. As he spoke he clapped his hand upon his +poniard and scowled blackly. They all laughed, but offered Nick no more +wine; instead, they picked him choice morsels, and made a great deal of +him, until his silly young head was quite turned, and he sat up and gave +himself a few airs--not many, for Stratford was no great place in which +to pick up airs. + +When they had eaten they wanted Nick to sing; but again Carew +interposed. "Nay," said he; "he hath just eaten his fill, so he cannot +sing. Moreover, he is no jackdaw to screech in such a cage as this. He +shall not sing until to-morrow in the play." + +At this some of the leading players who held shares in the venture +demurred, doubting if Nick could sing at all; but--"Hark 'e," said +Master Carew, shortly, clapping his hand upon his poniard, "I say that +he can. Do ye take me?" + +So they said no more; and shortly after he took Nick away, and left them +over their tankards, singing uproariously. + +The Blue Boar Inn had not a bed to spare, nor had the players kept a +place for Carew; at which he smiled grimly, said he'd not forget it, and +took lodgings for himself and Nick at the Three Tuns in the next street. + +Nick spoke indeed of his mother's cousin, with whom he had meant to +stay, but the master-player protested warmly; so, little loath, and much +flattered by the attentions of so great a man, Nick gave over the idea +and said no more about it. + +When the chamberlain had shown them to their room and they were both +undressed, Nick knelt beside the bed and said a prayer, as he always did +at home. Carew watched him curiously. It was quiet there, and the light +dim; Nick was young, and his yellow hair was very curly. Carew could +hear the faint breath murmuring through the boy's lips as he prayed, and +while he stared at the little white figure his mouth twitched in a queer +way. But he tossed his head, and muttered to himself, "What, Gaston +Carew, turning soft? Nay, nay. I'll do it--on my soul, I will!" rolled +into bed, and was soon fast asleep. + + * * * * * + +As for Nick, what with the excitement of the day, the dazzling fancies +in his brain, his tired legs, the weird night noises in the town, and +strange, tremendous dreams, he scarce could get to sleep at all; but +toward morning he fell into a refreshing doze, and did not wake until +the town was loud with May. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + + +THE MAY-DAY PLAY + +It was soon afternoon. All Coventry was thronged with people keeping +holiday, and at the Blue Boar a scene of wild confusion reigned. + +Tap-room and hall were crowded with guests, and in the cobbled court +horses innumerable stamped and whinnied. The players, with knitted +brows, stalked about the quieter nooks, going over their several parts, +and looking to their costumes, which were for the most part upon their +backs; while the thumping and pounding of the carpenters at work upon +the stage in the inn-yard were enough to drive a quiet-loving +person wild. + +Nick scarcely knew whether he were on his head or on his heels. The +master-player would not let him eat at all after once breaking his fast, +for fear it might affect his voice, and had him say his lines a hundred +times until he had them pat. Then he was off, directing here, there, and +everywhere, until the court was cleared of all that had no business +there, and the last surreptitious small boy had been duly projected +from the gates by Peter Hostler's hobnailed boot. + +"Now, Nick," said Carew, coming up all in a gale, and throwing a +sky-blue silken cloak about Nick's shoulders, "thou'lt enter here"; and +he led him to a hallway door just opposite the gates. "When Master +Whitelaw, as the Duke, calls out, 'How now, who comes?--I'll match him +for the ale!' be quickly in and answer to thy part; and, marry, boy, +don't miss thy cues, or--tsst, thy head's not worth a peascod!" With +that he clapped his hand upon his poniard and glared into Nick's eyes, +as if to look clear through to the back of the boy's wits. Nick heard +his white teeth grind, and was all at once very much afraid of him, for +he did indeed look dreadful. + +So Nicholas Attwood stood by the entry door, with his heart in his +throat, waiting his turn. + +He could hear the pages in the courtyard outside shouting for stools for +their masters, and squabbling over the best places upon the stage. Then +the gates creaked, and there came a wild rush of feet and a great crying +out as the 'prentices and burghers trooped into the inn-yard, pushing +and crowding for places near the stage. Those who had the money bawled +aloud for farthing stools. The rest stood jostling in a wrangling crowd +upon the ground, while up and down a girl's shrill voice went all the +time, crying high, "Cherry ripe, cherry ripe! Who'll buy my sweet May +cherries?" + +Then there was another shout, and a rattling tread of feet along the +wooden balconies that ran around the walls of the inn-yard, and cries +from the apprentices below: "Good-day, fair Master Harrington! Good-day, +Sir Thomas Parkes! Good-day, sweet Mistress Nettleby and Master +Nettleby! Good-day, good-day, good-day!" for the richer folk were coming +in at twopence each, and all the galleries were full. And then he heard +the baker's boy with sugared cakes and ginger-nuts go stamping up +the stairs. + +The musicians in the balcony overhead were tuning up. There was a flute, +a viol, a gittern, a fiddle, and a drum; and behind the curtain, just +outside the door, Nick could hear the master-player's low voice giving +hasty orders to the others. + +So he said his lines all over to himself, and cleared his throat. Then +on a sudden a shutter opened high above the orchestra, a trumpet blared, +the kettledrum crashed, and he heard a loud voice shout: + +"Good citizens of Coventry, and high-born gentles all: know ye now that +we, the players of the company of His Grace, Charles, Lord Howard, High +Admiral of England, Ireland, Wales, Calais, and Boulogne, the marches of +Normandy, Gascony, and Aquitaine, Captain-General of the Navy and the +Seas of Her Gracious Majesty the Queen--" + +At that the crowd in the courtyard cheered and cheered again. + +"--will, with your kind permission, play forthwith the laughable comedy +of 'The Three Grey Gowns,' by Master Thomas Heywood, in which will be +spoken many good things, old and new, and a brand-new song will be sung. +Now, hearken all--the play begins!" + +The trumpet blared, the kettledrum crashed again, and as a sudden hush +fell over the throng without Nick heard the voices of the players +going on. + +It was a broad farce, full of loud jests and nonsense, a great thwacking +of sticks and tumbling about; and Nick, with his eye to the crack of the +door, listened with all his ears for his cue, far too excited even to +think of laughing at the rough jokes, though the crowd in the inn-yard +roared till they held their sides. + +Carew came hurrying up, with an anxious look in his restless eyes. + +"Ready, Nicholas!" said he, sharply, taking Nick by the arm and lifting +the latch. "Go straight down front now as I told thee--mind thy +cues--speak boldly--sing as thou didst sing for me--and if thou wouldst +not break mine heart, do not fail me now! I have staked it all upon thee +here--and we _must_ win!" + +"How now, who comes?" Nick heard a loud voice call outside--the +door-latch clicked behind him--he was out in the open air and down the +stage before he quite knew where he was. + +The stage was built against the wall just opposite the gates. It was but +a temporary platform of planks laid upon trestles. One side of it was +against the wall, and around the three other sides the crowd was packed +close to the platform rail. + +At the ends, upon the boards, several wealthy gallants sat on high, +three-legged stools, within arm's reach of the players acting there. The +courtyard was a sea of heads, and the balconies were filled with +gentlefolk in holiday attire, eating cakes and chaffing gaily at the +play. All was one bewildered cloud of staring eyes to Nick, and the only +thing which he was sure he saw was the painted sign that hung upon the +curtain at the rear, which in the lack of other scenery announced in +large red print: "This is a Room in Master Jonah Jackdawe's House." + +And then he heard the last quick words, "I'll match him for the ale!" +and started on his lines. + +It was not that he said so ill what little he had to say, but that his +voice was homelike and familiar in its sound, one of their own, with no +amazing London accent to the words--just the speech of every-day, the +sort that they all knew. + +First, some one in the yard laughed out--a shock-headed ironmonger's +apprentice, "Whoy, bullies, there be hayseed in his hair. 'Tis took off +pasture over-soon. I fecks! they've plucked him green!" + +There was a hoarse, exasperating laugh. Nick hesitated in his lines. The +player at his back tried to prompt him, but only made the matter worse, +and behind the green curtain at the door a hand went "clap" upon a +dagger-hilt. The play lagged, and the crowd began to jeer. Nick's heart +was full of fear and of angry shame that he had dared to try. Then all +at once there came a brief pause, in which he vaguely realized that no +one spoke. The man behind him thrust him forward, and whispering +wrathfully, "Quick, quick--sing up, thou little fool!" stepped back and +left him there alone. + +[Illustration: "NICK THOUGHT OF HIS MOTHER'S SINGING ON A SUMMER'S +EVENING--DREW A DEEP BREATH AND BEGAN TO SING."] + +A viol overhead took up the time, the gittern struck a few sharp +notes. This unexpected music stopped the noise, and all was still. Nick +thought of his mother's voice singing on a summer's evening among the +hollyhocks, and as the viol's droning died away he drew a deep breath +and began to sing the words of "Heywood's newest song": + + "Pack, clouds, away, and welcome, day; + With night we banish sorrow; + Sweet air, blow soft; mount, lark, aloft, + To give my love good-morrow!" + +It was only a part of a madrigal, the air to which they had fitted the +words,--the same air that Nick had sung in the woods,--a thing scarce +meant ever to be sung alone, a simple strain, a few plain notes, and at +the close one brief, queer, warbling trill like a bird's wild song, that +rose and fell and rose again like a silver ripple. + +The instruments were still; the fresh young voice came out alone, and it +was done so soon that Nick hardly knew that he had sung at all. For a +moment no one seemed to breathe. Then there was a very great noise, and +all the court seemed hurling at him. A man upon the stage sprang to his +feet. What they were going to do to him Nick did not know. He gave a +frightened cry, and ran past the green curtain, through the open door, +and into the master-player's excited arms. + +"Quick, quick!" cried Carew. "Go back, go back! There, hark!--dost not +hear them call? Quick, out again--they call thee back!" With that he +thrust Nick through the door. The man upon the stage came up, slipped +something into his hand--Nick, all bewildered, knew not what; and there +he stood, quite stupefied, not knowing what to do. Then Carew came out +hastily and led him down the stage, bowing, and pressing his hand to his +heart, and smiling like a summer sunrise; so that Nick, seeing this, did +the same, and bowed as neatly as he could; though, to be sure, his was +only a simple, country-bred bow, and no such ceremonious to-do as Master +Carew's courtly London obeisance. + +Every one was standing up and shouting so that not a soul could hear his +ears, until the ironmonger's apprentice bellowed above the rest; "Whoy, +bullies!" he shouted, amid a chorus of cheers and laughter, "didn't I +say 'twas catched out in the fields--it be a skylark, sure enough! Come, +Muster Skylark, sing that song again, an' thou shalt ha' my +brand-new cap!" + +Then many voices cried out together, "Sing it again! The Skylark--the +Skylark!" + +Nick looked up, startled. "Why, Master Carew," said he, with a tremble +in his voice, "do they mean me ?" + +Carew put one hand beneath Nick's chin and turned his face up, smiling. +The master-player's cheeks were flushed with triumph, and his dark eyes +danced with pride. "Ay, Nicholas Skylark; 'tis thou they mean." + +The viol and the music came again from overhead, and when they ceased +Nick sang the little song once more. And when the master-player had +taken him outside, and the play was over, some fine ladies came and +kissed him, to his great confusion; for no one but his mother or his +kin had ever done so before, and these had much perfume about them, musk +and rose-attar, so that they smelled like rose-mallows in July. The +players of the Lord Admiral's company were going about shaking hands +with Carew and with each other as if they had not met for years, and +slapping one another upon the back; and one came over, a tall, solemn, +black-haired man, he who had written the song, and stood with his feet +apart and stared at Nick, but spoke never a word, which Nick thought was +very singular. But as he turned away he said, with a world of pity in +his voice, "And I have writ two hundred plays, yet never saw thy like. +Lad, lad, thou art a jewel in a wild swine's snout!" which Nick did not +understand at all; nor why Master Carew said so sharply, "Come, Heywood, +hold thy blabbing tongue; we are all in the same sty." + +"Speak for thyself, Gat Carew!" answered Master Heywood, firmly. "I'll +have no hand in this affair, I tell thee once for all!" + +Master Carew flushed queerly and bit his lip, and, turning hastily away, +took Nick to walk about the town. Nick then, for the first time, looked +into his hand to see what the man upon the stage had given him. It was a +gold rose-noble. + + + + +CHAPTER X + + +AFTER THE PLAY + +Through the high streets of the third city of the realm Master Gaston +Carew strode as if he were a very king, and Coventry his kingdom. + +There was music everywhere,--of pipers and fiddlers, drums, tabrets, +flutes, and horns,--and there were dancing bears upon the corners, with +minstrels, jugglers, chapmen crying their singsong wares, and such a +mighty hurly-burly as Nick had never seen before. And wherever there was +a wonder to be seen, Carew had Nick see it, though it cost a penny a +peep, and lifted him to watch the fencing and quarter-staff play in the +market-place. And at one of the gay booths he bought gilt ginger-nuts +and caraway cakes with currants on the top, and gave them all to Nick, +who thanked him kindly, but said, if Master Carew pleased, he'd rather +have his supper, for he was very hungry. + +"Why, to be sure," said Carew, and tossed a silver penny for a scramble +to the crowd; "thou shalt have the finest supper in the town." + +Whereupon, bowing to all the great folk they met, and being bowed to +most politely in return, they came to the Three Tuns. + +Stared at by a hundred curious eyes, made way for everywhere, and +followed by wondering exclamations of envy, it was little wonder that +Nick, a simple country lad, at last began to think that there was not in +all the world another gentleman so grand as Master Gaston Carew, and +also to have a pleasant notion that Nicholas Attwood was no bad +fellow himself. + +The lordly innkeeper came smirking and bobbing obsequiously about, with +his freshest towel on his arm, and took the master-player's order as a +dog would take a bone. + +"Here, sirrah," said Carew, haughtily; "fetch us some repast, I care not +what, so it be wholesome food--a green Banbury cheese, some simnel bread +and oat-cakes; a pudding, hark 'e, sweet and full of plums, with honey +and a pasty--a meat pasty, marry, a pasty made of fat and toothsome +eels; and moreover, fellow, ale to wash it down--none of thy penny ale, +mind ye, too weak to run out of the spigot, but snapping good brew--dost +take me?--with beef and mustard, tripe, herring, and a good fat capon +broiled to a turn!" + +The innkeeper gaped like a fish. + +"How now, sirrah? Dost think I cannot pay thy score?" quoth Carew, +sharply. + +"Nay, nay," stammered the host; "but, sir, where--where will ye put it +all without bursting into bits?" + +"Be off with thee!" cried Carew, sharply. "That is my affair. Nay, +Nick," said he, laughing at the boy's, astonished look; "we shall not +burst. What we do not have to-night we'll have in the morning. 'Tis the +way with these inns,--to feed the early birds with scraps,--so the more +we leave from supper the more we'll have for breakfast. And thou wilt +need a good breakfast to ride on all day long." + +"Ride?" exclaimed Nick. "Why, sir, I was minded to walk back to +Stratford, and keep my gold rose-noble whole." + +"Walk?" cried the master-player, scornfully. "Thou, with thy golden +throat? Nay, Nicholas, thou shalt ride to-morrow like a very king, if I +have to pay for the horse myself, twelvepence the day!" and with that he +began chuckling as if it were a joke. + +But Nick stood up, and, bowing, thanked him gratefully; at which the +master-player went from chuckling to laughing, and leered at Nick so +oddly that the boy would have thought him tipsy, save that there had +been nothing yet to drink. And a queer sense of uneasiness came creeping +over him as he watched the master-player's eyes opening and shutting, +opening and shutting, so that one moment he seemed to be staring and the +next almost asleep; though all the while his keen, dark eyes peered out +from between the lids like old dog-foxes from their holes, looking Nick +over from head to foot, and from foot to head again, as if measuring him +with an ellwand. + +When the supper came, filling the whole table and the sideboard too, +Nick arose to serve the meat as he was used at home; but, "Nay, Nicholas +Skylark, my honey-throat," cried Carew, "sit thee down! Thou wait on +me--thou songster of the silver tongue? Nay, nay, sweetheart; the knave +shall wait on thee, or I'll wait on thee myself--I will, upon my word! +Why, Nick, I tell thee I love thee, and dost think I'd let thee wait or +walk? nay, nay, thou'lt ride to-morrow like a king, and have all +Stratford wait for thee!" At this he chuckled so that he almost choked +upon a mouthful of bread and meat. + +"Canst ride, Nicholas?" + +"Fairly, sir." + +"Fairly? Fie, modesty! I warrant thou canst ride like a very centaur. +What sayest--I'll ride a ten-mile race with thee to-morrow as we go?" + +"Why," cried Nick, "are ye going back to Stratford to play, after all?" + +"To Stratford? Nay; not for a bushel of good gold Harry shovel-boards! +Bah! That town is ratsbane and nightshade in my mouth! Nay, we'll not go +back to Stratford town; but we shall ride a piece with thee, +Nicholas,--we shall ride a piece with thee." + +Chuckling again to himself, he fell to upon the pasty and said no more. + +Nick held his peace, as he was taught to do unless first spoken to; but +he could not help thinking that stage-players, and master-players in +particular, were very queer folk. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + + +DISOWNED + +Night came down on Stratford town that last sweet April day, and the +pastured kine came lowing home. Supper-time passed, and the cool stars +came twinkling out; but still Nick Attwood did not come. + +"He hath stayed to sleep with Robin, Master Burgess Getley's son," said +Mistress Attwood, standing in the door, and staring out into the dusk; +"he is often lonely here." + +"He should ha' telled thee on it, then," said Simon Attwood. "This be no +way to do. I've a mind to put him to a trade." + +"Nay, Simon," protested his wife; "he may be careless,--he is young +yet,--but Nicholas is a good lad. Let him have his schooling out--he'll +be the better for it." + +"Then let him show it as he goes along," said Attwood, grimly, as he +blew the candle out. + +But May-day dawned; mid-morning came, mid-afternoon, then supper-time +again; and supper-time crept into dusk--and still no Nicholas Attwood. + +His mother grew uneasy; but his father only growled: "We'll reckon up +when he cometh home. Master Brunswood tells me he was na at the school +the whole day yesterday--and he be feared to show his face. I'll _fear_ +him with a bit of birch!" + +"Do na be too hard with the lad, Simon," pleaded Mistress Attwood. "Who +knows what hath happened to him? He must be hurt, or he'd 'a' come home +to his mother"--and she began to wring her hands. "He may ha' fallen +from a tree, and lieth all alone out on the hill--or, Simon, the Avon! +Thou dost na think our lad be drowned?" + +"Fudge!" said Simon Attwood. "Born to hang'll never drown!" + +When, however, the next day crept around and still his son did not come +home, a doubt stole into the tanner's own heart. Yet when his wife was +for starting out to seek some tidings of the boy, he stopped her +wrathfully. + +"Nay, Margaret," said he; "thou shalt na go traipsing around the town +like a hen wi' but one chick. I wull na ha' thee made a laughing-stock +by all the fools in Stratford." + +But as the third day rolled around, about the middle of the afternoon +the tanner himself sneaked out at the back door of his tannery in +Southam's lane, and went up into the town. + +"Robin Getley," he asked at the guildschool door, "was my son wi' thee +overnight?" + +"Nay, Master Attwood. Has he not come back?" + +"Come back? From where?" + +Robin hung his head. + +"From, where?" demanded the tanner. "Come, boy!" + +"From Coventry," said Robin, knowing that the truth would out at last, +anyway. + +"He went to see the players, sir," spoke up Hal Saddler, briskly, not +heeding Robin's stealthy kick. "He said he'd bide wi' Diccon Haggard +overnight; an' he said he wished he were a master-player himself, +sir, too." + +Simon Attwood, frowning blackly, hurried on. It _was_ Nick, then, whom +he had seen crossing the market-square. + +Wat Raven, who swept Clopton bridge, had seen two boys go up the Warwick +road. "One were thy Nick, Muster Attwood," said he, thumping the dirt +from his broom across the coping-stone, "and the other were +Dawson's Hodge." + +The angry tanner turned again into the market-place. His brows were +knit, and his eyes were hot, yet his step was heavy and slow. Above all +things, he hated disobedience, yet in his surly way he loved his only +son; and far worse than disobedience, he hated that _his_ son +should disobey. + +Astride a beam in front of Master Thompson's house sat Roger Dawson. +Simon Attwood took him by the collar none too gently. + +"Here, leave be!" choked Roger, wriggling hard; but the tanner's grip +was like iron. "Wert thou in Coventry May-day?" he asked sternly. + +"Nay, that I was na," sputtered Hodge. "A plague on Coventry!" + +"Do na lie to me--thou wert there wi' my son Nicholas." + +"I was na," snarled Hodge. "Nick Attwood threshed me in the Warrick +road; an' I be no dawg to follow at the heels o' folks as threshes me." + +"Where be he, then?" demanded Attwood, with a sudden sinking at heart in +spite of his wrath. + +"How should I know? A went away wi' a play-actoring fellow in a +plum-colored cloak; and play-actoring fellow said a loved him like a's +own, and patted a's back, and flung me hard names, like stones at a lost +dawg. Now le' me go, Muster Attwood--cross my heart, 'tis all I know!" + +"Is't Nicholas ye seek, Master Attwood?" asked Tom Carpenter, turning +from his fleurs-de-lis. "Why, sir, he's gone got famous, sir. I was in +Coventry mysel' May-day; and--why, sir, Nick was all the talk! He sang +there at the Blue Boar inn-yard with the Lord High Admiral's players, +and took a part in the play; and, sir, ye'd scarce believe me, but the +people went just daft to hear him sing, sir." + +Simon Attwood heard no more. He walked down High street in a daze. With +hard men bitter blows strike doubly deep. He stopped before the +guildhall school. The clock struck five; each iron clang seemed beating +upon his heart. He raised his hand as if to shut the clangor out, and +then his face grew stern and hard. "He hath gone his own wilful way," +said he, bitterly. "Let him follow it to the end." + +Mistress Attwood came to meet him, running in the garden-path. +"Nicholas?" was all that she could say. + +"Never speak to me of him, again," he said, and passed her by into the +house. "He hath gone away with a pack of stage-playing rascals and +vagabonds, whither no man knoweth." + +Taking the heavy Bible down from the shelf, he lit a rushlight at the +fire, although it was still broad daylight, and sat there with the great +book open in his lap until the sun went down and the chill night wind +crept in along the floor; yet he could not read a single word and never +turned a page. + + + + +CHAPTER XII + + +A STRANGE RIDE + +Rat-a-tat-tat at the first dim hint of dawn went the chamberlain's +knuckles upon the door. To Nick it seemed scarce midnight yet, so sound +had been his sleep. + +Master Carew having gotten into his high-topped riding-boots with a +great puffing and tugging, they washed their faces at the inn-yard pump +by the smoky light of the hostler's lantern, and then in a subdued, +half-wakened way made a hearty breakfast off the fragments of the last +night's feast. Part of the remaining cold meat, cheese, and cakes Carew +stowed in his leather pouch. The rest he left in the lap of a beggar +sleeping beside the door. + +The street was dim with a chilly fog, through which a few pale stars +still struggled overhead. The houses were all shut and barred; nobody +was abroad, and the night-watch slept in comfortable doorways here and +there, with lolling heads and lanterns long gone out. As they came along +the crooked street, a stray cat scurried away with scared green eyes, +and a kenneled hound set up a lonesome howl. + +But the Blue Boar Inn was stirring like an ant-hill, with firefly +lanterns flitting up and down, and a cheery glow about the open door. +The horses of the company, scrubbed unreasonably clean, snorted and +stamped in little bridled clumps about the courtyard, and the +stable-boys, not scrubbed at all, clanked at the pump or shook out +wrinkled saddle-cloths with most prodigious yawns. The grooms were +buckling up the packs; the chamberlain and sleepy-lidded maids stood at +the door, waiting their fare-well farthings. + +Some of the company yawned in the tap-room; some yawned out of doors +with steaming stirrup-cup in hand; and some came yawning down the +stairways pulling on their riding-cloaks, booted, spurred, and ready for +a long day's ride. + +"Good-morrow, sirs," said Carew, heartily. "Good-morrow, sir, to you," +said they, and all came over to speak to Nicholas in a very kindly way; +and one or two patted him on the cheek and walked away speaking in +under-tones among themselves, keeping one eye on Carew all the while. +And Master Tom Heywood, the play-writer, came out with a great slice of +fresh wheat-bread, thick with butter and dripping with yellow honey, and +gave it to Nick; and stood there silently with a very queer expression +watching him eat it, until Carew's groom led up a stout hackney and a +small roan palfrey to the block, and the master-player, crying +impatiently, "Up with thee, Nick; we must be ambling!" sprang into the +saddle of the gray. + +The sleepy inn-folk roused a bit to send a cheery volley of, "Fare ye +well, sirs; come again," after the departing players, and the long +cavalcade cantered briskly out of the inn-yard, in double rank, with a +great clinking of bridle-chains and a drifting odor of wet leather and +heavy perfume. + +Nick sat very erect and rode his best, feeling like some errant knight +of the great Round Table, ready to right the whole world's wrongs. "But +what about the horse?" said he. "We can na keep him in Stratford, sir." + +"Oh, that's all seen to," said the master-player. "'Tis to be sent back +by the weekly carrier." + +"And where do I turn into the Stratford road, sir?" asked Nick, as the +players clattered down the cobbled street in a cloud of mist that +steamed up so thickly from the stones that the horses seemed to have no +legs, but to float like boats. + +"Some distance further on," replied Carew, carelessly. "'Tis not the +way we came that thou shalt ride to-day; that is t' other end of town, +and the gate not open yet. But the longest way round is the shortest way +home, so let's be spurring on." + +At the corner of the street a cross and sleepy cobbler was strapping a +dirty urchin, who bellowed lustily. Nick winced. + +"Hollo!" cried Carew. "What's to do?" + +"Why, sir," said Nick, ruefully, "father will thresh me well this +night." + +"Nay," said Carew, in a quite decided tone; "that he'll not, I promise +thee!"--and as he spoke he chuckled softly to himself. + +The man before them turned suddenly around and grinned queerly; but, +catching the master-player's eye, whipped his head about like a +weather-vane in a gale, and cantered on. + +As they came down the narrow street the watchmen were just swinging wide +the city gates, and gave a cheer to speed the parting guests, who gave a +rouse in turn, and were soon lost to sight in the mist which hid the +valley in a great gray sea. + +"How shall I know where to turn off, sir?" asked Nick, a little +anxiously. "'Tis all alike." + +"I'll tell thee," said the master-player; "rest thee easy on that score. +I know the road thou art to ride much better than thou dost thyself." + +He smiled quite frankly as he spoke, and Nick could not help wondering +why the man before them again turned around and eyed him with that +sneaking grin. + +He did not like the fellow's looks. He had scowling black brows, hair +cut as close as if the rats had gnawed it off, a pair of ill-shaped +bandy-legs, a wide, unwholesome slit of a mouth, and a nose like a +raspberry tart. His whole appearance was servile and mean, and there was +a sly malice in his furtive eyes. Besides that, and a thing which +strangely fascinated Nick's gaze, there was a hole through the gristle +of his right ear, scarred about as if it had been burned, and through +this hole the fellow had tied a bow of crimson ribbon, like a butterfly +alighted upon his ear. + +"A pretty fellow!" said Carew, with a shrug. "He'll be hard put to dodge +the hangman yet; but he's a right good fellow in his way, and he has +served me--he has served me." + +The first loud burst of talk had ceased, and all rode silently along. +The air was chill, and Nick was grateful for the cloak that Carew threw +around him. There was no sound but the beat of many hoofs in the +dust-padded road, and now and then the crowing of a cock somewhere +within the cloaking fog. The stars were gone, and the sky was lighting +up; and all at once, as they rode, the clouds ahead, low down and to the +right, broke raggedly away and let a red sun-gleam shoot through across +the mist, bathing the riders in dazzling rosy light. + +"Why, Master Carew," cried Nick, no little startled, "there comes the +sun, almost ahead! We're riding east-ward, sir. We've missed the road!" + +"Oh, no, we've not," said Carew; "nothing of the sort." His tone was so +peremptory and sharp that Nick said nothing more, but rode along, +vaguely wishing that he was already clattering down Stratford +High street. + +The clouds scattered as the sun came up, and the morning haze drifted +away into cool dales, and floated off upon the breeze. And as the world +woke up the players wakened too, and rode gaily along, laughing, +singing, and chattering together, until Nick thought he had never in all +his life before seen such a jolly fellowship. His heart was blithe as he +reined his curveting palfrey by the master-player's side, and watched +the sunlight dance and sparkle along the dashing line from dagger-hilts +and jeweled clasps, and the mist-lank plumes curl crisp again in the +warmth of the rising sun. + +The master-player, too, had a graceful, taking way of being half +familiar with the lad; he was besides a marvelous teller of wonderful +tales, and whiled away the time with jests and quips, mile after mile, +till Nick forgot both road and time, and laughed until his sides +were sore. + +Yet slowly, as they rode along, it came home to him with the passing of +the land that this was country new and strange. So he began to take +notice of this and that beside the way; and as he noticed he began to +grow uneasy. Thrice had he come to Coventry, but surely never by a road +like this. + +Yet still the master-player joked and laughed and pleased the boy with +little things--until Nick laughed too, and let the matter go. At last, +however, when they had ridden fully an hour, they passed a moss-grown +abbey on the left-hand side of the road, a strange old place that Nick +could not recall. + +"Are ye sure, Master Carew," he ventured timidly-- + +At that the master-player took on so offended an air that Nick was sorry +he had spoken. + +"Why, now," said Carew, haughtily, "if thou dost know the roads of +England better than I, who have trudged and ridden them all these years, +I'll sit me down and learn of thee how to follow mine own nose. I tell +thee I know the road thou art to ride this day better than thou dost +thyself; and I'll see to it that thou dost come without fail to the very +place that thou art going. I will, upon my word, and on the remnant of +mine honour!" + +But in spite of this assurance, and in spite of the master-player's +ceaseless stream of gaiety and marvels, Nick became more and more +uneasy. The road was certainly growing stranger and stranger as they +passed. The company, too, instead of ambling leisurely along, as they +had done at first, were now spurring ahead at a good round gallop, in +answer to a shrill whistle from the master-player; and the horses were +wet with sweat. + +They passed a country village, too, that was quite unknown to Nick, and +a great highway running to the north that he had never seen before; and +when they had ridden for about two hours, the road swerved southward to +a shining ford, and on a little tableland beyond he saw the gables of a +town he did not know. + +"Why, Master Carew!" he cried out, half indignant, half perplexed, and +thoroughly frightened, "this is na the Stratford road at all. I'm going +back. I will na ride another mile!" + +As he spoke he wheeled the roan sharply out of the clattering file with +a slash of the rein across the withers, and started back along the hill +past the rest of the company, who came thumping down behind. + +"Stop him! Stop him there!" he heard the master-player shout, and there +was something in the fierce, high voice that turned his whole heart +sick. What right had they to stop him? This was not the Stratford road; +he was certain of that now. But "Stop him--stop him there!" he heard the +master-player call, and a wild, unreasoning fright came over him. He dug +his heels into the palfrey's heaving sides and urged him up the hill +through the cloud of dust that came rolling down behind the horsemen. +The hindmost riders had plunged into those before, and the whole array +was struggling, shouting, and wrangling in wild disorder; but out of the +flurry Carew and the bandy-legged man with the ribbon in his ear spurred +furiously and came galloping after him at the top of their speed. + +Nick cried out, and beat the palfrey with the rein; but the chase was +short. They overtook him as he topped the hill, one on each side, and, +leaning over, Carew snatched the bridle from his hand. "Thou little +imp!" he panted, as he turned the roan around and started down the hill. +"Don't try this on again!" + +"Oh, Master Carew," gasped Nick, "what are ye going to do wi' me?" + +"Do with thee?" cried the master-player, savagely clapping his hand upon +his poniard,--"why, I am going to do with thee just whatever I please. +Dost hear? And, hark 'e, this sort of caper doth not please me at all; +and by the whistle of the Lord High Admiral, if thou triest it on again, +thy life is not worth a rotten peascod!" + +Unbuckling the rein, he tossed one end to the bandy-legged man, and +holding the other in his own hand, with Nick riding helplessly between +them, they trotted down the hill again, took their old places in the +ranks, and spattered through the shallow ford. + +The bandy-legged man had pulled a dagger from beneath his coat, and held +it under his bridle-rein, shining through the horse's mane as they +dashed through the still half-sleeping town. Nick was speechless +with terror. + +Beyond the town's end they turned sharply to the northeast, galloping +steadily onward for what was perhaps half an hour, though to Nick it +seemed a forever, until they came out into a great highway running +southward. "Watling street!" he heard the man behind him say, and knew +that they were in the old Roman road that stretched from London to the +north. Still they were galloping, though long strings dribbled from the +horses' mouths, and the saddle-leathers dripped with foam. One or two +looked back at him and bit their lips; but Carew's eyes were hot and +fierce, and his hand was on his poniard. The rest, after a curious +glance or two, shrugged their shoulders carelessly and galloped on: this +affair was Master Gaston Carew's business, not theirs. + +Until high noon they hurried on with neither stop nor stay. Then they +came to a place where a little brook sang through the grass by the +roadside in a shady nook beneath some mighty oaks, and there the +master-player whistled for a halt, to give the horses breath and rest, +and to water them at the brook-pools. Some of the players sauntered up +and down to stretch their tired legs, munching meat and bread; and some +lay down upon the grass and slept a little. Two of them came, offering +Nick some cakes and cheese; but he was crying hard and would neither +eat nor drink, though Carew urged him earnestly. Then Master Tom +Heywood, with an ugly look at Carew, and without so much as an +if-ye-please or a by-your-leave, led Nick up the brook to a spot where +it had not been muddied by the horses, and made him wash his dusty face +and hands in the cool water and dampen his hair, though he complied as +if in a daze. And indeed Nick rode on through the long afternoon, +clinging helplessly to the pommel of his saddle, sobbing bitterly until +for very weariness he could no longer sob. + +It was after nine o'clock that night when they rode into Towcester, and +all that was to be seen was a butcher's boy carting garbage out of the +town and whistling to keep his courage up. The watch had long since gone +to sleep about the silent streets, but a dim light burned in the +tap-room of the Old Brown Cow; and there the players rested for +the night. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + + +A DASH FOR FREEDOM + +Nick awoke from a heavy, burning sleep, aching from head to foot. The +master-player, up and dressed, stood by the window, scowling grimly out +into the ashy dawn. Nick made haste to rise, but could not stifle a +sharp cry of pain as he staggered to his feet, he was so racked and sore +with riding. + +At the boy's smothered cry Carew turned, and his dark face softened with +a sudden look of pity and concern. "Why, Nick, my lad," he cried, and +hurried to his side, "this is too bad, indeed!" and without more words +took him gently in his arms and carried him down to the courtyard well, +where he bathed him softly from neck to heel in the cold, refreshing +water, and wiped him with a soft, clean towel as tenderly as if he had +been the lad's own mother. And having dried him thoroughly, he rubbed +him with a waxy ointment that smelled of henbane and poppies, until the +aching was almost gone. So soft and so kind was he withal that Nick took +heart after a little and asked timidly, "And ye will let me go home +to-day, sir, will ye not?" + +The master-player frowned. + +"Please, Master Carew, let me go." + +"Come, come," said Carew, impatiently, "enough of this!" and stamped his +foot. + +"But, oh, Master Carew," pleaded Nick, with a sob in his throat, "my +mother's heart will surely break if I do na come home!" + +Carew started, and his mouth twitched queerly. "Enough, I say--enough!" +he cried. "I will not hear; I'll have no more. I tell thee hold thy +tongue--be dumb! I'll not have ears--thou shalt not speak! Dost hear?" +He dashed the towel to the ground. "I bid thee hold thy tongue." + +Nick hid his face between his hands, and leaned against the rough stone +wall, a naked, shivering, wretched little chap indeed. "Oh, mother, +mother, mother!" he sobbed pitifully. + +A singular expression came over the master-player's face. "I will not +hear--I tell thee I will not hear!" he choked, and, turning suddenly +away, he fell upon the sleepy hostler, who was drawing water at the +well, and rated him outrageously, to that astounded worthy's +great amazement. + +Nick crept into his clothes, and stole away to the kitchen door. There +was a red-faced woman there who bade him not to cry--'t would soon be +breakfast-time. Nick thought he could not eat at all; but when the +savory smell crept out and filled the chilly air, his poor little empty +stomach would not be denied, and he ate heartily. Master Heywood sat +beside him and gave him the choicest bits from his own trencher; and +Carew himself, seeing that he ate, looked strangely pleased, and ordered +him a tiny mutton-pie, well spiced. Nick pushed it back indignantly; but +Heywood took the pie and cut it open, saying quietly: "Come, lad, the +good God made the sheep that is in this pie, not Gaston Carew. Eat +it--come, 'twill do thee good!" and saw him finish the last crumb. + +From Towcester south through Northamptonshire is a pretty country of +rolling hills and undulating hollows, ribboned with pebbly rivers, and +dotted with fair parks and tofts of ash and elm and oak. Straggling +villages now and then were threaded on the road like beads upon a +string, and here and there the air was damp and misty from the grassy +fens along some winding stream. + +It was against nature that a healthy, growing lad should be so much cast +down as not to see and be interested in the strange, new, passing world +of things about him; and little by little Nick roused from his +wretchedness and began to look about him. And a wonder grew within his +brain: why had they stolen him?--where were they taking him?--what would +they do with him there?--or would they soon let him go again? + +Every yellow cloud of dust arising far ahead along the road wrought up +his hopes to a Bluebeard pitch, as regularly to fall. First came a +cast-off soldier from the war in the Netherlands, rakishly forlorn, his +breastplate full of rusty dents, his wild hair worn by his steel cap, +swaggering along on a sorry hack with an old belt full of pistolets, and +his long sword thumping Rosinante's ribs. Then a peddling chapman, with +a dust-white pack and a cunning Hebrew look, limped by, sulkily doffing +his greasy hat. Two sturdy Midland journeymen, in search of southern +handicraft, trudged down with tool-bags over their shoulders and stout +oak staves in hand. Of wretched beggars and tattered rogues there was an +endless string. But of any help no sign. + +Here and there, like a moving dot, a ploughman turned a belated furrow; +or a sweating ditcher leaned upon his reluctant spade and longed for +night; or a shepherd, quite as silly as his sheep, gawked up the morning +hills. But not a sign of help for Nick. + +Once, passing through a little town, he raised a sudden cry of "Help! +Help--they be stealing me away!" But at that the master-player and the +bandy-legged man waved their hands and set up such a shout that his +shrill outcry was not even heard. And the simple country bumpkins, +standing in a grinning row like so many Old Aunt Sallys at a fair, +pulled off their caps and bowed, thinking it some company of great +lords, and fetched a clownish cheer as the players galloped by. + +Then the hot dust got into Nick's throat, and he began to cough. Carew +started with a look of alarm. "Come, come, Nicholas, this will never +do--never do in the world; thou'lt spoil thy voice." + +"I do na care," said Nick. + +"But I do," said Carew, sharply. "So we'll have no more of it!" and he +clapped his hand upon his poniard. "But, nay--nay, lad, I did not mean +to threaten thee--'tis but a jest. Come, smooth thy throat, and do not +shriek no more. We play in old St. Albans town to-night, and thou art to +sing thy song for us again." + +Nick pressed his lips tight shut and shook his head. He would not sing +for them again. + +"Come, Nick, I've promised Tom Heywood that thou shouldst sing his song; +and, lad, there's no one left in all the land to sing it if thou'lt not. +Tom doth dearly love thee, lad--why, sure, thou hast seen that! And, +Nick, I've promised all the company that thou wouldst sing Tom's song +with us to-night. 'Twill break their hearts if thou wilt not. Come, +Nick, thou'lt sing it for us all, and set old Albans town afire!" said +Carew, pleadingly. + +Nick shook his head. + +"Come, Nick," said Carew, coaxingly, "we must hear that sweet voice of +thine in Albans town to-night. Come, there's a dear, good lad, and give +us just one little song! Come, act the man and sing, as thou alone in +all the world canst sing, in Albans town this night; and on my word, and +on the remnant of mine honour, I'll leave thee go back to Stratford town +to-morrow morning!" + +"To Stratford--to-morrow?" stammered Nick, with a glad, incredulous cry, +while his heart leaped up within him. + +"Ay, verily; upon my faith as the fine fag-end of a very proper +gentleman--thou shalt go back to Stratford town to-morrow if thou wilt +but do thy turn with us to-night." + +Nick caught the master-player's arm as they rode along, almost crying +for very joy: "Oh, that I will, sir--and do my very best. And, oh, +Master Carew, I ha' thought so ill o' thee! Forgive me, sir; I did na +know thee well." + +Carew winced. Hastily throwing the rein to Nick, he left him to master +his own array. + +As for Nick, as happy as a lark he learned his new lines as he rode +along, Master Carew saying them over to him from the manuscript and over +again until he made not a single mistake; and was at great pains to +teach him the latest fashionable London way of pronouncing all the +words, and of emphasizing his set phrases. "Nay, nay," he would cry +laughingly, "not that way, lad; but this: 'Good my lord, I bring a +letter from the duke'--as if thou hadst indeed a letter, see, and not an +empty fist. And when thou dost hand it to him, do it thus--and not as if +thou wert about to stab him in the paunch with a cheese-knife!" And at +the end he clapped him upon the back and said again and again that he +loved him, that he was a dear, sweet figure of a lad, and that his voice +among the rest of England's singers, was like clear honey dropping into +a pot of grease. + +But it is a long ride from Towcester to St. Albans town in Herts, though +the road runs through a pleasant, billowy land of oak-walled lanes, wide +pastures, and quiet parks; and the steady jog, jog of the little roan +began to rack Nick's tired bones before the day was done. + +Yet when they marched into the quaint old town to the blare of trumpets +and the crash of the kettledrums, all the long line gaudy with the +coat-armour of the Lord High Admiral beneath their flaunting banners, +and the horses pricked up their ears and arched their necks and pranced +along the crowded streets, Nick, stared at by all the good townsfolk, +could not help feeling a thrill of pride that he was one of the great +company of players, and sat up very straight and held his head up +haughtily as Master Carew did, and bore himself with as lordly an air as +he knew how. + + * * * * * + +But when morning came, and he danced blithely back from washing himself +at the horse-trough, all ready to start for home, he found the little +roan cross-bridled as before between the master-player's gray and the +bandy-legged fellow's sorrel mare. + +"What, there! cast him loose," said he to the horse-boy who held the +three. "I am not going on with the players--I'm to go back to +Stratford." + +"Then ye go afoot," coolly rejoined the other, grinning, "for the hoss +goeth on wi' the rest." + +"What is this, Master Carew?" cried Nick, indignantly, bursting into the +tap-room, where the players were at ale. "They will na let me have the +horse, sir. Am I to walk the whole way back to Stratford town?" + +"To Stratford?" asked Master Carew, staring with an expression of most +innocent surprise, as he set his ale-can down and turned around. "Why, +thou art not going to Stratford." + +"Not going to Stratford!" gasped Nick, catching at the table with a +sinking heart. "Why, sir, ye promised that I should to-day." + +"Nay, now, that I did not, Nicholas. I promised thee that thou shouldst +go back to-morrow--were not those my very words!" + +"Ay, that they were," cried Nick; "and why will ye na leave me go?" + +"Why, this is not to-morrow, Nick. Why, see, I cannot leave thee go +to-day. Thou knowest that I said to-morrow; and this is not +to-morrow--on thine honour, is it now?" + +"How can I tell?" cried Nick, despairingly. "Yesterday ye said it would +be, and now ye say that it is na. Ye've twisted it all up so that a body +can na tell at all. But there is a falsehood--a wicked, black +falsehood--somewhere betwixt you and me, sir; and ye know that I have na +lied to you, Master Carew!" + +Through the tap-room door he saw the open street and the hills beyond +the town. Catching his breath, he sprang across the sill, and ran for +the free fields at the top of his speed. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + + +AT BAY + +"After him!--stop him!--catch the rogue!" cried Carew, running out on +the cobbles with his ale-can in his hand. "A shilling to the man that +brings him back unharmed! No blows, nor clubs, nor stabbing, hark 'e, +but catch me the knave straightway; he hath snatched a fortune from +my hands!" + +At that the hostler, whip in hand, and the tapster with his bit, were +off as fast as their legs could carry them, bawling "Stop, thief, stop!" +at the top of their lungs; and at their backs every idle varlet about +the inn--grooms, stable-boys, and hangers-on--ran whooping, howling, and +hallooing like wild huntsmen. + +Nick's frightened heart was in his mouth, and his breath came quick and +sharp. Tap-a-tap, tap-a-tap went his feet on the cobblestones as down +the long street he flew, running as he had never run before. + +It seemed as if the whole town bellowed at his back; for windows creaked +above his head, and doors banged wildly after him; curs from every +alley-way came yelping at his heels; apprentices let go the +shutter-bars, and joined in the chase; and near and nearer came the cry +of "Stop, thief, stop!" and the kloppety-klop of hob-nailed shoes in +wild pursuit. + +The rabble filled the dark old street from wall to wall, as if a cloud +of good-for-naughts had burst above the town; and far in front sped one +small, curly-headed lad, running like a frightened fawn. He had lost his +cap, and his breath came short, half sobbing in his throat as the sound +of footfalls gained upon his ear; but even yet he might have beaten them +all and reached the open fields but for the dirt and garbage in the +street. Three times he slipped upon a rancid bacon-rind and almost fell; +and the third time, as he plunged across the oozing drain, a dog dashed +right between his feet. + +He staggered, nearly fell, threw out his hand against the house and +saved himself; but as he started on again he saw the town-watch, wakened +by the uproar, standing with their long staves at the end of the street, +barring the way. + +The door of a smithy stood open just ahead, with forge-fires glowing and +the hammer ringing on the anvil. Nick darted in, past the horses, +hostlers, and blacksmith's boys, and caught at the leather apron of the +sturdy smith himself. + +"Hoo, man, what a dickens!" snorted he, dropping the red-hot shoe on +which he was at work, and staring like a startled ox at the panting +little fugitive. + +"Do na leave them take me!" panted Nick. "They ha' stolen me away from +Stratford town and will na leave me go!" + +At that Will Hostler bolted in, red-faced and scant of wind, "Thou +young rascal," quoth he, "I have thee now! Come out o' that!" and he +tried to take Nick by the collar. + +"So-oftly, so-oftly!" rumbled the smith, tweaking up the glowing shoe in +his great pincers, and sweeping a sputtering half-circle in front of the +cowering lad. "Droive slow through the cro-owd! What hath youngster here +did no-ow?" + +"He hath stolen a fortune from his master at the Three Lions--and the +shilling for him's mine!" + +"Hath stealed a fortune? Whoy, huttlety-tut!" roared the burly smith, +turning ponderously upon Nick, who was dodging around him like a boy at +tag around a tree. "Whoy, lad," said he, scratching his puzzled head +with his great, grimy fingers, "where hast putten it?" + +All the rout and the riot now came plunging into the smithy, breathless +with the chase. Master Carew himself, his ale-can still clutched in his +hand, and bearing himself with a high air of dignity, followed after +them, frowning. + +"What?" said he, angrily, "have ye earthed the cub and cannot dig him +out? Hast caught him there, fellow?" + +"Ay, master, that I have!" shouted Will Hostler. "Shilling's mine, sir." + +"Then fetch him out of this hole!" cried Carew, sniffing disdainfully at +the low, smoky door. + +"But he will na be fetched," stammered the doughty Will, keeping a most +respectful distance from the long black pincers and the sputtering shoe +with which the farrier stolidly mowed the air round about Nick Attwood +and himself. + +At that the crowd set up a shout. + +Carew thrust fiercely into the press, the louts and loafers giving way. +"What, here! Nicholas Attwood," said he, harshly, "come hither." + +"Do na leave him take me," begged Nick. "He is not my master; I am not +bound out apprentice--they are stealing me away from my own home, and it +will break my mother's heart." + +"Nobody breaks nobody's hearts in old Jo-ohn Smithses sho-op," drawled +the smith, in his deep voice; "nor steals nobody, nother. We be +honest-dealing folk in Albans town, an' makes as good horse-shoes as be +forged in all England"--and he went placidly on mowing the air with the +glimmering shoe. + +"Here, fellow, stand aside," commanded Master Carew, haughtily. "Stand +aside and let me pass!" As he spoke he clapped his hand upon his poniard +with a fierce snarl, showing his white teeth like a wolf-hound. + +The men about him fell back with unanimous alacrity, making out each to +put himself behind the other. But the huge smith only puffed out his +sooty cheeks as if to blow a fly off the next bite of cheese. "So-oftly, +so-oftly, muster," drawled he; "do na go to ruffling it here. This shop +be mine, and I be free-born Englishman. I'll stand aside for no +swash-buckling rogue on my own ground. Come, now, what wilt thou o' the +lad?--and speak thee fair, good muster, or thou'lt get a dab o' the +red-hot shoe." As he spoke he gave the black tongs an extra whirl. + + + + +CHAPTER XV + + +LONDON TOWN + +"Come," growled the blacksmith, gripping his tongs, "what wilt thou have +o' the lad?" + +"What will I have o' the lad?" said Master Carew, mimicking the +blacksmith in a most comical way, with a wink at the crowd, as if he had +never been angry at all, so quickly could he change his face--"What will +I have o' the lad?" and all the crowd laughed. "Why, bless thy gentle +heart, good man, I want to turn his farthings into round gold crowns--if +thou and thine infernal hot shoe do not make zanies of us all! Why, +Master Smith, 'tis to London town I'd take him, and fill his hands with +more silver shillings than there be cast-off shoes in thy whole shop." + +"La, now, hearken till him!" gaped the smith, staring in amazement. + +"And here thou needs must up and spoil it all, because, forsooth, the +silly child goes a trifle sick for home and whimpers for his minnie!" + +"But the lad saith thou hast stealed him awa-ay from 's ho-ome," +rumbled the smith, like a doubtful earthquake; "and we'll ha' no +stealing o' lads awa-ay from ho-ome in County Herts!" + +"Nay, that we won't!" cried one. "Hurrah, John Smith--fair play, fair +play!" and there came an ugly, threatening murmur from the crowd. + +"What! Fair play?" cried Master Carew, turning so sharply about, with +his hand upon his poniard, that each made as if it were not he but his +neighbor had growled. "Why, sirs, what if I took any one of ye out of +your poverty and common clothes down into London town, horseback like a +king, and had ye sing before the Queen, and play for earls, and talk +with the highest dames in all the land; and fed ye well, and spoke ye +fair, and lodged ye soft, and clad ye fine, and wrought the whole town +on to cheer ye, and to fill your purses full of gold? What, sir," said +he, turning to the gaping farrier--"what if I promised thee to turn +thine every word to a silver sixpence, and thy smutty grins to golden +angels--what wouldst thou? Knock me in the head with thy dirty sledge, +and bawl foul play?" + +"Nay, that I'd not," roared the burly smith, with a stupid, ox-like +grin, scratching his tousled head; "I'd say, 'Go it, bully, and a plague +on him that said thee nay!'" + +"And yet when I would fill this silly fellow's jerkin full of good gold +Harry shovel-boards for the simple drawing of his breath, ye bawl +'Foul play!'" + +"What, here! come out, lad," roared the smith, with a great horse-laugh, +swinging Nick forward and thwacking him jovially between the shoulders +with his brawny hand; "come out, and go along o' the master here,--'tis +for thy good,--and ho-ome wull keep, I trow, till thou dost come again." + +But Nick hung back, and clung to the blacksmith's grimy arm, crying in +despair: "I will na--oh, I will na!" + +"Tut, tut!" cried Master Carew. "Come, Nicholas; I mean thee well, I'll +speak thee fair, and I'll treat thee true"--and he smiled so frankly +that even Nick's doubts almost wavered. "Come, I'll swear it on my +hilt," said he. + +The smith's brow clouded. "Nay," said he; "we'll no swearing by hilts or +by holies here; the bailiff will na have it, sir." + +"Good! then upon mine honour as an Englishman!" cried Carew. "What, how, +bullies? Upon mine honour as an Englishman!--how is it? Here we be, all +Englishmen together!" and he clapped his hand to Will Hostler's +shoulder, whereat Will stood up very straight and looked around, as if +all at once he were somebody instead of somewhat less than nobody at all +of any consequence. "What!--ye are all for fair play?--and I am for fair +play, and good Master Smith, with his beautiful shoe, here, is for fair +play! Why, sirs, my bullies, we are all for fair play; and what more can +a man ask than good, downright English fair play? Nothing, say I. Fair +play first, last, and all the time!" and he waved his hand. "Hurrah for +downright English fair play!" + +"Hurrah, hurrah!" bellowed the crowd, swept along like bubbles in a +flood. "Fair play, says we--English fair play--hurrah!" And those inside +waved their hands, and those that were outside tossed up their caps, in +sheer delight of good fair play. + +"Hurrah, my bullies! That's the cry!" said Carew, in his +hail-fellow-well-met, royal way. "Why, we're the very best of fellows, +and the very fastest friends! Come, all to the old Three Lions inn, and +douse a can of brown March brew at my expense. To the Queen, to good +fair play, and to all the fine fellows in Albans town!" + +And what did the crowd do but raise a shout, like a parcel of +school-boys loosed for a holiday, and troop off to the Three Lions inn +at Master Carew's heels, Will Hostler and the brawny smith bringing up +the rear with Nick between them, hand to collar, half forgotten by the +rest, and his heart too low for further grief. + +And while the crowd were still roaring over their tankards and cheering +good fair play, Master Gaston Carew up with his prisoner into the +saddle, and, mounting himself, with the bandy-legged man grinning +opposite, shook the dust of old St. Albans from his horse's heels. + +"Now, Nicholas Attwood," said he, grimly, as they galloped away, "hark +'e well to what I have to say, and do not let it slip thy mind. I am +willed to take thee to London town--dost mark me?--and to London town +thou shalt go, warm or cold. By the whistle of the Lord High Admiral, I +mean just what I say! So thou mayst take thy choice." + +He gripped Nick's shoulder as they rode, and glared into his eyes as if +to sear them with his own. Nick heard his poniard grating in its sheath, +and shut his eyes so that he might not see the master-player's horrid +stare; for the opening and shutting, opening and shutting, of the blue +lids made him shudder. + +"And what's more," said Carew, sternly, "I shall call thee Master +Skylark from this time forth--dost hear? And when I bid thee go, thou'lt +go; and when I bid thee come, thou'lt come; and when I say, 'Here, +follow me!' thou'lt follow like a dog to heel!" He drew up his lip until +his white teeth showed, and Nick, hearing them gritting together, shrank +back dismayed. + +"There!" laughed Carew, scornfully. "He that knows better how to tame a +vixen or to cozen a pack of gulls, now let him speak!" and said no more +until they passed by Chipping Barnet. Then, "Nick," said he, in a quiet, +kindly tone, as if they had been friends for years, "this is the place +where Warwick fell"; and pointed down the field. "There in the corner of +that croft they piled the noble dead like corn upon a threshing-floor. +Since then," said he, with quiet irony, "men have stopped making English +kings as the Dutch make dolls, of a stick and a poll thereon." + +Pleased with hearing his own voice, he would have gone on with many +another thing; but seeing that Nick listened not at all to what he said, +he ceased, and rode on silently or chatting with the others. + +The country through Middlesex was in most part flat, and heavy forests +overhung the road from time to time. There the players slipped their +poniards, and rode with rapier in hand; for many a dark deed and cruel +robbery had been done along this stretch of Watling street. And as they +passed, more than one dark-visaged rogue with branded hand and a price +upon his head peered at them from the copses by the way. + +In places where the woods crept very near they pressed closer together +and rode rapidly; and the horse-boy and the grooms lit up the matches of +their pistolets, and laid their harquebuses ready in rest, and blew the +creeping sparkle snapping red at every turn; not so much really fearing +an attack upon so stout a party of reckless, dashing blades, as being +overawed by the great, mysterious silence of the forest, the +semi-twilight all about, and the cold, strange-smelling wind that fanned +their faces. + +The wild spattering of hoofs in water-pools that lay unsucked by the sun +in shadowy stretches, the grim silence of the riders, and the wary eying +of each covert as they passed, sent a thrill of excitement into Nick's +heart too keen for any boy to resist. + +Then, too, it was no everyday tale to be stolen away from home. It was a +wild, strange thing with a strange, wild sound to it, not altogether +terrible or unpleasant to a brave boy's ears in that wonder-filled age, +when all the world was turned adventurer, and England led the fore; when +Francis Drake and the "Golden Hind," John Hawkins and the "Victory," +Frobisher and his cockleshells, were gossip for every English fireside; +when the whole world rang with English steel, and the wide sea foamed +with English keels, and the air was full of the blaze of the living and +the ghosts of the mighty dead. And down in Nick's plucky young English +heart there came a spark like that which burns in the soul of a mariner +when for the first time an unknown ocean rolls before his eyes. + +So he rode on bravely, filled with a sense of daring and the thrill of +perils more remote than Master Carew's altogether too adjacent poniard, +as well as with a sturdy determination to escape at the first +opportunity, in spite of all the master-player's threats. + +Up Highgate Hill they rattled in a bracing northeast wind, the rugged +country bowling back against the tumbled sky. Far to south a rusty haze +had gloomed against the sun like a midday fog, mile after mile; and +suddenly, as they topped the range and cleared the last low hill, they +saw a city in the south spreading away until it seemed to Nick to girdle +half the world and to veil the sky in a reek of murky sea-coal smoke. + +"There!" said Carew, reining in the gray, as Nick looked up and felt his +heart almost stand still; "since Parma burned old Antwerp, and the Low +Countries are dead, there lies the market-heart of all the big +round world!" + +"London!" cried Nick, and, catching his breath with a quick gasp, sat +speechless, staring. + +Carew smiled. "Ay, Nick," said he, cheerily; "'tis London town. Pluck +up thine heart, lad, and be no more cast down; there lies a New World +ready to thine hand. Thou canst win it if thou wilt. Come, let it be +thine Indies, thou Francis Drake, and I thy galleon to carry home the +spoils! And cheer up. It grieves my heart to see thee sad. Be merry +for my sake." + +"For thy sake?" gasped Nick, staring blankly in his face. "Why, what +hast thou done for me?" A sudden sob surprised him, and he clenched his +fists--it was too cruel irony. "Why, sir, if thou wouldst only leave +me go!" + +"Tut, tut!" cried Carew, angrily. "Still harping on that same old +string? Why, from thy waking face I thought thou hadst dropped it long +ago. Let thee go? Not for all the wealth in Lombard street! Dost think +me a goose-witted gull?--and dost ask what I have done for thee? Thou +simpleton! I have made thee rise above the limits of thy wildest +dream--have shod thy feet with gold--have filled thy lap with +glory--have crowned thine head with fame! And yet, 'What have I done for +thee?' Fie! Thou art a stubborn-hearted little fool. But, marry come up! +I'll mend thy mind. I'll bend thy will to suit my way, or break it in +the bending!" + +Clapping his hand upon his poniard, he turned his back, and did not +speak to Nick again. + +And so they came down the Kentish Town road through a meadow-land +threaded with flowing streams, the wild hill thickets of Hampstead Heath +to right, the huddling villages of Islington, Hoxton, and Clerkenwell to +left. And as they passed through Kentish Town, past Primrose Hill into +Hampstead way, solitary farm-houses and lowly cottages gave way to +burgher dwellings in orderly array, with manor-houses here and there, +and in the distance palaces and towers reared their heads above the +crowding chimney-pots. + +Then the players dressed themselves in fair array, and flung their +banners out, and came through Smithfield to Aldersgate, mocking the grim +old gibbet there with railing gaiety; and through the gate rode into +London town, with a long, loud cheer that brought the people crowding to +their doors, and set the shutters creaking everywhere. + +Nick was bewildered by the countless shifting gables and the throngs of +people flowing onward like a stream, and stunned by the roar that seemed +to boil out of the very ground. The horses' hoofs clashed on the +unevenly paved street with a noise like a thousand smithies. The houses +hung above him till they almost hid the sky, and seemed to be reeling +and ready to fall upon his head when he looked up; so that he urged the +little roan with his uneasy heels, and wished himself out of this +monstrous ruck where the walls were so close together that there was not +elbow-room to live, and the air seemed only heat, thick and stifling, +full of dust and smells. + +Shop after shop, and booth on booth, until Nick wondered where the +gardens were; and such a maze of lanes, byways, courts, blind alleys, +and passages that his simple country footpath head went all into a +tangle, and he could scarcely have told Tottenham Court road from the +river Thames. + +All that he remembered afterward was that, turning from High Holborn +into the Farringdon road, he saw a great church, under Ludgate Hill, +with spire burned and fallen, and its massive tower, black with age and +smoke, staring on the town. But he was too confused to know whither they +went or what he saw in passing; for of such a forest of houses he had +never even dreamed, with people swarming everywhere like ants upon a +hill, and among them all not one kind face he knew. Through the spirit +of adventure that had roused him for a time welled up a great +heart-sickness for his mother and his home. + +Out of a bewildered daze he came at last to realize this much: that the +master-player's house was very tall and very dark, standing in a dismal, +dirty street, and that it had a gloomy hallway full of shadows that +crept and wavered along the wall in the dim light of the late afternoon. + +Then the master-player pushed him up a narrow staircase and along a +black corridor to a door at the end of the passage, through which he +thrust him into a darkness like night, and slammed the door behind him. + +Nick heard the bolts shoot heavily, and Master Carew call through the +heavy panels: "Now, Jackanapes, sit down and chew the cud of solitude +awhile. It may cool thy silly pate for thee, since nothing else will +serve. When thou hast found thy common sense, perchance thou'lt find thy +freedom, not before." Then his step went down the corridor, down the +stair, through the long hall--a door banged with a hollow sound that +echoed through the house, and all was still. + +At first, in the utter darkness, Nick could not see at all, and did not +move for fear of falling down some awful hole; but as his eyes grew +used to the gloom he saw that he was in a little room. The only window +was boarded up, but a dim light crept in through narrow cracks and made +faint bars across the air. Little motes floated up and down these thin +blue bars, wavering in the uncertain light and then lost in the +darkness. Upon the floor was a pallet of straw, covered with a coarse +sheet, and having a rough coverlet of sheepskin. A round log was the +only pillow. + +Something moved. Nick, startled, peered into the shadows: it was a strip +of ragged tapestry which fluttered on the wall. As he watched it +flapping fitfully there came a hollow rattle in the wainscot, and an +uncanny sound like the moaning of wind in the chimney. + +"Let me out!" he cried, beating upon the door. "Let me out, I say!" A +stealthy footstep seemed to go away outside. "Mother, mother!" he cried +shrilly, now quite unstrung by fright, and beat frantically upon the +door until his hands ached; but no one answered. The window was beyond +his reach. Throwing himself upon the hard pallet, he hid his eyes in the +coverlet, and cried as if his heart would break. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + + +MA'M'SELLE CICELY CAREW + +How long he lay there in a stupor of despair Nick Attwood never knew. It +might have been days or weeks, for all that he took heed; for he was +thinking of his mother, and there was no room for more. + +The night passed by. Then the day came, by the lines of light that crept +across the floor. The door was opened at his back, and a trencher of +bread and meat thrust in. He did not touch it, and the rats came out of +the wall and pulled the meat about, and gnawed holes in the bread, and +squeaked, and ran along the wainscot; but he did not care. + +The afternoon dragged slowly by, and the creeping light went up the wall +until the roofs across the street shut out the sunset. Sometimes Nick +waked and sometimes he slept, he scarce knew which nor cared; nor did he +hear the bolts grate cautiously, or see the yellow candle-light steal in +across the gloom. + +"Boy!" said a soft little voice. + +He started up and looked around. + +For an instant he thought that he was dreaming, and was glad to think +that he would waken by and by from what had been so sad a dream, and +find himself safe in his own little bed in Stratford town. For the +little maid who stood in the doorway was such a one as his eyes had +never looked upon before. + +She was slight and graceful as a lily of the field, and her skin was +white as the purest wax, save where a damask rose-leaf red glowed +through her cheeks. Her black hair curled about her slender neck. Her +gown was crimson, slashed with gold, cut square across the breast and +simply made, with sleeves just elbow-long, wide-mouthed, and lined with +creamy silk. Her slippers, too, were of crimson silk, high-heeled, +jaunty bits of things; her silken stockings black. In one hand she held +a tall brass candlestick, and through the fingers of the other the +candle-flame made a ruddy glow like the sun in the heart of a hollyhock. +And in the shadow of her hand her eyes looked out, as Nick said long +afterward, like stars in a summer night. + +Thinking it was all a dream, he sat and stared at her. + +"Boy!" she said again, quite gently, but with a quaint little air of +reproof, "where are thy manners?" + +Nick got up quickly and bowed as best he knew how. If not a dream, this +was certainly a princess--and perchance--his heart leaped up--perchance +she came to set him free! He wondered who had told her of him? Diccon +Field, perhaps, whose father had been Simon Attwood's partner till he +died, last Michaelmas. Diccon was in London now, printing books, he had +heard. Or maybe it was John, Hal Saddler's older brother. No, it could +not be John, for John was with a carrier; and Nick had doubts if +carriers were much acquainted at court. + +Wondering, he stared, and bowed again. + +"Why, boy," said she, with a quaint air of surprise, "thou art a very +pretty fellow! Why, indeed, thou lookest like a good boy! Why wilt thou +be so bad and break my father's heart?" + +"Break thy father's heart?" stammered Nick. "Pr'ythee, who is thy +father, Mistress Princess?" + +"Nay," said the little maid, simply; "I am no princess. I am Cicely +Carew." + +"Cicely Carew?" cried Nick, clenching his fists. "Art thou the daughter +of that wicked man, Gaston Carew?" + +"My father is not wicked!" said she, passionately, drawing back from the +threshold with her hand trembling upon the latch. "Thou shalt not say +that--I will not speak with thee at all!" + +"I do na care! If Master Gaston Carew is thy father, he is the wickedest +man in the world!" + +"Why, fie, for shame!" she cried, and stamped her little foot. "How +darest thou say such a thing?" + +"He hath stolen me from home," exclaimed Nick, indignantly; "and I shall +never see my mother any more!" With that he choked, and hid his face in +his arm against the wall. + +The little maid looked at him with an air of troubled surprise, and, +coming into the room, touched him on the arm. "There," she said +soothingly, "don't cry!" and stroked him gently as one would a little +dog that was hurt. "My father will send thee home to thy mother, I know; +for he is very kind and good. Some one hath lied to thee about him." + +Nick wiped his swollen eyes dubiously upon his sleeve; yet the little +maid seemed positive. Perhaps, after all, there was a mistake somewhere. + +"Art hungry, boy?" she asked suddenly, spying the empty trencher on the +floor. "There is a pasty and a cake in the buttery, and thou shalt have +some of it if thou wilt not cry any more. Come, I cannot bear to see +thee cry--it makes me weep myself; and that will blear mine eyes, and +father will feel bad." + +"If he but felt as bad as he hath made me feel--" began Nick, +wrathfully; but she laid her little hand across his mouth. It was a very +white, soft, sweet little hand. + +"Come," said she; "thou art hungry, and it hath made thee cross!" and, +with no more ado, took him by the hand and led him down the corridor +into a large room where the last daylight shone with a smoky glow. + +The walls were wainscoted with many panels, dark, old, and mysterious; +and in a burnished copper brazier at the end of the room cinnamon, +rosemary, and bay were burning with a pleasant smell. Along the walls +were joined-work chests for linen and napery, of brass-bound oak--one a +black, old, tragic sea-chest, carved with grim faces and weird griffins, +that had been cast up by the North Sea from the wreck of a Spanish +galleon of war. The floor was waxed in the French fashion, and was so +smooth that Nick could scarcely keep his feet. The windows were high up +in the wall, with their heads among the black roof-beams, which with +their grotesquely carven brackets were half lost in the dusk. Through +the windows Nick could see nothing but a world of chimney-pots. + +"Is London town all smoke-pipes?" he asked confusedly. + +"Nay," replied the little maid; "there are people." + +Pushing a chair up to the table, she bade him sit down. Then pulling a +tall, curiously-made stool to the other side of the board, she perched +herself upon it like a fairy upon a blade of grass. "Greg!" she called +imperiously, "Greg! What, how! Gregory Goole, I say!" + +"Yes, ma'm'selle," replied a hoarse voice without; and through a door at +the further end of the room came the bandy-legged man with the bow of +crimson ribbon in his ear. + +Nick turned a little pale; and when the fellow saw him sitting there, he +came up hastily, with a look like a crock of sour milk. "Tut, tut! +ma'm'selle," said he; "Master Carew will not like this." + +She turned upon him with an air of dainty scorn. "Since when hath father +left his wits to thee, Gregory Goole? I know his likes as well as +thou--and it likes him not to let this poor boy starve, I'll warrant. +Go, fetch the pasty and the cake that are in the buttery, with a glass +of cordial,--the Certosa cordial,--and that in the shaking of a black +sheep's tail, or I will tell my father what thou wottest of." And she +looked the very picture of diminutive severity. + +"Very good, ma'm'selle; just as ye say," said Gregory, fawning, with +very poor grace, however. "But, knave," he snarled, as he turned away, +with a black scowl at Nick, "if thou dost venture on any of thy scurvy +pranks while I be gone, I'll break thy pate." + +Cicely Carew knitted her brows. "That is a saucy rogue," said she; "but +he hath served my father well. And, what is much in London town, he is +an honest man withal, though I have caught him at the Spanish wine +behind my father's back; so he doth butter his tongue with smooth words +when he hath speech with me, for I am the lady of the house." She held +up her head with a very pretty pride. "My mother--" + +Nick caught his breath, and his eyes filled. + +"Nay, boy," said she, gently; "'tis I should weep, not thou; for _my_ +mother is dead. I do not think I ever saw her that I know," she went on +musingly; "but she was a Frenchwoman who served a murdered queen, and +she was the loveliest woman that ever lived." Cicely clasped her hands +and moved her lips. Nick saw that she was praying, and bent his head. + +"Thou art a good boy," she said softly; "my father will like that"; and +then went quietly on: "That is why Gregory Goole doth call me +'ma'm'selle'--because my mother was a Frenchwoman. But I am a right +English girl for all that; and when they shout, 'God save the Queen!' at +the play, why, I do too! And, oh, boy," she cried, "it is a brave thing +to hear!" and she clapped her hands with sparkling eyes. "It drove the +Spaniards off the sea, my father ofttimes saith." + +"Poh!" said Nick, stoutly, for he saw the pasty coming in, "they can na +beat us Englishmen!" and with that fell upon the pasty as if it were the +Spanish Armada in one lump and he Sir Francis Drake set on to do the +job alone. + +As he ate his spirits rose again, and he almost forgot that he was +stolen from his home, and grew eager to be seeing the wonders of the +great town whose ceaseless roar came over the housetops like a distant +storm. He was still somewhat in awe of this beautiful, flower-like +little maid, and listened in shy silence to the wonderful tales she +told: how that she had seen the Queen, who had red hair, and pearls like +gooseberries on her cloak; and how the court went down to Greenwich. But +the bandy-legged man kept popping his head in at the door, and, after +all, Nick was but in a prison-house; so he grew quite dismal after +a while. + +"Dost truly think thy father will leave me go?" he asked. + +"Of course he will," said she. "I cannot see why thou dost hate him so?" + +"Why, truly," hesitated Nick, "perhaps it is not thy father that I hate, +but only that he will na leave me go. And if he would but leave me go, +perhaps I'd love him very much indeed." + +"Good, Nick! thou art a trump!" cried Master Carew's voice suddenly from +the further end of the hall, where in spite of all the candles it was +dark; and, coming forward, the master-player held out his hands in a +most genial way. "Come, lad, thy hand--'tis spoken like a gentleman. +Nay, I will kiss thee--for I love thee, Nick, upon my word, and on the +remnant of mine honour!" Taking the boy's half-unwilling hands in his +own, he stooped and kissed him upon the forehead. + +"Father," said Cicely, gravely, "hast thou forgotten me?" + +"Nay, sweetheart, nay," cried Carew, with a wonderful laugh that somehow +warmed the cockles of Nick's forlorn heart; and turning quickly, the +master-player caught up the little maid and kissed her again and again, +so tenderly that Nick was amazed to see how one so cruel could be so +kind, and how so good a little maid could love so bad a man; for she +twined her arms about his neck, and then lay back with her head upon his +shoulder, purring like a kitten in his arms. + +"Father," said she, patting his cheek, "some one hath told him naughty +things of thee. Come, daddy, say they are not so!" + +The master-player's face turned red as flame. He coughed and looked up +among the roof-beams. "Why, of course they're not," said he, uneasily. + +"There, boy!" cried she; "I told thee so. Why, daddy, think!--they said +that thou hadst stolen him away from his own mother, and wouldst not +leave him go!" + +"Hollo!" ejaculated the master-player, abruptly, with a quiver in his +voice; "what a hole thou hast made in the pasty, Nick!" + +"Ah, daddy," persisted Cicely, "and what a hole it would make in his +mother's heart if he had been stolen away!" + +"Wouldst like another draught of cordial, Nick?" cried Carew, hurriedly, +reaching out for the tall flagon with a trembling hand. "'Tis good to +cheer the troubled heart, lad. Not that thou hast any reason in the +world to let thy heart be troubled," he added hastily. "No, indeed, upon +my word; for thou art on the doorstep of a golden-lined success. See, +Nick, how the light shines through!" and he tilted up the flagon. "It is +one of old Jake Vessaline's Murano-Venetian glasses; a beautiful thing, +now, is it not? 'Tis good as any made abroad!" but his hand was shaking +so that half the cordial missed the cup and ran into a little shimmering +pool upon the table-top. + +"And thou'lt send him home again, daddy, wilt thou not?" + +"Yes, yes, of course--why, to be sure--we'll send him anywhere that thou +dost say, Golden-heart: to Persia or Cathay--ay, to the far side of the +green-cheese moon, or to the court of Tamburlaine the Great," and he +laughed a quick, dry, nervous laugh that had no laughter in it. "I had +one of De Lannoy's red Bohemian bottles, Nick," he rattled on +feverishly; "but that butter-fingered rogue"--he nodded his head at the +outer stair--"dropped it, smash! and made a thousand most counterfeit +fourpences out of what cost me two pound sterling." + +"But will ye truly leave me go, sir?" faltered Nick. + +"Why, of course--to be sure--yes, certainly--yes, yes. But, Nick, it is +too late this night. Why, come, thou couldst not go to-night. See, 'tis +dark, and thou a stranger in the town. 'Tis far to Stratford town--thou +couldst not walk it, lad; there will be carriers anon. Come, stay awhile +with Cicely and me--we will make thee a right welcome guest!" + +"That we will," cried Cicely, clapping her hands. "Oh, do stay; I am so +lonely here! The maid is silly, Margot old, and the rats run in +the wall." + +"And thou must to the theater, my lad, and sing for London town--ay, +Nicholas," and Carew's voice rang proudly. "The highest heads in London +town must hear that voice of thine, or I shall die unshrift. What! +lad?--come all the way from Coventry, and never show that face of thine, +nor let them hear thy skylark's song? Why, 'twere a shame! And, Nick, my +lord the Admiral shall hear thee sing when he comes home again; +perchance the Queen herself. Why, Nick, of course thou'lt sing. Thou +hast not heart to say thou wilt not sing--even for me whom thou hatest." + +Nick smiled in spite of himself, for Cicely was leaning on the arm of +his chair, devouring him with her great dark eyes: "Dost truly, truly +sing?" she asked. + +Nick laughed and blushed, and Carew laughed. "What, doth he sing? Why, +Nick, come, tune that skylark note of thine for little Golden-heart and +me. 'Twill make her think she hears the birds in verity--and, Nick, the +lass hath never seen a bird that sang, except within a cage. Nay, lad, +this is no cage!" he cried, as Nick looked about and sighed. "We will +make it very home for thee--will Cicely and I." + +"That we will!" cried Cicely. "Come, boy, sing for me--my mother used to +sing." + +At that Gaston Carew went white as a sheet, and put his hand quickly up +to his face. Cicely darted to his side with a frightened cry, and caught +his hand away. He tried to smile, but it was a ghastly attempt. "Tush, +tush! little one; 'twas something stung me!" said he, huskily, "Sing, +Nicholas, I beg of thee!" + +There was such a sudden world of weariness and sorrow in his voice that +Nick felt a pity for he knew not what, and lifting up his clear young +voice, he sang the quaint old madrigal. + +Carew sat with his face in his hand, and after it was done arose +unsteadily and said, "Come, Golden-heart; 'tis music such as charmeth +care and lureth sleep out of her dark valley--we must be trotting off +to bed." + +That night Nick slept upon a better bed, with a sheet and a blue serge +coverlet, and a pillow stuffed with chaff. + +But as he drifted off into a troubled dreamland, he heard the door-bolt +throb into its socket, and knew that he was fastened in. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + + +CAREW'S OFFER + +Next morning Carew donned his plum-colored cloak, and with Nick's hand +held tightly in his own went out of the door and down the steps into a +drifting fog which filled the street, the bandy-legged man with the +ribbon in his ear following close upon their heels. + +People passed them like shadows in the mist, and all the houses were a +blur until they came into a wide, open place where the wind blew free +above a wall with many great gates. + +In the middle of this open place a huge gray building stood, staring out +over the housetops--a great cathedral, wonderful and old. Its walls were +dark with time and smoke and damp, and the lofty tower that rose above +it was in part but a hollow shell split by lightning and blackened by +fire. But crowded between its massive buttresses were booths and +chapmen's stalls; against its hoary side a small church leaned like a +child against a mother's breast; and in and round about it eddied a +throng of men like ants upon a busy hill. + +All around the outer square were shops with gilded fronts and most +amazing signs: golden angels with outstretched wings, tiger heads, +bears, brazen serpents, and silver cranes; and in and out of the +shop-doors darted apprentices with new-bound books and fresh-printed +slips; for this was old St. Paul's, the meeting-place of London town, +and in Paul's Yard the printers and the bookmen dealt. + +With a deal of elbowing the master-player came up the broad steps into +the cathedral, and down the aisle to the pillars where the +merchant-tailors stood with table-books in hand, and there ordered a +brand-new suit of clothes for Nick of old Roger Shearman, the best +cloth-cutter in Threadneedle street. + +While they were deep in silk and silver thread, Haerlem linen, and +Leyden camelot, Nick stared about him half aghast; for it was to him +little less than monstrous to see a church so thronged with merchants +plying their trades as if the place were no more sacred than a booth in +the public square. + +The long nave of the cathedral was crowded with mercers from Cheapside, +drapers from Throgmorton street, stationers from Ludgate Hill, and +goldsmiths from Foster lane, hats on, loud-voiced, and using the very +font itself for a counter. By the columns beyond, sly, foxy-faced +lawyers hobnobbed; and on long benches by the wall, cast-off +serving-men, varlets, grooms, pastry-bakers, and pages sat, waiting to +be hired by some new master. Besides these who came on business there +was a host of gallants in gold-laced silk and velvet promenading up and +down the aisle, with no business there at all but to show their faces +and their clothes. And all about were solemn shrines and monuments and +tombs, and overhead a splendid window burned like a wheel of fire in the +eastern wall. + +While Nick stared, speechless, a party of the Admiral's placers came +strolling by, their heads half hidden in their huge starched ruffs, and +with prodigious swords that would have dragged along the ground had they +not been cocked up behind so fiercely in the air. Seeing Master Carew +and the boy, they stopped in passing to greet them gaily. + +Master Heywood was there, and bowed to Nick with a kindly smile. His +companion was a handsome, proud-mouthed man with a blue, smooth-shaven +face and a jet-black periwig. Him Carew drew aside and spoke with in an +earnest undertone. As he talked, the other began to stare at Nick as if +he were some curious thing in a cage. + +"Upon my soul," said Carew, "ye never heard the like of it. He hath a +voice as sweet and clear as if Puck had burst a honey-bag in +his throat." + +"No doubt," replied the other, carelessly; "and all the birds will hide +their heads when he begins to sing. But we don't want him, Carew--not if +he had a voice like Miriam the Jew. Henslowe has just bought little Jem +Bristow of Will Augusten for eight pound sterling, and business is too +bad to warrant any more." + +"Who spoke of selling?" said Carew, sharply. "Don't flatter your chances +so, Master Alleyn. I wouldn't sell the boy for a world full of Jem +Bristows. Why, his mouth is a mint where common words are coined into +gold! Sell him? I think I see myself in Bedlam for a fool! Nay, Master +Alleyn, what I am coming at is this: I'll place him at the Rose, to do +his turn in the play with the rest of us, or out of it alone, as ye +choose, for one fourth of the whole receipts over and above my old share +in the venture. Do ye take me?" + +"Take you? One fourth the whole receipts! Zounds! man, do ye think we +have a spigot in El Dorado?" + +"Tush! Master Alleyn, don't make a poor mouth; you're none so needy. You +and Henslowe have made a heap of money out of us all." + +"And what of that? Yesterday's butter won't smooth to-day's bread. 'Tis +absurd of you, Carew, to ask one fourth and leave all the risk on us, +with the outlook as it is! Here's that fellow Langley has built a new +play-house in Paris Garden, nearer to the landing than we are, and is +stealing our business most scurvily!" + +Carew shrugged his shoulders. + +"And what's more, the very comedy for which Ben Jonson left us, because +we would not put it on, has been taken up by the Burbages on Will +Shakspere's say-so, and is running famously at the Curtain." + +"I told you so, Master Alleyn, when the fellow was fresh from the +Netherlands," said Carew; "but your ears were plugged with your own +conceit. Young Jonson is no flatfish, if he did lay brick; he's a plum +worth anybody's picking." + +"But, plague take it, Carew, those Burbages have all the plums! Since +they weaned Will Shakspere from us everything has gone wrong. Kemp has +left us; old John Lowin, too; and now the Lord Mayor and Privy Council +have soured on the play again and forbidden all playing on the Bankside, +outside the City or no." + +Carew whistled softly to himself. + +"And since my Lord Chamberlain has been patron of the Burbages he will +not so much as turn a hand to revive the old game of bull- and +bear-baiting, and Phil and I have kept the Queen's bulldogs going on a +twelvemonth now at our own expense--a pretty canker on our profits! Why, +Carew, as Will Shakspere used to say, 'One woe doth tread the other's +heels, so fast they follow!' And what's to do?" + +"What's to do?" said Carew. "Why, I've told ye what's to do. Ye've heard +Will say, 'There is a tide leads on to fortune if ye take it at the +flood'? Well, Master Alleyn, here's the tide, and at the flood. I have +offered you an argosy. Will ye sail or stick in the mud? Ye'll never +have such a chance again. Come, one fourth over my old share, and I will +fill your purse so full of gold that it will gape like a stuffed toad. +His is the sweetest skylark voice that ever sugared ears!" + +"But, man, man, one fourth!" + +"Better one fourth than lose it all," said Carew. "But, pshaw! Master +Ned Alleyn, I'll not beg a man to swim that's bent on drowning! We will +be at the play-house this afternoon; mayhap thou'lt have thought better +of it by then." With a curt bow he was off through the crowd, Nick's +hand in his own clenched very tight. + +They had hard work getting down the steps, for two hot-headed gallants +were quarreling there as to who should come up first, and there was a +great press. But Carew scowled and showed his teeth, and clenched his +poniard-hilt so fiercely that the commoners fell away and let them down. + +Nick's eyes were hungry for the printers' stalls where ballad-sheets +were sold for a penny, and where the books were piled along the shelves +until he wondered if all London were turned printer. He looked about to +see if he might chance upon Diccon Field; but Carew came so quickly +through the crowd that Nick had not time to recognize Diccon if he had +been there. Diccon had often made Nick whistles from the pollard willows +along the Avon below the tannery when Nick was a toddler in smocks, and +the lad thought he would like to see him before going back to Stratford. +Then, too, his mother had always liked Diccon Field, and would be glad +to hear from him. At thought of his mother he gave a happy little skip; +and as they turned into Paternoster Bow, "Master Carew," said he, "how +soon shall I go home?" + +Carew walked a little faster. + +There had arisen a sound of shouting and a trampling of feet. The +constables had taken a purse-cutting thief, and were coming up to the +Newgate prison with a great rabble behind them. The fellow's head was +broken, and his haggard face was all screwed up with pain; but that +did not stop the boys from hooting at him, and asking in mockery how he +thought he would like to be hanged and to dance on nothing at +Tyburn Hill. + +[Illustration: "DICCON HAD OFTEN MADE NICK WHISTLES FROM THE WILLOWS +ALONG THE AVON WHEN NICK WAS A TODDLER."] + +"Did ye hear me, Master Carew?" asked Nick. + +The master-player stepped aside a moment into a doorway to let the mob +go by, and then strode on. + +Nick tried again: "I pray thee, sir--" + +"Do not pray me," said Carew, sharply; "I am no Indian idol." + +"But, good Master Carew--" + +"Nor call me good--I am not good." + +"But, Master Carew," faltered Nick, with a sinking sensation around his +heart, "when will ye leave me go home?" + +The master-player did not reply, but strode on rapidly, gnawing his +mustache. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + + +MASTER HEYWOOD PROTESTS + +It was a cold, raw day. All morning long the sun had shone through the +choking fog as the candle-flame through the dingy yellow horn of an old +stable-lantern. But at noon a wind sprang up that drove the mist through +London streets in streaks and strings mixed with smoke and the reek of +steaming roofs. Now and then the blue gleamed through in ragged patches +overhead; so that all the town turned out on pleasure bent, not minding +if it rained stewed turnips, so they saw the sky. + +But the fog still sifted through the streets, and all was damp and +sticky to the touch, so Cicely was left behind to loneliness and +disappointment. + +Nick and the master-player came down Ludgate Hill to Blackfriars landing +in a stream of merrymakers, high and low, rich and poor, faring forth to +London's greatest thoroughfare, the Thames; and as the river and the +noble mansions along the Strand came into view, Nick's heart beat fast. +It was a sight to stir the pulse. + +Far down the stream, the grim old Tower loomed above the drifting mist; +and, higher up, old London Bridge, lined with tall houses, stretched +from shore to shore. There were towers on it with domes and gilded +vanes, and the river foamed and roared under it, strangled by the piers. +From the dock at St. Mary Averies by the Bridge to Barge-house stairs, +the landing-stages all along the river-bank were thronged with boats; +and to and fro across the stream, wherries, punts, barges, and +water-craft of every kind were plying busily. In middle stream +sail-boats tugged along with creaking sweeps, or brown-sailed +trading-vessels slipped away to sea, with costly freight for Muscovy, +Turkey, and the Levant. And amid the countless water-craft a multitude +of stately swans swept here and there like snow-flakes on the +dusky river. + +Nick sniffed at the air, for it was full of strange odors--the smell of +breweries, of pitchy oakum, Norway tar, spices from hot countries, +resinous woods, and chilly whiffs from the water; and as they came out +along the wharf, there were brown-faced, hard-eyed sailors there, who +had been to the New World--wild fellows with silver rings in their ears +and a swaggering stagger in their petticoated legs. Some of them held +short, crooked brown tubes between their lips, and puffed great clouds +of pale brown smoke from their noses in a most amazing way. + +Broad-beamed Dutchmen, too, were there, and swarthy Spanish renegades, +with sturdy craftsmen of the City guilds and stalwart yeomen of the +guard in the Queen's rich livery. + +But ere Nick had fairly begun to stare, confused by such a rout, Carew +had hailed a wherry, and they were half-way over to the Southwark side. + +Landing amid a deafening din of watermen bawling hoarsely for a place +along the Paris Garden stairs, the master-player hurried up the lane +through the noisy crowd. Some were faring afoot into Surrey, and some to +green St. George's Fields to buy fresh fruit and milk from the +farm-houses and to picnic on the grass. Some turned aside to the Falcon +Inn for a bit of cheese and ale, and others to the play-houses beyond +the trees and fishing-ponds. And coming down from the inn they met a +crowd of players, with Master Tom Heywood at their head, frolicking and +cantering along like so many overgrown school-boys. + +"So we are to have thee with us awhile?" said Heywood, and put his arm +around Nick's shoulders as they trooped along. + +"Awhile, sir, yes," replied Nick, nodding; "but I am going home soon, +Master Carew says." + +"Carew," said Heywood, suddenly turning, "how can ye have the heart?" + +"Come, Heywood," quoth the master-player, curtly, though his whole face +colored up, "I have heard enough of this. Will ye please to mind your +own affairs?" + +The writer of comedies lifted his brows, "Very well," he answered +quietly; "but, lad, this much for thee," said he, turning to Nick, "if +ever thou dost need a friend, Tom Heywood's one will never speak +thee false." + +"Sir!" cried Carew, clapping his hand upon his poniard Heywood looked +up steadily. "How? Wilt thou quarrel with me, Carew? What ugly poison +hath been filtered through thy wits? Why, thou art even falser than I +thought! Quarrel with me, who took thy new-born child from her dying +mother's arms when thou wert fast in Newgate gaol?" + +Carew's angry face turned sickly gray. He made as if to speak, but no +sound came. He shut his eyes and pushed out his hand in the air as if to +stop the voice of the writer of comedies. + +"Come," said Heywood, with deep feeling; "thou canst not quarrel with me +yet--nay, though thou dost try thy very worst. It would be a sorry story +for my soul or thine to tell to hers." + +Carew groaned. The rest of the players had passed on, and the three +stood there alone. "Don't, Tom, don't!" he cried. + +"Then how can ye have the heart?" the other asked again. + +The master-player lifted up his head, and his lips were trembling. "'T +is not the heart, Tom," he cried bitterly, "upon my word, and on the +remnant of mine honour! 'Tis the head which doeth this. For, Tom, I +cannot leave him go. Why, Tom, hast thou not heard him sing? A voice +which would call back the very dead that we have loved if they might +only hear. Why, Tom, 'tis worth a thousand pound! How can I leave +him go?" + +"Oh, fie for shame upon the man I took thee for!" cried Heywood. + +"But, Tom," cried Carew, brokenly, "look it straightly in the face; I +am no such player as I was,--this reckless life hath done the trick for +me, Tom,--and here is ruin staring Henslowe and Alleyn in the eye. They +cannot keep me master if their luck doth not change soon; and Burbage +would not have me as a gift. So, Tom, what is there left to do? How can +I shift without the boy? Nay, Tom, it will not serve. There's +Cicely--not one penny laid by for her against a rainy day; and I'll be +gone, Tom, I'll be gone--it is not morning all day long--we cannot last +forever. Nay, I cannot leave him go!" + +"But, sir," broke in Nick, wretchedly, holding fast to Hey wood's arm, +"ye said that I should go!" + +"Said!" cried the master-player, with a bitter smile; "why, Nick, I'd +say ten times more in one little minute just to hear thee sing than I +would stand to in a month of Easters afterward. Come, Nick, be fair. +I'll feed thee full and dress thee well and treat thee true--all for +that song of thine." + +"But, sir, my mother--" + +"Why, Carew, hath the boy a mother, too?" cried the writer of comedies. + +"Now, Heywood, on thy soul, no more of this!" cried the master-player, +with quivering lips. "Ye will make me out no man, or else a fiend. I +cannot let the fellow go--I will not let him go." His hands were +twitching, and his face was pale, but his lips were set determinedly. +"And, Tom, there's that within me will not abide even _thy_ pestering. +So come, no more of it! Upon my soul, I sour over soon!" + +So they came on gloomily past the bear-houses and the Queen's kennels. +The river-wind was full of the wild smell of the bears; but what were +bears to poor Nick, whose last faint hope that the master-player meant +to keep his word and send him home again was gone? + +They passed the Paris Garden and the tall round play-house that Francis +Langley had just built. A blood-red banner flaunted overhead, with a +large white swan painted thereon; but Nick saw neither the play-house +nor the swan; he saw only, deep in his heart, a little gable-roof among +old elms, with blue smoke curling softly up among the rippling leaves; +an open door with tall pink hollyhocks beside it; and in the door, +watching for him till he came again, his own mother's face. He began to +cry silently. + +"Nay, Nick, my lad, don't cry," said Heywood, gently; "'twill only make +bad matters worse. _Never_ is a weary while; but the longest lane will +turn at last: some day thou'lt find thine home again all in the +twinkling of an eye. Why, Nick, 'tis England still, and thou an +Englishman. Come, give the world as good as it can send." + +Nick raised his head again, and, throwing the hair back from his eyes, +walked stoutly along, though the tears still trickled down his cheeks. + +"Sing thou my songs," said Heywood, heartily, "and I will be thy +friend--let this be thine earnest." As he spoke he slipped upon the +boy's finger a gold ring with a green stone in it cut with a tall tree: +this was his seal. + +They had now come through the garden to the Rose Theatre, where the Lord +Admiral's company played; and Carew was himself again. "Come, +Nicholas," said he, half jestingly, "be done with thy doleful +dumps--care killed a cat, they say, lad. Why, if thy hateful looks could +stab, I'd be a dead man forty times. Come, cheer up, lad, that I may +know thou lovest me." + +"But I do na love thee!" cried Nick, indignantly. + +"Tut! Do not be so dour. Thou'lt soon be envied by ten thousand men. +Come, don't make a face at thy good fortune as though it were a tripe +fried in tar. Come, lad, be pleased; thou'lt be the pet of every +high-born dame in London town." + +"I'd rather be my mother's boy," Nick answered simply. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX + + +THE ROSE PLAY-HOUSE + +The play-house was an eight-sided, three-storied, tower-like building of +oak and plastered lath, upon a low foundation of yellow brick. Two +outside stairways ran around the wall, and the roof was of bright-red +English tiles with a blue lead gutter at the eaves. There was a little +turret, from the top of which a tall ash stave went up; and on the +stave, whenever there was to be a play, there floated a great white flag +on which was a crimson rose with a golden heart, just like the one that +Nick with such delight had seen come up the Oxford road a few short +days before. + +Under the stairway was a narrow door marked "For the Playeres Onelie"; +and in the doorway stood a shrewd-faced, common-looking man, writing +upon a tablet which he held in his hand. There was a case of quills at +his side, with one of which he was scratching busily, now and then +prodding the ink-horn at his girdle. He held his tongue in his cheek, +and moved his head about as the pen formed the letters: he was no +expert penman, this Phil Henslowe, the stager of plays. + +He looked up as they came to the step. + +"A poor trip, Carew," said he, running his finger down the column of +figures he was adding. "The play was hardly worth the candle--cleared +but five pound; and then, after I had paid the carman three shilling fip +to bring the stuff down from the City, 'twas lost in the river from the +barge at Paul's wharf! A good two pound." + +"Hard luck!" said Carew. + +"Hard? Adamantine, I say! Why, 'tis very stones for luck, and the whole +road rocky! Here's Burbage, Condell, and Will Shakspere ha' rebuilt +Blackfriars play-house in famous shape; and, marry, where are we?" + +Nick started. An idea came creeping into his head. Will Shakspere had +married his mother's own cousin, Anne Hathaway of Shottery; and he had +often heard his mother say that Master Shakspere had ever been her own +good friend when they were young. + +"He and Jonson be thick as thieves," said Henslowe; "and Chettle says +that Will hath near done the book of a new play for the autumn--a master +fine thing!--'Romulus and Juliana,' or something of that Italian sort, +to follow Ben Jonson's comedy. Ned Alleyn played a sweet fool about +Ben's comedy. Called it monstrous bad; and now it has taken the money +out of our mouths to the tune of nine pound six the day--and here, while +ye were gone, I ha' played my Lord of Pembroke's men in your 'Robin +Hood,' Heywood, to scant twelve shilling in the house!" + +Heywood flushed. + +"Nay, Tom, don't be nettled; 'tis not the fault of thy play. There's +naught will serve. We've tried old Marlowe and Robin Greene, Peele, +Nash, and all the rest; but, what! they will not do--'tis Shakspere, +Shakspere; our City flat-caps will ha' nothing but Shakspere!" + +Nick listened eagerly. Master Will Shakspere must indeed be somebody in +London town! He stared across into the drifting cloud of mist and smoke +which hid the city like a pall, and wondered how and where, in that +terrible hive of more than a hundred thousand men, he could find +one man. + +"I tell thee, Tom Heywood, there's some magic in the fellow, or my +name's not Henslowe!" cried the manager. "His very words bewitch one's +wits as nothing else can do. Why, I've tried them with 'Pierce +Penniless,' 'Groat's Worth of Wit,' 'Friar Bacon,' 'Orlando,' and the +'Battle of Alcazar.' Why, tush! they will not even listen! And here I've +put Martin Gosset into purple and gold, and Jemmy Donstall into a +peach-colored gown laid down with silver-gilt, for 'Volteger'; and what? +Why, we play to empty stools; and the rascals owe me for those costumes +yet--sixty shillings full! A murrain on Burbage and Will Shakspere +too!--but I wish we had him back again. We'd make their old Blackfriars +sick!" He shook his fist at a great gray pile of buildings that rose +above the rest out of the fog by the landing-place beyond the river. + +Nick stared. _That_ the play-house of Master Shakspere and the Burbages? +Will Shakspere playing there, just across the river? Oh, if Nick could +only find him, he would not let the son of his wife's own cousin be +stolen away! + +Nick looked around quickly. + +The play-house stood a bowshot from the river, in the open fields. There +was a moated manor-house near by, and beyond it a little stream with +some men fishing. Between the play-house and the Thames were gardens and +trees, and a thin fringe of buildings along the bank by the landings. It +was not far, and there were places where one could get a boat every +fifty yards or so at the Bankside. + +But--"Come in, come in," said Henslowe. "Growling never fed a dog; and +we must be doing." + +"Go ahead, Nick," said Carew, pushing him by the shoulder, and they all +went in. The door opened on a flight of stairs leading to the lowest +gallery at the right of the stage, where the orchestra sat. A man was +tuning up a viol as they came in. + +"I want you to hear this boy sing," said Carew to Henslowe. "'Tis the +best thing ye ever lent ear to." + +"Oh, this is the boy?" said the manager, staring at Nick. "Why, Alleyn +told me he was a country gawk!" + +"He lied, then," said Carew, very shortly. "'Twas cheaper than the +truth at my price. There, Nick, go look about the place--we have +business." + +Nick went slowly along the gallery. His hands were beginning to tremble +as he put them out touching the stools. Along the rail were ornamental +columns which supported the upper galleries and looked like beautiful +blue-veined white marble; but when he took hold of them to steady +himself he found they were only painted wood. + +There were two galleries above. They ran all around the inside of the +building, like the porches of the inn at Coventry, and he could see them +across the house. There were no windows in the gallery where he was, but +there were some in the second one. They looked high. He went on around +the gallery until he came to some steps going down into the open space +in the center of the building. The stage was already set up on the +trestles, and the carpenters were putting a shelter-roof over it on +copper-gilt pillars; for it was beginning to drizzle, and the middle of +the play-house was open to the sky. + +The spectators were already coming into the pit at a penny apiece, +although the play would not begin until early evening. Those for the +galleries paid another penny to a man in a red cloak at the foot of the +stairs where Nick was standing. There was a great uproar at the +entrance. Some apprentices had caught a cutpurse in the crowd, and were +beating him unmercifully. Every one pushed and shoved about, cursing the +thief, and those near enough kicked and struck him. + +Nick looked back. Carew and the manager had gone into the tiring-room +behind the stage. He took hold of the side-rail and started down the +steps. The man in the red cloak looked up. "Go back there," said he, +sharply; "there's enough down here now." Nick went on around +the gallery. + +At the back of the stage were two doors for the players, and between +them hung a painted cloth or arras behind which the prompter stood. Over +these doors were two plastered rooms, twopenny private boxes for +gentlefolk. In one of them were three young men and a beautiful girl, +wonderfully dressed. The men were speaking to her, but she looked down +at Nick instead. "What a pretty boy!" she said, and tossed him a flower +that one of the men had just given her. It fell at Nick's feet. He +started back, looking up. The girl smiled, so he took off his cap and +bowed; but the men looked sour. + +At the side of the stage was a screen with long leather fire-buckets and +a pole-ax hanging upon it, and behind it was a door through which Nick +saw the river and the gray walls of the old Dominican friary. As he came +down to it, some one thrust out a staff and barred the way. It was the +bandy-legged man with the ribbon in his ear, Nick looked out longingly; +it seemed so near! + +"Master Carew saith thou art not to stir outside--dost hear?" said the +bandy-legged man. + +"Ay," said Nick, and turned back. + +There was a narrow stairway leading to the second gallery. He went up +softly. There was no one in the gallery, and there was a window on the +side next to the river; he had seen it from below. He went toward it +slowly that he might not arouse suspicion. It was above his head. + +[Illustration: "NICK PUT ONE LEG OVER THE SILL AND LOOKED BACK."] + +There were stools for hire standing near. He brought one and set it +under the window. It stood unevenly upon the floor, and made a wabbling +noise. He was afraid some one would hear him; but the apprentices in +the pit were rattling dice, and two or three gentlemen's pages were +wrangling for the best places on the platform; while, to add to the +general riot, two young gallants had brought gamecocks and were fighting +them in one corner, amid such a whooping and swashing that one could +hardly have heard the skies fall. + +A printer's man was bawling, "Will ye buy a new book?" and the +fruit-sellers, too, were raising such a cry of "Apples, cherries, cakes, +and ale!" that the little noise Nick might make would be lost in the +wild confusion. + +Master Carew and the manager had not come out of the tiring-room. Nick +got up on the stool and looked out. It was not very far to the +ground--not so far as from the top of the big haycock in Master John +Combe's field from which he had often jumped. + +The sill was just breast-high when he stood upon the stool. Putting his +hands upon it, he gave a little spring, and balanced on his arms a +moment. Then he put one leg over the window-sill and looked back. No one +was paying the slightest attention to him. Over all the noise he could +hear the man tuning the viol. Swinging himself out slowly and silently, +with his toes against the wall to steady him, he hung down as far as he +could, gave a little push away from the house with his feet, caught a +quick breath, and dropped. + + + + +CHAPTER XX + + +DISAPPOINTMENT + +Nick landed upon a pile of soft earth. It broke away under his feet and +threw him forward upon his hands and knees. He got up, a little shaken +but unhurt, and stood close to the wall, looking all about quickly. A +party of gaily dressed gallants were haggling with the horse-boys at the +sheds; but they did not even look at him. A passing carter stared up at +the window, measuring the distance with his eye, whistled incredulously, +and trudged on. + +Nick listened a moment, but heard only the clamor of voices inside, and +the zoon, zoon, zoon of the viol. He was trembling all over, and his +heart was beating like a trip-hammer. He wanted to run, but was fearful +of exciting suspicion. Heading straight for the river, he walked as fast +as he could through the gardens and the trees, brushing the dirt from +his hose as he went. + +There was a wherry just pushing out from Old Marigold stairs with a +single passenger, a gardener with a basket of truck. + +"Holloa!" cried Nick, hurrying down; "will ye take me across?" + +"For thrippence," said the boatman, hauling the wherry alongside again +with his hook. + +Thrippence? Nick stopped, dismayed. Master Carew had his gold +rose-noble, and he had not thought of the fare. They would soon find +that he was gone. + +"Oh, I must be across, sir!" he cried. "Can ye na take me free? I be +little and not heavy; and I will help the gentleman with his basket." + +The boatman's only reply was to drop his hook and push off with the oar. + +But the gardener, touched by the boy's pitiful expression, to say +nothing of being tickled by Nick's calling him gentleman, spoke up: +"Here, jack-sculler," said he; "I'll toss up wi' thee for it." He pulled +a groat from his pocket and began spinning it in the air. "Come, thou +lookest a gamesome fellow--cross he goes, pile he stays; best two in +three flips--what sayst?" + +"Done!" said the waterman. "Pop her up!" + +Up went the groat. + +Nick held his breath. + +"Pile it is," said the gardener. "One for thee--and up she goes again!" +The groat twirled in the air and came down _clink_ upon the thwart. + +"Aha!" cried the boatman, "'tis mine, or I'm a horse!" + +"Nay, jack-sculler," laughed the gardener; "cross it is! Ka me, ka thee, +my pretty groat--I never lose with this groat." + +"Oh, sir, do be brisk!" begged Nick, fearing every instant to see the +master-player and the bandy-legged man come running down the bank. + +"More haste, worse speed," said the gardener; "only evil weeds grow +fast!" and he rubbed the groat on his jerkin. "Now, jack-sculler, hold +thy breath; for up she goes again!" + +A man came running over the rise. Nick gave a little frightened cry. It +was only a huckster's knave with a roll of fresh butter. The groat came +down with a splash in the bottom of the wherry. The boatman picked it up +out of the water and wiped it with his sleeve. "Here, boy, get aboard," +said he, shoving off; "and be lively about it!" + +The huckster's knave came running down the landing. He pushed Nick +aside, and scrambled into the wherry, puffing for breath. The boat fell +off into the current. Nick, making a plunge for it into the water, just +managed to catch the gunwale and get aboard, wet to the knees. But he +did not care for that; for although there were people going up Paris +Garden lane, and a crowd about the entrance of the Rose, he could not +see Master Carew or the bandy-legged man anywhere. So he breathed a +little freer, yet kept his eyes fast upon the play-house until the +wherry bumped against Blackfriars stairs. + +Picking up the basket of truck, he sprang ashore, and, dropping it upon +the landing, took to his heels up the bank, without stopping to thank +either gardener or boatman. + +The gray walls of the old friary were just ahead, scarcely a stone's +throw from the river. With heart beating high, he ran along the close, +looking eagerly for the entrance. He came to a wicket-gate that was +standing half ajar, and went through it into the old cloisters. + +Everything there was still. He was glad of that, for the noise and the +rush of the crowd outside confused him. + +The place had once been a well-kept garden-plot, but now was become a +mere stack of odds and ends of boards and beams, shavings, mortar, and +broken brick. A long-legged fellow with a green patch over one eye was +building a pair of stairs to a door beside which a sign read: "Playeres +Here: None Elles." + +Nick doffed his cap. "Good-day," said he; "is Master Will Shakspere in?" + +The man put down his saw and sat back upon one of the trestles, staring +stupidly. "Didst za-ay zummat?" + +"I asked if Master Will Shakspere was in?" + +The fellow scratched his head with a bit of shaving. "Noa; Muster Wull +Zhacksper beant in." + +Nick's heart stopped with a thump. "Where is he--do ye know?" + +"A's gone awa-ay," drawled the workman, vaguely. + +"Away? Whither!" + +"A's gone to Ztratvoard to-own, whur's woife do li-ive--went +a-yesterday." + +Nick sat blindly down upon the other trestle. He did not put his cap on +again: he had quite forgotten it. + +Master Will Shakspere gone to Stratford--and only the day before! + +Too late--just one little day too late! It seemed like cruel mockery. +Why, he might be almost home! The thought was more than he could bear: +who could be brave in the face of such a blow? The bitter tears ran +down his face again. + +"Here, here, odzookens, lad!" grinned the workman, stolidly, "thou'lt +vetch t' river up if weeps zo ha-ard. Ztop un, ztop un; do now." + +Nick sat staring at the ground. A beetle was trying to crawl over a +shaving. It was a curly shaving, and as fast as the beetle crept up to +the top the shaving rolled over, and dropped the beetle upon its back in +the dust; but it only got up and tried again. Nick looked up. + +"Is--is Master Richard Burbage here, then?" + +Perhaps Burbage, who had been a Stratford man, would help him. + +"Noa," drawled the carpenter; "Muster Bubbage beant here; doan't want +un, nuther--nuvver do moind a's owen business--always jawin' volks. A +beant here, an' doan't want un, nuther." + +Nick's heart went down. "And where is he?" + +"Who? Muster Bubbage? Whoy, a be-eth out to Zhoreditch, a-playin' at t' +theater." + +"And where may Shoreditch be?" + +"Whur be Zhoreditch?" gaped the workman, vacantly. "Whoy--whoy, zummers +over there a bit yon, zure"; and he waved his hand about in a way that +pointed to nowhere at all. + +"When will he be back?" asked Nick, desperately. + +"Be ba-ack?" drawled the workman, slowly taking up his saw again; "back +whur?--here? Whoy, a wun't pla-ay here no mo-ore avore next Martlemas." + +Martinmas? That was almost mid-November. It was now but middle May. + +Nick got up and went out at the wicket-gate. He was beginning to feel +sick and a little faint. The rush in the street made him dizzy, and the +sullen roar that came down on the wind from the town, mingled with the +tramping of feet, the splash of oars, the bumping of boats along the +wharves, and the shouts and cries of a thousand voices, stupefied him. + +He was standing there motionless in the narrow way, as if dazed by a +heavy fall, when Gaston Carew came running up from the river-front, with +the bandy-legged man at his heels. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI + + +"THE CHILDREN OF PAUL'S" + +An old gray rat came out of its hole, ran swiftly across the floor, and, +sitting up, crouched there, peering at Nick. He thought its bare, scaly +tail was not a pleasant thing to see; yet he looked at it, with his +elbows on his knees, and his chin in his hands. + +He had been locked in for two days now. They had put in plenty of food, +and he had eaten it all; for if he starved to death he would certainly +never get home. + +It was quite warm, and the boards had been taken from the window, so +that there was plenty of light. The window faced the north, and in the +night, wakened by some outcry in the street below, Nick had leaned his +log-pillow against the wainscot, and, climbing up, looked out into the +sky. It was clear, for a wonder, and the stars were very bright. The +moon, like a smoky golden platter, rose behind the eastern towers of the +town, and in the north hung the Great Wain pointing at the polar star. + +Somewhere underneath those stars was Stratford. The throstles would be +singing in the orchard there now, when the sun was low and the cool +wind came up from the river with a little whispering in the lane. The +purple-gray doves, too, would be cooing softly in the elms over the +cottage gable. In fancy he heard the whistle of their wings as they +flew. But all the sound that came in over the roofs of London town was a +hollow murmur as from a kennel of surly hounds. + +"Nick!--oh, Nick!" + +Cicely Carew was calling at the door. The rat scurried off to its hole +in the wall. + +"What there, Nick! Art thou within?" Cicely called again; but Nick made +no reply. + +"Nick, _dear_ Nick, art crying?" + +"No," said he; "I'm not." + +There was a short silence. + +"Nick, I say, wilt thou be good if I open the door?" + +"No." + +"Then I will open it anyway; thou durstn't be bad to me!" + +The bolts thumped, and then the heavy door swung slowly back. + +"Why, where art thou?" + +He was sitting in the corner behind the door. + +"Here," said he. + +She came in, but he did not look up. + +"Nick," she asked earnestly, "why wilt thou be so bad, and try to run +away from my father?" + +"I hate thy father!" said he, and brought his fist down upon his knee. + +"Hate him? Oh, Nick! Why?" + +"If thou be asking whys," said Nick, bitterly, "why did he steal me away +from my mother?" + +"Oh, surely, Nick, that cannot be true--no, no, it cannot be true. Thou +hast forgotten, or thou hast slept too hard and had bad dreams. My +father would not steal a pin. It was a nightmare. Doth thine head hurt +thee?" She came over and stroked his forehead with her cool hand. She +was a graceful child, and gentle in all her ways. "I am sorry thou dost +not feel well, Nick. But my father will come presently, and he will heal +thee soon. Don't cry any more." + +"I'm not crying," said Nick, stoutly, though as he spoke a tear ran down +his cheek, and fell upon his hand. + +"Then it is the roof leaks," she said, looking up as if she had not seen +his tear-blinded eyes. "But cheer up, Nick, and be a good boy--wilt thou +not? 'Tis dinner-time, and thy new clothes have come; and thou art to +come down now and try them on." + +When Nick came out of the tiring-room and found the master-player come, +he knew not what to say or do. "Oh, brave, brave, brave!" cried Cicely, +and danced around him, clapping her hands. "Why, it is a very prince--a +king! Oh, Nick, thou art most beautiful to see!" + +And Master Carew's own eyes sparkled; for truly it was a pleasant sight +to see a fair young lad like Nick in such attire. + +There was a fine white shirt of Holland linen, and long hose of grayish +blue, with puffed and slashed trunks of velvet so blue as to be almost +black. The sleeveless jerkin was of the same dark color, trellised with +roses embroidered in silk, and loose from breast to broad lace collar so +that the waistcoat of dull gold silk beneath it might show. A cloak of +damask with a silver clasp, a buff-leather belt with a chubby purse hung +to it by a chain, tan-colored slippers, and a jaunty velvet cap with a +short white plume, completed the array. Everything, too, had been laid +down with perfume, so that from head to foot he smelt as sweet and clean +as a drift of rose-mallows. + +"My soul!" cried Carew, stepping back and snapping his fingers with +delight. "Thou art the bravest skylark that ever broke a shell! Fine +feathers--fine bird--my soul, how ye do set each other off!" He took +Nick by the shoulders, twirled him around, and, standing off again, +stared at him like a man who has found two pound sterling in a +cast-off coat. + +"I can na pay for them, sir," said Nick, slowly. + +"There's nought to pay--it is a gift." + +Nick hung his head, much troubled. What could he say; what could he +think? This man had stolen him from home,--ay, made him tremble for his +very life a dozen times,--and with his whole heart he knew he hated +him--yet here, a gift! + +"Yes, Nick, it is a gift--and all because I love thee, lad." + +"Love me?" + +"Why, surely! Who could see thee without liking, or hear thy voice and +not love thee? Love thee, Nick? Why, on my word and honour, lad, I love +thee with all my heart." + +"Thou hast chosen strange ways to show it, Master Carew," said Nick, and +looked straight up into the master player's eyes. + +Carew turned upon his heel and ordered the dinner. + +It was a good dinner: fat roast capon stuffed with spiced carrots; +asparagus, biscuit, barley-cakes, and honey; and to end with, a flaky +pie, and Spanish cordial sprinkled with burnt sugar. With such fare and +a keen appetite, a marvelous brand-new suit of clothes, and Cicely +chattering gaily by his side, Nick could not be sulky or doleful long. +He was soon laughing; and Carew's spirits seemed to rise with the boy's. + +"Here, here!" he cried, as Nick was served the third time to the pie; +"art hollow to thy very toes? Why, thou'lt eat us out of house and +home--hey, Cicely? Marry come up, I think I'd best take Ned Alleyn's +five shillings for thine hire, after all! What! Five shillings? Set me +in earth and bowl me to death with boiled turnips!--do they think to +play bob-fool with me? Five shillings! A fico for their five +shillings--and this for them!" and he squeezed the end of his thumb +between his fingers. "Cicely, what dost think?--Phil Henslowe had the +face to match Jem Bristow with our Nick!" + +"Why, daddy, Jem hath a face like a halibut!" + +"And a voice like a husky crow. Why, Nick's mere shadow on the stage is +worth a ton of Jemmy Bristows. 'Twas casting pearls before swine, Nick, +to offer thee to Henslowe and Alleyn; but we've found a better trough +than theirs--hey, Cicely Goldenheart, haven't we? Thou art to be one of +Paul's boys." + +"Paul who?" + +Carew lay back in his chair and laughed. "Paul who? Why, Saint Paul, +Nick,--'tis Paul's Cathedral boys I mean. Marry, what dost say to that?" + +"I'd like another barley-cake." + +"You'd _what_?" cried the master-player, letting the front legs of his +chair come down on the floor with a thump. + +"I'd like another barley-cake," said Nick, quietly, helping himself to +the honey. + +"Upon my word, and on the remnant of mine honour!" ejaculated Carew. +"Tell a man his fortune's made, and he calls for barley-cakes! Why, +thou'dst say 'Pooh!' to a cannon-ball! My faith, boy, dost understand +what this doth mean?" + +"Ay," said Nick; "that I be hungry." + +"But, Nick, upon my soul, thou art to sing with the Children of Paul's; +to play with the cathedral company; to be a bright particular star in +the sweetest galaxy that ever shone in English sky! Dost take me yet?" + +"Ay," said Nick, and sopped the honey with his cake. + +Carew played with his glass uneasily, and tapped his heel upon the +floor. "And is that all thou hast to say--hast turned oyster? There's no +R in May--nobody will eat thee! Come, don't make a mouth as though the +honey of the world were all turned gall upon thy tongue. 'Tis the +flood-tide of thy fortune, boy! Thou art to sing before the school +to-morrow, so that Master Nathaniel Gyles may take thy range and worth. +Now, truly, thou wilt do thy very best?" + +The bandy-legged man had brought water in a ewer, and poured some in a +basin for Nick to wash his hands. There was a green ribbon in his ear, +and the towel hung across his arm. Nick wiped his hands in silence. + +"Come," said Master Carew, with an ugly sharpness in his voice, "thou'lt +sing thy very best?" + +"There's nothing else to do," replied Nick, doggedly. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII + + +THE SKYLARK'S SONG + +Master Nathaniel Gyles, Precentor of St. Paul's, had pipe-stem legs, and +a face like an old parchment put in a box to keep. His sandy hair was +thin and straggling, and his fine cloth hose wrinkled around his +shrunken shanks; but his eye was sharp, and he wore about his neck a +broad gold chain that marked him as no common man. + +For Master Nathaniel Gyles was head of the Cathedral schools of acting +and of music, and he stood upon his dignity. + +"My duty is laid down," said he, "in most specific terms, sir,--_lex +cathedralis_,--that is to say, by the laws of the cathedral; and has +been, sir, since the reign of Richard the Third. _Primus Magister +Scholarum, Custos Morum, Quartus Custos Rotulorum_,--so the title +stands, sir; and I know my place." + +He pushed Nick into the anteroom, and turned to Carew with an irritated +air. + +"I likewise know, sir, what is what. In plain words, Master Gaston +Carew, ye have grossly misrepresented this boy to me, to the waste of +much good time. Why, sir, he does not dance a step, and cannot act +at all." + +"Soft, Master Gyles--be not so fast!" said Carew, haughtily, drawing +himself up, with his hand on his poniard; "dost mean to tell me that I +have lied to thee? Marry, sir, thy tongue will run thee into a blind +alley! I told thee that the boy could sing, but not that he could act +or dance." + +"Pouf, sir,--words! I know my place: one peg below the dean, sir, +nothing less: '_Magister, et cetera'_--'tis so set down. And I tell +thee, sir, he has no training, not a bit; can't tell a pricksong from a +bottle of hay; doesn't know a canon from a crocodile, or a fugue from a +hole in the ground!" + +"Oh, fol-de-riddle de fol-de-rol! What has that to do with it? I tell +thee, sir, the boy can sing." + +"And, sir, I say I know my place. Music does not grow like weeds." + +"And fa-la-las don't make a voice." + +"What! How? Wilt thou teach me?" The master's voice rose angrily. "Teach +me, who learned descant and counterpoint in the Gallo-Belgic schools, +sir; the best in all the world! Thou, who knowest not a staccato from a +stick of liquorice!" + +Carew shrugged his shoulders impatiently. "Come, Master Gyles, this is +fool play. I told thee that the boy could sing, and thou hast not yet +heard him try. Thou knowest right well I am no such simple gull as to +mistake a jay for a nightingale; and I tell thee, sir, upon my word, +and on the remnant of mine honour, he has the voice that thou dost need +if thou wouldst win the favor of the Queen. He has the voice, and thou +the thingumbobs to make the most of it. Don't be a fool, now; hear him +sing. That's all I ask. Just hear him once. Thou'lt pawn thine ears to +hear him twice." + +The music-school stood within the old cathedral grounds. Through the +windows came up distantly the murmur of the throng in Paul's Yard. It +was mid-afternoon, quite warm; blundering flies buzzed up and down the +lozenged panes, and through the dark hall crept the humming sound of +childish voices reciting eagerly, with now and then a sharp, small cry +as some one faltered in his lines and had his fingers rapped. Somewhere +else there were boyish voices running scales, now up, now down, without +a stop, and other voices singing harmonies, two parts and three +together, here and there a little flat from weariness. + +The stairs were very dark, Nick thought, as they went up to another +floor; but the long hall they came into there was quite bright with +the sun. + +At one end was a little stage, like the one at the Rose play-house, with +a small gallery for musicians above it; but everything here was painted +white and gold, and was most scrupulously clean. The rush-strewn floor +was filled with oaken benches, and there were paintings hanging upon the +wall, portraits of old head-masters and precentors. Some of them were so +dark with time that Nick wondered if they had been blackamoors. + +Master Gyles closed the great door and pulled a cord that hung by the +stage. A bell jangled faintly somewhere in the wall. Nick heard the +muffled voices hush, and then a shuffling tramp of slippered feet came +up the outer stair. + +"Pouf!" said the precentor, crustily. "_Tempus fugit_--that is to say, +we have no time to waste. So, marry, boy, _venite, exultemus_--in other +words, if thou canst sing, be up and at it. Come, _cantate_--sing, I bid +thee, and that instanter--if thou canst sing at all." + +The under-masters and monitors were pushing the boys into their seats. +Carew pointed to the stage. "Thou'lt do thy level best!" he said in a +low, hard tone, and something clashed beneath his cloak like steel +on steel. + +Nick went up the steps behind the screen. It seemed cold in the room; he +had not noticed it before. Yet there were sweat-drops upon his forehead. +He felt as if he were a jackanapes he had seen once at the Stratford +fair, which wore a crimson jerkin and a cap. The man who had the +jackanapes played upon a pipe and a tabor; and when he said, "Dance!" +the jackanapes danced, for it was sorely afraid of the man. Yet when +Nick looked around and did not see the master-player anywhere in the +hall, he felt exceedingly lonely all at once without him, though he both +feared and hated him. + +There still was a shuffling of feet and a low talking; but soon it +became very quiet, and they all seemed to be waiting for him to begin. +He did not care, but supposed he might as well: what else could he do? + +There was a clock somewhere ticking quickly with its sharp, metallic +ring. As he listened, lonely, his heart cried out for home. In his +fancy the wind seemed rippling over the Avon, and the elm-leaves rustled +like rain upon the roof above his bed. There were red and white +wild-roses in the hedge, and in the air a smell of clover and of +new-mown hay. The mowers would be working in the clover in the +moonlight. He could almost see the sweep of the shining scythes, and +hear the chink-a-chank, chink-a-chank of the whetstone on the long, +curving blades. Chink-a-chank, chink-a-chank--'twas but the clock, and +he in London town. + +Carew, sitting there behind the carven prompter's-screen, put down his +head between his hands and listened. There were murmurings a little +while, then silence. Would the boy never begin? He pressed his knuckles +into his temples and waited. Bow Bells rang out the hour; but the room +was as still as a deep sleep. Would the boy never begin? + +The precentor sniffed. It was a contemptuous, incredulous sniff. Carew +looked up--his lips white, a fierce red spot in each cheek. He was +talking to himself. "By the whistle of the Lord High Admiral!" he +said--but there he stopped and held his breath. Nick was singing. + +Only the old madrigal, with its half-forgotten words that other +generations sang before they fell asleep. How queer it sounded there! It +was a very simple tune, too; yet, as he sang, the old precentor started +from his chair and pressed his wrinkled hands together against his +breast. He quite forgot the sneer upon his face, and it went fading out +like breath from a frosty pane. + +He had twelve boys who could sing a hundred songs at sight from +unfamiliar notes; who kept the beat and marked the time as if their +throats were pendulums; could syncopate and floriate as readily as +breathe. And this was only a common country song. + +But--"That voice, that voice!" he panted to himself: for old Nat Gyles +was music-mad; melody to him was like the very breath of life. And the +boy's high, young voice, soft as a flute and silver clear, throbbed in +the air as if his very heart were singing out of his body in the sound. +And then, like the skylark rising, up, up it went, and up, up, up, till +the older choristers held their breath and feared that the vibrant tone +would break, so slender, film-like was the trembling thread of the boy's +wild skylark song. But no; it trembled there, high, sweet, and clear, a +moment in the air; and then came running, rippling, floating down, as +though some one had set a song on fire in the sky, and dropped it +quivering and bright into a shadow world. Then suddenly it was gone, and +the long hall was still. + +The old precentor stepped beyond the screen. + +Gaston Carew's face was in his hands, and his shoulders shook +convulsively. "I'll leave thee go, lad,_--ma foi_, I'll leave thee go. +But, nay, I dare not leave thee go!" + +Some one came and tapped him on the shoulder. It was the sub-precentor. +"Master Gyles would speak with thee, sir," said he, in a low tone, as if +half afraid of the sound of his own voice in the quiet that was in +the hall. + +Carew drew his hand hastily over his face, as if to take the old one off +and put a new one on, then arose and followed the man. + +[Illustration: "'THAT VOICE, THAT VOICE,' NAT GYLES PANTED TO +HIMSELF."] + +The old precentor stood with his hands still clasped against his +breast. "_Mirabile_!" he was saying with bated breath. "It is +impossible, and I have dreamed! Yet _credo_--I believe--_quia +impossibile est_--because it is impossible. Tell me, Carew, do I wake or +dream--or, stay, was it a soul I heard? Ay, Carew, 'twas a soul: the +lad's own white, young soul. My faith, I said he was of no account! +_Satis verborum_--say no more. _Humanum est errare_--I am a poor old +fool; and there's a sour bug flown in mine eye that makes it water so!" +He wiped his eyes, for the tears were running down his cheeks. + +"Thou'lt take him, then?" asked Carew. + +"Take him?" cried the old precentor, catching the master-player by the +hand. "Marry, that will I; a voice like that grows not on every bush. +Take him? Pouf! I know my place--he shall be entered on the rolls +at once." + +"Good!" said Carew. "I shall have him learn to dance, and teach him how +to act myself. He stays with me, ye understand; thy school fare is +miserly. I'll dress him, too; for these students' robes are shabby +stuff. But for the rest--" + +"Trust me," said Master Gyles; "he shall be the first singer of them +all. He shall be taught--but who can teach the lark its song, and not do +horrid murder on it? Faith, Carew, I'll teach the lad myself; ay, all I +know. I studied in the best schools in the world." + +"And, hark 'e, Master Gyles," said Carew, sternly all at once; "thou'lt +come no royal placard and seizure on me--ye have sworn. The boy is mine +to have and to hold with all that he earns, in spite of thy +prerogatives." + +For the kings of old had given the masters of this school the right to +take for St. Paul's choir whatever voices pleased them, wherever they +might be found, by force if not by favor, barring only the royal singers +at Windsor; and when men have such privileges it is best to be wary how +one puts temptation in their way. + +"Thou hadst mine oath before I even saw the boy," said the precentor, +haughtily. "Dost think me perjured--_Primus Magister Scholarum, Custos +Morum, Quartus Custos Rotulorum?_ Pouf! I know my place. My oath's my +oath. But, soft; enough--here comes the boy. Who could have told a +skylark in such popinjay attire?" + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + + +A NEW LIFE + +And now a strange, new life began for Nicholas Attwood, in some things +so grand and kind that he almost hated to dislike it. + +It was different in every way from the simple, pinching round in +Stratford, and full of all the comforts of richness and plenty that make +life happy--excepting home and mother. + +Master Gaston Carew would have nothing but the best, and what he wanted, +whether he needed it or not; so with him money came like a summer rain, +and went like water out of a sieve: for he was a wild blade. + +They ate their breakfast when they pleased; dined at eleven, like the +nobility; supped at five, as was the fashion of the court. They had +wheat-bread the whole week round, as only rich folk could afford, with +fruit and berries in their season, and honey from the Surrey bee-farms +that made one's mouth water with the sight of it dripping from the flaky +comb; and on Fridays spitchcocked eels, pickled herrings, and plums, +with simnel-cakes, poached eggs and milk, cream cheese and cordial, +like very kings; so that Nick could not help thriving. + +The master-player very seldom left him by himself to mope or to be +melancholy; but, while ever vaguely promising to let him go, did +everything in his power to make him rather wish to stay; so that Nick +was constantly surprised by the free-handed kindness of this man whom he +had every other reason in the world, he thought, for deeming his +worst enemy. + +When there were any new curiosities in Fleet street,--wild men with +rings in their noses, wondrous fishes, puppet-shows, or red-capped +baboons whirling on a pole,--Carew would have Nick see them as well as +Cicely; and often took them both to Bartholomew's Fair, where there was +a giant eating raw beef and a man dancing upon a rope high over the +heads of the people. He would have had Nick every Thursday to the +bear-baiting in the Paris Garden circus beside; but one sight of that +brutal sport made the boy so sick that they never went again, but to the +stage-plays at the Rose instead, which Nick enjoyed immensely, for Carew +himself acted most excellently, and Master Tom Heywood always came and +spoke kindly to the lonely boy. + +For, in spite of all, Nick's heart ached so at times that he thought it +would surely break with longing for his mother. And at night, when all +the house was still and dark, and he alone in bed, all the little, +unconsidered things of home--the beehives and the fragrant mint beside +the kitchen door, the smell of the baking bread or frying carrots, the +sound of the red-cheeked harvest apples dropping in the orchard, and the +plump of the old bucket in the well--came back to him so vividly that +many a time he cried himself to sleep, and could not have forgotten +if he would. + +On Midsummer Day there was a Triumph on the river at Westminster, with a +sham-fight and a great shooting of guns and hurling of balls of +wild-fire. The Queen was there, and the ambassadors of France and +Venice, with the Duke of Lennox and the Earls of Arundel and +Southampton. Master Carew took a wherry to Whitehall, and from the green +there they watched the show. + +The Thames was fairly hidden by the boats, and there was a grand state +bark all trimmed with silk and velvet for the Queen to be in to see the +pastime. But as for that, all Nick could make out was the high carved +stern of the bark, painted with England's golden lions, and the bark was +so far away that he could not even tell which was the Queen. + +Coming home by Somerset House, a large barge passed them with many +watermen rowing, and fine carpets about the seats; and in it the old +Lord Chamberlain and his son my Lord Hunsdon, who, it was said, was to +be the Lord Chamberlain when his father died; for the old lord was +failing, and the Queen liked handsome young men about her. + +In the barge, beside their followers, were a company of richly dressed +gentlemen, who were having a very gay time together, and seemed to +please the old Lord Chamberlain exceedingly with the things they said. +They were somebodies, as Nick could very well see from their carriage +and address; and, so far as the barge allowed, they were all clustered +about one fellow in the seat by my Lord Hunsdon. He seemed to be the +chiefest spokesman of them all, and every one appeared very glad indeed +to be friendly with him. My Lord Hunsdon himself made free with his own +nobility, and sat beside him arm in arm. + +What he was saying they were too far away to hear in the shouting and +splash; but those with him in the barge were listening as eagerly as +children to a merry tale. Sometimes they laughed until they held their +sides; and then again as suddenly they were very quiet, and played +softly with their tankards and did not look at one another as he went +gravely on telling his story. Then all at once he would wave his hand +gaily, and his smile would sparkle out; and the whole company, from the +old Lord Chamberlain down, would brighten up again, as if a new dawn had +come over the hills into their hearts from the light of his hazel eyes. + +Nick made no doubt that this was some young earl rolling in wealth; for +who else could have such listeners? Yet there was, nevertheless, +something so familiar in his look that he could not help staring at him +as the barge came thumping through the jam. + +They passed along an oar's-length or two away; and as they came abeam, +Carew, rising, doffed his hat, and bowed politely to them all. + +In spite of his wild life, he was a striking, handsome man. + +The old Lord Chamberlain said something to his son, and pointed with his +hand. All the company in the barge turned round to look; and he who had +been talking stood up quickly with his hand upon the young lord's arm, +and, smiling, waved his cap. + +Nick gave a sharp cry. + +Then the barge pushed through, and shot away down stream like a wild +swan. + +"Why, Nick," exclaimed Cicely, "how dreadful thou dost look!" and, +frightened, she caught him by the hand. "Why, oh!--what is it, +Nick--thou art not ill?" + +"It was Will Shakspere!" cried Nick, and sank into the bottom of the +wherry with his head upon the master-player's knee. "Oh, Master Carew," +he cried, "will ye never leave me go?" + +Carew laid his hand upon the boy's head, and patted it gently. + +"Why, Nick," said he, and cleared his throat, "is not this better than +Stratford?" + +"Oh, Master Carew--mother's there!" was the reply. + +There was no sound but the thud of oars in the rowlocks and the hollow +bubble of the water at the stern, for they had fallen out of the hurry +and were coming down alone. + +"Is thy mother a good woman, Nick?" asked Cicely. + +Carew was staring out into the fading sky. "Ay, sweetheart," he answered +in a queer, husky voice, suddenly putting one arm about her and the +other around Nick's shoulders. "None but a good mother could have so +good a son." + +"Then thou wilt send him home, daddy?" asked Cicely. + +Carew took her hand in his, but answered nothing. + +They had come to the landing. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + + +THE MAKING OP A PLAYER + +Master Will Shakspere was in town! The thought ran through Nick +Attwood's head like a half-remembered tune. Once or twice he had all but +sung it instead of the words of his part. Master Will Shakspere was +in town! + +Could he but just find Master Shakspere, all his trouble would be over; +for the husband of his mother's own cousin would see justice done him in +spite of the master-player and the bandy-legged man with the ribbon in +his ear--of that he was sure. + +But there seemed small chance of its coming about; for the doors of +Gaston Carew's house were locked and barred by day and by night, as much +to keep Nick in as to keep thieves out; and all day long, when Carew was +away, the servants went about the lower halls, and Gregory Goole's +uncanny face peered after him from every shadowy corner; and when he +went with Carew anywhere, the master-player watched him like a hawk, +while always at his heels he could hear the clump, clump, clump of the +bandy-legged man following after him. + +Even were he free to go as he pleased, he knew not where to turn; for +the Lord Chamberlain's company would not be at the Blackfriars +play-house until Martinmas; and before that time to look for even Master +Will Shakspere at random in London town would be worse than hunting for +a needle in a haystack. + +To be sure, he knew that the Lord Chamberlain's men were still playing +at the theater in Shoreditch; for Master Carew had taken Cicely there to +see the "Two Gentlemen of Verona." But just where Shoreditch was, Nick +had only the faintest idea--somewhere away off by Finsbury Fields, +beyond the city walls to the north of London town--and all the wide +world seemed north of London town; and the way thither lay through a +bewildering tangle of streets in which the din and the rush of the crowd +were never still. + +From a hopeless chase like that Nick shrank back like a snail into its +shell. He was not too young to know that there were worse things than to +be locked in Gaston Carew's house. It were better to be a safe-kept +prisoner there than to be lost in the sinks of London. And so, knowing +this, he made the best of it. + +But Master Shakspere was come back to town, and that was something. It +seemed somehow less lonely just to think of it. + +Yet in truth he had but little time to think of it; for the +master-player kept him closely at his strange, new work, and taught him +daily with the most amazing patience. + +[Illustration: "NOBODY BREAKS NOBODY'S HEARTS IN OLD JO-OHN SMITHSES +SHO-OP,' DRAWLED THE SMITH, IN HIS DEEP VOICE; NOR STEALS +NOBODY, NOTHER"] + +He had Nick learn no end of stage parts off by heart, with their cues +and "business," entrances and exits; and worked fully as hard as his +pupil, reading over every sentence twenty times until Nick had the +accent perfectly. He would have him stamp, too, and turn about, and +gesture in accordance with the speech, until the boy's arms ached, going +with him through the motions one by one, over and over again, +unsatisfied, but patient to the last, until Nick wondered. "Nick, my +lad," he would often say, with a tired but determined smile, "one little +thing done wrong may spoil the finest play, as one bad apple rots the +barrelful. We'll have it right, or not at all, if it takes a month +of Sundays." + +So, often, he kept Nick before a mirror for an hour at a time, making +faces while he spoke his lines, smiling, frowning, or grimacing as best +seemed to fit the part, until the boy grew fairly weary of his own +looks. Then sometimes, more often as the time slipped by, Carew would +clap his hands with a boyish laugh, and have a pie brought and a cup of +Spanish cordial for them both, declaring that he loved the lad with all +his heart, upon the remnant of his honour: from which Nick knew that he +was coming on. + +Cicely Carew's governess was a Mistress Agnes Anstey. By birth she had +been a Harcourt of Ankerwyke, and she was therefore everywhere esteemed +fit by birth and breeding to teach the young mind when to bow and when +to beckon. She came each morning to the house, and Carew paid her double +shillings to see to it that Nick learned such little tricks of cap and +cloak as a lady's page need have, the carriage best fitted for his +place, and how to come into a room where great folks were. Moreover, how +to back out again, bowing, and not fall over the stools--which was no +little art, until Nick caught the knack of peeping slyly between his +legs when he bowed. + +His hair, too, was allowed to grow long, and was combed carefully every +day by the tiring-woman; and soon, as it was naturally curly, it fell in +rolling waves about his neck. + +On the heels of the governess came M'sieu de Fleury, who, it was said, +had been dancing-master to Hatton, the late Lord Chancellor of England, +and had taught him those tricks with his nimble heels which had capered +him into the Queen's good graces, and so got him the chancellorship. +M'sieu spoke dreadful English, but danced like the essence of agility, +and taught both Nick and Cicely the latest Italian coranto, playing the +tune upon his queer little pochette. + +Cicely already danced like a pixy, and laughed merrily at her comrade's +first awkward antics, until he flushed with embarrassment. At that she +instantly became grave, and, when M'sieu had gone, came across the room, +and putting her arm about Nick, said repentantly, "Don't thou mind me, +Nick. Father saith the French all laugh too soon at nothing; and I have +caught it from my mother's blood. A boy is not good friends with his +feet as a girl is; but thou wilt do beautifully, I know; and M'sieu +shall teach us the galliard together." + +And often, after the lesson was over and M'sieu departed, she would +have Nick try his steps over and over again in the great room, while she +stood upon the stool to make her tall, and cried, "Sa--sa!" as the +master did, scolding and praising him by turns, or jumping down in +pretty impatience to tuck up her little silken skirts and show him the +step herself; while the cook's knave and the scullery-maids peeped at +the door and cried: "La, now, look 'e, Moll!" at every coupee. + +It made a picture quaint and pretty to see them dancing there. The smoky +light, stealing in through the narrow casements over the woodwork dark +with age, dropped in little yellow chequers upon old chests of oak, of +walnut, and of strange, purple-black wood from foreign lands, giving a +weird life to the griffins and twisted traceries carved upon their +sides. High-backed, narrow chairs stood along the wall, with cushioned +stools inlaid with shell. Twinklings of light glinted from the brass +candlesticks. On the wall above the wainscot the faded hangings wavered +in the draught, crusted thickly with strange embroidered flowers. And +dancing there together in the semi-gloom, the children seemed quaint +little figures stepped down from the tapestry at the touch of a +magic wand. + +And so the time went slipping by, very pleasantly upon the whole, and +Nick's young heart grew stout again within his breast; for he was strong +and well, and in those days the very air was full of hope, and no man +knew what might betide with the rising of to-morrow's sun. + +Every day, from two till three o'clock, he was at Master Gyles's +private singing-room at the old cathedral school, learning to read music +at first sight, and to sing offhand the second, third, and fourth parts +of queer intermingled fugues or wonderfully constructed canons. + +At first his head felt stuffed like a feasted glutton with all the +learning that the old precentor poured into it; but by and by he found +it plain enough, and no very difficult thing to follow up the prickings +in the paper with his voice, and to sing parts written at fifths and +fourths and thirds with other voices as easily as to carry a song alone. +But still he sang best his own unpointed songs, the call and challenge +of the throstle and the merle, the morning glory of the lark, songs that +were impossible to write. And those were the songs that the precentor +was at the greatest pains to have him sing in perfect tones, making him +open his mouth like a little round and let the music float out +of itself. + +Like the master-player, nothing short of perfection pleased old +Nathaniel Gyles, and Nick's voice often wavered with sheer weariness as +he ran his endless scales and sang absurd fa-la-la-las while his teacher +beat the time in the air with his lean forefinger like a grim automaton. + +The old man, too, was chary of his praise, though Nick tried hard to +please him, and it was only by little things he told his satisfaction. +He touzed the ears of the other boys, and sometimes smartly thumped +their crowns; but with Nick he only nipped his ruddy cheek between his +thumb and finger, or laid his hand upon his shoulder when the hard day's +work was done, saying, "_Satis cantorum_--it is enough. Now be off to +thy nest, sir; and do not forget to wash thy throat with good cold water +every day." + + * * * * * + +All this time the busy sand kept running in the glass. July was gone, +and August at its heels. The hot breath of the summer had cooled, and +the sun no longer burned the face when it came in through the windows. +Nick often shut his eyes and let the warm light fall upon his closed +lids. It made a ruddy glow like the wild red poppies that grow in the +pale green rye. In fancy he could almost smell the queer, rancid odor of +the crimson bloom crushed beneath the feet of the farmers' boys who cut +the butter-yellow mustard from among the bearded grain. + +"Heigh-ho and alackaday!" thought Nick. "It is better in the country +than in town!" For there was no smell in all the town like the clean, +sweet smell of the open fields just after a summer rain, no colors like +the bright heart's-ease and none-so-pretty, or the honeysuckle over the +cottage door, and no song ever to be heard among the sooty chimney-pots +like the song of the throstle piping to the daisies on the hill. + +But he had little time to dream such dreams, for every day from four to +six o'clock the children's company played and sang in public, at their +own school-hall, or in the courtyard of the Mitre Inn on Bread street +near St. Paul's. + +They were the pets of London town, and their playing-place was thronged +day after day. For the bright young faces and sweet, unbroken voices of +the richly costumed lads made a spot in sordid London life like a pot of +posies in a window on a dark street; so that both the high and the low, +the rich and the poor, came in to see them play and dance, to hear them +sing, and to laugh again at the witty things which were written for +them to say. + +The songs that were set for Nick to sing were always short, sweet, +simple things that even the dull-eyed, toil-worn folk upon the rough +plank benches in the pit could understand. Many a silver shilling came +clinking down at the heels of the other boys from the galleries of the +inn, where the people of the better classes, wealthy merchants, ladies +and their dashing gallants, watched the children's company; but when +Nick's songs were done the common people down below seemed all gone +daft. They tossed red apples after him, ripe yellow pears, fat purple +plums by handfuls, called him by name and brought him back, and cried +for more and more and more, until the old precentor shook his head +behind the prompters-screen, and waved Nick off with a forbidding frown. +Yet all the while he chuckled to himself until it seemed as if his dry +old ribs would rattle in his sides; and every day, before Nick sang, he +had him up to his little room for a broken egg and a cup of +rosy cordial. + +"To clear thy voice and to cheer the cockles of thine heart," said he; +"and to tune that pretty throat of thine _ad gustum Reginae_--which is +to say, 'to the Queen's own taste,'--God bless Her Majesty!" + +The other boys were cast for women's parts, for women never acted then; +and a queer sight it was to Nick to see his fellows in great +farthingales of taffeta and starchy cambric that rustled as they +walked, with popinjay blue ribbon in their hair, and flowered stomachers +sparkling with paste jewels. + +And, truth, it was no easy thing to tell them from the real affair, or +to guess the made from the maiden, so slender and so graceful were they +all, with their ruffs and their muffs and their feathered fans, and all +the airs and mincing graces of the daintiest young miss. + +But old Nat Gyles would never have Nick Attwood play the girl. "The lad +is good enough for me just as he is," said he; and that was all there +was of it. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV + + +THE WANING OF THE YEAR + +In September the Lord Admiral's company made a tour of the Midlands +during the great English fairing-time; but Carew did not go with them. +For, though still by name master-player with Henslowe and Alleyn, his +business with them had come to be but little more than pocketing his +share of the profits; and for the rest, nothing but to take Nick daily +to and from St. Paul's, and to draw his wages week by week. + +Of those wages Nick saw never a penny: Carew took good care of that. Yet +he gave him everything that any boy could need, and bought him whatever +he fancied the instant he so much as expressed a wish for it: which, in +truth, was not much; for Nick had lived in only a country town, and knew +not many things to want. + +But with money a-plenty thus coming so easily into his hands,--money for +dicing, for luxuries, for all his wild sports, money for Cicely, money +for keeps, money to play chuckie-stones with if he chose,--there was no +bridle to Gaston Carew's wild career. His boon companions were +spendthrifts and gamesters, dissolute fellows, of whom the least said +soonest mended; and with them he was brawling early and late, very often +all night long. And though money came in fast, he wasted it faster, so +that matters went from bad to worse. Duns came spying about his door, +and bailiffs hunted after him around the town with unpaid tradesmen's +bills. Yet still he laughed and clapped his hand upon his poniard in the +old bold way. + +September faded away in wistful haze along the Hampstead hills. The +Admiral's men came riding back with keen October ringing at their heels, +and all the stalls were full of red-cheeked apples striped with emerald +and gold. November followed, with its nipping frost, and all St. +George's merry green fields turned brown and purple-gray. The old year +was waning fast. + +The Queen's Day was but a poor holiday, in spite of the shut-up shops; +for it was grown so cold with sleet and rain that it was hard to get +about, the gutters and streets being very foul, and the by-lanes +impassable. And now the children of Paul's gave no more plays in the +yard of the Mitre Inn, but sang in their own warm hall; for winter +was at hand. + +There came black nights when an ugly wind moaned in the shivering +chimneys and howled across the peaked roofs, nights when there was no +playing at the Rose, but it was hearty to be by the fire. Then sometimes +Carew sat at home all evening long, with Cicely upon his knee, and told +strange tales of lands across the sea, where he had traveled when he was +young, and where none spoke English but chance travelers, and even the +loudest shouting could not serve to make the people understand. + +While he spun these wondrous yarns Nick would curl up on the hearth and +blow the crackling fire, sometimes staring at the master-player's +stories, sometimes laughing to himself at the funny faces carved upon +the sides of the chubby Dutch bellows, and sometimes neither laughing +nor listening, but thinking silently of home. Then Carew, looking at him +there, would quickly turn his face away and tell another tale. + +But oftener the master-player stayed all night at the Falcon Inn with +Dick Jones, Tom Hearne, Humphrey Jeffs, and other reckless roysterers, +dicing and flipping shillings at shovel-board until his finger-nails +were sore. Then Nick would read aloud to Cicely out of the "Hundred +Merry Tales," or pop old riddles at her puzzled head until she, +laughing, cried, "Enough!" But most of all he liked the story of brave +Guy of Warwick, and would tell it again and again, with other legends of +Arden Wood, till bedtime came. + +In the gray of the morning Carew would come home, unshaven and +leaden-eyed, with his bandy-legged varlet trotting like a watch-dog at +his heels; and then, if the gaming had gone well, he was a lord, an +earl, a duke, at least, so merry and so sprightly would he be withal; +but if the dice had fallen wrong, he would by turns be raving mad or +sodden as a sunken pie. + +Yet, be his temper what it might, he was but one thing always to Cicely, +and doffed ill humor like a shabby hat when she came running to meet +him in the shadows of the hall; so that when he came into the lighted +room, with her upon his shoulder, his face was smiles, his step a +frolic, and his bearing that of a happy boy. + +But day by day the weather grew worse, with snow and ice paving the +streets with a glassy glare and choking the frozen drains; and there was +trouble and want among the poor in the wretched alleys near Carew's +house: for fuel was high and food scarce, and there were many deaths, so +that the knell was tolling constantly. + +Cicely cried until her eyes were red for the very sadness of it all, +since she might do nothing for them, and hated the sound of the +sullen bell. + +"Pshaw, Cicely!" said Nick; "why should ye cry? Ye do na know them; so +ye need na care." + +"But, Nick," said she, "_nobody_ seems to care! And, sure, _somebody_ +ought to care; for it may be some one's mother that is dead." + +At that Nick felt a very queer choking in his own throat, and did not +rest quite easy in his mind until he had given the silver buckle from +his cloak to a boy who stood crying with cold and hunger in the street, +and begged a farthing of him for the love of the good God. + +Then came a thaw, with mist and fog so thick that people were lost in +their own streets, and knocked at their next-door neighbor's gate to ask +the way home. All day long, down by the Thames drums beat upon the +wharves and bells ding-donged to guide the watermen ashore; but most of +those who needs must fare abroad went over London Bridge, because +there, although they might in no wise see, it felt, at least, as if the +world were still beneath their feet. + +At noon the air was muddy brown, with a bitter taste like watered smoke; +at night it was a blinding pall; and though, after mid-December, by +order of the Council, every alderman and burgess hung a light before his +door, torches, links, and candles only sputtered feebly in the gloom, of +no more use than jack-o'-lanterns gone astray, and none but blind men +knew the roads. + +The city watch was doubled everywhere; and all night long their shouts +went up and down--"'Tis what o'clock, and a foggy night!"--and right and +left their hurrying staves came thumping helplessly along the walls to +answer cries of "Murder!" and of "Help! Watch! Help!" For under cover of +the fog great gangs of thieves came down from Hampstead Heath, and +robberies were done in the most frequented thoroughfares, between the +very lights set up by the corporation; so that it was dangerous to go +about save armed and wary as a cat in a crowd. + +While such foul days endured there was no singing at St. Paul's, nor +stage-plays anywhere, save at Blackfriars play-house, which was roofed +against the weather. And even there at last the fog crept in through +cracks and crannies until the players seemed but moving shadows talking +through a choking cloud; and Master Will Shakspere's famous new piece of +"Romeo and Juliet," which had been playing to crowded houses, taking ten +pound twelve the day, was fairly smothered off the boards. Nick was +eager to be out in all this blindman's holiday; but, "Nay," said Carew; +"not so much as thy nose. A fog like this would steal the croak from a +raven's throat, let alone the sweetness from a honey-pot like thine--and +bottom crust is the end of pie!" With which, bang went the door, creak +went the key, and Carew was off to the Falcon Inn. + + * * * * * + +So went the winter weather, and so went Carew; for there was no denying +that both had fallen into a very bad way. Yet another change came +creeping over Carew all unaware. + +Nick's face had from the first attracted him; and now, living with the +boy day after day, housed up, a prisoner, yet cheerful through it all, +the master-player began to feel what in a better man had been the prick +of conscience, but in him was only an indefinite uneasiness like a +blunted cockle-bur. For the lad's patient perseverance at his work, his +delight in singing, and the tone of longing threaded through his voice, +crept into the master-player's heart in spite of him; and Nick's gentle +ways with Cicely touched him more than all the rest: for if there was +one thing in all the world that Gaston Carew truly loved, it was his +daughter Cicely. So for her sake, as well as for Nick's own, the +master-player came to love the lad. And this was shown in queer ways. + +In the wainscot of the dining-hall there was a carven panel just above +the Spanish chest. At night, when the house was still and all the rest +asleep, Carew often came and stood before this panel, with a queer, +hesitating look upon his hard, bold face; and stretching out his hand, +would press upon the head of a cherub cut in the bevel edge. Whereupon +the panel slipped away within the wainscot, leaving a little closet in +the hollow of the wall, in which a few strange things were stowed: an +empty flask, an inlaid rosewood box, a little slipper, and a dusty +gittern with its strings all snapped and a faded ribbon tied about +its neck. + +The rosewood box he would take down, and with it open in his lap would +sit beside the fire like a man within a dream, until the hearth grew +white and cold, and the draught had blown the ashes out in streaks +across the floor. In the box was a woman's riding-glove and a miniature +upon ivory, Cicely's mother's face, painted at Paris in other days. + +One night, while they were sitting all together by the fire, Nick and +Cicely snug in the chimney-seat, Carew spoke up suddenly out of a little +silence which had fallen upon them all. "Nick," said he, quite softly, +with a look on his face as if he were thinking of other things, "I +wonder if thou couldst play?" + +"What, sir?" asked Nick; "a game?" and made the bellows whistle in his +mouth. + +"Nay, lad; a gittern." + +Nick and Cicely looked up, for his manner was very odd. + +"Why, sir, I do na know. I could try. I ha' heard one played, and it is +passing sweet." "Ay, Nick, 'tis passing sweet," said Carew, +quickly--and no more; but spoke of France, how the lilies grow in the +ditches there, and the tall trees stand like soldiers by the road that +runs to the land of sunny hills and wine; and of the radiant women +there, with hair like night and eyes like the summer stars. Then all at +once he stopped as if some one had clapped a hand upon his mouth, and +sat and stared into the fire. + +But in the morning at breakfast there was a gittern at Nick's place--a +rare old yellow gittern, with silver scrolls about the tail-piece, ivory +pegs, and a head that ended in an angel's face. It was strung with +bright new silver strings, but near the bridge of it there was a little +rut worn into the wood by the tips of the fingers that had rested there +while playing, and the silken shoulder-ribbon was faded and worn. + +Nick stopped, then put out both his hands as if to touch it, yet did +not, being half afraid. + +"Tut, take it up!" said Carew, sharply, though he had not seemed to +heed. "Take it up--it is for thee." + +"For me?" cried Nick--"not for mine own?" + +Carew turned and struck the table with his hand, as if suddenly wroth. +"Why should I say it was for thee? if it were not to be thine own?" + +"But, Master Carew--" Nick began. + +"'Master Carew' fiddlesticks! Hold thy prate. Do I know my own mind, or +do I filter my wits through thee? Did I not say that it is thine? Good, +then--'tis thine, although it were thrice somebody else's; and thrice as +much thy very own through having other owners. Dost hear? Well, then, +enough--we'll have no words about it!" + +Rising abruptly as he spoke, he clapped his hat upon his head and left +the room, Nick standing there beside the table, staring after him, with +the gittern in his hands. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + + +TO SING BEFORE THE QUEEN + + "Sir Fly hangs dead on the window-pane; + The frost doth wind his shroud; + Through the halls of his little summer house + The north wind cries aloud. + We will bury his bones in the mouldy wall, + And mourn for the noble slain: + A southerly wind and a sunny sky-- + Buzz! up he comes again! + Oh, Master Fly!" + +Nick looked up from the music-rack and shivered. He had forgotten the +fire in studying his song, and the blackened ends of the burnt-out logs +lay smouldering on the hearth. The draught, too, whistled shrilly under +the door, in spite of the rushes that he had piled along the crack. + +The fog had been gone for a week. It was snapping cold; and through the +peep-holes he had thawed upon the window-pane with his breath, he could +see the hoar-frost lying in the shadow of the wall in the court below. + +How forlorn the green old dial looked out there alone in the cold, with +the winter dust whirling around it in little eddies upon the wind! The +dial was fringed with icicles, like an old man's beard; and even the +creeping shadow on its face, which told mid-afternoon, seemed frozen +where it fell. + +Mid-afternoon already, and he so much to do! Nick pulled his cloak about +him, and turned to his song again: + + "Sir Fly hangs dead on the window-pane; + The frost doth wind his shroud--" + +But there he stopped; for the boys were singing in the great hall below, +and the whole house rang with the sound of the roaring chorus: + + "Down-a-down, hey, down-a-down, + Hey derry derry down-a-down!" + +Nick put his fingers in his ears, and began all over again: + + "Sir Fly hangs dead on the window-pane; + The frost doth wind his shroud; + Through the halls of his little summer house + The north wind cries aloud." + +But it was no use; all he could hear was: + + "Down-a-down, hey, down-a-down, + Hey derry derry down-a-down!" + +How could a fellow study in a noise like that? He gave it up in despair, +and kicking the chunks together, stood upon the hearth, warming his +hands by the gathering blaze while he listened to the song: + + "Cold's the wind, and wet's the rain; + Saint Hugh, be our good speed! + Ill is the weather that bringeth no gain, + Nor helps good hearts in need. + + "Down-a-down, hey, down-a-down, + Hey derry derry down-a-down!" + +He could hear Colley Warren above them all. What a voice the boy had! +Like a golden horn blowing in the fresh of a morning breeze. It made +Nick tingle, he could not tell why. He and Colley often sang together, +and their voices made a quivering in the air like the ringing of a bell. +And often, while they sang, the viols standing in the corner of the room +would sound aloud a deep, soft note in harmony with them, although +nobody had touched the strings; so that the others cried out that the +instruments were bewitched, and would not let the boys sing any more. +Colley Warren was Nick's best friend--a dark-eyed, quiet lad, as gentle +as a girl, and with a mouth like a girl's mouth, for which the others +sometimes mocked him, though they loved him none the less. + +It was not because his voice was loud that it could be so distinctly +heard; but it was nothing like the rest, and came through all the others +like sunshine through a mist. Nick pulled the stool up closer, and sat +down in the chimney-corner, humming a second to the tune, and blowing +little glory-holes in the embers with the bellows. He liked the smell +of a wood fire, and liked to toast his toes. He was a trifle drowsy, +too, now that he was warm again to the marrow of his bones; perhaps he +dozed a little. + +But suddenly he came to himself again with a sense of a great stillness +fallen over everything--no singing in the room below, and silence +everywhere but in the court, where there was a trampling as of horses +standing at the gate. And while he was still lazily wondering, a great +cheer broke out in the room below, and there was a stamping of feet like +cattle galloping over a bridge; and then, all at once, the door opened +into the hallway at the foot of the stair, and the sound burst out as +fire bursts from the cock-loft window of a burning barn, and through the +noise and over it Colley Warren's voice calling him by name: "Skylark! +Nick Skylark! Ho there, Nick! where art thou?" + +He sprang to the door and kicked the rushes away. All the hall was full +of voices, laughing, shouting, singing, and cheering. There were +footsteps coming up the stair. "What there, Skylark! Ho, boy! Nick, +where art thou?" he could hear Colley calling above them all. Out he +popped his nose: "Here I am, Colley--what's to do? _Whatever in the +world!_" and he ducked his head like a mandarin; for whizz--flap! two +books came whirling up the stair and thumped against the panel by +his ears. + +"The news--the news, Nick! Have ye heard the news?" the lads were +shouting as if possessed. "We're going to court! Hurrah, hurrah!" And +some, with their arms about one another, went whirling out at the door +and around the windy close like very madcaps, cutting such capers that +the horses standing at the gate kicked up their heels, and jerked the +horse-boys right and left like bundles of hay. + +Nick leaned over the railing and stared. + +"Come down and help us sing!" they cried. "Come down and shout with us +in the street!" + +"I can na come down--there's work to do!" + +"Thy 'can na' be hanged, and thy work likewise! Come down and sing, or +we'll fetch thee down. The Queen hath sent for us!" + +"The Queen--hath sent--for us?" + +"Ay, sent for us to come to court and play on Christmas day! Hurrah for +Queen Bess!" + +At that shrill cheer the startled horses fairly plunged into the street, +and the carts that were passing along the way were jammed against the +opposite wall. The carriers bellowed, the horse-boys bawled, the people +came running to see the row, and the apprentices flew out of the shops +bareheaded, waving their dirty aprons and cheering lustily, just for the +fun of the chance to cheer. + +"It's true!" called Colley, his dark eyes dancing like stars on the sea. +"Come down, Nick, and sing in the street with us all! We are going to +Greenwich Palace on Christmas day to play before the Queen and the +court--for the first time, Nick, in a good six years; and we're not to +work till the new masque comes from the Master of the Revels! Come down, +Nick, and sing with us out in the street; for we're going to court, +we're going to court to sing before the Queen! Hurrah, hurrah!" + +"Hurrah for good Queen Bess!" cried Nick; and up went his cap and down +went he on the baluster-rail like a runaway sled, head first into the +crowd, who caught him laughing as he came. Then all together they +cantered out like a parcel of colts in a fresh, green field, and sang in +the street before the school till the people cheered themselves hoarse +to hear such music on such a wintry day; sang until there was no other +business on all the thoroughfare but just to listen to their songs; sang +until the under-masters came out with their staves and drove them into +the school again, to keep them from straining their throats by singing +so loudly and so long in the frosty open air. + +But a fig for staves and for under-masters! The boys clapped fast the +gates behind them, and barred the under-masters out in the street, +singing twice as loudly as before, and mocking at them with wry faces +through the bars; and then trooped off up the old precentor's private +stair and sang at his door until the old man could not hear his own +ears, and came out storming and grim as grief. + +But when he saw the boys all there, and heard them cheering him three +times three, he could not storm to save his life, but only stood there, +black and thin, against the yellow square of light, smiling a quaint +smile that half was wrinkles and half was pride, shaking his lean +forefinger at them as if he were beating time, and nodding until his +head seemed almost nodding off. + +"Hurrah for Master Nathaniel Gyles!" they shouted. + +"_Primus Magister Scholarum, Custos Morum, Quartus Custos Rotulorum_," +said the old man softly to himself, the firelight from behind him +falling in a glory on his thin white hair. "Be off, ye rogues! Ye are +not fit to waste good language on; or, faith, I'd Latin ye all as dumb +as fishes in the depths of the briny sea!" + +"Hurrah for the fishes in the sea!" + +"Soft, ye knaves! Save thy throats for good Queen Bess!" + +"Hurrah for good Queen Bess!" + +"Be still, I say, ye good-for-nothing varlets; or ye sha'n't have pie +and ale to-night. But marry, now, ye _shall_ have pie--ay, pie and ale +without a stint; for ye are good lads, and ye have pleased the Queen at +last; and I am as proud of ye as a peacock is of his own tail!" + +"Hurrah for the Queen--and the pie--and the ale! Hurrah for the peacock +and his tail!" shouted the boys; and straightway, seeing that they had +made a rhyme, they gave a cheer shriller and longer than all the others +put together, and went clattering down the stairway, singing at the top +of their lungs: + + Hurrah for the Queen, and the pie and the ale! + Hurrah for the peacock, hurrah for his tail! + Hurrah for hurrah, and hurrah again-- + We're going to court on Christmas day + To sing before the Queen!" + +"Good lads, good lads!" said the old precentor to himself, as he turned +back into his little room. His eyes were shining proudly in the +candle-light, yet the tears were running down his cheeks. A queer old +man, Nat Gyles, and dead this many a long, long year; yet that night no +man was happier than he. + +But Master Gaston Carew, who had come for Nick, stood in the gathering +dusk by the gate below, and stared up at the yellow square of light with +a troubled look upon his reckless face. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + + +THE QUEEN'S PLAISANCE + +It was a frosty morning when they all marched down to the boats that +bumped along Paul's wharf. + +The roofs of London were white with frost and rosy with the dawn. In the +shadow of the walls the air lay in still pools of smoky blue; and in the +east the horizon stretched like a swamp of fire. The winking lights on +London Bridge were pale. The bridge itself stood cold and gray, +mysterious and dim as the stream below, but here and there along its +crest red-hot with a touch of flame from the burning eastern sky. Out of +the river, running inland with the tide, came steamy shreds that drifted +here and there. Then over the roofs of London town the sun sprang up +like a thing of life, and the veil of twilight vanished in bright day +with a million sparkles rippling on the stream. + +Warm with piping roast and cordial, keen with excitement, and blithe +with the sharp, fresh air, the red-cheeked lads skipped and chattered +along the landing like a flock of sparrows alighted by chance in a land +of crumbs. + +"Into the wherries, every one!" cried the old precentor. _"Ad unum +omnes_, great and small!" + +"Into the wherries!" echoed the under-masters. + +"Into the wherries, my bullies!" roared old Brueton the boatman, fending +off with a rusty hook as red as his bristling beard. "Into the wherries, +yarely all, and we's catch the turn o' the tide! 'Tis gone high +water now!" + +Then away they went, three wherries full, and Master Gyles behind them +in a brisk sixpenny tilt-boat, resplendent in new ash-colored hose, a +cloak of black velvet fringed with gold, and a brand-new periwig curled +and frizzed like a brush-heap in a gale of wind. + +How they had worked for the last few days! New songs, new dances, new +lines to learn; gallant compliments for the Queen, who was as fond of +flattery as a girl; new clothes, new slippers and caps to try, and a +thousand what-nots more. The school had hummed like a busy mill from +morning until night. And now that the grinding was done and they had +come at last to their reward,--the hoped-for summons to the court, which +had been sought so long in vain,--the boys of St. Paul's bubbled with +glee until the under-masters were in a cold sweat for fear their +precious charges would pop from the wherries into the Thames, like so +many exuberant corks. + +They cheered with delight as London Bridge was shot and the boats went +flying down the Pool, past Billingsgate and the oystermen, the White +Tower and the Traitors' Gate, past the shipping, where brown, +foreign-looking faces stared at them above sea-battered bulwarks. + +The sun was bright and the wind was keen; the air sparkled, and all the +world was full of life. Hammers beat in the builders' yards; wild +bargees sang hoarsely as they drifted down to the Isle of Dogs; and in +slow ships that crept away to catch the wind in the open stream below, +with tawny sails drooping and rimmed with frost, they heard the hail of +salty mariners. + +The tide ran strong, and the steady oars carried them swiftly down. +London passed; then solitary hamlets here and there; then dun fields +running to the river's edge like thirsty deer. + +In Deptford Reach some lords who were coming down by water passed them, +racing with a little Dutch boat from Deptford to the turn. Their boats +had holly-bushes at their prows and holiday garlands along their sides. +They were all shouting gaily, and the stream was bright with their +scarlet cloaks, Lincoln-green jerkins, and gold embroidery. But they +were very badly beaten, at which they laughed, and threw the Dutchmen a +handful of silver pennies. Thereupon the Dutchmen stood up in their boat +and bowed like jointed ninepins; and the lords, not to be outdone, stood +up likewise in their boats and bowed very low in return, with their +hands upon their breasts. Then everybody on the river laughed, and the +boys gave three cheers for the merry lords and three more for the sturdy +Dutchmen. The Dutchmen shouted back, "Goot Yule!" and bowed and bowed +until their boat turned round and went stern foremost down the stream, +so that they were bowing to the opposite bank, where no one was at all. +At this the rest all laughed again till their sides ached, and cheered +them twice as much as they had before. + +And while they were cheering and waving their caps, the boatmen rested +upon their oars and let the boats swing with the tide, which thereabout +set strong against the shore, and a trumpeter in the Earl of Arundel's +barge stood up and blew upon a long horn bound with a banner of blue +and gold. + +Instantly he had blown, another trumpet answered from the south, and +when Nick turned, the shore was gay with men in brilliant livery. Beyond +was a wood of chestnut-trees as blue and leafless as a grove of spears; +and in the plain between the river and the wood stood a great palace of +gray stone, with turrets, pinnacles, and battlemented walls, over the +topmost tower of which a broad flag, blazoned with golden lions and +silver lilies square for square, whipped the winter wind. Amid a group +of towers large and small a lofty stack poured out a plume of sea-coal +smoke against the milky sky, and on the countless windows in the wall +the sunlight flashed with dazzling radiance. + +There were people on the battlements, and at the port between two towers +where the Queen went in and out the press was so thick that men's heads +looked like the cobbles in the street. + +The shore was stayed with piling and with timbers like a wharf, so that +a hundred boats might lie there cheek by jowl and scarcely rub their +paint. The lords made way, and the children players came ashore through +an aisle of uplifted oars. They were met by the yeomen of the guard, +tall, brawny fellows clad in red, with golden roses on their breasts and +backs, and with them marched up to the postern two and two, Master Gyles +the last of all, as haughty as a Spanish don come courting fair +Queen Bess. + +A smoking dinner was waiting them, of whitebait with red pepper, and a +yellow juice so sour that Nick's mouth drew up in a knot; but it was +very good. There were besides, silver dishes full of sugared red +currants, and heaps of comfits and sweetmeats, which Master Gyles would +not allow them even to touch, and saffron cakes with raisins in them, +and spiced hot cordial out of tiny silver cups. Bareheaded pages clad in +silk and silver lace waited upon them as if they were fledgling kings; +but the boys were too hungry to care for that or to try to put on airs, +and waded into the meat and drink as if they had been starved for a +fortnight. + +But when they were done Nick saw that the table off which they had eaten +was inlaid with pearl and silver filigree, and that the table-cloth was +of silk with woven metal-work and gems set in it worth more than a +thousand crowns. He was very glad he had eaten first, for such wonderful +service would have taken away his appetite. + +And truly a wonderful palace was the Queen's Plaisance, as Greenwich +House was called. Elizabeth was born in it, and so loved it most of all. +There she pleased oftenest to receive and grant audiences to envoys from +foreign courts. And there, on that account, as was always her proud, +jealous way, she made a blinding show of glory and of wealth, of +science, art, and power, that England, to the eyes which saw her there, +might stand in second place to no dominion in the world, however rich +or great. + +It was a very house of gold. + +Over the door where the lads marched in was the Queen's device, a golden +rose, with a motto set below in letters of gold, "Dieu et mon droit"; +and upon the walls were blazoned coats of noble arms on branching golden +trees, of purest metal and finest silk, costly beyond compare. The royal +presence-chamber shone with tapestries of gold, of silver, and of +oriental silks, of as many shifting colors as the birds of paradise, and +wrought in exquisite design, The throne was set with diamonds, with +rubies, garnets, and sapphires, glittering like a pastry-crust of stars, +and garnished with gold-lace work, pearls, and ornament; and under the +velvet canopy which hung above the throne was embroidered in +seed-pearls, "Vivat Regina Elizabetha!" There was no door without a +gorgeous usher, no room without a page, no corridor without a guard, no +post without a man of noble birth to fill it. + +On the walls of the great gallery were masterly paintings of great folk, +globes showing all the stars fast in the sky, and drawings of the world +and all its parts, so real that one could see the savages in the New +World hanging to the under side by their feet, like flies upon the +ceiling. How they stuck was more than Nick could make out; and where +they landed if they chanced to slip and fall troubled him a deal, until +in the sheer multiplication of wonders he could not wonder any more. + +When they came to rehearse in the afternoon the stage was hung with +stiff, rich silks that had come in costly cedar chests from the looms of +old Cathay; and the curtain behind which the players came and went was +broidered with gold thread in flowers and birds like meteors for +splendor. The gallery, too, where the musicians sat, was draped with +silk and damask. + +Some of the lads would have made out by their great airs as if this were +all a common thing to them; but Nick stared honestly with round eyes, +and went about with cautious feet, chary of touching things, and feeling +very much out of place and shy. + +It was all too grand, too wonderful,--amazing to look upon, no doubt, +and good to outface foreign envy with, but not to be endured every day +nor lived with comfortably. And as the day went by, each passing moment +with new marvels, Nick grew more and more uneasy for some simple little +nook where he might just sit down and be quiet for a while, as one could +do at home, without fine pages peering at him from the screens, or +splendid guards patrolling at his heels wherever he went, or obsequious +ushers bowing to the floor at every turn, and asking him what he might +be pleased to wish. And by the time night fell and the attendant came to +light them to their beds, he felt like a fly on the rim of a wheel that +went so fast he could scarcely get his breath or see what passed him by, +yet of which he durst not let go. + +The palace was much too much for him. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII + + +CHRISTMAS WITH QUEEN BESS + +Christmas morning came and went as if on swallow-wings, in a gale of +royal merriment. Four hundred sat to dinner that day in Greenwich halls, +and all the palace streamed with banners and green garlands. + +Within the courtyard two hundred horses neighed and stamped around a +water-fountain playing in a bowl of ice and evergreen. Grooms and pages, +hostlers and dames, went hurry-scurrying to and fro; cooks, bakers, and +scullions steamed about, leaving hot, mouth-watering streaks of +fragrance in the air; bluff men-at-arms went whistling here and there; +and serving-maids with rosy cheeks ran breathlessly up and down the +winding stairways. + +The palace stirred like a mighty pot that boils to its utmost verge, for +the hour of the revelries was come. + +Over the beech-wood and far across the black heath where Jack Cade +marshaled the men of Kent, the wind trembled with the boom of the castle +bell. Within the walls of the palace its clang was muffled by a sound of +voices that rose and fell like the wind upon the sea. + +The ambassadors of Venice and France were there, with their courtly +trains. The Lord High Constable of England was come to sit below the +Queen. The earls, too, of Southampton, Montgomery, Pembroke, and +Huntington were there; and William Cecil, Lord Burleigh, the Queen's +High Treasurer, to smooth his care-lined forehead with a Yuletide jest. + +Up from the entry ports came shouts of "Room! room! room for my Lord +Strange! Room for the Duke of Devonshire!" and about the outer gates +there was a tumult like the cheering of a great crowd. + +The palace corridors were lined with guards. Gentlemen pensioners under +arms went flashing to and fro. Now and then through the inner throng +some handsome page with wind-blown hair and rainbow-colored cloak pushed +to the great door, calling: "Way, sirs, way for my Lord--way for my Lady +of Alderstone!" and one by one, or in blithe groups, the courtiers, clad +in silks and satins, velvets, jewels, and lace of gold, came up through +the lofty folding-doors to their places in the hall. + +There, where the Usher of the Black Rod stood, and the gentlemen of the +chamber came and went with golden chains about their necks, was bowing +and scraping without stint, and reverent civility; for men that were +wise and noble were passing by, men that were handsome and brave; and +ladies sweet as a summer day, and as fair to see as spring, laughed by +their sides and chatted behind their fans, or daintily nibbled comfits, +lacking anything to say. + +The windows were all curtained in, making a night-time in midday; and +from the walls and galleries flaring links and great bouquets of candles +threw an eddying flood of yellow light across the stirring scene. From +clump to clump of banner-staves and burnished arms, spiked above the +wainscot, garlands of red-berried holly, spruce, and mistletoe were +twined across the tapestry, till all the room was bound about with a +chain of living green. + +There were sweet odors floating through the air, and hazy threads of +fragrant smoke from perfumes burning in rich braziers; and under foot +was the crisp, clean rustle of new rushes. + +From time to time, above the hum of voices, came the sound of music from +a room beyond--cornets and flutes, fifes, lutes, and harps, with an +organ exquisitely played, and voices singing to it; and from behind the +players' curtain, swaying slowly on its rings at the back of the stage, +came a murmur of whispering childish voices, now high in eager +questioning, now low, rehearsing some doubtful fragment of a song. + +Behind the curtain it was dark--not total darkness, but twilight; for a +dull glow came down overhead from the lights in the hall without, and +faint yellow bars went up and down the dusk from crevices in the screen. +The boys stood here and there in nervous groups. Now and then a sharp +complaint was heard from the tire-woman when an impatient lad would not +stand still to be dressed. + +Master Gyles went to and fro, twisting the manuscript of the Revel in +his hands, or pausing kindly to pat some faltering lad upon the back. +Nick and Colley were peeping by turns through a hole in the screen at +the throng in the audience-chamber. + +They could see a confusion of fans, jewels, and faces, and now and again +could hear a burst of subdued laughter over the steadily increasing buzz +of voices. Then from the gallery above, all at once there came a murmur +of instruments tuning together; a voice in the corridor was heard +calling, "Way here, way here!" in masterful tones; the tall +folding-doors at the side of the hall swung wide, and eight dapper pages +in white and gold came in with the Master of Revels. After them came +fifty ladies and noblemen clad in white and gold, and a guard of +gentlemen pensioners with glittering halberds. + +There was a sharp rustle. Every head in the audience-chamber louted low. +Nick's heart gave a jump--for the Queen was there! + +She came with an air that was at once serious and royal, bearing herself +haughtily, yet with a certain grace and sprightliness that became her +very well. She was quite tall and well made, and her quickly changing +face was long and fair, though wrinkled and no longer young. Her +complexion was clear and of an olive hue; her nose was a little hooked; +her firm lips were thin; and her small black eyes, though keen and +bright, were pleasant and merry withal. Her hair was a coppery, tawny +red, and false, moreover. In her ears hung two great pearls; and there +was a fine small crown studded with diamonds upon her head, beside a +necklace of exceeding fine gold and jewels about her neck. She was +attired in a white silk gown bordered with pearls the size of beans, and +over it wore a mantle of black silk, cunningly shot with silver threads. +Her ruff was vast, her farthingale vaster; and her train, which was very +long, was borne by a marchioness who made more ado about it than +Elizabeth did of ruling her realm. + +"The Queen!" gasped Colley. + +"Dost think I did na know it?" answered Nick, his heart beginning to +beat tattoo as he stared through the peep-hole in the screen. + +He saw the great folk bowing like a gardenful of flowers in a storm, and +in its midst Elizabeth erect, speaking to those about her in a lively +and good-humored way, and addressing all the foreigners according to +their tongue--in French, Italian, Spanish, Dutch; but hers was funny +Dutch, and while she spoke she smiled and made a joke upon it in Latin, +at which they all laughed heartily, whether they understood what it +meant or not. Then, with her ladies in waiting, she passed to a dais +near the stage, and stood a moment, stately, fair, and proud, while all +her nobles made obeisance, then sat and gave a signal for the players +to begin. + +"Rafe Fullerton!" the prompter whispered shrilly; and out from behind +the screen slipped Rafe, the smallest of them all, and down the stage to +speak the foreword of the piece. He was frightened, and his voice shook +as he spoke, but every one was smiling, so he took new heart. + +"It is a masque of Summer-time and Spring," said he, "wherein both +claim to be best-loved, and have their say of wit and humor, and each +her part of songs and dances suited to her time, the sprightly galliard +and the nimble jig for Spring, the slow pavone, the stately peacock +dance, for Summer-time. And win who may, fair Summer-time or merry +Spring, the winner is but that beside our Queen!"--with which he snapped +his fingers in the faces of them all--"God save Queen Bess!" + +At that the Queen's eyes twinkled, and she nodded, highly pleased, so +that every one clapped mightily. + +The play soon ran its course amid great laughter and applause. Spring +won. The English ever loved her best, and the quick-paced galliard took +their fancy, too. "Up and be doing!" was its tune, and it gave one a +chance to cut fine capers with his heels. + +Then the stage stood empty and the music stopped. + +At this strange end a whisper of surprise ran through the hall. The +Queen tapped with the inner side of her rings upon the broad arm of her +chair. From the look on her face she was whetting her tongue. But before +she could speak, Nick and Colley, dressed as a farmer boy and girl, with +a garland of house-grown flowers about them, came down the stage from +the arras, hand in hand, bowing. + +The audience-chamber grew very still--_this_ was something new. Nick +felt a swallowing in his throat, and Colley's hand winced in his grip. +There was no sound but a silky rustling in the room. + +Then suddenly the boys behind the players' curtain laughed together, +not loud, but such a jolly little laugh that all the people smiled to +hear it. After the laughter came a hush. + +Then the pipes overhead made a merry sound as of shepherds piping on +oaten straws in new grass where there are daisies; and there was a +little elfish laughter of clarionets, and a fluttering among the cool +flutes like spring wind blowing through crisp young leaves in April. The +harps began to pulse and throb with a soft cadence like raindrops +falling into a clear pool where brown leaves lie upon the bottom and +bubbles float above green stones and smooth white pebbles. Nick lifted +up his head and sang. + +It was a happy little song of the coming and the triumph of the spring. +The words were all forgotten long ago. They were not much: enough to +serve the turn, no more; but the notes to which they went were like barn +swallows twittering under the eaves, goldfinches clinking in purple +weeds beside old roads, and robins singing in common gardens at dawn. +And wherever Nick's voice ran Colley's followed, the pipes laughing +after them a note or two below; while the flutes kept gurgling softly to +themselves as a hill brook gurgles through the woods, and the harps ran +gently up and down like rain among the daffodils. One voice called, the +other answered; there were echo-like refrains; and as they sang Nick's +heart grew full. He cared not a stiver for the crowd, the golden palace, +or the great folk there--the Queen no more--he only listened for +Colley's voice coming up lovingly after his own and running away when he +followed it down, like a lad and a lass through the bloom of the May. +And Colley was singing as if his heart would leap out of his round mouth +for joy to follow after the song they sung, till they came to the end +and the skylark's song. + +There Colley ceased, and Nick went singing on alone, forgetting, caring +for, heeding nought but the song that was in his throat. + +The Queen's fan dropped from her hand upon the floor. No one saw it or +picked it up. The Venetian ambassador scarcely breathed. + +Nick came down the stage, his hands before him, lifted as if he saw the +very lark he followed with his song, up, up, up into the sun. His cheeks +were flushed and his eyes were wet, though his voice was a song and a +laugh in one. + +Then they were gone behind the curtain, into the shadow and the twilight +there, Colley with his arms about Nick's neck, not quite laughing, not +quite sobbing. The manuscript of the Revel lay torn in two upon the +floor, and Master Gyles had a foot upon each piece. + +In the hall beyond the curtain was a silence that was deeper than a +hush, a stillness rising from the hearts of men. + +Then Elizabeth turned in the chair where she sat. Her eyes were as +bright as a blaze. And out of the sides of her eyes she looked at the +Venetian ambassador. He was sitting far out on the edge of his chair, +and his lips had fallen apart. She laughed to herself. "It is a good +song, signor," said she, and those about her started at the sound of her +voice. "_Chi tace confessa--_it is so! There are no songs like English +songs--there is no spring like an English spring--there is no land like +England, _my_ England!" She clapped her hands. "I will speak with those +lads," said she. + +Straightway certain pages ran through the press and came behind the +curtain where Nick and Colley stood together, still trembling with the +music not yet gone out of them, and brought them through the hall to +where the Queen sat, every one whispering, "Look!" as they passed. + +On the dais they knelt together, bowing, side by side. Elizabeth, with a +kindly smile, leaning a little forward, raised them with her slender +hand. "Stand, dear lads," said she, heartily. "Be lifted up by thine own +singing, as our hearts have been uplifted by thy song. And name me the +price of that same song--'twas sweeter than the sweetest song we ever +heard before." + +"Or ever shall hear again," said the Venetian ambassador, under his +breath, rubbing his forehead as if just wakening out of a dream. + +"Come," said Elizabeth, tapping Colley's cheek with her fan, "what wilt +thou have of me, fair maid?" + +Colley turned red, then very pale. "That I may stay in the palace +forever and sing for your Majesty," said he. His fingers shivered +in Nick's. + +"Now that is right prettily asked," she cried, and was well pleased. +"Thou shalt indeed stay for a singing page in our household--a voice and +a face like thine are merry things upon a rainy Monday. And thou, Master +Lark," said she, fanning the hair back from Nick's forehead with her +perfumed fan--"thou that comest up out of the field with a song like the +angels sing--what wilt thou have: that thou mayst sing in our choir and +play on the lute for us?" + +Nick looked up at the torches on the wall, drawing a deep, long breath. +When he looked down again his eyes were dazzled and he could not see +the Queen. + +"What wilt thou have?" he heard her ask. + +"Let me go home," said he. + +There were red and green spots in the air. He tried to count them, since +he could see nothing else, and everything was very still; but they all +ran into one purple spot which came and went like a firefly's glow, and +in the middle of the purple spot he saw the Queen's face coming +and going. + +"Surely, boy, that is an ill-considered speech," said she, "or thou dost +deem us very poor, or most exceeding stingy!" Nick hung his head, for +the walls seemed tapestried with staring eyes. "Or else this home of +thine must be a very famous place." + +The maids of honour tittered. Further off somebody laughed. Nick looked +up, and squared his shoulders. + +They had rubbed the cat the wrong way. + +It is hard to be a stranger in a palace, young, country-bred, and +laughed at all at once; but down in Nick Attwood's heart was a stubborn +streak that all the flattery on earth could not cajole nor ridicule +efface. He might be simple, shy, and slow, but what he loved he loved: +that much he knew; and when they laughed at him for loving home they +seemed to mock not him, but home--and _that_ touched the fighting-spot. + +"I would rather be there than here," said he. + +The Queen's face flushed. "Thou art more curt than courteous," said she. +"Is it not good enough for thee here?" + +"I could na live in such a place." + +The Queen's eyes snapped. "In such a place? Marry, art thou so choice? +These others find no fault with the life." + +"Then they be born to it," said Nick, "or they could abide no more than +I--they would na fit." + +"Haw, haw!" said the Lord High Constable. + +The Queen shot one quick glance at him. "Old pegs have been made to fit +new holes before to-day," said she; "and the trick can be done again." +The Constable smothered the rest of that laugh in his hand, "But come, +boy, speak up; what hath put thee so out of conceit with our +best-beloved palace?" + +"There is na one thing likes me here. I can na bide in a place so fine, +for there's not so much as a corner in it feels like home. I could na +sleep in the bed last night." + +"What, how? We commanded good beds!" exclaimed Elizabeth, angrily, for +the Venetian ambassador was smiling in his beard. "This shall be +seen to." + +"Oh, it _was_ a good bed--a very good bed indeed, your Majesty!" cried +Nick. "But the mattress puffed up like a cloud in a bag, and almost +smothered me; and it was so soft and so hot that it gave me a fever." + +Elizabeth leaned back in her chair and laughed. The Lord High Constable +hastily finished the laugh that he had hidden in his hand. Everybody +laughed. "Upon my word," said the Queen, "it is an odd skylark cannot +sleep in feathers! What didst thou do, forsooth?" + +"I slept in the coverlid on the floor," said Nick. "It was na hurt,--I +dusted the place well,--and I slept like a top." + +"Now verily," laughed Elizabeth, "if it be floors that thou dost desire, +we have acres to spare--thou shalt have thy pick of the lot. Come, we +are ill used to begging people to be favored--thou'lt stay?" + +Nick shook his head. + +"_Ma foi!"_ exclaimed the Queen, "it is a queer fancy makes a face at +such a pleasant dwelling! What is it sticks in thy throat?" + +Nick stood silent. What was there to say? If he came here he never would +see Stratford town again; and _this_ was no abiding-place for him. They +would not even let him go to the fountain himself to draw water with +which to wash, but fetched it, three at a time, in a silver ewer and a +copper basin with towels and a flask of perfume. + +Elizabeth was tapping with her fan. "Thou art be-dazzled like," she +said. "Think twice--preferment does not gooseberry on the hedge-row +every day; and this is a rare chance which hangs ripening on thy tongue. +Consider well. Come, thou wilt accept?" + +Nick slowly shook his head. + +"Go then, if thou wilt go!" said she; and as she spoke she shrugged her +shoulders, illy pleased, and turning toward Colley, took him by the hand +and drew him closer to her, smiling at his guise. "Thy comrade hath +more wit." + +"He hath no mother," Nick said quietly, loosing his hold at last on +Colley's hand. "I would rather have my mother than his wit." + +Elizabeth turned sharply back. Her keen eyes were sparkling, yet soft. + +"Thou art no fool," said she. + +A little murmur ran through the room. + +She sat a moment, silent, studying his face. "Or if thou art, upon my +word I like the breed. It is a stubborn, froward dog; but Hold-fast is +his name. Ay, sirs," she said, and sat up very straight, looking into +the faces of her court, "Brag is a good dog, but Hold-fast is better. A +lad who loves his mother thus makes a man who loveth his native +land--and it's no bad streak in the blood. Master Skylark, thou shalt +have thy wish; to London thou shalt go this very night." + +"I do na live in London," Nick began. + +"What matters the place?" said she. "Live wheresoever thine heart doth +please. It is enough--so. Thou mayst kiss our hand." She held her hand +out, bright with jewels. He knelt and kissed it as if it were all a +doing in a dream, or in some unlikely story he had read. But a long +while after he could smell the perfume from her slender fingers on +his lips. + +Then a page standing by him touched his arm as he arose, and bowing +backward from the throne, came with him to the curtain and the rest. Old +Master Gyles was standing there apart. It was too dark to see his face, +but he laid his hand upon Nick's head. + +"Thy cake is burned to a coal," said he. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX + + +BACK TO GASTON CAREW + +So they marched back out of the palace gates, down to the landing-place, +the last red sunlight gleaming on the basinets of the tall halberdiers +who marched on either side. + +Nick looked out toward London, where the river lay like a serpent, +bristling with masts; and beyond the river and the town to the forests +of Epping and Hainault; and beyond the forests to the hills, where the +waning day still lingered in a mist of frosty blue. At their back, +midway of the Queen's park, stood up the old square tower Mirefleur, and +on its top one yellow light like the flame of a gigantic candle. The day +seemed builded of memories strange and untrue. + +A belated gull flapped by them heavily, and the red sun went down. +England was growing lonely. A great barge laden with straw came out of +the dusk, and was gone without a sound, its ghostly sail drawing in a +wind that the wherry sat too low to feel. Nick held his breath as the +barge went by: it was unreal, fantastical. + +Then the river dropped between its banks, and the woods and the hills +were gone. The tide ran heavily against the shore, and the wake of the +wherry broke the floating stars into cold white streaks and zigzag +ripplings of raveled light that ran unsteadily after them. The craft at +anchor in the Pool had swung about upon the flow, and pointed down to +Greenwich. A hush had fallen upon the never-ending bustle of the town; +and the air was full of a gray, uncanny afterglow which seemed to come +up out of the water, for the sky was grown quite dark. + +They were all wrapped in their boat-cloaks, tired and silent. Now and +then Nick dipped his fingers into the cold water over the gunwale. + +This was the end of the glory. + +He wished the boat would go a little faster. Yet when they came to the +landing he was sorry. + +The man-at-arms who went with him to Master Carew's house was one of the +Earl of Arundel's men, in a stiff-wadded jacket of heron-blue, with the +earls colors richly worked upon its back and his badge upon the sleeves. +Prowlers gave way before him in the streets, for he was broad and tall +and mighty, and the fear of any man was not in the look of his eye. + +As they came up the slow hill, Nick sighed, for the long-legged +man-at-arms walked fast. "What, there!" said he, and clapped Nick on the +shoulder with his bony hand; "art far spent, lad? Why, marry, get thee +upon my back. I'll jog thee home in the shake of a black sheep's tail." + +So Nick rode home upon the back of the Earl of Arundel's man-at-arms; +and that, too, seemed a dream like all the rest. + +When they came to Master Carew's house the street was dark, and Nick's +foot was asleep. He stamped it, tingling, upon the step, and the empty +passage echoed with the sound. Then the earl's man beat the door with +the pommel of his dagger-hilt, and stood with his hands upon his hips, +carelessly whistling a little tune. + +Nick heard a sound of some one coming through the hall, and felt that at +last the day was done. A tired wonder wakened in his heart at how so +much had come to pass in such a little while; yet more he wondered why +it had ever come to pass at all. And what was the worth of it, anyway, +now it was over and gone? + +Then the door opened, and he went in. + +Master Gaston Carew himself had come to the door, walking quickly +through the hallway, with a queer, nervous twitching in his face. But +when he made out through the dusk that it was Nick, he seemed in no wise +moved, and said quite simply, as he gave the man-at-arms a penny: "Oh, +is it thou? Why, we have heard somewhat of thee; and upon my word I +thought, since thou wert grown so great, thou wouldst come home in a +coach-and-four, all blowing horns!" + +Nevertheless he drew Nick quickly in, and kissed him thrice; and after +he had kissed him kept fast hold of his hand until they came together +through the hall into the great room where Cicely was sitting quite +dismally in the chimney-seat alone. + +[Illustration: "SO NICK RODE HOME UPON THE BACK OF THE EARL OF ARUNDEL'S +MAN-AT-ARMS."] + +"There, Nick," said he; "tell her thyself that thou hast come back. She +thought she had lost thee for good and all, and hath sung, 'Hey ho, my +heart is full of woe!' the whole twilight, and would not be comforted. +Come, Cicely, doff thy doleful willow--the proverb lies. 'Out of sight, +out of mind'--fudge! the boy's come back again! A plague take +proverbs, anyway!" + +But when the children were both long since abed, and all the house was +still save for the scamper of rats in the wall, the heavy door of Nick's +room opened stealthily, with a little grating upon the uneven sill, and +Master Carew stood there, peeping in, his hand upon the bolt outside. + +He held a rush-light in the other. Its glimmer fell across the bed upon +Nick's tousled hair; and when the master-player saw the boy's head upon +the pillow he started eagerly, with brightening eyes. "My soul!" he +whispered to himself, a little quaver in his tone, "I would have sworn +my own desire lied to me, and that he had not come at all! It cannot +be--yet, verily, I am not blind. _Ma foil_ it passeth understanding--a +freed skylark come back to its cage! I thought we had lost him forever." + +Nick stirred in his sleep. Carew set the light on the floor. "Thou +fool!" said he, and he fumbled at his pouch; "thou dear-beloved little +fool! To catch the skirts of glory in thine hand, and tread the heels of +happy chance, and yet come back again to ill-starred twilight--and to +me! Ai, lad, I would thou wert my son--mine own, own son; yet Heaven +spare thee father such as I! For, Nick, I love thee. Yet thou dost hate +me like a poison thing. And still I love thee, on my word, and on the +remnant of mine honour!" His voice was husky. "Let thee go?--send thee +back?--eat my sweet and have it too?--how? Nay, nay; thy happy cake +would be my dough--it will not serve." He shook his head, and looked +about to see that all was fast. "Yet, Nick, I say I love thee, on +my soul!" + +Slipping to the bedside with stealthy step, he laid a fat little Banbury +cheese and some brown sweet cakes beside Nick's pillow; then came out +hurriedly and barred the door. + +The fire in the great hall had gone out, and the room was growing cold. +The table stood by the chimney-side, where supper had been laid, Carew +brought a napkin from the linen-chest, and spread it upon the board. +Then he went to the server's screen and looked behind it, and tried the +latches of the doors; and having thus made sure that all was safe, came +back to the table again, and setting the rush-light there, turned the +contents of his purse into the napkin. + +There were both gold and silver. The silver he put back into the purse +again; the gold he counted carefully; and as he counted, laying the +pieces one by one in little heaps upon the cloth, he muttered under his +breath, like a small boy adding up his sums in school, saying over and +over again, "One for me, and one for thee, and two for Cicely Carew. One +for me, and one for thee, and two for Cicely Carew"; and told the coins +off in keeping with the count, so that the last pile was as large as +both the others put together. Then slowly ending, "None for me, and one +for thee, and two for Cicely Carew," he laid the last three nobles +with the rest. + +Then he arose and stood a moment listening to the silence in the house. +An old he rat that was gnawing a rind on the hearth looked up, and ran a +little nearer to his hole. "Tsst! come back," said Carew, "I'm no cat!" +and from the sliding panel in the wall took out a buckskin bag tied like +a meal-sack with a string. + +As he slipped the knot the throat of the bag sagged down, and a gold +piece jangled on the floor. Carew started as if all his nerves had +leaped within him at the unexpected sound, and closed the panel like a +flash. Then, setting his foot upon the fallen coin, he stopped its +spinning, and with one hand on his poniard, peering right and left, blew +the candle out. + +A little while he stood and listened in the dark; a little while his +feet went to and fro in the darkness. The wind cried in the chimney. Now +and then the casements shivered. The timbers in the wall creaked with +the cold, and the boards in the stairway cracked. Then the old he rat +came back to his rind, and his mate came out of the crack in the wall, +working her whiskers hungrily and snuffing the smell of the candle-drip; +for there was no sound, and the coast of rat-land was clear. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX + + +AT THE FALCON INN + + And then there came both mist and snow, + And it grew wondrous cold; + And ice mast-high came floating by, + As green as emerald. + +So says that wonder-ballad of the sea. + +But over London came a gale that made the chimneys rock; and after it +came ice and snow, sharp, stinging sleet, and thumping hail, with +sickening winds from the gray west, sour yellow fogs, and plunging rain, +till all the world was weary of the winter and the cold. + +But winter could not last forever. March crept onward, and the streets +of London came up out of the slush again with a glad surprise of +cobblestones. The sickly mist no longer hung along the river; and +sometimes upon a breezy afternoon it was pleasant and fair, the sun +shone warmly on one's back, and the rusty sky grew bluer overhead. The +trees in Paris Garden put out buds; the lilac-tips began to swell; there +was a stirring in the roadside grass, and now and then a questing bird +went by upon the wind, piping a little silver thread of song. Nick's +heart grew hungry for the woods of Arden and the gathering rush of the +waking water-brooks among the old dead leaves. The rain beat in at his +window, but he did not care for that, and kept it open day and night; +for when he wakened in the dark he loved to feel the fingers of the wind +across his face. + +Sometimes the moonlight through the ragged clouds came in upon the +floor, and in the hurry of the wind he almost fancied he could hear the +Avon, bank-full, rushing under the old mill-bridge. + +Then one day there came a shower with a warm south wind, sweet and +healthful and serene; and through the shower, out of the breaking +clouds, a sun-gleam like a path of gold straight down to the heart of +London town; and on the south wind, down that path of gold, came April. + +That night the wind in the chimney fluted a glad, new tune; and when +Nick looked out at his casement the free stars danced before him in the +sky. And when he felt that fluting wind blow warm and cool together on +his cheek, the chimneys mocked him, and the town was hideous. + + * * * * * + +It fell upon an April night, when the moon was at its full, that Master +Carew had come to the Falcon Inn, on the Southwark side of the river, +and had brought Nick with him for the air. Master Heywood was along, and +it was very pleasant there. + +The night breeze smelled of green fields, and the inn was thronged with +company. The windows were bright, and the air was full of voices. Tables +had been brought out into the garden and set beneath the arbor toward +the riverside. The vines of the arbor were shooting forth their first +pink-velvet leaves, and in the moonlight their shadows fell like +lacework across the linen cloths, blurred by the glow of the lanterns +hung upon the posts. + +The folds in the linen marked the table-tops with squares like a +checker-board, and Nick stood watching from the tap-room door, as if it +were a game. Not that he cared for any game; but that watching dulled +the teeth of the hunger in his heart to be out of the town and back +among the hills of Warwickshire, now that the spring was there. + +"What, there!--a pot of sack!" cried one gay fellow with a +silver-bordered cloak. "A pot of sack?" cried out another with a feather +like a rose-bush in his cap; "two pots ye mean, my buck!" "Ods-fish my +skin!" bawled out a third--"ods-fish my skin! Two pots of beggarly sack +on a Saturday night and a moon like this? Three pots, say I--and make it +malmsey, at my cost! What, there, knave! the table full of pots--I'll +pay the score." + +At that they all began to laugh and to slap one another on the back, and +to pound with their fists upon the board until the pewter tankards +hopped; and when the tapster's knave came back they were singing at the +top of their lungs, for the spring had gotten into their wits, and they +were beside themselves with merriment. + +Master Tom Heywood had a little table to himself off in a corner, and +was writing busily upon a new play. "A sheet a day," said he, "doth do +a wonder in a year"; so he was always at it. + +Gaston Carew sat beyond, dicing with a silky rogue who had the coldest, +hardest face that Nick had ever seen. His eyes were black and beady as a +rat's, and were circled about by a myriad of little crowfoot lines; and +his hooked nose lay across his thin blue lips like a finger across a +slit in a dried pie. His long, slim hands were white as any woman's; and +his fingers slipped among the laces at his cuffs like a weasel in a +tangle-patch. + +They had been playing for an hour, and the game had gone beyond all +reason. The other players had put aside the dice to watch the two, and +the nook in which their table stood was ringed with curious faces. A +lantern had been hung above, but Carew had had it taken down, as its +bottom made a shadow on the board. Carew's face was red and white by +turns; but the face of the other had no more color than candle-wax. + +At the end of the arbor some one was strumming upon a gittern. It was +strung in a different key from that in which the men were singing, and +the jangle made Nick feel all puckered up inside. By and by the playing +ceased, and the singers came to the end of their song. In the brief hush +the sharp rattle of the dice sounded like the patter of cold hail +against the shutter in the lull of a winter storm. + +Then there came a great shouting outside, and, looking through the +arbor, Nick saw two couriers on galloway nags come galloping over the +bowling-green to the arbor-side, calling for ale. They drank it in +their saddles, while their panting horses sniffed at the fresh young +grass. Then they galloped on. Through the vines, as he looked after +them, Nick could see the towers of London glittering strangely in the +moonlight. It was nearly high tide, and up from the river came the sound +of women's voices and laughter, with the pulse-like throb of oars and +the hoarse calling of the watermen. + +In the great room of the inn behind him the gallants were taking their +snuff in little silver ladles, and talking of princesses they had met, +and of whose coach they had ridden home in last from tennis at my +lord's. Some were eating, some were drinking, and some were puffing at +long clay pipes, while others, by twos, locked arm in arm, went +swaggering up and down the room, with a huge talking of foreign lands +which they had never so much as seen. + +"A murrain on the luck!" cried Carew, suddenly. "Can I throw nothing but +threes and fours?" + +A muffled stir ran round. Nick turned from the glare of the open door, +and looked out into the moonlight. It seemed quite dark at first. The +master-player's face was bitter white, and his fingers were tapping a +queer staccato upon the table-top. + +"A plague on the bedlam dice!" said he. "I think they are bewitched." + +"Huff, ruff, and snuff!" the other replied. "Don't get the +mubble-fubbles, Carew: there's nought the matter with the dice." + +A man came down from the tap-room door. Nick stepped aside to let him +pass. He was a player, by his air. + +He wore a riding-cloak of Holland cloth, neither so good nor so bad as a +riding-cloak might be, but under it a handsome jerkin overlaid with +lace, and belted with a buff girdle in which was a light Spanish rapier. +His boots were russet cordovan, mid-thigh tall, and the rowels of his +clinking spurs were silver stars. He was large of frame, and his curly +hair was short and brown; so was his pointed beard. His eyes were +singularly bright and fearless, and bluff self-satisfaction marked his +stride; but his under lip was petulant, and he flicked his boot with his +riding-whip as he shouldered his way along. + +"Ye cannot miss the place, sir," called the tapster after him. "'Tis +just beyond Ned Alleyn's, by the ditch. Ye'll never mistake the ditch, +sir--Billingsgate is roses to it." + +"Oh, I'll find it fast enough," the stranger answered; "but he should +have sent to meet me, knowing I might come at any hour. 'Tis a felon +place for thieves; and I've not heart to skewer even a goose on such a +night as this." + +At the sudden breaking of voices upon the silence, Carew looked up, with +a quarrel ripe for picking in his eye. But seeing who spoke, such a +smile came rippling from the corners of his mouth across his dark, +unhappy face that it was as if a lamp of welcome had been lighted there. +"What, Ben!" he cried; "thou here? Why, bless thine heart, old gossip, +'tis good to see an honest face amid this pack of rogues." + +There was a surly muttering in the crowd. Carew threw his head back +haughtily and set his knuckles to his hip. "A pack of rogues, I say," he +repeated sharply; "and a fig for the whole pack!" There was a certain +wildness in his eyes. No one stirred or made reply. + +"Good! Gaston," laughed the stranger, with a shrug; "picking thy company +still, I see, for quantity, and not for quality. No, thank 'e; none of +the tap for me. My Lord Hunsdon was made chamberlain in his father's +stead to-day, and I'm off hot-foot with the news to Will's." + +He gathered his cloak about him, and was gone. + +"Ye've lost," said the man who was dicing with Carew. + +Nick stepped down from the tap-room door. His ears were tingling with +the sound: "I'm off hot-foot with the news to Will's." + +"Hot-foot with the news to Will's"? + +To "Will's"? "Will" who? + +The man was a player, by his air. + +Nick hurriedly looked around. Carew's wild eyes were frozen upon the +dice. The bandy-legged man was drinking at a table near the door. The +crimson ribbon in his ear looked like a patch of blood. + +He saw Nick looking at him, and made a horrible face. He would have +sworn likewise, but there was half a quart of ale in his can; so he +turned it up and drank instead. It was a long, long drink, and half his +face was buried in the pot. + +When he put it down the boy was gone. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI + + +IN THE TWINKLING OF AN EYE + +In a garden near the old bear-yard, among tall rose-trees which would +soon be in bloom, a merry company of men were sitting around a table +which stood in the angle of a quick-set hedge beside a path graveled +with white stones and bordered with mussel-shells. + +There was a house hard by with creamy-white walls, green-shuttered +windows, and a red-tiled roof. The door of the house was open, showing a +little ruddy fire upon a great hearth, kindled to drive away the damp; +and in the windows facing the garden there were lights shining warmly +out among the rose-trees. + +The table was spread with a red damask cloth, on which were a tray of +raisins and nuts and a small rally of silver cups. Above the table an +apple-tree nodded its new leaves, and from an overhanging bough a +lantern hung glowing like a great yellow bee. + +There was a young fellow with a white apron and a jolly little whisper +of a whistle on his puckered lips going around with a plate of cakes and +a tray of honey-bowls; and the men were eating and drinking and +chatting together so gaily, and seemed to be all such good friends, that +it was a pleasant thing just to see them sitting there in their +comfortable leather-bottomed chairs, taking life easily because the +spring had come again. + +One tall fellow was smoking a pipe. He held the bowl in one hand, and +kept tamping down the loose tobacco with his forefinger. Now and again +he would be so eagerly talking he would forget that his finger was in +the bowl, and it would be burned. He would take it out with a look of +quaint surprise, whereat the rest all roared. Another was a fat, round +man who chuckled constantly to himself, as if this life were all a joke; +and there was a quite severe, important-seeming, oldish man who said, +"Hem--hem!" from time to time, as if about to speak forthwith, yet never +spoke a word. There was also among the rest a raw-boned, lanky fellow +who had bitten the heart out of an oat-cake and held the rim of it in +his fingers like a new moon, waving it around while he talked, until the +little man beside him popped it deftly out of his grasp and ate it +before the other saw where it was gone. But when he made out what was +become of that oat-cake he rose up solemnly, took the little man by the +collar as a huntsman takes a pup, and laid him softly in the grass +without a word. + +What a laughing and going-on was then! It was as if they all were +growing young again. And in the middle of the row a head popped over the +quick-set hedge, and a most stentorian voice called out, "Here, here! Go +slow--I want a piece of that!" + +They all looked up, and the moment they spied that laughing face and +cloak of Holland cloth, raised a shout of "What, there!" "Well met!" +"Come in, Ben." "Where hast thou tarried so long?" and the like; while +the waiter ran to open the gate and let the stranger in. + +A quiet man with a little chestnut-colored beard and hazel eyes, which +lit up quickly at sight of the stranger over the hedge, arose from his +place by the table and went down the path with hands outstretched to +greet him. + +"Welcome, welcome, hurly-burly Ben," said he. "We've missed thee from +the feast. Art well? And what's the good word?" + +"Ah, Will, thou gentle rogue!" the other cried, catching the hands of +the quiet man and holding him off while he looked at him there. "How +thou stealest one's heart with the glance of thine eye! I was going to +give thee a piece of my mind; but a plague, old heart! who could chide +thee to thy face? Am I well? Ay, exceedingly well. And the news? Jove! +the best that was baked at the Queen's to-day, and straight from the +oven-door! The thing is done--huff, puff, and away we go! But come +on--this needs telling to the rest." + +They came up the path together, the big man crunching the mussel-shells +beneath his sturdy tread, and so into the circle of yellow light that +came down from the lantern among the apple-leaves, the big man with his +arm around the quiet man's shoulders, holding his hand; for the quiet +man was not so large as the other, although withal no little man +himself, and very well built and straight. + +His tabard was black, without sleeves, and his doublet was scarlet +silk. His collar and wrist-bands were white Holland linen turned loosely +back, and his face was frank and fair and free. He was not old, but his +hair was thin upon his brow. His nose and his full, high forehead were +as cleanly cut as a finely chiseled stone; and his sensitive mouth had a +curve that was tender and sad, though he smiled all the while, a glimpse +of his white teeth showing through, and his little mustache twitching +with the ripple of his long upper lip. His flowing hair was +chestnut-colored, like his beard, and curly at the ends; and his +melancholy eyelids told of study and of thought; but under them the +kindly eyes were bright with pleasant fancy. + +"What, there, all of you!" said he; "a good investment for your ears!" + +"Out with it, Will!" they cried, and whirled around. + +"The Queen hath made Lord Hunsdon chamberlain," the big man said. + +An instant's hush fell on the garden. No one spoke; but they caught each +other by the hand, and, suddenly, the silence there seemed somehow +louder than a shout. + +"We'll build the new Globe play-house, lads, and sweep the Bankside +clean from end to end!" a sturdy voice broke sharply on the hush. And +then they cheered--a cheer so loud that people on the river stopped +their boats, and came ashore asking where the fire was. And over all the +cheering rose the big man's voice; for the quiet man was silent, and the +big man cheered for two. + +"Pull up thy rose-bushes, Will," cried one, "and set out laurels in +their stead--thou'lt need them all for crowns." + +"Ay, Will, our savor is not gone--Queen Bess knows salt!" + +"With Will and Ben for meat and crust, and the rest of us for seasoning, +the court shall say it never ate such master pie!" + +"We'll make the walls of Whitehall ring come New Year next, or Twelfth +Night and Shrove Tuesday." + +"Ay, that we will, old gossip! Here's to thee!" + +"Here's to the company, all of us!" + +"And a health to the new Lord Chamberlain!" + +"God save the Queen!" + +With that, they shook each other's hands, as merry as men could be, and +laughed, because their hearts ran short of words; for these were young +Lord Hunsdon's men, late players to the Queen in the old Lord +Chamberlain's troupe; who, for a while deprived of favor by _his_ death, +were now, by this succession of his son, restored to prestige at the +court, and such preferment as none beside them ever won, not even the +Earl of Pembroke's company. + +There was Kemp, the stout tragedian; gray John Lowin, the walking-man; +Diccon Burbage, and Cuthbert his brother, master-players and managers; +Robin Armin, the humorsome jester; droll Dick Tarlton, the king of +fools. There was Blount, and Pope, and Hemynge, and Thomas Greene, and +Joey Taylor, the acting-boy, deep in the heart of a honey-bowl, yet who +one day was to play "Hamlet" as no man ever has played it since. And +there were others, whose names and doings have vanished with them; and +beside these--"What, merry hearts!" the big man cried, and clapped his +neighbor on the back; "we'll have a supper at the Mermaid Inn. We'll +feast on reason, reason on the feast, toast the company with wit, and +company the wit with toast--why, pshaw, we are good fellows all!" He +laughed, and they laughed with him. _That_ was "rare Ben Jonson's" way. + +"There's some one knocking, master," said the boy. + +A quick tap-tapping rattled on the wicket-gate. + +"Who is it?" asked the quiet man. + +"'Tis Edmund with the news," cried one. + +"I've dished him," said Ben Jonson. + +"'Tis Condell come to raise our wages," said Robin Armin, with a grin. + +"Thou'lt raise more hopes than wages, Rob," said Tarlton, mockingly. + +"It is a boy," the waiter said, "who saith that he must see thee, +master, on his life." + +The quiet man arose. + +"Sit down, Will," said Greene; "he'll pick thy pocket with a doleful +lie." + +"There's nothing in it, Tom, to pick." + +"Then give him no more than half," said Armin, soberly, "lest he +squander it!" + +"He saith he comes from Stratford town," the boy went on. + +"Then tell him to go back again," said Master Ben Jonson; "we've sucked +the sweet from Stratford town--be off with his seedy dregs!" + +"Go bring him in," said the quiet man. + +"Nay, Will, don't have him in. This makes the third within the +month--wilt father all the strays from Stratford town? Here, Ned, give +him this shilling, and tell him to be off to his cony-burrow as fast as +his legs can trot." + +"We'll see him first," said the quiet man, stopping the other's shilling +with his hand. + +"Oh, Willy-nilly!" the big man cried; "wilt be a kite to float all the +draggle-tails that flutter down from Warwickshire?" + +"Why, Ben," replied the quiet man, "'tis not the kite that floats the +tail, but the wind which floats both kite and tail. Thank God, we've +caught the rising wind; so, hey for draggle-tails!--we'll take up all +we can." + +The waiter was coming up the path, and by his side, a little back, +bareheaded and flushed with running, came Nicholas Attwood. He had +followed the big man through the fields from the gates of the +Falcon Inn. + +He stopped at the edge of the lantern's glow and looked around +uncertain, for the light was in his eyes. + +"Come, boy, what is it?" asked Ben Jonson. + +Nick peered through the brightness. "Master Will--Master Will +Shakspere!" he gasped. + +"_Well, my lady_," said the quiet man; "_what wilt thou have of me_?" + +Nick Attwood had come to his fellow-townsman at last. + +Over the hedge where the lantern shone through the green of the +apple-leaves came a sound of voices talking fast, a listening hush, then +a clapping of hands, with mingled cries of "Good boy!" "Right, lad; do +not leave her till thou must!" and at the last, "What! take thee home to +thy mother, lad? Ay, marry, that will I!" And the _last_ was the voice +of the quiet man. + +Then followed laughter and scraps of song, merry talking, and good +cheer, for they all made glad together. + + * * * * * + +Across the fields beyond the hedge the pathway ran through Paris Garden, +stark and clear in the white moon-shine, save here and there where the +fog from the marsh crept down to meet the river-mist, and blotted out +the landscape as it went. In the north lay London, stirring like a +troubled sea. In the south was drowsy silence, save for the crowing of +the cocks, and now and then the baying of a hound far off. The smell of +bears was on the air; the river-wind breathed kennels. The Swan +play-house stood up, a great, blue blank against the sky. The sound of +voices was remote. The river made a constant murmur in the murk beyond +the landing-place; the trees moved softly. + +Low in the west, the lights of the Falcon Inn were shrunk to pin-pricks +in the dark. They seemed to wink and to shut their eyes. It was too far +to see the people passing by. + +On a sudden one light winked and did not open any more; and through the +night a faint, far cry came drifting down the river-wind--a long, thin +cry, like the wavering screech of an owl--a shrill, high, ugly sound; +the lights began to wink, wink, wink, to dance, to shift, to gather into +one red star. Out of the darkness came a wisp of something moving in +the path. + +Where the moonlight lay it scudded like the shadow of a windy cloud, now +lost to sight, now seen again. Out of the shadow came a man, with hands +outstretched and cap awry, running as if he were mad. As he ran he +looked from side to side, and turned his head for the keener ear. He was +panting hard. + +When he reached the ditch he paused in fault, ran on a step or two, went +back, stood hesitating there, clenching his hands in the empty wind, +listening; for the mist was grown so thick that he could scarcely see. + +But as he stood there doubtfully, uncertain of the way, catching the +wind in his nervous hands, and turning about in a little space like an +animal in a cage, over the hedge through the apple-boughs a boy's clear +voice rose suddenly, singing a rollicking tune, with a snapping of +fingers and tapping of feet in time to its merry lilt. + +Then the man in the mist, when he heard that clear, high voice, turned +swiftly to it, crying out, "The Skylark! Zooks! It is the place!" and +ran through the fog to where the lantern glimmered through the hedge. +The light fell in a yellow stream across his face. He was pale as a +ghost. "What, there, within! What, there!" he panted. "Shakspere! +Jonson! Any one!" + +The song stopped short. "Who's there?" called the voice of the quiet +man. + +"'Tis I, Tom Heywood. there's to-do for players at the Falcon Inn. +Gaston Carew hath stabbed Fulk Sandells, for cheating at the dice, as +dead as a door-nail, and hath been taken by the watch!" + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII + + +THE LAST OF GASTON CAREW + +It was Monday morning, and a beautiful day. + +Master Will Shakspere was reading a new play to Masters Ben Jonson and +Diccon Burbage at the Mermaid Inn. + +Thomas Pope, the player, and Peter Hemynge, the manager, were there with +them at the table under the little window. The play was a comedy of a +wicked money-lender named Shylock; but it was a comedy that made Nick +shudder as he sat on the bench by the door and listened to it through +happy thoughts of going home. + +Sunday had passed like a wondrous dream. He was free. Master Carew was +done for. On Saturday morning Master Will Shakspere would set out on the +journey to Stratford town, for his regular summer visit there; and Nick +was going with him--going to Stratford--going home! + +The comedy-reading went on. Master Burbage, his moving face alive, +leaned forward on his elbows, nodding now and then, and saying, "Fine, +fine!" under his breath. Master Pope was making faces suited to the +words, not knowing that he did so. Nick watched him, fascinated. + +A man came hurrying down Cheapside, and peered in at the open door. It +was Master Dick Jones of the Admiral's company. He looked worried and as +if he had not slept. His hair was uncombed, and the skin under his eyes +hung in little bags. He squinted so that he might see from the broad +daylight outside into the darker room. + +"Gaston Carew wants to see thee, Skylark," said he, quickly, seeing Nick +beside the door. + +Nick drew back. It seemed as if the master-player must be lying in wait +outside to catch him if he stirred abroad. + +"He says that he must see thee without fail, and that straightway. He is +in Newgate prison. Wilt come?" + +Nick shook his head. + +"But he says indeed he _must_ see thee. Come, Skylark, I will bring thee +back. I am no kidnapper. Why, it is the last thing he will ever ask of +thee. 'Tis hard to refuse so small a favor to a doomed man." + +"Thou'lt surely fetch me back?" + +"Here, Master Will Shakspere," called the Admiral's player; "I am to +fetch the boy to Carew in Newgate on an urgent matter. My name is +Jones--Dick Jones, of Henslowe's company. Burbage knows me. I'll bring +him back." + +Master Shakspere nodded, reading on; and Burbage waved his hand, +impatient of interruption. Nick arose and went with Jones. + +As they came up Newgate street to the crossing of Giltspur and the Old +Bailey, the black arch of the ancient gate loomed grimly against the +sky, its squinting window-slits peering down like the eyes of an old +ogre. The bell of St. Sepulchre's was tolling, and there was a crowd +about the door, which opened, letting out a black cart in which was a +priest praying and a man in irons going to be hanged on Tyburn Hill. His +sweating face was ashen gray; and when the cart came to the church door +they gave him mockingly a great bunch of fresh, bright flowers. Nick +could not bear to watch. + +The turnkey at the prison gate was a crop-headed fellow with jowls like +a bulldog, and no more mercy in his face than a chopping-block. "Gaston +Carew, the player?" he growled. "Ye can't come in without a permit from +the warden." + +"We must," said Jones. + +"Must?" said the turnkey. "I am the only one who says 'must' in +Newgate!" and slammed the door in their faces. + +The player clinked a shilling on the bar. + +"It was a boy he said would come," growled the turnkey through the +wicket, pocketing the shilling; "so just the boy goes up. A shilling's +worth, ye mind, and not another wink." He drew Nick in, and dropped +the bars. + +It was a foul, dark place, and full of evil smells. Drops of water stood +on the cold stone walls, and a green mould crept along the floor. The +air was heavy and dank, and it began to be hard for Nick to breathe. The +men in the dungeons were singing a horrible song, and in the corner was +a half-naked fellow shackled to the floor. "Give me a penny," he said, +"or I will curse thee." Nick shuddered. + +"Up with thee," said the turnkey, gruffly, unlocking the door to the +stairs. + +The common room above was packed with miserable wretches, fighting, +dancing, gibbering like apes. Some were bawling ribald songs, others +moaning with fever. The strongest kept the window-ledges near light and +air by sheer main force, and were dicing on the dirty sill. The turnkey +pushed and banged his way through them, Nick clinging desperately to +his jerkin. + +In a cell at the end of the corridor there was a Spanish renegade who +cursed the light when the door was opened, and cursed the darkness when +it closed. "Cesare el Moro, Cesare el Moro," he was saying over and over +again to himself, as if he feared that he might forget his own name. + +Carew was in the middle cell, ironed hand and foot. He had torn his +sleeves and tucked the lace under the rough edges of the metal to keep +it from chafing the skin. He sat on a pile of dirty straw, with his face +in his folded arms upon his knees. By his side was a broken biscuit and +an empty stone jug. He had his fingers in his ears to shut out the +tolling of the knell for the man who had gone to be hanged. + +The turnkey shook the bars. "Here, wake up!" he said. + +Carew looked up. His eyes were swollen, and his face was covered with a +two days' beard. He had slept in his clothes, and they were full of +broken straw and creases. But his haggard face lit up when he saw the +boy, and he came to the grating with an eager exclamation: "And thou +hast truly come? To the man thou dost hate so bitterly, but wilt not +hate any more. Come, Nick, thou wilt not hate me any more. 'Twill not +be worth thy while, Nick; the night is coming fast." + +"Why, sir," said Nick, "it is not so dark outside--'tis scarcely noon; +and thou wilt soon be out." + +"Out? Ay, on Tyburn Hill," said the master-player, quietly. "I've spent +my whole life for a bit of hempen cord. I've taken my last cue. Last +night, at twelve o'clock, I heard the bellman under the prison walls +call my name with the names of those already condemned. The play is +nearly out, Nick, and the people will be going home. It has been a wild +play, Nick, and ill played." + +"Here, if ye've anything to say, be saying it," said the turnkey. "'Tis +a shilling's worth, ye mind." + +Carew lifted up his head in the old haughty way, and clapped his +shackled hand to his hip--they had taken his poniard when he came into +the gaol. A queer look came over his face; taking his hand away, he +wiped it hurriedly upon his jerkin. There were dark stains upon +the silk. + +"Ye sent for me, sir," said Nick. + +Carew passed his hand across his brow. "Yes, yes, I sent for thee. I +have something to tell thee, Nick." He hesitated, and looked through the +bars at the boy, as if to read his thoughts. "Thou'lt be good and true +to Cicely--thou'lt deal fairly with my girl? Why, surely, yes." He +paused again, as if irresolute. "I'll trust thee, Nick. We've taken +money, thou and I; good gold and silver--tsst! what's that?" He +stopped suddenly. + +Nick heard no sound but the Spaniard's cursing. + +"'Tis my fancy," Carew said. "Well, then, we've taken much good money, +Nick; and I have not squandered all of it. Hark'e--thou knowest the old +oak wainscot in the dining-hall, and the carven panel by the Spanish +chest? Good, then! Upon the panel is a cherubin, and--tsst! what's +that, I say?" + +There was a stealthy rustling in the right-hand cell. The fellow in it +had his ear pressed close against the bars. "He is listening," +said Nick. + +The fellow cursed and shook his fist, and then, when Master Carew +dropped his voice and would have gone on whispering, set up so loud a +howling and clanking of his chains that the lad could not make out one +word the master-player said. + +"Peace, thou dog!" cried Carew, and kicked the grating. But the fellow +only yelled the louder. + +Carew looked sorely troubled. "I dare not let him hear," said he. "The +very walls of Newgate leak." + +"_Yak, yah, yah, thou gallows-bird!_" + +"Yet I must tell thee, Nick." + +"_Yah, yah, dangle-rope!_" + +"Stay! would Will Shakspere come? Why, here, I'll send him word. He'll +come--Will Shakspere never bore a grudge; and I shall so soon go where +are no grudges, envy, storms, or noise, but silence and the soft lap of +everlasting sleep. He'll come--Nick, bid him come, upon his life, to +the Old Bailey when I am taken up." + +Nick nodded. It was strange to have his master beg. + +Carew was looking up at a thin streak of light that came in through the +narrow window at the stair. "Nick," said he, huskily, "last night I +dreamed I heard thee singing; but 'twas where there was a sweet, green +field and a stream flowing through a little wood. Methought 'twas on the +road past Warwick toward Coventry. Thou'lt go there some day and +remember Gaston Carew, wilt not, lad? And, Nick, for thine own mother's +sake, do not altogether hate him; he was not so bad a man as he might +easily have been." + +"Come," growled the turnkey, who was pacing up and down like a surly +bear; "have done. 'Tis a fat shilling's worth." + +"'Twas there I heard thee sing first, Nick," said Carew, holding to the +boy's hands through the bars. "I'll never hear thee sing again." + +"Why, sir, I'll sing for thee now," said Nick, choking. + +The turnkey was coming back when Nick began suddenly to sing. He looked +up, staring. Such a thing dumfounded him. He had never heard a song like +that in Newgate. There were rules in prison. "Here, here," he cried, "be +still!" But Nick sang on. + +The groaning, quarreling, and cursing were silent all at once. The guard +outside, who had been sharpening his pike upon the window-ledge, stopped +the shrieking sound. Silence like a restful sleep fell upon the weary +place. Through dark corridors and down the mildewed stairs the quaint +old song went floating as a childhood memory into an old man's dream; +and to Gaston Carew's ear it seemed as if the melody of earth had all +been gathered in that little song--all but the sound of the voice of his +daughter Cicely. + +It ceased, and yet a gentle murmur seemed to steal through the mouldy +walls, of birds and flowers, sunlight and the open air, of once-loved +mothers, and of long-forgotten homes. The renegade had ceased his +cursing, and was whispering a fragment of a Spanish prayer he had not +heard for many a day. + +Carew muttered to himself. "And now old cares are locked in charmed +sleep, and new griefs lose their bitterness, to hear thee sing--to hear +thee sing. God bless thee, Nick!" + +"'Tis three good shillings' worth o' time," the turnkey growled, and +fumbled with the keys. "All for one shilling, too," said he, and kicked +the door-post sulkily. "But a plague, I say, a plague! 'Tis no one's +business but mine. I've a good two shillings' worth in my ears. 'Tis +thirty year since I ha' heard the like o' that. But what's a gaol +for?--man's delight? Nay, nay. Here, boy, time's up! Come out o' that." +But he spoke so low that he scarcely heard himself; and going to the end +of the corridor, he marked at random upon the wall. + +"Oh, Nick, I love thee," said the master-player, holding the boy's hands +with a bitter grip. "Dost thou not love me just a little? Come, lad, say +that thou lovest me." + +[Illustration: "'WHY, SIR, I'LL SING FOR THEE NOW.' SAID NICK, +CHOKING."] "Nay, Master Carew," Nick answered soberly, "I do na love +thee, and I will na say I do, sir; but I pity thee with all my heart. +And, sir, if thy being out would keep me stolen, still I think I'd wish +thee out--for Cicely. But, Master Carew, do na break my hands." + +The master-player loosed his grasp. "I will not seek to be excused to +thee," he said huskily. "I've prisoned thee as that clod prisons me; +but, Nick, the play is almost out, down comes the curtain on my heels, +and thy just blame will find no mark. Yet, Nick, now that I am fast and +thou art free, it makes my heart ache to feel that 'twas not I who set +thee free. Thou canst go when pleaseth thee, and thank me nothing for +it. And, Nick, as my sins be forgiven me, I truly meant to set thee free +and send thee home. I did, upon my word, and on the remnant of +mine honour!" + +"Time's good and up, sirs," said the turnkey, coming back. + +Carew thrust his hand into his breast. + +"I must be going, sir," said Nick. + +"Ay, so thou must--all things must go. Oh, Nick, be friendly with me +now, if thou wert never friendly before. Kiss me, lad. There--now thy +hand." The master-player clasped it closely in his own, and pressing +something into the palm, shut down the fingers over it. "Quick! Keep it +hid," he whispered. "'Tis the chain I had from Stratford's burgesses, to +some good usage come at last." + +"Must I come and fetch thee out?" growled the turnkey. + +"I be coming, sir." + +"Thou'lt send Will Shakspere? And, oh, Nick," cried Carew, holding him +yet a little longer, "thou'lt keep my Cicely from harm?" + +"I'll do my best," said Nick, his own eyes full. + +The turnkey raised his heavy bunch of keys. "I'll ding thee out o' this" +said he. + +And the last Nick Attwood saw of Gaston Carew was his wistful eyes +hunting down the stairway after him, and his hand, with its torn fine +laces, waving at him through the bars. + +And when he came to the Mermaid Inn Master Shakspere's comedy was done, +and Master Ben Jonson was telling a merry tale that made the tapster +sick with laughing. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII + + +CICELY DISAPPEARS + +That Master Will Shakspere should be so great seemed passing strange to +Nick, he felt so soon at home with him. It seemed as if the master-maker +of plays had a magic way of going out to and about the people he met, +and of fitting his humor to them as though he were a glover with their +measure in his hand. + +With Nick he was nothing all day long but a jolly, wise, and +gentle-hearted boy, wearing his greatness like an old cloth coat, as if +it were a long-accustomed thing, and quite beyond all pride, and went +about his business in a very simple way. But in the evening when the +wits were met together at his house, and Nick sat on the hindmost bench +and watched the noble gentlemen who came to listen to the sport, Master +Will Shakspere seemed to have the knack of being ever best among them +all, yet of never too much seeming to be better than the rest. + +And though, for the most part, he said but little, save when some pet +fancy moved him, when he did speak his conversation sparkled like a +little meadow brook that drew men's best thoughts out of them like +water from a spring. + +And when they fell to bantering, he could turn the fag-end of another +man's nothing to good account in a way so shrewd that not even Master +Ben Jonson could better him--and Master Ben Jonson set up for a wit. But +Master Shakspere came about as quickly as an English man-of-war, dodged +here and there on a breath of wind, and seemed quite everywhere at once; +while Master Jonson tacked and veered, and loomed across the elements +like a great galleon, pouring forth learned broadsides with a most +prodigious boom, riddling whatever was in the way, to be sure, but often +quite missing the point--because Master Shakspere had come about, hey, +presto, change! and was off with the argument, point and all, upon a +totally different tack. + +Then "Tush!" and "Fie upon thee, Will!" Master Jonson would cry with his +great bluff-hearted laugh, "thou art a regular flibbertigibbet! I'll +catch thee napping yet, old heart, and fill thee so full of pepper-holes +that thou wilt leak epigrams. But quits--I must be home, or I shall +catch it from my wife. Faith, Will, thou shouldst see my little Ben!" + +"I'll come some day," Master Shakspere would say; "give him my love"; +and his mouth would smile, though his eyes were sad, for his own son +Hamnet was dead. + +Then, when the house was still again, and all had said good-by, Nick +doffed his clothes and laid him down to sleep in peace. Yet he often +wakened in the night, because his heart was dancing so. + +In the morning, when the world began to stir outside, and the early +light came in at the window, he slipped out of bed across the floor, and +threw the casement wide. Over the river, and over the town, and over the +hills that lay blue in the north, was Stratford! + +The damp, cool air from the garden below seemed a primrose whiff from +the lane behind his father's house. He could hear the cocks crowing in +Surrey, and the lowing of the kine. There was a robin singing in a bush +under the window, and there was some one in the garden with a pair of +pruning-shears. Snip-snip! snip-snip! he heard them going. The light in +the east was pink as a peach-bloom and too intense to bear. + +"Good-morrow, Master Early-bird!" a merry voice called up to him, and a +nosegay dropped on the window-ledge at his side. He looked down. There +in the path among the rose-trees was Master Will Shakspere, laughing. He +had on an ancient leathern jacket and a hat with a hole in its crown; +and the skirts of the jacket were dripping with dew from the bushes. + +"Good-morrow, sir," said Nick, and bowed. "It is a lovely day." + +"Most beautiful indeed! How comes the sun?" + +"Just up, sir; the river is afire with it now. O-oh!" Nick held his +breath, and watched the light creep down the wall, darting long bars of +rosy gold through the snowy bloom of the apple-trees, until it rested +upon Master Shakspere's face, and made a fleeting glory there. + +Then Master Shakspere stretched himself a little in the sun, laughing +softly, and said, "It is the sweetest music in the world--morning, +spring, and God's dear sunshine; it starteth kindness brewing in the +heart, like sap in a withered bud. What sayest, lad? We'll fetch the +little maid to-day; and then--away for Stratford town!" + + * * * * * + +But when Master Shakspere and Nicholas Attwood came to Gaston Carew's +house, the constables had taken charge, the servants were scattering +hither and thither, and Cicely Carew was gone. + +The bandy-legged man, the butler said, had come on Sunday in great +haste, and packing up his goods, without a word of what had befallen his +master, had gone away, no one knew whither, and had taken Cicely with +him. Nor had they questioned what he did, for they all feared the rogue, +and judged him to have authority. + +Nick caught a moment at the lintel of the door. The house was full of +voices, and the sound of trampling feet went up and down from room to +room; but all he heard was Gaston Carew's worn voice saying, "Thou'lt +keep my Cicely from harm?" + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV + + +THE BANDY-LEGGED MAN + +Until night fell they sought the town over for a trace of Cicely; but +all to no avail. The second day likewise. + +The third day passed, and still there were no tidings. Master +Shakspere's face grew very grave, and Nick's heart sickened till he +quite forgot that he was going home. + +But on the morning of the fourth day, which chanced to be the 1st of +May, as he was standing in the door of a printer's stall in St. Paul's +Churchyard, watching the gaily dressed holiday crowds go up and down, +while Robin Dexter's apprentices bound white-thorn boughs about the +brazen serpent overhead, he spied the bandy-legged man among the rout +that passed the north gate by St. Martin's le Grand. + +He had a yellow ribbon in his ear, and wore a bright plum-colored cloak, +at sight of which Nick cried aloud, for it was the very cloak which +Master Gaston Carew wore when he first met him in the Warwick road. The +rogue was making for the way which ran from Cheapside to the river, and +was walking very fast. + +"Master Shakspere! Master Shakspere!" Nick called out. But Master +Shakspere was deep in the proofs of a newly published play, and did +not hear. + +The yellow ribbon fluttered in the sun--was gone behind the churchyard +wall. + +"Quick, Master Shakspere! quick!" Nick cried; but the master-writer +frowned at the inky page; for the light in the printer's shop was dim, +and the proof was very bad. + +The ribbon was gone down the river-way--and with it the hope of finding +Cicely. Nick shot one look into the stall. Master Shakspere, deep in his +proofs, was deaf to the world outside. Nick ran to the gate at the top +of his speed. In the crowd afar off a yellow spot went fluttering like a +butterfly along a country road. Without a single second thought, he +followed it as fast as his legs could go. + +Twice he lost it in the throng. But the yellow patch bobbed up again in +the sunlight far beyond, and led him on, and on, and on, a breathless +chase, down empty lanes and alley-ways, through unfrequented courts, +among the warehouses and wharf-sheds along the river-front, into the +kennels of Billingsgate, where the only sky was a ragged slit between +the leaning roofs. His heart sank low and lower as they went, for only +thieves and runagates who dared not face the day in honest streets were +gathered in wards like these. + +In a filthy purlieu under Fish-street Hill, where mackerel-heads and +herrings strewed the drains, and sour kits of whitebait stood +fermenting in the sun, the bandy-legged man turned suddenly into a dingy +court, and when Nick reached the corner of the entry-way was gone as +though the earth had swallowed him. + +Nick stopped dismayed, and looked about, His forehead was wet and his +breath was gone. He had no idea where they were, but it was a dismal +hole. Six forbidding doorways led off from the unkempt court, and a +rotting stairway sagged along the wall. A crop-eared dog, that lay in +the sun beside a broken cart, sprang up with its hair all pointing to +its head, and snarled at him with a vicious grin. "Begone, thou cur!" he +cried, and let drive with a stone. The dog ran under the cart, and +crouched there barking at him. + +Through an open door beyond there came a sound of voices as of people in +some further thoroughfare. Perchance the bandy-legged man had passed +that way? He ran across the court, and up the steps; but came back +faster than he went, for the passageway there was blind and black, a +place unspeakable for dirt, and filled with people past description. A +woman peered out after him with red eyes blinking in the sun. "Ods +bobs!" she croaked, "a pretty thing! Come hither, knave; I want the +buckle off thy cloak." + +Nick, shuddering, started for the street. But just as he reached the +entry-port a door in the courtyard opened, and the bandy-legged man came +out with a bag upon his back, leading Cicely by the hand. + +Seeing Nick, he gave a cry, believing himself pursued, and made for the +open door again; but almost instantly perceiving the boy to be alone, +slammed shut the door and followed him instead, dragging Cicely over the +stones, and shouting hoarsely, "Stop there! stop!" + +Nick's heart came up in his very throat. His legs went water-weak. He +ran for the open thoroughfare without once looking back. Yet while he +ran he heard Cicely cry out suddenly in pain, "Oh, Gregory, Gregory, +thou art hurting me so!" and at the sound the voice of Gaston Carew rang +like a bugle in his ears: "Thou'lt keep my Cicely from harm?" He stopped +as short as if he had butted his head against a wall, whirled on his +heel, stood fast, though he was much afraid; and standing there, his +head thrown back and his fists tight clenched, as if some one had struck +him in the face, he waited until they came to where he was. "Thou +hulking, cowardly rogue!" said he to the bandy-legged man. + +But the bandy-legged man caught him fast by the arm, and hurried on into +the street, scanning it swiftly up and down. "Two birds with one stone, +by hen!" he chuckled, when he saw that the coast was clear. "They'll +fetch a pretty penny by and by." + +Poor Cicely smiled through her tears at Nick. "I knew thou wouldst come +for me soon," said she. "But where is my father?" + +"He's dead as a herring," snarled Gregory. + +"That's a lie," said Nick; "he is na dead." + +"Don't call me liar, knave--by hen, I'll put a stopper on thy voice!" + +"Thou wilt na put a stopper on a jug!" cried Nick, his heart so hot for +Cicely that he quite forgot himself. "I'd sing so well without a +voice--it would butter thy bread for thee! Loose my arm, thou rogue." + +"Not for a thousand golden crowns! I'm no tom-noddy, to be gulled. And, +hark 'e, be less glib with that 'rogue' of thine, or I'll baste thy back +for thee." + +"Oh, don't beat Nick!" gasped Cicely. + +"Do na fret for me," said Nick; "I be na feared of the cowardly rogue!" + +Crack! the man struck him across the face. Nick's eyes flashed hot as a +fire-coal. He set his teeth, but he did not flinch. "Do na thou strike +me again, _thou rogue!_" said he. + +As he spoke, on a sudden his heart leaped up and his fear was utterly +gone. In its place was a something fierce and strange--a bitter +gladness, a joy that stung and thrilled him like great music in the +night. A tingling ran from head to foot; the little hairs of his flesh +stood up; he trampled the stones as he hurried on. In his breast his +heart was beating like a bell; his breath came hotly, deep and slow; the +whole world widened on his gaze. Oh, what a thing is the heart of a boy! +how quickly great things are done therein! One instant, put him to the +touch--the thing is done, and he is nevermore the same. Like a keen, +cold wind that blows through a window in the night, life's courage had +breathed on Nick Attwood's heart; the _man_ that slept in the heart of +the boy awoke and was aware. The old song roared in Nick's ears: + + Sir Francis Drake sailed round the world, + Round the world, round the world; + John Hawkins fought the "Victory," + And we ha' beaten Spain! + +Whither they were going he did not know. Whither they were going he did +not care. He was English: this was England still! He set his teeth and +threw back his shoulders. "I be na feared of him!" said he. + +"But my father will come for us soon, won't he, Nick?" faltered Cicely. + +"Eigh! just don't he wish that he might!" laughed Goole. + +"Oh, ay," said she, and nodded bravely to herself; "he may be very busy +now, and so he cannot come. But presently he will come for me and fetch +me home again." She gave a joyous little skip. "To fetch me home +again--ay, surely, my father will come for me anon." + +A lump came up in Nick Attwood's throat. "But what hath he done to thee, +Cicely, and where is thy pretty gown?" he asked, as they hurried on +through the crooked way; for the gown she wore was in rags. + +Cicely choked down a sob. "He hath kept me locked up in a horrible +place, where an old witch came in the night and stole my clothes away. +And he says that if money doth not come for me soon he will turn me out +to starve." + +"To starve? Nay, Cicely; I will na leave thee starve. I'll go with thee +wherever he taketh thee; I'll fend for thee with all my might and main, +and none shall harm thee if I can help. So cheer up--we will get away! +Thou needst na gripe me so, thou rogue; I am going wherever she goes." + +"I'll see that ye do," growled the bandy-legged man. "But take the other +hand of her, thou jackanapes, and fetch a better pace than this--I'll +not be followed again." + +His tone was bold, but his eyes were not; for they were faring through +the slums toward Whitechapel way, and the hungry crowd eyed Nick's silk +cloak greedily. One burly rascal with a scar across his face turned back +and snatched at it. For his own safety's sake, the bandy-legged man +struck up into a better thoroughfare, where he skulked along like a fox +overtaken by dawn, fearing to meet some dog he knew. + +"Oh, Gregory, go slow!" pleaded Cicely, panting for breath, and +stumbling over the cobblestones. Goole's only answer was a scowl. Nick +trotted on sturdily, holding her hand, and butting his shoulder against +the crowd so that she might not be jostled; for the press grew thick and +thicker as they went. All London was a-Maying, and the foreigners from +Soho, too. Up in the belfries, as they passed, the bells were clanging +until the whole town rang like a smithy on the eve of war, for madcap +apprentices had the ropes, and were ringing for exercise. + +Thicker and thicker grew the throng, as though the sea were sweeping +through the town. Then, at the corner of Mincing Lane, where the +cloth-workers' shops were thick, all at once there came an uproarious +din of men's voices singing together: + + "Three merry boys, and three merry boys, + And three merry boys are we, + As ever did sing in a hempen string + Beneath the gallows-tree!" + +And before the bandy-legged man could chance upon a doorway in which to +stand out of the rush, they were pressed against the wall flat as cakes +by a crowd of bold apprentices in holiday attire going out to a wager of +archery to be shot in Finsbury Fields. + +At first all Nick could see was legs: red legs, yellow legs, blue legs, +green legs, long legs, strong legs--in truth, a very many of all sorts +of legs, all stepping out together like a hundred-bladed shears; for +these were the Saddlers of Cheapside and the Cutters of Mincing Lane, +tall, ruddy-faced fellows, all armed with clubs, which they twirled and +tossed and thwacked one another with in sport. Some wore straw hats with +steeple-crowns, and some flat caps of green and white, or red and +orange-tawny. Some had long yew bows and sheaves of arrows decked with +garlands; and they were all exceedingly daubed in the face with dripping +cherry-juice and with cheese, which they munched as they strode along. + +"What, there, Tom Webster, I say," cried one, catching sight of Cicely's +face, "here is a Queen o' the May for thee!" + +His broad-shouldered comrade stopped in the way, and with him all the +rest. "My faith, Jem Armstrong, 'tis the truth, for once in thy life!" +quoth he, and stared at Cicely. Her cheeks were flushed, and her panting +red lips were fallen apart so that her little white teeth showed +through. Her long, dark lashes cast shadow circles under her eyes. Her +curly hair in elfin locks tossed all about her face, and through it was +tied a crimson ribbon, mocking the quick color of the blood which came +and went beneath her delicate skin. "My faith!" cried Tommy Webster, +"her face be as fair as a K in a copy-book! Hey, bullies, what? let's +make her queen!" + +"A queen?" "What queen?" "Where is a queen?" "I granny! Tom Webster hath +catched a queen!" "Where is she, Tom?" "Up with her, mate, and let a +fellow see." + +"Hands off, there!" snarled the bandy-legged man. + +"Up with her, Tom!" cried out the strapping fellow at his back. "A queen +it is; and a right good smacking toll all round--I have not bussed a +maid this day! Up with her, Tom!" + +"Stand back, ye rogues, and let us pass!" + +But alas and alack for the bandy-legged man! He could not ruffle and +swagger it off as Gaston Carew had done of old; a London apprentice was +harder nuts than his cowardly heart could crack. + +"Stand back, ye rogues!" he cried again. + +"Rogues? Rogues? Who calls us rogues? Hi, Martin Allston, crack me his +crown!" + +"Good masters," faltered Gregory, seeing that bluster would not serve, +"I meant ye no offense. I pr'ythee, do not keep a father and his +children from their dying mother's bed!" + +"Nay--is that so?" asked Webster, sobering instantly "Here, lads, give +way--their mother be a-dying." + +The crowd fell back. "Ah, sirs," whined Goole, scarce hiding the joy in +his face, "she'll thank ye with her dying breath. Get on, thou knave!" +he muttered fiercely in Nick's ear. + +But Nick stood fast, and caught Tom Webster by the arm. "The fellow +lieth in his throat," said he. "My mother is in Stratford town; and +Cicely's mother is dead." + +"Thou whelp!" cried the bandy-legged man, and aimed a sudden blow at +Nick, "I'll teach thee to hold thy tongue." + +"Oh, no, ye won't," quoth Thomas Webster, interposing his long oak +staff, and thrusting the fellow away so hard that he thumped against the +wall; "there is no school on holidays! Thou'lt teach nobody here to hold +his tongue but thine own self--and start at that straightway. Dost take +me?--say? Now, Jacky Sprat, what's all the coil about? Hath this sweet +fellow kidnapped thee?" + +"Nay, sir, not me, but Cicely; and do na leave him take her, sir, for he +treats her very ill!" + +"The little rascal lies," sneered Goole, though his lips were the color +of lead; "I am her legal guardian!" + +"What! How? Thou wast her father but a moment since!" + +"Nay, nay," Goole stammered, turning a sickly hue; "her father's nearest +friend, I said,--he gave her in my charge." + +"My father's friend!" cried Cicely. "Thou? Thou? His common groom! Why, +he would not give my finger in thy charge." + +"He is the wiser daddy, then!" laughed Jemmy Armstrong, "for the fellow +hath a T for Tyburn writ upon his face." + +The eyes of the bandy-legged man began to shift from side to side; but +still he put a bold front on. "Stand off," said he, and tried to thrust +Tom Webster back. "Thou'lt pay the piper dear for this! The knave is a +lying vagabond. He hath stolen this pack of goods." + +"Why, fie for shame!" cried Cicely, and stamped her little foot. "Nick +doth not steal, and thou knowest it, Gregory Goole! It is thou who hast +stolen my pretty clothes, and the wine from my father's house!" + +"Good, sweetheart!" quoth Tom Webster, eying the bandy-legged man with a +curious snap in his honest eyes. "So the rascal hath stolen other things +than thee? I thought that yellow bow of his was tied tremendous high! +Why, mates, the dog is a branded rogue--that ribbon is tied through the +hole in his ear!" + +Gregory Goole made a dash through the throng where the press was least. + +Thump! went Tommy Webster's club, and a little puff of dust went up from +Gregory's purple cloak. But he was off so sharply, and dodged with such +amazing skill, that most of the blows aimed at his head hummed through +the empty air, or thwacked some stout apprentice in the ribs as they all +went whooping after him. He was out of the press and away like a deer +down a covert lane between two shops ere one could say, "Jack, Robin's +son," and left the stout apprentices at every flying leap. So presently +they all gave over the chase, and came back with the bag he had dropped +as he ran; and were so well pleased with themselves for what they had +done that they gave three cheers for all the Cloth-workers and Saddlers +in London, and then three more for Cicely and Nick. They would no doubt +have gone right on and given three for the bag likewise, being strongly +in the humor of it; but "Hi, Tom Webster!" shouted one who could hardly +speak for cherries and cheese and puffing, "what's gone with the queen +we're to have so fast, and the toll that we're to take?" + +Tom Webster pulled at his yellow beard, for he saw that Cicely was no +common child, and of gentler birth than they. "I do not think she'll +bide the toll," said he, in half apology. + +"What! is there anything to pay?" she asked with a rueful quaver in her +voice. "Oh, Nick, there is to pay!" + +"We have no money, sirs," said Nick; "I be very sorry." + +"If my father were here," said Cicely, "he would give thee a handful of +silver; but I have not a penny to my name." She looked up into Tom +Webster's face. "But, sir," said she, and laid her hand upon his arm, +"if ye care, I will kiss thee upon the cheek." + +"Why, marry come up! My faith!" quoth he, and suddenly blushed--to his +own surprise the most of all--"why, what? Who'd want a sweeter penny +for his pains?" But "Here--nay, nay!" the others cried; "ye've left us +out. Fair play, fair play!" + +All Cicely could see was a forest of legs that filled the lane from wall +to wall, and six great fellows towering over her. "Why, sirs," cried +she, confusedly, while her face grew rosy red, "ye all shall kiss my +hand--if--if--" + +"If what?" they roared. + +"If ye will but wipe your faces clean." + +At the shout of laughter they sent up the constable of the cloth-men's +ward awoke from a sudden dream of war and bloody insurrection, and came +down Cheapside bawling, "Peace, in the name of the Queen!" But when he +found it was only the apprentices of Mincing Lane out Maying, he stole +away around a shop, and made as if it were some other fellow. + +They took the humor of it like a jolly lot of bears, and all came +crowding round about, wiping their mouths on what came first, with a +lick and a promise,--kerchief, doublet, as it chanced,--laughing, and +shouldering each to be first. "Up with the little maid there, Tom!" they +roared lustily. + +Cicely gave him both her hands, and--"Upsydaisy!"--she was on the top of +the corner post, where she stood with one hand on his brawny shoulder to +steady herself, like a flower growing by a wall, bowing gravely all +about, and holding out her hand to be kissed with as graceful an air as +a princess born, and withal a sweet, quaint dignity that abashed the +wildest there. + +Some one or two came blustering as if her hand were not enough; but +Jemmy Armstrong rapped them so sharply over the pate, with "Soft, ye +loons, her hand!" that they dabbed at her little finger-tips, and were +out of his reach in a jiffy, rubbing their polls with a sheepish grin; +for Jemmy Armstrong's love-pats would have cracked a hazelnut. + +Some came again a second time. One came even a third. But Cicely knew +him by his steeple-hat, and tucked her hand behind her, saying, "Fie, +sir, thou art greedy!" Whereupon the others laughed and punched him in +the ribs with their clubs, until he bellowed, "Quits! We'll all be late +to the archery if we be not trotting on." + +Nick's face fell at the merry shout of "Finsbury, Finsbury, ho!" "I dare +na try to take her home alone," said he; "that rogue may lie in wait +for us." + +"Oh, Nick, he is not coming back?" cried Cicely; and with that she threw +her arms around Tom Webster's neck. "Oh, take us with thee, sir--don't +leave us all alone!" + +Webster pulled his yellow beard. "Nay, lass, it would not do," said he; +"we'll be mad larks by evening. But there, sweetheart, don't weep no +more! That rogue shall not catch thee again, I promise that." + +"Why, Tom," quoth Armstrong, "what's the coil? We'll leave them at the +Boar's Head Inn with sixpence each until their friends can come for +them. Hey, mates, up Great East Cheap!" And off they marched to the +Boar's Head Inn. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXV + + +A SUDDEN RESOLVE + +Nick and Cicely were sitting on a bench in the sun beside the tap-room +door, munching a savory mutton-pie which Tommy Webster had bought for +them. Beside them over the window-sill the tapster twirled his spigot +cheerfully, and in the door the carrier was bidding the +serving-maids good-by. + +Around the inn-yard stood a row of heavy, canvas-covered wains and +lumbering two-wheeled carts, each surmounted by a well-armed guard, and +drawn by six strong horses with harness stout as cannon-leathers. The +hostlers stood at the horses' heads, chewing at wisps of barley-straw as +though their other fare was scant, which, from their sleek rotundity, +was difficult to believe. The stable-boy, with a pot of slush, and a +head of hair like a last year's haycock, was hastily greasing a +forgotten wheel; while, out of the room where the servants ate, the +drivers came stumbling down the steps with a mighty smell of onions and +brawn. The weekly train from London into the north was ready to be off. + +A portly, well-clad countryman, with a shrewd but good-humored +countenance, and a wife beside him round and rosy of face as he, came +bustling out of the private door. "How far yet, Master John?" he asked +as he buckled on his cloak. "Forty-two miles to Oxford, sir," replied +the carrier. "We must be off if we're to lie at Uxbridge overnight; for +there hath been rain beyond, sir, and the roads be werry deep." + +Nick stared at the man for Oxford. Forty-two miles to Oxford! And Oxford +lay to the south of Stratford fifty miles and two. Ninety-four miles +from Stratford town! Ninety-four miles from home! + +"When will my father come for us, Nick?" asked Cicely, turning her hand +in the sun to see the red along the edges of her fingers. + +"Indeed, I can na tell," said Nick; "Master Will Shakspere is coming +anon, and I shall go with him." + +"And leave me by myself?" + +"Nay; thou shalt go, too. Thou'lt love to see his garden and the +rose-trees--it is like a very country place. He is a merry gentleman, +and, oh, so kind! He is going to take me home." + +"But my father will take us home when he comes." + +"To Stratford town, I mean." + +"Away from daddy and me? Why, Nick!" + +"But my mother is in Stratford town." + +Cicely was silent. "Then I think I would go, too," she said quite +softly, looking down as if there were a picture on the ground. "When +one's mother is gone there is a hurting-place that nought doth ever +come into any more--excepting daddy, and--and thee. We shall miss thee, +Nick, at supper-times. Thou'lt come back soon?" + +"I am na coming back." + +"Not coming back?" She laid the mutton-pie down on the bench. + +"No--I am na coming back" + +"Never?" + +"Never." + +She looked at him as if she had not altogether understood. + +Nick turned away. A strange uneasiness had come upon him, as if some one +were staring at him fixedly. But no one was. There was a Dutchman in the +gate who had not been there just before. "He must have sprung up out of +the ground," thought Nick, "or else he is a very sudden Dutchman!" He +had on breeches like two great meal-sacks, and a Flemish sea-cloth +jacket full of wrinkles, as if it had been lying in a chest. His back +was turned, and Nick could not help smiling, for the fellow's shanks +came out of his breeches' bottoms like the legs of a letter A. He looked +like a pudding on two skewers. + +Cicely slowly took up the mutton-pie once more, but did not eat. "Is na +the pasty good?" asked Nick. + +"Not now," said she. + +Nick turned away again. + +The Dutchman was not in the gate. He had crossed the inn-yard suddenly, +and was sitting close within the shadow of the wall, though the sunny +side was pleasanter by far. His wig was hanging down about his face, +and he was talking with the tapster's knave, a hungry-looking fellow +clad in rusty black as if some one were dead, although it was a holiday +and he had neither kith nor kin. The knave was biting his under lip and +staring straight at Nick. + +"And will I never see thee more?" asked Cicely. + +"Oh, yes," said Nick; "oh, yes." + +But he did not know whether she ever would or no. + +"Gee-wup, Dobbin! Yoicks, Ned! Tschk--tschk!" The leading cart rolled +slowly through the gate. A second followed it. The drivers made a +cracking with their whips, and all the guests came out to see them off. +But the Dutchman, as the rest came out, arose, and with the tapster's +knave went in at a narrow entrance beyond the tap-room steps. + +"And when will Master Shakspere come for thee?" asked Cicely once more, +the cold pie lying in her lap. + +"I do na know. How can I tell? Do na bother me so!" cried Nick, and dug +his heels into the cracks between the paving-stones; for after all that +had come to pass the starting of the baggage-train had made him sick +for home. + +Cicely looked up at him; she thought she had not heard aright. He was +staring after the last cart as it rolled through the inn-yard gate; his +throat was working, and his eyes were full of tears. + +"Why, Nick!" said she, "art crying?" + +"Nay," said he, "but very near," and dashed his hand across his face. +"Everything doth happen so all-at-once--and I am na big enough, Cicely. +Oh, Cicely, I would I were a mighty king--I'd make it all up +different somehow!" + +"Perhaps thou wilt be some day, Nick," she answered quietly. "Thou'ldst +make a very lovely king. I could be queen; and daddy should be Lord +Admiral, and own the finest play-house in the town." + +But Nick was staring at the tap-room door. A voice somewhere had +startled him. The guests were gone, and none was left but the tapster's +knave leaning against the inner wall. + +"Thy mother should come to live with us, and thy father, and all thy +kin," said Cicely, dreamily smiling; "and the people would love us, +there would be no more war, and we should be happy forevermore." + +But Nick was listening,--not to her,--and his face was a little pale. He +felt a strange, uneasy sense of some one staring at his back. He whirled +about--looked in at the tap-room window. For an instant a peering face +was there; then it was gone--there was only the Dutchman's frowzy wig +and striped woolen cap. But the voice he had heard and the face he had +seen were the voice and the face of Gregory Goole. + +"I should love to see thy mother, Nick," said Cicely. + +He got up steadily, though his heart was jolting his very ribs. "Thou +shalt right speedily!" said he. + +The carts were standing in a line. The carrier came down the steps with +his stirrup-cup in hand. Nick's heart gave a sudden, wild, resolute +leap, and he touched the carrier on the arm. "What will ye charge to +carry two as far as Stratford town?" he asked. His mouth was dry as a +dusty road, for the Dutchman had risen from his seat and was coming +toward the door. + +"I do na haul past Oxford," said the man. + +"To Oxford, then--how much? Be quick!" Nick thrust his hand into his +breast where he carried the burgesses' chain. + +"Eightpence the day, for three days out--two shilling 'tis, and find +yourself; it is an honest fare." + +The tapster's knave came down the steps; the Dutchman stood within the +shadow of the door. + +"Wilt carry us for this?" Nick cried, and thrust the chain into the +fellow's hands. + +He gasped and almost let it fall. "Beshrew my heart! Gadzooks!" said he, +"art thou a prince in hiding, boy? 'T would buy me, horses, wains, and +all. Why, man alive, 'tis but a nip o' this!" + +"Good, then," said Nick, "'tis done--we'll go. Come, Cicely, we're +going home!" + +Staring, the carrier followed him, weighing the chain in his hairy hand. +"Who art thou, boy?" he cried again. "This matter hath a queer look." + +"'Twas honestly come by, sir," cried Nick, no longer able to conceal a +quiver in his voice, "and my name is Nicholas Attwood; I come from +Stratford town." + +"Stratford-on-Avon? Why, art kin to Tanner Simon Attwood there, Attwood +of Old Town?" + +"He is my father, sir. Oh, leave us go with thee--take the whole +chain!" + +Slap went the carrier's cap in the dirt! "Leave thee go wi' me? +Gadzooks!" he cried, "my name be John Saddler--why, what? my daddy +liveth in Chapel lane, behind Will Underhill's. I stole thy father's +apples fifteen years. What! go wi' me? Get on the wain, thou little +fool--get on all the wains I own, and a plague upon thine eightpence, +lad! Why, here; Hal telled me thou wert dead, or lost, or some such +fairy tale! Up on the sheepskin, both o' ye!" + +The Dutchman came from the tap-room door and spoke to the tapster's +knave; but the words which he spoke to that tapster's knave were +anything but Dutch. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVI + + +WAYFARING HOME + +At Kensington watering-place, five miles from London town, Nick held the +pail for the horses of the Oxford man. "Hello, my buck!" quoth he, and +stared at Nick; "where under the sun didst pop from all at once?" and, +looking up, spied Cicely upon the carrier's wain. "What, John!" he +shouted, "thou saidst there were no more!" + +"No more there weren't, sir," said John, "but there be now"; and out +with the whole story. + +"Well, I ha' farmed for fifty year," cried honest Roger Clout, "yet +never have I seen the mate to yonder little maid, nor heard the like o' +such a tale! Wife, wife!" he cried, in a voice as round and full of +hearty cheer as one who calls his own cattle home across his own fat +fields. "Come hither, Moll--here's company for thee. For sure, John, +they'll ride wi' Moll and I; 'tis godsend--angels on a baggage-cart! +Moll ha' lost her only one, and the little maid will warm the cockles o' +her heart, say nought about mine own. La, now, she is na feared o' me; +God bless thee, child! Look at her, Moll--as sweet as honey and the +cream o' the brindle cow." + +So they rode with kindly Roger Clout and his good wife by Hanwell, +Hillingdon Hill, and Uxbridge, where they rested at the inn near old St. +Margaret's, Cicely with Mistress Clout, and Nick with her good man. And +in the morning there was nothing to pay, for Roger Clout had footed all +the score. + +Then on again, through Beaconsfield and High Wycombe, into and over the +Chiltern Hills in Buckinghamshire. In parts the land was passing fair, +with sheep in flocks upon the hills, and cattle knee-deep in the grass; +but otherwhere the way was wild, with bogs and moss in all the deeps, +and dense beech forests on the heights; and more than once the guards +made ready their match-locks warily. But stout John Saddler's train was +no soft cakes for thieves, and they came up through Bucks scot-free. + +At times it drizzled fitfully, and the road was rough and bad; but the +third day was a fair, sweet day, and most exceeding bright and fresh. +The shepherds whistled on the hills, and the milkmaids sang in the +winding lanes among the white-thorn hedges, the smell of which was +everywhere. The singing, the merry voices calling, the comfortable +lowing of the kine, the bleating of the sheep, the clinking of the +bridle-chains, and the heavy ruttle of the carts filled the air with +life and cheer. The wind was blowing both warm and cool; and, oh, the +blithe breeze of the English springtime! Nick went up the green hills, +and down the white dells like a leaf in the wind, now ahead and now +behind the winding train, or off into the woods and over the fields for +a posy-bunch for Cicely, calling and laughing back at her, and filling +her lap with flowers and ferns until the cart was all one great, +sweet-smelling bower. + +As for Cicely, Nick was there, so she was very well content. She had +never gone a-visiting in all her life before; and she would see Nick's +mother, and the flowers in the yard, the well, and that wondrous stream, +the Avon, of which Nick talked so much. "Stratford is a fair, fair town, +though very full of fools," her father often said. But she had nothing +to do with the fools, and daddy would come for her again; so her +laughter bubbled like a little spring throughout the livelong day. + +As the sun went down in the yellow west they came into Oxford from the +south on the easterly side. The Cherwell burned with the orange light +reflected from the sky, and the towers of the famous town of olden +schools and scholars stood up black-purple against the western glow, +with rims of gold on every roof and spire. + +Up the High street into the corn-market rolled the tired train, and +turned into the rambling square of the old Crown Inn near Carfax church, +a large, substantial hostelry, one of merry England's best, +clean-chambered, homelike, full of honest cheer. + +There was a shout of greeting everywhere. The hostlers ran to walk the +horses till they cooled, and to rub them down before they fed, for they +were all afoam. Master Davenant himself saw to the storing of the wains; +and Mistress Davenant, a comely dame, with smooth brown hair and ruddy +cheeks, and no less wit than sprightly grace, was in the porch to meet +the company. "Well, good Dame Clout," said she, "art home again? What +tales we'll have! Didst see Tom Lane? No? Pshaw! But buss me, Moll; +we've missed thy butter parlously." And then quite free she kissed both +Nick and Cicely. + +"What, there, Dame Davenant!" cried Roger Clout, "art passing them +around?" and laughed, "Do na forget me." + +"Nay, nay," she answered, "but I'm out. Here, Nan," she called to the +smutty-faced scullery-maid, "a buss for Master Clout; his own Moll's +busses be na fine enough since he hath been to town." + +So, joking, laughing, they went in; while plain John Saddler backed out +of the porch as sooty Nan came running up, for fear the jilt might offer +somewhat of the sort to him, and was off in haste to see to his teams." +There's no leaving it to the boys," said he, "for they'd rub 'em down +wi' a water-pail, and give 'em straw to drink." + +When the guests all came to the fourpenny table to sup, Nick spoke to +Master Roger Clout. "Ye've done enough for us, sir; thank ye with all my +heart; but I've a turn will serve us here, and, sir, I'd rather stand on +mine own legs. Ye will na mind?" And when they all were seated at the +board, he rose up stoutly at the end, and called out brave and clear: +"Sirs, and good dames all, will ye be pleased to have some music while +ye eat? For, if ye will, the little maid and I will sing you the latest +song from London town, a merry thing, with a fine trolly-lolly, sirs, +to glad your hearts with hearing." + +Would they have music? To be sure! Who would not music while he ate must +be a Flemish dunderkopf, said they. So Nick and Cicely stood at one side +of the room upon a bench by the server's board, and sang together, while +he played upon Mistress Davenant's gittern: + + "Hey, laddie, hark to the merry, merry lark! + How high he singeth clear: + 'Oh, a morn in spring is the sweetest thing + That cometh in all the year! + Oh, a morn in spring is the sweetest thing + That cometh in all the year!' + + "Ring, ting! it is the merry springtime; + How full of heart a body feels! + Sing hey, trolly-lolly! oh, to live is to be jolly, + When springtime cometh with the summer at her heels! + + "God save us all, my jolly gentlemen, + We'll merry be to-day; + For the cuckoo sings till the greenwood rings, + And it is the month of May! + For the cuckoo sings till the greenwood rings, + And it is the month of May!" + +Then the men at the table all waved their pewter pots, and thumped upon +the board, roaring, "Hey, trolly-lolly! oh, to live is to be jolly!" +until the rafters rang. + +[Illustration: + +1. Hey! lad-die, hark, to the mer-ry, mer-ry lark, How high he sing-eth +clear. O a morn in Spring is the sweeter thing That cometh in all the +year; O a morn in Spring is the sweet-est thing That com-eth in all +the year! + +REFRAIN. Piano. + +Ring! Ting! It is the mer-ry Spring-time. How full of heart a bod-y +feels! Sing hey trol-ly lol-ly! O to live is to be jol-ly, When +Spring-time cometh with the Summer at her heels! + +2. God save us all, my jol-ly gen-tle-men! We'll mer-ry be to-day; For +the cuc-koo sings till the greenwood rings, And it is the month of May; +For the cuc-koo sings till the greenwood rings, And it is the month +of May! + +_Repeat Refrain after 2d Stanza._] + +"What, lad!" cried good Dame Davenant, "come, stay with me all year and +sing, thou and this little maid o' thine. 'Twill cost thee neither cash +nor care. Why, thou'ldst fill the house with such a throng as it hath +never seen!" And in the morning she would not take a penny for their +lodging nor their keep. "Nay, nay," said she; "they ha' brought good +custom to the house, and left me a brave little tale to tell for many a +good long year. We inns-folk be not common penny-grabbers; marry, no!" +and, furthermore, she made interest with a carrier to give them a lift +to Woodstock on their way. + +When they came to Woodstock the carrier set them down by the gates of a +park built round by a high stone wall over which they could not see, and +with his wain went in at the gate, leaving them to journey on together +through a little rain-shower. + +The land grew flatter than before. There were few trees upon the hills, +and scarcely any springs at which to drink, but much tender grass, with +countless sheep nibbling everywhere. The shower was soon blown away; the +sun came out; and a pleasant wind sprang up out of the south. Here and +there beside some cottage wall the lilacs bloomed, and the later +orchard-trees were apple-pink and cherry-white with May. + +They came to a puddle in the road where there was a dance of +butterflies. Cicely clapped her hands with glee. A goldfinch dipped +across the path like a little yellow streak of laughter in the sun. "Oh, +Nick, what is it?" she cried. + +"A bird," said he. + +"A truly bird?" and she clasped her hands. "Will it ever come again?" + +"Again? Oh, yes, or, la! another one--there's plenty in the weeds." + +And so they fared all afternoon, until at dusk they came to Chipping +Norton across the fields, a short cut to where the thin blue +supper-smoke curled up. The mists were rising from the meadows; earth +and sky were blending on the hills; a little silver sickle moon hung in +the fading violet, low in the western sky. Under an old oak in a green +place a fiddler and a piper were playing, and youths and maidens were +dancing in the brown light. Some little chaps were playing +blindman's-buff near by, and the older folk were gathered by the tree. + +Nick came straight to where they stood, and bowing, he and Cicely +together, doffed his cap, and said in his most London tone, "We bid ye +all good-e'en, good folk." + +His courtly speech and manner, as well as his clothes and Cicely's +jaunty gown, no little daunted the simple country folk. Nobody spoke, +but, standing silent, all stared at the two quaint little vagabonds as +mild kine stare at passing sheep in a quiet lane. + +"We need somewhat to eat this night, and we want a place to sleep," said +Nick. "The beds must be right clean--we have good appetites. If ye can +do for us, we will dance for you anything that ye may desire--the +'Queen's Own Measure,' 'La Donzella,' the new 'Allemand' of my Lord +Pembroke, a pavone or a tinternell, or the 'Galliard of Savoy.' Which +doth it please you, mistresses?" and he bowed to the huddling young +women, who scarcely knew what to make of it. + +"La! Joan," whispered one, "he calleth thee 'mistress'! Speak up, +wench." But Joan stoutly held her peace. + +"Or if ye will, the little maid will dance the coranto for you, straight +from my Lord Chancellor's dancing-master; and while she dances I +will sing." + +"Why, hark 'e, Rob," spoke out one motherly dame, "they two do look +clean-like. Children, too--who'd gi' them stones when they beg for +bread? I'll do for them this night myself; and thou, the good man, and +Kit can sleep in the hutch. So there, dears; now let's see the Lord +Chancellor's tantrums." + +"'Tis not a tantrums, goody," said Nick, politely, "but a coranto." + +"La! young master, what's the odds, just so we sees it done? Some folks +calls whittles 'knives,' and thinks 't wunnot cut theys fingers!" + +Nick took his place at the side of the ring. "Now, Cicely!" said he. + +"Thou'lt call 'Sa--sa!' and give me the time of the coup d'archet?" she +whispered, timidly hesitant, as she stepped to the midst of the ring. + +"Ay, then," said he, "'tis off, 'tis off!" and struck up a lively tune, +snapping his fingers for the time. + +Cicely, bowing all about her, slowly began to dance. + +It was a pretty sight to see: her big eyes wide and earnest, her cheeks +a little flushed, her short hair curling, and her crimson gown +fluttering about her as she danced the quaint running step forward and +back across the grass, balancing archly, with her hands upon her hips +and a little smile upon her lips, in the swaying motion of the coupee, +courtesying gracefully as one tiny slippered foot peeped out from her +rustling skirt, tapping on the turf, now in front and now behind. Nick +sang like a blackbird in the hedge. And how those country lads and +lasses stared to see such winsome, dainty grace! "La me!" gaped one, +"'tis fairy folk--she doth na even touch the ground!" "The pretty dear!" +the mothers said. "Doll, why canst thou na do the like, thou lummox?" +"Tut," sighed the buxom Doll, "I have na wingses on my feet!" + +Then Cicely, breathless, bowed, and ran to Nick's side asking, "Was it +all right, Nick?" + +"Right?" said he, and stroked her hair; "'twas better than thou didst +ever dance it for M'sieu." + +"For why?" said she, and flushed, with a quick light in her eyes; "for +why--because this time I danced for thee." + +The country folk, enchanted, called for more and more. + +Nick sang another song, and he and Cicely danced the galliard together, +while the piper piped and the fiddler fiddled away like mad; and the +moon went down, and the cottage doors grew ruddy with the light inside. +Then Dame Pettiford gave them milk and oat-cakes in a bowl, a bit of +honey in the comb, and a cup of strawberries; and Cicely fell fast +asleep with the last of the strawberries in her hand. + +So they came up out of the south through Shipston-on-Stour, in the +main-traveled way, and with every mile Nick felt home growing nearer. +Streams sprang up in the meadow-lands, with sedgy islands, and lines of +silvery willows bordering their banks. Flocks and herds cropped beneath +tofts of ash and elm and beech. Snug homes peeped out of hazel copses by +the road. The passing carts had a familiar look, and at Alderminster +Nick saw a man he thought he recognized. + +Before he knew that he was there they topped Edge Hill. + +There lay Stratford! as he had left it lying; not one stick or stack or +stone but he could put his finger on and say, "This place I know!" Green +pastures, grassy levels, streams, groves, mills, the old grange and the +manor-house, the road that forked in three, and the hills of Arden +beyond it all. There was the tower of the guildhall chapel above the +clustering, dun-thatched roofs among the green and blossom-white; to +left the spire of Holy Trinity sprang up beside the shining Avon. Bull +Lane he made out dimly, and a red-tiled roof among the trees. "There, +Cicely," he said, "_there--there!_" and laughed a queer little shaky +laugh next door to crying for joy. + +Wat Raven was sweeping old Clopton bridge. "Hullo, there, Wat! I be come +home again!" Nick cried. Wat stared at him, but knew him not at all. + +Around the corner, and down High street. Fynes Morrison burst in at the +guildschool door. "Nick Attwood's home!" he shouted; and his eyes were +like two plates. + +Then the last lane--and the smoke from his father's house! + +The garden gate stood open, and there was some one working in the yard. +"It is my father, Cicely," he laughed. "Father!" he cried, and hurried +in the lane. + +Simon Attwood straightened up and looked across the fence. His arms were +held a little out, and his hands hung down with bits of moist earth +clinging to them. His brows were darker than a year before, and his hair +was grown more gray; his back, too, stooped. "Art thou a-calling me?" +he asked. + +Nick laughed. "Why, father, do ye na know me?" he cried out. "'Tis +I--'tis Nick--come home!" + +Two steps the stern old tanner took--two steps to the latchet-gate. Not +one word did he speak; but he set his hand to the latchet-gate and +closed it in Nick's face. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVII + + +TURNED ADRIFT + +Down the path and under the gate the rains had washed a shallow rut in +the earth. Two pebbles, loosened by the closing of the gate, rolled down +the rut and out upon the little spreading fan of sand that whitened in +the grass. + +There was the house with the black beams checkering its yellow walls. +There was the old bench by the door, and the lettuce in the garden-bed. +There were the beehives, and the bees humming among the orchard boughs. + +"Why, father, what!" cried Nick, "dost na know me yet? See, 'tis I, +Nick, thy son." + +A strange look came into the tanner's face. "I do na know thee, boy," he +answered heavily; "thou canst na enter here." + +"But, father, indeed 'tis I!" + +Simon Attwood looked across the town; yet he did not see the town: +across the town into the sky, yet he did not see the sky, nor the +drifting banks of cloud, nor the sunlight shining on the clouds. "I say +I do na know thee," he replied; "be off to the place whence ye +ha' come." + +Nick's hand was almost on the latch. He stopped. He looked up into his +father's face. "Why, father, I've come home!" he gasped. + +The gate shook in the tanner's grip. "Have I na telled thee twice I do +na know thee, boy? No house o' mine shall e'er be home for thee. Thou +hast no part nor parcel here. Get thee out o' my sight." + +"Oh, father, father, what do ye mean?" cried Nick, his lips scarcely +able to shape the words. + +"Do na ye 'father' me no more," said Simon Attwood, bitterly; "I be na +father to stage-playing, vagabond rogues. And be gone, I say. Dost hear? +Must I e'en thrust thee forth?" He raised his hand as if to strike. + +Nick fell away from the latchet-gate, dumb-stricken with amazement, +shame, and grief. + +"Oh, Nick," cried Cicely, "come away--the wicked, wicked man!" + +"It is my father, Cicely." + +She stared at him. "And thou dost hate _my_ father so? Oh, Nick! oh, +Nick!" + +"Will ye be gone?" called Simon Attwood, half-way opening the gate; +"must I set constables on thee?" + +Nick did not move. A numbness had crept over him like palsy. Cicely +caught him by the hand. "Come, let us go back to my father," she said. +"He will not turn us out." + +Scarcely knowing what he did, he followed her, stumbling in the level +path as though he were half blind or had been beaten upon the head. He +did not cry. This was past all crying. He let himself be led along--it +made no matter where. + +In Chapel lane there was a crowd along the Great House wall; and on the +wall Ned Cooke and Martin Addenbroke were sitting. There were heads of +people moving on the porch and in the court, and the yard was all +a-bustle and to-do. But there was nobody in the street, and no one +looked at Nick and Cicely. + +The Great House did look very fair in the sun of that May day, with its +homely gables of warm red brick and sunburnt timber, its cheery roof of +Holland tile, and with the sunlight flashing from the diamond panes that +were leaded into the sashes of the great bay-window on the eastern +garden side. + +In the garden all was stir-about and merry voices. There was a little +green court before the house, and a pleasant lawn coming down to the +lane from the doorway porch. The house stood to the left of the +entry-drive, and the barn-yard to the right was loud with the blithe +crowing of the cocks. But the high brick wall shut out the street where +Nick and Cicely trudged dolefully along, and to Nick the lane seemed +very full of broken crockery and dirt, and the sunlight all a mockery. +The whole of the year had not yet been so dark as this, for there had +ever been the dream of coming home. But _now_--he suffered himself to be +led along; that was enough. + +They had come past the Great House up from Chapel street, when a girl +came out of the western gate, and with her hand above her eyes looked +after them. She seemed in doubt, but looked again, quite searchingly. +Then, as one who is not sure, but does not wish to miss a chance, called +out, "Nick Attwood! Nick Attwood!" + +Cicely looked back to see who called. She did not know the girl, but saw +her beckon. "There is some one calling, Nick," said she. + +Nick stopped in a hopeless sort of way, and looked back down the street. + +When he had turned so that the girl at the gate could see his face, she +left the gate wide open behind her, and came running quickly up the +street after them. As she drew nearer he saw that it was Susanna +Shakspere, though she was very much grown since he had seen her last. He +watched her running after them as if it were none of his affair. But +when she had caught up with them, she took him by the shoulder smartly +and drew him back toward the gate. "Why, Nicholas Attwood," she cried, +all out of breath, "come straightway into the house with me. My father +hath been hunting after thee the whole way up from London town!" + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVIII + + +A STRANGE DAY + +There in the Great House garden under the mulberry-trees stood Master +Will Shakspere, with Masters Jonson, Burbage, Hemynge, Condell, and a +goodly number more, who had just come up from London town, as well as +Alderman Henry Walker of Stratford, good old John Combe of the college, +and Michael Drayton, the poet of Warwick. For Master Shakspere had that +morning bought the Great House, with its gardens and barns, of Master +William Underhill, for sixty pounds sterling, and was making a great +feast for all his friends to celebrate the day. + +The London players all clapped their hands as Nick and Cicely came up +the garden-path, and, "Upon my word, Will," declared Master Jonson, "the +lad is a credit to this old town of thine. A plucky fellow, I say, a +right plucky fellow. Found the lass and brought her home all safe and +sound--why, 'tis done like a true knight-errant!" + +[Illustration: "MASTER SHAKSPERE MET THEM WITH OUTSTRETCHED HANDS."] + +Master Shakspere met them with outstretched hands. "Thou young rogue," +said he, smiling, "how thou hast forestalled us! Why, here we have +been weeping for thee as lost, strayed, or stolen; and all the while +thou wert nestling in the bosom of thine own sweet home. How is the +beloved little mother?" + +"I ha' na seen my mother," faltered Nick. "Father will na let me in." + +"What? How?" + +"My father will na have me any more, sir--saith I shall never be his son +again. Oh, Master Shakspere, why did they steal me from home?" + +They were all crowding about now, and Master Shakspere had hold of the +boy. "Why, what does this mean?" he asked. "What on earth has happened?" + +Between the two children, in broken words, the story came out. + +"Why, this is a sorry tale!" said Master Shakspere. "Does the man not +know that thou wert stolen, that thou wert kept against thy will, that +thou hast trudged half-way from London for thy mother's sake?" + +"He will na leave me tell him, sir. He would na even listen to me!" + +"The muckle shrew!" quoth Master Jonson. "Why, I'll have this out with +him! By Jupiter, I'll read him reason with a vengeance!" With a clink of +his rapier he made as if to be off at once. + +"Nay, Ben," said Master Shakspere; "cool thy blood--a quarrel will not +serve. This tanner is a bitter-minded, heavy-handed man--he'd only throw +thee in a pickling-vat" + +"What? Then he'd never tan another hide!" + +"And would that serve the purpose, Ben? The cure should better the +disease--the children must be thought about." + +"The children? Why, as for them," said Master Jonson, in his blunt, +outspoken way, "I'll think thee a thought offhand to serve the turn. +What? Why, this tanner calls us vagabonds. Vagabonds, forsooth! Yet +vagabonds are gallows-birds, and gallows-birds are ravens. And ravens, +men say, do foster forlorn children. Take my point? Good, then; let us +ravenous vagabonds take these two children for our own, Will,--thou one, +I t' other,--and by praiseworthy fostering singe this fellow's very +brain with shame." + +"Why, here, here, Ben Jonson," spoke up Master Burbage, "this is all +very well for Will and thee; but, pray, where do Hemynge, Condell, and I +come in upon the bill? Come, man, 'tis a pity if we cannot all stand +together in this real play as well as in all the make-believe." + +"That's my sort!" cried Master Hemynge. "Why, what? Here is a player's +daughter who has no father, and a player whose father will not have +him,--orphaned by fate, and disinherited by folly,--common stock with us +all! Marry, 'tis a sort of stock I want some of. Kind hearts are +trumps, my honest Ben--make it a stock company, and let us all be in." + +"That's no bad fancy," added Condell, slowly, for Henry Condell was a +cold, shrewd man. "There's merit in the lad beside his voice--_that_ +cannot keep its freshness long; but his figure's good, his wit is +quick, and he has a very taking style. It would be worth while, Dick. +And, Will," said he, turning to Master Shakspere, who listened with half +a smile to all that the others said, "he'll make a better _Rosalind_ +than Roger Prynne for thy new play." + +"So he would," said Master Shakspere; "but before we put him into 'As +You Like It,' suppose we ask him how he does like it? Nick, thou hast +heard what all these gentlemen have said--what hast thou to say, +my lad?" + +"Why, sirs, ye are all kind," said Nick, his voice beginning to tremble, +"very, very kind indeed, sirs; but--I--I want my mother--oh, masters, I +do want my mother!" + +At that John Combe turned on his heel and walked out of the gate. Out of +the garden-gate walked he, and down the dirty lane, setting his cane +down stoutly as he went, past gravel-pits and pens to Southam's lane, +and in at the door of Simon Attwood's tannery. + + * * * * * + +It was noon when he went in; yet the hour struck, and no one came or +went from the tannery. Mistress Attwood's dinner grew cold upon the +board, and Dame Combe looked vainly across the fields toward the town. + +But about the middle of the afternoon John Combe came out of the tannery +door, and Simon Attwood came behind him. And as John Combe came down the +cobbled way, a trail of brown vat-liquor followed him, dripping from his +clothes, for he was soaked to the skin. His long gray hair had partly +dried in strings about his ears, and his fine lace collar was a +drabbled shame; but there was a singular untroubled smile upon his +plain old face. + +Simon Attwood stayed to lock the door, fumbling his keys as if his sight +had failed; but when the heavy bolt was shut, he turned and called after +John Combe, so that the old man stopped in the way and dripped a puddle +until the tanner came up to where he stood. And as he came up Attwood +asked, in such a tone as none had ever heard from his mouth before, +"Combe, John Combe, what's done 's done,--and oh, John, the pity of +it,--yet will ye still shake hands wi' me, John, afore ye go?" + +John Combe took Simon Attwood's bony hand and wrung it hard in his stout +old grip, and looked the tanner squarely in the eyes; then, still +smiling serenely to himself, and setting his cane down stoutly as he +walked, dripped home, and got himself into dry clothes without a word. + +But Simon Attwood went down to the river, and sat upon a flat stone +under some pollard willows, and looked into the water. + +What his thoughts were no one knew, nor ever shall know; but he was +fighting with himself, and more than once groaned bitterly. At first he +only shut his teeth and held his temples in his hands; but after a while +he began to cry to himself, over and over again, "O Absalom, my son, my +son! O my son Absalom!" and then only "My son, my son!" And when the day +began to wane above the woods of Arden, he arose, and came up from the +river, walking swiftly; and, looking neither to the right nor to the +left, came up to the Great House garden, and went in at the gate. + +At the door the servant met him, but saw his face, and let him pass +without a word; for he looked like a desperate man whom there was +no stopping. + +So, with a grim light burning in his eyes, his hat in his hand, and his +clothes all drabbled with the liquor from his vats, the tanner strode +into the dining-hall. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIX + + +ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL + +The table had been cleared of trenchers and napkins, the crumbs brushed +away, and a clean platter set before each guest with pared cheese, fresh +cherries, biscuit, caraways, and wine. + +There were about the long table, beside Master Shakspere himself, who +sat at the head of the board, Masters Richard and Cuthbert Burbage, +Henry Condell, and Peter Hemynge, Master Shakspere's partners; Master +Ben Jonson, his dearest friend; Thomas Pope, who played his finest +parts; John Lowin, Samuel Gilburne, Robert Nash, and William Kemp, +players of the Lord Chamberlain's company; Edmund Shakspere, the actor, +who was Master William Shakspere's younger brother, and Master John +Shakspere, his father; Michael Drayton, the Midland bard; Burgess +Robert Getley, Alderman Henry Walker, and William Hart, the Stratford +hatter, brother-in-law to Master Shakspere. + +On one side of the table, between Master Jonson and Master Richard +Burbage, Cicely was seated upon a high chair, with a wreath of early +crimson roses in her hair, attired in the gown in which Nick saw her +first a year before. On the other side of the table Nick had a place +between Master Drayton and Robert Getley, father of his friend Robin. +Half-way down there was an empty chair. Master John Combe was absent. + +It was no common party. In all England better company could not have +been found. Some few of them the whole round world could not have +matched then, and could not match now. + +It would be worth a fortune to know the things they said,--the quips, +the jests, the merry tales that went around that board,--but time has +left too little of what such men said and did, and it can be imagined +only by the brightest wits. + +'Twas Master Shakspere on his feet, welcoming his friends to his "New +Place" with quiet words that made them glad to live and to be there, +when suddenly he stopped, his hands upon the table by his chair, +and stared. + +The tanner stood there, silent, in the door. + +Nick's face turned pale. Cicely clung to Master Jonson's arm. + +Simon Attwood stepped into the room, and Master Shakspere went quickly +to meet him in the middle of the floor. + +"Master Will Shakspere," said the tanner, hoarsely, "I ha' come about a +matter." There he stopped, not knowing what to say, for he was +overwrought. + +"Out with it, sir," said Master Shakspere, sternly. "There is much here +to be said." + +The tanner wrung his hat within his hands, and looked about the ring of +cold, averted faces. Soft words with him were few; he had forgotten +tender things; and, indeed, what he meant to do was no easy thing +for any man. + +"Come, say what thou hast to say," said Master Shakspere, resolutely; +"and say it quickly, that we may have done." + +"There's nought that I can say," said Simon Attwood, "but that I be +sorry, and I want my son! Nick! Nick!" he faltered brokenly, "I be wrung +for thee; will ye na come home--just for thy mother's sake, Nick, if ye +will na come for mine?" + +Nick started from his seat with a glad cry--then stopped. "But Cicely?" +he said. + +The tanner wrung his hat within his hands, and his face was dark with +trouble. Master Shakspere looked at Master Jonson. + +Nick stood hesitating between Cicely and his father, faithful to his +promise, though his heart was sick for home. + +An odd light had been struggling dimly in Simon Attwood's troubled eyes. +Then all at once it shone out bright and clear, and he clapped his bony +hand upon the stout oak chair. "Bring her along," he said. "I ha' little +enough, but I will do the best I can. Maybe 'twill somehow right the +wrong I ha' done," he added huskily. "And, neighbors, I'll go surety to +the Council that she shall na fall a pauper or a burden to the town. My +trade is ill enough, but, sirs, it will stand for forty pound the year +at a fair cast-up. Bring the lass wi' thee, Nick--we'll make out, lad, +we'll make out. God will na let it all go wrong." + +Master Jonson and Master Shakspere had been nodding and talking together +in a low tone, smiling like men very well pleased about something, and +directly Master Shakspere left the room. + +"Wilt thou come, lad?" asked the tanner, holding out his hands. + +"Oh, father!" cried Nick; then he choked so that he could say no more, +and his eyes were so full of mist that he could scarcely find his father +where he stood. + +But there was no need of more; Simon Attwood was answered. + +Voices buzzed about the room. The servants whispered in the hall. Nick +held his father's gnarled hand in his own, and looked curiously up into +his face, as if for the first time knowing what it was to have a father. + +"Well, lad, what be it?" asked the tanner, huskily, laying his hand on +his son's curly head, which was nearly up to his shoulder now. + +"Nothing," said Nick, with a happy smile, "only mother will be glad to +have Cicely--won't she?" + +Master Shakspere came into the room with something in his hand, and +walking to the table, laid it down. + +It was a heavy buckskin bag, tied tightly with a silken cord, and sealed +with red wax stamped with the seals of Master Shakspere and +Master Jonson. + +Every one was watching him intently, and one or two of the gentlemen +from London were smiling in a very knowing way. + +He broke the seals, and loosening the thong which closed the bag, took +out two other bags, one of which was just double its companion's size. +They also were tied with silken cord and sealed with the two seals on +red wax. There was something printed roughly with a quill pen upon each +bag, but Master Shakspere kept that side turned toward himself so that +the others could not see. + +"Come, come, Will," broke in Master Jonson, "don't be all day about it!" + +"The more haste the worse speed, Ben," said Master Shakspere, quietly. +"I have a little story to tell ye all." + +So they all listened. + +"When Gaston Carew, lately master-player of the Lord High Admiral's +company, was arraigned before my Lord Justice for the killing of that +rascal, Fulk Sandells, there was not a man of his own company had the +grace to lend him even so much as sympathy. But there were still some in +London who would not leave him totally friendless in such straits." + +"Some?" interrupted Master Jonson, bluntly; "then o-n-e spells 'some.' +The names of them all were Will Shakspere." + +"Tut, tut, Ben!" said Master Shakspere, and went on: "But when the +charge was read, and those against him showed their hand, it was easy to +see that the game was up. No one saw this any sooner than Carew himself; +yet he carried himself like a man, and confessed the indictment without +a quiver. They brought him the book, to read a verse and save his neck, +perhaps, by pleading benefit of clergy. But he knew the temper of those +against him, and that nothing might avail; so he refused the plea +quietly, saying, 'I am no clerk, sirs. All I wish to read in this case +is what my own hand wrote upon that scoundrel Sandells.' It was soon +over. When the judge pronounced his doom, all Carew asked was for a +friend to speak with a little while aside. This the court allowed; so he +sent for me--we played together with Henslowe, he and I, ye know. He had +not much to say--for once in his life,"--here Master Shakspere smiled +pityingly,--"but he sent his love forever to his only daughter Cicely." + +Cicely was sitting up, listening with wide eyes, and eagerly nodded her +head as if to say, "Of course." + +"He also begged of Nicholas Attwood that he would forgive him whatever +wrong he had done him." + +"Why, that I will, sir," choked Nick, brokenly; "he was wondrous kind to +me, except that he would na leave me go." + +"After that," continued Master Shakspere, "he made known to me a sliding +panel in the wainscot of his house, wherein was hidden all he had on +earth to leave to those he loved the best, and who, he hoped, +loved him." + +"Everybody loves my father," said Cicely, smiling and nodding again. +Master Jonson put his arm around the back of her chair, and she leaned +her head upon it. + +"Carew said that he had marked upon the bags which were within the panel +the names of the persons to whom they were to go, and had me swear, +upon my faith as a Christian man, that I would see them safely delivered +according to his wish. This being done, and the end come, he kissed me +on both cheeks, and standing bravely up, spoke to them all, saying that +for a man such as he had been it was easier to end even so than to go +on. I never saw him again." + +The great writer of plays paused a moment, and his lips moved as if he +were saying a prayer. Master Burbage crossed himself. + +"The bags were found within the wall, as he had said, and were sealed by +Ben Jonson and myself until we should find the legatees--for they had +disappeared as utterly as if the earth had gaped and swallowed them. +But, by the Father's grace, we have found them safe and sound at last; +and all's well that ends well!" + +Here he turned the buckskin bags around. + +On one, in Master Carew's school-boy scrawl, was printed, "For myne +Onelie Beeloved Doghter, Cicely Carew"; on the other, "For Nicholas +Attewode, alias Mastre Skie-lark, whom I, Gaston Carew, Player, Stole +Away from Stratford Toune, Anno Domini 1596." + +Nick stared; Cicely clapped her hands; and Simon Attwood sat down +dizzily. + +"There," said Master Shakspere, pointing to the second bag, "are one +hundred and fifty gold rose-nobles. In the other just three hundred +more. Neighbor Attwood, we shall have no paupers here." + +Everybody laughed then and clapped their hands, and the London players +gave a rousing cheer. Master Ben Jonson's shout might have been heard in +Market Square. + +At this tremendous uproar the servants peeped at the doors and windows; +and Tom Boteler, peering in from the buttery hall, and seeing the two +round money-bags plumping on the table, crept away with such a look of +amazement upon his face that Mollikins, the scullery-maid, thought he +had seen a ghost, and fled precipitately into the pantry. + +"And what's more, Neighbor Tanner," said Master Richard Burbage, "had +Carew's daughter not sixpence to her name, we vagabond players, as ye +have had the scanty grace to dub us, would have cared for her for the +honour of the craft, and reared her gently in some quiet place where +there never falls even the shadow of such evil things as have been the +end of many a right good fellow beside old Kit Marlowe and +Gaston Carew." + +"And to that end, Neighbor Attwood," Master Shakspere added, "we have, +through my young Lord Hunsdon, who has just been made State Chamberlain, +Her Majesty's gracious permission to hold this money in trust for the +little maid as guardians under the law." + +Cicely stared around perplexed. "Won't Nick be there?" she asked. "Why, +then I will not go--they shall not take thee from me, Nick!" and she +threw her arms around him. "I'm going to stay with thee till daddy +comes, and be thine own sister forever." + +Master Jonson laughed gently, not his usual roaring laugh, but one that +was as tender as his own bluff heart. "Why, good enough, good enough! +The woman who mothered a lad like Master Skylark here is surely fit to +rear the little maid." + +The London players thumped the table. "Why, 'tis the very trick," said +Hemynge. "Marry, this is better than a play." + +"It is indeed," quoth Condell. "See the plot come out!" + +"Thou'lt do it, Attwood--why, of course thou'lt do it," said Master +Shakspere. "'Tis an excellent good plan. These funds we hold in trust +will keep thee easy-minded, and warrant thee in doing well by both our +little folks. And what's more," he cried, for the thought had just come +in his head, "I have ever heard thee called an honest man; hard, indeed, +perhaps too hard, but honest as the day is long. Now I need a tenant for +this New Place of mine--some married man with a good housewife, and +children to be delving in the posy-beds outside. What sayst thou, Simon +Attwood? They tell me thy 'prentice, Job Hortop, is to marry in +July--he'll take thine old house at a fair rental. Why, here, Neighbor +Attwood, thou toil-worn, time-damaged tanner, bless thy hard old heart, +man, come, be at ease--thou hast ground thy soul out long enough! Come, +take me at mine offer--be my fellow. The rent shall trickle off thy +finger-tips as easily as water off a duck's back!" + +Simon Attwood arose from the chair where he had been sitting. There was +a bewildered look upon his face, and he was twisting his horny fingers +together until the knuckles were white. His lips parted as if to speak, +but he only swallowed very hard once or twice instead, and looked around +at them all. "Why, sir," he said at length, looking at Master Shakspere, +"why, sirs, all of ye--I ha' been a hard man, and summat of a fool, +sirs, ay, sirs, a very fool. I ha' misthought and miscalled ye foully +many a time, and many a time. God knows I be sorry for it from the +bottom of my heart!" And with that he sat down and buried his face in +his arms among the dishes on the buffet. + +"Nay, Simon Attwood," said Master Shakspere, going to his side and +putting his hand upon the tanner's shoulder, "thou hast only been +mistaken, that is all. Come, sit thee up. To see thyself mistaken is but +to be the wiser. Why, never the wisest man but saw himself a fool a +thousand times. Come, I have mistaken thee more than thou hast me; for, +on my word, I thought thou hadst no heart at all--and that is far worse +than having one which has but gone astray. Come, Neighbor Attwood, sit +thee up and eat with us." + +"Nay, I'll go home," said the tanner, turning his face away that they +might not see his tears. "I be a spoil-sport and a mar-feast here." + +"Why, by Jupiter, man!" cried Master Jonson, bringing his fist down upon +the board with a thump that made the spoons all clink, "thou art the +very merry-maker of the feast. A full heart's better than a surfeit any +day. Don't let him go, Will--this sort of thing doth make the whole +world kin! Come, Master Attwood, sit thee down, and make thyself at +home. 'Tis not my house, but 'tis my friend's, and so 'tis all the +same in the Lowlands. Be free of us and welcome." + +"I thank ye, sirs," said the tanner, slowly, turning to the table with +rough dignity. "Ye ha' been good to my boy. I'll ne'er forget ye while I +live. Oh, sirs, there be kind hearts in the world that I had na dreamed +of. But, masters, I ha' said my say, and know na more. Your pleasure +wunnot be my pleasure, sirs, for I be only a common man. I will go home +to my wife. There be things to say before my boy comes home; and I ha' +muckle need to tell her that I love her--I ha' na done so these +many years." + +"Why, Neighbor Tanner," cried Master Jonson, with flushing cheeks, "thou +art a right good fellow! And here was I, no later than this morning, +red-hot to spit thee upon my bilbo like a Michaelmas goose!" He laughed +a boyish laugh that did one's heart good to hear. + +"Ay," said Master Shakspere, smiling, as he and Simon Attwood looked +into each other's eyes. "Come, neighbor, I know thou art my man--so do +not go until thou drinkest one good toast with us, for we are all good +friends and true from this day forth. Come, Ben, a toast to fit +the cue." + +"Why, then," replied Master Jonson, in a good round voice, rising in his +place, "_here's to all kind hearts!_" + +"Wherever they may be!" said Master Shakspere, softly. "It is a good +toast, and we will all drink it together." + +And so they did. And Simon Attwood went away with a warmth and a +tingling in his heart he had never known before. + +"Margaret," said he, coming quickly in at the door, as she went silently +about the house with a heavy heart preparing the supper, "Margaret." + +She dropped the platter upon the board, and came to him hurriedly, +fearing evil tidings. + +He took her by the hands. This, even more than his unusual manner, +alarmed her. "Why, Simon," she cried, "what is it? What has come +over thee?" + +"Nought," he replied, looking down at her, his hard face quivering; "but +I love thee, Margaret." + +"Simon, what dost thou mean?" faltered Mistress Attwood, her heart going +down like lead. + +"Nought, sweetheart--but that I love thee, Margaret, and that our lad is +coming home!" + +Her heart seemed to stop beating. + +"Margaret," said he, huskily, "I do love thee, lass. Is it too late to +tell thee so?" + +"Nay, Simon," answered his wife, simply, "'tis never too late to mend." +And with that she laughed--but in the middle of her laughing a tear ran +down her cheek. + +FROM the windows of the New Place there came a great sound of men +singing together, and this was the quaint old song they sang: + + "Then here's a health to all kind hearts + Wherever they may be; + For kindly hearts make but one kin + Of all humanity. + + "And here's a rouse to all kind hearts + Wherever they be found; + For it is the throb of kindred hearts + Doth make the world go round!" + +"Why, Will," said Master Burbage, slowly setting down his glass, "'tis +altogether a midsummer night's dream." + +"So it is, Dick," answered Master Shakspere, with a smile, and a +far-away look in his eyes. "Come, Nicholas, wilt thou not sing for us +just the last few little lines of 'When Thou Wakest,' out of the play?" + +Then Nick stood up quietly, for they all were his good friends there, +and Master Drayton held his hand while he sang: + + "Every man shall take his own, + In your waking shall be shown: + Jack shall have Jill, + Nought shall go ill, + The man shall have his mare again, and all shall be well!" + +They were very still for a little while after he had done, and the +setting sun shone in at the windows across the table. Then Master +Shakspere said gently, "It is a good place to end." + +"Ay," said Master Jonson, "it is." + +So they all got up softly and went out into the garden, where there were +seats under the trees among the rose-bushes, and talked quietly among +themselves, saying not much, yet meaning a great deal. + +But Nick and Cicely said "Good-night, sirs," to them all, and bowed; and +Master Shakspere himself let them out at the gate, the others shaking +Nick by the hand with many kind wishes, and throwing kisses to Cicely +until they went out of sight around the chapel corner. + +When the children came to the garden-gate in front of Nick's father's +house, the red roses still twined in Cicely's hair, Simon Attwood and +his wife Margaret were sitting together upon the old oaken settle by the +door, looking out into the sunset. And when they saw the children +coming, they arose and came through the garden to meet them, Nick's +mother with outstretched hands, and her face bright with the glory of +the setting sun. And when she came to where he was, the whole of that +long, bitter year was nothing any more to Nick. + +For then--ah, then--a lad and his mother; a son come home, the wandering +ended, and the sorrow done! + +She took him to her breast as though he were a baby still; her tears ran +down upon his face, yet she was smiling--a smile like which there is no +other in all the world: a mother's smile upon her only son, who was +astray, but has come home again. + +Oh, the love of a lad for his mother, the love of a mother for her +son--unchanged, unchanging, for right, for wrong, through grief and +shame, in joy, in peace, in absence, in sickness, and in the shadow of +death! Oh, mother-love, beyond all understanding, so holy that words but +make it common! + +"My boy!" was all she said; and then, "My boy--my little boy!" + +And after a while, "Mother," said he, and took her face between his +strong young hands, and looked into her happy eyes, "mother dear, I ha? +been to London town; I ha' been to the palace, and I ha' seen the Queen; +but, mother," he said, with a little tremble in his voice, for all he +smiled so bravely, "I ha' never seen the place where I would rather be +than just where thou art, mother dear!" + +The soft gray twilight gathered in the little garden; far-off voices +drifted faintly from the town. The day was done. Cool and still, and +filled with gentle peace, the starlit night came down from the dewy +hills; and Cicely lay fast asleep in Simon Attwood's arms. + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MASTER SKYLARK*** + + +******* This file should be named 11574.txt or 11574.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +https://www.gutenberg.org/1/1/5/7/11574 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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Birch</h1> +<pre> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at <a href = "https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a> + +Title: Master Skylark + +Author: John Bennett + +Release Date: March 14, 2004 [eBook #11574] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: iso-8859-1 + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MASTER SKYLARK*** +</pre> +<br> +<br> +<center><b>E-text prepared by Juliet Sutherland, Charlie Kirschner,<br> + and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team</b></center> +<br> +<br> +<hr class="full"> +<br> +<br> +<a name="Frontspiece"></a> +<P class=ctr> +<a href="Images/Illus0338.jpg"> +<img src="Images/Illus0338.jpg" width = "40%" +alt=""'Master Skylark, thou shalt have thy wish,' said Queen Elizabeth.""> +</a><br> +<br> +<b>"'Master Skylark, thou shalt have thy wish,' said Queen Elizabeth."</b> +</P><br> +<br> +<br> + +<h1>MASTER SKYLARK</h1> + +<h2>A Story of</h2> + +<h2>Shakspere's Time</h2> + +<h4>BY</h4> + +<h3>JOHN BENNETT</h3> + +<h5>1897</h5> +<br> +<h4>ILLUSTRATIONS BY REGINALD B. BIRCH</h4> + +<P class=ctr><img src="Images/002.jpg" width="15%" alt=""> +</P><br> + + + +<center> +ALL THAT NICHOLAS ATTWOOD'S MOTHER<br> +WAS TO HIM, AND MORE, MY OWN MOTHER HAS BEEN TO ME<br> +AND TO HER HERE I INSCRIBE THIS BOOK<br> +WITH A NEVER-FAILING LOVE<br> +</center> + + +<br><br><hr style="width: 35%;"><br><br> +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> +<br> + +<center> +<a href="#CHAPTER_I">I. THE LORD ADMIRAL'S PLAYERS</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_II">II. NICHOLAS ATTWOOD'S HOME</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_III">III. THE LAST STRAW</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_IV">IV. OFF FOR COVENTRY</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_V">V. IN THE WARWICK ROAD</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_VI">VI. THE MASTER-PLAYER</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_VII">VII. "WELL SUNG, MASTER SKYLARK!"</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">VIII. THE ADMIRAL'S COMPANY</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_IX">IX. THE MAY-DAY PLAY</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_X">X. AFTER THE PLAY</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XI">XI. DISOWNED</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XII">XII. A STRANGE RIDE</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">XIII. A DASH FOR FREEDOM</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">XIV. AT BAY</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XV">XV. LONDON TOWN</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">XVI. MA'M'SELLE CICELY CAREW</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">XVII. CAREW'S OFFER</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">XVIII. MASTER HEYWOOD PROTESTS</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XIX">XIX. THE ROSE PLAY-HOUSE</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XX">XX. DISAPPOINTMENT</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXI">XXI. "THE CHILDREN OF PAUL'S"</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXII">XXII. THE SKYLARK'S SONG</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII">XXIII. A NEW LIFE</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV">XXIV. THE MAKING OF A PLAYER</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXV">XXV. THE WANING OF THE YEAR</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVI">XXVI. TO SING BEFORE THE QUEEN</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVII">XXVII. THE QUEEN'S PLAISANCE</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVIII">XXVIII. CHRISTMAS WITH QUEEN BESS</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIX">XXIX. BACK TO GASTON CAREW</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXX">XXX. AT THE FALCON INN</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXI">XXXI. IN THE TWINKLING OF AN EYE</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXII">XXXII. THE LAST OF GASTON CAREW</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIII">XXXIII. CICELY DISAPPEARS</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIV">XXXIV. THE BANDY-LEGGED MAN</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXV">XXXV. A SUDDEN RESOLVE</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVI">XXXVI. WAYFARING HOME</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVII">XXXVII. TURNED ADRIFT</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVIII">XXXVIII. A STRANGE DAY</a> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIX">XXXIX. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL</a><br> +</center> + + +<br><br><hr style="width: 35%;"><br><br> +<h2>LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS</h2> +<br> + + +<blockquote> +<a href="#Illus0338">"MASTER SKYLARK, THOU SHALT HAVE THY WISH," SAID QUEEN +ELIZABETH</a><br><br> + +<a href="#Illus0340">THE LORD ADMIRAL'S PLAYERS. THE TRUMPETERS AND THE +DRUMMERS LED, THEIR HORSES PRANCING, WHITE PLUMES +WAVING IN THE BREEZE</a><br><br> + +<a href="#Illus0342">"WHUR BE-EST GOING, NICK?" ASKED ROGER DAWSON</a><br><br> + +<a href="#Illus0344">"WHAT! HOW NOW?" CRIED THE STRANGER, SHARPLY. "DOST +LIKE OR LIKE ME NOT?"</a><br><br> + +<a href="#Illus0346">"NICK THOUGHT OF HIS MOTHER'S SINGING ON A SUMMER'S EVENING--DREW +A DEEP BREATH AND BEGAN TO SING</a><br><br> + +<a href="#Illus0354">"NOBODY BREAKS NOBODY'S HEARTS IN OLD JO-OHN SMITHSES +SHO-OP," DRAWLED THE SMITH, IN HIS DEEP VOICE; "NOR +STEALS NOBODY, NOTHER"</a><br><br> + +<a href="#Illus0348">"DICCON HAD OFTEN MADE NICK WHISTLES FROM THE WILLOWS +ALONG THE AVON WHEN NICK WAS A TODDLER"</a><br><br> + +<a href="#Illus0350">NICK PUT ONE LEG OVER THE SILL AND LOOKED BACK</a><br><br> + +"OH, NICK, THOU ART MOST BEAUTIFUL TO SEE!" CRIED CICELY<br><br> + +<a href="#Illus0352">"THAT VOICE, THAT VOICE!" NAT GILES PANTED TO HIMSELF</a><br><br> + +NICK GAVE THE SILVER BUCKLE FROM HIS CLOAK TO A BOY WHO +STOOD CRYING WITH COLD AND HUNGER IN THE STREET<br><br> + +<a href="#Illus0356">SO NICK RODE HOME UPON THE BACK OF THE EARL OF ARUNDEL'S +MAN-AT-ARMS</a><br><br> + +<a href="#Illus0358">"WHY, SIR, I'LL SING FOR THEE NOW," SAID NICK, CHOKING</a><br><br> + +"DO NA THOU STRIKE ME AGAIN, THOU ROGUE!" SAID NICK<br><br> + +"OH, NICK, WHAT IS IT?" SHE CRIED<br><br> + +<a href="#Illus0360">MASTER SHAKSPERE MET THEM WITH OUTSTRETCHED HANDS</a><br><br> +</blockquote> + +<br><br><hr style="width: 35%;"><br><br> +<h2>MASTER SKYLARK</h2> + + +<br><br><hr style="width: 35%;"><br><br> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I</h2> + +<h3>THE LORD ADMIRAL'S PLAYERS</h3> +<br> + +<p>There was an unwonted buzzing in the east end of Stratford on that next +to the last day of April, 1596. It was as if some one had thrust a stick +into a hive of bees and they had come whirling out to see.</p> + +<p>The low stone guard-wall of old Clopton bridge, built a hundred years +before by rich Sir Hugh, sometime Mayor of London, was lined with +straddling boys, like strawberries upon a spear of grass, and along the +low causeway from the west across the lowland to the town, brown-faced, +barefoot youngsters sat beside the roadway with their chubby legs +a-dangle down the mossy stones, staring away into the south across the +grassy levels of the valley of the Stour.</p> + +<p>Punts were poling slowly up the Avon to the bridge; and at the outlets +of the town, where the streets came down to the waterside among the +weeds, little knots of men and serving-maids stood looking into the +south and listening. Some had waited for an hour, some for two; yet +still there was no sound but the piping of the birds in white-thorn +hedges, the hollow lowing of kine knee-deep in grassy meadows, and the +long rush of the river through the sedge beside the pebbly shore; and +naught to see but quiet valleys, primrose lanes, and Warwick orchards +white with bloom, stretching away to the misty hills.</p> + +<p>But still they stood and looked and listened.</p> + +<p>The wind came stealing up out of the south, soft and warm and sweet and +still, moving the ripples upon the river with gray gusts; and, scudding +free before the wind, a dog came trotting up the road with wet pink +tongue and sidelong gait. At the throat of Clopton bridge he stopped and +scanned the way with dubious eye, then clapped his tail between his legs +and bolted for the town. The laughing shout that followed him into the +Warwick road seemed not to die away, but to linger in the air like the +drowsy hum of bees--a hum that came and went at intervals upon the +shifting wind, and grew by littles, taking body till it came unbroken as +a long, low, distance-muffled murmur from the south, so faint as +scarcely to be heard.</p> + +<p>Nick Attwood pricked his keen young ears. "They're coming, Robin--hark +'e to the trampling!"</p> + +<p>Robin Getley held his breath and turned his ear toward the south. The +far-off murmur was a mutter now, defined and positive, and, as the two +friends listened, grew into a drumming roll, and all at once above it +came a shrill, high sound like the buzzing of a gnat close by the ear.</p> + +<p>Little Tom Davenant dropped from the finger-post, and came running up +from the fork of the Banbury road, his feet making little white puffs in +the dust as he flew. "They are coming! they are coming!" he shrieked +as he ran.</p> + +<p>Then up to his feet sprang Robin Getley, upon the saddle-backed +coping-stones, his hand upon Nick Attwood's head to steady himself, and +looked away where the rippling Stour ran like a thread of silver beside +the dust-buff London road, and the little church of Atherstone stood +blue against the rolling Cotswold Hills.</p> + +<p>"They are coming! they are coming!" shrilled little Tom, and scrambled +up the coping like a squirrel up a rail.</p> + +<p>A stir ran out along the guard-wall, some crying out, some starting up. +"Sit down! sit down!" cried others, peering askance at the water +gurgling green down below. "Sit down, or we shall all be off!"</p> + +<p>Robin held his hand above his eyes. A cloud of dust was rising from the +London road and drifting off across the fields like smoke when the old +ricks burn in damp weather--a long, broad-sheeted mist; and in it were +bits of moving gold, shreds of bright colors vaguely seen, and silvery +gleams like the glitter of polished metal in the sun. And as he looked +the shifty wind came down out of the west again and whirled the cloud of +dust away, and there he saw a long line of men upon horses coming at an +easy canter up the highway. Just as he had made this out the line came +rattling to a stop, the distant drumming of hoofs was still, and as the +long file knotted itself into a rosette of ruddy color amid the April +green, a clear, shrill trumpet blew and blew again.</p> + +<p>"They are coming!" shouted Robin, "they are coming!" and, turning, waved +his cap.</p> + +<p>A shout went up along the bridge. Those down below came clambering up, +the punts came poling with a rush of foam, and a ripple ran along the +edge of Stratford town like the wind through a field of wheat. Windows +creaked and doors swung wide, and the workmen stopped in the +garden-plots to lean upon their mattocks and to look.</p> + +<p>"They are coming!" bellowed Rafe Hickathrift, the butcher's boy, +standing far out in the street, with his red hands to his mouth for a +trumpet, "they are coming!" and at that the doors of Bridge street grew +alive with eager eyes.</p> + +<p>At early dawn the Oxford carrier had brought the news that the players +of the Lord High Admiral were coming up to Stratford out of London from +the south, to play on May-day there; and this was what had set the town +to buzzing like a swarm. For there were in England then but three great +companies, the High Chamberlain's, the Earl of Pembroke's men, and the +stage-players of my Lord Charles Howard, High Admiral of the Realm; and +the day on which they came into a Midland market-town to play was one to +mark with red and gold upon the calendar of the uneventful year.</p> + +<p>Away by the old mill-bridge there were fishermen angling for dace and +perch; but when the shout came down from the London road they dropped +their poles and ran, through the willows and over the gravel, splashing +and thrashing among the rushes and sandy shallows, not to be last when +the players came. And old John Carter coming down the Warwick road with +a load of hay, laid on the lash until piebald Dobbin snorted in dismay +and broke into a lumbering run to reach the old stone bridge in time.</p> + +<p>The distant horsemen now were coming on again, riding in double file. +They had flung their banners to the breeze, and on the changing wind, +with the thumping of horses' hoofs, came by snatches the sound of a +kettledrummer drawing his drumhead tight, and beating as he drew, and +the muffled blasts of a trumpeter proving his lips.</p> + +<p>Fynes Morrison and Walter Stirley, who had gone to Cowslip lane to meet +the march, were running on ahead, and shouting as they ran: "There's +forty men, and sumpter-mules! and, oh, the bravest banners and +attire--and the trumpets are a cloth-yard long! Make room for us, make +room for us, and let us up!"</p> + +<p>A bowshot off, the trumpets blew a blast so high, so clear, so keen, +that it seemed a flame of fire in the air, and as the brassy fanfare +died away across the roofs of the quiet town, the kettledrums clanged, +the cymbals clashed, and all the company began to sing the famous old +song of the hunt:</p> + +<center> +"The hunt is up, the hunt is up,<br> +Sing merrily we, the hunt is up!<br> +The wild birds sing,<br> +The dun deer fling,<br> +The forest aisles with music ring!<br> +Tantara, tantara, tantara!<br><br> + +Then ride along, ride along,<br> +Stout and strong!<br> +Farewell to grief and care;<br> +With a rollicking cheer<br> +For the high dun deer<br> +And a life in the open air!<br> +Tantara, the hunt is up, lads;<br> +Tantara, the bugles bray!<br> +Tantara, tantara, tantara,<br> +Hio, hark away!"<br><br> +</center> + +<p>The first of the riders had reached old Clopton bridge, and the banners +strained upon their staves in the freshening river-wind. The trumpeters +and the drummers led, their horses prancing, white plumes waving in the +breeze, and the April sunlight dancing on the brazen horns and the +silver bellies of the kettledrums.</p> + +<p>Then came the banners of the company, curling down with a silky swish, +and unfurling again with a snap, like a broad-lashed whip. The greatest +one was rosy red, and on it was a gallant ship upon a flowing sea, +bearing upon its mainsail the arms of my Lord Charles Howard, High +Admiral of England. Upon its mate was a giant-bearded man with a fish's +tail, holding a trident in his hand and blowing upon a shell, the Triton +of the seas which England ruled; this flag was bright sea-blue. The +third was white, and on it was a red wild rose with a golden heart, the +common standard of the company.</p> + +<a name="Illus0340"></a> +<P class=ctr> +<a href="Images/Illus0340.jpg"> +<img src="Images/Illus0340.jpg" width = "40%" +alt="The Lord Admiral's Players. "The Trumpeters and the +Drummers led, their horses prancing, white plumes waving in the breeze.""> +</a><br> +<b>The Lord Admiral's Players. "the Trumpeters and the +Drummers led, their horses prancing, white plumes waving in the breeze."</b> +</P><br> + +<p>After the flags came twoscore men, the players of the Admiral, the +tiring-men, grooms, horse-boys, and serving-knaves, well mounted on good +horses, and all of them clad in scarlet tabards blazoned with the +coat-armor of their master. Upon their caps they wore the famous badge +of the Howards, a rampant silver demi-lion; and beneath their tabards at +the side could be seen their jerkins of many-colored silk, their +silver-buckled belts, and long, thin Spanish rapiers, slapping their +horses on the flanks at every stride. Their legs were cased in +high-topped riding-boots of tawny cordovan, with gilt spurs, and the +housings of their saddles were of blue with the gilt anchors of the +admiralty upon them. On their bridles were jingling bits of steel, which +made a constant tinkling, like a thousand little bells very far away.</p> + +<p>Some had faces smooth as boys and were quite young; and others wore +sharp-pointed beards with stiff-waxed mustaches, and were older men, +with a tinge of iron in their hair and lines of iron in their faces, +hardened by the life they led; and some, again, were smooth-shaven, so +often and so closely that their faces were blue with the beard beneath +the skin. But, oh, to Nicholas Attwood and the rest of Stratford boys, +they were a dashing, rakish, admirable lot, with the air of something +even greater than lords, and a keen knowingness in their sparkling, +worldly eyes that made a common wise man seem almost a fool beside them!</p> + +<p>And so they came riding up out of the south:</p> + +<blockquote> +"Then ride along, ride along,<br> +Stout and strong!<br> + Farewell to grief and care;<br> +With a rollicking cheer<br> +For the high dun deer<br> + And a life in the open air!"<br> +</blockquote> + +<p>"Hurrah! hurrah! God save the Queen!"</p> + +<p>A dropping shout went up the street like an arrow-flight scattering over +the throng; and the players, waving their scarlet caps until the long +line tossed like a poppy-garden in a summer rain, gave a cheer that +fairly set the crockery to dancing upon the shelves of the stalls in +Middle Bow.</p> + +<p>"Hurrah!" shouted Nicholas Attwood, his blue eyes shining with delight. +"Hurrah, hurrah, for the Admiral's men!" And high in the air he threw +his cap, as a wild cheer broke from the eddying crowd, and the arches of +the long gray bridge rang hollow with the tread of hoofs. Whiff, came +the wind; down dropped the hat upon the very saddle-peak of one tall +fellow riding along among the rest. Catching it quickly as it fell, he +laughed and tossed it back; and when Nick caught it whirling in the air, +a shilling jingled from it to the ground.</p> + +<p>Then up Fore Bridge street they all trooped after into Stratford town.</p> + +<p>"Oh," cried Robin, "it is brave, brave!"</p> + +<p>"Brave?" cried Nick. "It makes my very heart jump. And see, Robin, 'tis +a shilling, a real silver shilling--oh, what fellows they all be! Hurrah +for the Lord High Admiral's men!"</p> + + + +<br><br><hr style="width: 35%;"><br><br> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II</h2> + +<h3>NICHOLAS ATTWOOD'S HOME</h3> +<br> + +<p>Nick Attwood's father came home that night bitterly wroth.</p> + +<p>The burgesses of the town council had ordered him to build a chimney +upon his house, or pay ten shillings fine; and shillings were none too +plenty with Simon Attwood, the tanner of Old Town.</p> + +<p>"Soul and body o' man!" said he, "they talk as if they owned the world, +and a man could na live upon it save by their leave. I must build my +fire in a pipe, or pay ten shillings fine? Things ha' come to a pretty +pass--a pretty pass, indeed!" He kicked the rushes that were strewn upon +the floor, and ground the clay with his heel. "This litter will ha' to +be all took out. Atkins will be here at six i' the morning to do the +job, and a lovely mess he will make o' the house!"</p> + +<p>"Do na fret thee, Simon," said Mistress Attwood, gently. "The rushes +need a changing, and I ha' pined this long while to lay the floor wi' +new clay from Shottery common. 'Tis the sweetest earth! Nick shall take +the hangings down, and right things up when the chimley 's done."</p> + +<p>So at cockcrow next morning Nick slipped out of his straw bed, into his +clothes, and down the winding stair, while his parents were still asleep +in the loft, and, sousing his head in the bucket at the well, began his +work before the old town clock in the chapel tower had yet struck four.</p> + +<p>The rushes had not been changed since Easter, and were full of dust and +grease from the cooking and the table. Even the fresher sprigs of mint +among them smelled stale and old. When they were all in the barrow, Nick +sighed with relief and wiped his hands upon the dripping grass.</p> + +<p>It had rained in the night,--a soft, warm rain,--and the air was full of +the smell of the apple-bloom and pear from the little orchard behind the +house. The bees were already humming about the straw-bound hives along +the garden wall, and a misguided green woodpecker clung upside down to +the eaves, and thumped at the beams of the house.</p> + +<p>It was very still there in the gray of the dawn. He could hear the rush +of the water through the sedge in the mill-race, and then, all at once, +the roll of the wheel, the low rumble of the mill-gear, and the cool +whisper of the wind in the willows.</p> + +<p>When he went back into the house again the painted cloths upon the wall +seemed dingier than ever compared with the clean, bright world outside. +The sky-blue coat of the Prodigal Son was brown with the winter's smoke; +the Red Sea towered above Pharaoh's ill-starred host like an inky +mountain; and the homely maxims on the next breadth--"Do no Wrong," +"Beware of Sloth," "Overcome Pride," and "Keep an Eye on the +Pence"--could scarcely be read.</p> + +<p>Nick jumped up on the three-legged stool and began to take them down. +The nails were crooked and jammed in the wall, and the last came out +with an unexpected jerk. Losing his balance, Nick caught at the +table-board which leaned against the wall; but the stool capsized, and +he came down on the floor with such a flap of tapestry that the ashes +flew out all over the room.</p> + +<p>He sat up dazed, and rubbed his elbows, then looked around and began to +laugh.</p> + +<p>He could hear heavy footsteps overhead. A door opened, and his father's +voice called sternly from the head of the stair: "What madcap folly art +thou up to now?"</p> + +<p>"I be up to no folly at all," said Nick, "but down, sir. I fell from the +stool. There is no harm done."</p> + +<p>"Then be about thy business," said Attwood, coming slowly down the +stairs.</p> + +<p>He was a gaunt man, smelling of leather and untanned hides. His short +iron-gray hair grew low down upon his forehead, and his hooked nose, +grim wide mouth, and heavy under jaw gave him a look at once forbidding +and severe. His doublet of serge and his fustian hose were stained with +liquor from the vats, and his eyes were heavy with sleep.</p> + +<p>The smile faded from Nick's face. "Shall I throw the rushes into the +street, sir?" "Nay; take them to the muck-hill. The burgesses ha' made +a great to-do about folk throwing trash into the highways. Soul and body +o' man!" he growled, "a man must ask if he may breathe. And good hides +going a-begging, too!"</p> + +<p>Nick hurried away, for he dreaded his father's sullen moods.</p> + +<p>The swine were squealing in their styes, the cattle bawled about the +straw-thatched barns in Chapel lane, and long files of gabbling ducks +waddled hurriedly down to the river through the primroses under the +hedge. He could hear the milkmaids calling in the meadows; and when he +trundled slowly home the smoke was creeping up in pale-blue threads from +the draught-holes in the wall.</p> + +<p>The tanner's house stood a little back from the thoroughfare, in that +part of Stratford-on-Avon where the south end of Church street turns +from Bull lane toward the river. It was roughly built of timber and +plaster, the black beams showing through the yellow lime in curious +squares and triangles. The roof was of red tiles, and where the +spreading elms leaned over it the peaked gable was green with moss.</p> + +<p>At the side of the house was a garden of lettuce; beyond the garden a +rough wall on which the grass was growing. Sometimes wild primroses grew +on top of this wall, and once a yellow daffodil. Beyond the wall were +other gardens owned by thrifty neighbors, and open lands in common to +them all, where foot-paths wandered here and there in a free, +haphazard way.</p> + +<p>Behind the house was a well and a wood-pile, and along the lane ran a +whitewashed paling fence with a little gate, from which the path went up +to the door through rows of bright, old-fashioned flowers.</p> + +<p>Nick's mother was getting the breakfast. She was a gentle woman with a +sweet, kind face, and a little air of quiet dignity that made her doubly +dear to Nick by contrast with his father's unkempt ways. He used to +think that, in her worsted gown, with its falling collar of Antwerp +linen, and a soft, silken coif upon her fading hair, she was the most +beautiful woman in all the world.</p> + +<p>She put one arm about his shoulders, brushed back his curly hair, and +kissed him on the forehead.</p> + +<p>"Thou art mine own good little son," said she, tenderly, "and I will +bake thee a cake in the new chimley on the morrow for thy +May-day-feast."</p> + +<p>Then she helped him fetch the trestles from the buttery, set the board, +spread the cloth, and lay the wooden platters, pewter cups, and old horn +spoons in place. Breakfast being ready, she then called his father from +the yard. Nick waited deftly upon them both, so that they were soon done +with the simple meal of rye-bread, lettuce, cheese, and milk.</p> + +<p>As he carried away the empty platters and brought water and a towel for +them to wash their hands, he said quietly, although his eyes were bright +and eager, "The Lord High Admiral's company is to act a stage-play at +the guildhall to-morrow before Master Davenant the Mayor and the town +burgesses."</p> + +<p>Simon Attwood said nothing, but his brows drew down.</p> + +<p>"They came yestreen from London town by Oxford way to play in Stratford +and at Coventry, and are at the Swan Inn with Master Geoffrey +Inchbold--oh, ever so many of them, in scarlet jerkins, and cloth of +gold, and doublets of silk laced up like any lord! It is a very good +company, they say."</p> + +<p>Mistress Attwood looked quickly at her husband. "What will they play?" +she asked.</p> + +<p>"I can na say surely, mother--'Tamburlane,' perhaps, or 'The Troublesome +Reign of Old King John.' The play will be free, father--may I go, sir?"</p> + +<p>"And lose thy time from school?"</p> + +<p>"There is no school to-morrow, sir."</p> + +<p>"Then have ye naught to do, that ye waste the day in idle folly?" asked +the tanner, sternly.</p> + +<p>"I will do my work beforehand, sir," replied Nick, quietly, though his +hand trembled a little as he brushed up the crumbs.</p> + +<p>"It is May-day, Simon," interceded Mistress Attwood, "and a bit of +pleasure will na harm the lad."</p> + +<p>"Pleasure?" said the tanner, sharply. "If he does na find pleasure +enough in his work, his book, and his home, he shall na seek it of low +rogues and strolling scape-graces."</p> + +<p>"But, Simon," said Mistress Attwood, "'tis the Lord Admiral's own +company--surely they are not all graceless! And," she continued with +very quiet dignity, "since mine own cousin Anne Hathaway married Will +Shakspere the play-actor, 'tis scarcely kind to call all players +rogues and low."</p> + +<p>"No more o' this, Margaret," cried Attwood, flushing angrily. "Thou art +ever too ready with the boy's part against me. He shall na go--I'll find +a thing or two for him to do among the vats that will take this taste +for idleness out of his mouth. He shall na go: so that be all there is +on it." Rising abruptly, he left the room.</p> + +<p>Nick clenched his hands.</p> + +<p>"Nicholas," said his mother, softly.</p> + +<p>"Yes, mother," said he; "I know. But he should na flout thee so! And, +mother, the Queen goes to the play--father himself saw her at Coventry +ten years ago. Is what the Queen does idle folly?"</p> + +<p>His mother took him by the hand and drew him to her side, with a smile +that was half a sigh. "Art thou the Queen?"</p> + +<p>"Nay," said he; "and it's all the better for England, like enough. But +surely, mother, it can na be wrong--"</p> + +<p>"To honour thy father?" said she, quickly, laying her finger across his +lips. "Nay, lad; it is thy bounden duty."</p> + +<p>Nick turned and looked up at her wonderingly. "Mother," said he, "art +thou an angel come down out of heaven?"</p> + +<p>"Nay," she answered, patting his flushed cheek; "I be only the every-day +mother of a fierce little son who hath many a hard, hard lesson to +learn. Now eat thy breakfast--thou hast been up a long while."</p> + +<p>Nick kissed her impetuously and sat down, but his heart still rankled +within him.</p> + +<p>All Stratford would go to the play. He could hear the murmur of voices +and music, the bursts of laughter and applause, the tramp of happy feet +going up the guildhall stairs to the Mayor's show. Everybody went in +free at the Mayor's show. The other boys could stand on stools and see +it all. They could hold horses at the gate of the inn at the September +fair, and so see all the farces. They could see the famous Norwich +puppet-play. But he--what pleasure did he ever have? A tawdry pageant by +a lot of clumsy country bumpkins at Whitsuntide or Pentecost, or a silly +school-boy masque at Christmas, with the master scolding like a heathen +Turk. It was not fair.</p> + +<p>And now he'd have to work all May-day. May-day out of all the year! Why, +there was to be a May-pole and a morris-dance, and a roasted calf, too, +in Master Wainwright's field, since Margery was chosen Queen of the May. +And Peter Finch was to be Robin Hood, and Nan Rogers Maid Marian, and +wear a kirtle of Kendal green--and, oh, but the May-pole would be brave; +high as the ridge of the guildschool roof, and hung with ribbons like a +rainbow! Geoffrey Hall was to lead the dance, too, and the other boys +and girls would all be there. And where would he be? Sousing hides in +the tannery vats. Truly his father was a hard man!</p> + +<p>He pushed the cheese away.</p> + + + +<br><br><hr style="width: 35%;"><br><br> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III</h2> + +<h3>THE LAST STRAW</h3> +<br> + +<p>Little John Summer had a new horn-book that cost a silver penny. The +handle was carven and the horn was clear as honey. The other little boys +stood round about in speechless envy, or murmured their A B C's and "ba +be bi's" along the chapel steps. The lower-form boys were playing +leap-frog past the almshouse, and Geoffrey Gosse and the vicar's son +were in the public gravel-pit, throwing stones at the robins in the +Great House elms across the lane.</p> + +<p>Some few dull fellows sat upon the steps behind the school-house, +anxiously poring over their books. But the larger boys of the Fable +Class stood in an excited group beneath the shadow of the overhanging +second story of the grammar-school, talking all at once, each louder +than the other, until the noise was deafening.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Nick, such goings on!" called Robin Getley, whose father was a +burgess, as Nick Attwood came slowly up the street, saying his sentences +for the day over and over to himself in hopeless desperation, having had +no time to learn them at home. "Stratford Council has had a quarrel, +and there's to be no stage-play after all."</p> + +<p>"What?" cried Nick, in amazement. "No stage-play? And why not?"</p> + +<p>"Why," said Robin, "it was just this way--my father told me of it. Sir +Thomas Lucy, High Sheriff of Worcester, y' know, rode in from Charlcote +yesternoon, and with him Sir Edward Greville of Milcote. So the +burgesses made a feast for them at the Swan Inn. Sir Thomas fetched a +fine, fat buck, and the town stood good for ninepence wine and twopence +bread, and broached a keg of sturgeon. And when they were all met +together there, eating, and drinking, and making merry--what? Why, in +came my Lord Admiral's players from London town, ruffling it like high +dukes, and not caring two pops for Sir Thomas, or Sir Edward, or for +Stratford burgesses all in a heap; but sat them down at the table +straightway, and called for ale, as if they owned the place; and not +being served as soon as they desired, they laid hands upon Sir Thomas's +server as he came in from the buttery with his tray full, and took both +meat and drink."</p> + +<p>"What?" cried Nick.</p> + +<p>"As sure as shooting, they did!" said Robin; "and when Sir Thomas's +gentry yeomen would have seen to it--what? Why, my Lord Admiral's +master-player clapped his hand to his poniard-hilt, and dared them come +and take it if they could."</p> + +<p>"To Sir Thomas Lucy's men?" exclaimed Nick, aghast.</p> + +<p>"Ay, to their teeth! Sir Edward sprang up then, and said it was a shame +for players to behave so outrageously in Will Shakspere's own home town. +And at that Sir Thomas, who, y' know, has always misliked Will, flared +up like a bull at a red rag, and swore that all stage-players be +runagate rogues, anyway, and Will Shakspere neither more nor less than a +deer-stealing scape-gallows."</p> + +<p>"Surely he did na say that in Stratford Council?" protested Nick.</p> + +<p>"Ay, but he did--that very thing," said Robin; "and when that was out, +the master-player sprang upon the table, overturning half the ale, and +cried out that Will Shakspere was his very own true friend, and the +sweetest fellow in all England, and that whosoever gainsaid it was a +hemp-cracking rascal, and that he would prove it upon his back with a +quarter-staff whenever and wherever he chose, be he Sir Thomas Lucy, St. +George and the Dragon, Guy of Warwick, and the great dun cow, all rolled +up in one!"</p> + +<p>"Robin Getley, is this the very truth, or art thou cozening me?"</p> + +<p>"Upon my word, it is the truth," said Robin. "And that's not all. Sir +Edward cried out 'Fie!' upon the player for a saucy varlet; but the +fellow only laughed, and bowed quite low, and said that he took no +offense from Sir Edward for saying that, since it could not honestly be +denied, but that Sir Thomas did not know the truth from a truckle-bed in +broad daylight, and was but the remnant of a gentleman to boot."</p> + +<p>"The bold-faced rogue!"</p> + +<p>"Ay, that he is," nodded Robin; "and for his boldness Sir Thomas +straightway demanded that the High Bailiff refuse the company license to +play in Stratford."</p> + +<p>"Refuse the Lord High Admiral's players?"</p> + +<p>"Marry, no one else. And then Master John Shakspere, wroth at what Sir +Thomas had said of his son Will, vowed that he would send a letter down +to London town, and lay the whole coil before the Lord High Admiral +himself. For ever since that he was High Bailiff, the best companies of +England had always been bidden to play in Stratford, and it would be an +ill thing now to refuse the Lord Admiral's company after granting +licenses to both my Lord Pembroke's and the High Chamberlain's."</p> + +<p>"And so it would," spoke up Walter Roche; "for there are our own +townsmen, Richard and Cuthbert Burbage, who are cousins of mine, and +John Hemynge and Thomas Greene, besides Will Shakspere and his brother +Edmund, all playing in the Lord Chamberlain's company in London before +the Queen. It would be a black score against them all with the Lord +Admiral--I doubt not he would pay them out."</p> + +<p>"That he would," said Robin, "and so said my father and Alderman Henry +Walker, who, y' know, is Will Shakspere's own friend. And some of the +burgesses who cared not a rap for that were afeard of offending the Lord +Admiral. But Sir Thomas vowed that my Lord Howard was at Cadiz with +Walter Raleigh and the young Earl of Sussex, and would by no means hear +of it. So Master Bailiff Stubbes, who, 'tis said, doth owe Sir Thomas +forty pound, and is therefore under his thumb, forthwith refused the +company license to play in Stratford guildhall, inn-yard, or common. And +at that the master-player threw his glove into Master Stubbes's face, +and called Sir Thomas a stupid old bell-wether, and Stratford burgesses +silly sheep for following wherever he chose to jump."</p> + +<p>"And so they be," sneered Hal Saddler.</p> + +<p>"How?" cried Robin, hotly. "My father is a burgess. Dost thou call him a +sheep, Hal Saddler?"</p> + +<p>"Nay, nay," stammered Hal, hastily; "'twas not thy father I meant."</p> + +<p>"Then hold thy tongue with both hands," said Robin, sharply, "or it will +crack thy pate for thee some of these fine days."</p> + +<p>"But come, Robin," asked Nick, eagerly, "what became of the quarrel?"</p> + +<p>"Well, when the master-player threw his glove into Master Stubbes's +face, the Chief Constable seized him for contempt of Stratford Council, +and held him for trial. At that some cried 'Shame!' and some 'Hurrah!' +but the rest of the players fled out of town in the night, lest their +baggage be taken by the law and they be fined."</p> + +<p>"Whither did they go?" asked Nick, both sorry and glad to hear that they +were gone.</p> + +<p>"To Coventry, and left the master-player behind in gaol."</p> + +<p>"Why, they dare na use him so--the Lord Admiral's own man!"</p> + +<p>"Ay, that they don't! Why, hark 'e, Nick! This morning, since Sir +Thomas has gone home, and the burgesses' heads have all cooled down from +the sack and the clary they were in last night, la! but they are in a +pretty stew, my father says, for fear that they have given offense to +the Lord Admiral. So they have spoken the master-player softly, and +given him his freedom out of hand, and a long gold chain to twine about +his cap, to mend the matter with, beside."</p> + +<p>"Whee-ew!" whistled Nick. "I wish I were a master-player!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, but he will not be pleased, and says he will have his revenge on +Stratford town if he must needs wait until the end of the world or go to +the Indies after it. And he has had his breakfast served in Master +Geoffrey Inchbold's own room at the Swan, and swears that he will walk +the whole way to Coventry sooner than straddle the horse that the +burgesses have sent him to ride."</p> + +<p>"What! Is he at the inn? Why, let's go down and see him."</p> + +<p>"Master Brunswood says that he will birch whoever cometh late," objected +Hal Saddler.</p> + +<p>"Birch?" groaned Nick. "Why, he does nothing but birch! A fellow can na +say his '<i>sum, es, est</i>' without catching it. And as for getting through +the 'genitivo' and 'vocativo' without a downright threshing--" He +shrugged his shoulders ruefully as he remembered his unlearned lesson. +Everything had gone wrong with him that morning, and the thought of the +birching that he was sure to get was more than he could bear. "I will +na stand it any longer--I'll run away!"</p> + +<p>Kit Sedgewick laughed ironically. "And when the skies fall we'll catch +sparrows, Nick Attwood," said he. "Whither wilt thou run?"</p> + +<p>Stung by his tone of ridicule, Nick out with the first thing that came +into his head. "To Coventry, after the stage-players," said he, +defiantly.</p> + +<p>The whole crowd gave an incredulous hoot.</p> + +<p>Nick's face flushed. To be crossed at home, to be birched at school, to +work all May-day in the tannery vats, and to be laughed at--it was +too much.</p> + +<p>"Ye think that I will na? Well, I'll show ye! 'Tis only eight miles to +Warwick, and hardly more than that beyond--no walk at all; and Diccon +Haggard, my mother's cousin, lives in Coventry. So out upon your musty +Latin--English is good enough for me this day! There's bluebells blowing +in the dingles, and cuckoo-buds no end. And while ye are all grinding at +your old Aesop I shall be roaming over the hills wherever I please."</p> + +<p>As he spoke he thought of the dark, wainscoted walls of the school-room +with their narrow little windows overhead, of the foul-smelling floors +of the tannery in Southam's lane, and his heart gave a great, rebellious +leap. "Ay," said he, exultantly, "I shall be out where the birds can +sing and the grass is green, and I shall see the stage-play, while ye +will be mewed up all day long in school, and have nothing but a beggarly +morris and a farthing May-pole on the morrow."</p> + +<p>"Oh, no doubt, no doubt," said Hal Saddler, mockingly "We shall have +but bread and milk, and thou shalt have--a most glorious threshing from +thy father when thou comest home again!"</p> + +<p>That was the last straw to Nick's unhappy heart.</p> + +<p>"'Tis a threshing either way," said he, squaring his shoulders +doggedly. "Father will thresh me if I run away, and Master Brunswood +will thresh me if I don't. I'll not be birched four times a week for +merely tripping on a word, and have nothing to show for it but stripes. +If I must take a threshing, I'll have my good day's game out first."</p> + +<p>"But wilt thou truly go to Coventry, Nick?" asked Robin Getley, +earnestly, for he liked Nick more than all the rest.</p> + +<p>"Ay, truly, Robin--that I will"; and, turning, Nick walked swiftly away +toward the market-place, never looking back.</p> + + + +<br><br><hr style="width: 35%;"><br><br> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV</h2> + +<h3>OFF FOR COVENTRY</h3> +<br> + +<p>At the Bridge street crossing Nick paused irresolute. Around the public +pump a chattering throng of housewives were washing out their towels and +hanging them upon the market-cross to dry. Along the stalls in Middle +Row the grumbling shopmen were casting up their sales from tallies +chalked upon their window-ledges, or cuffing their tardy apprentices +with no light hand.</p> + +<p>John Gibson's cart was hauling gravel from the pits in Henley street to +mend the causeway at the bridge, which had been badly washed by the late +spring floods, and the fine sand dribbled from the cart-tail like the +sand in an hour-glass.</p> + +<p>Here and there loutish farm-hands waited for work; and at the corner two +or three stout cudgel-men leaned upon their long staves, although the +market was two days closed, and there was not a Coventry merchant in +sight to be driven away from Stratford trade.</p> + +<p>Goody Baker with her shovel and broom of twigs was sweeping up the +market litter in the square. Nick wondered if his own mother's back +would be so bent when she grew old.</p> + +<p>"Whur be-est going, Nick?"</p> + +<p>Roger Dawson sat astride a stick of timber in front of Master Geoffrey +Thompson's new house, watching Tom Carpenter the carver cut fleur-de-lis +and curling traceries upon the front wall beams. He was a +tenant-farmer's son, this Roger, and a likely good-for-naught.</p> + +<p>"To Coventry," said Nick, curtly.</p> + +<p>"Wilt take a fellow wi' thee?"</p> + +<p>Poor company might be better than none.</p> + +<p>"Come on."</p> + +<p>Roger lumbered to his feet and trotted after.</p> + +<p>"No school to-day?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"Not for me," answered Nick, shortly, for he did not care to talk about +it.</p> + +<p>"Faither wull na have I go to school, since us ha' comed to town, an' +plough-land sold for grazings," drawled Roger; "Muster Pine o' Welford +saith that I ha' learned as much as faither ever knowed, an' 'tis enow +for I. Faither saith it maketh saucy rogues o' sons to know more than +they's own dads."</p> + +<p>Nick wondered if it did. His own father could neither read nor write, +while he could do both and had some Latin, too. At the thought of the +Latin he made a wry face.</p> + +<p>"Joe Carter be-eth in the stocks," said Roger, peering through the +jeering crowd about the pillory and post; "a broke Tom Samson's pate wi' +'s ale-can yestreen."</p> + +<a name="Illus0342"></a> +<P class=ctr> +<a href="Images/Illus0342.jpg"> +<img src="Images/Illus0342.jpg" width = "40%" +alt=""'Whur be-est going, Nick?' Asked Roger Dawson.""> +</a><br> +<b>"'Whur be-est going, Nick?' Asked Roger Dawson."</b> +</P><br> + +<p>But Nick pushed on. A few ruddy-faced farmers and drovers from the +Bed Horse Vale still lingered at the Boar Inn door and by the tap-room +of the Crown; and in the middle of the street a crowd of salters, +butchers, and dealers in hides, with tallow-smeared doublets and +doubtful hose, were squabbling loudly about the prices set upon +their wares.</p> + +<p>In the midst of them Nick saw his father, and scurried away into Back +Bridge street as fast as he could, feeling very near a sneak, but far +from altering his purpose.</p> + +<p>"Job Hortop," said Simon Attwood to his apprentice at his side, looking +out suddenly over the crowd, "was that my Nick yonder?"</p> + +<p>"Nay, master, could na been," said Job, stolidly; "Nick be-eth in school +by now--the clock ha' struck. 'Twas Dawson's Hodge and some like +ne'er-do-well."</p> + + + +<br><br><hr style="width: 35%;"><br><br> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V</h2> + +<h3>IN THE WARWICK ROAD</h3> +<br> + +<p>The land was full of morning sounds as the lads trudged along the +Warwick road together. An ax rang somewhere deep in the woods of Arden; +cart-wheels ruttled on the stony road; a blackbird whistled shrilly in +the hedge, and they heard the deep-tongued belling of hounds far off in +Fulbroke park.</p> + +<p>Now and then a heron, rising from the river, trailed its long legs +across the sky, or a kingfisher sparkled in his own splash. Once a +lonely fisherman down by the Avon started a wild duck from the sedge, +and away it went pattering up-stream with frightened wings and red feet +running along the water. And then a river-rat plumped into the stream +beneath the willows, and left a long string of bubbles behind him.</p> + +<p>Nick's ill humor soon wore off as he breathed the fresh air, moist from +lush meadows, and sweet from hedges pink and white with hawthorn bloom. +The thought of being pent up on such a day grew more and more +unbearable, and a blithe sense of freedom from all restraint blunted the +prick of conscience.</p> + +<p>"Why art going to Coventry, Nick?" inquired Roger suddenly, startled by +a thought coming into his wits like a child by a bat in the room.</p> + +<p>"To see the stage-play that the burgesses would na allow in Stratford."</p> + +<p>"Wull I see, too?"</p> + +<p>"If thou hast eyes--the Mayor's show is free."</p> + +<p>"Oh, feckins, wun't it be fine?" gaped Hodge. "Be it a tailors' show, +Nick, wi' Herod the King, and a rope for to hang Judas? An' wull they +set the world afire wi' a torch, an' make the earth quake fearful wi' a +barrel full o' stones? Or wull it be Sin in a motley gown a-thumping the +Black Man over the pate wi' a bladder full o' peasen--an' angels wi' +silver wingses, an' saints wi' goolden hair? Or wull it be a giant nine +yards high, clad in the beards o' murdered kings, like granny saith she +used to see?"</p> + +<p>"Pshaw! no," said Nick; "none of those old-fashioned things. These be +players from London town, and I hope they'll play a right good English +history-play, like 'The Famous Victories of Henry Fift,' to turn a +fellow's legs all goose-flesh!"</p> + +<p>Hodge stopped short in the road. "La!" said he, "I'll go no furder if +they turn me to a goose. I wunnot be turned goose, Nick Attwood--an' a +plague on all witches, says I!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, pshaw!" laughed Nick; "come on. No witch in the world could turn +thee bigger goose than thou art now. Come along wi' thee; there be no +witches there at all."</p> + +<p>"Art sure thou 'rt not bedaffing me?" hesitated Hodge. "Good, then; I +be na feared. Art sure there be no witches?"</p> + +<p>"Why," said Nick, "would Master Burgess John Shakspere leave his son +Will to do with witches?"</p> + +<p>"I dunno," faltered Hodge; "a told Muster Robin Bowles it was na right +to drownd 'em in the river."</p> + +<p>Nick hesitated. "Maybe it kills the fish," said he; "and Master Will +Shakspere always liked to fish. But they burn witches in London, Hodge, +and he has na put a stop to it--and he's a great man in London town."</p> + +<p>Hodge came on a little way, shaking his head like an old sheep in a +corner. "Wully Shaxper a great man?" said he. "Why, a's name be cut on +the old beech-tree up Snitterfield lane, where's uncle Henry Shaxper +lives, an' 'tis but poorly done. I could do better wi' my own whittle."</p> + +<p>"Ay, Hodge," cried Nick; "and that's about all thou canst do. Dost think +that a man's greatness hangs on so little a thing as his sleight of hand +at cutting his name on a tree?"</p> + +<p>"Wull, maybe; maybe not; but if a be a great man, Nick Attwood, a might +do a little thing passing well--so there, now!"</p> + +<p>Nick pondered for a moment. "I do na know," said he, slowly; "heaps of +men can do the little things, but parlous few the big. So some one must +be bigging it, or folks would all sing very small. And he doeth the big +most beautiful, they say. They call him the Swan of Avon."</p> + +<p>"Avon swans be mostly geese," said Hodge, vacantly.</p> + +<p>"Now, look 'e here, Hodge Dawson, don't thou be calling Master Will +Shakspere goose. He married my own mother's cousin, and I will na +have it."</p> + +<p>"La, now," drawled Hodge, staring, "'tis nowt to me. Thy Muster Wully +Shaxper may be all the long-necked fowls in Warrickshire for all I care. +And, anyway, I'd like to know, Nick Attwood, since when hath a been +'<i>Muster</i> Shaxper'--that ne'er-do-well, play-actoring fellow?"</p> + +<p>"Ne'er-do-well? It is na so. When he was here last summer he was bravely +dressed, and had a heap of good gold nobles in his purse. And he gave +Rick Hawkins, that's blind of an eye, a shilling for only holding +his horse."</p> + +<p>"Oh, ay," drawled Hodge; "a fool and a's money be soon parted."</p> + +<p>"Will Shakspere is no fool," declared Nick, hotly. "He's made a peck o' +money there in London town, and 's going to buy the Great House in +Chapel lane, and come back here to live."</p> + +<p>"Then a 's a witless azzy!" blurted Hodge. "If a 's so great a man +amongst the lords and earlses, a 'd na come back to Stratford. An' I say +a 's a witless loon--so there!"</p> + +<p>Nick whirled around in the road. "And I say, Hodge Dawson," he exclaimed +with flashing eyes, "that 'tis a shame for a lout like thee to so +miscall thy thousand-time betters. And what's more, thou shalt unsay +that, or I will make thee swallow thy words right here and now!"</p> + +<p>"I'd loike to see thee try," Hodge began; but the words were scarcely +out of his mouth when he found himself stretched on the grass, Nick +Attwood bending over him.</p> + +<p>"There! thou hast seen it tried. Now come, take that back, or I will +surely box thine ears for thee."</p> + +<p>Hodge blinked and gaped, collecting his wits, which had scattered to the +four winds. "Whoy," said he, vaguely, "if 'tis all o' that to thee, I +take it back."</p> + +<p>Nick rose, and Hodge scrambled clumsily to his feet. "I'll na go wi' +thee," said he, sulkily; "I will na go whur I be whupped."</p> + +<p>Nick turned on his heel without a word, and started on.</p> + +<p>"An' what's more," bawled Hodge after him, "thy Muster Wully Shaxper +be-eth an old gray goose, an' boo to he, says I!"</p> + +<p>As he spoke he turned, dived through the thin hedge, and galloped across +the field as if an army were at his heels.</p> + +<p>Nick started back, but quickly paused. "Thou needst na run," he called; +"I've not the time to catch thee now. But mind ye this, Hodge Dawson: +when I do come back, I'll teach thee who thy betters be--Will Shakspere +first of all!"</p> + +<p>"Well crowed, well crowed, my jolly cockerel!" on a sudden called a +keen, high voice beyond the hedge behind him.</p> + +<p>Nick, startled, whirled about just in time to see a stranger leap the +hedge and come striding up the road.</p> + + + +<br><br><hr style="width: 35%;"><br><br> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI</h2> + +<h3>THE MASTER-PLAYER</h3> +<br> + +<p>He had trim, straight legs, this stranger, and a slender, lithe body in +a tawny silken jerkin. Square-shouldered, too, was he, and over one +shoulder hung a plum-colored cloak bordered with gold braid. His long +hose were the color of his cloak, and his shoes were russet leather, +with rosettes of plum, and such high heels as Nick had never seen +before. His bonnet was of tawny velvet, with a chain twisted round it, +fastened by a jeweled brooch through which was thrust a curly +cock-feather. A fine white Holland-linen shirt peeped through his jerkin +at the throat, with a broad lace collar; and his short hair curled +crisply all over his head. He had a little pointed beard, and the ends +of his mustache were twisted so that they stood up fiercely on either +side of his sharp nose. At his side was a long Italian poniard in a +sheath of russet leather and silver filigree, and he had a reckless, +high and mighty fling about his stride that strangely took the eye.</p> + +<p>Nick stood, all taken by surprise, and stared.</p> + +<p>The stranger seemed to like it, but scowled nevertheless. "What! How +now?" he cried sharply. "Dost like or like me not?"</p> + +<p>"Why, sir," stammered Nick, utterly lost for anything to say--"why, +sir,--" and knowing nothing else to do, he took off his cap and bowed.</p> + +<p>"Come, come," snapped the stranger, stamping his foot, "I am a swashing, +ruffling, desperate Dick, and not to be made a common jest for Stratford +dolts to giggle at. What! These legs, that have put on the very gentleman +in proud Verona's streets, laid in Stratford's common stocks, like a +silly apprentice's slouching heels? Nay, nay; some one should taste old +Bless-his-heart here first!" and with that he clapped his hand upon the +hilt of his poniard, with a wonderful swaggering tilt of his shoulders. +"Dost take me, boy?"</p> + +<p>"Why, sir," hesitated Nick, no little awed by the stranger's wild words +and imperious way, "ye surely are the master-player."</p> + +<p>"There!" cried the stranger, whirling about, as if defying some one in +the hedge. "Who said I could not act? Why, see, he took me at a touch! +Say, boy," he laughed, and turned to Nick, "thou art no fool. Why, boy, +I say I love thee now for this, since what hath passed in Stratford. A +murrain on the town! Dost hear me, boy?--a black murrain on the town!" +And all at once he made such a fierce stride toward Nick, gritting his +white teeth, and clapping his hand upon his poniard, that Nick drew back +afraid of him.</p> + +<a name="Illus0344"></a> +<P class=ctr> +<a href="Images/Illus0344.jpg"> +<img src="Images/Illus0344.jpg" width = "40%" +alt=""'What! how now?' cried the stranger, sharply. 'Dost like +or like me not?'""> +</a><br> +<b>"'What! how now?' cried the stranger, sharply. 'Dost like +or like me not?'"</b> +</P><br> + +<p>"But nay," hissed the stranger, and spat with scorn, "a town like +that is its own murrain--let it sicken on itself!"</p> + +<p>He struck an attitude, and waved his hand as if he were talking quite as +much to the trees and sky as he was to Nick Attwood, and looked about +him as if waiting for applause. Then all at once he laughed,--a +rollicking, merry laugh,--and threw off his furious manner as one does +an old coat. "Well, boy," said he, with a quiet smile, looking kindly at +Nick, "thou art a right stanch little friend to all of us stage-players. +And I thank thee for it in Will Shakspere's name; for he is the sweetest +fellow of us all."</p> + +<p>His voice was simple, frank, and free--so different from the mad tone in +which he had just been ranting that Nick caught his breath +with surprise.</p> + +<p>"Nay, lad, look not so dashed," said the master-player, merrily; "that +was only old Jem Burbage's mighty tragic style; and I--I am only Gaston +Carew, hail-fellow-well-met with all true hearts. Be known to me, lad; +what is thy name? I like thy open, pretty face."</p> + +<p>Nick flushed. "Nicholas Attwood is my name, sir."</p> + +<p>"Nicholas Attwood? Why, it is a good name. Nick Attwood,--young Nick,--I +hope Old Nick will never catch thee--upon my word I do, and on the +remnant of mine honour! Thou hast taken a player's part like a man, and +thou art a good fellow, Nicholas Attwood, and I love thee. So thou art +going to Coventry to see the players act? Surely thine is a nimble wit +to follow fancy nineteen miles. Come; I am going to Coventry to join my +fellows. Wilt thou go with me, Nick, and dine with us this night at the +best inn in all Coventry--the Blue Boar? Thou hast quite plucked up my +downcast heart for me, lad, indeed thou hast; for I was sore of +Stratford town--and I shall not soon forget thy plucky fending for our +own sweet Will. Come, say thou wilt go with me."</p> + +<p>"Indeed, sir," said Nick, bowing again, his head all in a whirl of +excitement at this wonderful adventure, "indeed I will, and that right +gladly, sir." And with heart beating like a trip-hammer he walked along, +cap in hand, not knowing that his head was bare.</p> + +<p>The master-player laughed a simple, hearty laugh. "Why, Nick," said he, +laying his hand caressingly upon the boy's shoulder, "I am no such great +to-do as all that--upon my word, I'm not! A man of some few parts, +perhaps, not common in the world; but quite a plain fellow, after all. +Come, put off this high humility and be just friendly withal. Put on thy +cap; we are but two good faring-fellows here."</p> + +<p>So Nick put on his cap, and they went on together, Nick in the seventh +heaven of delight.</p> + +<p>About a mile beyond Stratford, Welcombe wood creeps down along the left. +Just beyond, the Dingles wind irregularly up from the foot-path below to +the crest of Welcombe hill, through straggling clumps and briery +hollows, sweet with nodding bluebells, ash, and hawthorn.</p> + +<p>Nick and the master-player paused a moment at the top to catch their +breath and to look back.</p> + +<p>Stratford and the valley of the Avon lay spread before them like a +picture of peace, studded with blossoming orchards and girdled with +spring. Northward the forest of Arden clad the rolling hills. Southward +the fields of Feldon stretched away to the blue knolls beyond which lay +Oxford and Northamptonshire. The ragged stretches of Snitterfield downs +scrambled away to the left; and on the right, beyond Bearley, were the +wooded uplands where Guy of Warwick and Heraud of Arden slew the wild ox +and the boar. And down through the midst ran the Avon southward, like a +silver ribbon slipped through Kendal green, to where the Stour comes +down, past Luddington, to Bidford, and away to the misty hills.</p> + +<p>"Why," exclaimed the master-player--"why, upon my word, it is a fair +town--as fair a town as the heart of man could wish. Wish? I wish 't +were sunken in the sea, with all its pack of fools! Why," said he, +turning wrathfully upon Nick, "that old Sir Thingumbob of thine, down +there, called me a caterpillar on the kingdom of England, a vagabond, +and a common player of interludes! Called me vagabond! Me! Why, I have +more good licenses than he has wits. And as to Master Bailiff Stubbes, I +have permits to play from more justices of the peace than he can shake a +stick at in a month of Sundays!" He shook his fist wrathfully at the +distant town, and gnawed his mustache until one side pointed up and the +other down. "But, hark 'e, boy, I'll have my vengeance on them all--ay, +that will I, upon my word, and on the remnant of mine honour--or else my +name's not Gaston Carew!"</p> + +<p>"Is it true, sir," asked Nick, hesitatingly, "that they despitefully +handled you?"</p> + +<p>"With their tongues, ay," said Carew, bitterly; "but not otherwise." He +clapped his hand upon his poniard, and threw back his head defiantly. +"They dared not come to blows--they knew my kind! Yet John Shakspere is +no bad sort--he knoweth what is what. But Master Bailiff Stubbes, I +ween, is a long-eared thing that brays for thistles. I'll thistle him! +He called Will Shakspere rogue. Hast ever looked through a red glass?"</p> + +<p>"Nay," said Nick.</p> + +<p>"Well, it turns the whole world red. And so it is with Master Stubbes. +He looks through a pair of rogue's eyes and sees the whole world rogue. +Why, boy," cried the master-player, vehemently, "he thought to buy my +tongue! Marry, if tongues were troubles he has bought himself a peck! +What! Buy my silence? Nay, he'll see a deadly flash of silence when I +come to my Lord the Admiral again!"</p> + + + +<br><br><hr style="width: 35%;"><br><br> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII</h2> + +<h3>"WELL SUNG, MASTER SKYLARK!"</h3> +<br> + +<p>It was past high noon, and they had long since left Warwick castle far +behind. "Nicholas," said the master-player, in the middle of a stream of +amazing stories of life in London town, "there is Blacklow knoll." He +pointed to a little hill off to the left.</p> + +<p>Nick stared; he knew the tale: how grim old Guy de Beauchamp had Piers +Gaveston's head upon that hill for calling him the Black Hound of Arden.</p> + +<p>"Ah!" said Carew, "times have changed since then, boy, when thou couldst +have a man's head off for calling thee a name--or I would have yon +Master Bailiff Stubbes's head off short behind the ears--and Sir Thomas +Lucy's too!" he added, with a sudden flash of anger, gritting his teeth +and clenching his hand upon his poniard. "But, Nicholas, hast +anything to eat?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing at all, sir."</p> + +<p>Master Carew pulled from his pouch some barley-cakes and half a small +Banbury cheese, yellow as gold and with a keen, sharp savour. "'Tis +enough for both of us," said he, as they came to a shady little wood +with a clear, mossy-bottomed spring running down into a green meadow +with a mild noise, murmuring among the stones. "Come along, Nicholas; +we'll eat it under the trees."</p> + +<p>He had a small flask of wine, but Nick drank no wine, and went down to +the spring instead. There was a wild bird singing in a bush there, and +as he trotted down the slope it hushed its wandering tune. Nick took the +sound up softly, and stood by the wet stones a little while, imitating +the bird's trilling note, and laughing to hear it answer timidly, as if +it took him for some great new bird without wings. Cocking its shy head +and watching him shrewdly with its beady eye, it sat, almost persuaded +that it was only size which made them different, until Nick clapped his +cap upon his head and strolled back, singing as he went.</p> + +<p>It was only the thread of an old-fashioned madrigal which he had often +heard his mother sing, with quaint words long since gone out of style +and hardly to be understood, and between the staves a warbling, wordless +refrain which he had learned out on the hills and in the +fields, picked up from a bird's glad-throated morning-song.</p> + +<p>He had always sung the plain-tunes in church without taking any +particular thought about it; and he sang easily, with a clear young +voice which had a full, flute-like note in it like the high, sweet song +of a thrush singing in deep woods.</p> + +<p>Gaston Carew, the master-player, was sitting with his back against an +oak, placidly munching the last of the cheese, when Nick began to sing. +He started, straightening up as if some one had called him suddenly out +of a sound sleep, and, turning his head, listened eagerly.</p> + +<p>Nick mocked the wild bird, called again with a mellow, warbling trill, +and then struck up the quaint old madrigal with the bird's song running +through it. Carew leaped to his feet, with a flash in his dark eyes. "My +soul! my soul!" he exclaimed in an excited undertone. "It is not--nay, +it cannot be--why, 'tis--it is the boy! Upon my heart, he hath a skylark +prisoned in his throat! <i>Well sung, well sung, Master Skylark!"</i> he +cried, clapping his hands in real delight, as Nick came singing up the +bank. "Why, lad, I vow I thought thou wert up in the sky somewhere, with +wings to thy back! Where didst thou learn that wonder-song?"</p> + +<p>Nick colored up, quite taken aback. "I do na know, sir," said he; +"mother learned me part, and the rest just came, I think, sir."</p> + +<p>The master-player, his whole face alive and eager, now stared at +Nicholas Attwood as fixedly as Nick had stared at him.</p> + +<p>It was a hearty little English lad he saw, about eleven years of age, +tall, slender, trimly built, and fair. A gray cloth cap clung to the +side of his curly yellow head, and he wore a sleeveless jerkin of +dark-blue serge, gray home-spun hose, and heelless shoes of russet +leather. The white sleeves of his linen shirt were open to the elbow, +and his arms were lithe and brown. His eyes were frankly clear and +blue, and his red mouth had a trick of smiling that went straight to a +body's heart.</p> + +<p>"Why, lad, lad," cried Carew, breathlessly, "thou hast a very fortune in +thy throat!"</p> + +<p>Nick looked up in great surprise; and at that the master-player broke +off suddenly and said no more, though such a strange light came creeping +into his eyes that Nick, after meeting his fixed stare for a moment, +asked uneasily if they would not better be going on.</p> + +<p>Without a word the master-player started. Something had come into his +head which seemed to more than fill his mind; for as he strode along he +whistled under his breath and laughed softly to himself. Then again he +snapped his fingers and took a dancing step or two across the road, and +at last fell to talking aloud to himself, though Nick could not make out +a single word he said, for it was in some foreign language.</p> + +<p>"Nicholas," he said suddenly, as they passed the winding lane that leads +away to Kenilworth--"Nicholas, dost know any other songs like that?"</p> + +<p>"Not just like that, sir," answered Nick, not knowing what to make of +his companion's strange new mood; "but I know Master Will Shakspere's +'Then nightly sings the staring owl, tu-who, tu-whit, tu-who!' and 'The +ousel-cock so black of hue, with orange-tawny bill,' and then, too, I +know the throstle's song that goes with it."</p> + +<p>"Why, to be sure--to be sure thou knowest old Nick Bottom's song, for +isn't thy name Nick? Well met, both song and singer--well met, I say! +Nay," he said hastily, seeing Nick about to speak; "I do not care to +hear thee talk. Sing me all thy songs. I am hungry as a wolf for songs. +Why, Nicholas, I must have songs! Come, lift up that honeyed throat of +thine and sing another song. Be not so backward; surely I love thee, +Nick, and thou wilt sing all of thy songs for me."</p> + +<p>He laid his hand on Nick's shoulder in his kindly way, and kept step +with him like a bosom friend, so that Nick's heart beat high with pride, +and he sang all the songs he knew as they walked along.</p> + +<p>Carew listened intently, and sometimes with a fierce eagerness that +almost frightened the boy; and sometimes he frowned, and said under his +breath, "Tut, tut, that will not do!" but oftener he laughed without a +sound, nodding his head in time to the lilting tune, and seeming vastly +pleased with Nick, the singing, and last, but not least, with himself.</p> + +<p>And when Nick had ended the master-player had not a word to say, but for +half a mile gnawed his mustache in nervous silence, and looked Nick all +over with a long and earnest look.</p> + +<p>Then suddenly he slapped his thigh, and tossed his head back boldly. +"I'll do it," he said; "I'll do it if I dance on air for it! I'll have +it out of Master Stubbes and canting Stratford town, or may I never +thrive! My soul! it is the very thing. His eyes are like twin holidays, +and he breathes the breath of spring. Nicholas, Nicholas +Skylark,--Master Skylark,--why, it is a good name, in sooth, a very +good name! I'll do it--I will, upon my word, and on the remnant of +mine honour!"</p> + +<p>"Did ye speak to me, sir?" asked Nick, timidly.</p> + +<p>"Nay, Nicholas; I was talking to the moon."</p> + +<p>"Why, sir, the moon has not come yet," said Nick, staring into the +western sky.</p> + +<p>"To be sure," replied Master Carew, with a queer laugh. "Well, the +silvery jade has missed the first act."</p> + +<p>"Oh," cried Nick, reminded of the purpose of his long walk, "what will +ye play for the Mayor's play, sir?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know," replied Carew, carelessly; "it will all be done before I +come. They will have had the free play this afternoon, so as to catch +the pence of all the May-day crowd to-morrow."</p> + +<p>Nick stopped in the road, and his eyes filled up with tears, so quick +and bitter was the disappointment. "Why," he cried, with a tremble in +his tired voice, "I thought the free play would be on the morrow--and +now I have not a farthing to go in!"</p> + +<p>"Tut, tut, thou silly lad!" laughed Carew, frankly; "am I thy friend for +naught? What! let thee walk all the way to Coventry, and never see the +play? Nay, on my soul! Why, Nick, I love thee, lad; and I'll do for thee +in the twinkling of an eye. Canst thou speak lines by heart? Well, then, +say these few after me, and bear them in thy mind."</p> + +<p>And thereupon he hastily repeated some half a dozen disconnected lines +in a high, reciting tone.</p> + +<p>"Why, sir," cried Nick, bewildered, "it is a part!"</p> + +<p>"To be sure," said Carew, laughing, "it is a part--and a part of a very +good whole, too--a comedy by young Tom Heywood, that would make a graven +image split its sides with laughing; and do thou just learn that part, +good Master Skylark, and thou shalt say it in to-morrow's play."</p> + +<p>"What, Master Carew!" gasped Nick. "I--truly? With the Lord Admiral's +players?"</p> + +<p>"Why, to be sure!" cried the master-player, in great glee, clapping him +upon the back. "Didst think I meant a parcel of dirty tinkers? Nay, lad; +thou art just the very fellow for the part--my lady's page should be a +pretty lad, and, soul o' me, thou art that same! And, Nick, thou shalt +sing Tom Heywood's newest song. It is a pretty song; it is a lark-song +like thine own."</p> + +<p>Nick could hardly believe his ears. To act with the Lord Admiral's +company! To sing with them before all Coventry! It passed the wildest +dream that he had ever dreamed. What would the boys in Stratford say? +Aha! they would laugh on the other side of their mouths now!</p> + +<p>"But will they have me, sir?" he asked doubtfully.</p> + +<p>"Have thee?" said Master Carew, haughtily. "If I say go, thou shalt go. +I am master here. And I tell thee, Nick, that thou shalt see the play, +and be the play, in part, and--well, we shall see what we shall see."</p> + +<p>With that he fell to humming and chuckling to himself, as if he had +swallowed a water-mill, while Nick turned ecstatic cart-wheels along the +grass beside the road, until presently Coventry came in sight.</p> + + + +<br><br><hr style="width: 35%;"><br><br> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII</h2> + +<h3>THE ADMIRAL'S COMPANY</h3> +<br> + +<p>The ancient city of Coventry stands upon a little hill, with old St. +Michael's steeple and the spire of Holy Trinity church rising above it +against the sky; and as the master-player and the boy came climbing +upward from the south, walls, towers, chimneys, and red-tiled roofs were +turned to gold by the glow of the setting sun.</p> + +<p>To Nick it seemed as if a halo overhung the town--a ruddy glory and a +wonder bright; for here the Grey Friars of the great monastery had +played their holy mysteries and miracle-plays for over a hundred years; +here the trade-guilds had held their pageants when the friars' day was +done; here were all the wonders that old men told by winter fires.</p> + +<p>People were coming and going through the gates like bees about a hive, +and in the distance Nick could hear the sound of many voices, the rush +of feet, wheels, and hoofs, and the shrill pipe of music. Here and there +were little knots of country folk making holiday: a father and mother +with a group of rosy children; a lad and his lass, spruce in new +finery, and gay with bits of ribbon--merry groups that were ever +changing. Gay banners flapped on tall ash staves. The suburb fields were +filled with booths and tents and stalls and butts for archery. The very +air seemed eager with the eve of holiday.</p> + +<p>But what to Nick was breathless wonder was to Carew only a twice-told +tale; so he pushed through the crowded thoroughfares, amid a throng that +made Nick's head spin round, and came quickly to the Blue Boar Inn.</p> + +<p>The court was crowded to the gates with horses, travelers, and +serving-men; and here and there and everywhere rushed the busy +innkeeper, with a linen napkin fluttering on his arm, his cap half off, +and in his hot hand a pewter flagon, from which the brown ale dripped in +spatters on his fat legs as he flew.</p> + +<p>"They're here," said Carew, looking shrewdly about; "for there is +Gregory Goole, my groom, and Stephen Magelt, the tire-man. In with thee, +Nicholas."</p> + +<p>He put Nick before him with a little air of patronage, and pushed him +into the room.</p> + +<p>It was a large, low chamber with heavy beams overhead, hung with leather +jacks and pewter tankards. Around the walls stood rough tables, at which +a medley of guests sat eating, drinking, dicing, playing at cards, and +talking loudly all at once, while the tapster and the cook's knave sped +wildly about.</p> + +<p>At a great table in the midst of the riot sat the Lord High Admiral's +players--a score or more loud-swashing gallants, richly clad in ruffs +and bands, embroidered shirts, Italian doublets slashed and laced, +Venetian hose, gay velvet caps with jeweled bands, and every man a +poniard or a rapier at his hip. Nick felt very much like a little brown +sparrow in a flock of gaudy Indian birds.</p> + +<p>The board was loaded down with meat and drink, and some of the players +were eating with forks, a new trick from the London court, which Nick +had never seen before. But all the diners looked up when Carew's face +was recognized, and welcomed him with a deafening shout.</p> + +<p>He waved his hand for silence.</p> + +<p>"Thanks for these kind plaudits, gentle friends," said he, with a +mocking air; "I have returned."</p> + +<p>"Yes; we see that ye have, Gaston," they all shouted, and laughed again.</p> + +<p>"Ay," said he, thrusting his hand into his pouch, "ye fled, and left me +to be spoiled by the spoiler, but ye see I have left the +spoiler spoiled."</p> + +<p>Lifting his hand triumphantly, he shook in their faces the golden chain +that the burgesses of Stratford had given him, and then, laying his hand +upon Nick's shoulder, bowed to them all, and to him with courtly grace, +and said: "Be known, be known, all! Gentlemen, my Lord Admiral's +Players, Master Nicholas Skylark, the sweetest singer in all the kingdom +of England!"</p> + +<p>Nick's cheeks flushed hotly, and his eyes fell; for they all stared +curiously, first at him, and then at Carew standing up behind him, and +several grinned mockingly and winked in a knowing way. He stole a look +at Carew; but the master-player's face was frank and quite unmoved, so +that Nick felt reassured.</p> + +<p>"Why, sirs," said Carew, as some began to laugh and to speak to one +another covertly, "it is no jest. He hath a sweeter voice than Cyril +Davy's, the best woman's-voice in all London town. Upon my word, it is +the sweetest voice a body ever heard--outside of heaven and the holy +angels!" He lowered his tone and bowed his head a little. "I'll stake +mine honour on it!"</p> + +<p>"Hast any, Gaston?" called a jeering voice, whereat the whole room +roared.</p> + +<p>But Carew cried again in a high voice that would be heard above the +noise: "Now, hark 'e; what I say is so. It is, upon my word, and on the +remnant of mine honour! And to-morrow ye shall see, for Master Skylark +is to sing and play with us."</p> + +<p>When he had said that, nothing would do but Nick must sit down and eat +with them; so they made a place for him and for Master Carew.</p> + +<p>Nick bent his head and said a grace, at which some of them laughed, +until Carew shook his head with a stern frown; and before he ate he +bowed politely to them all, as his mother had taught him to do. They all +bowed mockingly, and hilariously offered him wine, which, when he +refused, they pressed upon him, until Carew stopped them, saying that he +would have no more of that. As he spoke he clapped his hand upon his +poniard and scowled blackly. They all laughed, but offered Nick no more +wine; instead, they picked him choice morsels, and made a great deal of +him, until his silly young head was quite turned, and he sat up and gave +himself a few airs--not many, for Stratford was no great place in which +to pick up airs.</p> + +<p>When they had eaten they wanted Nick to sing; but again Carew +interposed. "Nay," said he; "he hath just eaten his fill, so he cannot +sing. Moreover, he is no jackdaw to screech in such a cage as this. He +shall not sing until to-morrow in the play."</p> + +<p>At this some of the leading players who held shares in the venture +demurred, doubting if Nick could sing at all; but--"Hark 'e," said +Master Carew, shortly, clapping his hand upon his poniard, "I say that +he can. Do ye take me?"</p> + +<p>So they said no more; and shortly after he took Nick away, and left them +over their tankards, singing uproariously.</p> + +<p>The Blue Boar Inn had not a bed to spare, nor had the players kept a +place for Carew; at which he smiled grimly, said he'd not forget it, and +took lodgings for himself and Nick at the Three Tuns in the next street.</p> + +<p>Nick spoke indeed of his mother's cousin, with whom he had meant to +stay, but the master-player protested warmly; so, little loath, and much +flattered by the attentions of so great a man, Nick gave over the idea +and said no more about it.</p> + +<p>When the chamberlain had shown them to their room and they were both +undressed, Nick knelt beside the bed and said a prayer, as he always did +at home. Carew watched him curiously. It was quiet there, and the light +dim; Nick was young, and his yellow hair was very curly. Carew could +hear the faint breath murmuring through the boy's lips as he prayed, and +while he stared at the little white figure his mouth twitched in a queer +way. But he tossed his head, and muttered to himself, "What, Gaston +Carew, turning soft? Nay, nay. I'll do it--on my soul, I will!" rolled +into bed, and was soon fast asleep.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;"> + +<p>As for Nick, what with the excitement of the day, the dazzling fancies +in his brain, his tired legs, the weird night noises in the town, and +strange, tremendous dreams, he scarce could get to sleep at all; but +toward morning he fell into a refreshing doze, and did not wake until +the town was loud with May.</p> + + + +<br><br><hr style="width: 35%;"><br><br> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX</h2> + +<h3>THE MAY-DAY PLAY</h3> +<br> + +<p>It was soon afternoon. All Coventry was thronged with people keeping +holiday, and at the Blue Boar a scene of wild confusion reigned.</p> + +<p>Tap-room and hall were crowded with guests, and in the cobbled court +horses innumerable stamped and whinnied. The players, with knitted +brows, stalked about the quieter nooks, going over their several parts, +and looking to their costumes, which were for the most part upon their +backs; while the thumping and pounding of the carpenters at work upon +the stage in the inn-yard were enough to drive a quiet-loving +person wild.</p> + +<p>Nick scarcely knew whether he were on his head or on his heels. The +master-player would not let him eat at all after once breaking his fast, +for fear it might affect his voice, and had him say his lines a hundred +times until he had them pat. Then he was off, directing here, there, and +everywhere, until the court was cleared of all that had no business +there, and the last surreptitious small boy had been duly projected +from the gates by Peter Hostler's hobnailed boot.</p> + +<p>"Now, Nick," said Carew, coming up all in a gale, and throwing a +sky-blue silken cloak about Nick's shoulders, "thou'lt enter here"; and +he led him to a hallway door just opposite the gates. "When Master +Whitelaw, as the Duke, calls out, 'How now, who comes?--I'll match him +for the ale!' be quickly in and answer to thy part; and, marry, boy, +don't miss thy cues, or--tsst, thy head's not worth a peascod!" With +that he clapped his hand upon his poniard and glared into Nick's eyes, +as if to look clear through to the back of the boy's wits. Nick heard +his white teeth grind, and was all at once very much afraid of him, for +he did indeed look dreadful.</p> + +<p>So Nicholas Attwood stood by the entry door, with his heart in his +throat, waiting his turn.</p> + +<p>He could hear the pages in the courtyard outside shouting for stools for +their masters, and squabbling over the best places upon the stage. Then +the gates creaked, and there came a wild rush of feet and a great crying +out as the 'prentices and burghers trooped into the inn-yard, pushing +and crowding for places near the stage. Those who had the money bawled +aloud for farthing stools. The rest stood jostling in a wrangling crowd +upon the ground, while up and down a girl's shrill voice went all the +time, crying high, "Cherry ripe, cherry ripe! Who'll buy my sweet May +cherries?"</p> + +<p>Then there was another shout, and a rattling tread of feet along the +wooden balconies that ran around the walls of the inn-yard, and cries +from the apprentices below: "Good-day, fair Master Harrington! Good-day, +Sir Thomas Parkes! Good-day, sweet Mistress Nettleby and Master +Nettleby! Good-day, good-day, good-day!" for the richer folk were coming +in at twopence each, and all the galleries were full. And then he heard +the baker's boy with sugared cakes and ginger-nuts go stamping up +the stairs.</p> + +<p>The musicians in the balcony overhead were tuning up. There was a flute, +a viol, a gittern, a fiddle, and a drum; and behind the curtain, just +outside the door, Nick could hear the master-player's low voice giving +hasty orders to the others.</p> + +<p>So he said his lines all over to himself, and cleared his throat. Then +on a sudden a shutter opened high above the orchestra, a trumpet blared, +the kettledrum crashed, and he heard a loud voice shout:</p> + +<p>"Good citizens of Coventry, and high-born gentles all: know ye now that +we, the players of the company of His Grace, Charles, Lord Howard, High +Admiral of England, Ireland, Wales, Calais, and Boulogne, the marches of +Normandy, Gascony, and Aquitaine, Captain-General of the Navy and the +Seas of Her Gracious Majesty the Queen--"</p> + +<p>At that the crowd in the courtyard cheered and cheered again.</p> + +<p>"--will, with your kind permission, play forthwith the laughable comedy +of 'The Three Grey Gowns,' by Master Thomas Heywood, in which will be +spoken many good things, old and new, and a brand-new song will be sung. +Now, hearken all--the play begins!"</p> + +<p>The trumpet blared, the kettledrum crashed again, and as a sudden hush +fell over the throng without Nick heard the voices of the players +going on.</p> + +<p>It was a broad farce, full of loud jests and nonsense, a great thwacking +of sticks and tumbling about; and Nick, with his eye to the crack of the +door, listened with all his ears for his cue, far too excited even to +think of laughing at the rough jokes, though the crowd in the inn-yard +roared till they held their sides.</p> + +<p>Carew came hurrying up, with an anxious look in his restless eyes.</p> + +<p>"Ready, Nicholas!" said he, sharply, taking Nick by the arm and lifting +the latch. "Go straight down front now as I told thee--mind thy +cues--speak boldly--sing as thou didst sing for me--and if thou wouldst +not break mine heart, do not fail me now! I have staked it all upon thee +here--and we <i>must</i> win!"</p> + +<p>"How now, who comes?" Nick heard a loud voice call outside--the +door-latch clicked behind him--he was out in the open air and down the +stage before he quite knew where he was.</p> + +<p>The stage was built against the wall just opposite the gates. It was but +a temporary platform of planks laid upon trestles. One side of it was +against the wall, and around the three other sides the crowd was packed +close to the platform rail.</p> + +<p>At the ends, upon the boards, several wealthy gallants sat on high, +three-legged stools, within arm's reach of the players acting there. The +courtyard was a sea of heads, and the balconies were filled with +gentlefolk in holiday attire, eating cakes and chaffing gaily at the +play. All was one bewildered cloud of staring eyes to Nick, and the only +thing which he was sure he saw was the painted sign that hung upon the +curtain at the rear, which in the lack of other scenery announced in +large red print: "This is a Room in Master Jonah Jackdawe's House."</p> + +<p>And then he heard the last quick words, "I'll match him for the ale!" +and started on his lines.</p> + +<p>It was not that he said so ill what little he had to say, but that his +voice was homelike and familiar in its sound, one of their own, with no +amazing London accent to the words--just the speech of every-day, the +sort that they all knew.</p> + +<p>First, some one in the yard laughed out--a shock-headed ironmonger's +apprentice, "Whoy, bullies, there be hayseed in his hair. 'Tis took off +pasture over-soon. I fecks! they've plucked him green!"</p> + +<p>There was a hoarse, exasperating laugh. Nick hesitated in his lines. The +player at his back tried to prompt him, but only made the matter worse, +and behind the green curtain at the door a hand went "clap" upon a +dagger-hilt. The play lagged, and the crowd began to jeer. Nick's heart +was full of fear and of angry shame that he had dared to try. Then all +at once there came a brief pause, in which he vaguely realized that no +one spoke. The man behind him thrust him forward, and whispering +wrathfully, "Quick, quick--sing up, thou little fool!" stepped back and +left him there alone.</p> + +<a name="Illus0346"></a> +<P class=ctr> +<a href="Images/Illus0346.jpg"> +<img src="Images/Illus0346.jpg" width = "40%" +alt=""Nick thought of his mother's singing on a summer's +evening--drew a deep breath and began to sing.""> +</a><br> +<b>"Nick thought of his mother's singing on a summer's +evening--drew a deep breath and began to sing."</b> +</P><br> + +<p>A viol overhead took up the time, the gittern struck a few sharp +notes. This unexpected music stopped the noise, and all was still. Nick +thought of his mother's voice singing on a summer's evening among the +hollyhocks, and as the viol's droning died away he drew a deep breath +and began to sing the words of "Heywood's newest song":</p> + +<blockquote> +"Pack, clouds, away, and welcome, day;<br> + With night we banish sorrow;<br> +Sweet air, blow soft; mount, lark, aloft,<br> + To give my love good-morrow!"<br> +</blockquote> + +<p>It was only a part of a madrigal, the air to which they had fitted the +words,--the same air that Nick had sung in the woods,--a thing scarce +meant ever to be sung alone, a simple strain, a few plain notes, and at +the close one brief, queer, warbling trill like a bird's wild song, that +rose and fell and rose again like a silver ripple.</p> + +<p>The instruments were still; the fresh young voice came out alone, and it +was done so soon that Nick hardly knew that he had sung at all. For a +moment no one seemed to breathe. Then there was a very great noise, and +all the court seemed hurling at him. A man upon the stage sprang to his +feet. What they were going to do to him Nick did not know. He gave a +frightened cry, and ran past the green curtain, through the open door, +and into the master-player's excited arms.</p> + +<p>"Quick, quick!" cried Carew. "Go back, go back! There, hark!--dost not +hear them call? Quick, out again--they call thee back!" With that he +thrust Nick through the door. The man upon the stage came up, slipped +something into his hand--Nick, all bewildered, knew not what; and there +he stood, quite stupefied, not knowing what to do. Then Carew came out +hastily and led him down the stage, bowing, and pressing his hand to his +heart, and smiling like a summer sunrise; so that Nick, seeing this, did +the same, and bowed as neatly as he could; though, to be sure, his was +only a simple, country-bred bow, and no such ceremonious to-do as Master +Carew's courtly London obeisance.</p> + +<p>Every one was standing up and shouting so that not a soul could hear his +ears, until the ironmonger's apprentice bellowed above the rest; "Whoy, +bullies!" he shouted, amid a chorus of cheers and laughter, "didn't I +say 'twas catched out in the fields--it be a skylark, sure enough! Come, +Muster Skylark, sing that song again, an' thou shalt ha' my +brand-new cap!"</p> + +<p>Then many voices cried out together, "Sing it again! The Skylark--the +Skylark!"</p> + +<p>Nick looked up, startled. "Why, Master Carew," said he, with a tremble +in his voice, "do they mean me ?"</p> + +<p>Carew put one hand beneath Nick's chin and turned his face up, smiling. +The master-player's cheeks were flushed with triumph, and his dark eyes +danced with pride. "Ay, Nicholas Skylark; 'tis thou they mean."</p> + +<p>The viol and the music came again from overhead, and when they ceased +Nick sang the little song once more. And when the master-player had +taken him outside, and the play was over, some fine ladies came and +kissed him, to his great confusion; for no one but his mother or his +kin had ever done so before, and these had much perfume about them, musk +and rose-attar, so that they smelled like rose-mallows in July. The +players of the Lord Admiral's company were going about shaking hands +with Carew and with each other as if they had not met for years, and +slapping one another upon the back; and one came over, a tall, solemn, +black-haired man, he who had written the song, and stood with his feet +apart and stared at Nick, but spoke never a word, which Nick thought was +very singular. But as he turned away he said, with a world of pity in +his voice, "And I have writ two hundred plays, yet never saw thy like. +Lad, lad, thou art a jewel in a wild swine's snout!" which Nick did not +understand at all; nor why Master Carew said so sharply, "Come, Heywood, +hold thy blabbing tongue; we are all in the same sty."</p> + +<p>"Speak for thyself, Gat Carew!" answered Master Heywood, firmly. "I'll +have no hand in this affair, I tell thee once for all!"</p> + +<p>Master Carew flushed queerly and bit his lip, and, turning hastily away, +took Nick to walk about the town. Nick then, for the first time, looked +into his hand to see what the man upon the stage had given him. It was a +gold rose-noble.</p> + + + +<br><br><hr style="width: 35%;"><br><br> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X</h2> + +<h3>AFTER THE PLAY</h3> +<br> + +<p>Through the high streets of the third city of the realm Master Gaston +Carew strode as if he were a very king, and Coventry his kingdom.</p> + +<p>There was music everywhere,--of pipers and fiddlers, drums, tabrets, +flutes, and horns,--and there were dancing bears upon the corners, with +minstrels, jugglers, chapmen crying their singsong wares, and such a +mighty hurly-burly as Nick had never seen before. And wherever there was +a wonder to be seen, Carew had Nick see it, though it cost a penny a +peep, and lifted him to watch the fencing and quarter-staff play in the +market-place. And at one of the gay booths he bought gilt ginger-nuts +and caraway cakes with currants on the top, and gave them all to Nick, +who thanked him kindly, but said, if Master Carew pleased, he'd rather +have his supper, for he was very hungry.</p> + +<p>"Why, to be sure," said Carew, and tossed a silver penny for a scramble +to the crowd; "thou shalt have the finest supper in the town."</p> + +<p>Whereupon, bowing to all the great folk they met, and being bowed to +most politely in return, they came to the Three Tuns.</p> + +<p>Stared at by a hundred curious eyes, made way for everywhere, and +followed by wondering exclamations of envy, it was little wonder that +Nick, a simple country lad, at last began to think that there was not in +all the world another gentleman so grand as Master Gaston Carew, and +also to have a pleasant notion that Nicholas Attwood was no bad +fellow himself.</p> + +<p>The lordly innkeeper came smirking and bobbing obsequiously about, with +his freshest towel on his arm, and took the master-player's order as a +dog would take a bone.</p> + +<p>"Here, sirrah," said Carew, haughtily; "fetch us some repast, I care not +what, so it be wholesome food--a green Banbury cheese, some simnel bread +and oat-cakes; a pudding, hark 'e, sweet and full of plums, with honey +and a pasty--a meat pasty, marry, a pasty made of fat and toothsome +eels; and moreover, fellow, ale to wash it down--none of thy penny ale, +mind ye, too weak to run out of the spigot, but snapping good brew--dost +take me?--with beef and mustard, tripe, herring, and a good fat capon +broiled to a turn!"</p> + +<p>The innkeeper gaped like a fish.</p> + +<p>"How now, sirrah? Dost think I cannot pay thy score?" quoth Carew, +sharply.</p> + +<p>"Nay, nay," stammered the host; "but, sir, where--where will ye put it +all without bursting into bits?"</p> + +<p>"Be off with thee!" cried Carew, sharply. "That is my affair. Nay, +Nick," said he, laughing at the boy's, astonished look; "we shall not +burst. What we do not have to-night we'll have in the morning. 'Tis the +way with these inns,--to feed the early birds with scraps,--so the more +we leave from supper the more we'll have for breakfast. And thou wilt +need a good breakfast to ride on all day long."</p> + +<p>"Ride?" exclaimed Nick. "Why, sir, I was minded to walk back to +Stratford, and keep my gold rose-noble whole."</p> + +<p>"Walk?" cried the master-player, scornfully. "Thou, with thy golden +throat? Nay, Nicholas, thou shalt ride to-morrow like a very king, if I +have to pay for the horse myself, twelvepence the day!" and with that he +began chuckling as if it were a joke.</p> + +<p>But Nick stood up, and, bowing, thanked him gratefully; at which the +master-player went from chuckling to laughing, and leered at Nick so +oddly that the boy would have thought him tipsy, save that there had +been nothing yet to drink. And a queer sense of uneasiness came creeping +over him as he watched the master-player's eyes opening and shutting, +opening and shutting, so that one moment he seemed to be staring and the +next almost asleep; though all the while his keen, dark eyes peered out +from between the lids like old dog-foxes from their holes, looking Nick +over from head to foot, and from foot to head again, as if measuring him +with an ellwand.</p> + +<p>When the supper came, filling the whole table and the sideboard too, +Nick arose to serve the meat as he was used at home; but, "Nay, Nicholas +Skylark, my honey-throat," cried Carew, "sit thee down! Thou wait on +me--thou songster of the silver tongue? Nay, nay, sweetheart; the knave +shall wait on thee, or I'll wait on thee myself--I will, upon my word! +Why, Nick, I tell thee I love thee, and dost think I'd let thee wait or +walk? nay, nay, thou'lt ride to-morrow like a king, and have all +Stratford wait for thee!" At this he chuckled so that he almost choked +upon a mouthful of bread and meat.</p> + +<p>"Canst ride, Nicholas?"</p> + +<p>"Fairly, sir."</p> + +<p>"Fairly? Fie, modesty! I warrant thou canst ride like a very centaur. +What sayest--I'll ride a ten-mile race with thee to-morrow as we go?"</p> + +<p>"Why," cried Nick, "are ye going back to Stratford to play, after all?"</p> + +<p>"To Stratford? Nay; not for a bushel of good gold Harry shovel-boards! +Bah! That town is ratsbane and nightshade in my mouth! Nay, we'll not go +back to Stratford town; but we shall ride a piece with thee, +Nicholas,--we shall ride a piece with thee."</p> + +<p>Chuckling again to himself, he fell to upon the pasty and said no more.</p> + +<p>Nick held his peace, as he was taught to do unless first spoken to; but +he could not help thinking that stage-players, and master-players in +particular, were very queer folk.</p> + + + +<br><br><hr style="width: 35%;"><br><br> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI</h2> + +<h3>DISOWNED</h3> +<br> + +<p>Night came down on Stratford town that last sweet April day, and the +pastured kine came lowing home. Supper-time passed, and the cool stars +came twinkling out; but still Nick Attwood did not come.</p> + +<p>"He hath stayed to sleep with Robin, Master Burgess Getley's son," said +Mistress Attwood, standing in the door, and staring out into the dusk; +"he is often lonely here."</p> + +<p>"He should ha' telled thee on it, then," said Simon Attwood. "This be no +way to do. I've a mind to put him to a trade."</p> + +<p>"Nay, Simon," protested his wife; "he may be careless,--he is young +yet,--but Nicholas is a good lad. Let him have his schooling out--he'll +be the better for it."</p> + +<p>"Then let him show it as he goes along," said Attwood, grimly, as he +blew the candle out.</p> + +<p>But May-day dawned; mid-morning came, mid-afternoon, then supper-time +again; and supper-time crept into dusk--and still no Nicholas Attwood.</p> + +<p>His mother grew uneasy; but his father only growled: "We'll reckon up +when he cometh home. Master Brunswood tells me he was na at the school +the whole day yesterday--and he be feared to show his face. I'll <i>fear</i> +him with a bit of birch!"</p> + +<p>"Do na be too hard with the lad, Simon," pleaded Mistress Attwood. "Who +knows what hath happened to him? He must be hurt, or he'd 'a' come home +to his mother"--and she began to wring her hands. "He may ha' fallen +from a tree, and lieth all alone out on the hill--or, Simon, the Avon! +Thou dost na think our lad be drowned?"</p> + +<p>"Fudge!" said Simon Attwood. "Born to hang'll never drown!"</p> + +<p>When, however, the next day crept around and still his son did not come +home, a doubt stole into the tanner's own heart. Yet when his wife was +for starting out to seek some tidings of the boy, he stopped her +wrathfully.</p> + +<p>"Nay, Margaret," said he; "thou shalt na go traipsing around the town +like a hen wi' but one chick. I wull na ha' thee made a laughing-stock +by all the fools in Stratford."</p> + +<p>But as the third day rolled around, about the middle of the afternoon +the tanner himself sneaked out at the back door of his tannery in +Southam's lane, and went up into the town.</p> + +<p>"Robin Getley," he asked at the guildschool door, "was my son wi' thee +overnight?"</p> + +<p>"Nay, Master Attwood. Has he not come back?"</p> + +<p>"Come back? From where?"</p> + +<p>Robin hung his head.</p> + +<p>"From, where?" demanded the tanner. "Come, boy!"</p> + +<p>"From Coventry," said Robin, knowing that the truth would out at last, +anyway.</p> + +<p>"He went to see the players, sir," spoke up Hal Saddler, briskly, not +heeding Robin's stealthy kick. "He said he'd bide wi' Diccon Haggard +overnight; an' he said he wished he were a master-player himself, +sir, too."</p> + +<p>Simon Attwood, frowning blackly, hurried on. It <i>was</i> Nick, then, whom +he had seen crossing the market-square.</p> + +<p>Wat Raven, who swept Clopton bridge, had seen two boys go up the Warwick +road. "One were thy Nick, Muster Attwood," said he, thumping the dirt +from his broom across the coping-stone, "and the other were +Dawson's Hodge."</p> + +<p>The angry tanner turned again into the market-place. His brows were +knit, and his eyes were hot, yet his step was heavy and slow. Above all +things, he hated disobedience, yet in his surly way he loved his only +son; and far worse than disobedience, he hated that <i>his</i> son +should disobey.</p> + +<p>Astride a beam in front of Master Thompson's house sat Roger Dawson. +Simon Attwood took him by the collar none too gently.</p> + +<p>"Here, leave be!" choked Roger, wriggling hard; but the tanner's grip +was like iron. "Wert thou in Coventry May-day?" he asked sternly.</p> + +<p>"Nay, that I was na," sputtered Hodge. "A plague on Coventry!"</p> + +<p>"Do na lie to me--thou wert there wi' my son Nicholas."</p> + +<p>"I was na," snarled Hodge. "Nick Attwood threshed me in the Warrick +road; an' I be no dawg to follow at the heels o' folks as threshes me."</p> + +<p>"Where be he, then?" demanded Attwood, with a sudden sinking at heart in +spite of his wrath.</p> + +<p>"How should I know? A went away wi' a play-actoring fellow in a +plum-colored cloak; and play-actoring fellow said a loved him like a's +own, and patted a's back, and flung me hard names, like stones at a lost +dawg. Now le' me go, Muster Attwood--cross my heart, 'tis all I know!"</p> + +<p>"Is't Nicholas ye seek, Master Attwood?" asked Tom Carpenter, turning +from his fleurs-de-lis. "Why, sir, he's gone got famous, sir. I was in +Coventry mysel' May-day; and--why, sir, Nick was all the talk! He sang +there at the Blue Boar inn-yard with the Lord High Admiral's players, +and took a part in the play; and, sir, ye'd scarce believe me, but the +people went just daft to hear him sing, sir."</p> + +<p>Simon Attwood heard no more. He walked down High street in a daze. With +hard men bitter blows strike doubly deep. He stopped before the +guildhall school. The clock struck five; each iron clang seemed beating +upon his heart. He raised his hand as if to shut the clangor out, and +then his face grew stern and hard. "He hath gone his own wilful way," +said he, bitterly. "Let him follow it to the end."</p> + +<p>Mistress Attwood came to meet him, running in the garden-path. +"Nicholas?" was all that she could say.</p> + +<p>"Never speak to me of him, again," he said, and passed her by into the +house. "He hath gone away with a pack of stage-playing rascals and +vagabonds, whither no man knoweth."</p> + +<p>Taking the heavy Bible down from the shelf, he lit a rushlight at the +fire, although it was still broad daylight, and sat there with the great +book open in his lap until the sun went down and the chill night wind +crept in along the floor; yet he could not read a single word and never +turned a page.</p> + + + +<br><br><hr style="width: 35%;"><br><br> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII</h2> + +<h3>A STRANGE RIDE</h3> +<br> + +<p>Rat-a-tat-tat at the first dim hint of dawn went the chamberlain's +knuckles upon the door. To Nick it seemed scarce midnight yet, so sound +had been his sleep.</p> + +<p>Master Carew having gotten into his high-topped riding-boots with a +great puffing and tugging, they washed their faces at the inn-yard pump +by the smoky light of the hostler's lantern, and then in a subdued, +half-wakened way made a hearty breakfast off the fragments of the last +night's feast. Part of the remaining cold meat, cheese, and cakes Carew +stowed in his leather pouch. The rest he left in the lap of a beggar +sleeping beside the door.</p> + +<p>The street was dim with a chilly fog, through which a few pale stars +still struggled overhead. The houses were all shut and barred; nobody +was abroad, and the night-watch slept in comfortable doorways here and +there, with lolling heads and lanterns long gone out. As they came along +the crooked street, a stray cat scurried away with scared green eyes, +and a kenneled hound set up a lonesome howl.</p> + +<p>But the Blue Boar Inn was stirring like an ant-hill, with firefly +lanterns flitting up and down, and a cheery glow about the open door. +The horses of the company, scrubbed unreasonably clean, snorted and +stamped in little bridled clumps about the courtyard, and the +stable-boys, not scrubbed at all, clanked at the pump or shook out +wrinkled saddle-cloths with most prodigious yawns. The grooms were +buckling up the packs; the chamberlain and sleepy-lidded maids stood at +the door, waiting their fare-well farthings.</p> + +<p>Some of the company yawned in the tap-room; some yawned out of doors +with steaming stirrup-cup in hand; and some came yawning down the +stairways pulling on their riding-cloaks, booted, spurred, and ready for +a long day's ride.</p> + +<p>"Good-morrow, sirs," said Carew, heartily. "Good-morrow, sir, to you," +said they, and all came over to speak to Nicholas in a very kindly way; +and one or two patted him on the cheek and walked away speaking in +under-tones among themselves, keeping one eye on Carew all the while. +And Master Tom Heywood, the play-writer, came out with a great slice of +fresh wheat-bread, thick with butter and dripping with yellow honey, and +gave it to Nick; and stood there silently with a very queer expression +watching him eat it, until Carew's groom led up a stout hackney and a +small roan palfrey to the block, and the master-player, crying +impatiently, "Up with thee, Nick; we must be ambling!" sprang into the +saddle of the gray.</p> + +<p>The sleepy inn-folk roused a bit to send a cheery volley of, "Fare ye +well, sirs; come again," after the departing players, and the long +cavalcade cantered briskly out of the inn-yard, in double rank, with a +great clinking of bridle-chains and a drifting odor of wet leather and +heavy perfume.</p> + +<p>Nick sat very erect and rode his best, feeling like some errant knight +of the great Round Table, ready to right the whole world's wrongs. "But +what about the horse?" said he. "We can na keep him in Stratford, sir."</p> + +<p>"Oh, that's all seen to," said the master-player. "'Tis to be sent back +by the weekly carrier."</p> + +<p>"And where do I turn into the Stratford road, sir?" asked Nick, as the +players clattered down the cobbled street in a cloud of mist that +steamed up so thickly from the stones that the horses seemed to have no +legs, but to float like boats.</p> + +<p>"Some distance further on," replied Carew, carelessly. "'Tis not the +way we came that thou shalt ride to-day; that is t' other end of town, +and the gate not open yet. But the longest way round is the shortest way +home, so let's be spurring on."</p> + +<p>At the corner of the street a cross and sleepy cobbler was strapping a +dirty urchin, who bellowed lustily. Nick winced.</p> + +<p>"Hollo!" cried Carew. "What's to do?"</p> + +<p>"Why, sir," said Nick, ruefully, "father will thresh me well this +night."</p> + +<p>"Nay," said Carew, in a quite decided tone; "that he'll not, I promise +thee!"--and as he spoke he chuckled softly to himself.</p> + +<p>The man before them turned suddenly around and grinned queerly; but, +catching the master-player's eye, whipped his head about like a +weather-vane in a gale, and cantered on.</p> + +<p>As they came down the narrow street the watchmen were just swinging wide +the city gates, and gave a cheer to speed the parting guests, who gave a +rouse in turn, and were soon lost to sight in the mist which hid the +valley in a great gray sea.</p> + +<p>"How shall I know where to turn off, sir?" asked Nick, a little +anxiously. "'Tis all alike."</p> + +<p>"I'll tell thee," said the master-player; "rest thee easy on that score. +I know the road thou art to ride much better than thou dost thyself."</p> + +<p>He smiled quite frankly as he spoke, and Nick could not help wondering +why the man before them again turned around and eyed him with that +sneaking grin.</p> + +<p>He did not like the fellow's looks. He had scowling black brows, hair +cut as close as if the rats had gnawed it off, a pair of ill-shaped +bandy-legs, a wide, unwholesome slit of a mouth, and a nose like a +raspberry tart. His whole appearance was servile and mean, and there was +a sly malice in his furtive eyes. Besides that, and a thing which +strangely fascinated Nick's gaze, there was a hole through the gristle +of his right ear, scarred about as if it had been burned, and through +this hole the fellow had tied a bow of crimson ribbon, like a butterfly +alighted upon his ear.</p> + +<p>"A pretty fellow!" said Carew, with a shrug. "He'll be hard put to dodge +the hangman yet; but he's a right good fellow in his way, and he has +served me--he has served me."</p> + +<p>The first loud burst of talk had ceased, and all rode silently along. +The air was chill, and Nick was grateful for the cloak that Carew threw +around him. There was no sound but the beat of many hoofs in the +dust-padded road, and now and then the crowing of a cock somewhere +within the cloaking fog. The stars were gone, and the sky was lighting +up; and all at once, as they rode, the clouds ahead, low down and to the +right, broke raggedly away and let a red sun-gleam shoot through across +the mist, bathing the riders in dazzling rosy light.</p> + +<p>"Why, Master Carew," cried Nick, no little startled, "there comes the +sun, almost ahead! We're riding east-ward, sir. We've missed the road!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, no, we've not," said Carew; "nothing of the sort." His tone was so +peremptory and sharp that Nick said nothing more, but rode along, +vaguely wishing that he was already clattering down Stratford +High street.</p> + +<p>The clouds scattered as the sun came up, and the morning haze drifted +away into cool dales, and floated off upon the breeze. And as the world +woke up the players wakened too, and rode gaily along, laughing, +singing, and chattering together, until Nick thought he had never in all +his life before seen such a jolly fellowship. His heart was blithe as he +reined his curveting palfrey by the master-player's side, and watched +the sunlight dance and sparkle along the dashing line from dagger-hilts +and jeweled clasps, and the mist-lank plumes curl crisp again in the +warmth of the rising sun.</p> + +<p>The master-player, too, had a graceful, taking way of being half +familiar with the lad; he was besides a marvelous teller of wonderful +tales, and whiled away the time with jests and quips, mile after mile, +till Nick forgot both road and time, and laughed until his sides +were sore.</p> + +<p>Yet slowly, as they rode along, it came home to him with the passing of +the land that this was country new and strange. So he began to take +notice of this and that beside the way; and as he noticed he began to +grow uneasy. Thrice had he come to Coventry, but surely never by a road +like this.</p> + +<p>Yet still the master-player joked and laughed and pleased the boy with +little things--until Nick laughed too, and let the matter go. At last, +however, when they had ridden fully an hour, they passed a moss-grown +abbey on the left-hand side of the road, a strange old place that Nick +could not recall.</p> + +<p>"Are ye sure, Master Carew," he ventured timidly--</p> + +<p>At that the master-player took on so offended an air that Nick was sorry +he had spoken.</p> + +<p>"Why, now," said Carew, haughtily, "if thou dost know the roads of +England better than I, who have trudged and ridden them all these years, +I'll sit me down and learn of thee how to follow mine own nose. I tell +thee I know the road thou art to ride this day better than thou dost +thyself; and I'll see to it that thou dost come without fail to the very +place that thou art going. I will, upon my word, and on the remnant of +mine honour!"</p> + +<p>But in spite of this assurance, and in spite of the master-player's +ceaseless stream of gaiety and marvels, Nick became more and more +uneasy. The road was certainly growing stranger and stranger as they +passed. The company, too, instead of ambling leisurely along, as they +had done at first, were now spurring ahead at a good round gallop, in +answer to a shrill whistle from the master-player; and the horses were +wet with sweat.</p> + +<p>They passed a country village, too, that was quite unknown to Nick, and +a great highway running to the north that he had never seen before; and +when they had ridden for about two hours, the road swerved southward to +a shining ford, and on a little tableland beyond he saw the gables of a +town he did not know.</p> + +<p>"Why, Master Carew!" he cried out, half indignant, half perplexed, and +thoroughly frightened, "this is na the Stratford road at all. I'm going +back. I will na ride another mile!"</p> + +<p>As he spoke he wheeled the roan sharply out of the clattering file with +a slash of the rein across the withers, and started back along the hill +past the rest of the company, who came thumping down behind.</p> + +<p>"Stop him! Stop him there!" he heard the master-player shout, and there +was something in the fierce, high voice that turned his whole heart +sick. What right had they to stop him? This was not the Stratford road; +he was certain of that now. But "Stop him--stop him there!" he heard the +master-player call, and a wild, unreasoning fright came over him. He dug +his heels into the palfrey's heaving sides and urged him up the hill +through the cloud of dust that came rolling down behind the horsemen. +The hindmost riders had plunged into those before, and the whole array +was struggling, shouting, and wrangling in wild disorder; but out of the +flurry Carew and the bandy-legged man with the ribbon in his ear spurred +furiously and came galloping after him at the top of their speed.</p> + +<p>Nick cried out, and beat the palfrey with the rein; but the chase was +short. They overtook him as he topped the hill, one on each side, and, +leaning over, Carew snatched the bridle from his hand. "Thou little +imp!" he panted, as he turned the roan around and started down the hill. +"Don't try this on again!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, Master Carew," gasped Nick, "what are ye going to do wi' me?"</p> + +<p>"Do with thee?" cried the master-player, savagely clapping his hand upon +his poniard,--"why, I am going to do with thee just whatever I please. +Dost hear? And, hark 'e, this sort of caper doth not please me at all; +and by the whistle of the Lord High Admiral, if thou triest it on again, +thy life is not worth a rotten peascod!"</p> + +<p>Unbuckling the rein, he tossed one end to the bandy-legged man, and +holding the other in his own hand, with Nick riding helplessly between +them, they trotted down the hill again, took their old places in the +ranks, and spattered through the shallow ford.</p> + +<p>The bandy-legged man had pulled a dagger from beneath his coat, and held +it under his bridle-rein, shining through the horse's mane as they +dashed through the still half-sleeping town. Nick was speechless +with terror.</p> + +<p>Beyond the town's end they turned sharply to the northeast, galloping +steadily onward for what was perhaps half an hour, though to Nick it +seemed a forever, until they came out into a great highway running +southward. "Watling street!" he heard the man behind him say, and knew +that they were in the old Roman road that stretched from London to the +north. Still they were galloping, though long strings dribbled from the +horses' mouths, and the saddle-leathers dripped with foam. One or two +looked back at him and bit their lips; but Carew's eyes were hot and +fierce, and his hand was on his poniard. The rest, after a curious +glance or two, shrugged their shoulders carelessly and galloped on: this +affair was Master Gaston Carew's business, not theirs.</p> + +<p>Until high noon they hurried on with neither stop nor stay. Then they +came to a place where a little brook sang through the grass by the +roadside in a shady nook beneath some mighty oaks, and there the +master-player whistled for a halt, to give the horses breath and rest, +and to water them at the brook-pools. Some of the players sauntered up +and down to stretch their tired legs, munching meat and bread; and some +lay down upon the grass and slept a little. Two of them came, offering +Nick some cakes and cheese; but he was crying hard and would neither +eat nor drink, though Carew urged him earnestly. Then Master Tom +Heywood, with an ugly look at Carew, and without so much as an +if-ye-please or a by-your-leave, led Nick up the brook to a spot where +it had not been muddied by the horses, and made him wash his dusty face +and hands in the cool water and dampen his hair, though he complied as +if in a daze. And indeed Nick rode on through the long afternoon, +clinging helplessly to the pommel of his saddle, sobbing bitterly until +for very weariness he could no longer sob.</p> + +<p>It was after nine o'clock that night when they rode into Towcester, and +all that was to be seen was a butcher's boy carting garbage out of the +town and whistling to keep his courage up. The watch had long since gone +to sleep about the silent streets, but a dim light burned in the +tap-room of the Old Brown Cow; and there the players rested for +the night.</p> + + + +<br><br><hr style="width: 35%;"><br><br> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII</h2> + +<h3>A DASH FOR FREEDOM</h3> +<br> + +<p>Nick awoke from a heavy, burning sleep, aching from head to foot. The +master-player, up and dressed, stood by the window, scowling grimly out +into the ashy dawn. Nick made haste to rise, but could not stifle a +sharp cry of pain as he staggered to his feet, he was so racked and sore +with riding.</p> + +<p>At the boy's smothered cry Carew turned, and his dark face softened with +a sudden look of pity and concern. "Why, Nick, my lad," he cried, and +hurried to his side, "this is too bad, indeed!" and without more words +took him gently in his arms and carried him down to the courtyard well, +where he bathed him softly from neck to heel in the cold, refreshing +water, and wiped him with a soft, clean towel as tenderly as if he had +been the lad's own mother. And having dried him thoroughly, he rubbed +him with a waxy ointment that smelled of henbane and poppies, until the +aching was almost gone. So soft and so kind was he withal that Nick took +heart after a little and asked timidly, "And ye will let me go home +to-day, sir, will ye not?"</p> + +<p>The master-player frowned.</p> + +<p>"Please, Master Carew, let me go."</p> + +<p>"Come, come," said Carew, impatiently, "enough of this!" and stamped his +foot.</p> + +<p>"But, oh, Master Carew," pleaded Nick, with a sob in his throat, "my +mother's heart will surely break if I do na come home!"</p> + +<p>Carew started, and his mouth twitched queerly. "Enough, I say--enough!" +he cried. "I will not hear; I'll have no more. I tell thee hold thy +tongue--be dumb! I'll not have ears--thou shalt not speak! Dost hear?" +He dashed the towel to the ground. "I bid thee hold thy tongue."</p> + +<p>Nick hid his face between his hands, and leaned against the rough stone +wall, a naked, shivering, wretched little chap indeed. "Oh, mother, +mother, mother!" he sobbed pitifully.</p> + +<p>A singular expression came over the master-player's face. "I will not +hear--I tell thee I will not hear!" he choked, and, turning suddenly +away, he fell upon the sleepy hostler, who was drawing water at the +well, and rated him outrageously, to that astounded worthy's +great amazement.</p> + +<p>Nick crept into his clothes, and stole away to the kitchen door. There +was a red-faced woman there who bade him not to cry--'t would soon be +breakfast-time. Nick thought he could not eat at all; but when the +savory smell crept out and filled the chilly air, his poor little empty +stomach would not be denied, and he ate heartily. Master Heywood sat +beside him and gave him the choicest bits from his own trencher; and +Carew himself, seeing that he ate, looked strangely pleased, and ordered +him a tiny mutton-pie, well spiced. Nick pushed it back indignantly; but +Heywood took the pie and cut it open, saying quietly: "Come, lad, the +good God made the sheep that is in this pie, not Gaston Carew. Eat +it--come, 'twill do thee good!" and saw him finish the last crumb.</p> + +<p>From Towcester south through Northamptonshire is a pretty country of +rolling hills and undulating hollows, ribboned with pebbly rivers, and +dotted with fair parks and tofts of ash and elm and oak. Straggling +villages now and then were threaded on the road like beads upon a +string, and here and there the air was damp and misty from the grassy +fens along some winding stream.</p> + +<p>It was against nature that a healthy, growing lad should be so much cast +down as not to see and be interested in the strange, new, passing world +of things about him; and little by little Nick roused from his +wretchedness and began to look about him. And a wonder grew within his +brain: why had they stolen him?--where were they taking him?--what would +they do with him there?--or would they soon let him go again?</p> + +<p>Every yellow cloud of dust arising far ahead along the road wrought up +his hopes to a Bluebeard pitch, as regularly to fall. First came a +cast-off soldier from the war in the Netherlands, rakishly forlorn, his +breastplate full of rusty dents, his wild hair worn by his steel cap, +swaggering along on a sorry hack with an old belt full of pistolets, and +his long sword thumping Rosinante's ribs. Then a peddling chapman, with +a dust-white pack and a cunning Hebrew look, limped by, sulkily doffing +his greasy hat. Two sturdy Midland journeymen, in search of southern +handicraft, trudged down with tool-bags over their shoulders and stout +oak staves in hand. Of wretched beggars and tattered rogues there was an +endless string. But of any help no sign.</p> + +<p>Here and there, like a moving dot, a ploughman turned a belated furrow; +or a sweating ditcher leaned upon his reluctant spade and longed for +night; or a shepherd, quite as silly as his sheep, gawked up the morning +hills. But not a sign of help for Nick.</p> + +<p>Once, passing through a little town, he raised a sudden cry of "Help! +Help--they be stealing me away!" But at that the master-player and the +bandy-legged man waved their hands and set up such a shout that his +shrill outcry was not even heard. And the simple country bumpkins, +standing in a grinning row like so many Old Aunt Sallys at a fair, +pulled off their caps and bowed, thinking it some company of great +lords, and fetched a clownish cheer as the players galloped by.</p> + +<p>Then the hot dust got into Nick's throat, and he began to cough. Carew +started with a look of alarm. "Come, come, Nicholas, this will never +do--never do in the world; thou'lt spoil thy voice."</p> + +<p>"I do na care," said Nick.</p> + +<p>"But I do," said Carew, sharply. "So we'll have no more of it!" and he +clapped his hand upon his poniard. "But, nay--nay, lad, I did not mean +to threaten thee--'tis but a jest. Come, smooth thy throat, and do not +shriek no more. We play in old St. Albans town to-night, and thou art to +sing thy song for us again."</p> + +<p>Nick pressed his lips tight shut and shook his head. He would not sing +for them again.</p> + +<p>"Come, Nick, I've promised Tom Heywood that thou shouldst sing his song; +and, lad, there's no one left in all the land to sing it if thou'lt not. +Tom doth dearly love thee, lad--why, sure, thou hast seen that! And, +Nick, I've promised all the company that thou wouldst sing Tom's song +with us to-night. 'Twill break their hearts if thou wilt not. Come, +Nick, thou'lt sing it for us all, and set old Albans town afire!" said +Carew, pleadingly.</p> + +<p>Nick shook his head.</p> + +<p>"Come, Nick," said Carew, coaxingly, "we must hear that sweet voice of +thine in Albans town to-night. Come, there's a dear, good lad, and give +us just one little song! Come, act the man and sing, as thou alone in +all the world canst sing, in Albans town this night; and on my word, and +on the remnant of mine honour, I'll leave thee go back to Stratford town +to-morrow morning!"</p> + +<p>"To Stratford--to-morrow?" stammered Nick, with a glad, incredulous cry, +while his heart leaped up within him.</p> + +<p>"Ay, verily; upon my faith as the fine fag-end of a very proper +gentleman--thou shalt go back to Stratford town to-morrow if thou wilt +but do thy turn with us to-night."</p> + +<p>Nick caught the master-player's arm as they rode along, almost crying +for very joy: "Oh, that I will, sir--and do my very best. And, oh, +Master Carew, I ha' thought so ill o' thee! Forgive me, sir; I did na +know thee well."</p> + +<p>Carew winced. Hastily throwing the rein to Nick, he left him to master +his own array.</p> + +<p>As for Nick, as happy as a lark he learned his new lines as he rode +along, Master Carew saying them over to him from the manuscript and over +again until he made not a single mistake; and was at great pains to +teach him the latest fashionable London way of pronouncing all the +words, and of emphasizing his set phrases. "Nay, nay," he would cry +laughingly, "not that way, lad; but this: 'Good my lord, I bring a +letter from the duke'--as if thou hadst indeed a letter, see, and not an +empty fist. And when thou dost hand it to him, do it thus--and not as if +thou wert about to stab him in the paunch with a cheese-knife!" And at +the end he clapped him upon the back and said again and again that he +loved him, that he was a dear, sweet figure of a lad, and that his voice +among the rest of England's singers, was like clear honey dropping into +a pot of grease.</p> + +<p>But it is a long ride from Towcester to St. Albans town in Herts, though +the road runs through a pleasant, billowy land of oak-walled lanes, wide +pastures, and quiet parks; and the steady jog, jog of the little roan +began to rack Nick's tired bones before the day was done.</p> + +<p>Yet when they marched into the quaint old town to the blare of trumpets +and the crash of the kettledrums, all the long line gaudy with the +coat-armour of the Lord High Admiral beneath their flaunting banners, +and the horses pricked up their ears and arched their necks and pranced +along the crowded streets, Nick, stared at by all the good townsfolk, +could not help feeling a thrill of pride that he was one of the great +company of players, and sat up very straight and held his head up +haughtily as Master Carew did, and bore himself with as lordly an air as +he knew how.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;"> + +<p>But when morning came, and he danced blithely back from washing himself +at the horse-trough, all ready to start for home, he found the little +roan cross-bridled as before between the master-player's gray and the +bandy-legged fellow's sorrel mare.</p> + +<p>"What, there! cast him loose," said he to the horse-boy who held the +three. "I am not going on with the players--I'm to go back to +Stratford."</p> + +<p>"Then ye go afoot," coolly rejoined the other, grinning, "for the hoss +goeth on wi' the rest."</p> + +<p>"What is this, Master Carew?" cried Nick, indignantly, bursting into the +tap-room, where the players were at ale. "They will na let me have the +horse, sir. Am I to walk the whole way back to Stratford town?"</p> + +<p>"To Stratford?" asked Master Carew, staring with an expression of most +innocent surprise, as he set his ale-can down and turned around. "Why, +thou art not going to Stratford."</p> + +<p>"Not going to Stratford!" gasped Nick, catching at the table with a +sinking heart. "Why, sir, ye promised that I should to-day."</p> + +<p>"Nay, now, that I did not, Nicholas. I promised thee that thou shouldst +go back to-morrow--were not those my very words!"</p> + +<p>"Ay, that they were," cried Nick; "and why will ye na leave me go?"</p> + +<p>"Why, this is not to-morrow, Nick. Why, see, I cannot leave thee go +to-day. Thou knowest that I said to-morrow; and this is not +to-morrow--on thine honour, is it now?"</p> + +<p>"How can I tell?" cried Nick, despairingly. "Yesterday ye said it would +be, and now ye say that it is na. Ye've twisted it all up so that a body +can na tell at all. But there is a falsehood--a wicked, black +falsehood--somewhere betwixt you and me, sir; and ye know that I have na +lied to you, Master Carew!"</p> + +<p>Through the tap-room door he saw the open street and the hills beyond +the town. Catching his breath, he sprang across the sill, and ran for +the free fields at the top of his speed.</p> + + + +<br><br><hr style="width: 35%;"><br><br> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV</h2> + +<h3>AT BAY</h3> +<br> + +<p>"After him!--stop him!--catch the rogue!" cried Carew, running out on +the cobbles with his ale-can in his hand. "A shilling to the man that +brings him back unharmed! No blows, nor clubs, nor stabbing, hark 'e, +but catch me the knave straightway; he hath snatched a fortune from +my hands!"</p> + +<p>At that the hostler, whip in hand, and the tapster with his bit, were +off as fast as their legs could carry them, bawling "Stop, thief, stop!" +at the top of their lungs; and at their backs every idle varlet about +the inn--grooms, stable-boys, and hangers-on--ran whooping, howling, and +hallooing like wild huntsmen.</p> + +<p>Nick's frightened heart was in his mouth, and his breath came quick and +sharp. Tap-a-tap, tap-a-tap went his feet on the cobblestones as down +the long street he flew, running as he had never run before.</p> + +<p>It seemed as if the whole town bellowed at his back; for windows creaked +above his head, and doors banged wildly after him; curs from every +alley-way came yelping at his heels; apprentices let go the +shutter-bars, and joined in the chase; and near and nearer came the cry +of "Stop, thief, stop!" and the kloppety-klop of hob-nailed shoes in +wild pursuit.</p> + +<p>The rabble filled the dark old street from wall to wall, as if a cloud +of good-for-naughts had burst above the town; and far in front sped one +small, curly-headed lad, running like a frightened fawn. He had lost his +cap, and his breath came short, half sobbing in his throat as the sound +of footfalls gained upon his ear; but even yet he might have beaten them +all and reached the open fields but for the dirt and garbage in the +street. Three times he slipped upon a rancid bacon-rind and almost fell; +and the third time, as he plunged across the oozing drain, a dog dashed +right between his feet.</p> + +<p>He staggered, nearly fell, threw out his hand against the house and +saved himself; but as he started on again he saw the town-watch, wakened +by the uproar, standing with their long staves at the end of the street, +barring the way.</p> + +<p>The door of a smithy stood open just ahead, with forge-fires glowing and +the hammer ringing on the anvil. Nick darted in, past the horses, +hostlers, and blacksmith's boys, and caught at the leather apron of the +sturdy smith himself.</p> + +<p>"Hoo, man, what a dickens!" snorted he, dropping the red-hot shoe on +which he was at work, and staring like a startled ox at the panting +little fugitive.</p> + +<p>"Do na leave them take me!" panted Nick. "They ha' stolen me away from +Stratford town and will na leave me go!"</p> + +<p>At that Will Hostler bolted in, red-faced and scant of wind, "Thou +young rascal," quoth he, "I have thee now! Come out o' that!" and he +tried to take Nick by the collar.</p> + +<p>"So-oftly, so-oftly!" rumbled the smith, tweaking up the glowing shoe in +his great pincers, and sweeping a sputtering half-circle in front of the +cowering lad. "Droive slow through the cro-owd! What hath youngster here +did no-ow?"</p> + +<p>"He hath stolen a fortune from his master at the Three Lions--and the +shilling for him's mine!"</p> + +<p>"Hath stealed a fortune? Whoy, huttlety-tut!" roared the burly smith, +turning ponderously upon Nick, who was dodging around him like a boy at +tag around a tree. "Whoy, lad," said he, scratching his puzzled head +with his great, grimy fingers, "where hast putten it?"</p> + +<p>All the rout and the riot now came plunging into the smithy, breathless +with the chase. Master Carew himself, his ale-can still clutched in his +hand, and bearing himself with a high air of dignity, followed after +them, frowning.</p> + +<p>"What?" said he, angrily, "have ye earthed the cub and cannot dig him +out? Hast caught him there, fellow?"</p> + +<p>"Ay, master, that I have!" shouted Will Hostler. "Shilling's mine, sir."</p> + +<p>"Then fetch him out of this hole!" cried Carew, sniffing disdainfully at +the low, smoky door.</p> + +<p>"But he will na be fetched," stammered the doughty Will, keeping a most +respectful distance from the long black pincers and the sputtering shoe +with which the farrier stolidly mowed the air round about Nick Attwood +and himself.</p> + +<p>At that the crowd set up a shout.</p> + +<p>Carew thrust fiercely into the press, the louts and loafers giving way. +"What, here! Nicholas Attwood," said he, harshly, "come hither."</p> + +<p>"Do na leave him take me," begged Nick. "He is not my master; I am not +bound out apprentice--they are stealing me away from my own home, and it +will break my mother's heart."</p> + +<a name="Illus0354"></a> +<P class=ctr> +<a href="Images/Illus0354.jpg"> +<img src="Images/Illus0354.jpg" width = "60%" +alt=""Nobody breaks nobody's hearts in old Jo-ohn Smithses +sho-op,' drawled the Smith, in his deep voice; nor steals +nobody, nother""> +</a><br> +<b>"Nobody breaks nobody's hearts in old Jo-ohn Smithses +sho-op,' drawled the Smith, in his deep voice; nor steals +nobody, nother"</b> +</P><br> + +<p>"Nobody breaks nobody's hearts in old Jo-ohn Smithses sho-op," drawled +the smith, in his deep voice; "nor steals nobody, nother. We be +honest-dealing folk in Albans town, an' makes as good horse-shoes as be +forged in all England"--and he went placidly on mowing the air with the +glimmering shoe.</p> + +<p>"Here, fellow, stand aside," commanded Master Carew, haughtily. "Stand +aside and let me pass!" As he spoke he clapped his hand upon his poniard +with a fierce snarl, showing his white teeth like a wolf-hound.</p> + +<p>The men about him fell back with unanimous alacrity, making out each to +put himself behind the other. But the huge smith only puffed out his +sooty cheeks as if to blow a fly off the next bite of cheese. "So-oftly, +so-oftly, muster," drawled he; "do na go to ruffling it here. This shop +be mine, and I be free-born Englishman. I'll stand aside for no +swash-buckling rogue on my own ground. Come, now, what wilt thou o' the +lad?--and speak thee fair, good muster, or thou'lt get a dab o' the +red-hot shoe." As he spoke he gave the black tongs an extra whirl.</p> + + + +<br><br><hr style="width: 35%;"><br><br> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV</h2> + +<h3>LONDON TOWN</h3> +<br> + +<p>"Come," growled the blacksmith, gripping his tongs, "what wilt thou have +o' the lad?"</p> + +<p>"What will I have o' the lad?" said Master Carew, mimicking the +blacksmith in a most comical way, with a wink at the crowd, as if he had +never been angry at all, so quickly could he change his face--"What will +I have o' the lad?" and all the crowd laughed. "Why, bless thy gentle +heart, good man, I want to turn his farthings into round gold crowns--if +thou and thine infernal hot shoe do not make zanies of us all! Why, +Master Smith, 'tis to London town I'd take him, and fill his hands with +more silver shillings than there be cast-off shoes in thy whole shop."</p> + +<p>"La, now, hearken till him!" gaped the smith, staring in amazement.</p> + +<p>"And here thou needs must up and spoil it all, because, forsooth, the +silly child goes a trifle sick for home and whimpers for his minnie!"</p> + +<p>"But the lad saith thou hast stealed him awa-ay from 's ho-ome," +rumbled the smith, like a doubtful earthquake; "and we'll ha' no +stealing o' lads awa-ay from ho-ome in County Herts!"</p> + +<p>"Nay, that we won't!" cried one. "Hurrah, John Smith--fair play, fair +play!" and there came an ugly, threatening murmur from the crowd.</p> + +<p>"What! Fair play?" cried Master Carew, turning so sharply about, with +his hand upon his poniard, that each made as if it were not he but his +neighbor had growled. "Why, sirs, what if I took any one of ye out of +your poverty and common clothes down into London town, horseback like a +king, and had ye sing before the Queen, and play for earls, and talk +with the highest dames in all the land; and fed ye well, and spoke ye +fair, and lodged ye soft, and clad ye fine, and wrought the whole town +on to cheer ye, and to fill your purses full of gold? What, sir," said +he, turning to the gaping farrier--"what if I promised thee to turn +thine every word to a silver sixpence, and thy smutty grins to golden +angels--what wouldst thou? Knock me in the head with thy dirty sledge, +and bawl foul play?"</p> + +<p>"Nay, that I'd not," roared the burly smith, with a stupid, ox-like +grin, scratching his tousled head; "I'd say, 'Go it, bully, and a plague +on him that said thee nay!'"</p> + +<p>"And yet when I would fill this silly fellow's jerkin full of good gold +Harry shovel-boards for the simple drawing of his breath, ye bawl +'Foul play!'"</p> + +<p>"What, here! come out, lad," roared the smith, with a great horse-laugh, +swinging Nick forward and thwacking him jovially between the shoulders +with his brawny hand; "come out, and go along o' the master here,--'tis +for thy good,--and ho-ome wull keep, I trow, till thou dost come again."</p> + +<p>But Nick hung back, and clung to the blacksmith's grimy arm, crying in +despair: "I will na--oh, I will na!"</p> + +<p>"Tut, tut!" cried Master Carew. "Come, Nicholas; I mean thee well, I'll +speak thee fair, and I'll treat thee true"--and he smiled so frankly +that even Nick's doubts almost wavered. "Come, I'll swear it on my +hilt," said he.</p> + +<p>The smith's brow clouded. "Nay," said he; "we'll no swearing by hilts or +by holies here; the bailiff will na have it, sir."</p> + +<p>"Good! then upon mine honour as an Englishman!" cried Carew. "What, how, +bullies? Upon mine honour as an Englishman!--how is it? Here we be, all +Englishmen together!" and he clapped his hand to Will Hostler's +shoulder, whereat Will stood up very straight and looked around, as if +all at once he were somebody instead of somewhat less than nobody at all +of any consequence. "What!--ye are all for fair play?--and I am for fair +play, and good Master Smith, with his beautiful shoe, here, is for fair +play! Why, sirs, my bullies, we are all for fair play; and what more can +a man ask than good, downright English fair play? Nothing, say I. Fair +play first, last, and all the time!" and he waved his hand. "Hurrah for +downright English fair play!"</p> + +<p>"Hurrah, hurrah!" bellowed the crowd, swept along like bubbles in a +flood. "Fair play, says we--English fair play--hurrah!" And those inside +waved their hands, and those that were outside tossed up their caps, in +sheer delight of good fair play.</p> + +<p>"Hurrah, my bullies! That's the cry!" said Carew, in his +hail-fellow-well-met, royal way. "Why, we're the very best of fellows, +and the very fastest friends! Come, all to the old Three Lions inn, and +douse a can of brown March brew at my expense. To the Queen, to good +fair play, and to all the fine fellows in Albans town!"</p> + +<p>And what did the crowd do but raise a shout, like a parcel of +school-boys loosed for a holiday, and troop off to the Three Lions inn +at Master Carew's heels, Will Hostler and the brawny smith bringing up +the rear with Nick between them, hand to collar, half forgotten by the +rest, and his heart too low for further grief.</p> + +<p>And while the crowd were still roaring over their tankards and cheering +good fair play, Master Gaston Carew up with his prisoner into the +saddle, and, mounting himself, with the bandy-legged man grinning +opposite, shook the dust of old St. Albans from his horse's heels.</p> + +<p>"Now, Nicholas Attwood," said he, grimly, as they galloped away, "hark +'e well to what I have to say, and do not let it slip thy mind. I am +willed to take thee to London town--dost mark me?--and to London town +thou shalt go, warm or cold. By the whistle of the Lord High Admiral, I +mean just what I say! So thou mayst take thy choice."</p> + +<p>He gripped Nick's shoulder as they rode, and glared into his eyes as if +to sear them with his own. Nick heard his poniard grating in its sheath, +and shut his eyes so that he might not see the master-player's horrid +stare; for the opening and shutting, opening and shutting, of the blue +lids made him shudder.</p> + +<p>"And what's more," said Carew, sternly, "I shall call thee Master +Skylark from this time forth--dost hear? And when I bid thee go, thou'lt +go; and when I bid thee come, thou'lt come; and when I say, 'Here, +follow me!' thou'lt follow like a dog to heel!" He drew up his lip until +his white teeth showed, and Nick, hearing them gritting together, shrank +back dismayed.</p> + +<p>"There!" laughed Carew, scornfully. "He that knows better how to tame a +vixen or to cozen a pack of gulls, now let him speak!" and said no more +until they passed by Chipping Barnet. Then, "Nick," said he, in a quiet, +kindly tone, as if they had been friends for years, "this is the place +where Warwick fell"; and pointed down the field. "There in the corner of +that croft they piled the noble dead like corn upon a threshing-floor. +Since then," said he, with quiet irony, "men have stopped making English +kings as the Dutch make dolls, of a stick and a poll thereon."</p> + +<p>Pleased with hearing his own voice, he would have gone on with many +another thing; but seeing that Nick listened not at all to what he said, +he ceased, and rode on silently or chatting with the others.</p> + +<p>The country through Middlesex was in most part flat, and heavy forests +overhung the road from time to time. There the players slipped their +poniards, and rode with rapier in hand; for many a dark deed and cruel +robbery had been done along this stretch of Watling street. And as they +passed, more than one dark-visaged rogue with branded hand and a price +upon his head peered at them from the copses by the way.</p> + +<p>In places where the woods crept very near they pressed closer together +and rode rapidly; and the horse-boy and the grooms lit up the matches of +their pistolets, and laid their harquebuses ready in rest, and blew the +creeping sparkle snapping red at every turn; not so much really fearing +an attack upon so stout a party of reckless, dashing blades, as being +overawed by the great, mysterious silence of the forest, the +semi-twilight all about, and the cold, strange-smelling wind that fanned +their faces.</p> + +<p>The wild spattering of hoofs in water-pools that lay unsucked by the sun +in shadowy stretches, the grim silence of the riders, and the wary eying +of each covert as they passed, sent a thrill of excitement into Nick's +heart too keen for any boy to resist.</p> + +<p>Then, too, it was no everyday tale to be stolen away from home. It was a +wild, strange thing with a strange, wild sound to it, not altogether +terrible or unpleasant to a brave boy's ears in that wonder-filled age, +when all the world was turned adventurer, and England led the fore; when +Francis Drake and the "Golden Hind," John Hawkins and the "Victory," +Frobisher and his cockleshells, were gossip for every English fireside; +when the whole world rang with English steel, and the wide sea foamed +with English keels, and the air was full of the blaze of the living and +the ghosts of the mighty dead. And down in Nick's plucky young English +heart there came a spark like that which burns in the soul of a mariner +when for the first time an unknown ocean rolls before his eyes.</p> + +<p>So he rode on bravely, filled with a sense of daring and the thrill of +perils more remote than Master Carew's altogether too adjacent poniard, +as well as with a sturdy determination to escape at the first +opportunity, in spite of all the master-player's threats.</p> + +<p>Up Highgate Hill they rattled in a bracing northeast wind, the rugged +country bowling back against the tumbled sky. Far to south a rusty haze +had gloomed against the sun like a midday fog, mile after mile; and +suddenly, as they topped the range and cleared the last low hill, they +saw a city in the south spreading away until it seemed to Nick to girdle +half the world and to veil the sky in a reek of murky sea-coal smoke.</p> + +<p>"There!" said Carew, reining in the gray, as Nick looked up and felt his +heart almost stand still; "since Parma burned old Antwerp, and the Low +Countries are dead, there lies the market-heart of all the big +round world!"</p> + +<p>"London!" cried Nick, and, catching his breath with a quick gasp, sat +speechless, staring.</p> + +<p>Carew smiled. "Ay, Nick," said he, cheerily; "'tis London town. Pluck +up thine heart, lad, and be no more cast down; there lies a New World +ready to thine hand. Thou canst win it if thou wilt. Come, let it be +thine Indies, thou Francis Drake, and I thy galleon to carry home the +spoils! And cheer up. It grieves my heart to see thee sad. Be merry +for my sake."</p> + +<p>"For thy sake?" gasped Nick, staring blankly in his face. "Why, what +hast thou done for me?" A sudden sob surprised him, and he clenched his +fists--it was too cruel irony. "Why, sir, if thou wouldst only leave +me go!"</p> + +<p>"Tut, tut!" cried Carew, angrily. "Still harping on that same old +string? Why, from thy waking face I thought thou hadst dropped it long +ago. Let thee go? Not for all the wealth in Lombard street! Dost think +me a goose-witted gull?--and dost ask what I have done for thee? Thou +simpleton! I have made thee rise above the limits of thy wildest +dream--have shod thy feet with gold--have filled thy lap with +glory--have crowned thine head with fame! And yet, 'What have I done for +thee?' Fie! Thou art a stubborn-hearted little fool. But, marry come up! +I'll mend thy mind. I'll bend thy will to suit my way, or break it in +the bending!"</p> + +<p>Clapping his hand upon his poniard, he turned his back, and did not +speak to Nick again.</p> + +<p>And so they came down the Kentish Town road through a meadow-land +threaded with flowing streams, the wild hill thickets of Hampstead Heath +to right, the huddling villages of Islington, Hoxton, and Clerkenwell to +left. And as they passed through Kentish Town, past Primrose Hill into +Hampstead way, solitary farm-houses and lowly cottages gave way to +burgher dwellings in orderly array, with manor-houses here and there, +and in the distance palaces and towers reared their heads above the +crowding chimney-pots.</p> + +<p>Then the players dressed themselves in fair array, and flung their +banners out, and came through Smithfield to Aldersgate, mocking the grim +old gibbet there with railing gaiety; and through the gate rode into +London town, with a long, loud cheer that brought the people crowding to +their doors, and set the shutters creaking everywhere.</p> + +<p>Nick was bewildered by the countless shifting gables and the throngs of +people flowing onward like a stream, and stunned by the roar that seemed +to boil out of the very ground. The horses' hoofs clashed on the +unevenly paved street with a noise like a thousand smithies. The houses +hung above him till they almost hid the sky, and seemed to be reeling +and ready to fall upon his head when he looked up; so that he urged the +little roan with his uneasy heels, and wished himself out of this +monstrous ruck where the walls were so close together that there was not +elbow-room to live, and the air seemed only heat, thick and stifling, +full of dust and smells.</p> + +<p>Shop after shop, and booth on booth, until Nick wondered where the +gardens were; and such a maze of lanes, byways, courts, blind alleys, +and passages that his simple country footpath head went all into a +tangle, and he could scarcely have told Tottenham Court road from the +river Thames.</p> + +<p>All that he remembered afterward was that, turning from High Holborn +into the Farringdon road, he saw a great church, under Ludgate Hill, +with spire burned and fallen, and its massive tower, black with age and +smoke, staring on the town. But he was too confused to know whither they +went or what he saw in passing; for of such a forest of houses he had +never even dreamed, with people swarming everywhere like ants upon a +hill, and among them all not one kind face he knew. Through the spirit +of adventure that had roused him for a time welled up a great +heart-sickness for his mother and his home.</p> + +<p>Out of a bewildered daze he came at last to realize this much: that the +master-player's house was very tall and very dark, standing in a dismal, +dirty street, and that it had a gloomy hallway full of shadows that +crept and wavered along the wall in the dim light of the late afternoon.</p> + +<p>Then the master-player pushed him up a narrow staircase and along a +black corridor to a door at the end of the passage, through which he +thrust him into a darkness like night, and slammed the door behind him.</p> + +<p>Nick heard the bolts shoot heavily, and Master Carew call through the +heavy panels: "Now, Jackanapes, sit down and chew the cud of solitude +awhile. It may cool thy silly pate for thee, since nothing else will +serve. When thou hast found thy common sense, perchance thou'lt find thy +freedom, not before." Then his step went down the corridor, down the +stair, through the long hall--a door banged with a hollow sound that +echoed through the house, and all was still.</p> + +<p>At first, in the utter darkness, Nick could not see at all, and did not +move for fear of falling down some awful hole; but as his eyes grew +used to the gloom he saw that he was in a little room. The only window +was boarded up, but a dim light crept in through narrow cracks and made +faint bars across the air. Little motes floated up and down these thin +blue bars, wavering in the uncertain light and then lost in the +darkness. Upon the floor was a pallet of straw, covered with a coarse +sheet, and having a rough coverlet of sheepskin. A round log was the +only pillow.</p> + +<p>Something moved. Nick, startled, peered into the shadows: it was a strip +of ragged tapestry which fluttered on the wall. As he watched it +flapping fitfully there came a hollow rattle in the wainscot, and an +uncanny sound like the moaning of wind in the chimney.</p> + +<p>"Let me out!" he cried, beating upon the door. "Let me out, I say!" A +stealthy footstep seemed to go away outside. "Mother, mother!" he cried +shrilly, now quite unstrung by fright, and beat frantically upon the +door until his hands ached; but no one answered. The window was beyond +his reach. Throwing himself upon the hard pallet, he hid his eyes in the +coverlet, and cried as if his heart would break.</p> + + + +<br><br><hr style="width: 35%;"><br><br> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI</h2> + +<h3>MA'M'SELLE CICELY CAREW</h3> +<br> + +<p>How long he lay there in a stupor of despair Nick Attwood never knew. It +might have been days or weeks, for all that he took heed; for he was +thinking of his mother, and there was no room for more.</p> + +<p>The night passed by. Then the day came, by the lines of light that crept +across the floor. The door was opened at his back, and a trencher of +bread and meat thrust in. He did not touch it, and the rats came out of +the wall and pulled the meat about, and gnawed holes in the bread, and +squeaked, and ran along the wainscot; but he did not care.</p> + +<p>The afternoon dragged slowly by, and the creeping light went up the wall +until the roofs across the street shut out the sunset. Sometimes Nick +waked and sometimes he slept, he scarce knew which nor cared; nor did he +hear the bolts grate cautiously, or see the yellow candle-light steal in +across the gloom.</p> + +<p>"Boy!" said a soft little voice.</p> + +<p>He started up and looked around.</p> + +<p>For an instant he thought that he was dreaming, and was glad to think +that he would waken by and by from what had been so sad a dream, and +find himself safe in his own little bed in Stratford town. For the +little maid who stood in the doorway was such a one as his eyes had +never looked upon before.</p> + +<p>She was slight and graceful as a lily of the field, and her skin was +white as the purest wax, save where a damask rose-leaf red glowed +through her cheeks. Her black hair curled about her slender neck. Her +gown was crimson, slashed with gold, cut square across the breast and +simply made, with sleeves just elbow-long, wide-mouthed, and lined with +creamy silk. Her slippers, too, were of crimson silk, high-heeled, +jaunty bits of things; her silken stockings black. In one hand she held +a tall brass candlestick, and through the fingers of the other the +candle-flame made a ruddy glow like the sun in the heart of a hollyhock. +And in the shadow of her hand her eyes looked out, as Nick said long +afterward, like stars in a summer night.</p> + +<p>Thinking it was all a dream, he sat and stared at her.</p> + +<p>"Boy!" she said again, quite gently, but with a quaint little air of +reproof, "where are thy manners?"</p> + +<p>Nick got up quickly and bowed as best he knew how. If not a dream, this +was certainly a princess--and perchance--his heart leaped up--perchance +she came to set him free! He wondered who had told her of him? Diccon +Field, perhaps, whose father had been Simon Attwood's partner till he +died, last Michaelmas. Diccon was in London now, printing books, he had +heard. Or maybe it was John, Hal Saddler's older brother. No, it could +not be John, for John was with a carrier; and Nick had doubts if +carriers were much acquainted at court.</p> + +<p>Wondering, he stared, and bowed again.</p> + +<p>"Why, boy," said she, with a quaint air of surprise, "thou art a very +pretty fellow! Why, indeed, thou lookest like a good boy! Why wilt thou +be so bad and break my father's heart?"</p> + +<p>"Break thy father's heart?" stammered Nick. "Pr'ythee, who is thy +father, Mistress Princess?"</p> + +<p>"Nay," said the little maid, simply; "I am no princess. I am Cicely +Carew."</p> + +<p>"Cicely Carew?" cried Nick, clenching his fists. "Art thou the daughter +of that wicked man, Gaston Carew?"</p> + +<p>"My father is not wicked!" said she, passionately, drawing back from the +threshold with her hand trembling upon the latch. "Thou shalt not say +that--I will not speak with thee at all!"</p> + +<p>"I do na care! If Master Gaston Carew is thy father, he is the wickedest +man in the world!"</p> + +<p>"Why, fie, for shame!" she cried, and stamped her little foot. "How +darest thou say such a thing?"</p> + +<p>"He hath stolen me from home," exclaimed Nick, indignantly; "and I shall +never see my mother any more!" With that he choked, and hid his face in +his arm against the wall.</p> + +<p>The little maid looked at him with an air of troubled surprise, and, +coming into the room, touched him on the arm. "There," she said +soothingly, "don't cry!" and stroked him gently as one would a little +dog that was hurt. "My father will send thee home to thy mother, I know; +for he is very kind and good. Some one hath lied to thee about him."</p> + +<p>Nick wiped his swollen eyes dubiously upon his sleeve; yet the little +maid seemed positive. Perhaps, after all, there was a mistake somewhere.</p> + +<p>"Art hungry, boy?" she asked suddenly, spying the empty trencher on the +floor. "There is a pasty and a cake in the buttery, and thou shalt have +some of it if thou wilt not cry any more. Come, I cannot bear to see +thee cry--it makes me weep myself; and that will blear mine eyes, and +father will feel bad."</p> + +<p>"If he but felt as bad as he hath made me feel--" began Nick, +wrathfully; but she laid her little hand across his mouth. It was a very +white, soft, sweet little hand.</p> + +<p>"Come," said she; "thou art hungry, and it hath made thee cross!" and, +with no more ado, took him by the hand and led him down the corridor +into a large room where the last daylight shone with a smoky glow.</p> + +<p>The walls were wainscoted with many panels, dark, old, and mysterious; +and in a burnished copper brazier at the end of the room cinnamon, +rosemary, and bay were burning with a pleasant smell. Along the walls +were joined-work chests for linen and napery, of brass-bound oak--one a +black, old, tragic sea-chest, carved with grim faces and weird griffins, +that had been cast up by the North Sea from the wreck of a Spanish +galleon of war. The floor was waxed in the French fashion, and was so +smooth that Nick could scarcely keep his feet. The windows were high up +in the wall, with their heads among the black roof-beams, which with +their grotesquely carven brackets were half lost in the dusk. Through +the windows Nick could see nothing but a world of chimney-pots.</p> + +<p>"Is London town all smoke-pipes?" he asked confusedly.</p> + +<p>"Nay," replied the little maid; "there are people."</p> + +<p>Pushing a chair up to the table, she bade him sit down. Then pulling a +tall, curiously-made stool to the other side of the board, she perched +herself upon it like a fairy upon a blade of grass. "Greg!" she called +imperiously, "Greg! What, how! Gregory Goole, I say!"</p> + +<p>"Yes, ma'm'selle," replied a hoarse voice without; and through a door at +the further end of the room came the bandy-legged man with the bow of +crimson ribbon in his ear.</p> + +<p>Nick turned a little pale; and when the fellow saw him sitting there, he +came up hastily, with a look like a crock of sour milk. "Tut, tut! +ma'm'selle," said he; "Master Carew will not like this."</p> + +<p>She turned upon him with an air of dainty scorn. "Since when hath father +left his wits to thee, Gregory Goole? I know his likes as well as +thou--and it likes him not to let this poor boy starve, I'll warrant. +Go, fetch the pasty and the cake that are in the buttery, with a glass +of cordial,--the Certosa cordial,--and that in the shaking of a black +sheep's tail, or I will tell my father what thou wottest of." And she +looked the very picture of diminutive severity.</p> + +<p>"Very good, ma'm'selle; just as ye say," said Gregory, fawning, with +very poor grace, however. "But, knave," he snarled, as he turned away, +with a black scowl at Nick, "if thou dost venture on any of thy scurvy +pranks while I be gone, I'll break thy pate."</p> + +<p>Cicely Carew knitted her brows. "That is a saucy rogue," said she; "but +he hath served my father well. And, what is much in London town, he is +an honest man withal, though I have caught him at the Spanish wine +behind my father's back; so he doth butter his tongue with smooth words +when he hath speech with me, for I am the lady of the house." She held +up her head with a very pretty pride. "My mother--"</p> + +<p>Nick caught his breath, and his eyes filled.</p> + +<p>"Nay, boy," said she, gently; "'tis I should weep, not thou; for <i>my</i> +mother is dead. I do not think I ever saw her that I know," she went on +musingly; "but she was a Frenchwoman who served a murdered queen, and +she was the loveliest woman that ever lived." Cicely clasped her hands +and moved her lips. Nick saw that she was praying, and bent his head.</p> + +<p>"Thou art a good boy," she said softly; "my father will like that"; and +then went quietly on: "That is why Gregory Goole doth call me +'ma'm'selle'--because my mother was a Frenchwoman. But I am a right +English girl for all that; and when they shout, 'God save the Queen!' at +the play, why, I do too! And, oh, boy," she cried, "it is a brave thing +to hear!" and she clapped her hands with sparkling eyes. "It drove the +Spaniards off the sea, my father ofttimes saith."</p> + +<p>"Poh!" said Nick, stoutly, for he saw the pasty coming in, "they can na +beat us Englishmen!" and with that fell upon the pasty as if it were the +Spanish Armada in one lump and he Sir Francis Drake set on to do the +job alone.</p> + +<p>As he ate his spirits rose again, and he almost forgot that he was +stolen from his home, and grew eager to be seeing the wonders of the +great town whose ceaseless roar came over the housetops like a distant +storm. He was still somewhat in awe of this beautiful, flower-like +little maid, and listened in shy silence to the wonderful tales she +told: how that she had seen the Queen, who had red hair, and pearls like +gooseberries on her cloak; and how the court went down to Greenwich. But +the bandy-legged man kept popping his head in at the door, and, after +all, Nick was but in a prison-house; so he grew quite dismal after +a while.</p> + +<p>"Dost truly think thy father will leave me go?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"Of course he will," said she. "I cannot see why thou dost hate him so?"</p> + +<p>"Why, truly," hesitated Nick, "perhaps it is not thy father that I hate, +but only that he will na leave me go. And if he would but leave me go, +perhaps I'd love him very much indeed."</p> + +<p>"Good, Nick! thou art a trump!" cried Master Carew's voice suddenly from +the further end of the hall, where in spite of all the candles it was +dark; and, coming forward, the master-player held out his hands in a +most genial way. "Come, lad, thy hand--'tis spoken like a gentleman. +Nay, I will kiss thee--for I love thee, Nick, upon my word, and on the +remnant of mine honour!" Taking the boy's half-unwilling hands in his +own, he stooped and kissed him upon the forehead.</p> + +<p>"Father," said Cicely, gravely, "hast thou forgotten me?"</p> + +<p>"Nay, sweetheart, nay," cried Carew, with a wonderful laugh that somehow +warmed the cockles of Nick's forlorn heart; and turning quickly, the +master-player caught up the little maid and kissed her again and again, +so tenderly that Nick was amazed to see how one so cruel could be so +kind, and how so good a little maid could love so bad a man; for she +twined her arms about his neck, and then lay back with her head upon his +shoulder, purring like a kitten in his arms.</p> + +<p>"Father," said she, patting his cheek, "some one hath told him naughty +things of thee. Come, daddy, say they are not so!"</p> + +<p>The master-player's face turned red as flame. He coughed and looked up +among the roof-beams. "Why, of course they're not," said he, uneasily.</p> + +<p>"There, boy!" cried she; "I told thee so. Why, daddy, think!--they said +that thou hadst stolen him away from his own mother, and wouldst not +leave him go!"</p> + +<p>"Hollo!" ejaculated the master-player, abruptly, with a quiver in his +voice; "what a hole thou hast made in the pasty, Nick!"</p> + +<p>"Ah, daddy," persisted Cicely, "and what a hole it would make in his +mother's heart if he had been stolen away!"</p> + +<p>"Wouldst like another draught of cordial, Nick?" cried Carew, hurriedly, +reaching out for the tall flagon with a trembling hand. "'Tis good to +cheer the troubled heart, lad. Not that thou hast any reason in the +world to let thy heart be troubled," he added hastily. "No, indeed, upon +my word; for thou art on the doorstep of a golden-lined success. See, +Nick, how the light shines through!" and he tilted up the flagon. "It is +one of old Jake Vessaline's Murano-Venetian glasses; a beautiful thing, +now, is it not? 'Tis good as any made abroad!" but his hand was shaking +so that half the cordial missed the cup and ran into a little shimmering +pool upon the table-top.</p> + +<p>"And thou'lt send him home again, daddy, wilt thou not?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes, of course--why, to be sure--we'll send him anywhere that thou +dost say, Golden-heart: to Persia or Cathay--ay, to the far side of the +green-cheese moon, or to the court of Tamburlaine the Great," and he +laughed a quick, dry, nervous laugh that had no laughter in it. "I had +one of De Lannoy's red Bohemian bottles, Nick," he rattled on +feverishly; "but that butter-fingered rogue"--he nodded his head at the +outer stair--"dropped it, smash! and made a thousand most counterfeit +fourpences out of what cost me two pound sterling."</p> + +<p>"But will ye truly leave me go, sir?" faltered Nick.</p> + +<p>"Why, of course--to be sure--yes, certainly--yes, yes. But, Nick, it is +too late this night. Why, come, thou couldst not go to-night. See, 'tis +dark, and thou a stranger in the town. 'Tis far to Stratford town--thou +couldst not walk it, lad; there will be carriers anon. Come, stay awhile +with Cicely and me--we will make thee a right welcome guest!"</p> + +<p>"That we will," cried Cicely, clapping her hands. "Oh, do stay; I am so +lonely here! The maid is silly, Margot old, and the rats run in +the wall."</p> + +<p>"And thou must to the theater, my lad, and sing for London town--ay, +Nicholas," and Carew's voice rang proudly. "The highest heads in London +town must hear that voice of thine, or I shall die unshrift. What! +lad?--come all the way from Coventry, and never show that face of thine, +nor let them hear thy skylark's song? Why, 'twere a shame! And, Nick, my +lord the Admiral shall hear thee sing when he comes home again; +perchance the Queen herself. Why, Nick, of course thou'lt sing. Thou +hast not heart to say thou wilt not sing--even for me whom thou hatest."</p> + +<p>Nick smiled in spite of himself, for Cicely was leaning on the arm of +his chair, devouring him with her great dark eyes: "Dost truly, truly +sing?" she asked.</p> + +<p>Nick laughed and blushed, and Carew laughed. "What, doth he sing? Why, +Nick, come, tune that skylark note of thine for little Golden-heart and +me. 'Twill make her think she hears the birds in verity--and, Nick, the +lass hath never seen a bird that sang, except within a cage. Nay, lad, +this is no cage!" he cried, as Nick looked about and sighed. "We will +make it very home for thee--will Cicely and I."</p> + +<p>"That we will!" cried Cicely. "Come, boy, sing for me--my mother used to +sing."</p> + +<p>At that Gaston Carew went white as a sheet, and put his hand quickly up +to his face. Cicely darted to his side with a frightened cry, and caught +his hand away. He tried to smile, but it was a ghastly attempt. "Tush, +tush! little one; 'twas something stung me!" said he, huskily, "Sing, +Nicholas, I beg of thee!"</p> + +<p>There was such a sudden world of weariness and sorrow in his voice that +Nick felt a pity for he knew not what, and lifting up his clear young +voice, he sang the quaint old madrigal.</p> + +<p>Carew sat with his face in his hand, and after it was done arose +unsteadily and said, "Come, Golden-heart; 'tis music such as charmeth +care and lureth sleep out of her dark valley--we must be trotting off +to bed."</p> + +<p>That night Nick slept upon a better bed, with a sheet and a blue serge +coverlet, and a pillow stuffed with chaff.</p> + +<p>But as he drifted off into a troubled dreamland, he heard the door-bolt +throb into its socket, and knew that he was fastened in.</p> + + + +<br><br><hr style="width: 35%;"><br><br> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVII"></a>CHAPTER XVII</h2> + +<h3>CAREW'S OFFER</h3> +<br> + +<p>Next morning Carew donned his plum-colored cloak, and with Nick's hand +held tightly in his own went out of the door and down the steps into a +drifting fog which filled the street, the bandy-legged man with the +ribbon in his ear following close upon their heels.</p> + +<p>People passed them like shadows in the mist, and all the houses were a +blur until they came into a wide, open place where the wind blew free +above a wall with many great gates.</p> + +<p>In the middle of this open place a huge gray building stood, staring out +over the housetops--a great cathedral, wonderful and old. Its walls were +dark with time and smoke and damp, and the lofty tower that rose above +it was in part but a hollow shell split by lightning and blackened by +fire. But crowded between its massive buttresses were booths and +chapmen's stalls; against its hoary side a small church leaned like a +child against a mother's breast; and in and round about it eddied a +throng of men like ants upon a busy hill.</p> + +<p>All around the outer square were shops with gilded fronts and most +amazing signs: golden angels with outstretched wings, tiger heads, +bears, brazen serpents, and silver cranes; and in and out of the +shop-doors darted apprentices with new-bound books and fresh-printed +slips; for this was old St. Paul's, the meeting-place of London town, +and in Paul's Yard the printers and the bookmen dealt.</p> + +<p>With a deal of elbowing the master-player came up the broad steps into +the cathedral, and down the aisle to the pillars where the +merchant-tailors stood with table-books in hand, and there ordered a +brand-new suit of clothes for Nick of old Roger Shearman, the best +cloth-cutter in Threadneedle street.</p> + +<p>While they were deep in silk and silver thread, Haerlem linen, and +Leyden camelot, Nick stared about him half aghast; for it was to him +little less than monstrous to see a church so thronged with merchants +plying their trades as if the place were no more sacred than a booth in +the public square.</p> + +<p>The long nave of the cathedral was crowded with mercers from Cheapside, +drapers from Throgmorton street, stationers from Ludgate Hill, and +goldsmiths from Foster lane, hats on, loud-voiced, and using the very +font itself for a counter. By the columns beyond, sly, foxy-faced +lawyers hobnobbed; and on long benches by the wall, cast-off +serving-men, varlets, grooms, pastry-bakers, and pages sat, waiting to +be hired by some new master. Besides these who came on business there +was a host of gallants in gold-laced silk and velvet promenading up and +down the aisle, with no business there at all but to show their faces +and their clothes. And all about were solemn shrines and monuments and +tombs, and overhead a splendid window burned like a wheel of fire in the +eastern wall.</p> + +<p>While Nick stared, speechless, a party of the Admiral's placers came +strolling by, their heads half hidden in their huge starched ruffs, and +with prodigious swords that would have dragged along the ground had they +not been cocked up behind so fiercely in the air. Seeing Master Carew +and the boy, they stopped in passing to greet them gaily.</p> + +<p>Master Heywood was there, and bowed to Nick with a kindly smile. His +companion was a handsome, proud-mouthed man with a blue, smooth-shaven +face and a jet-black periwig. Him Carew drew aside and spoke with in an +earnest undertone. As he talked, the other began to stare at Nick as if +he were some curious thing in a cage.</p> + +<p>"Upon my soul," said Carew, "ye never heard the like of it. He hath a +voice as sweet and clear as if Puck had burst a honey-bag in +his throat."</p> + +<p>"No doubt," replied the other, carelessly; "and all the birds will hide +their heads when he begins to sing. But we don't want him, Carew--not if +he had a voice like Miriam the Jew. Henslowe has just bought little Jem +Bristow of Will Augusten for eight pound sterling, and business is too +bad to warrant any more."</p> + +<p>"Who spoke of selling?" said Carew, sharply. "Don't flatter your chances +so, Master Alleyn. I wouldn't sell the boy for a world full of Jem +Bristows. Why, his mouth is a mint where common words are coined into +gold! Sell him? I think I see myself in Bedlam for a fool! Nay, Master +Alleyn, what I am coming at is this: I'll place him at the Rose, to do +his turn in the play with the rest of us, or out of it alone, as ye +choose, for one fourth of the whole receipts over and above my old share +in the venture. Do ye take me?"</p> + +<p>"Take you? One fourth the whole receipts! Zounds! man, do ye think we +have a spigot in El Dorado?"</p> + +<p>"Tush! Master Alleyn, don't make a poor mouth; you're none so needy. You +and Henslowe have made a heap of money out of us all."</p> + +<p>"And what of that? Yesterday's butter won't smooth to-day's bread. 'Tis +absurd of you, Carew, to ask one fourth and leave all the risk on us, +with the outlook as it is! Here's that fellow Langley has built a new +play-house in Paris Garden, nearer to the landing than we are, and is +stealing our business most scurvily!"</p> + +<p>Carew shrugged his shoulders.</p> + +<p>"And what's more, the very comedy for which Ben Jonson left us, because +we would not put it on, has been taken up by the Burbages on Will +Shakspere's say-so, and is running famously at the Curtain."</p> + +<p>"I told you so, Master Alleyn, when the fellow was fresh from the +Netherlands," said Carew; "but your ears were plugged with your own +conceit. Young Jonson is no flatfish, if he did lay brick; he's a plum +worth anybody's picking."</p> + +<p>"But, plague take it, Carew, those Burbages have all the plums! Since +they weaned Will Shakspere from us everything has gone wrong. Kemp has +left us; old John Lowin, too; and now the Lord Mayor and Privy Council +have soured on the play again and forbidden all playing on the Bankside, +outside the City or no."</p> + +<p>Carew whistled softly to himself.</p> + +<p>"And since my Lord Chamberlain has been patron of the Burbages he will +not so much as turn a hand to revive the old game of bull- and +bear-baiting, and Phil and I have kept the Queen's bulldogs going on a +twelvemonth now at our own expense--a pretty canker on our profits! Why, +Carew, as Will Shakspere used to say, 'One woe doth tread the other's +heels, so fast they follow!' And what's to do?"</p> + +<p>"What's to do?" said Carew. "Why, I've told ye what's to do. Ye've heard +Will say, 'There is a tide leads on to fortune if ye take it at the +flood'? Well, Master Alleyn, here's the tide, and at the flood. I have +offered you an argosy. Will ye sail or stick in the mud? Ye'll never +have such a chance again. Come, one fourth over my old share, and I will +fill your purse so full of gold that it will gape like a stuffed toad. +His is the sweetest skylark voice that ever sugared ears!"</p> + +<p>"But, man, man, one fourth!"</p> + +<p>"Better one fourth than lose it all," said Carew. "But, pshaw! Master +Ned Alleyn, I'll not beg a man to swim that's bent on drowning! We will +be at the play-house this afternoon; mayhap thou'lt have thought better +of it by then." With a curt bow he was off through the crowd, Nick's +hand in his own clenched very tight.</p> + +<p>They had hard work getting down the steps, for two hot-headed gallants +were quarreling there as to who should come up first, and there was a +great press. But Carew scowled and showed his teeth, and clenched his +poniard-hilt so fiercely that the commoners fell away and let them down.</p> + +<p>Nick's eyes were hungry for the printers' stalls where ballad-sheets +were sold for a penny, and where the books were piled along the shelves +until he wondered if all London were turned printer. He looked about to +see if he might chance upon Diccon Field; but Carew came so quickly +through the crowd that Nick had not time to recognize Diccon if he had +been there. Diccon had often made Nick whistles from the pollard willows +along the Avon below the tannery when Nick was a toddler in smocks, and +the lad thought he would like to see him before going back to Stratford. +Then, too, his mother had always liked Diccon Field, and would be glad +to hear from him. At thought of his mother he gave a happy little skip; +and as they turned into Paternoster Bow, "Master Carew," said he, "how +soon shall I go home?"</p> + +<p>Carew walked a little faster.</p> + +<p>There had arisen a sound of shouting and a trampling of feet. The +constables had taken a purse-cutting thief, and were coming up to the +Newgate prison with a great rabble behind them. The fellow's head was +broken, and his haggard face was all screwed up with pain; but that +did not stop the boys from hooting at him, and asking in mockery how he +thought he would like to be hanged and to dance on nothing at +Tyburn Hill.</p> + +<a name="Illus0348"></a> +<P class=ctr> +<a href="Images/Illus0348.jpg"> +<img src="Images/Illus0348.jpg" width = "40%" +alt=""Diccon had often made Nick whistles from the willows +along the avon when Nick was a toddler.""> +</a><br> +<b>"Diccon had often made Nick whistles from the willows +along the avon when Nick was a toddler."</b> +</P><br> + +<p>"Did ye hear me, Master Carew?" asked Nick.</p> + +<p>The master-player stepped aside a moment into a doorway to let the mob +go by, and then strode on.</p> + +<p>Nick tried again: "I pray thee, sir--"</p> + +<p>"Do not pray me," said Carew, sharply; "I am no Indian idol."</p> + +<p>"But, good Master Carew--"</p> + +<p>"Nor call me good--I am not good."</p> + +<p>"But, Master Carew," faltered Nick, with a sinking sensation around his +heart, "when will ye leave me go home?"</p> + +<p>The master-player did not reply, but strode on rapidly, gnawing his +mustache.</p> + + + +<br><br><hr style="width: 35%;"><br><br> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVIII"></a>CHAPTER XVIII</h2> + +<h3>MASTER HEYWOOD PROTESTS</h3> +<br> + +<p>It was a cold, raw day. All morning long the sun had shone through the +choking fog as the candle-flame through the dingy yellow horn of an old +stable-lantern. But at noon a wind sprang up that drove the mist through +London streets in streaks and strings mixed with smoke and the reek of +steaming roofs. Now and then the blue gleamed through in ragged patches +overhead; so that all the town turned out on pleasure bent, not minding +if it rained stewed turnips, so they saw the sky.</p> + +<p>But the fog still sifted through the streets, and all was damp and +sticky to the touch, so Cicely was left behind to loneliness and +disappointment.</p> + +<p>Nick and the master-player came down Ludgate Hill to Blackfriars landing +in a stream of merrymakers, high and low, rich and poor, faring forth to +London's greatest thoroughfare, the Thames; and as the river and the +noble mansions along the Strand came into view, Nick's heart beat fast. +It was a sight to stir the pulse.</p> + +<p>Far down the stream, the grim old Tower loomed above the drifting mist; +and, higher up, old London Bridge, lined with tall houses, stretched +from shore to shore. There were towers on it with domes and gilded +vanes, and the river foamed and roared under it, strangled by the piers. +From the dock at St. Mary Averies by the Bridge to Barge-house stairs, +the landing-stages all along the river-bank were thronged with boats; +and to and fro across the stream, wherries, punts, barges, and +water-craft of every kind were plying busily. In middle stream +sail-boats tugged along with creaking sweeps, or brown-sailed +trading-vessels slipped away to sea, with costly freight for Muscovy, +Turkey, and the Levant. And amid the countless water-craft a multitude +of stately swans swept here and there like snow-flakes on the +dusky river.</p> + +<p>Nick sniffed at the air, for it was full of strange odors--the smell of +breweries, of pitchy oakum, Norway tar, spices from hot countries, +resinous woods, and chilly whiffs from the water; and as they came out +along the wharf, there were brown-faced, hard-eyed sailors there, who +had been to the New World--wild fellows with silver rings in their ears +and a swaggering stagger in their petticoated legs. Some of them held +short, crooked brown tubes between their lips, and puffed great clouds +of pale brown smoke from their noses in a most amazing way.</p> + +<p>Broad-beamed Dutchmen, too, were there, and swarthy Spanish renegades, +with sturdy craftsmen of the City guilds and stalwart yeomen of the +guard in the Queen's rich livery.</p> + +<p>But ere Nick had fairly begun to stare, confused by such a rout, Carew +had hailed a wherry, and they were half-way over to the Southwark side.</p> + +<p>Landing amid a deafening din of watermen bawling hoarsely for a place +along the Paris Garden stairs, the master-player hurried up the lane +through the noisy crowd. Some were faring afoot into Surrey, and some to +green St. George's Fields to buy fresh fruit and milk from the +farm-houses and to picnic on the grass. Some turned aside to the Falcon +Inn for a bit of cheese and ale, and others to the play-houses beyond +the trees and fishing-ponds. And coming down from the inn they met a +crowd of players, with Master Tom Heywood at their head, frolicking and +cantering along like so many overgrown school-boys.</p> + +<p>"So we are to have thee with us awhile?" said Heywood, and put his arm +around Nick's shoulders as they trooped along.</p> + +<p>"Awhile, sir, yes," replied Nick, nodding; "but I am going home soon, +Master Carew says."</p> + +<p>"Carew," said Heywood, suddenly turning, "how can ye have the heart?"</p> + +<p>"Come, Heywood," quoth the master-player, curtly, though his whole face +colored up, "I have heard enough of this. Will ye please to mind your +own affairs?"</p> + +<p>The writer of comedies lifted his brows, "Very well," he answered +quietly; "but, lad, this much for thee," said he, turning to Nick, "if +ever thou dost need a friend, Tom Heywood's one will never speak +thee false."</p> + +<p>"Sir!" cried Carew, clapping his hand upon his poniard Heywood looked +up steadily. "How? Wilt thou quarrel with me, Carew? What ugly poison +hath been filtered through thy wits? Why, thou art even falser than I +thought! Quarrel with me, who took thy new-born child from her dying +mother's arms when thou wert fast in Newgate gaol?"</p> + +<p>Carew's angry face turned sickly gray. He made as if to speak, but no +sound came. He shut his eyes and pushed out his hand in the air as if to +stop the voice of the writer of comedies.</p> + +<p>"Come," said Heywood, with deep feeling; "thou canst not quarrel with me +yet--nay, though thou dost try thy very worst. It would be a sorry story +for my soul or thine to tell to hers."</p> + +<p>Carew groaned. The rest of the players had passed on, and the three +stood there alone. "Don't, Tom, don't!" he cried.</p> + +<p>"Then how can ye have the heart?" the other asked again.</p> + +<p>The master-player lifted up his head, and his lips were trembling. "'Tis +not the heart, Tom," he cried bitterly, "upon my word, and on the +remnant of mine honour! 'Tis the head which doeth this. For, Tom, I +cannot leave him go. Why, Tom, hast thou not heard him sing? A voice +which would call back the very dead that we have loved if they might +only hear. Why, Tom, 'tis worth a thousand pound! How can I leave +him go?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, fie for shame upon the man I took thee for!" cried Heywood.</p> + +<p>"But, Tom," cried Carew, brokenly, "look it straightly in the face; I +am no such player as I was,--this reckless life hath done the trick for +me, Tom,--and here is ruin staring Henslowe and Alleyn in the eye. They +cannot keep me master if their luck doth not change soon; and Burbage +would not have me as a gift. So, Tom, what is there left to do? How can +I shift without the boy? Nay, Tom, it will not serve. There's +Cicely--not one penny laid by for her against a rainy day; and I'll be +gone, Tom, I'll be gone--it is not morning all day long--we cannot last +forever. Nay, I cannot leave him go!"</p> + +<p>"But, sir," broke in Nick, wretchedly, holding fast to Hey wood's arm, +"ye said that I should go!"</p> + +<p>"Said!" cried the master-player, with a bitter smile; "why, Nick, I'd +say ten times more in one little minute just to hear thee sing than I +would stand to in a month of Easters afterward. Come, Nick, be fair. +I'll feed thee full and dress thee well and treat thee true--all for +that song of thine."</p> + +<p>"But, sir, my mother--"</p> + +<p>"Why, Carew, hath the boy a mother, too?" cried the writer of comedies.</p> + +<p>"Now, Heywood, on thy soul, no more of this!" cried the master-player, +with quivering lips. "Ye will make me out no man, or else a fiend. I +cannot let the fellow go--I will not let him go." His hands were +twitching, and his face was pale, but his lips were set determinedly. +"And, Tom, there's that within me will not abide even <i>thy</i> pestering. +So come, no more of it! Upon my soul, I sour over soon!"</p> + +<p>So they came on gloomily past the bear-houses and the Queen's kennels. +The river-wind was full of the wild smell of the bears; but what were +bears to poor Nick, whose last faint hope that the master-player meant +to keep his word and send him home again was gone?</p> + +<p>They passed the Paris Garden and the tall round play-house that Francis +Langley had just built. A blood-red banner flaunted overhead, with a +large white swan painted thereon; but Nick saw neither the play-house +nor the swan; he saw only, deep in his heart, a little gable-roof among +old elms, with blue smoke curling softly up among the rippling leaves; +an open door with tall pink hollyhocks beside it; and in the door, +watching for him till he came again, his own mother's face. He began to +cry silently.</p> + +<p>"Nay, Nick, my lad, don't cry," said Heywood, gently; "'twill only make +bad matters worse. <i>Never</i> is a weary while; but the longest lane will +turn at last: some day thou'lt find thine home again all in the +twinkling of an eye. Why, Nick, 'tis England still, and thou an +Englishman. Come, give the world as good as it can send."</p> + +<p>Nick raised his head again, and, throwing the hair back from his eyes, +walked stoutly along, though the tears still trickled down his cheeks.</p> + +<p>"Sing thou my songs," said Heywood, heartily, "and I will be thy +friend--let this be thine earnest." As he spoke he slipped upon the +boy's finger a gold ring with a green stone in it cut with a tall tree: +this was his seal.</p> + +<p>They had now come through the garden to the Rose Theatre, where the Lord +Admiral's company played; and Carew was himself again. "Come, +Nicholas," said he, half jestingly, "be done with thy doleful +dumps--care killed a cat, they say, lad. Why, if thy hateful looks could +stab, I'd be a dead man forty times. Come, cheer up, lad, that I may +know thou lovest me."</p> + +<p>"But I do na love thee!" cried Nick, indignantly.</p> + +<p>"Tut! Do not be so dour. Thou'lt soon be envied by ten thousand men. +Come, don't make a face at thy good fortune as though it were a tripe +fried in tar. Come, lad, be pleased; thou'lt be the pet of every +high-born dame in London town."</p> + +<p>"I'd rather be my mother's boy," Nick answered simply.</p> + + + +<br><br><hr style="width: 35%;"><br><br> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIX"></a>CHAPTER XIX</h2> + +<h3>THE ROSE PLAY-HOUSE</h3> +<br> + +<p>The play-house was an eight-sided, three-storied, tower-like building of +oak and plastered lath, upon a low foundation of yellow brick. Two +outside stairways ran around the wall, and the roof was of bright-red +English tiles with a blue lead gutter at the eaves. There was a little +turret, from the top of which a tall ash stave went up; and on the +stave, whenever there was to be a play, there floated a great white flag +on which was a crimson rose with a golden heart, just like the one that +Nick with such delight had seen come up the Oxford road a few short +days before.</p> + +<p>Under the stairway was a narrow door marked "For the Playeres Onelie"; +and in the doorway stood a shrewd-faced, common-looking man, writing +upon a tablet which he held in his hand. There was a case of quills at +his side, with one of which he was scratching busily, now and then +prodding the ink-horn at his girdle. He held his tongue in his cheek, +and moved his head about as the pen formed the letters: he was no +expert penman, this Phil Henslowe, the stager of plays.</p> + +<p>He looked up as they came to the step.</p> + +<p>"A poor trip, Carew," said he, running his finger down the column of +figures he was adding. "The play was hardly worth the candle--cleared +but five pound; and then, after I had paid the carman three shilling fip +to bring the stuff down from the City, 'twas lost in the river from the +barge at Paul's wharf! A good two pound."</p> + +<p>"Hard luck!" said Carew.</p> + +<p>"Hard? Adamantine, I say! Why, 'tis very stones for luck, and the whole +road rocky! Here's Burbage, Condell, and Will Shakspere ha' rebuilt +Blackfriars play-house in famous shape; and, marry, where are we?"</p> + +<p>Nick started. An idea came creeping into his head. Will Shakspere had +married his mother's own cousin, Anne Hathaway of Shottery; and he had +often heard his mother say that Master Shakspere had ever been her own +good friend when they were young.</p> + +<p>"He and Jonson be thick as thieves," said Henslowe; "and Chettle says +that Will hath near done the book of a new play for the autumn--a master +fine thing!--'Romulus and Juliana,' or something of that Italian sort, +to follow Ben Jonson's comedy. Ned Alleyn played a sweet fool about +Ben's comedy. Called it monstrous bad; and now it has taken the money +out of our mouths to the tune of nine pound six the day--and here, while +ye were gone, I ha' played my Lord of Pembroke's men in your 'Robin +Hood,' Heywood, to scant twelve shilling in the house!"</p> + +<p>Heywood flushed.</p> + +<p>"Nay, Tom, don't be nettled; 'tis not the fault of thy play. There's +naught will serve. We've tried old Marlowe and Robin Greene, Peele, +Nash, and all the rest; but, what! they will not do--'tis Shakspere, +Shakspere; our City flat-caps will ha' nothing but Shakspere!"</p> + +<p>Nick listened eagerly. Master Will Shakspere must indeed be somebody in +London town! He stared across into the drifting cloud of mist and smoke +which hid the city like a pall, and wondered how and where, in that +terrible hive of more than a hundred thousand men, he could find +one man.</p> + +<p>"I tell thee, Tom Heywood, there's some magic in the fellow, or my +name's not Henslowe!" cried the manager. "His very words bewitch one's +wits as nothing else can do. Why, I've tried them with 'Pierce +Penniless,' 'Groat's Worth of Wit,' 'Friar Bacon,' 'Orlando,' and the +'Battle of Alcazar.' Why, tush! they will not even listen! And here I've +put Martin Gosset into purple and gold, and Jemmy Donstall into a +peach-colored gown laid down with silver-gilt, for 'Volteger'; and what? +Why, we play to empty stools; and the rascals owe me for those costumes +yet--sixty shillings full! A murrain on Burbage and Will Shakspere +too!--but I wish we had him back again. We'd make their old Blackfriars +sick!" He shook his fist at a great gray pile of buildings that rose +above the rest out of the fog by the landing-place beyond the river.</p> + +<p>Nick stared. <i>That</i> the play-house of Master Shakspere and the Burbages? +Will Shakspere playing there, just across the river? Oh, if Nick could +only find him, he would not let the son of his wife's own cousin be +stolen away!</p> + +<p>Nick looked around quickly.</p> + +<p>The play-house stood a bowshot from the river, in the open fields. There +was a moated manor-house near by, and beyond it a little stream with +some men fishing. Between the play-house and the Thames were gardens and +trees, and a thin fringe of buildings along the bank by the landings. It +was not far, and there were places where one could get a boat every +fifty yards or so at the Bankside.</p> + +<p>But--"Come in, come in," said Henslowe. "Growling never fed a dog; and +we must be doing."</p> + +<p>"Go ahead, Nick," said Carew, pushing him by the shoulder, and they all +went in. The door opened on a flight of stairs leading to the lowest +gallery at the right of the stage, where the orchestra sat. A man was +tuning up a viol as they came in.</p> + +<p>"I want you to hear this boy sing," said Carew to Henslowe. "'Tis the +best thing ye ever lent ear to."</p> + +<p>"Oh, this is the boy?" said the manager, staring at Nick. "Why, Alleyn +told me he was a country gawk!"</p> + +<p>"He lied, then," said Carew, very shortly. "'Twas cheaper than the +truth at my price. There, Nick, go look about the place--we have +business."</p> + +<p>Nick went slowly along the gallery. His hands were beginning to tremble +as he put them out touching the stools. Along the rail were ornamental +columns which supported the upper galleries and looked like beautiful +blue-veined white marble; but when he took hold of them to steady +himself he found they were only painted wood.</p> + +<p>There were two galleries above. They ran all around the inside of the +building, like the porches of the inn at Coventry, and he could see them +across the house. There were no windows in the gallery where he was, but +there were some in the second one. They looked high. He went on around +the gallery until he came to some steps going down into the open space +in the center of the building. The stage was already set up on the +trestles, and the carpenters were putting a shelter-roof over it on +copper-gilt pillars; for it was beginning to drizzle, and the middle of +the play-house was open to the sky.</p> + +<p>The spectators were already coming into the pit at a penny apiece, +although the play would not begin until early evening. Those for the +galleries paid another penny to a man in a red cloak at the foot of the +stairs where Nick was standing. There was a great uproar at the +entrance. Some apprentices had caught a cutpurse in the crowd, and were +beating him unmercifully. Every one pushed and shoved about, cursing the +thief, and those near enough kicked and struck him.</p> + +<p>Nick looked back. Carew and the manager had gone into the tiring-room +behind the stage. He took hold of the side-rail and started down the +steps. The man in the red cloak looked up. "Go back there," said he, +sharply; "there's enough down here now." Nick went on around +the gallery.</p> + +<p>At the back of the stage were two doors for the players, and between +them hung a painted cloth or arras behind which the prompter stood. Over +these doors were two plastered rooms, twopenny private boxes for +gentlefolk. In one of them were three young men and a beautiful girl, +wonderfully dressed. The men were speaking to her, but she looked down +at Nick instead. "What a pretty boy!" she said, and tossed him a flower +that one of the men had just given her. It fell at Nick's feet. He +started back, looking up. The girl smiled, so he took off his cap and +bowed; but the men looked sour.</p> + +<p>At the side of the stage was a screen with long leather fire-buckets and +a pole-ax hanging upon it, and behind it was a door through which Nick +saw the river and the gray walls of the old Dominican friary. As he came +down to it, some one thrust out a staff and barred the way. It was the +bandy-legged man with the ribbon in his ear, Nick looked out longingly; +it seemed so near!</p> + +<p>"Master Carew saith thou art not to stir outside--dost hear?" said the +bandy-legged man.</p> + +<p>"Ay," said Nick, and turned back.</p> + +<p>There was a narrow stairway leading to the second gallery. He went up +softly. There was no one in the gallery, and there was a window on the +side next to the river; he had seen it from below. He went toward it +slowly that he might not arouse suspicion. It was above his head.</p> + +<a name="Illus0350"></a> +<P class=ctr> +<a href="Images/Illus0350.jpg"> +<img src="Images/Illus0350.jpg" width = "35%" +alt=""Nick put one leg over the sill and looked back.""> +</a><br> +<b>"Nick put one leg over the sill and looked back."</b> +</P><br> + +<p>There were stools for hire standing near. He brought one and set it +under the window. It stood unevenly upon the floor, and made a wabbling +noise. He was afraid some one would hear him; but the apprentices in +the pit were rattling dice, and two or three gentlemen's pages were +wrangling for the best places on the platform; while, to add to the +general riot, two young gallants had brought gamecocks and were fighting +them in one corner, amid such a whooping and swashing that one could +hardly have heard the skies fall.</p> + +<p>A printer's man was bawling, "Will ye buy a new book?" and the +fruit-sellers, too, were raising such a cry of "Apples, cherries, cakes, +and ale!" that the little noise Nick might make would be lost in the +wild confusion.</p> + +<p>Master Carew and the manager had not come out of the tiring-room. Nick +got up on the stool and looked out. It was not very far to the +ground--not so far as from the top of the big haycock in Master John +Combe's field from which he had often jumped.</p> + +<p>The sill was just breast-high when he stood upon the stool. Putting his +hands upon it, he gave a little spring, and balanced on his arms a +moment. Then he put one leg over the window-sill and looked back. No one +was paying the slightest attention to him. Over all the noise he could +hear the man tuning the viol. Swinging himself out slowly and silently, +with his toes against the wall to steady him, he hung down as far as he +could, gave a little push away from the house with his feet, caught a +quick breath, and dropped.</p> + + + +<br><br><hr style="width: 35%;"><br><br> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XX"></a>CHAPTER XX</h2> + +<h3>DISAPPOINTMENT</h3> +<br> + +<p>Nick landed upon a pile of soft earth. It broke away under his feet and +threw him forward upon his hands and knees. He got up, a little shaken +but unhurt, and stood close to the wall, looking all about quickly. A +party of gaily dressed gallants were haggling with the horse-boys at the +sheds; but they did not even look at him. A passing carter stared up at +the window, measuring the distance with his eye, whistled incredulously, +and trudged on.</p> + +<p>Nick listened a moment, but heard only the clamor of voices inside, and +the zoon, zoon, zoon of the viol. He was trembling all over, and his +heart was beating like a trip-hammer. He wanted to run, but was fearful +of exciting suspicion. Heading straight for the river, he walked as fast +as he could through the gardens and the trees, brushing the dirt from +his hose as he went.</p> + +<p>There was a wherry just pushing out from Old Marigold stairs with a +single passenger, a gardener with a basket of truck.</p> + +<p>"Holloa!" cried Nick, hurrying down; "will ye take me across?"</p> + +<p>"For thrippence," said the boatman, hauling the wherry alongside again +with his hook.</p> + +<p>Thrippence? Nick stopped, dismayed. Master Carew had his gold +rose-noble, and he had not thought of the fare. They would soon find +that he was gone.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I must be across, sir!" he cried. "Can ye na take me free? I be +little and not heavy; and I will help the gentleman with his basket."</p> + +<p>The boatman's only reply was to drop his hook and push off with the oar.</p> + +<p>But the gardener, touched by the boy's pitiful expression, to say +nothing of being tickled by Nick's calling him gentleman, spoke up: +"Here, jack-sculler," said he; "I'll toss up wi' thee for it." He pulled +a groat from his pocket and began spinning it in the air. "Come, thou +lookest a gamesome fellow--cross he goes, pile he stays; best two in +three flips--what sayst?"</p> + +<p>"Done!" said the waterman. "Pop her up!"</p> + +<p>Up went the groat.</p> + +<p>Nick held his breath.</p> + +<p>"Pile it is," said the gardener. "One for thee--and up she goes again!" +The groat twirled in the air and came down <i>clink</i> upon the thwart.</p> + +<p>"Aha!" cried the boatman, "'tis mine, or I'm a horse!"</p> + +<p>"Nay, jack-sculler," laughed the gardener; "cross it is! Ka me, ka thee, +my pretty groat--I never lose with this groat."</p> + +<p>"Oh, sir, do be brisk!" begged Nick, fearing every instant to see the +master-player and the bandy-legged man come running down the bank.</p> + +<p>"More haste, worse speed," said the gardener; "only evil weeds grow +fast!" and he rubbed the groat on his jerkin. "Now, jack-sculler, hold +thy breath; for up she goes again!"</p> + +<p>A man came running over the rise. Nick gave a little frightened cry. It +was only a huckster's knave with a roll of fresh butter. The groat came +down with a splash in the bottom of the wherry. The boatman picked it up +out of the water and wiped it with his sleeve. "Here, boy, get aboard," +said he, shoving off; "and be lively about it!"</p> + +<p>The huckster's knave came running down the landing. He pushed Nick +aside, and scrambled into the wherry, puffing for breath. The boat fell +off into the current. Nick, making a plunge for it into the water, just +managed to catch the gunwale and get aboard, wet to the knees. But he +did not care for that; for although there were people going up Paris +Garden lane, and a crowd about the entrance of the Rose, he could not +see Master Carew or the bandy-legged man anywhere. So he breathed a +little freer, yet kept his eyes fast upon the play-house until the +wherry bumped against Blackfriars stairs.</p> + +<p>Picking up the basket of truck, he sprang ashore, and, dropping it upon +the landing, took to his heels up the bank, without stopping to thank +either gardener or boatman.</p> + +<p>The gray walls of the old friary were just ahead, scarcely a stone's +throw from the river. With heart beating high, he ran along the close, +looking eagerly for the entrance. He came to a wicket-gate that was +standing half ajar, and went through it into the old cloisters.</p> + +<p>Everything there was still. He was glad of that, for the noise and the +rush of the crowd outside confused him.</p> + +<p>The place had once been a well-kept garden-plot, but now was become a +mere stack of odds and ends of boards and beams, shavings, mortar, and +broken brick. A long-legged fellow with a green patch over one eye was +building a pair of stairs to a door beside which a sign read: "Playeres +Here: None Elles."</p> + +<p>Nick doffed his cap. "Good-day," said he; "is Master Will Shakspere in?"</p> + +<p>The man put down his saw and sat back upon one of the trestles, staring +stupidly. "Didst za-ay zummat?"</p> + +<p>"I asked if Master Will Shakspere was in?"</p> + +<p>The fellow scratched his head with a bit of shaving. "Noa; Muster Wull +Zhacksper beant in."</p> + +<p>Nick's heart stopped with a thump. "Where is he--do ye know?"</p> + +<p>"A's gone awa-ay," drawled the workman, vaguely.</p> + +<p>"Away? Whither!"</p> + +<p>"A's gone to Ztratvoard to-own, whur's woife do li-ive--went +a-yesterday."</p> + +<p>Nick sat blindly down upon the other trestle. He did not put his cap on +again: he had quite forgotten it.</p> + +<p>Master Will Shakspere gone to Stratford--and only the day before!</p> + +<p>Too late--just one little day too late! It seemed like cruel mockery. +Why, he might be almost home! The thought was more than he could bear: +who could be brave in the face of such a blow? The bitter tears ran +down his face again.</p> + +<p>"Here, here, odzookens, lad!" grinned the workman, stolidly, "thou'lt +vetch t' river up if weeps zo ha-ard. Ztop un, ztop un; do now."</p> + +<p>Nick sat staring at the ground. A beetle was trying to crawl over a +shaving. It was a curly shaving, and as fast as the beetle crept up to +the top the shaving rolled over, and dropped the beetle upon its back in +the dust; but it only got up and tried again. Nick looked up.</p> + +<p>"Is--is Master Richard Burbage here, then?"</p> + +<p>Perhaps Burbage, who had been a Stratford man, would help him.</p> + +<p>"Noa," drawled the carpenter; "Muster Bubbage beant here; doan't want +un, nuther--nuvver do moind a's owen business--always jawin' volks. A +beant here, an' doan't want un, nuther."</p> + +<p>Nick's heart went down. "And where is he?"</p> + +<p>"Who? Muster Bubbage? Whoy, a be-eth out to Zhoreditch, a-playin' at t' +theater."</p> + +<p>"And where may Shoreditch be?"</p> + +<p>"Whur be Zhoreditch?" gaped the workman, vacantly. "Whoy--whoy, zummers +over there a bit yon, zure"; and he waved his hand about in a way that +pointed to nowhere at all.</p> + +<p>"When will he be back?" asked Nick, desperately.</p> + +<p>"Be ba-ack?" drawled the workman, slowly taking up his saw again; "back +whur?--here? Whoy, a wun't pla-ay here no mo-ore avore next Martlemas."</p> + +<p>Martinmas? That was almost mid-November. It was now but middle May.</p> + +<p>Nick got up and went out at the wicket-gate. He was beginning to feel +sick and a little faint. The rush in the street made him dizzy, and the +sullen roar that came down on the wind from the town, mingled with the +tramping of feet, the splash of oars, the bumping of boats along the +wharves, and the shouts and cries of a thousand voices, stupefied him.</p> + +<p>He was standing there motionless in the narrow way, as if dazed by a +heavy fall, when Gaston Carew came running up from the river-front, with +the bandy-legged man at his heels.</p> + + + +<br><br><hr style="width: 35%;"><br><br> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXI"></a>CHAPTER XXI</h2> + +<h3>"THE CHILDREN OF PAUL'S"</h3> +<br> + +<p>An old gray rat came out of its hole, ran swiftly across the floor, and, +sitting up, crouched there, peering at Nick. He thought its bare, scaly +tail was not a pleasant thing to see; yet he looked at it, with his +elbows on his knees, and his chin in his hands.</p> + +<p>He had been locked in for two days now. They had put in plenty of food, +and he had eaten it all; for if he starved to death he would certainly +never get home.</p> + +<p>It was quite warm, and the boards had been taken from the window, so +that there was plenty of light. The window faced the north, and in the +night, wakened by some outcry in the street below, Nick had leaned his +log-pillow against the wainscot, and, climbing up, looked out into the +sky. It was clear, for a wonder, and the stars were very bright. The +moon, like a smoky golden platter, rose behind the eastern towers of the +town, and in the north hung the Great Wain pointing at the polar star.</p> + +<p>Somewhere underneath those stars was Stratford. The throstles would be +singing in the orchard there now, when the sun was low and the cool +wind came up from the river with a little whispering in the lane. The +purple-gray doves, too, would be cooing softly in the elms over the +cottage gable. In fancy he heard the whistle of their wings as they +flew. But all the sound that came in over the roofs of London town was a +hollow murmur as from a kennel of surly hounds.</p> + +<p>"Nick!--oh, Nick!"</p> + +<p>Cicely Carew was calling at the door. The rat scurried off to its hole +in the wall.</p> + +<p>"What there, Nick! Art thou within?" Cicely called again; but Nick made +no reply.</p> + +<p>"Nick, <i>dear</i> Nick, art crying?"</p> + +<p>"No," said he; "I'm not."</p> + +<p>There was a short silence.</p> + +<p>"Nick, I say, wilt thou be good if I open the door?"</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"Then I will open it anyway; thou durstn't be bad to me!"</p> + +<p>The bolts thumped, and then the heavy door swung slowly back.</p> + +<p>"Why, where art thou?"</p> + +<p>He was sitting in the corner behind the door.</p> + +<p>"Here," said he.</p> + +<p>She came in, but he did not look up.</p> + +<p>"Nick," she asked earnestly, "why wilt thou be so bad, and try to run +away from my father?"</p> + +<p>"I hate thy father!" said he, and brought his fist down upon his knee.</p> + +<p>"Hate him? Oh, Nick! Why?"</p> + +<p>"If thou be asking whys," said Nick, bitterly, "why did he steal me away +from my mother?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, surely, Nick, that cannot be true--no, no, it cannot be true. Thou +hast forgotten, or thou hast slept too hard and had bad dreams. My +father would not steal a pin. It was a nightmare. Doth thine head hurt +thee?" She came over and stroked his forehead with her cool hand. She +was a graceful child, and gentle in all her ways. "I am sorry thou dost +not feel well, Nick. But my father will come presently, and he will heal +thee soon. Don't cry any more."</p> + +<p>"I'm not crying," said Nick, stoutly, though as he spoke a tear ran down +his cheek, and fell upon his hand.</p> + +<p>"Then it is the roof leaks," she said, looking up as if she had not seen +his tear-blinded eyes. "But cheer up, Nick, and be a good boy--wilt thou +not? 'Tis dinner-time, and thy new clothes have come; and thou art to +come down now and try them on."</p> + +<p>When Nick came out of the tiring-room and found the master-player come, +he knew not what to say or do. "Oh, brave, brave, brave!" cried Cicely, +and danced around him, clapping her hands. "Why, it is a very prince--a +king! Oh, Nick, thou art most beautiful to see!"</p> + +<p>And Master Carew's own eyes sparkled; for truly it was a pleasant sight +to see a fair young lad like Nick in such attire.</p> + +<p>There was a fine white shirt of Holland linen, and long hose of grayish +blue, with puffed and slashed trunks of velvet so blue as to be almost +black. The sleeveless jerkin was of the same dark color, trellised with +roses embroidered in silk, and loose from breast to broad lace collar so +that the waistcoat of dull gold silk beneath it might show. A cloak of +damask with a silver clasp, a buff-leather belt with a chubby purse hung +to it by a chain, tan-colored slippers, and a jaunty velvet cap with a +short white plume, completed the array. Everything, too, had been laid +down with perfume, so that from head to foot he smelt as sweet and clean +as a drift of rose-mallows.</p> + +<p>"My soul!" cried Carew, stepping back and snapping his fingers with +delight. "Thou art the bravest skylark that ever broke a shell! Fine +feathers--fine bird--my soul, how ye do set each other off!" He took +Nick by the shoulders, twirled him around, and, standing off again, +stared at him like a man who has found two pound sterling in a +cast-off coat.</p> + +<p>"I can na pay for them, sir," said Nick, slowly.</p> + +<p>"There's nought to pay--it is a gift."</p> + +<p>Nick hung his head, much troubled. What could he say; what could he +think? This man had stolen him from home,--ay, made him tremble for his +very life a dozen times,--and with his whole heart he knew he hated +him--yet here, a gift!</p> + +<p>"Yes, Nick, it is a gift--and all because I love thee, lad."</p> + +<p>"Love me?"</p> + +<p>"Why, surely! Who could see thee without liking, or hear thy voice and +not love thee? Love thee, Nick? Why, on my word and honour, lad, I love +thee with all my heart."</p> + +<p>"Thou hast chosen strange ways to show it, Master Carew," said Nick, and +looked straight up into the master player's eyes.</p> + +<p>Carew turned upon his heel and ordered the dinner.</p> + +<p>It was a good dinner: fat roast capon stuffed with spiced carrots; +asparagus, biscuit, barley-cakes, and honey; and to end with, a flaky +pie, and Spanish cordial sprinkled with burnt sugar. With such fare and +a keen appetite, a marvelous brand-new suit of clothes, and Cicely +chattering gaily by his side, Nick could not be sulky or doleful long. +He was soon laughing; and Carew's spirits seemed to rise with the boy's.</p> + +<p>"Here, here!" he cried, as Nick was served the third time to the pie; +"art hollow to thy very toes? Why, thou'lt eat us out of house and +home--hey, Cicely? Marry come up, I think I'd best take Ned Alleyn's +five shillings for thine hire, after all! What! Five shillings? Set me +in earth and bowl me to death with boiled turnips!--do they think to +play bob-fool with me? Five shillings! A fico for their five +shillings--and this for them!" and he squeezed the end of his thumb +between his fingers. "Cicely, what dost think?--Phil Henslowe had the +face to match Jem Bristow with our Nick!"</p> + +<p>"Why, daddy, Jem hath a face like a halibut!"</p> + +<p>"And a voice like a husky crow. Why, Nick's mere shadow on the stage is +worth a ton of Jemmy Bristows. 'Twas casting pearls before swine, Nick, +to offer thee to Henslowe and Alleyn; but we've found a better trough +than theirs--hey, Cicely Goldenheart, haven't we? Thou art to be one of +Paul's boys."</p> + +<p>"Paul who?"</p> + +<p>Carew lay back in his chair and laughed. "Paul who? Why, Saint Paul, +Nick,--'tis Paul's Cathedral boys I mean. Marry, what dost say to that?"</p> + +<p>"I'd like another barley-cake."</p> + +<p>"You'd <i>what</i>?" cried the master-player, letting the front legs of his +chair come down on the floor with a thump.</p> + +<p>"I'd like another barley-cake," said Nick, quietly, helping himself to +the honey.</p> + +<p>"Upon my word, and on the remnant of mine honour!" ejaculated Carew. +"Tell a man his fortune's made, and he calls for barley-cakes! Why, +thou'dst say 'Pooh!' to a cannon-ball! My faith, boy, dost understand +what this doth mean?"</p> + +<p>"Ay," said Nick; "that I be hungry."</p> + +<p>"But, Nick, upon my soul, thou art to sing with the Children of Paul's; +to play with the cathedral company; to be a bright particular star in +the sweetest galaxy that ever shone in English sky! Dost take me yet?"</p> + +<p>"Ay," said Nick, and sopped the honey with his cake.</p> + +<p>Carew played with his glass uneasily, and tapped his heel upon the +floor. "And is that all thou hast to say--hast turned oyster? There's no +R in May--nobody will eat thee! Come, don't make a mouth as though the +honey of the world were all turned gall upon thy tongue. 'Tis the +flood-tide of thy fortune, boy! Thou art to sing before the school +to-morrow, so that Master Nathaniel Gyles may take thy range and worth. +Now, truly, thou wilt do thy very best?"</p> + +<p>The bandy-legged man had brought water in a ewer, and poured some in a +basin for Nick to wash his hands. There was a green ribbon in his ear, +and the towel hung across his arm. Nick wiped his hands in silence.</p> + +<p>"Come," said Master Carew, with an ugly sharpness in his voice, "thou'lt +sing thy very best?"</p> + +<p>"There's nothing else to do," replied Nick, doggedly.</p> + + + +<br><br><hr style="width: 35%;"><br><br> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXII"></a>CHAPTER XXII</h2> + +<h3>THE SKYLARK'S SONG</h3> +<br> + +<p>Master Nathaniel Gyles, Precentor of St. Paul's, had pipe-stem legs, and +a face like an old parchment put in a box to keep. His sandy hair was +thin and straggling, and his fine cloth hose wrinkled around his +shrunken shanks; but his eye was sharp, and he wore about his neck a +broad gold chain that marked him as no common man.</p> + +<p>For Master Nathaniel Gyles was head of the Cathedral schools of acting +and of music, and he stood upon his dignity.</p> + +<p>"My duty is laid down," said he, "in most specific terms, sir,--<i>lex +cathedralis</i>,--that is to say, by the laws of the cathedral; and has +been, sir, since the reign of Richard the Third. <i>Primus Magister +Scholarum, Custos Morum, Quartus Custos Rotulorum</i>,--so the title +stands, sir; and I know my place."</p> + +<p>He pushed Nick into the anteroom, and turned to Carew with an irritated +air.</p> + +<p>"I likewise know, sir, what is what. In plain words, Master Gaston +Carew, ye have grossly misrepresented this boy to me, to the waste of +much good time. Why, sir, he does not dance a step, and cannot act +at all."</p> + +<p>"Soft, Master Gyles--be not so fast!" said Carew, haughtily, drawing +himself up, with his hand on his poniard; "dost mean to tell me that I +have lied to thee? Marry, sir, thy tongue will run thee into a blind +alley! I told thee that the boy could sing, but not that he could act +or dance."</p> + +<p>"Pouf, sir,--words! I know my place: one peg below the dean, sir, +nothing less: '<i>Magister, et cetera'</i>--'tis so set down. And I tell +thee, sir, he has no training, not a bit; can't tell a pricksong from a +bottle of hay; doesn't know a canon from a crocodile, or a fugue from a +hole in the ground!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, fol-de-riddle de fol-de-rol! What has that to do with it? I tell +thee, sir, the boy can sing."</p> + +<p>"And, sir, I say I know my place. Music does not grow like weeds."</p> + +<p>"And fa-la-las don't make a voice."</p> + +<p>"What! How? Wilt thou teach me?" The master's voice rose angrily. "Teach +me, who learned descant and counterpoint in the Gallo-Belgic schools, +sir; the best in all the world! Thou, who knowest not a staccato from a +stick of liquorice!"</p> + +<p>Carew shrugged his shoulders impatiently. "Come, Master Gyles, this is +fool play. I told thee that the boy could sing, and thou hast not yet +heard him try. Thou knowest right well I am no such simple gull as to +mistake a jay for a nightingale; and I tell thee, sir, upon my word, +and on the remnant of mine honour, he has the voice that thou dost need +if thou wouldst win the favor of the Queen. He has the voice, and thou +the thingumbobs to make the most of it. Don't be a fool, now; hear him +sing. That's all I ask. Just hear him once. Thou'lt pawn thine ears to +hear him twice."</p> + +<p>The music-school stood within the old cathedral grounds. Through the +windows came up distantly the murmur of the throng in Paul's Yard. It +was mid-afternoon, quite warm; blundering flies buzzed up and down the +lozenged panes, and through the dark hall crept the humming sound of +childish voices reciting eagerly, with now and then a sharp, small cry +as some one faltered in his lines and had his fingers rapped. Somewhere +else there were boyish voices running scales, now up, now down, without +a stop, and other voices singing harmonies, two parts and three +together, here and there a little flat from weariness.</p> + +<p>The stairs were very dark, Nick thought, as they went up to another +floor; but the long hall they came into there was quite bright with +the sun.</p> + +<p>At one end was a little stage, like the one at the Rose play-house, with +a small gallery for musicians above it; but everything here was painted +white and gold, and was most scrupulously clean. The rush-strewn floor +was filled with oaken benches, and there were paintings hanging upon the +wall, portraits of old head-masters and precentors. Some of them were so +dark with time that Nick wondered if they had been blackamoors.</p> + +<p>Master Gyles closed the great door and pulled a cord that hung by the +stage. A bell jangled faintly somewhere in the wall. Nick heard the +muffled voices hush, and then a shuffling tramp of slippered feet came +up the outer stair.</p> + +<p>"Pouf!" said the precentor, crustily. "<i>Tempus fugit</i>--that is to say, +we have no time to waste. So, marry, boy, <i>venite, exultemus</i>--in other +words, if thou canst sing, be up and at it. Come, <i>cantate</i>--sing, I bid +thee, and that instanter--if thou canst sing at all."</p> + +<p>The under-masters and monitors were pushing the boys into their seats. +Carew pointed to the stage. "Thou'lt do thy level best!" he said in a +low, hard tone, and something clashed beneath his cloak like steel +on steel.</p> + +<p>Nick went up the steps behind the screen. It seemed cold in the room; he +had not noticed it before. Yet there were sweat-drops upon his forehead. +He felt as if he were a jackanapes he had seen once at the Stratford +fair, which wore a crimson jerkin and a cap. The man who had the +jackanapes played upon a pipe and a tabor; and when he said, "Dance!" +the jackanapes danced, for it was sorely afraid of the man. Yet when +Nick looked around and did not see the master-player anywhere in the +hall, he felt exceedingly lonely all at once without him, though he both +feared and hated him.</p> + +<p>There still was a shuffling of feet and a low talking; but soon it +became very quiet, and they all seemed to be waiting for him to begin. +He did not care, but supposed he might as well: what else could he do?</p> + +<p>There was a clock somewhere ticking quickly with its sharp, metallic +ring. As he listened, lonely, his heart cried out for home. In his +fancy the wind seemed rippling over the Avon, and the elm-leaves rustled +like rain upon the roof above his bed. There were red and white +wild-roses in the hedge, and in the air a smell of clover and of +new-mown hay. The mowers would be working in the clover in the +moonlight. He could almost see the sweep of the shining scythes, and +hear the chink-a-chank, chink-a-chank of the whetstone on the long, +curving blades. Chink-a-chank, chink-a-chank--'twas but the clock, and +he in London town.</p> + +<p>Carew, sitting there behind the carven prompter's-screen, put down his +head between his hands and listened. There were murmurings a little +while, then silence. Would the boy never begin? He pressed his knuckles +into his temples and waited. Bow Bells rang out the hour; but the room +was as still as a deep sleep. Would the boy never begin?</p> + +<p>The precentor sniffed. It was a contemptuous, incredulous sniff. Carew +looked up--his lips white, a fierce red spot in each cheek. He was +talking to himself. "By the whistle of the Lord High Admiral!" he +said--but there he stopped and held his breath. Nick was singing.</p> + +<p>Only the old madrigal, with its half-forgotten words that other +generations sang before they fell asleep. How queer it sounded there! It +was a very simple tune, too; yet, as he sang, the old precentor started +from his chair and pressed his wrinkled hands together against his +breast. He quite forgot the sneer upon his face, and it went fading out +like breath from a frosty pane.</p> + +<p>He had twelve boys who could sing a hundred songs at sight from +unfamiliar notes; who kept the beat and marked the time as if their +throats were pendulums; could syncopate and floriate as readily as +breathe. And this was only a common country song.</p> + +<p>But--"That voice, that voice!" he panted to himself: for old Nat Gyles +was music-mad; melody to him was like the very breath of life. And the +boy's high, young voice, soft as a flute and silver clear, throbbed in +the air as if his very heart were singing out of his body in the sound. +And then, like the skylark rising, up, up it went, and up, up, up, till +the older choristers held their breath and feared that the vibrant tone +would break, so slender, film-like was the trembling thread of the boy's +wild skylark song. But no; it trembled there, high, sweet, and clear, a +moment in the air; and then came running, rippling, floating down, as +though some one had set a song on fire in the sky, and dropped it +quivering and bright into a shadow world. Then suddenly it was gone, and +the long hall was still.</p> + +<p>The old precentor stepped beyond the screen.</p> + +<p>Gaston Carew's face was in his hands, and his shoulders shook +convulsively. "I'll leave thee go, lad,<i>--ma foi</i>, I'll leave thee go. +But, nay, I dare not leave thee go!"</p> + +<p>Some one came and tapped him on the shoulder. It was the sub-precentor. +"Master Gyles would speak with thee, sir," said he, in a low tone, as if +half afraid of the sound of his own voice in the quiet that was in +the hall.</p> + +<p>Carew drew his hand hastily over his face, as if to take the old one off +and put a new one on, then arose and followed the man.</p> + +<a name="Illus0352"></a> +<P class=ctr> +<a href="Images/Illus0352.jpg"> +<img src="Images/Illus0352.jpg" width = "50%" +alt=""'That voice, that voice,' Nat Gyles panted to himself.""> +</a><br> +<b>"'That voice, that voice,' Nat Gyles panted to himself."</b> +</P><br> + +<p>The old precentor stood with his hands still clasped against his +breast. "<i>Mirabile</i>!" he was saying with bated breath. "It is +impossible, and I have dreamed! Yet <i>credo</i>--I believe--<i>quia +impossibile est</i>--because it is impossible. Tell me, Carew, do I wake or +dream--or, stay, was it a soul I heard? Ay, Carew, 'twas a soul: the +lad's own white, young soul. My faith, I said he was of no account! +<i>Satis verborum</i>--say no more. <i>Humanum est errare</i>--I am a poor old +fool; and there's a sour bug flown in mine eye that makes it water so!" +He wiped his eyes, for the tears were running down his cheeks.</p> + +<p>"Thou'lt take him, then?" asked Carew.</p> + +<p>"Take him?" cried the old precentor, catching the master-player by the +hand. "Marry, that will I; a voice like that grows not on every bush. +Take him? Pouf! I know my place--he shall be entered on the rolls +at once."</p> + +<p>"Good!" said Carew. "I shall have him learn to dance, and teach him how +to act myself. He stays with me, ye understand; thy school fare is +miserly. I'll dress him, too; for these students' robes are shabby +stuff. But for the rest--"</p> + +<p>"Trust me," said Master Gyles; "he shall be the first singer of them +all. He shall be taught--but who can teach the lark its song, and not do +horrid murder on it? Faith, Carew, I'll teach the lad myself; ay, all I +know. I studied in the best schools in the world."</p> + +<p>"And, hark 'e, Master Gyles," said Carew, sternly all at once; "thou'lt +come no royal placard and seizure on me--ye have sworn. The boy is mine +to have and to hold with all that he earns, in spite of thy +prerogatives."</p> + +<p>For the kings of old had given the masters of this school the right to +take for St. Paul's choir whatever voices pleased them, wherever they +might be found, by force if not by favor, barring only the royal singers +at Windsor; and when men have such privileges it is best to be wary how +one puts temptation in their way.</p> + +<p>"Thou hadst mine oath before I even saw the boy," said the precentor, +haughtily. "Dost think me perjured--<i>Primus Magister Scholarum, Custos +Morum, Quartus Custos Rotulorum?</i> Pouf! I know my place. My oath's my +oath. But, soft; enough--here comes the boy. Who could have told a +skylark in such popinjay attire?"</p> + + + +<br><br><hr style="width: 35%;"><br><br> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXIII</h2> + +<h3>A NEW LIFE</h3> +<br> + +<p>And now a strange, new life began for Nicholas Attwood, in some things +so grand and kind that he almost hated to dislike it.</p> + +<p>It was different in every way from the simple, pinching round in +Stratford, and full of all the comforts of richness and plenty that make +life happy--excepting home and mother.</p> + +<p>Master Gaston Carew would have nothing but the best, and what he wanted, +whether he needed it or not; so with him money came like a summer rain, +and went like water out of a sieve: for he was a wild blade.</p> + +<p>They ate their breakfast when they pleased; dined at eleven, like the +nobility; supped at five, as was the fashion of the court. They had +wheat-bread the whole week round, as only rich folk could afford, with +fruit and berries in their season, and honey from the Surrey bee-farms +that made one's mouth water with the sight of it dripping from the flaky +comb; and on Fridays spitchcocked eels, pickled herrings, and plums, +with simnel-cakes, poached eggs and milk, cream cheese and cordial, +like very kings; so that Nick could not help thriving.</p> + +<p>The master-player very seldom left him by himself to mope or to be +melancholy; but, while ever vaguely promising to let him go, did +everything in his power to make him rather wish to stay; so that Nick +was constantly surprised by the free-handed kindness of this man whom he +had every other reason in the world, he thought, for deeming his +worst enemy.</p> + +<p>When there were any new curiosities in Fleet street,--wild men with +rings in their noses, wondrous fishes, puppet-shows, or red-capped +baboons whirling on a pole,--Carew would have Nick see them as well as +Cicely; and often took them both to Bartholomew's Fair, where there was +a giant eating raw beef and a man dancing upon a rope high over the +heads of the people. He would have had Nick every Thursday to the +bear-baiting in the Paris Garden circus beside; but one sight of that +brutal sport made the boy so sick that they never went again, but to the +stage-plays at the Rose instead, which Nick enjoyed immensely, for Carew +himself acted most excellently, and Master Tom Heywood always came and +spoke kindly to the lonely boy.</p> + +<p>For, in spite of all, Nick's heart ached so at times that he thought it +would surely break with longing for his mother. And at night, when all +the house was still and dark, and he alone in bed, all the little, +unconsidered things of home--the beehives and the fragrant mint beside +the kitchen door, the smell of the baking bread or frying carrots, the +sound of the red-cheeked harvest apples dropping in the orchard, and the +plump of the old bucket in the well--came back to him so vividly that +many a time he cried himself to sleep, and could not have forgotten +if he would.</p> + +<p>On Midsummer Day there was a Triumph on the river at Westminster, with a +sham-fight and a great shooting of guns and hurling of balls of +wild-fire. The Queen was there, and the ambassadors of France and +Venice, with the Duke of Lennox and the Earls of Arundel and +Southampton. Master Carew took a wherry to Whitehall, and from the green +there they watched the show.</p> + +<p>The Thames was fairly hidden by the boats, and there was a grand state +bark all trimmed with silk and velvet for the Queen to be in to see the +pastime. But as for that, all Nick could make out was the high carved +stern of the bark, painted with England's golden lions, and the bark was +so far away that he could not even tell which was the Queen.</p> + +<p>Coming home by Somerset House, a large barge passed them with many +watermen rowing, and fine carpets about the seats; and in it the old +Lord Chamberlain and his son my Lord Hunsdon, who, it was said, was to +be the Lord Chamberlain when his father died; for the old lord was +failing, and the Queen liked handsome young men about her.</p> + +<p>In the barge, beside their followers, were a company of richly dressed +gentlemen, who were having a very gay time together, and seemed to +please the old Lord Chamberlain exceedingly with the things they said. +They were somebodies, as Nick could very well see from their carriage +and address; and, so far as the barge allowed, they were all clustered +about one fellow in the seat by my Lord Hunsdon. He seemed to be the +chiefest spokesman of them all, and every one appeared very glad indeed +to be friendly with him. My Lord Hunsdon himself made free with his own +nobility, and sat beside him arm in arm.</p> + +<p>What he was saying they were too far away to hear in the shouting and +splash; but those with him in the barge were listening as eagerly as +children to a merry tale. Sometimes they laughed until they held their +sides; and then again as suddenly they were very quiet, and played +softly with their tankards and did not look at one another as he went +gravely on telling his story. Then all at once he would wave his hand +gaily, and his smile would sparkle out; and the whole company, from the +old Lord Chamberlain down, would brighten up again, as if a new dawn had +come over the hills into their hearts from the light of his hazel eyes.</p> + +<p>Nick made no doubt that this was some young earl rolling in wealth; for +who else could have such listeners? Yet there was, nevertheless, +something so familiar in his look that he could not help staring at him +as the barge came thumping through the jam.</p> + +<p>They passed along an oar's-length or two away; and as they came abeam, +Carew, rising, doffed his hat, and bowed politely to them all.</p> + +<p>In spite of his wild life, he was a striking, handsome man.</p> + +<p>The old Lord Chamberlain said something to his son, and pointed with his +hand. All the company in the barge turned round to look; and he who had +been talking stood up quickly with his hand upon the young lord's arm, +and, smiling, waved his cap.</p> + +<p>Nick gave a sharp cry.</p> + +<p>Then the barge pushed through, and shot away down stream like a wild +swan.</p> + +<p>"Why, Nick," exclaimed Cicely, "how dreadful thou dost look!" and, +frightened, she caught him by the hand. "Why, oh!--what is it, +Nick--thou art not ill?"</p> + +<p>"It was Will Shakspere!" cried Nick, and sank into the bottom of the +wherry with his head upon the master-player's knee. "Oh, Master Carew," +he cried, "will ye never leave me go?"</p> + +<p>Carew laid his hand upon the boy's head, and patted it gently.</p> + +<p>"Why, Nick," said he, and cleared his throat, "is not this better than +Stratford?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, Master Carew--mother's there!" was the reply.</p> + +<p>There was no sound but the thud of oars in the rowlocks and the hollow +bubble of the water at the stern, for they had fallen out of the hurry +and were coming down alone.</p> + +<p>"Is thy mother a good woman, Nick?" asked Cicely.</p> + +<p>Carew was staring out into the fading sky. "Ay, sweetheart," he answered +in a queer, husky voice, suddenly putting one arm about her and the +other around Nick's shoulders. "None but a good mother could have so +good a son."</p> + +<p>"Then thou wilt send him home, daddy?" asked Cicely.</p> + +<p>Carew took her hand in his, but answered nothing.</p> + +<p>They had come to the landing.</p> + + + +<br><br><hr style="width: 35%;"><br><br> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXIV</h2> + +<h3>THE MAKING OF A PLAYER</h3> +<br> + +<p>Master Will Shakspere was in town! The thought ran through Nick +Attwood's head like a half-remembered tune. Once or twice he had all but +sung it instead of the words of his part. Master Will Shakspere was +in town!</p> + +<p>Could he but just find Master Shakspere, all his trouble would be over; +for the husband of his mother's own cousin would see justice done him in +spite of the master-player and the bandy-legged man with the ribbon in +his ear--of that he was sure.</p> + +<p>But there seemed small chance of its coming about; for the doors of +Gaston Carew's house were locked and barred by day and by night, as much +to keep Nick in as to keep thieves out; and all day long, when Carew was +away, the servants went about the lower halls, and Gregory Goole's +uncanny face peered after him from every shadowy corner; and when he +went with Carew anywhere, the master-player watched him like a hawk, +while always at his heels he could hear the clump, clump, clump of the +bandy-legged man following after him.</p> + +<p>Even were he free to go as he pleased, he knew not where to turn; for +the Lord Chamberlain's company would not be at the Blackfriars +play-house until Martinmas; and before that time to look for even Master +Will Shakspere at random in London town would be worse than hunting for +a needle in a haystack.</p> + +<p>To be sure, he knew that the Lord Chamberlain's men were still playing +at the theater in Shoreditch; for Master Carew had taken Cicely there to +see the "Two Gentlemen of Verona." But just where Shoreditch was, Nick +had only the faintest idea--somewhere away off by Finsbury Fields, +beyond the city walls to the north of London town--and all the wide +world seemed north of London town; and the way thither lay through a +bewildering tangle of streets in which the din and the rush of the crowd +were never still.</p> + +<p>From a hopeless chase like that Nick shrank back like a snail into its +shell. He was not too young to know that there were worse things than to +be locked in Gaston Carew's house. It were better to be a safe-kept +prisoner there than to be lost in the sinks of London. And so, knowing +this, he made the best of it.</p> + +<p>But Master Shakspere was come back to town, and that was something. It +seemed somehow less lonely just to think of it.</p> + +<p>Yet in truth he had but little time to think of it; for the +master-player kept him closely at his strange, new work, and taught him +daily with the most amazing patience.</p> + +<p>He had Nick learn no end of stage parts off by heart, with their cues +and "business," entrances and exits; and worked fully as hard as his +pupil, reading over every sentence twenty times until Nick had the +accent perfectly. He would have him stamp, too, and turn about, and +gesture in accordance with the speech, until the boy's arms ached, going +with him through the motions one by one, over and over again, +unsatisfied, but patient to the last, until Nick wondered. "Nick, my +lad," he would often say, with a tired but determined smile, "one little +thing done wrong may spoil the finest play, as one bad apple rots the +barrelful. We'll have it right, or not at all, if it takes a month +of Sundays."</p> + +<p>So, often, he kept Nick before a mirror for an hour at a time, making +faces while he spoke his lines, smiling, frowning, or grimacing as best +seemed to fit the part, until the boy grew fairly weary of his own +looks. Then sometimes, more often as the time slipped by, Carew would +clap his hands with a boyish laugh, and have a pie brought and a cup of +Spanish cordial for them both, declaring that he loved the lad with all +his heart, upon the remnant of his honour: from which Nick knew that he +was coming on.</p> + +<p>Cicely Carew's governess was a Mistress Agnes Anstey. By birth she had +been a Harcourt of Ankerwyke, and she was therefore everywhere esteemed +fit by birth and breeding to teach the young mind when to bow and when +to beckon. She came each morning to the house, and Carew paid her double +shillings to see to it that Nick learned such little tricks of cap and +cloak as a lady's page need have, the carriage best fitted for his +place, and how to come into a room where great folks were. Moreover, how +to back out again, bowing, and not fall over the stools--which was no +little art, until Nick caught the knack of peeping slyly between his +legs when he bowed.</p> + +<p>His hair, too, was allowed to grow long, and was combed carefully every +day by the tiring-woman; and soon, as it was naturally curly, it fell in +rolling waves about his neck.</p> + +<p>On the heels of the governess came M'sieu de Fleury, who, it was said, +had been dancing-master to Hatton, the late Lord Chancellor of England, +and had taught him those tricks with his nimble heels which had capered +him into the Queen's good graces, and so got him the chancellorship. +M'sieu spoke dreadful English, but danced like the essence of agility, +and taught both Nick and Cicely the latest Italian coranto, playing the +tune upon his queer little pochette.</p> + +<p>Cicely already danced like a pixy, and laughed merrily at her comrade's +first awkward antics, until he flushed with embarrassment. At that she +instantly became grave, and, when M'sieu had gone, came across the room, +and putting her arm about Nick, said repentantly, "Don't thou mind me, +Nick. Father saith the French all laugh too soon at nothing; and I have +caught it from my mother's blood. A boy is not good friends with his +feet as a girl is; but thou wilt do beautifully, I know; and M'sieu +shall teach us the galliard together."</p> + +<p>And often, after the lesson was over and M'sieu departed, she would +have Nick try his steps over and over again in the great room, while she +stood upon the stool to make her tall, and cried, "Sa--sa!" as the +master did, scolding and praising him by turns, or jumping down in +pretty impatience to tuck up her little silken skirts and show him the +step herself; while the cook's knave and the scullery-maids peeped at +the door and cried: "La, now, look 'e, Moll!" at every coupee.</p> + +<p>It made a picture quaint and pretty to see them dancing there. The smoky +light, stealing in through the narrow casements over the woodwork dark +with age, dropped in little yellow chequers upon old chests of oak, of +walnut, and of strange, purple-black wood from foreign lands, giving a +weird life to the griffins and twisted traceries carved upon their +sides. High-backed, narrow chairs stood along the wall, with cushioned +stools inlaid with shell. Twinklings of light glinted from the brass +candlesticks. On the wall above the wainscot the faded hangings wavered +in the draught, crusted thickly with strange embroidered flowers. And +dancing there together in the semi-gloom, the children seemed quaint +little figures stepped down from the tapestry at the touch of a +magic wand.</p> + +<p>And so the time went slipping by, very pleasantly upon the whole, and +Nick's young heart grew stout again within his breast; for he was strong +and well, and in those days the very air was full of hope, and no man +knew what might betide with the rising of to-morrow's sun.</p> + +<p>Every day, from two till three o'clock, he was at Master Gyles's +private singing-room at the old cathedral school, learning to read music +at first sight, and to sing offhand the second, third, and fourth parts +of queer intermingled fugues or wonderfully constructed canons.</p> + +<p>At first his head felt stuffed like a feasted glutton with all the +learning that the old precentor poured into it; but by and by he found +it plain enough, and no very difficult thing to follow up the prickings +in the paper with his voice, and to sing parts written at fifths and +fourths and thirds with other voices as easily as to carry a song alone. +But still he sang best his own unpointed songs, the call and challenge +of the throstle and the merle, the morning glory of the lark, songs that +were impossible to write. And those were the songs that the precentor +was at the greatest pains to have him sing in perfect tones, making him +open his mouth like a little round and let the music float out +of itself.</p> + +<p>Like the master-player, nothing short of perfection pleased old +Nathaniel Gyles, and Nick's voice often wavered with sheer weariness as +he ran his endless scales and sang absurd fa-la-la-las while his teacher +beat the time in the air with his lean forefinger like a grim automaton.</p> + +<p>The old man, too, was chary of his praise, though Nick tried hard to +please him, and it was only by little things he told his satisfaction. +He touzed the ears of the other boys, and sometimes smartly thumped +their crowns; but with Nick he only nipped his ruddy cheek between his +thumb and finger, or laid his hand upon his shoulder when the hard day's +work was done, saying, "<i>Satis cantorum</i>--it is enough. Now be off to +thy nest, sir; and do not forget to wash thy throat with good cold water +every day."</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;"> + +<p>All this time the busy sand kept running in the glass. July was gone, +and August at its heels. The hot breath of the summer had cooled, and +the sun no longer burned the face when it came in through the windows. +Nick often shut his eyes and let the warm light fall upon his closed +lids. It made a ruddy glow like the wild red poppies that grow in the +pale green rye. In fancy he could almost smell the queer, rancid odor of +the crimson bloom crushed beneath the feet of the farmers' boys who cut +the butter-yellow mustard from among the bearded grain.</p> + +<p>"Heigh-ho and alackaday!" thought Nick. "It is better in the country +than in town!" For there was no smell in all the town like the clean, +sweet smell of the open fields just after a summer rain, no colors like +the bright heart's-ease and none-so-pretty, or the honeysuckle over the +cottage door, and no song ever to be heard among the sooty chimney-pots +like the song of the throstle piping to the daisies on the hill.</p> + +<p>But he had little time to dream such dreams, for every day from four to +six o'clock the children's company played and sang in public, at their +own school-hall, or in the courtyard of the Mitre Inn on Bread street +near St. Paul's.</p> + +<p>They were the pets of London town, and their playing-place was thronged +day after day. For the bright young faces and sweet, unbroken voices of +the richly costumed lads made a spot in sordid London life like a pot of +posies in a window on a dark street; so that both the high and the low, +the rich and the poor, came in to see them play and dance, to hear them +sing, and to laugh again at the witty things which were written for +them to say.</p> + +<p>The songs that were set for Nick to sing were always short, sweet, +simple things that even the dull-eyed, toil-worn folk upon the rough +plank benches in the pit could understand. Many a silver shilling came +clinking down at the heels of the other boys from the galleries of the +inn, where the people of the better classes, wealthy merchants, ladies +and their dashing gallants, watched the children's company; but when +Nick's songs were done the common people down below seemed all gone +daft. They tossed red apples after him, ripe yellow pears, fat purple +plums by handfuls, called him by name and brought him back, and cried +for more and more and more, until the old precentor shook his head +behind the prompters-screen, and waved Nick off with a forbidding frown. +Yet all the while he chuckled to himself until it seemed as if his dry +old ribs would rattle in his sides; and every day, before Nick sang, he +had him up to his little room for a broken egg and a cup of +rosy cordial.</p> + +<p>"To clear thy voice and to cheer the cockles of thine heart," said he; +"and to tune that pretty throat of thine <i>ad gustum Reginae</i>--which is +to say, 'to the Queen's own taste,'--God bless Her Majesty!"</p> + +<p>The other boys were cast for women's parts, for women never acted then; +and a queer sight it was to Nick to see his fellows in great +farthingales of taffeta and starchy cambric that rustled as they +walked, with popinjay blue ribbon in their hair, and flowered stomachers +sparkling with paste jewels.</p> + +<p>And, truth, it was no easy thing to tell them from the real affair, or +to guess the made from the maiden, so slender and so graceful were they +all, with their ruffs and their muffs and their feathered fans, and all +the airs and mincing graces of the daintiest young miss.</p> + +<p>But old Nat Gyles would never have Nick Attwood play the girl. "The lad +is good enough for me just as he is," said he; and that was all there +was of it.</p> + + + +<br><br><hr style="width: 35%;"><br><br> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXV"></a>CHAPTER XXV</h2> + +<h3>THE WANING OF THE YEAR</h3> +<br> + +<p>In September the Lord Admiral's company made a tour of the Midlands +during the great English fairing-time; but Carew did not go with them. +For, though still by name master-player with Henslowe and Alleyn, his +business with them had come to be but little more than pocketing his +share of the profits; and for the rest, nothing but to take Nick daily +to and from St. Paul's, and to draw his wages week by week.</p> + +<p>Of those wages Nick saw never a penny: Carew took good care of that. Yet +he gave him everything that any boy could need, and bought him whatever +he fancied the instant he so much as expressed a wish for it: which, in +truth, was not much; for Nick had lived in only a country town, and knew +not many things to want.</p> + +<p>But with money a-plenty thus coming so easily into his hands,--money for +dicing, for luxuries, for all his wild sports, money for Cicely, money +for keeps, money to play chuckie-stones with if he chose,--there was no +bridle to Gaston Carew's wild career. His boon companions were +spendthrifts and gamesters, dissolute fellows, of whom the least said +soonest mended; and with them he was brawling early and late, very often +all night long. And though money came in fast, he wasted it faster, so +that matters went from bad to worse. Duns came spying about his door, +and bailiffs hunted after him around the town with unpaid tradesmen's +bills. Yet still he laughed and clapped his hand upon his poniard in the +old bold way.</p> + +<p>September faded away in wistful haze along the Hampstead hills. The +Admiral's men came riding back with keen October ringing at their heels, +and all the stalls were full of red-cheeked apples striped with emerald +and gold. November followed, with its nipping frost, and all St. +George's merry green fields turned brown and purple-gray. The old year +was waning fast.</p> + +<p>The Queen's Day was but a poor holiday, in spite of the shut-up shops; +for it was grown so cold with sleet and rain that it was hard to get +about, the gutters and streets being very foul, and the by-lanes +impassable. And now the children of Paul's gave no more plays in the +yard of the Mitre Inn, but sang in their own warm hall; for winter +was at hand.</p> + +<p>There came black nights when an ugly wind moaned in the shivering +chimneys and howled across the peaked roofs, nights when there was no +playing at the Rose, but it was hearty to be by the fire. Then sometimes +Carew sat at home all evening long, with Cicely upon his knee, and told +strange tales of lands across the sea, where he had traveled when he was +young, and where none spoke English but chance travelers, and even the +loudest shouting could not serve to make the people understand.</p> + +<p>While he spun these wondrous yarns Nick would curl up on the hearth and +blow the crackling fire, sometimes staring at the master-player's +stories, sometimes laughing to himself at the funny faces carved upon +the sides of the chubby Dutch bellows, and sometimes neither laughing +nor listening, but thinking silently of home. Then Carew, looking at him +there, would quickly turn his face away and tell another tale.</p> + +<p>But oftener the master-player stayed all night at the Falcon Inn with +Dick Jones, Tom Hearne, Humphrey Jeffs, and other reckless roysterers, +dicing and flipping shillings at shovel-board until his finger-nails +were sore. Then Nick would read aloud to Cicely out of the "Hundred +Merry Tales," or pop old riddles at her puzzled head until she, +laughing, cried, "Enough!" But most of all he liked the story of brave +Guy of Warwick, and would tell it again and again, with other legends of +Arden Wood, till bedtime came.</p> + +<p>In the gray of the morning Carew would come home, unshaven and +leaden-eyed, with his bandy-legged varlet trotting like a watch-dog at +his heels; and then, if the gaming had gone well, he was a lord, an +earl, a duke, at least, so merry and so sprightly would he be withal; +but if the dice had fallen wrong, he would by turns be raving mad or +sodden as a sunken pie.</p> + +<p>Yet, be his temper what it might, he was but one thing always to Cicely, +and doffed ill humor like a shabby hat when she came running to meet +him in the shadows of the hall; so that when he came into the lighted +room, with her upon his shoulder, his face was smiles, his step a +frolic, and his bearing that of a happy boy.</p> + +<p>But day by day the weather grew worse, with snow and ice paving the +streets with a glassy glare and choking the frozen drains; and there was +trouble and want among the poor in the wretched alleys near Carew's +house: for fuel was high and food scarce, and there were many deaths, so +that the knell was tolling constantly.</p> + +<p>Cicely cried until her eyes were red for the very sadness of it all, +since she might do nothing for them, and hated the sound of the +sullen bell.</p> + +<p>"Pshaw, Cicely!" said Nick; "why should ye cry? Ye do na know them; so +ye need na care."</p> + +<p>"But, Nick," said she, "<i>nobody</i> seems to care! And, sure, <i>somebody</i> +ought to care; for it may be some one's mother that is dead."</p> + +<p>At that Nick felt a very queer choking in his own throat, and did not +rest quite easy in his mind until he had given the silver buckle from +his cloak to a boy who stood crying with cold and hunger in the street, +and begged a farthing of him for the love of the good God.</p> + +<p>Then came a thaw, with mist and fog so thick that people were lost in +their own streets, and knocked at their next-door neighbor's gate to ask +the way home. All day long, down by the Thames drums beat upon the +wharves and bells ding-donged to guide the watermen ashore; but most of +those who needs must fare abroad went over London Bridge, because +there, although they might in no wise see, it felt, at least, as if the +world were still beneath their feet.</p> + +<p>At noon the air was muddy brown, with a bitter taste like watered smoke; +at night it was a blinding pall; and though, after mid-December, by +order of the Council, every alderman and burgess hung a light before his +door, torches, links, and candles only sputtered feebly in the gloom, of +no more use than jack-o'-lanterns gone astray, and none but blind men +knew the roads.</p> + +<p>The city watch was doubled everywhere; and all night long their shouts +went up and down--"'Tis what o'clock, and a foggy night!"--and right and +left their hurrying staves came thumping helplessly along the walls to +answer cries of "Murder!" and of "Help! Watch! Help!" For under cover of +the fog great gangs of thieves came down from Hampstead Heath, and +robberies were done in the most frequented thoroughfares, between the +very lights set up by the corporation; so that it was dangerous to go +about save armed and wary as a cat in a crowd.</p> + +<p>While such foul days endured there was no singing at St. Paul's, +nor stage-plays anywhere, save at Blackfriars play-house, +which was roofed against the weather. And even there at last the fog +crept in through cracks and crannies until the players seemed but moving +shadows talking through a choking cloud; and Master Will Shakspere's +famous new piece of "Romeo and Juliet," which had been playing to +crowded houses, taking ten pound twelve the day, was fairly smothered +off the boards. Nick was eager to be out in all this blindman's +holiday; but, "Nay," said Carew; "not so much as thy nose. A fog like +this would steal the croak from a raven's throat, let alone the +sweetness from a honey-pot like thine--and bottom crust is the end of +pie!" With which, bang went the door, creak went the key, and Carew was +off to the Falcon Inn.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;"> + +<p>So went the winter weather, and so went Carew; for there was no denying +that both had fallen into a very bad way. Yet another change came +creeping over Carew all unaware.</p> + +<p>Nick's face had from the first attracted him; and now, living with the +boy day after day, housed up, a prisoner, yet cheerful through it all, +the master-player began to feel what in a better man had been the prick +of conscience, but in him was only an indefinite uneasiness like a +blunted cockle-bur. For the lad's patient perseverance at his work, his +delight in singing, and the tone of longing threaded through his voice, +crept into the master-player's heart in spite of him; and Nick's gentle +ways with Cicely touched him more than all the rest: for if there was +one thing in all the world that Gaston Carew truly loved, it was his +daughter Cicely. So for her sake, as well as for Nick's own, the +master-player came to love the lad. And this was shown in queer ways.</p> + +<p>In the wainscot of the dining-hall there was a carven panel just above +the Spanish chest. At night, when the house was still and all the rest +asleep, Carew often came and stood before this panel, with a queer, +hesitating look upon his hard, bold face; and stretching out his hand, +would press upon the head of a cherub cut in the bevel edge. Whereupon +the panel slipped away within the wainscot, leaving a little closet in +the hollow of the wall, in which a few strange things were stowed: an +empty flask, an inlaid rosewood box, a little slipper, and a dusty +gittern with its strings all snapped and a faded ribbon tied about +its neck.</p> + +<p>The rosewood box he would take down, and with it open in his lap would +sit beside the fire like a man within a dream, until the hearth grew +white and cold, and the draught had blown the ashes out in streaks +across the floor. In the box was a woman's riding-glove and a miniature +upon ivory, Cicely's mother's face, painted at Paris in other days.</p> + +<p>One night, while they were sitting all together by the fire, Nick and +Cicely snug in the chimney-seat, Carew spoke up suddenly out of a little +silence which had fallen upon them all. "Nick," said he, quite softly, +with a look on his face as if he were thinking of other things, "I +wonder if thou couldst play?"</p> + +<p>"What, sir?" asked Nick; "a game?" and made the bellows whistle in his +mouth.</p> + +<p>"Nay, lad; a gittern."</p> + +<p>Nick and Cicely looked up, for his manner was very odd.</p> + +<p>"Why, sir, I do na know. I could try. I ha' heard one played, and it is +passing sweet." "Ay, Nick, 'tis passing sweet," said Carew, +quickly--and no more; but spoke of France, how the lilies grow in the +ditches there, and the tall trees stand like soldiers by the road that +runs to the land of sunny hills and wine; and of the radiant women +there, with hair like night and eyes like the summer stars. Then all at +once he stopped as if some one had clapped a hand upon his mouth, and +sat and stared into the fire.</p> + +<p>But in the morning at breakfast there was a gittern at Nick's place--a +rare old yellow gittern, with silver scrolls about the tail-piece, ivory +pegs, and a head that ended in an angel's face. It was strung with +bright new silver strings, but near the bridge of it there was a little +rut worn into the wood by the tips of the fingers that had rested there +while playing, and the silken shoulder-ribbon was faded and worn.</p> + +<p>Nick stopped, then put out both his hands as if to touch it, yet did +not, being half afraid.</p> + +<p>"Tut, take it up!" said Carew, sharply, though he had not seemed to +heed. "Take it up--it is for thee."</p> + +<p>"For me?" cried Nick--"not for mine own?"</p> + +<p>Carew turned and struck the table with his hand, as if suddenly wroth. +"Why should I say it was for thee? if it were not to be thine own?"</p> + +<p>"But, Master Carew--" Nick began.</p> + +<p>"'Master Carew' fiddlesticks! Hold thy prate. Do I know my own mind, or +do I filter my wits through thee? Did I not say that it is thine? Good, +then--'tis thine, although it were thrice somebody else's; and thrice as +much thy very own through having other owners. Dost hear? Well, then, +enough--we'll have no words about it!"</p> + +<p>Rising abruptly as he spoke, he clapped his hat upon his head and left +the room, Nick standing there beside the table, staring after him, with +the gittern in his hands.</p> + + + +<br><br><hr style="width: 35%;"><br><br> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVI"></a>CHAPTER XXVI</h2> + +<h3>TO SING BEFORE THE QUEEN</h3> +<br> + +<blockquote> +"Sir Fly hangs dead on the window-pane;<br> + The frost doth wind his shroud;<br> +Through the halls of his little summer house<br> + The north wind cries aloud.<br> +We will bury his bones in the mouldy wall,<br> + And mourn for the noble slain:<br> +A southerly wind and a sunny sky--<br> + Buzz! up he comes again!<br> + Oh, Master Fly!"<br> +</blockquote> + +<p>Nick looked up from the music-rack and shivered. He had forgotten the +fire in studying his song, and the blackened ends of the burnt-out logs +lay smouldering on the hearth. The draught, too, whistled shrilly under +the door, in spite of the rushes that he had piled along the crack.</p> + +<p>The fog had been gone for a week. It was snapping cold; and through the +peep-holes he had thawed upon the window-pane with his breath, he could +see the hoar-frost lying in the shadow of the wall in the court below.</p> + +<p>How forlorn the green old dial looked out there alone in the cold, with +the winter dust whirling around it in little eddies upon the wind! The +dial was fringed with icicles, like an old man's beard; and even the +creeping shadow on its face, which told mid-afternoon, seemed frozen +where it fell.</p> + +<p>Mid-afternoon already, and he so much to do! Nick pulled his cloak about +him, and turned to his song again:</p> + +<blockquote> +"Sir Fly hangs dead on the window-pane;<br> + The frost doth wind his shroud--"<br> +</blockquote> + +<p>But there he stopped; for the boys were singing in the great hall below, +and the whole house rang with the sound of the roaring chorus:</p> + +<blockquote> +"Down-a-down, hey, down-a-down,<br> + Hey derry derry down-a-down!"<br> +</blockquote> + +<p>Nick put his fingers in his ears, and began all over again:</p> + +<blockquote> +"Sir Fly hangs dead on the window-pane;<br> + The frost doth wind his shroud;<br> +Through the halls of his little summer house<br> + The north wind cries aloud."<br> +</blockquote> + +<p>But it was no use; all he could hear was:</p> + +<blockquote> +"Down-a-down, hey, down-a-down,<br> + Hey derry derry down-a-down!"<br> +</blockquote> + +<p>How could a fellow study in a noise like that? He gave it up in despair, +and kicking the chunks together, stood upon the hearth, warming his +hands by the gathering blaze while he listened to the song:</p> + +<blockquote> +"Cold's the wind, and wet's the rain;<br> + Saint Hugh, be our good speed!<br> +Ill is the weather that bringeth no gain,<br> + Nor helps good hearts in need.<br><br> + +"Down-a-down, hey, down-a-down,<br> + Hey derry derry down-a-down!"<br> +</blockquote> + +<p>He could hear Colley Warren above them all. What a voice the boy had! +Like a golden horn blowing in the fresh of a morning breeze. It made +Nick tingle, he could not tell why. He and Colley often sang together, +and their voices made a quivering in the air like the ringing of a bell. +And often, while they sang, the viols standing in the corner of the room +would sound aloud a deep, soft note in harmony with them, although +nobody had touched the strings; so that the others cried out that the +instruments were bewitched, and would not let the boys sing any more. +Colley Warren was Nick's best friend--a dark-eyed, quiet lad, as gentle +as a girl, and with a mouth like a girl's mouth, for which the others +sometimes mocked him, though they loved him none the less.</p> + +<p>It was not because his voice was loud that it could be so distinctly +heard; but it was nothing like the rest, and came through all the others +like sunshine through a mist. Nick pulled the stool up closer, and sat +down in the chimney-corner, humming a second to the tune, and blowing +little glory-holes in the embers with the bellows. He liked the smell +of a wood fire, and liked to toast his toes. He was a trifle drowsy, +too, now that he was warm again to the marrow of his bones; perhaps he +dozed a little.</p> + +<p>But suddenly he came to himself again with a sense of a great stillness +fallen over everything--no singing in the room below, and silence +everywhere but in the court, where there was a trampling as of horses +standing at the gate. And while he was still lazily wondering, a great +cheer broke out in the room below, and there was a stamping of feet like +cattle galloping over a bridge; and then, all at once, the door opened +into the hallway at the foot of the stair, and the sound burst out as +fire bursts from the cock-loft window of a burning barn, and through the +noise and over it Colley Warren's voice calling him by name: "Skylark! +Nick Skylark! Ho there, Nick! where art thou?"</p> + +<p>He sprang to the door and kicked the rushes away. All the hall was full +of voices, laughing, shouting, singing, and cheering. There were +footsteps coming up the stair. "What there, Skylark! Ho, boy! Nick, +where art thou?" he could hear Colley calling above them all. Out he +popped his nose: "Here I am, Colley--what's to do? <i>Whatever in the +world!</i>" and he ducked his head like a mandarin; for whizz--flap! two +books came whirling up the stair and thumped against the panel by +his ears.</p> + +<p>"The news--the news, Nick! Have ye heard the news?" the lads were +shouting as if possessed. "We're going to court! Hurrah, hurrah!" And +some, with their arms about one another, went whirling out at the door +and around the windy close like very madcaps, cutting such capers that +the horses standing at the gate kicked up their heels, and jerked the +horse-boys right and left like bundles of hay.</p> + +<p>Nick leaned over the railing and stared.</p> + +<p>"Come down and help us sing!" they cried. "Come down and shout with us +in the street!"</p> + +<p>"I can na come down--there's work to do!"</p> + +<p>"Thy 'can na' be hanged, and thy work likewise! Come down and sing, or +we'll fetch thee down. The Queen hath sent for us!"</p> + +<p>"The Queen--hath sent--for us?"</p> + +<p>"Ay, sent for us to come to court and play on Christmas day! Hurrah for +Queen Bess!"</p> + +<p>At that shrill cheer the startled horses fairly plunged into the street, +and the carts that were passing along the way were jammed against the +opposite wall. The carriers bellowed, the horse-boys bawled, the people +came running to see the row, and the apprentices flew out of the shops +bareheaded, waving their dirty aprons and cheering lustily, just for the +fun of the chance to cheer.</p> + +<p>"It's true!" called Colley, his dark eyes dancing like stars on the sea. +"Come down, Nick, and sing in the street with us all! We are going to +Greenwich Palace on Christmas day to play before the Queen and the +court--for the first time, Nick, in a good six years; and we're not to +work till the new masque comes from the Master of the Revels! Come down, +Nick, and sing with us out in the street; for we're going to court, we're +going to court to sing before the Queen! Hurrah, hurrah!"</p> + +<p>"Hurrah for good Queen Bess!" cried Nick; and up went his cap and down +went he on the baluster-rail like a runaway sled, head first into the +crowd, who caught him laughing as he came. Then all together they +cantered out like a parcel of colts in a fresh, green field, and sang in +the street before the school till the people cheered themselves hoarse +to hear such music on such a wintry day; sang until there was no other +business on all the thoroughfare but just to listen to their songs; sang +until the under-masters came out with their staves and drove them into +the school again, to keep them from straining their throats by singing +so loudly and so long in the frosty open air.</p> + +<p>But a fig for staves and for under-masters! The boys clapped fast the +gates behind them, and barred the under-masters out in the street, +singing twice as loudly as before, and mocking at them with wry faces +through the bars; and then trooped off up the old precentor's private +stair and sang at his door until the old man could not hear his own +ears, and came out storming and grim as grief.</p> + +<p>But when he saw the boys all there, and heard them cheering him three +times three, he could not storm to save his life, but only stood there, +black and thin, against the yellow square of light, smiling a quaint +smile that half was wrinkles and half was pride, shaking his lean +forefinger at them as if he were beating time, and nodding until his +head seemed almost nodding off.</p> + +<p>"Hurrah for Master Nathaniel Gyles!" they shouted.</p> + +<p>"<i>Primus Magister Scholarum, Custos Morum, Quartus Custos Rotulorum</i>," +said the old man softly to himself, the firelight from behind him +falling in a glory on his thin white hair. "Be off, ye rogues! Ye are +not fit to waste good language on; or, faith, I'd Latin ye all as dumb +as fishes in the depths of the briny sea!"</p> + +<p>"Hurrah for the fishes in the sea!"</p> + +<p>"Soft, ye knaves! Save thy throats for good Queen Bess!"</p> + +<p>"Hurrah for good Queen Bess!"</p> + +<p>"Be still, I say, ye good-for-nothing varlets; or ye sha'n't have pie +and ale to-night. But marry, now, ye <i>shall</i> have pie--ay, pie and ale +without a stint; for ye are good lads, and ye have pleased the Queen at +last; and I am as proud of ye as a peacock is of his own tail!"</p> + +<p>"Hurrah for the Queen--and the pie--and the ale! Hurrah for the peacock +and his tail!" shouted the boys; and straightway, seeing that they had +made a rhyme, they gave a cheer shriller and longer than all the others +put together, and went clattering down the stairway, singing at the top +of their lungs:</p> + +<blockquote> +Hurrah for the Queen, and the pie and the ale!<br> +Hurrah for the peacock, hurrah for his tail!<br> +Hurrah for hurrah, and hurrah again--<br> +We're going to court on Christmas day<br> + To sing before the Queen!"<br> +</blockquote> + +<p>"Good lads, good lads!" said the old precentor to himself, as he turned +back into his little room. His eyes were shining proudly in the +candle-light, yet the tears were running down his cheeks. A queer old +man, Nat Gyles, and dead this many a long, long year; yet that night no +man was happier than he.</p> + +<p>But Master Gaston Carew, who had come for Nick, stood in the gathering +dusk by the gate below, and stared up at the yellow square of light with +a troubled look upon his reckless face.</p> + + + +<br><br><hr style="width: 35%;"><br><br> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVII"></a>CHAPTER XXVII</h2> + +<h3>THE QUEEN'S PLAISANCE</h3> +<br> + +<p>It was a frosty morning when they all marched down to the boats that +bumped along Paul's wharf.</p> + +<p>The roofs of London were white with frost and rosy with the dawn. In the +shadow of the walls the air lay in still pools of smoky blue; and in the +east the horizon stretched like a swamp of fire. The winking lights on +London Bridge were pale. The bridge itself stood cold and gray, +mysterious and dim as the stream below, but here and there along its +crest red-hot with a touch of flame from the burning eastern sky. Out of +the river, running inland with the tide, came steamy shreds that drifted +here and there. Then over the roofs of London town the sun sprang up +like a thing of life, and the veil of twilight vanished in bright day +with a million sparkles rippling on the stream.</p> + +<p>Warm with piping roast and cordial, keen with excitement, and blithe +with the sharp, fresh air, the red-cheeked lads skipped and chattered +along the landing like a flock of sparrows alighted by chance in a land +of crumbs.</p> + +<p>"Into the wherries, every one!" cried the old precentor. <i>"Ad unum +omnes</i>, great and small!"</p> + +<p>"Into the wherries!" echoed the under-masters.</p> + +<p>"Into the wherries, my bullies!" roared old Brueton the boatman, fending +off with a rusty hook as red as his bristling beard. "Into the wherries, +yarely all, and we's catch the turn o' the tide! 'Tis gone high +water now!"</p> + +<p>Then away they went, three wherries full, and Master Gyles behind them +in a brisk sixpenny tilt-boat, resplendent in new ash-colored hose, a +cloak of black velvet fringed with gold, and a brand-new periwig curled +and frizzed like a brush-heap in a gale of wind.</p> + +<p>How they had worked for the last few days! New songs, new dances, new +lines to learn; gallant compliments for the Queen, who was as fond of +flattery as a girl; new clothes, new slippers and caps to try, and a +thousand what-nots more. The school had hummed like a busy mill from +morning until night. And now that the grinding was done and they had +come at last to their reward,--the hoped-for summons to the court, which +had been sought so long in vain,--the boys of St. Paul's bubbled with +glee until the under-masters were in a cold sweat for fear their +precious charges would pop from the wherries into the Thames, like so +many exuberant corks.</p> + +<p>They cheered with delight as London Bridge was shot and the boats went +flying down the Pool, past Billingsgate and the oystermen, the White +Tower and the Traitors' Gate, past the shipping, where brown, +foreign-looking faces stared at them above sea-battered bulwarks.</p> + +<p>The sun was bright and the wind was keen; the air sparkled, and all the +world was full of life. Hammers beat in the builders' yards; wild +bargees sang hoarsely as they drifted down to the Isle of Dogs; and in +slow ships that crept away to catch the wind in the open stream below, +with tawny sails drooping and rimmed with frost, they heard the hail of +salty mariners.</p> + +<p>The tide ran strong, and the steady oars carried them swiftly down. +London passed; then solitary hamlets here and there; then dun fields +running to the river's edge like thirsty deer.</p> + +<p>In Deptford Reach some lords who were coming down by water passed them, +racing with a little Dutch boat from Deptford to the turn. Their boats +had holly-bushes at their prows and holiday garlands along their sides. +They were all shouting gaily, and the stream was bright with their +scarlet cloaks, Lincoln-green jerkins, and gold embroidery. But they +were very badly beaten, at which they laughed, and threw the Dutchmen a +handful of silver pennies. Thereupon the Dutchmen stood up in their boat +and bowed like jointed ninepins; and the lords, not to be outdone, stood +up likewise in their boats and bowed very low in return, with their +hands upon their breasts. Then everybody on the river laughed, and the +boys gave three cheers for the merry lords and three more for the sturdy +Dutchmen. The Dutchmen shouted back, "Goot Yule!" and bowed and bowed +until their boat turned round and went stern foremost down the stream, +so that they were bowing to the opposite bank, where no one was at all. +At this the rest all laughed again till their sides ached, and cheered +them twice as much as they had before.</p> + +<p>And while they were cheering and waving their caps, the boatmen rested +upon their oars and let the boats swing with the tide, which thereabout +set strong against the shore, and a trumpeter in the Earl of Arundel's +barge stood up and blew upon a long horn bound with a banner of blue +and gold.</p> + +<p>Instantly he had blown, another trumpet answered from the south, and +when Nick turned, the shore was gay with men in brilliant livery. Beyond +was a wood of chestnut-trees as blue and leafless as a grove of spears; +and in the plain between the river and the wood stood a great palace of +gray stone, with turrets, pinnacles, and battlemented walls, over the +topmost tower of which a broad flag, blazoned with golden lions and +silver lilies square for square, whipped the winter wind. Amid a group +of towers large and small a lofty stack poured out a plume of sea-coal +smoke against the milky sky, and on the countless windows in the wall +the sunlight flashed with dazzling radiance.</p> + +<p>There were people on the battlements, and at the port between two towers +where the Queen went in and out the press was so thick that men's heads +looked like the cobbles in the street.</p> + +<p>The shore was stayed with piling and with timbers like a wharf, so that +a hundred boats might lie there cheek by jowl and scarcely rub their +paint. The lords made way, and the children players came ashore through +an aisle of uplifted oars. They were met by the yeomen of the guard, +tall, brawny fellows clad in red, with golden roses on their breasts and +backs, and with them marched up to the postern two and two, Master Gyles +the last of all, as haughty as a Spanish don come courting fair +Queen Bess.</p> + +<p>A smoking dinner was waiting them, of whitebait with red pepper, and a +yellow juice so sour that Nick's mouth drew up in a knot; but it was +very good. There were besides, silver dishes full of sugared red +currants, and heaps of comfits and sweetmeats, which Master Gyles would +not allow them even to touch, and saffron cakes with raisins in them, +and spiced hot cordial out of tiny silver cups. Bareheaded pages clad in +silk and silver lace waited upon them as if they were fledgling kings; +but the boys were too hungry to care for that or to try to put on airs, +and waded into the meat and drink as if they had been starved for a +fortnight.</p> + +<p>But when they were done Nick saw that the table off which they had eaten +was inlaid with pearl and silver filigree, and that the table-cloth was +of silk with woven metal-work and gems set in it worth more than a +thousand crowns. He was very glad he had eaten first, for such wonderful +service would have taken away his appetite.</p> + +<p>And truly a wonderful palace was the Queen's Plaisance, as Greenwich +House was called. Elizabeth was born in it, and so loved it most of all. +There she pleased oftenest to receive and grant audiences to envoys from +foreign courts. And there, on that account, as was always her proud, +jealous way, she made a blinding show of glory and of wealth, of +science, art, and power, that England, to the eyes which saw her there, +might stand in second place to no dominion in the world, however rich +or great.</p> + +<p>It was a very house of gold.</p> + +<p>Over the door where the lads marched in was the Queen's device, a golden +rose, with a motto set below in letters of gold, "Dieu et mon droit"; +and upon the walls were blazoned coats of noble arms on branching golden +trees, of purest metal and finest silk, costly beyond compare. The royal +presence-chamber shone with tapestries of gold, of silver, and of +oriental silks, of as many shifting colors as the birds of paradise, and +wrought in exquisite design, The throne was set with diamonds, with +rubies, garnets, and sapphires, glittering like a pastry-crust of stars, +and garnished with gold-lace work, pearls, and ornament; and under the +velvet canopy which hung above the throne was embroidered in +seed-pearls, "Vivat Regina Elizabetha!" There was no door without a +gorgeous usher, no room without a page, no corridor without a guard, no +post without a man of noble birth to fill it.</p> + +<p>On the walls of the great gallery were masterly paintings of great folk, +globes showing all the stars fast in the sky, and drawings of the world +and all its parts, so real that one could see the savages in the New +World hanging to the under side by their feet, like flies upon the +ceiling. How they stuck was more than Nick could make out; and where +they landed if they chanced to slip and fall troubled him a deal, until +in the sheer multiplication of wonders he could not wonder any more.</p> + +<p>When they came to rehearse in the afternoon the stage was hung with +stiff, rich silks that had come in costly cedar chests from the looms of +old Cathay; and the curtain behind which the players came and went was +broidered with gold thread in flowers and birds like meteors for +splendor. The gallery, too, where the musicians sat, was draped with +silk and damask.</p> + +<p>Some of the lads would have made out by their great airs as if this were +all a common thing to them; but Nick stared honestly with round eyes, +and went about with cautious feet, chary of touching things, and feeling +very much out of place and shy.</p> + +<p>It was all too grand, too wonderful,--amazing to look upon, no doubt, +and good to outface foreign envy with, but not to be endured every day +nor lived with comfortably. And as the day went by, each passing moment +with new marvels, Nick grew more and more uneasy for some simple little +nook where he might just sit down and be quiet for a while, as one could +do at home, without fine pages peering at him from the screens, or +splendid guards patrolling at his heels wherever he went, or obsequious +ushers bowing to the floor at every turn, and asking him what he might +be pleased to wish. And by the time night fell and the attendant came to +light them to their beds, he felt like a fly on the rim of a wheel that +went so fast he could scarcely get his breath or see what passed him by, +yet of which he durst not let go.</p> + +<p>The palace was much too much for him.</p> + + + +<br><br><hr style="width: 35%;"><br><br> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVIII"></a>CHAPTER XXVIII</h2> + +<h3>CHRISTMAS WITH QUEEN BESS</h3> +<br> + +<p>Christmas morning came and went as if on swallow-wings, in a gale of +royal merriment. Four hundred sat to dinner that day in Greenwich halls, +and all the palace streamed with banners and green garlands.</p> + +<p>Within the courtyard two hundred horses neighed and stamped around a +water-fountain playing in a bowl of ice and evergreen. Grooms and pages, +hostlers and dames, went hurry-scurrying to and fro; cooks, bakers, and +scullions steamed about, leaving hot, mouth-watering streaks of +fragrance in the air; bluff men-at-arms went whistling here and there; +and serving-maids with rosy cheeks ran breathlessly up and down the +winding stairways.</p> + +<p>The palace stirred like a mighty pot that boils to its utmost verge, for +the hour of the revelries was come.</p> + +<p>Over the beech-wood and far across the black heath where Jack Cade +marshaled the men of Kent, the wind trembled with the boom of the castle +bell. Within the walls of the palace its clang was muffled by a sound of +voices that rose and fell like the wind upon the sea.</p> + +<p>The ambassadors of Venice and France were there, with their courtly +trains. The Lord High Constable of England was come to sit below the +Queen. The earls, too, of Southampton, Montgomery, Pembroke, and +Huntington were there; and William Cecil, Lord Burleigh, the Queen's +High Treasurer, to smooth his care-lined forehead with a Yuletide jest.</p> + +<p>Up from the entry ports came shouts of "Room! room! room for my Lord +Strange! Room for the Duke of Devonshire!" and about the outer gates +there was a tumult like the cheering of a great crowd.</p> + +<p>The palace corridors were lined with guards. Gentlemen pensioners under +arms went flashing to and fro. Now and then through the inner throng +some handsome page with wind-blown hair and rainbow-colored cloak pushed +to the great door, calling: "Way, sirs, way for my Lord--way for my Lady +of Alderstone!" and one by one, or in blithe groups, the courtiers, clad +in silks and satins, velvets, jewels, and lace of gold, came up through +the lofty folding-doors to their places in the hall.</p> + +<p>There, where the Usher of the Black Rod stood, and the gentlemen of the +chamber came and went with golden chains about their necks, was bowing +and scraping without stint, and reverent civility; for men that were +wise and noble were passing by, men that were handsome and brave; and +ladies sweet as a summer day, and as fair to see as spring, laughed by +their sides and chatted behind their fans, or daintily nibbled comfits, +lacking anything to say.</p> + +<p>The windows were all curtained in, making a night-time in midday; and +from the walls and galleries flaring links and great bouquets of candles +threw an eddying flood of yellow light across the stirring scene. From +clump to clump of banner-staves and burnished arms, spiked above the +wainscot, garlands of red-berried holly, spruce, and mistletoe were +twined across the tapestry, till all the room was bound about with a +chain of living green.</p> + +<p>There were sweet odors floating through the air, and hazy threads of +fragrant smoke from perfumes burning in rich braziers; and under foot +was the crisp, clean rustle of new rushes.</p> + +<p>From time to time, above the hum of voices, came the sound of music from +a room beyond--cornets and flutes, fifes, lutes, and harps, with an +organ exquisitely played, and voices singing to it; and from behind the +players' curtain, swaying slowly on its rings at the back of the stage, +came a murmur of whispering childish voices, now high in eager +questioning, now low, rehearsing some doubtful fragment of a song.</p> + +<p>Behind the curtain it was dark--not total darkness, but twilight; for a +dull glow came down overhead from the lights in the hall without, and +faint yellow bars went up and down the dusk from crevices in the screen. +The boys stood here and there in nervous groups. Now and then a sharp +complaint was heard from the tire-woman when an impatient lad would not +stand still to be dressed.</p> + +<p>Master Gyles went to and fro, twisting the manuscript of the Revel in +his hands, or pausing kindly to pat some faltering lad upon the back. +Nick and Colley were peeping by turns through a hole in the screen at +the throng in the audience-chamber.</p> + +<p>They could see a confusion of fans, jewels, and faces, and now and again +could hear a burst of subdued laughter over the steadily increasing buzz +of voices. Then from the gallery above, all at once there came a murmur +of instruments tuning together; a voice in the corridor was heard +calling, "Way here, way here!" in masterful tones; the tall +folding-doors at the side of the hall swung wide, and eight dapper pages +in white and gold came in with the Master of Revels. After them came +fifty ladies and noblemen clad in white and gold, and a guard of +gentlemen pensioners with glittering halberds.</p> + +<p>There was a sharp rustle. Every head in the audience-chamber louted low. +Nick's heart gave a jump--for the Queen was there!</p> + +<p>She came with an air that was at once serious and royal, bearing herself +haughtily, yet with a certain grace and sprightliness that became her +very well. She was quite tall and well made, and her quickly changing +face was long and fair, though wrinkled and no longer young. Her +complexion was clear and of an olive hue; her nose was a little hooked; +her firm lips were thin; and her small black eyes, though keen and +bright, were pleasant and merry withal. Her hair was a coppery, tawny +red, and false, moreover. In her ears hung two great pearls; and there +was a fine small crown studded with diamonds upon her head, beside a +necklace of exceeding fine gold and jewels about her neck. She was +attired in a white silk gown bordered with pearls the size of beans, and +over it wore a mantle of black silk, cunningly shot with silver threads. +Her ruff was vast, her farthingale vaster; and her train, which was very +long, was borne by a marchioness who made more ado about it than +Elizabeth did of ruling her realm.</p> + +<p>"The Queen!" gasped Colley.</p> + +<p>"Dost think I did na know it?" answered Nick, his heart beginning to +beat tattoo as he stared through the peep-hole in the screen.</p> + +<p>He saw the great folk bowing like a gardenful of flowers in a storm, and +in its midst Elizabeth erect, speaking to those about her in a lively +and good-humored way, and addressing all the foreigners according to +their tongue--in French, Italian, Spanish, Dutch; but hers was funny +Dutch, and while she spoke she smiled and made a joke upon it in Latin, +at which they all laughed heartily, whether they understood what it +meant or not. Then, with her ladies in waiting, she passed to a dais +near the stage, and stood a moment, stately, fair, and proud, while all +her nobles made obeisance, then sat and gave a signal for the players +to begin.</p> + +<p>"Rafe Fullerton!" the prompter whispered shrilly; and out from behind +the screen slipped Rafe, the smallest of them all, and down the stage to +speak the foreword of the piece. He was frightened, and his voice shook +as he spoke, but every one was smiling, so he took new heart.</p> + +<p>"It is a masque of Summer-time and Spring," said he, "wherein both +claim to be best-loved, and have their say of wit and humor, and each +her part of songs and dances suited to her time, the sprightly galliard +and the nimble jig for Spring, the slow pavone, the stately peacock +dance, for Summer-time. And win who may, fair Summer-time or merry +Spring, the winner is but that beside our Queen!"--with which he snapped +his fingers in the faces of them all--"God save Queen Bess!"</p> + +<p>At that the Queen's eyes twinkled, and she nodded, highly pleased, so +that every one clapped mightily.</p> + +<p>The play soon ran its course amid great laughter and applause. Spring +won. The English ever loved her best, and the quick-paced galliard took +their fancy, too. "Up and be doing!" was its tune, and it gave one a +chance to cut fine capers with his heels.</p> + +<p>Then the stage stood empty and the music stopped.</p> + +<p>At this strange end a whisper of surprise ran through the hall. The +Queen tapped with the inner side of her rings upon the broad arm of her +chair. From the look on her face she was whetting her tongue. But before +she could speak, Nick and Colley, dressed as a farmer boy and girl, with +a garland of house-grown flowers about them, came down the stage from +the arras, hand in hand, bowing.</p> + +<p>The audience-chamber grew very still--<i>this</i> was something new. Nick +felt a swallowing in his throat, and Colley's hand winced in his grip. +There was no sound but a silky rustling in the room.</p> + +<p>Then suddenly the boys behind the players' curtain laughed together, +not loud, but such a jolly little laugh that all the people smiled to +hear it. After the laughter came a hush.</p> + +<p>Then the pipes overhead made a merry sound as of shepherds piping on +oaten straws in new grass where there are daisies; and there was a +little elfish laughter of clarionets, and a fluttering among the cool +flutes like spring wind blowing through crisp young leaves in April. The +harps began to pulse and throb with a soft cadence like raindrops +falling into a clear pool where brown leaves lie upon the bottom and +bubbles float above green stones and smooth white pebbles. Nick lifted +up his head and sang.</p> + +<p>It was a happy little song of the coming and the triumph of the spring. +The words were all forgotten long ago. They were not much: enough to +serve the turn, no more; but the notes to which they went were like barn +swallows twittering under the eaves, goldfinches clinking in purple +weeds beside old roads, and robins singing in common gardens at dawn. +And wherever Nick's voice ran Colley's followed, the pipes laughing +after them a note or two below; while the flutes kept gurgling softly to +themselves as a hill brook gurgles through the woods, and the harps ran +gently up and down like rain among the daffodils. One voice called, the +other answered; there were echo-like refrains; and as they sang Nick's +heart grew full. He cared not a stiver for the crowd, the golden palace, +or the great folk there--the Queen no more--he only listened for +Colley's voice coming up lovingly after his own and running away when he +followed it down, like a lad and a lass through the bloom of the May. +And Colley was singing as if his heart would leap out of his round mouth +for joy to follow after the song they sung, till they came to the end +and the skylark's song.</p> + +<p>There Colley ceased, and Nick went singing on alone, forgetting, caring +for, heeding nought but the song that was in his throat.</p> + +<p>The Queen's fan dropped from her hand upon the floor. No one saw it or +picked it up. The Venetian ambassador scarcely breathed.</p> + +<p>Nick came down the stage, his hands before him, lifted as if he saw the +very lark he followed with his song, up, up, up into the sun. His cheeks +were flushed and his eyes were wet, though his voice was a song and a +laugh in one.</p> + +<p>Then they were gone behind the curtain, into the shadow and the twilight +there, Colley with his arms about Nick's neck, not quite laughing, not +quite sobbing. The manuscript of the Revel lay torn in two upon the +floor, and Master Gyles had a foot upon each piece.</p> + +<p>In the hall beyond the curtain was a silence that was deeper than a +hush, a stillness rising from the hearts of men.</p> + +<p>Then Elizabeth turned in the chair where she sat. Her eyes were as +bright as a blaze. And out of the sides of her eyes she looked at the +Venetian ambassador. He was sitting far out on the edge of his chair, +and his lips had fallen apart. She laughed to herself. "It is a good +song, signor," said she, and those about her started at the sound of her +voice. "<i>Chi tace confessa--</i>it is so! There are no songs like English +songs--there is no spring like an English spring--there is no land like +England, <i>my</i> England!" She clapped her hands. "I will speak with those +lads," said she.</p> + +<p>Straightway certain pages ran through the press and came behind the +curtain where Nick and Colley stood together, still trembling with the +music not yet gone out of them, and brought them through the hall to +where the Queen sat, every one whispering, "Look!" as they passed.</p> + +<p>On the dais they knelt together, bowing, side by side. Elizabeth, with a +kindly smile, leaning a little forward, raised them with her slender +hand. "Stand, dear lads," said she, heartily. "Be lifted up by thine own +singing, as our hearts have been uplifted by thy song. And name me the +price of that same song--'twas sweeter than the sweetest song we ever +heard before."</p> + +<p>"Or ever shall hear again," said the Venetian ambassador, under his +breath, rubbing his forehead as if just wakening out of a dream.</p> + +<p>"Come," said Elizabeth, tapping Colley's cheek with her fan, "what wilt +thou have of me, fair maid?"</p> + +<p>Colley turned red, then very pale. "That I may stay in the palace +forever and sing for your Majesty," said he. His fingers shivered +in Nick's.</p> + +<p>"Now that is right prettily asked," she cried, and was well pleased. +"Thou shalt indeed stay for a singing page in our household--a voice and +a face like thine are merry things upon a rainy Monday. And thou, Master +Lark," said she, fanning the hair back from Nick's forehead with her +perfumed fan--"thou that comest up out of the field with a song like the +angels sing--what wilt thou have: that thou mayst sing in our choir and +play on the lute for us?"</p> + +<p>Nick looked up at the torches on the wall, drawing a deep, long breath. +When he looked down again his eyes were dazzled and he could not see +the Queen.</p> + +<p>"What wilt thou have?" he heard her ask.</p> + +<p>"Let me go home," said he.</p> + +<p>There were red and green spots in the air. He tried to count them, since +he could see nothing else, and everything was very still; but they all +ran into one purple spot which came and went like a firefly's glow, and +in the middle of the purple spot he saw the Queen's face coming +and going.</p> + +<p>"Surely, boy, that is an ill-considered speech," said she, "or thou dost +deem us very poor, or most exceeding stingy!" Nick hung his head, for +the walls seemed tapestried with staring eyes. "Or else this home of +thine must be a very famous place."</p> + +<p>The maids of honour tittered. Further off somebody laughed. Nick looked +up, and squared his shoulders.</p> + +<p>They had rubbed the cat the wrong way.</p> + +<p>It is hard to be a stranger in a palace, young, country-bred, and +laughed at all at once; but down in Nick Attwood's heart was a stubborn +streak that all the flattery on earth could not cajole nor ridicule +efface. He might be simple, shy, and slow, but what he loved he loved: +that much he knew; and when they laughed at him for loving home they +seemed to mock not him, but home--and <i>that</i> touched the fighting-spot.</p> + +<p>"I would rather be there than here," said he.</p> + +<p>The Queen's face flushed. "Thou art more curt than courteous," said she. +"Is it not good enough for thee here?"</p> + +<p>"I could na live in such a place."</p> + +<p>The Queen's eyes snapped. "In such a place? Marry, art thou so choice? +These others find no fault with the life."</p> + +<p>"Then they be born to it," said Nick, "or they could abide no more than +I--they would na fit."</p> + +<p>"Haw, haw!" said the Lord High Constable.</p> + +<p>The Queen shot one quick glance at him. "Old pegs have been made to fit +new holes before to-day," said she; "and the trick can be done again." +The Constable smothered the rest of that laugh in his hand, "But come, +boy, speak up; what hath put thee so out of conceit with our +best-beloved palace?"</p> + +<p>"There is na one thing likes me here. I can na bide in a place so fine, +for there's not so much as a corner in it feels like home. I could na +sleep in the bed last night."</p> + +<p>"What, how? We commanded good beds!" exclaimed Elizabeth, angrily, for +the Venetian ambassador was smiling in his beard. "This shall be +seen to."</p> + +<p>"Oh, it <i>was</i> a good bed--a very good bed indeed, your Majesty!" cried +Nick. "But the mattress puffed up like a cloud in a bag, and almost +smothered me; and it was so soft and so hot that it gave me a fever."</p> + +<p>Elizabeth leaned back in her chair and laughed. The Lord High Constable +hastily finished the laugh that he had hidden in his hand. Everybody +laughed. "Upon my word," said the Queen, "it is an odd skylark cannot +sleep in feathers! What didst thou do, forsooth?"</p> + +<p>"I slept in the coverlid on the floor," said Nick. "It was na hurt,--I +dusted the place well,--and I slept like a top."</p> + +<p>"Now verily," laughed Elizabeth, "if it be floors that thou dost desire, +we have acres to spare--thou shalt have thy pick of the lot. Come, we +are ill used to begging people to be favored--thou'lt stay?"</p> + +<p>Nick shook his head.</p> + +<p>"<i>Ma foi!"</i> exclaimed the Queen, "it is a queer fancy makes a face at +such a pleasant dwelling! What is it sticks in thy throat?"</p> + +<p>Nick stood silent. What was there to say? If he came here he never would +see Stratford town again; and <i>this</i> was no abiding-place for him. They +would not even let him go to the fountain himself to draw water with +which to wash, but fetched it, three at a time, in a silver ewer and a +copper basin with towels and a flask of perfume.</p> + +<p>Elizabeth was tapping with her fan. "Thou art be-dazzled like," she +said. "Think twice--preferment does not gooseberry on the hedge-row +every day; and this is a rare chance which hangs ripening on thy tongue. +Consider well. Come, thou wilt accept?"</p> + +<p>Nick slowly shook his head.</p> + +<p>"Go then, if thou wilt go!" said she; and as she spoke she shrugged her +shoulders, illy pleased, and turning toward Colley, took him by the hand +and drew him closer to her, smiling at his guise. "Thy comrade hath +more wit."</p> + +<p>"He hath no mother," Nick said quietly, loosing his hold at last on +Colley's hand. "I would rather have my mother than his wit."</p> + +<p>Elizabeth turned sharply back. Her keen eyes were sparkling, yet soft.</p> + +<p>"Thou art no fool," said she.</p> + +<p>A little murmur ran through the room.</p> + +<p>She sat a moment, silent, studying his face. "Or if thou art, upon my +word I like the breed. It is a stubborn, froward dog; but Hold-fast is +his name. Ay, sirs," she said, and sat up very straight, looking into +the faces of her court, "Brag is a good dog, but Hold-fast is better. A +lad who loves his mother thus makes a man who loveth his native +land--and it's no bad streak in the blood. Master Skylark, thou shalt +have thy wish; to London thou shalt go this very night."</p> + +<a name="Illus0338"></a> +<P class=ctr> +<a href="Images/Illus0338.jpg"> +<img src="Images/Illus0338.jpg" width = "40%" +alt=""'Master Skylark, thou shalt have thy wish,' said Queen Elizabeth.""> +</a><br> +<b>"'Master Skylark, thou shalt have thy wish,' said Queen Elizabeth."</b> +</P><br> + +<p>"I do na live in London," Nick began.</p> + +<p>"What matters the place?" said she. "Live wheresoever thine heart doth +please. It is enough--so. Thou mayst kiss our hand." She held her hand +out, bright with jewels. He knelt and kissed it as if it were all a +doing in a dream, or in some unlikely story he had read. But a long +while after he could smell the perfume from her slender fingers on +his lips.</p> + +<p>Then a page standing by him touched his arm as he arose, and bowing +backward from the throne, came with him to the curtain and the rest. Old +Master Gyles was standing there apart. It was too dark to see his face, +but he laid his hand upon Nick's head.</p> + +<p>"Thy cake is burned to a coal," said he.</p> + + + +<br><br><hr style="width: 35%;"><br><br> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIX"></a>CHAPTER XXIX</h2> + +<h3>BACK TO GASTON CAREW</h3> +<br> + +<p>So they marched back out of the palace gates, down to the landing-place, +the last red sunlight gleaming on the basinets of the tall halberdiers +who marched on either side.</p> + +<p>Nick looked out toward London, where the river lay like a serpent, +bristling with masts; and beyond the river and the town to the forests +of Epping and Hainault; and beyond the forests to the hills, where the +waning day still lingered in a mist of frosty blue. At their back, +midway of the Queen's park, stood up the old square tower Mirefleur, and +on its top one yellow light like the flame of a gigantic candle. The day +seemed builded of memories strange and untrue.</p> + +<p>A belated gull flapped by them heavily, and the red sun went down. +England was growing lonely. A great barge laden with straw came out of +the dusk, and was gone without a sound, its ghostly sail drawing in a +wind that the wherry sat too low to feel. Nick held his breath as the +barge went by: it was unreal, fantastical.</p> + +<p>Then the river dropped between its banks, and the woods and the hills +were gone. The tide ran heavily against the shore, and the wake of the +wherry broke the floating stars into cold white streaks and zigzag +ripplings of raveled light that ran unsteadily after them. The craft at +anchor in the Pool had swung about upon the flow, and pointed down to +Greenwich. A hush had fallen upon the never-ending bustle of the town; +and the air was full of a gray, uncanny afterglow which seemed to come +up out of the water, for the sky was grown quite dark.</p> + +<p>They were all wrapped in their boat-cloaks, tired and silent. Now and +then Nick dipped his fingers into the cold water over the gunwale.</p> + +<p>This was the end of the glory.</p> + +<p>He wished the boat would go a little faster. Yet when they came to the +landing he was sorry.</p> + +<p>The man-at-arms who went with him to Master Carew's house was one of the +Earl of Arundel's men, in a stiff-wadded jacket of heron-blue, with the +earls colors richly worked upon its back and his badge upon the sleeves. +Prowlers gave way before him in the streets, for he was broad and tall +and mighty, and the fear of any man was not in the look of his eye.</p> + +<p>As they came up the slow hill, Nick sighed, for the long-legged +man-at-arms walked fast. "What, there!" said he, and clapped Nick on the +shoulder with his bony hand; "art far spent, lad? Why, marry, get thee +upon my back. I'll jog thee home in the shake of a black sheep's tail."</p> + +<p>So Nick rode home upon the back of the Earl of Arundel's man-at-arms; +and that, too, seemed a dream like all the rest.</p> + +<p>When they came to Master Carew's house the street was dark, and Nick's +foot was asleep. He stamped it, tingling, upon the step, and the empty +passage echoed with the sound. Then the earl's man beat the door with +the pommel of his dagger-hilt, and stood with his hands upon his hips, +carelessly whistling a little tune.</p> + +<p>Nick heard a sound of some one coming through the hall, and felt that at +last the day was done. A tired wonder wakened in his heart at how so +much had come to pass in such a little while; yet more he wondered why +it had ever come to pass at all. And what was the worth of it, anyway, +now it was over and gone?</p> + +<p>Then the door opened, and he went in.</p> + +<p>Master Gaston Carew himself had come to the door, walking quickly +through the hallway, with a queer, nervous twitching in his face. But +when he made out through the dusk that it was Nick, he seemed in no wise +moved, and said quite simply, as he gave the man-at-arms a penny: "Oh, +is it thou? Why, we have heard somewhat of thee; and upon my word I +thought, since thou wert grown so great, thou wouldst come home in a +coach-and-four, all blowing horns!"</p> + +<p>Nevertheless he drew Nick quickly in, and kissed him thrice; and after +he had kissed him kept fast hold of his hand until they came together +through the hall into the great room where Cicely was sitting quite +dismally in the chimney-seat alone.</p> + +<a name="Illus0356"></a> +<P class=ctr> +<a href="Images/Illus0356.jpg"> +<img src="Images/Illus0356.jpg" width = "50%" +alt=""So Nick rode home upon the back of the Earl of Arundel's +Man-at-arms.""> +</a><br> +<b>"So Nick rode home upon the back of the Earl of Arundel's +Man-at-arms."</b> +</P><br> + +<p>"There, Nick," said he; "tell her thyself that thou hast come back. She +thought she had lost thee for good and all, and hath sung, 'Hey ho, my +heart is full of woe!' the whole twilight, and would not be comforted. +Come, Cicely, doff thy doleful willow--the proverb lies. 'Out of sight, +out of mind'--fudge! the boy's come back again! A plague take +proverbs, anyway!"</p> + +<p>But when the children were both long since abed, and all the house was +still save for the scamper of rats in the wall, the heavy door of Nick's +room opened stealthily, with a little grating upon the uneven sill, and +Master Carew stood there, peeping in, his hand upon the bolt outside.</p> + +<p>He held a rush-light in the other. Its glimmer fell across the bed upon +Nick's tousled hair; and when the master-player saw the boy's head upon +the pillow he started eagerly, with brightening eyes. "My soul!" he +whispered to himself, a little quaver in his tone, "I would have sworn +my own desire lied to me, and that he had not come at all! It cannot +be--yet, verily, I am not blind. <i>Ma foil</i> it passeth understanding--a +freed skylark come back to its cage! I thought we had lost him forever."</p> + +<p>Nick stirred in his sleep. Carew set the light on the floor. "Thou +fool!" said he, and he fumbled at his pouch; "thou dear-beloved little +fool! To catch the skirts of glory in thine hand, and tread the heels of +happy chance, and yet come back again to ill-starred twilight--and to +me! Ai, lad, I would thou wert my son--mine own, own son; yet Heaven +spare thee father such as I! For, Nick, I love thee. Yet thou dost hate +me like a poison thing. And still I love thee, on my word, and on the +remnant of mine honour!" His voice was husky. "Let thee go?--send thee +back?--eat my sweet and have it too?--how? Nay, nay; thy happy cake +would be my dough--it will not serve." He shook his head, and looked +about to see that all was fast. "Yet, Nick, I say I love thee, on +my soul!"</p> + +<p>Slipping to the bedside with stealthy step, he laid a fat little Banbury +cheese and some brown sweet cakes beside Nick's pillow; then came out +hurriedly and barred the door.</p> + +<p>The fire in the great hall had gone out, and the room was growing cold. +The table stood by the chimney-side, where supper had been laid, Carew +brought a napkin from the linen-chest, and spread it upon the board. +Then he went to the server's screen and looked behind it, and tried the +latches of the doors; and having thus made sure that all was safe, came +back to the table again, and setting the rush-light there, turned the +contents of his purse into the napkin.</p> + +<p>There were both gold and silver. The silver he put back into the purse +again; the gold he counted carefully; and as he counted, laying the +pieces one by one in little heaps upon the cloth, he muttered under his +breath, like a small boy adding up his sums in school, saying over and +over again, "One for me, and one for thee, and two for Cicely Carew. One +for me, and one for thee, and two for Cicely Carew"; and told the coins +off in keeping with the count, so that the last pile was as large as +both the others put together. Then slowly ending, "None for me, and one +for thee, and two for Cicely Carew," he laid the last three nobles +with the rest.</p> + +<p>Then he arose and stood a moment listening to the silence in the house. +An old he rat that was gnawing a rind on the hearth looked up, and ran a +little nearer to his hole. "Tsst! come back," said Carew, "I'm no cat!" +and from the sliding panel in the wall took out a buckskin bag tied like +a meal-sack with a string.</p> + +<p>As he slipped the knot the throat of the bag sagged down, and a gold +piece jangled on the floor. Carew started as if all his nerves had +leaped within him at the unexpected sound, and closed the panel like a +flash. Then, setting his foot upon the fallen coin, he stopped its +spinning, and with one hand on his poniard, peering right and left, blew +the candle out.</p> + +<p>A little while he stood and listened in the dark; a little while his +feet went to and fro in the darkness. The wind cried in the chimney. Now +and then the casements shivered. The timbers in the wall creaked with +the cold, and the boards in the stairway cracked. Then the old he rat +came back to his rind, and his mate came out of the crack in the wall, +working her whiskers hungrily and snuffing the smell of the candle-drip; +for there was no sound, and the coast of rat-land was clear.</p> + + + +<br><br><hr style="width: 35%;"><br><br> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXX"></a>CHAPTER XXX</h2> + +<h3>AT THE FALCON INN</h3> +<br> + +<blockquote> +And then there came both mist and snow,<br> + And it grew wondrous cold;<br> +And ice mast-high came floating by,<br> + As green as emerald.<br> +</blockquote> + +<p>So says that wonder-ballad of the sea.</p> + +<p>But over London came a gale that made the chimneys rock; and after it +came ice and snow, sharp, stinging sleet, and thumping hail, with +sickening winds from the gray west, sour yellow fogs, and plunging rain, +till all the world was weary of the winter and the cold.</p> + +<p>But winter could not last forever. March crept onward, and the streets +of London came up out of the slush again with a glad surprise of +cobblestones. The sickly mist no longer hung along the river; and +sometimes upon a breezy afternoon it was pleasant and fair, the sun +shone warmly on one's back, and the rusty sky grew bluer overhead. The +trees in Paris Garden put out buds; the lilac-tips began to swell; there +was a stirring in the roadside grass, and now and then a questing bird +went by upon the wind, piping a little silver thread of song. Nick's +heart grew hungry for the woods of Arden and the gathering rush of the +waking water-brooks among the old dead leaves. The rain beat in at his +window, but he did not care for that, and kept it open day and night; +for when he wakened in the dark he loved to feel the fingers of the wind +across his face.</p> + +<p>Sometimes the moonlight through the ragged clouds came in upon the +floor, and in the hurry of the wind he almost fancied he could hear the +Avon, bank-full, rushing under the old mill-bridge.</p> + +<p>Then one day there came a shower with a warm south wind, sweet and +healthful and serene; and through the shower, out of the breaking +clouds, a sun-gleam like a path of gold straight down to the heart of +London town; and on the south wind, down that path of gold, came April.</p> + +<p>That night the wind in the chimney fluted a glad, new tune; and when +Nick looked out at his casement the free stars danced before him in the +sky. And when he felt that fluting wind blow warm and cool together on +his cheek, the chimneys mocked him, and the town was hideous.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;"> + +<p>It fell upon an April night, when the moon was at its full, that Master +Carew had come to the Falcon Inn, on the Southwark side of the river, +and had brought Nick with him for the air. Master Heywood was along, and +it was very pleasant there.</p> + +<p>The night breeze smelled of green fields, and the inn was thronged with +company. The windows were bright, and the air was full of voices. Tables +had been brought out into the garden and set beneath the arbor toward +the riverside. The vines of the arbor were shooting forth their first +pink-velvet leaves, and in the moonlight their shadows fell like +lacework across the linen cloths, blurred by the glow of the lanterns +hung upon the posts.</p> + +<p>The folds in the linen marked the table-tops with squares like a +checker-board, and Nick stood watching from the tap-room door, as if it +were a game. Not that he cared for any game; but that watching dulled +the teeth of the hunger in his heart to be out of the town and back +among the hills of Warwickshire, now that the spring was there.</p> + +<p>"What, there!--a pot of sack!" cried one gay fellow with a +silver-bordered cloak. "A pot of sack?" cried out another with a feather +like a rose-bush in his cap; "two pots ye mean, my buck!" "Ods-fish my +skin!" bawled out a third--"ods-fish my skin! Two pots of beggarly sack +on a Saturday night and a moon like this? Three pots, say I--and make it +malmsey, at my cost! What, there, knave! the table full of pots--I'll +pay the score."</p> + +<p>At that they all began to laugh and to slap one another on the back, and +to pound with their fists upon the board until the pewter tankards +hopped; and when the tapster's knave came back they were singing at the +top of their lungs, for the spring had gotten into their wits, and they +were beside themselves with merriment.</p> + +<p>Master Tom Heywood had a little table to himself off in a corner, and +was writing busily upon a new play. "A sheet a day," said he, "doth do +a wonder in a year"; so he was always at it.</p> + +<p>Gaston Carew sat beyond, dicing with a silky rogue who had the coldest, +hardest face that Nick had ever seen. His eyes were black and beady as a +rat's, and were circled about by a myriad of little crowfoot lines; and +his hooked nose lay across his thin blue lips like a finger across a +slit in a dried pie. His long, slim hands were white as any woman's; and +his fingers slipped among the laces at his cuffs like a weasel in a +tangle-patch.</p> + +<p>They had been playing for an hour, and the game had gone beyond all +reason. The other players had put aside the dice to watch the two, and +the nook in which their table stood was ringed with curious faces. A +lantern had been hung above, but Carew had had it taken down, as its +bottom made a shadow on the board. Carew's face was red and white by +turns; but the face of the other had no more color than candle-wax.</p> + +<p>At the end of the arbor some one was strumming upon a gittern. It was +strung in a different key from that in which the men were singing, and +the jangle made Nick feel all puckered up inside. By and by the playing +ceased, and the singers came to the end of their song. In the brief hush +the sharp rattle of the dice sounded like the patter of cold hail +against the shutter in the lull of a winter storm.</p> + +<p>Then there came a great shouting outside, and, looking through the +arbor, Nick saw two couriers on galloway nags come galloping over the +bowling-green to the arbor-side, calling for ale. They drank it in +their saddles, while their panting horses sniffed at the fresh young +grass. Then they galloped on. Through the vines, as he looked after +them, Nick could see the towers of London glittering strangely in the +moonlight. It was nearly high tide, and up from the river came the sound +of women's voices and laughter, with the pulse-like throb of oars and +the hoarse calling of the watermen.</p> + +<p>In the great room of the inn behind him the gallants were taking their +snuff in little silver ladles, and talking of princesses they had met, +and of whose coach they had ridden home in last from tennis at my +lord's. Some were eating, some were drinking, and some were puffing at +long clay pipes, while others, by twos, locked arm in arm, went +swaggering up and down the room, with a huge talking of foreign lands +which they had never so much as seen.</p> + +<p>"A murrain on the luck!" cried Carew, suddenly. "Can I throw nothing but +threes and fours?"</p> + +<p>A muffled stir ran round. Nick turned from the glare of the open door, +and looked out into the moonlight. It seemed quite dark at first. The +master-player's face was bitter white, and his fingers were tapping a +queer staccato upon the table-top.</p> + +<p>"A plague on the bedlam dice!" said he. "I think they are bewitched."</p> + +<p>"Huff, ruff, and snuff!" the other replied. "Don't get the +mubble-fubbles, Carew: there's nought the matter with the dice."</p> + +<p>A man came down from the tap-room door. Nick stepped aside to let him +pass. He was a player, by his air.</p> + +<p>He wore a riding-cloak of Holland cloth, neither so good nor so bad as a +riding-cloak might be, but under it a handsome jerkin overlaid with +lace, and belted with a buff girdle in which was a light Spanish rapier. +His boots were russet cordovan, mid-thigh tall, and the rowels of his +clinking spurs were silver stars. He was large of frame, and his curly +hair was short and brown; so was his pointed beard. His eyes were +singularly bright and fearless, and bluff self-satisfaction marked his +stride; but his under lip was petulant, and he flicked his boot with his +riding-whip as he shouldered his way along.</p> + +<p>"Ye cannot miss the place, sir," called the tapster after him. "'Tis +just beyond Ned Alleyn's, by the ditch. Ye'll never mistake the ditch, +sir--Billingsgate is roses to it."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I'll find it fast enough," the stranger answered; "but he should +have sent to meet me, knowing I might come at any hour. 'Tis a felon +place for thieves; and I've not heart to skewer even a goose on such a +night as this."</p> + +<p>At the sudden breaking of voices upon the silence, Carew looked up, with +a quarrel ripe for picking in his eye. But seeing who spoke, such a +smile came rippling from the corners of his mouth across his dark, +unhappy face that it was as if a lamp of welcome had been lighted there. +"What, Ben!" he cried; "thou here? Why, bless thine heart, old gossip, +'tis good to see an honest face amid this pack of rogues."</p> + +<p>There was a surly muttering in the crowd. Carew threw his head back +haughtily and set his knuckles to his hip. "A pack of rogues, I say," he +repeated sharply; "and a fig for the whole pack!" There was a certain +wildness in his eyes. No one stirred or made reply.</p> + +<p>"Good! Gaston," laughed the stranger, with a shrug; "picking thy company +still, I see, for quantity, and not for quality. No, thank 'e; none of +the tap for me. My Lord Hunsdon was made chamberlain in his father's +stead to-day, and I'm off hot-foot with the news to Will's."</p> + +<p>He gathered his cloak about him, and was gone.</p> + +<p>"Ye've lost," said the man who was dicing with Carew.</p> + +<p>Nick stepped down from the tap-room door. His ears were tingling with +the sound: "I'm off hot-foot with the news to Will's."</p> + +<p>"Hot-foot with the news to Will's"?</p> + +<p>To "Will's"? "Will" who?</p> + +<p>The man was a player, by his air.</p> + +<p>Nick hurriedly looked around. Carew's wild eyes were frozen upon the +dice. The bandy-legged man was drinking at a table near the door. The +crimson ribbon in his ear looked like a patch of blood.</p> + +<p>He saw Nick looking at him, and made a horrible face. He would have +sworn likewise, but there was half a quart of ale in his can; so he +turned it up and drank instead. It was a long, long drink, and half his +face was buried in the pot.</p> + +<p>When he put it down the boy was gone.</p> + + + +<br><br><hr style="width: 35%;"><br><br> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXI"></a>CHAPTER XXXI</h2> + +<h3>IN THE TWINKLING OF AN EYE</h3> +<br> + +<p>In a garden near the old bear-yard, among tall rose-trees which would +soon be in bloom, a merry company of men were sitting around a table +which stood in the angle of a quick-set hedge beside a path graveled +with white stones and bordered with mussel-shells.</p> + +<p>There was a house hard by with creamy-white walls, green-shuttered +windows, and a red-tiled roof. The door of the house was open, showing a +little ruddy fire upon a great hearth, kindled to drive away the damp; +and in the windows facing the garden there were lights shining warmly +out among the rose-trees.</p> + +<p>The table was spread with a red damask cloth, on which were a tray of +raisins and nuts and a small rally of silver cups. Above the table an +apple-tree nodded its new leaves, and from an overhanging bough a +lantern hung glowing like a great yellow bee.</p> + +<p>There was a young fellow with a white apron and a jolly little whisper +of a whistle on his puckered lips going around with a plate of cakes and +a tray of honey-bowls; and the men were eating and drinking and +chatting together so gaily, and seemed to be all such good friends, that +it was a pleasant thing just to see them sitting there in their +comfortable leather-bottomed chairs, taking life easily because the +spring had come again.</p> + +<p>One tall fellow was smoking a pipe. He held the bowl in one hand, and +kept tamping down the loose tobacco with his forefinger. Now and again +he would be so eagerly talking he would forget that his finger was in +the bowl, and it would be burned. He would take it out with a look of +quaint surprise, whereat the rest all roared. Another was a fat, round +man who chuckled constantly to himself, as if this life were all a joke; +and there was a quite severe, important-seeming, oldish man who said, +"Hem--hem!" from time to time, as if about to speak forthwith, yet never +spoke a word. There was also among the rest a raw-boned, lanky fellow +who had bitten the heart out of an oat-cake and held the rim of it in +his fingers like a new moon, waving it around while he talked, until the +little man beside him popped it deftly out of his grasp and ate it +before the other saw where it was gone. But when he made out what was +become of that oat-cake he rose up solemnly, took the little man by the +collar as a huntsman takes a pup, and laid him softly in the grass +without a word.</p> + +<p>What a laughing and going-on was then! It was as if they all were +growing young again. And in the middle of the row a head popped over the +quick-set hedge, and a most stentorian voice called out, "Here, here! Go +slow--I want a piece of that!"</p> + +<p>They all looked up, and the moment they spied that laughing face and +cloak of Holland cloth, raised a shout of "What, there!" "Well met!" +"Come in, Ben." "Where hast thou tarried so long?" and the like; while +the waiter ran to open the gate and let the stranger in.</p> + +<p>A quiet man with a little chestnut-colored beard and hazel eyes, which +lit up quickly at sight of the stranger over the hedge, arose from his +place by the table and went down the path with hands outstretched to +greet him.</p> + +<p>"Welcome, welcome, hurly-burly Ben," said he. "We've missed thee from +the feast. Art well? And what's the good word?"</p> + +<p>"Ah, Will, thou gentle rogue!" the other cried, catching the hands of +the quiet man and holding him off while he looked at him there. "How +thou stealest one's heart with the glance of thine eye! I was going to +give thee a piece of my mind; but a plague, old heart! who could chide +thee to thy face? Am I well? Ay, exceedingly well. And the news? Jove! +the best that was baked at the Queen's to-day, and straight from the +oven-door! The thing is done--huff, puff, and away we go! But come +on--this needs telling to the rest."</p> + +<p>They came up the path together, the big man crunching the mussel-shells +beneath his sturdy tread, and so into the circle of yellow light that +came down from the lantern among the apple-leaves, the big man with his +arm around the quiet man's shoulders, holding his hand; for the quiet +man was not so large as the other, although withal no little man +himself, and very well built and straight.</p> + +<p>His tabard was black, without sleeves, and his doublet was scarlet +silk. His collar and wrist-bands were white Holland linen turned loosely +back, and his face was frank and fair and free. He was not old, but his +hair was thin upon his brow. His nose and his full, high forehead were +as cleanly cut as a finely chiseled stone; and his sensitive mouth had a +curve that was tender and sad, though he smiled all the while, a glimpse +of his white teeth showing through, and his little mustache twitching +with the ripple of his long upper lip. His flowing hair was +chestnut-colored, like his beard, and curly at the ends; and his +melancholy eyelids told of study and of thought; but under them the +kindly eyes were bright with pleasant fancy.</p> + +<p>"What, there, all of you!" said he; "a good investment for your ears!"</p> + +<p>"Out with it, Will!" they cried, and whirled around.</p> + +<p>"The Queen hath made Lord Hunsdon chamberlain," the big man said.</p> + +<p>An instant's hush fell on the garden. No one spoke; but they caught each +other by the hand, and, suddenly, the silence there seemed somehow +louder than a shout.</p> + +<p>"We'll build the new Globe play-house, lads, and sweep the Bankside +clean from end to end!" a sturdy voice broke sharply on the hush. And +then they cheered--a cheer so loud that people on the river stopped +their boats, and came ashore asking where the fire was. And over all the +cheering rose the big man's voice; for the quiet man was silent, and the +big man cheered for two.</p> + +<p>"Pull up thy rose-bushes, Will," cried one, "and set out laurels in +their stead--thou'lt need them all for crowns."</p> + +<p>"Ay, Will, our savor is not gone--Queen Bess knows salt!"</p> + +<p>"With Will and Ben for meat and crust, and the rest of us for seasoning, +the court shall say it never ate such master pie!"</p> + +<p>"We'll make the walls of Whitehall ring come New Year next, or Twelfth +Night and Shrove Tuesday."</p> + +<p>"Ay, that we will, old gossip! Here's to thee!"</p> + +<p>"Here's to the company, all of us!"</p> + +<p>"And a health to the new Lord Chamberlain!"</p> + +<p>"God save the Queen!"</p> + +<p>With that, they shook each other's hands, as merry as men could be, and +laughed, because their hearts ran short of words; for these were young +Lord Hunsdon's men, late players to the Queen in the old Lord +Chamberlain's troupe; who, for a while deprived of favor by <i>his</i> death, +were now, by this succession of his son, restored to prestige at the +court, and such preferment as none beside them ever won, not even the +Earl of Pembroke's company.</p> + +<p>There was Kemp, the stout tragedian; gray John Lowin, the walking-man; +Diccon Burbage, and Cuthbert his brother, master-players and managers; +Robin Armin, the humorsome jester; droll Dick Tarlton, the king of +fools. There was Blount, and Pope, and Hemynge, and Thomas Greene, and +Joey Taylor, the acting-boy, deep in the heart of a honey-bowl, yet who +one day was to play "Hamlet" as no man ever has played it since. And +there were others, whose names and doings have vanished with them; and +beside these--"What, merry hearts!" the big man cried, and clapped his +neighbor on the back; "we'll have a supper at the Mermaid Inn. We'll +feast on reason, reason on the feast, toast the company with wit, and +company the wit with toast--why, pshaw, we are good fellows all!" He +laughed, and they laughed with him. <i>That</i> was "rare Ben Jonson's" way.</p> + +<p>"There's some one knocking, master," said the boy.</p> + +<p>A quick tap-tapping rattled on the wicket-gate.</p> + +<p>"Who is it?" asked the quiet man.</p> + +<p>"'Tis Edmund with the news," cried one.</p> + +<p>"I've dished him," said Ben Jonson.</p> + +<p>"'Tis Condell come to raise our wages," said Robin Armin, with a grin.</p> + +<p>"Thou'lt raise more hopes than wages, Rob," said Tarlton, mockingly.</p> + +<p>"It is a boy," the waiter said, "who saith that he must see thee, +master, on his life."</p> + +<p>The quiet man arose.</p> + +<p>"Sit down, Will," said Greene; "he'll pick thy pocket with a doleful +lie."</p> + +<p>"There's nothing in it, Tom, to pick."</p> + +<p>"Then give him no more than half," said Armin, soberly, "lest he +squander it!"</p> + +<p>"He saith he comes from Stratford town," the boy went on.</p> + +<p>"Then tell him to go back again," said Master Ben Jonson; "we've sucked +the sweet from Stratford town--be off with his seedy dregs!"</p> + +<p>"Go bring him in," said the quiet man.</p> + +<p>"Nay, Will, don't have him in. This makes the third within the +month--wilt father all the strays from Stratford town? Here, Ned, give +him this shilling, and tell him to be off to his cony-burrow as fast as +his legs can trot."</p> + +<p>"We'll see him first," said the quiet man, stopping the other's shilling +with his hand.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Willy-nilly!" the big man cried; "wilt be a kite to float all the +draggle-tails that flutter down from Warwickshire?"</p> + +<p>"Why, Ben," replied the quiet man, "'tis not the kite that floats the +tail, but the wind which floats both kite and tail. Thank God, we've +caught the rising wind; so, hey for draggle-tails!--we'll take up all +we can."</p> + +<p>The waiter was coming up the path, and by his side, a little back, +bareheaded and flushed with running, came Nicholas Attwood. He had +followed the big man through the fields from the gates of the +Falcon Inn.</p> + +<p>He stopped at the edge of the lantern's glow and looked around +uncertain, for the light was in his eyes.</p> + +<p>"Come, boy, what is it?" asked Ben Jonson.</p> + +<p>Nick peered through the brightness. "Master Will--Master Will +Shakspere!" he gasped.</p> + +<p>"<i>Well, my lady</i>," said the quiet man; "<i>what wilt thou have of me</i>?"</p> + +<p>Nick Attwood had come to his fellow-townsman at last.</p> + +<p>Over the hedge where the lantern shone through the green of the +apple-leaves came a sound of voices talking fast, a listening hush, then +a clapping of hands, with mingled cries of "Good boy!" "Right, lad; do +not leave her till thou must!" and at the last, "What! take thee home to +thy mother, lad? Ay, marry, that will I!" And the <i>last</i> was the voice +of the quiet man.</p> + +<p>Then followed laughter and scraps of song, merry talking, and good +cheer, for they all made glad together.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;"> + +<p>Across the fields beyond the hedge the pathway ran through Paris Garden, +stark and clear in the white moon-shine, save here and there where the +fog from the marsh crept down to meet the river-mist, and blotted out +the landscape as it went. In the north lay London, stirring like a +troubled sea. In the south was drowsy silence, save for the crowing of +the cocks, and now and then the baying of a hound far off. The smell of +bears was on the air; the river-wind breathed kennels. The Swan +play-house stood up, a great, blue blank against the sky. The sound of +voices was remote. The river made a constant murmur in the murk beyond +the landing-place; the trees moved softly.</p> + +<p>Low in the west, the lights of the Falcon Inn were shrunk to pin-pricks +in the dark. They seemed to wink and to shut their eyes. It was too far +to see the people passing by.</p> + +<p>On a sudden one light winked and did not open any more; and through the +night a faint, far cry came drifting down the river-wind--a long, thin +cry, like the wavering screech of an owl--a shrill, high, ugly sound; +the lights began to wink, wink, wink, to dance, to shift, to gather into +one red star. Out of the darkness came a wisp of something moving in +the path.</p> + +<p>Where the moonlight lay it scudded like the shadow of a windy cloud, now +lost to sight, now seen again. Out of the shadow came a man, with hands +outstretched and cap awry, running as if he were mad. As he ran he +looked from side to side, and turned his head for the keener ear. He was +panting hard.</p> + +<p>When he reached the ditch he paused in fault, ran on a step or two, went +back, stood hesitating there, clenching his hands in the empty wind, +listening; for the mist was grown so thick that he could scarcely see.</p> + +<p>But as he stood there doubtfully, uncertain of the way, catching the +wind in his nervous hands, and turning about in a little space like an +animal in a cage, over the hedge through the apple-boughs a boy's clear +voice rose suddenly, singing a rollicking tune, with a snapping of +fingers and tapping of feet in time to its merry lilt.</p> + +<p>Then the man in the mist, when he heard that clear, high voice, turned +swiftly to it, crying out, "The Skylark! Zooks! It is the place!" and +ran through the fog to where the lantern glimmered through the hedge. +The light fell in a yellow stream across his face. He was pale as a +ghost. "What, there, within! What, there!" he panted. "Shakspere! +Jonson! Any one!"</p> + +<p>The song stopped short. "Who's there?" called the voice of the quiet +man.</p> + +<p>"'Tis I, Tom Heywood. There's to-do for players at the Falcon Inn. +Gaston Carew hath stabbed Fulk Sandells, for cheating at the dice, as +dead as a door-nail, and hath been taken by the watch!"</p> + + + +<br><br><hr style="width: 35%;"><br><br> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXII"></a>CHAPTER XXXII</h2> + +<h3>THE LAST OF GASTON CAREW</h3> +<br> + +<p>It was Monday morning, and a beautiful day.</p> + +<p>Master Will Shakspere was reading a new play to Masters Ben Jonson and +Diccon Burbage at the Mermaid Inn.</p> + +<p>Thomas Pope, the player, and Peter Hemynge, the manager, were there with +them at the table under the little window. The play was a comedy of a +wicked money-lender named Shylock; but it was a comedy that made Nick +shudder as he sat on the bench by the door and listened to it through +happy thoughts of going home.</p> + +<p>Sunday had passed like a wondrous dream. He was free. Master Carew was +done for. On Saturday morning Master Will Shakspere would set out on the +journey to Stratford town, for his regular summer visit there; and Nick +was going with him--going to Stratford--going home!</p> + +<p>The comedy-reading went on. Master Burbage, his moving face alive, +leaned forward on his elbows, nodding now and then, and saying, "Fine, +fine!" under his breath. Master Pope was making faces suited to the +words, not knowing that he did so. Nick watched him, fascinated.</p> + +<p>A man came hurrying down Cheapside, and peered in at the open door. It +was Master Dick Jones of the Admiral's company. He looked worried and as +if he had not slept. His hair was uncombed, and the skin under his eyes +hung in little bags. He squinted so that he might see from the broad +daylight outside into the darker room.</p> + +<p>"Gaston Carew wants to see thee, Skylark," said he, quickly, seeing Nick +beside the door.</p> + +<p>Nick drew back. It seemed as if the master-player must be lying in wait +outside to catch him if he stirred abroad.</p> + +<p>"He says that he must see thee without fail, and that straightway. He is +in Newgate prison. Wilt come?"</p> + +<p>Nick shook his head.</p> + +<p>"But he says indeed he <i>must</i> see thee. Come, Skylark, I will bring thee +back. I am no kidnapper. Why, it is the last thing he will ever ask of +thee. 'Tis hard to refuse so small a favor to a doomed man."</p> + +<p>"Thou'lt surely fetch me back?"</p> + +<p>"Here, Master Will Shakspere," called the Admiral's player; "I am to +fetch the boy to Carew in Newgate on an urgent matter. My name is +Jones--Dick Jones, of Henslowe's company. Burbage knows me. I'll bring +him back."</p> + +<p>Master Shakspere nodded, reading on; and Burbage waved his hand, +impatient of interruption. Nick arose and went with Jones.</p> + +<p>As they came up Newgate street to the crossing of Giltspur and the Old +Bailey, the black arch of the ancient gate loomed grimly against the +sky, its squinting window-slits peering down like the eyes of an old +ogre. The bell of St. Sepulchre's was tolling, and there was a crowd +about the door, which opened, letting out a black cart in which was a +priest praying and a man in irons going to be hanged on Tyburn Hill. His +sweating face was ashen gray; and when the cart came to the church door +they gave him mockingly a great bunch of fresh, bright flowers. Nick +could not bear to watch.</p> + +<p>The turnkey at the prison gate was a crop-headed fellow with jowls like +a bulldog, and no more mercy in his face than a chopping-block. "Gaston +Carew, the player?" he growled. "Ye can't come in without a permit from +the warden."</p> + +<p>"We must," said Jones.</p> + +<p>"Must?" said the turnkey. "I am the only one who says 'must' in +Newgate!" and slammed the door in their faces.</p> + +<p>The player clinked a shilling on the bar.</p> + +<p>"It was a boy he said would come," growled the turnkey through the +wicket, pocketing the shilling; "so just the boy goes up. A shilling's +worth, ye mind, and not another wink." He drew Nick in, and dropped +the bars.</p> + +<p>It was a foul, dark place, and full of evil smells. Drops of water stood +on the cold stone walls, and a green mould crept along the floor. The +air was heavy and dank, and it began to be hard for Nick to breathe. The +men in the dungeons were singing a horrible song, and in the corner was +a half-naked fellow shackled to the floor. "Give me a penny," he said, +"or I will curse thee." Nick shuddered.</p> + +<p>"Up with thee," said the turnkey, gruffly, unlocking the door to the +stairs.</p> + +<p>The common room above was packed with miserable wretches, fighting, +dancing, gibbering like apes. Some were bawling ribald songs, others +moaning with fever. The strongest kept the window-ledges near light and +air by sheer main force, and were dicing on the dirty sill. The turnkey +pushed and banged his way through them, Nick clinging desperately to +his jerkin.</p> + +<p>In a cell at the end of the corridor there was a Spanish renegade who +cursed the light when the door was opened, and cursed the darkness when +it closed. "Cesare el Moro, Cesare el Moro," he was saying over and over +again to himself, as if he feared that he might forget his own name.</p> + +<p>Carew was in the middle cell, ironed hand and foot. He had torn his +sleeves and tucked the lace under the rough edges of the metal to keep +it from chafing the skin. He sat on a pile of dirty straw, with his face +in his folded arms upon his knees. By his side was a broken biscuit and +an empty stone jug. He had his fingers in his ears to shut out the +tolling of the knell for the man who had gone to be hanged.</p> + +<p>The turnkey shook the bars. "Here, wake up!" he said.</p> + +<p>Carew looked up. His eyes were swollen, and his face was covered with a +two days' beard. He had slept in his clothes, and they were full of +broken straw and creases. But his haggard face lit up when he saw the +boy, and he came to the grating with an eager exclamation: "And thou +hast truly come? To the man thou dost hate so bitterly, but wilt not +hate any more. Come, Nick, thou wilt not hate me any more. 'Twill not +be worth thy while, Nick; the night is coming fast."</p> + +<p>"Why, sir," said Nick, "it is not so dark outside--'tis scarcely noon; +and thou wilt soon be out."</p> + +<p>"Out? Ay, on Tyburn Hill," said the master-player, quietly. "I've spent +my whole life for a bit of hempen cord. I've taken my last cue. Last +night, at twelve o'clock, I heard the bellman under the prison walls +call my name with the names of those already condemned. The play is +nearly out, Nick, and the people will be going home. It has been a wild +play, Nick, and ill played."</p> + +<p>"Here, if ye've anything to say, be saying it," said the turnkey. "'Tis +a shilling's worth, ye mind."</p> + +<p>Carew lifted up his head in the old haughty way, and clapped his +shackled hand to his hip--they had taken his poniard when he came into +the gaol. A queer look came over his face; taking his hand away, he +wiped it hurriedly upon his jerkin. There were dark stains upon +the silk.</p> + +<p>"Ye sent for me, sir," said Nick.</p> + +<p>Carew passed his hand across his brow. "Yes, yes, I sent for thee. I +have something to tell thee, Nick." He hesitated, and looked through the +bars at the boy, as if to read his thoughts. "Thou'lt be good and true +to Cicely--thou'lt deal fairly with my girl? Why, surely, yes." He +paused again, as if irresolute. "I'll trust thee, Nick. We've taken +money, thou and I; good gold and silver--tsst! what's that?" He +stopped suddenly.</p> + +<p>Nick heard no sound but the Spaniard's cursing.</p> + +<p>"'Tis my fancy," Carew said. "Well, then, we've taken much good money, +Nick; and I have not squandered all of it. Hark'e--thou knowest the old +oak wainscot in the dining-hall, and the carven panel by the Spanish +chest? Good, then! Upon the panel is a cherubin, and--tsst! what's +that, I say?"</p> + +<p>There was a stealthy rustling in the right-hand cell. The fellow in it +had his ear pressed close against the bars. "He is listening," +said Nick.</p> + +<p>The fellow cursed and shook his fist, and then, when Master Carew +dropped his voice and would have gone on whispering, set up so loud a +howling and clanking of his chains that the lad could not make out one +word the master-player said.</p> + +<p>"Peace, thou dog!" cried Carew, and kicked the grating. But the fellow +only yelled the louder.</p> + +<p>Carew looked sorely troubled. "I dare not let him hear," said he. "The +very walls of Newgate leak."</p> + +<p>"<i>Yak, yah, yah, thou gallows-bird!</i>"</p> + +<p>"Yet I must tell thee, Nick."</p> + +<p>"<i>Yah, yah, dangle-rope!</i>"</p> + +<p>"Stay! would Will Shakspere come? Why, here, I'll send him word. He'll +come--Will Shakspere never bore a grudge; and I shall so soon go where +are no grudges, envy, storms, or noise, but silence and the soft lap of +everlasting sleep. He'll come--Nick, bid him come, upon his life, to +the Old Bailey when I am taken up."</p> + +<p>Nick nodded. It was strange to have his master beg.</p> + +<p>Carew was looking up at a thin streak of light that came in through the +narrow window at the stair. "Nick," said he, huskily, "last night I +dreamed I heard thee singing; but 'twas where there was a sweet, green +field and a stream flowing through a little wood. Methought 'twas on the +road past Warwick toward Coventry. Thou'lt go there some day and +remember Gaston Carew, wilt not, lad? And, Nick, for thine own mother's +sake, do not altogether hate him; he was not so bad a man as he might +easily have been."</p> + +<p>"Come," growled the turnkey, who was pacing up and down like a surly +bear; "have done. 'Tis a fat shilling's worth."</p> + +<p>"'Twas there I heard thee sing first, Nick," said Carew, holding to the +boy's hands through the bars. "I'll never hear thee sing again."</p> + +<p>"Why, sir, I'll sing for thee now," said Nick, choking.</p> + +<p>The turnkey was coming back when Nick began suddenly to sing. He looked +up, staring. Such a thing dumfounded him. He had never heard a song like +that in Newgate. There were rules in prison. "Here, here," he cried, "be +still!" But Nick sang on.</p> + +<p>The groaning, quarreling, and cursing were silent all at once. The guard +outside, who had been sharpening his pike upon the window-ledge, stopped +the shrieking sound. Silence like a restful sleep fell upon the weary +place. Through dark corridors and down the mildewed stairs the quaint +old song went floating as a childhood memory into an old man's dream; +and to Gaston Carew's ear it seemed as if the melody of earth had all +been gathered in that little song--all but the sound of the voice of his +daughter Cicely.</p> + +<p>It ceased, and yet a gentle murmur seemed to steal through the mouldy +walls, of birds and flowers, sunlight and the open air, of once-loved +mothers, and of long-forgotten homes. The renegade had ceased his +cursing, and was whispering a fragment of a Spanish prayer he had not +heard for many a day.</p> + +<p>Carew muttered to himself. "And now old cares are locked in charmèd +sleep, and new griefs lose their bitterness, to hear thee sing--to hear +thee sing. God bless thee, Nick!"</p> + +<p>"'Tis three good shillings' worth o' time," the turnkey growled, and +fumbled with the keys. "All for one shilling, too," said he, and kicked +the door-post sulkily. "But a plague, I say, a plague! 'Tis no one's +business but mine. I've a good two shillings' worth in my ears. 'Tis +thirty year since I ha' heard the like o' that. But what's a gaol +for?--man's delight? Nay, nay. Here, boy, time's up! Come out o' that." +But he spoke so low that he scarcely heard himself; and going to the end +of the corridor, he marked at random upon the wall.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Nick, I love thee," said the master-player, holding the boy's hands +with a bitter grip. "Dost thou not love me just a little? Come, lad, say +that thou lovest me."</p> + +<a name="Illus0358"></a> +<P class=ctr> +<a href="Images/Illus0358.jpg"> +<img src="Images/Illus0358.jpg" width = "40%" +alt=""'Why, sir, I'll sing for thee now.' said Nick, choking.""> +</a><br> +<b>"'Why, sir, I'll sing for thee now.' said Nick, choking."</b> +</P><br> + +<p>"Nay, Master Carew," Nick answered soberly, "I do na love +thee, and I will na say I do, sir; but I pity thee with all my heart. +And, sir, if thy being out would keep me stolen, still I think I'd wish +thee out--for Cicely. But, Master Carew, do na break my hands."</p> + +<p>The master-player loosed his grasp. "I will not seek to be excused to +thee," he said huskily. "I've prisoned thee as that clod prisons me; +but, Nick, the play is almost out, down comes the curtain on my heels, +and thy just blame will find no mark. Yet, Nick, now that I am fast and +thou art free, it makes my heart ache to feel that 'twas not I who set +thee free. Thou canst go when pleaseth thee, and thank me nothing for +it. And, Nick, as my sins be forgiven me, I truly meant to set thee free +and send thee home. I did, upon my word, and on the remnant of +mine honour!"</p> + +<p>"Time's good and up, sirs," said the turnkey, coming back.</p> + +<p>Carew thrust his hand into his breast.</p> + +<p>"I must be going, sir," said Nick.</p> + +<p>"Ay, so thou must--all things must go. Oh, Nick, be friendly with me +now, if thou wert never friendly before. Kiss me, lad. There--now thy +hand." The master-player clasped it closely in his own, and pressing +something into the palm, shut down the fingers over it. "Quick! Keep it +hid," he whispered. "'Tis the chain I had from Stratford's burgesses, to +some good usage come at last."</p> + +<p>"Must I come and fetch thee out?" growled the turnkey.</p> + +<p>"I be coming, sir."</p> + +<p>"Thou'lt send Will Shakspere? And, oh, Nick," cried Carew, holding him +yet a little longer, "thou'lt keep my Cicely from harm?"</p> + +<p>"I'll do my best," said Nick, his own eyes full.</p> + +<p>The turnkey raised his heavy bunch of keys. "I'll ding thee out o' this" +said he.</p> + +<p>And the last Nick Attwood saw of Gaston Carew was his wistful eyes +hunting down the stairway after him, and his hand, with its torn fine +laces, waving at him through the bars.</p> + +<p>And when he came to the Mermaid Inn Master Shakspere's comedy was done, +and Master Ben Jonson was telling a merry tale that made the tapster +sick with laughing.</p> + + + +<br><br><hr style="width: 35%;"><br><br> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXXIII</h2> + +<h3>CICELY DISAPPEARS</h3> +<br> + +<p>That Master Will Shakspere should be so great seemed passing strange to +Nick, he felt so soon at home with him. It seemed as if the master-maker +of plays had a magic way of going out to and about the people he met, +and of fitting his humor to them as though he were a glover with their +measure in his hand.</p> + +<p>With Nick he was nothing all day long but a jolly, wise, and +gentle-hearted boy, wearing his greatness like an old cloth coat, as if +it were a long-accustomed thing, and quite beyond all pride, and went +about his business in a very simple way. But in the evening when the +wits were met together at his house, and Nick sat on the hindmost bench +and watched the noble gentlemen who came to listen to the sport, Master +Will Shakspere seemed to have the knack of being ever best among them +all, yet of never too much seeming to be better than the rest.</p> + +<p>And though, for the most part, he said but little, save when some pet +fancy moved him, when he did speak his conversation sparkled like a +little meadow brook that drew men's best thoughts out of them like +water from a spring.</p> + +<p>And when they fell to bantering, he could turn the fag-end of another +man's nothing to good account in a way so shrewd that not even Master +Ben Jonson could better him--and Master Ben Jonson set up for a wit. But +Master Shakspere came about as quickly as an English man-of-war, dodged +here and there on a breath of wind, and seemed quite everywhere at once; +while Master Jonson tacked and veered, and loomed across the elements +like a great galleon, pouring forth learned broadsides with a most +prodigious boom, riddling whatever was in the way, to be sure, but often +quite missing the point--because Master Shakspere had come about, hey, +presto, change! and was off with the argument, point and all, upon a +totally different tack.</p> + +<p>Then "Tush!" and "Fie upon thee, Will!" Master Jonson would cry with his +great bluff-hearted laugh, "thou art a regular flibbertigibbet! I'll +catch thee napping yet, old heart, and fill thee so full of pepper-holes +that thou wilt leak epigrams. But quits--I must be home, or I shall +catch it from my wife. Faith, Will, thou shouldst see my little Ben!"</p> + +<p>"I'll come some day," Master Shakspere would say; "give him my love"; +and his mouth would smile, though his eyes were sad, for his own son +Hamnet was dead.</p> + +<p>Then, when the house was still again, and all had said good-by, Nick +doffed his clothes and laid him down to sleep in peace. Yet he often +wakened in the night, because his heart was dancing so.</p> + +<p>In the morning, when the world began to stir outside, and the early +light came in at the window, he slipped out of bed across the floor, and +threw the casement wide. Over the river, and over the town, and over the +hills that lay blue in the north, was Stratford!</p> + +<p>The damp, cool air from the garden below seemed a primrose whiff from +the lane behind his father's house. He could hear the cocks crowing in +Surrey, and the lowing of the kine. There was a robin singing in a bush +under the window, and there was some one in the garden with a pair of +pruning-shears. Snip-snip! snip-snip! he heard them going. The light in +the east was pink as a peach-bloom and too intense to bear.</p> + +<p>"Good-morrow, Master Early-bird!" a merry voice called up to him, and a +nosegay dropped on the window-ledge at his side. He looked down. There +in the path among the rose-trees was Master Will Shakspere, laughing. He +had on an ancient leathern jacket and a hat with a hole in its crown; +and the skirts of the jacket were dripping with dew from the bushes.</p> + +<p>"Good-morrow, sir," said Nick, and bowed. "It is a lovely day."</p> + +<p>"Most beautiful indeed! How comes the sun?"</p> + +<p>"Just up, sir; the river is afire with it now. O-oh!" Nick held his +breath, and watched the light creep down the wall, darting long bars of +rosy gold through the snowy bloom of the apple-trees, until it rested +upon Master Shakspere's face, and made a fleeting glory there.</p> + +<p>Then Master Shakspere stretched himself a little in the sun, laughing +softly, and said, "It is the sweetest music in the world--morning, +spring, and God's dear sunshine; it starteth kindness brewing in the +heart, like sap in a withered bud. What sayest, lad? We'll fetch the +little maid to-day; and then--away for Stratford town!"</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;"> + +<p>But when Master Shakspere and Nicholas Attwood came to Gaston Carew's +house, the constables had taken charge, the servants were scattering +hither and thither, and Cicely Carew was gone.</p> + +<p>The bandy-legged man, the butler said, had come on Sunday in great +haste, and packing up his goods, without a word of what had befallen his +master, had gone away, no one knew whither, and had taken Cicely with +him. Nor had they questioned what he did, for they all feared the rogue, +and judged him to have authority.</p> + +<p>Nick caught a moment at the lintel of the door. The house was full of +voices, and the sound of trampling feet went up and down from room to +room; but all he heard was Gaston Carew's worn voice saying, "Thou'lt +keep my Cicely from harm?"</p> + + + +<br><br><hr style="width: 35%;"><br><br> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXXIV</h2> + +<h3>THE BANDY-LEGGED MAN</h3> +<br> + +<p>Until night fell they sought the town over for a trace of Cicely; but +all to no avail. The second day likewise.</p> + +<p>The third day passed, and still there were no tidings. Master +Shakspere's face grew very grave, and Nick's heart sickened till he +quite forgot that he was going home.</p> + +<p>But on the morning of the fourth day, which chanced to be the 1st of +May, as he was standing in the door of a printer's stall in St. Paul's +Churchyard, watching the gaily dressed holiday crowds go up and down, +while Robin Dexter's apprentices bound white-thorn boughs about the +brazen serpent overhead, he spied the bandy-legged man among the rout +that passed the north gate by St. Martin's le Grand.</p> + +<p>He had a yellow ribbon in his ear, and wore a bright plum-colored cloak, +at sight of which Nick cried aloud, for it was the very cloak which +Master Gaston Carew wore when he first met him in the Warwick road. The +rogue was making for the way which ran from Cheapside to the river, and +was walking very fast.</p> + +<p>"Master Shakspere! Master Shakspere!" Nick called out. But Master +Shakspere was deep in the proofs of a newly published play, and did +not hear.</p> + +<p>The yellow ribbon fluttered in the sun--was gone behind the churchyard +wall.</p> + +<p>"Quick, Master Shakspere! quick!" Nick cried; but the master-writer +frowned at the inky page; for the light in the printer's shop was dim, +and the proof was very bad.</p> + +<p>The ribbon was gone down the river-way--and with it the hope of finding +Cicely. Nick shot one look into the stall. Master Shakspere, deep in his +proofs, was deaf to the world outside. Nick ran to the gate at the top +of his speed. In the crowd afar off a yellow spot went fluttering like a +butterfly along a country road. Without a single second thought, he +followed it as fast as his legs could go.</p> + +<p>Twice he lost it in the throng. But the yellow patch bobbed up again in +the sunlight far beyond, and led him on, and on, and on, a breathless +chase, down empty lanes and alley-ways, through unfrequented courts, +among the warehouses and wharf-sheds along the river-front, into the +kennels of Billingsgate, where the only sky was a ragged slit between +the leaning roofs. His heart sank low and lower as they went, for only +thieves and runagates who dared not face the day in honest streets were +gathered in wards like these.</p> + +<p>In a filthy purlieu under Fish-street Hill, where mackerel-heads and +herrings strewed the drains, and sour kits of whitebait stood +fermenting in the sun, the bandy-legged man turned suddenly into a dingy +court, and when Nick reached the corner of the entry-way was gone as +though the earth had swallowed him.</p> + +<p>Nick stopped dismayed, and looked about, His forehead was wet and his +breath was gone. He had no idea where they were, but it was a dismal +hole. Six forbidding doorways led off from the unkempt court, and a +rotting stairway sagged along the wall. A crop-eared dog, that lay in +the sun beside a broken cart, sprang up with its hair all pointing to +its head, and snarled at him with a vicious grin. "Begone, thou cur!" he +cried, and let drive with a stone. The dog ran under the cart, and +crouched there barking at him.</p> + +<p>Through an open door beyond there came a sound of voices as of people in +some further thoroughfare. Perchance the bandy-legged man had passed +that way? He ran across the court, and up the steps; but came back +faster than he went, for the passageway there was blind and black, a +place unspeakable for dirt, and filled with people past description. A +woman peered out after him with red eyes blinking in the sun. "Ods +bobs!" she croaked, "a pretty thing! Come hither, knave; I want the +buckle off thy cloak."</p> + +<p>Nick, shuddering, started for the street. But just as he reached the +entry-port a door in the courtyard opened, and the bandy-legged man came +out with a bag upon his back, leading Cicely by the hand.</p> + +<p>Seeing Nick, he gave a cry, believing himself pursued, and made for the +open door again; but almost instantly perceiving the boy to be alone, +slammed shut the door and followed him instead, dragging Cicely over the +stones, and shouting hoarsely, "Stop there! stop!"</p> + +<p>Nick's heart came up in his very throat. His legs went water-weak. He +ran for the open thoroughfare without once looking back. Yet while he +ran he heard Cicely cry out suddenly in pain, "Oh, Gregory, Gregory, +thou art hurting me so!" and at the sound the voice of Gaston Carew rang +like a bugle in his ears: "Thou'lt keep my Cicely from harm?" He stopped +as short as if he had butted his head against a wall, whirled on his +heel, stood fast, though he was much afraid; and standing there, his +head thrown back and his fists tight clenched, as if some one had struck +him in the face, he waited until they came to where he was. "Thou +hulking, cowardly rogue!" said he to the bandy-legged man.</p> + +<p>But the bandy-legged man caught him fast by the arm, and hurried on into +the street, scanning it swiftly up and down. "Two birds with one stone, +by hen!" he chuckled, when he saw that the coast was clear. "They'll +fetch a pretty penny by and by."</p> + +<p>Poor Cicely smiled through her tears at Nick. "I knew thou wouldst come +for me soon," said she. "But where is my father?"</p> + +<p>"He's dead as a herring," snarled Gregory.</p> + +<p>"That's a lie," said Nick; "he is na dead."</p> + +<p>"Don't call me liar, knave--by hen, I'll put a stopper on thy voice!"</p> + +<p>"Thou wilt na put a stopper on a jug!" cried Nick, his heart so hot for +Cicely that he quite forgot himself. "I'd sing so well without a +voice--it would butter thy bread for thee! Loose my arm, thou rogue."</p> + +<p>"Not for a thousand golden crowns! I'm no tom-noddy, to be gulled. And, +hark 'e, be less glib with that 'rogue' of thine, or I'll baste thy back +for thee."</p> + +<p>"Oh, don't beat Nick!" gasped Cicely.</p> + +<p>"Do na fret for me," said Nick; "I be na feared of the cowardly rogue!"</p> + +<p>Crack! the man struck him across the face. Nick's eyes flashed hot as a +fire-coal. He set his teeth, but he did not flinch. "Do na thou strike +me again, <i>thou rogue!</i>" said he.</p> + +<p>As he spoke, on a sudden his heart leaped up and his fear was utterly +gone. In its place was a something fierce and strange--a bitter +gladness, a joy that stung and thrilled him like great music in the +night. A tingling ran from head to foot; the little hairs of his flesh +stood up; he trampled the stones as he hurried on. In his breast his +heart was beating like a bell; his breath came hotly, deep and slow; the +whole world widened on his gaze. Oh, what a thing is the heart of a boy! +how quickly great things are done therein! One instant, put him to the +touch--the thing is done, and he is nevermore the same. Like a keen, +cold wind that blows through a window in the night, life's courage had +breathed on Nick Attwood's heart; the <i>man</i> that slept in the heart of +the boy awoke and was aware. The old song roared in Nick's ears:</p> + +<blockquote> +Sir Francis Drake sailed round the world,<br> + Round the world, round the world;<br> +John Hawkins fought the "Victory,"<br> + And we ha' beaten Spain!<br> +</blockquote> + +<p>Whither they were going he did not know. Whither they were going he did +not care. He was English: this was England still! He set his teeth and +threw back his shoulders. "I be na feared of him!" said he.</p> + +<p>"But my father will come for us soon, won't he, Nick?" faltered Cicely.</p> + +<p>"Eigh! just don't he wish that he might!" laughed Goole.</p> + +<p>"Oh, ay," said she, and nodded bravely to herself; "he may be very busy +now, and so he cannot come. But presently he will come for me and fetch +me home again." She gave a joyous little skip. "To fetch me home +again--ay, surely, my father will come for me anon."</p> + +<p>A lump came up in Nick Attwood's throat. "But what hath he done to thee, +Cicely, and where is thy pretty gown?" he asked, as they hurried on +through the crooked way; for the gown she wore was in rags.</p> + +<p>Cicely choked down a sob. "He hath kept me locked up in a horrible +place, where an old witch came in the night and stole my clothes away. +And he says that if money doth not come for me soon he will turn me out +to starve."</p> + +<p>"To starve? Nay, Cicely; I will na leave thee starve. I'll go with thee +wherever he taketh thee; I'll fend for thee with all my might and main, +and none shall harm thee if I can help. So cheer up--we will get away! +Thou needst na gripe me so, thou rogue; I am going wherever she goes."</p> + +<p>"I'll see that ye do," growled the bandy-legged man. "But take the other +hand of her, thou jackanapes, and fetch a better pace than this--I'll +not be followed again."</p> + +<p>His tone was bold, but his eyes were not; for they were faring through +the slums toward Whitechapel way, and the hungry crowd eyed Nick's silk +cloak greedily. One burly rascal with a scar across his face turned back +and snatched at it. For his own safety's sake, the bandy-legged man +struck up into a better thoroughfare, where he skulked along like a fox +overtaken by dawn, fearing to meet some dog he knew.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Gregory, go slow!" pleaded Cicely, panting for breath, and +stumbling over the cobblestones. Goole's only answer was a scowl. Nick +trotted on sturdily, holding her hand, and butting his shoulder against +the crowd so that she might not be jostled; for the press grew thick and +thicker as they went. All London was a-Maying, and the foreigners from +Soho, too. Up in the belfries, as they passed, the bells were clanging +until the whole town rang like a smithy on the eve of war, for madcap +apprentices had the ropes, and were ringing for exercise.</p> + +<p>Thicker and thicker grew the throng, as though the sea were sweeping +through the town. Then, at the corner of Mincing Lane, where the +cloth-workers' shops were thick, all at once there came an uproarious +din of men's voices singing together:</p> + +<blockquote> +"Three merry boys, and three merry boys,<br> + And three merry boys are we,<br> +As ever did sing in a hempen string<br> + Beneath the gallows-tree!"<br> +</blockquote> + +<p>And before the bandy-legged man could chance upon a doorway in which to +stand out of the rush, they were pressed against the wall flat as cakes +by a crowd of bold apprentices in holiday attire going out to a wager of +archery to be shot in Finsbury Fields.</p> + +<p>At first all Nick could see was legs: red legs, yellow legs, blue legs, +green legs, long legs, strong legs--in truth, a very many of all sorts +of legs, all stepping out together like a hundred-bladed shears; for +these were the Saddlers of Cheapside and the Cutters of Mincing Lane, +tall, ruddy-faced fellows, all armed with clubs, which they twirled and +tossed and thwacked one another with in sport. Some wore straw hats with +steeple-crowns, and some flat caps of green and white, or red and +orange-tawny. Some had long yew bows and sheaves of arrows decked with +garlands; and they were all exceedingly daubed in the face with dripping +cherry-juice and with cheese, which they munched as they strode along.</p> + +<p>"What, there, Tom Webster, I say," cried one, catching sight of Cicely's +face, "here is a Queen o' the May for thee!"</p> + +<p>His broad-shouldered comrade stopped in the way, and with him all the +rest. "My faith, Jem Armstrong, 'tis the truth, for once in thy life!" +quoth he, and stared at Cicely. Her cheeks were flushed, and her panting +red lips were fallen apart so that her little white teeth showed +through. Her long, dark lashes cast shadow circles under her eyes. Her +curly hair in elfin locks tossed all about her face, and through it was +tied a crimson ribbon, mocking the quick color of the blood which came +and went beneath her delicate skin. "My faith!" cried Tommy Webster, +"her face be as fair as a K in a copy-book! Hey, bullies, what? let's +make her queen!"</p> + +<p>"A queen?" "What queen?" "Where is a queen?" "I granny! Tom Webster hath +catched a queen!" "Where is she, Tom?" "Up with her, mate, and let a +fellow see."</p> + +<p>"Hands off, there!" snarled the bandy-legged man.</p> + +<p>"Up with her, Tom!" cried out the strapping fellow at his back. "A queen +it is; and a right good smacking toll all round--I have not bussed a +maid this day! Up with her, Tom!"</p> + +<p>"Stand back, ye rogues, and let us pass!"</p> + +<p>But alas and alack for the bandy-legged man! He could not ruffle and +swagger it off as Gaston Carew had done of old; a London apprentice was +harder nuts than his cowardly heart could crack.</p> + +<p>"Stand back, ye rogues!" he cried again.</p> + +<p>"Rogues? Rogues? Who calls us rogues? Hi, Martin Allston, crack me his +crown!"</p> + +<p>"Good masters," faltered Gregory, seeing that bluster would not serve, +"I meant ye no offense. I pr'ythee, do not keep a father and his +children from their dying mother's bed!"</p> + +<p>"Nay--is that so?" asked Webster, sobering instantly "Here, lads, give +way--their mother be a-dying."</p> + +<p>The crowd fell back. "Ah, sirs," whined Goole, scarce hiding the joy in +his face, "she'll thank ye with her dying breath. Get on, thou knave!" +he muttered fiercely in Nick's ear.</p> + +<p>But Nick stood fast, and caught Tom Webster by the arm. "The fellow +lieth in his throat," said he. "My mother is in Stratford town; and +Cicely's mother is dead."</p> + +<p>"Thou whelp!" cried the bandy-legged man, and aimed a sudden blow at +Nick, "I'll teach thee to hold thy tongue."</p> + +<p>"Oh, no, ye won't," quoth Thomas Webster, interposing his long oak +staff, and thrusting the fellow away so hard that he thumped against the +wall; "there is no school on holidays! Thou'lt teach nobody here to hold +his tongue but thine own self--and start at that straightway. Dost take +me?--say? Now, Jacky Sprat, what's all the coil about? Hath this sweet +fellow kidnapped thee?"</p> + +<p>"Nay, sir, not me, but Cicely; and do na leave him take her, sir, for he +treats her very ill!"</p> + +<p>"The little rascal lies," sneered Goole, though his lips were the color +of lead; "I am her legal guardian!"</p> + +<p>"What! How? Thou wast her father but a moment since!"</p> + +<p>"Nay, nay," Goole stammered, turning a sickly hue; "her father's nearest +friend, I said,--he gave her in my charge."</p> + +<p>"My father's friend!" cried Cicely. "Thou? Thou? His common groom! Why, +he would not give my finger in thy charge."</p> + +<p>"He is the wiser daddy, then!" laughed Jemmy Armstrong, "for the fellow +hath a T for Tyburn writ upon his face."</p> + +<p>The eyes of the bandy-legged man began to shift from side to side; but +still he put a bold front on. "Stand off," said he, and tried to thrust +Tom Webster back. "Thou'lt pay the piper dear for this! The knave is a +lying vagabond. He hath stolen this pack of goods."</p> + +<p>"Why, fie for shame!" cried Cicely, and stamped her little foot. "Nick +doth not steal, and thou knowest it, Gregory Goole! It is thou who hast +stolen my pretty clothes, and the wine from my father's house!"</p> + +<p>"Good, sweetheart!" quoth Tom Webster, eying the bandy-legged man with a +curious snap in his honest eyes. "So the rascal hath stolen other things +than thee? I thought that yellow bow of his was tied tremendous high! +Why, mates, the dog is a branded rogue--that ribbon is tied through the +hole in his ear!"</p> + +<p>Gregory Goole made a dash through the throng where the press was least.</p> + +<p>Thump! went Tommy Webster's club, and a little puff of dust went up from +Gregory's purple cloak. But he was off so sharply, and dodged with such +amazing skill, that most of the blows aimed at his head hummed through +the empty air, or thwacked some stout apprentice in the ribs as they all +went whooping after him. He was out of the press and away like a deer +down a covert lane between two shops ere one could say, "Jack, Robin's +son," and left the stout apprentices at every flying leap. So presently +they all gave over the chase, and came back with the bag he had dropped +as he ran; and were so well pleased with themselves for what they had +done that they gave three cheers for all the Cloth-workers and Saddlers +in London, and then three more for Cicely and Nick. They would no doubt +have gone right on and given three for the bag likewise, being strongly +in the humor of it; but "Hi, Tom Webster!" shouted one who could hardly +speak for cherries and cheese and puffing, "what's gone with the queen +we're to have so fast, and the toll that we're to take?"</p> + +<p>Tom Webster pulled at his yellow beard, for he saw that Cicely was no +common child, and of gentler birth than they. "I do not think she'll +bide the toll," said he, in half apology.</p> + +<p>"What! is there anything to pay?" she asked with a rueful quaver in her +voice. "Oh, Nick, there is to pay!"</p> + +<p>"We have no money, sirs," said Nick; "I be very sorry."</p> + +<p>"If my father were here," said Cicely, "he would give thee a handful of +silver; but I have not a penny to my name." She looked up into Tom +Webster's face. "But, sir," said she, and laid her hand upon his arm, +"if ye care, I will kiss thee upon the cheek."</p> + +<p>"Why, marry come up! My faith!" quoth he, and suddenly blushed--to his +own surprise the most of all--"why, what? Who'd want a sweeter penny +for his pains?" But "Here--nay, nay!" the others cried; "ye've left us +out. Fair play, fair play!"</p> + +<p>All Cicely could see was a forest of legs that filled the lane from wall +to wall, and six great fellows towering over her. "Why, sirs," cried +she, confusedly, while her face grew rosy red, "ye all shall kiss my +hand--if--if--"</p> + +<p>"If what?" they roared.</p> + +<p>"If ye will but wipe your faces clean."</p> + +<p>At the shout of laughter they sent up the constable of the cloth-men's +ward awoke from a sudden dream of war and bloody insurrection, and came +down Cheapside bawling, "Peace, in the name of the Queen!" But when he +found it was only the apprentices of Mincing Lane out Maying, he stole +away around a shop, and made as if it were some other fellow.</p> + +<p>They took the humor of it like a jolly lot of bears, and all came +crowding round about, wiping their mouths on what came first, with a +lick and a promise,--kerchief, doublet, as it chanced,--laughing, and +shouldering each to be first. "Up with the little maid there, Tom!" they +roared lustily.</p> + +<p>Cicely gave him both her hands, and--"Upsydaisy!"--she was on the top of +the corner post, where she stood with one hand on his brawny shoulder to +steady herself, like a flower growing by a wall, bowing gravely all +about, and holding out her hand to be kissed with as graceful an air as +a princess born, and withal a sweet, quaint dignity that abashed the +wildest there.</p> + +<p>Some one or two came blustering as if her hand were not enough; but +Jemmy Armstrong rapped them so sharply over the pate, with "Soft, ye +loons, her hand!" that they dabbed at her little finger-tips, and were +out of his reach in a jiffy, rubbing their polls with a sheepish grin; +for Jemmy Armstrong's love-pats would have cracked a hazelnut.</p> + +<p>Some came again a second time. One came even a third. But Cicely knew +him by his steeple-hat, and tucked her hand behind her, saying, "Fie, +sir, thou art greedy!" Whereupon the others laughed and punched him in +the ribs with their clubs, until he bellowed, "Quits! We'll all be late +to the archery if we be not trotting on."</p> + +<p>Nick's face fell at the merry shout of "Finsbury, Finsbury, ho!" "I dare +na try to take her home alone," said he; "that rogue may lie in wait +for us."</p> + +<p>"Oh, Nick, he is not coming back?" cried Cicely; and with that she threw +her arms around Tom Webster's neck. "Oh, take us with thee, sir--don't +leave us all alone!"</p> + +<p>Webster pulled his yellow beard. "Nay, lass, it would not do," said he; +"we'll be mad larks by evening. But there, sweetheart, don't weep no +more! That rogue shall not catch thee again, I promise that."</p> + +<p>"Why, Tom," quoth Armstrong, "what's the coil? We'll leave them at the +Boar's Head Inn with sixpence each until their friends can come for +them. Hey, mates, up Great East Cheap!" And off they marched to the +Boar's Head Inn.</p> + + + +<br><br><hr style="width: 35%;"><br><br> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXV"></a>CHAPTER XXXV</h2> + +<h3>A SUDDEN RESOLVE</h3> +<br> + +<p>Nick and Cicely were sitting on a bench in the sun beside the tap-room +door, munching a savory mutton-pie which Tommy Webster had bought for +them. Beside them over the window-sill the tapster twirled his spigot +cheerfully, and in the door the carrier was bidding the +serving-maids good-by.</p> + +<p>Around the inn-yard stood a row of heavy, canvas-covered wains and +lumbering two-wheeled carts, each surmounted by a well-armed guard, and +drawn by six strong horses with harness stout as cannon-leathers. The +hostlers stood at the horses' heads, chewing at wisps of barley-straw as +though their other fare was scant, which, from their sleek rotundity, +was difficult to believe. The stable-boy, with a pot of slush, and a +head of hair like a last year's haycock, was hastily greasing a +forgotten wheel; while, out of the room where the servants ate, the +drivers came stumbling down the steps with a mighty smell of onions and +brawn. The weekly train from London into the north was ready to be off.</p> + +<p>A portly, well-clad countryman, with a shrewd but good-humored +countenance, and a wife beside him round and rosy of face as he, came +bustling out of the private door. "How far yet, Master John?" he asked +as he buckled on his cloak. "Forty-two miles to Oxford, sir," replied +the carrier. "We must be off if we're to lie at Uxbridge overnight; for +there hath been rain beyond, sir, and the roads be werry deep."</p> + +<p>Nick stared at the man for Oxford. Forty-two miles to Oxford! And Oxford +lay to the south of Stratford fifty miles and two. Ninety-four miles +from Stratford town! Ninety-four miles from home!</p> + +<p>"When will my father come for us, Nick?" asked Cicely, turning her hand +in the sun to see the red along the edges of her fingers.</p> + +<p>"Indeed, I can na tell," said Nick; "Master Will Shakspere is coming +anon, and I shall go with him."</p> + +<p>"And leave me by myself?"</p> + +<p>"Nay; thou shalt go, too. Thou'lt love to see his garden and the +rose-trees--it is like a very country place. He is a merry gentleman, +and, oh, so kind! He is going to take me home."</p> + +<p>"But my father will take us home when he comes."</p> + +<p>"To Stratford town, I mean."</p> + +<p>"Away from daddy and me? Why, Nick!"</p> + +<p>"But my mother is in Stratford town."</p> + +<p>Cicely was silent. "Then I think I would go, too," she said quite +softly, looking down as if there were a picture on the ground. "When +one's mother is gone there is a hurting-place that nought doth ever +come into any more--excepting daddy, and--and thee. We shall miss thee, +Nick, at supper-times. Thou'lt come back soon?"</p> + +<p>"I am na coming back."</p> + +<p>"Not coming back?" She laid the mutton-pie down on the bench.</p> + +<p>"No--I am na coming back"</p> + +<p>"Never?"</p> + +<p>"Never."</p> + +<p>She looked at him as if she had not altogether understood.</p> + +<p>Nick turned away. A strange uneasiness had come upon him, as if some one +were staring at him fixedly. But no one was. There was a Dutchman in the +gate who had not been there just before. "He must have sprung up out of +the ground," thought Nick, "or else he is a very sudden Dutchman!" He +had on breeches like two great meal-sacks, and a Flemish sea-cloth +jacket full of wrinkles, as if it had been lying in a chest. His back +was turned, and Nick could not help smiling, for the fellow's shanks +came out of his breeches' bottoms like the legs of a letter A. He looked +like a pudding on two skewers.</p> + +<p>Cicely slowly took up the mutton-pie once more, but did not eat. "Is na +the pasty good?" asked Nick.</p> + +<p>"Not now," said she.</p> + +<p>Nick turned away again.</p> + +<p>The Dutchman was not in the gate. He had crossed the inn-yard suddenly, +and was sitting close within the shadow of the wall, though the sunny +side was pleasanter by far. His wig was hanging down about his face, +and he was talking with the tapster's knave, a hungry-looking fellow +clad in rusty black as if some one were dead, although it was a holiday +and he had neither kith nor kin. The knave was biting his under lip and +staring straight at Nick.</p> + +<p>"And will I never see thee more?" asked Cicely.</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes," said Nick; "oh, yes."</p> + +<p>But he did not know whether she ever would or no.</p> + +<p>"Gee-wup, Dobbin! Yoicks, Ned! Tschk--tschk!" The leading cart rolled +slowly through the gate. A second followed it. The drivers made a +cracking with their whips, and all the guests came out to see them off. +But the Dutchman, as the rest came out, arose, and with the tapster's +knave went in at a narrow entrance beyond the tap-room steps.</p> + +<p>"And when will Master Shakspere come for thee?" asked Cicely once more, +the cold pie lying in her lap.</p> + +<p>"I do na know. How can I tell? Do na bother me so!" cried Nick, and dug +his heels into the cracks between the paving-stones; for after all that +had come to pass the starting of the baggage-train had made him sick +for home.</p> + +<p>Cicely looked up at him; she thought she had not heard aright. He was +staring after the last cart as it rolled through the inn-yard gate; his +throat was working, and his eyes were full of tears.</p> + +<p>"Why, Nick!" said she, "art crying?"</p> + +<p>"Nay," said he, "but very near," and dashed his hand across his face. +"Everything doth happen so all-at-once--and I am na big enough, Cicely. +Oh, Cicely, I would I were a mighty king--I'd make it all up +different somehow!"</p> + +<p>"Perhaps thou wilt be some day, Nick," she answered quietly. "Thou'ldst +make a very lovely king. I could be queen; and daddy should be Lord +Admiral, and own the finest play-house in the town."</p> + +<p>But Nick was staring at the tap-room door. A voice somewhere had +startled him. The guests were gone, and none was left but the tapster's +knave leaning against the inner wall.</p> + +<p>"Thy mother should come to live with us, and thy father, and all thy +kin," said Cicely, dreamily smiling; "and the people would love us, +there would be no more war, and we should be happy forevermore."</p> + +<p>But Nick was listening,--not to her,--and his face was a little pale. He +felt a strange, uneasy sense of some one staring at his back. He whirled +about--looked in at the tap-room window. For an instant a peering face +was there; then it was gone--there was only the Dutchman's frowzy wig +and striped woolen cap. But the voice he had heard and the face he had +seen were the voice and the face of Gregory Goole.</p> + +<p>"I should love to see thy mother, Nick," said Cicely.</p> + +<p>He got up steadily, though his heart was jolting his very ribs. "Thou +shalt right speedily!" said he.</p> + +<p>The carts were standing in a line. The carrier came down the steps with +his stirrup-cup in hand. Nick's heart gave a sudden, wild, resolute +leap, and he touched the carrier on the arm. "What will ye charge to +carry two as far as Stratford town?" he asked. His mouth was dry as a +dusty road, for the Dutchman had risen from his seat and was coming +toward the door.</p> + +<p>"I do na haul past Oxford," said the man.</p> + +<p>"To Oxford, then--how much? Be quick!" Nick thrust his hand into his +breast where he carried the burgesses' chain.</p> + +<p>"Eightpence the day, for three days out--two shilling 'tis, and find +yourself; it is an honest fare."</p> + +<p>The tapster's knave came down the steps; the Dutchman stood within the +shadow of the door.</p> + +<p>"Wilt carry us for this?" Nick cried, and thrust the chain into the +fellow's hands.</p> + +<p>He gasped and almost let it fall. "Beshrew my heart! Gadzooks!" said he, +"art thou a prince in hiding, boy? 'T would buy me, horses, wains, and +all. Why, man alive, 'tis but a nip o' this!"</p> + +<p>"Good, then," said Nick, "'tis done--we'll go. Come, Cicely, we're +going home!"</p> + +<p>Staring, the carrier followed him, weighing the chain in his hairy hand. +"Who art thou, boy?" he cried again. "This matter hath a queer look."</p> + +<p>"'Twas honestly come by, sir," cried Nick, no longer able to conceal a +quiver in his voice, "and my name is Nicholas Attwood; I come from +Stratford town."</p> + +<p>"Stratford-on-Avon? Why, art kin to Tanner Simon Attwood there, Attwood +of Old Town?"</p> + +<p>"He is my father, sir. Oh, leave us go with thee--take the whole +chain!"</p> + +<p>Slap went the carrier's cap in the dirt! "Leave thee go wi' me? +Gadzooks!" he cried, "my name be John Saddler--why, what? my daddy +liveth in Chapel lane, behind Will Underhill's. I stole thy father's +apples fifteen years. What! go wi' me? Get on the wain, thou little +fool--get on all the wains I own, and a plague upon thine eightpence, +lad! Why, here; Hal telled me thou wert dead, or lost, or some such +fairy tale! Up on the sheepskin, both o' ye!"</p> + +<p>The Dutchman came from the tap-room door and spoke to the tapster's +knave; but the words which he spoke to that tapster's knave were +anything but Dutch.</p> + + + +<br><br><hr style="width: 35%;"><br><br> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVI"></a>CHAPTER XXXVI</h2> + +<h3>WAYFARING HOME</h3> +<br> + +<p>At Kensington watering-place, five miles from London town, Nick held the +pail for the horses of the Oxford man. "Hello, my buck!" quoth he, and +stared at Nick; "where under the sun didst pop from all at once?" and, +looking up, spied Cicely upon the carrier's wain. "What, John!" he +shouted, "thou saidst there were no more!"</p> + +<p>"No more there weren't, sir," said John, "but there be now"; and out +with the whole story.</p> + +<p>"Well, I ha' farmed for fifty year," cried honest Roger Clout, "yet +never have I seen the mate to yonder little maid, nor heard the like o' +such a tale! Wife, wife!" he cried, in a voice as round and full of +hearty cheer as one who calls his own cattle home across his own fat +fields. "Come hither, Moll--here's company for thee. For sure, John, +they'll ride wi' Moll and I; 'tis godsend--angels on a baggage-cart! +Moll ha' lost her only one, and the little maid will warm the cockles o' +her heart, say nought about mine own. La, now, she is na feared o' me; +God bless thee, child! Look at her, Moll--as sweet as honey and the +cream o' the brindle cow."</p> + +<p>So they rode with kindly Roger Clout and his good wife by Hanwell, +Hillingdon Hill, and Uxbridge, where they rested at the inn near old St. +Margaret's, Cicely with Mistress Clout, and Nick with her good man. And +in the morning there was nothing to pay, for Roger Clout had footed all +the score.</p> + +<p>Then on again, through Beaconsfield and High Wycombe, into and over the +Chiltern Hills in Buckinghamshire. In parts the land was passing fair, +with sheep in flocks upon the hills, and cattle knee-deep in the grass; +but otherwhere the way was wild, with bogs and moss in all the deeps, +and dense beech forests on the heights; and more than once the guards +made ready their match-locks warily. But stout John Saddler's train was +no soft cakes for thieves, and they came up through Bucks scot-free.</p> + +<p>At times it drizzled fitfully, and the road was rough and bad; but the +third day was a fair, sweet day, and most exceeding bright and fresh. +The shepherds whistled on the hills, and the milkmaids sang in the +winding lanes among the white-thorn hedges, the smell of which was +everywhere. The singing, the merry voices calling, the comfortable +lowing of the kine, the bleating of the sheep, the clinking of the +bridle-chains, and the heavy ruttle of the carts filled the air with +life and cheer. The wind was blowing both warm and cool; and, oh, the +blithe breeze of the English springtime! Nick went up the green hills, +and down the white dells like a leaf in the wind, now ahead and now +behind the winding train, or off into the woods and over the fields for +a posy-bunch for Cicely, calling and laughing back at her, and filling +her lap with flowers and ferns until the cart was all one great, +sweet-smelling bower.</p> + +<p>As for Cicely, Nick was there, so she was very well content. She had +never gone a-visiting in all her life before; and she would see Nick's +mother, and the flowers in the yard, the well, and that wondrous stream, +the Avon, of which Nick talked so much. "Stratford is a fair, fair town, +though very full of fools," her father often said. But she had nothing +to do with the fools, and daddy would come for her again; so her +laughter bubbled like a little spring throughout the livelong day.</p> + +<p>As the sun went down in the yellow west they came into Oxford from the +south on the easterly side. The Cherwell burned with the orange light +reflected from the sky, and the towers of the famous town of olden +schools and scholars stood up black-purple against the western glow, +with rims of gold on every roof and spire.</p> + +<p>Up the High street into the corn-market rolled the tired train, and +turned into the rambling square of the old Crown Inn near Carfax church, +a large, substantial hostelry, one of merry England's best, +clean-chambered, homelike, full of honest cheer.</p> + +<p>There was a shout of greeting everywhere. The hostlers ran to walk the +horses till they cooled, and to rub them down before they fed, for they +were all afoam. Master Davenant himself saw to the storing of the wains; +and Mistress Davenant, a comely dame, with smooth brown hair and ruddy +cheeks, and no less wit than sprightly grace, was in the porch to meet +the company. "Well, good Dame Clout," said she, "art home again? What +tales we'll have! Didst see Tom Lane? No? Pshaw! But buss me, Moll; +we've missed thy butter parlously." And then quite free she kissed both +Nick and Cicely.</p> + +<p>"What, there, Dame Davenant!" cried Roger Clout, "art passing them +around?" and laughed, "Do na forget me."</p> + +<p>"Nay, nay," she answered, "but I'm out. Here, Nan," she called to the +smutty-faced scullery-maid, "a buss for Master Clout; his own Moll's +busses be na fine enough since he hath been to town."</p> + +<p>So, joking, laughing, they went in; while plain John Saddler backed out +of the porch as sooty Nan came running up, for fear the jilt might offer +somewhat of the sort to him, and was off in haste to see to his teams." +There's no leaving it to the boys," said he, "for they'd rub 'em down +wi' a water-pail, and give 'em straw to drink."</p> + +<p>When the guests all came to the fourpenny table to sup, Nick spoke to +Master Roger Clout. "Ye've done enough for us, sir; thank ye with all my +heart; but I've a turn will serve us here, and, sir, I'd rather stand on +mine own legs. Ye will na mind?" And when they all were seated at the +board, he rose up stoutly at the end, and called out brave and clear: +"Sirs, and good dames all, will ye be pleased to have some music while +ye eat? For, if ye will, the little maid and I will sing you the latest +song from London town, a merry thing, with a fine trolly-lolly, sirs, +to glad your hearts with hearing."</p> + +<p>Would they have music? To be sure! Who would not music while he ate must +be a Flemish dunderkopf, said they. So Nick and Cicely stood at one side +of the room upon a bench by the server's board, and sang together, while +he played upon Mistress Davenant's gittern:</p> + +<blockquote> +"Hey, laddie, hark to the merry, merry lark!<br> + How high he singeth clear:<br> + 'Oh, a morn in spring is the sweetest thing<br> + That cometh in all the year!<br> + Oh, a morn in spring is the sweetest thing<br> + That cometh in all the year!'<br><br> + +"Ring, ting! it is the merry springtime;<br> + How full of heart a body feels!<br> + Sing hey, trolly-lolly! oh, to live is to be jolly,<br> + When springtime cometh with the summer at her heels!<br><br> + +"God save us all, my jolly gentlemen,<br> + We'll merry be to-day;<br> + For the cuckoo sings till the greenwood rings,<br> + And it is the month of May!<br> + For the cuckoo sings till the greenwood rings,<br> + And it is the month of May!"<br> +</blockquote> + +<p>Then the men at the table all waved their pewter pots, and thumped upon +the board, roaring, "Hey, trolly-lolly! oh, to live is to be jolly!" +until the rafters rang.</p> + +<br><hr style="width: 35%;"><br> + +<p>1. Hey! lad-die, hark, to the mer-ry, mer-ry lark, How high he sing-eth +clear. O a morn in Spring is the sweeter thing That cometh in all the +year; O a morn in Spring is the sweet-est thing That com-eth in all +the year!</p> + +<p>REFRAIN. Piano.</p> + +<p>Ring! Ting! It is the mer-ry Spring-time. How full of heart a bod-y +feels! Sing hey trol-ly lol-ly! O to live is to be jol-ly, When +Spring-time cometh with the Summer at her heels!</p> + +<p>2. God save us all, my jol-ly gen-tle-men! We'll mer-ry be to-day; For +the cuc-koo sings till the greenwood rings, And it is the month of May; +For the cuc-koo sings till the greenwood rings, And it is the month +of May!</p> + +<p><i>Repeat Refrain after 2d Stanza.</i>]</p> + +<br><hr style="width: 35%;"><br> + +<p>"What, lad!" cried good Dame Davenant, "come, stay with me all year and +sing, thou and this little maid o' thine. 'Twill cost thee neither cash +nor care. Why, thou'ldst fill the house with such a throng as it hath +never seen!" And in the morning she would not take a penny for their +lodging nor their keep. "Nay, nay," said she; "they ha' brought good +custom to the house, and left me a brave little tale to tell for many a +good long year. We inns-folk be not common penny-grabbers; marry, no!" +and, furthermore, she made interest with a carrier to give them a lift +to Woodstock on their way.</p> + +<p>When they came to Woodstock the carrier set them down by the gates of a +park built round by a high stone wall over which they could not see, and +with his wain went in at the gate, leaving them to journey on together +through a little rain-shower.</p> + +<p>The land grew flatter than before. There were few trees upon the hills, +and scarcely any springs at which to drink, but much tender grass, with +countless sheep nibbling everywhere. The shower was soon blown away; the +sun came out; and a pleasant wind sprang up out of the south. Here and +there beside some cottage wall the lilacs bloomed, and the later +orchard-trees were apple-pink and cherry-white with May.</p> + +<p>They came to a puddle in the road where there was a dance of +butterflies. Cicely clapped her hands with glee. A goldfinch dipped +across the path like a little yellow streak of laughter in the sun. "Oh, +Nick, what is it?" she cried.</p> + +<p>"A bird," said he.</p> + +<p>"A truly bird?" and she clasped her hands. "Will it ever come again?"</p> + +<p>"Again? Oh, yes, or, la! another one--there's plenty in the weeds."</p> + +<p>And so they fared all afternoon, until at dusk they came to Chipping +Norton across the fields, a short cut to where the thin blue +supper-smoke curled up. The mists were rising from the meadows; earth +and sky were blending on the hills; a little silver sickle moon hung in +the fading violet, low in the western sky. Under an old oak in a green +place a fiddler and a piper were playing, and youths and maidens were +dancing in the brown light. Some little chaps were playing +blindman's-buff near by, and the older folk were gathered by the tree.</p> + +<p>Nick came straight to where they stood, and bowing, he and Cicely +together, doffed his cap, and said in his most London tone, "We bid ye +all good-e'en, good folk."</p> + +<p>His courtly speech and manner, as well as his clothes and Cicely's +jaunty gown, no little daunted the simple country folk. Nobody spoke, +but, standing silent, all stared at the two quaint little vagabonds as +mild kine stare at passing sheep in a quiet lane.</p> + +<p>"We need somewhat to eat this night, and we want a place to sleep," said +Nick. "The beds must be right clean--we have good appetites. If ye can +do for us, we will dance for you anything that ye may desire--the +'Queen's Own Measure,' 'La Donzella,' the new 'Allemand' of my Lord +Pembroke, a pavone or a tinternell, or the 'Galliard of Savoy.' Which +doth it please you, mistresses?" and he bowed to the huddling young +women, who scarcely knew what to make of it.</p> + +<p>"La! Joan," whispered one, "he calleth thee 'mistress'! Speak up, +wench." But Joan stoutly held her peace.</p> + +<p>"Or if ye will, the little maid will dance the coranto for you, straight +from my Lord Chancellor's dancing-master; and while she dances I +will sing."</p> + +<p>"Why, hark 'e, Rob," spoke out one motherly dame, "they two do look +clean-like. Children, too--who'd gi' them stones when they beg for +bread? I'll do for them this night myself; and thou, the good man, and +Kit can sleep in the hutch. So there, dears; now let's see the Lord +Chancellor's tantrums."</p> + +<p>"'Tis not a tantrums, goody," said Nick, politely, "but a coranto."</p> + +<p>"La! young master, what's the odds, just so we sees it done? Some folks +calls whittles 'knives,' and thinks 't wunnot cut theys fingers!"</p> + +<p>Nick took his place at the side of the ring. "Now, Cicely!" said he.</p> + +<p>"Thou'lt call 'Sa--sa!' and give me the time of the coup d'archet?" she +whispered, timidly hesitant, as she stepped to the midst of the ring.</p> + +<p>"Ay, then," said he, "'tis off, 'tis off!" and struck up a lively tune, +snapping his fingers for the time.</p> + +<p>Cicely, bowing all about her, slowly began to dance.</p> + +<p>It was a pretty sight to see: her big eyes wide and earnest, her cheeks +a little flushed, her short hair curling, and her crimson gown +fluttering about her as she danced the quaint running step forward and +back across the grass, balancing archly, with her hands upon her hips +and a little smile upon her lips, in the swaying motion of the coupee, +courtesying gracefully as one tiny slippered foot peeped out from her +rustling skirt, tapping on the turf, now in front and now behind. Nick +sang like a blackbird in the hedge. And how those country lads and +lasses stared to see such winsome, dainty grace! "La me!" gaped one, "'tis fairy folk--she doth na even touch the ground!" "The pretty dear!" +the mothers said. "Doll, why canst thou na do the like, thou lummox?" +"Tut," sighed the buxom Doll, "I have na wingses on my feet!"</p> + +<p>Then Cicely, breathless, bowed, and ran to Nick's side asking, "Was it +all right, Nick?"</p> + +<p>"Right?" said he, and stroked her hair; "'twas better than thou didst +ever dance it for M'sieu."</p> + +<p>"For why?" said she, and flushed, with a quick light in her eyes; "for +why--because this time I danced for thee."</p> + +<p>The country folk, enchanted, called for more and more.</p> + +<p>Nick sang another song, and he and Cicely danced the galliard together, +while the piper piped and the fiddler fiddled away like mad; and the +moon went down, and the cottage doors grew ruddy with the light inside. +Then Dame Pettiford gave them milk and oat-cakes in a bowl, a bit of +honey in the comb, and a cup of strawberries; and Cicely fell fast +asleep with the last of the strawberries in her hand.</p> + +<p>So they came up out of the south through Shipston-on-Stour, in the +main-traveled way, and with every mile Nick felt home growing nearer. +Streams sprang up in the meadow-lands, with sedgy islands, and lines of +silvery willows bordering their banks. Flocks and herds cropped beneath +tofts of ash and elm and beech. Snug homes peeped out of hazel copses by +the road. The passing carts had a familiar look, and at Alderminster +Nick saw a man he thought he recognized.</p> + +<p>Before he knew that he was there they topped Edge Hill.</p> + +<p>There lay Stratford! as he had left it lying; not one stick or stack or +stone but he could put his finger on and say, "This place I know!" Green +pastures, grassy levels, streams, groves, mills, the old grange and the +manor-house, the road that forked in three, and the hills of Arden +beyond it all. There was the tower of the guildhall chapel above the +clustering, dun-thatched roofs among the green and blossom-white; to +left the spire of Holy Trinity sprang up beside the shining Avon. Bull +Lane he made out dimly, and a red-tiled roof among the trees. "There, +Cicely," he said, "<i>there--there!</i>" and laughed a queer little shaky +laugh next door to crying for joy.</p> + +<p>Wat Raven was sweeping old Clopton bridge. "Hullo, there, Wat! I be come +home again!" Nick cried. Wat stared at him, but knew him not at all.</p> + +<p>Around the corner, and down High street. Fynes Morrison burst in at the +guildschool door. "Nick Attwood's home!" he shouted; and his eyes were +like two plates.</p> + +<p>Then the last lane--and the smoke from his father's house!</p> + +<p>The garden gate stood open, and there was some one working in the yard. +"It is my father, Cicely," he laughed. "Father!" he cried, and hurried +in the lane.</p> + +<p>Simon Attwood straightened up and looked across the fence. His arms were +held a little out, and his hands hung down with bits of moist earth +clinging to them. His brows were darker than a year before, and his hair +was grown more gray; his back, too, stooped. "Art thou a-calling me?" +he asked.</p> + +<p>Nick laughed. "Why, father, do ye na know me?" he cried out. "'Tis +I--'tis Nick--come home!"</p> + +<p>Two steps the stern old tanner took--two steps to the latchet-gate. Not +one word did he speak; but he set his hand to the latchet-gate and +closed it in Nick's face.</p> + + + +<br><br><hr style="width: 35%;"><br><br> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVII"></a>CHAPTER XXXVII</h2> + +<h3>TURNED ADRIFT</h3> +<br> + +<p>Down the path and under the gate the rains had washed a shallow rut in +the earth. Two pebbles, loosened by the closing of the gate, rolled down +the rut and out upon the little spreading fan of sand that whitened in +the grass.</p> + +<p>There was the house with the black beams checkering its yellow walls. +There was the old bench by the door, and the lettuce in the garden-bed. +There were the beehives, and the bees humming among the orchard boughs.</p> + +<p>"Why, father, what!" cried Nick, "dost na know me yet? See, 'tis I, +Nick, thy son."</p> + +<p>A strange look came into the tanner's face. "I do na know thee, boy," he +answered heavily; "thou canst na enter here."</p> + +<p>"But, father, indeed 'tis I!"</p> + +<p>Simon Attwood looked across the town; yet he did not see the town: +across the town into the sky, yet he did not see the sky, nor the +drifting banks of cloud, nor the sunlight shining on the clouds. "I say +I do na know thee," he replied; "be off to the place whence ye +ha' come."</p> + +<p>Nick's hand was almost on the latch. He stopped. He looked up into his +father's face. "Why, father, I've come home!" he gasped.</p> + +<p>The gate shook in the tanner's grip. "Have I na telled thee twice I do +na know thee, boy? No house o' mine shall e'er be home for thee. Thou +hast no part nor parcel here. Get thee out o' my sight."</p> + +<p>"Oh, father, father, what do ye mean?" cried Nick, his lips scarcely +able to shape the words.</p> + +<p>"Do na ye 'father' me no more," said Simon Attwood, bitterly; "I be na +father to stage-playing, vagabond rogues. And be gone, I say. Dost hear? +Must I e'en thrust thee forth?" He raised his hand as if to strike.</p> + +<p>Nick fell away from the latchet-gate, dumb-stricken with amazement, +shame, and grief.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Nick," cried Cicely, "come away--the wicked, wicked man!"</p> + +<p>"It is my father, Cicely."</p> + +<p>She stared at him. "And thou dost hate <i>my</i> father so? Oh, Nick! oh, +Nick!"</p> + +<p>"Will ye be gone?" called Simon Attwood, half-way opening the gate; +"must I set constables on thee?"</p> + +<p>Nick did not move. A numbness had crept over him like palsy. Cicely +caught him by the hand. "Come, let us go back to my father," she said. +"He will not turn us out."</p> + +<p>Scarcely knowing what he did, he followed her, stumbling in the level +path as though he were half blind or had been beaten upon the head. He +did not cry. This was past all crying. He let himself be led along--it +made no matter where.</p> + +<p>In Chapel lane there was a crowd along the Great House wall; and on the +wall Ned Cooke and Martin Addenbroke were sitting. There were heads of +people moving on the porch and in the court, and the yard was all +a-bustle and to-do. But there was nobody in the street, and no one +looked at Nick and Cicely.</p> + +<p>The Great House did look very fair in the sun of that May day, with its +homely gables of warm red brick and sunburnt timber, its cheery roof of +Holland tile, and with the sunlight flashing from the diamond panes that +were leaded into the sashes of the great bay-window on the eastern +garden side.</p> + +<p>In the garden all was stir-about and merry voices. There was a little +green court before the house, and a pleasant lawn coming down to the +lane from the doorway porch. The house stood to the left of the +entry-drive, and the barn-yard to the right was loud with the blithe +crowing of the cocks. But the high brick wall shut out the street where +Nick and Cicely trudged dolefully along, and to Nick the lane seemed +very full of broken crockery and dirt, and the sunlight all a mockery. +The whole of the year had not yet been so dark as this, for there had +ever been the dream of coming home. But <i>now</i>--he suffered himself to be +led along; that was enough.</p> + +<p>They had come past the Great House up from Chapel street, when a girl +came out of the western gate, and with her hand above her eyes looked +after them. She seemed in doubt, but looked again, quite searchingly. +Then, as one who is not sure, but does not wish to miss a chance, called +out, "Nick Attwood! Nick Attwood!"</p> + +<p>Cicely looked back to see who called. She did not know the girl, but saw +her beckon. "There is some one calling, Nick," said she.</p> + +<p>Nick stopped in a hopeless sort of way, and looked back down the street.</p> + +<p>When he had turned so that the girl at the gate could see his face, she +left the gate wide open behind her, and came running quickly up the +street after them. As she drew nearer he saw that it was Susanna +Shakspere, though she was very much grown since he had seen her last. He +watched her running after them as if it were none of his affair. But +when she had caught up with them, she took him by the shoulder smartly +and drew him back toward the gate. "Why, Nicholas Attwood," she cried, +all out of breath, "come straightway into the house with me. My father +hath been hunting after thee the whole way up from London town!"</p> + + + +<br><br><hr style="width: 35%;"><br><br> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVIII"></a>CHAPTER XXXVIII</h2> + +<h3>A STRANGE DAY</h3> +<br> + +<p>There in the Great House garden under the mulberry-trees stood Master +Will Shakspere, with Masters Jonson, Burbage, Hemynge, Condell, and a +goodly number more, who had just come up from London town, as well as +Alderman Henry Walker of Stratford, good old John Combe of the college, +and Michael Drayton, the poet of Warwick. For Master Shakspere had that +morning bought the Great House, with its gardens and barns, of Master +William Underhill, for sixty pounds sterling, and was making a great +feast for all his friends to celebrate the day.</p> + +<p>The London players all clapped their hands as Nick and Cicely came up +the garden-path, and, "Upon my word, Will," declared Master Jonson, "the +lad is a credit to this old town of thine. A plucky fellow, I say, a +right plucky fellow. Found the lass and brought her home all safe and +sound--why, 'tis done like a true knight-errant!"</p> + +<a name="Illus0360"></a> +<P class=ctr> +<a href="Images/Illus0360.jpg"> +<img src="Images/Illus0360.jpg" width = "40%" +alt=""Master Shakspere met them with outstretched hands.""> +</a><br> +<b>"Master Shakspere met them with outstretched hands."</b> +</P><br> + +<p>Master Shakspere met them with outstretched hands. "Thou young rogue," +said he, smiling, "how thou hast forestalled us! Why, here we have +been weeping for thee as lost, strayed, or stolen; and all the while +thou wert nestling in the bosom of thine own sweet home. How is the +beloved little mother?"</p> + +<p>"I ha' na seen my mother," faltered Nick. "Father will na let me in."</p> + +<p>"What? How?"</p> + +<p>"My father will na have me any more, sir--saith I shall never be his son +again. Oh, Master Shakspere, why did they steal me from home?"</p> + +<p>They were all crowding about now, and Master Shakspere had hold of the +boy. "Why, what does this mean?" he asked. "What on earth has happened?"</p> + +<p>Between the two children, in broken words, the story came out.</p> + +<p>"Why, this is a sorry tale!" said Master Shakspere. "Does the man not +know that thou wert stolen, that thou wert kept against thy will, that +thou hast trudged half-way from London for thy mother's sake?"</p> + +<p>"He will na leave me tell him, sir. He would na even listen to me!"</p> + +<p>"The muckle shrew!" quoth Master Jonson. "Why, I'll have this out with +him! By Jupiter, I'll read him reason with a vengeance!" With a clink of +his rapier he made as if to be off at once.</p> + +<p>"Nay, Ben," said Master Shakspere; "cool thy blood--a quarrel will not +serve. This tanner is a bitter-minded, heavy-handed man--he'd only throw +thee in a pickling-vat"</p> + +<p>"What? Then he'd never tan another hide!"</p> + +<p>"And would that serve the purpose, Ben? The cure should better the +disease--the children must be thought about."</p> + +<p>"The children? Why, as for them," said Master Jonson, in his blunt, +outspoken way, "I'll think thee a thought offhand to serve the turn. +What? Why, this tanner calls us vagabonds. Vagabonds, forsooth! Yet +vagabonds are gallows-birds, and gallows-birds are ravens. And ravens, +men say, do foster forlorn children. Take my point? Good, then; let us +ravenous vagabonds take these two children for our own, Will,--thou one, +I t' other,--and by praiseworthy fostering singe this fellow's very +brain with shame."</p> + +<p>"Why, here, here, Ben Jonson," spoke up Master Burbage, "this is all +very well for Will and thee; but, pray, where do Hemynge, Condell, and I +come in upon the bill? Come, man, 'tis a pity if we cannot all stand +together in this real play as well as in all the make-believe."</p> + +<p>"That's my sort!" cried Master Hemynge. "Why, what? Here is a player's +daughter who has no father, and a player whose father will not have +him,--orphaned by fate, and disinherited by folly,--common stock with us +all! Marry, 'tis a sort of stock I want some of. Kind hearts are +trumps, my honest Ben--make it a stock company, and let us all be in."</p> + +<p>"That's no bad fancy," added Condell, slowly, for Henry Condell was a +cold, shrewd man. "There's merit in the lad beside his voice--<i>that</i> +cannot keep its freshness long; but his figure's good, his wit is +quick, and he has a very taking style. It would be worth while, Dick. +And, Will," said he, turning to Master Shakspere, who listened with half +a smile to all that the others said, "he'll make a better <i>Rosalind</i> +than Roger Prynne for thy new play."</p> + +<p>"So he would," said Master Shakspere; "but before we put him into 'As +You Like It,' suppose we ask him how he does like it? Nick, thou hast +heard what all these gentlemen have said--what hast thou to say, +my lad?"</p> + +<p>"Why, sirs, ye are all kind," said Nick, his voice beginning to tremble, +"very, very kind indeed, sirs; but--I--I want my mother--oh, masters, I +do want my mother!"</p> + +<p>At that John Combe turned on his heel and walked out of the gate. Out of +the garden-gate walked he, and down the dirty lane, setting his cane +down stoutly as he went, past gravel-pits and pens to Southam's lane, +and in at the door of Simon Attwood's tannery.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;"> + +<p>It was noon when he went in; yet the hour struck, and no one came or +went from the tannery. Mistress Attwood's dinner grew cold upon the +board, and Dame Combe looked vainly across the fields toward the town.</p> + +<p>But about the middle of the afternoon John Combe came out of the tannery +door, and Simon Attwood came behind him. And as John Combe came down the +cobbled way, a trail of brown vat-liquor followed him, dripping from his +clothes, for he was soaked to the skin. His long gray hair had partly +dried in strings about his ears, and his fine lace collar was a +drabbled shame; but there was a singular untroubled smile upon his +plain old face.</p> + +<p>Simon Attwood stayed to lock the door, fumbling his keys as if his sight +had failed; but when the heavy bolt was shut, he turned and called after +John Combe, so that the old man stopped in the way and dripped a puddle +until the tanner came up to where he stood. And as he came up Attwood +asked, in such a tone as none had ever heard from his mouth before, +"Combe, John Combe, what's done 's done,--and oh, John, the pity of +it,--yet will ye still shake hands wi' me, John, afore ye go?"</p> + +<p>John Combe took Simon Attwood's bony hand and wrung it hard in his stout +old grip, and looked the tanner squarely in the eyes; then, still +smiling serenely to himself, and setting his cane down stoutly as he +walked, dripped home, and got himself into dry clothes without a word.</p> + +<p>But Simon Attwood went down to the river, and sat upon a flat stone +under some pollard willows, and looked into the water.</p> + +<p>What his thoughts were no one knew, nor ever shall know; but he was +fighting with himself, and more than once groaned bitterly. At first he +only shut his teeth and held his temples in his hands; but after a while +he began to cry to himself, over and over again, "O Absalom, my son, my +son! O my son Absalom!" and then only "My son, my son!" And when the day +began to wane above the woods of Arden, he arose, and came up from the +river, walking swiftly; and, looking neither to the right nor to the +left, came up to the Great House garden, and went in at the gate.</p> + +<p>At the door the servant met him, but saw his face, and let him pass +without a word; for he looked like a desperate man whom there was +no stopping.</p> + +<p>So, with a grim light burning in his eyes, his hat in his hand, and his +clothes all drabbled with the liquor from his vats, the tanner strode +into the dining-hall.</p> + + + +<br><br><hr style="width: 35%;"><br><br> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIX"></a>CHAPTER XXXIX</h2> + +<h3>ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL</h3> +<br> + +<p>The table had been cleared of trenchers and napkins, the crumbs brushed +away, and a clean platter set before each guest with pared cheese, fresh +cherries, biscuit, caraways, and wine.</p> + +<p>There were about the long table, beside Master Shakspere himself, who +sat at the head of the board, Masters Richard and Cuthbert Burbage, +Henry Condell, and Peter Hemynge, Master Shakspere's partners; Master +Ben Jonson, his dearest friend; Thomas Pope, who played his finest +parts; John Lowin, Samuel Gilburne, Robert Nash, and William Kemp, +players of the Lord Chamberlain's company; Edmund Shakspere, the actor, +who was Master William Shakspere's younger brother, and Master John +Shakspere, his father; Michael Drayton, the Midland bard; Burgess +Robert Getley, Alderman Henry Walker, and William Hart, the Stratford +hatter, brother-in-law to Master Shakspere.</p> + +<p>On one side of the table, between Master Jonson and Master Richard +Burbage, Cicely was seated upon a high chair, with a wreath of early +crimson roses in her hair, attired in the gown in which Nick saw her +first a year before. On the other side of the table Nick had a place +between Master Drayton and Robert Getley, father of his friend Robin. +Half-way down there was an empty chair. Master John Combe was absent.</p> + +<p>It was no common party. In all England better company could not have +been found. Some few of them the whole round world could not have +matched then, and could not match now.</p> + +<p>It would be worth a fortune to know the things they said,--the quips, +the jests, the merry tales that went around that board,--but time has +left too little of what such men said and did, and it can be imagined +only by the brightest wits.</p> + +<p>'Twas Master Shakspere on his feet, welcoming his friends to his "New +Place" with quiet words that made them glad to live and to be there, +when suddenly he stopped, his hands upon the table by his chair, +and stared.</p> + +<p>The tanner stood there, silent, in the door.</p> + +<p>Nick's face turned pale. Cicely clung to Master Jonson's arm.</p> + +<p>Simon Attwood stepped into the room, and Master Shakspere went quickly +to meet him in the middle of the floor.</p> + +<p>"Master Will Shakspere," said the tanner, hoarsely, "I ha' come about a +matter." There he stopped, not knowing what to say, for he was +overwrought.</p> + +<p>"Out with it, sir," said Master Shakspere, sternly. "There is much here +to be said."</p> + +<p>The tanner wrung his hat within his hands, and looked about the ring of +cold, averted faces. Soft words with him were few; he had forgotten +tender things; and, indeed, what he meant to do was no easy thing +for any man.</p> + +<p>"Come, say what thou hast to say," said Master Shakspere, resolutely; +"and say it quickly, that we may have done."</p> + +<p>"There's nought that I can say," said Simon Attwood, "but that I be +sorry, and I want my son! Nick! Nick!" he faltered brokenly, "I be wrung +for thee; will ye na come home--just for thy mother's sake, Nick, if ye +will na come for mine?"</p> + +<p>Nick started from his seat with a glad cry--then stopped. "But Cicely?" +he said.</p> + +<p>The tanner wrung his hat within his hands, and his face was dark with +trouble. Master Shakspere looked at Master Jonson.</p> + +<p>Nick stood hesitating between Cicely and his father, faithful to his +promise, though his heart was sick for home.</p> + +<p>An odd light had been struggling dimly in Simon Attwood's troubled eyes. +Then all at once it shone out bright and clear, and he clapped his bony +hand upon the stout oak chair. "Bring her along," he said. "I ha' little +enough, but I will do the best I can. Maybe 'twill somehow right the +wrong I ha' done," he added huskily. "And, neighbors, I'll go surety to +the Council that she shall na fall a pauper or a burden to the town. My +trade is ill enough, but, sirs, it will stand for forty pound the year +at a fair cast-up. Bring the lass wi' thee, Nick--we'll make out, lad, +we'll make out. God will na let it all go wrong."</p> + +<p>Master Jonson and Master Shakspere had been nodding and talking together +in a low tone, smiling like men very well pleased about something, and +directly Master Shakspere left the room.</p> + +<p>"Wilt thou come, lad?" asked the tanner, holding out his hands.</p> + +<p>"Oh, father!" cried Nick; then he choked so that he could say no more, +and his eyes were so full of mist that he could scarcely find his father +where he stood.</p> + +<p>But there was no need of more; Simon Attwood was answered.</p> + +<p>Voices buzzed about the room. The servants whispered in the hall. Nick +held his father's gnarled hand in his own, and looked curiously up into +his face, as if for the first time knowing what it was to have a father.</p> + +<p>"Well, lad, what be it?" asked the tanner, huskily, laying his hand on +his son's curly head, which was nearly up to his shoulder now.</p> + +<p>"Nothing," said Nick, with a happy smile, "only mother will be glad to +have Cicely--won't she?"</p> + +<p>Master Shakspere came into the room with something in his hand, and +walking to the table, laid it down.</p> + +<p>It was a heavy buckskin bag, tied tightly with a silken cord, and sealed +with red wax stamped with the seals of Master Shakspere and +Master Jonson.</p> + +<p>Every one was watching him intently, and one or two of the gentlemen +from London were smiling in a very knowing way.</p> + +<p>He broke the seals, and loosening the thong which closed the bag, took +out two other bags, one of which was just double its companion's size. +They also were tied with silken cord and sealed with the two seals on +red wax. There was something printed roughly with a quill pen upon each +bag, but Master Shakspere kept that side turned toward himself so that +the others could not see.</p> + +<p>"Come, come, Will," broke in Master Jonson, "don't be all day about it!"</p> + +<p>"The more haste the worse speed, Ben," said Master Shakspere, quietly. +"I have a little story to tell ye all."</p> + +<p>So they all listened.</p> + +<p>"When Gaston Carew, lately master-player of the Lord High Admiral's +company, was arraigned before my Lord Justice for the killing of that +rascal, Fulk Sandells, there was not a man of his own company had the +grace to lend him even so much as sympathy. But there were still some in +London who would not leave him totally friendless in such straits."</p> + +<p>"Some?" interrupted Master Jonson, bluntly; "then o-n-e spells 'some.' +The names of them all were Will Shakspere."</p> + +<p>"Tut, tut, Ben!" said Master Shakspere, and went on: "But when the +charge was read, and those against him showed their hand, it was easy to +see that the game was up. No one saw this any sooner than Carew himself; +yet he carried himself like a man, and confessed the indictment without +a quiver. They brought him the book, to read a verse and save his neck, +perhaps, by pleading benefit of clergy. But he knew the temper of those +against him, and that nothing might avail; so he refused the plea +quietly, saying, 'I am no clerk, sirs. All I wish to read in this case +is what my own hand wrote upon that scoundrel Sandells.' It was soon +over. When the judge pronounced his doom, all Carew asked was for a +friend to speak with a little while aside. This the court allowed; so he +sent for me--we played together with Henslowe, he and I, ye know. He had +not much to say--for once in his life,"--here Master Shakspere smiled +pityingly,--"but he sent his love forever to his only daughter Cicely."</p> + +<p>Cicely was sitting up, listening with wide eyes, and eagerly nodded her +head as if to say, "Of course."</p> + +<p>"He also begged of Nicholas Attwood that he would forgive him whatever +wrong he had done him."</p> + +<p>"Why, that I will, sir," choked Nick, brokenly; "he was wondrous kind to +me, except that he would na leave me go."</p> + +<p>"After that," continued Master Shakspere, "he made known to me a sliding +panel in the wainscot of his house, wherein was hidden all he had on +earth to leave to those he loved the best, and who, he hoped, +loved him."</p> + +<p>"Everybody loves my father," said Cicely, smiling and nodding again. +Master Jonson put his arm around the back of her chair, and she leaned +her head upon it.</p> + +<p>"Carew said that he had marked upon the bags which were within the panel +the names of the persons to whom they were to go, and had me swear, +upon my faith as a Christian man, that I would see them safely delivered +according to his wish. This being done, and the end come, he kissed me +on both cheeks, and standing bravely up, spoke to them all, saying that +for a man such as he had been it was easier to end even so than to go +on. I never saw him again."</p> + +<p>The great writer of plays paused a moment, and his lips moved as if he +were saying a prayer. Master Burbage crossed himself.</p> + +<p>"The bags were found within the wall, as he had said, and were sealed by +Ben Jonson and myself until we should find the legatees--for they had +disappeared as utterly as if the earth had gaped and swallowed them. +But, by the Father's grace, we have found them safe and sound at last; +and all's well that ends well!"</p> + +<p>Here he turned the buckskin bags around.</p> + +<p>On one, in Master Carew's school-boy scrawl, was printed, "For myne +Onelie Beeloved Doghter, Cicely Carew"; on the other, "For Nicholas +Attewode, alias Mastre Skie-lark, whom I, Gaston Carew, Player, Stole +Away from Stratford Toune, Anno Domini 1596."</p> + +<p>Nick stared; Cicely clapped her hands; and Simon Attwood sat down +dizzily.</p> + +<p>"There," said Master Shakspere, pointing to the second bag, "are one +hundred and fifty gold rose-nobles. In the other just three hundred +more. Neighbor Attwood, we shall have no paupers here."</p> + +<p>Everybody laughed then and clapped their hands, and the London players +gave a rousing cheer. Master Ben Jonson's shout might have been heard in +Market Square.</p> + +<p>At this tremendous uproar the servants peeped at the doors and windows; +and Tom Boteler, peering in from the buttery hall, and seeing the two +round money-bags plumping on the table, crept away with such a look of +amazement upon his face that Mollikins, the scullery-maid, thought he +had seen a ghost, and fled precipitately into the pantry.</p> + +<p>"And what's more, Neighbor Tanner," said Master Richard Burbage, "had +Carew's daughter not sixpence to her name, we vagabond players, as ye +have had the scanty grace to dub us, would have cared for her for the +honour of the craft, and reared her gently in some quiet place where +there never falls even the shadow of such evil things as have been the +end of many a right good fellow beside old Kit Marlowe and +Gaston Carew."</p> + +<p>"And to that end, Neighbor Attwood," Master Shakspere added, "we have, +through my young Lord Hunsdon, who has just been made State Chamberlain, +Her Majesty's gracious permission to hold this money in trust for the +little maid as guardians under the law."</p> + +<p>Cicely stared around perplexed. "Won't Nick be there?" she asked. "Why, +then I will not go--they shall not take thee from me, Nick!" and she +threw her arms around him. "I'm going to stay with thee till daddy +comes, and be thine own sister forever."</p> + +<p>Master Jonson laughed gently, not his usual roaring laugh, but one that +was as tender as his own bluff heart. "Why, good enough, good enough! +The woman who mothered a lad like Master Skylark here is surely fit to +rear the little maid."</p> + +<p>The London players thumped the table. "Why, 'tis the very trick," said +Hemynge. "Marry, this is better than a play."</p> + +<p>"It is indeed," quoth Condell. "See the plot come out!"</p> + +<p>"Thou'lt do it, Attwood--why, of course thou'lt do it," said Master +Shakspere. "'Tis an excellent good plan. These funds we hold in trust +will keep thee easy-minded, and warrant thee in doing well by both our +little folks. And what's more," he cried, for the thought had just come +in his head, "I have ever heard thee called an honest man; hard, indeed, +perhaps too hard, but honest as the day is long. Now I need a tenant for +this New Place of mine--some married man with a good housewife, and +children to be delving in the posy-beds outside. What sayst thou, Simon +Attwood? They tell me thy 'prentice, Job Hortop, is to marry in +July--he'll take thine old house at a fair rental. Why, here, Neighbor +Attwood, thou toil-worn, time-damaged tanner, bless thy hard old heart, +man, come, be at ease--thou hast ground thy soul out long enough! Come, +take me at mine offer--be my fellow. The rent shall trickle off thy +finger-tips as easily as water off a duck's back!"</p> + +<p>Simon Attwood arose from the chair where he had been sitting. There was +a bewildered look upon his face, and he was twisting his horny fingers +together until the knuckles were white. His lips parted as if to speak, +but he only swallowed very hard once or twice instead, and looked around +at them all. "Why, sir," he said at length, looking at Master Shakspere, +"why, sirs, all of ye--I ha' been a hard man, and summat of a fool, +sirs, ay, sirs, a very fool. I ha' misthought and miscalled ye foully +many a time, and many a time. God knows I be sorry for it from the +bottom of my heart!" And with that he sat down and buried his face in +his arms among the dishes on the buffet.</p> + +<p>"Nay, Simon Attwood," said Master Shakspere, going to his side and +putting his hand upon the tanner's shoulder, "thou hast only been +mistaken, that is all. Come, sit thee up. To see thyself mistaken is but +to be the wiser. Why, never the wisest man but saw himself a fool a +thousand times. Come, I have mistaken thee more than thou hast me; for, +on my word, I thought thou hadst no heart at all--and that is far worse +than having one which has but gone astray. Come, Neighbor Attwood, sit +thee up and eat with us."</p> + +<p>"Nay, I'll go home," said the tanner, turning his face away that they +might not see his tears. "I be a spoil-sport and a mar-feast here."</p> + +<p>"Why, by Jupiter, man!" cried Master Jonson, bringing his fist down upon +the board with a thump that made the spoons all clink, "thou art the +very merry-maker of the feast. A full heart's better than a surfeit any +day. Don't let him go, Will--this sort of thing doth make the whole +world kin! Come, Master Attwood, sit thee down, and make thyself at +home. 'Tis not my house, but 'tis my friend's, and so 'tis all the +same in the Lowlands. Be free of us and welcome."</p> + +<p>"I thank ye, sirs," said the tanner, slowly, turning to the table with +rough dignity. "Ye ha' been good to my boy. I'll ne'er forget ye while I +live. Oh, sirs, there be kind hearts in the world that I had na dreamed +of. But, masters, I ha' said my say, and know na more. Your pleasure +wunnot be my pleasure, sirs, for I be only a common man. I will go home +to my wife. There be things to say before my boy comes home; and I ha' +muckle need to tell her that I love her--I ha' na done so these +many years."</p> + +<p>"Why, Neighbor Tanner," cried Master Jonson, with flushing cheeks, "thou +art a right good fellow! And here was I, no later than this morning, +red-hot to spit thee upon my bilbo like a Michaelmas goose!" He laughed +a boyish laugh that did one's heart good to hear.</p> + +<p>"Ay," said Master Shakspere, smiling, as he and Simon Attwood looked +into each other's eyes. "Come, neighbor, I know thou art my man--so do +not go until thou drinkest one good toast with us, for we are all good +friends and true from this day forth. Come, Ben, a toast to fit +the cue."</p> + +<p>"Why, then," replied Master Jonson, in a good round voice, rising in his +place, "<i>here's to all kind hearts!</i>"</p> + +<p>"Wherever they may be!" said Master Shakspere, softly. "It is a good +toast, and we will all drink it together."</p> + +<p>And so they did. And Simon Attwood went away with a warmth and a +tingling in his heart he had never known before.</p> + +<p>"Margaret," said he, coming quickly in at the door, as she went silently +about the house with a heavy heart preparing the supper, "Margaret."</p> + +<p>She dropped the platter upon the board, and came to him hurriedly, +fearing evil tidings.</p> + +<p>He took her by the hands. This, even more than his unusual manner, +alarmed her. "Why, Simon," she cried, "what is it? What has come +over thee?"</p> + +<p>"Nought," he replied, looking down at her, his hard face quivering; "but +I love thee, Margaret."</p> + +<p>"Simon, what dost thou mean?" faltered Mistress Attwood, her heart going +down like lead.</p> + +<p>"Nought, sweetheart--but that I love thee, Margaret, and that our lad is +coming home!"</p> + +<p>Her heart seemed to stop beating.</p> + +<p>"Margaret," said he, huskily, "I do love thee, lass. Is it too late to +tell thee so?"</p> + +<p>"Nay, Simon," answered his wife, simply, "'tis never too late to mend." +And with that she laughed--but in the middle of her laughing a tear ran +down her cheek.</p> + +<p>FROM the windows of the New Place there came a great sound of men +singing together, and this was the quaint old song they sang:</p> + +<blockquote> +"Then here's a health to all kind hearts<br> + Wherever they may be;<br> + For kindly hearts make but one kin<br> + Of all humanity.<br><br> + +"And here's a rouse to all kind hearts<br> + Wherever they be found;<br> + For it is the throb of kindred hearts<br> + Doth make the world go round!"<br> +</blockquote> + +<p>"Why, Will," said Master Burbage, slowly setting down his glass, "'tis +altogether a midsummer night's dream."</p> + +<p>"So it is, Dick," answered Master Shakspere, with a smile, and a +far-away look in his eyes. "Come, Nicholas, wilt thou not sing for us +just the last few little lines of 'When Thou Wakest,' out of the play?"</p> + +<p>Then Nick stood up quietly, for they all were his good friends there, +and Master Drayton held his hand while he sang:</p> + +<blockquote> + "Every man shall take his own,<br> + In your waking shall be shown:<br> + Jack shall have Jill,<br> + Nought shall go ill,<br> +The man shall have his mare again, and all shall be well!"<br> +</blockquote> + +<p>They were very still for a little while after he had done, and the +setting sun shone in at the windows across the table. Then Master +Shakspere said gently, "It is a good place to end."</p> + +<p>"Ay," said Master Jonson, "it is."</p> + +<p>So they all got up softly and went out into the garden, where there were +seats under the trees among the rose-bushes, and talked quietly among +themselves, saying not much, yet meaning a great deal.</p> + +<p>But Nick and Cicely said "Good-night, sirs," to them all, and bowed; and +Master Shakspere himself let them out at the gate, the others shaking +Nick by the hand with many kind wishes, and throwing kisses to Cicely +until they went out of sight around the chapel corner.</p> + +<p>When the children came to the garden-gate in front of Nick's father's +house, the red roses still twined in Cicely's hair, Simon Attwood and +his wife Margaret were sitting together upon the old oaken settle by the +door, looking out into the sunset. And when they saw the children +coming, they arose and came through the garden to meet them, Nick's +mother with outstretched hands, and her face bright with the glory of +the setting sun. And when she came to where he was, the whole of that +long, bitter year was nothing any more to Nick.</p> + +<p>For then--ah, then--a lad and his mother; a son come home, the wandering +ended, and the sorrow done!</p> + +<p>She took him to her breast as though he were a baby still; her tears ran +down upon his face, yet she was smiling--a smile like which there is no +other in all the world: a mother's smile upon her only son, who was +astray, but has come home again.</p> + +<p>Oh, the love of a lad for his mother, the love of a mother for her +son--unchanged, unchanging, for right, for wrong, through grief and +shame, in joy, in peace, in absence, in sickness, and in the shadow of +death! Oh, mother-love, beyond all understanding, so holy that words but +make it common!</p> + +<p>"My boy!" was all she said; and then, "My boy--my little boy!"</p> + +<p>And after a while, "Mother," said he, and took her face between his +strong young hands, and looked into her happy eyes, "mother dear, I ha? +been to London town; I ha' been to the palace, and I ha' seen the Queen; +but, mother," he said, with a little tremble in his voice, for all he +smiled so bravely, "I ha' never seen the place where I would rather be +than just where thou art, mother dear!"</p> + +<p>The soft gray twilight gathered in the little garden; far-off voices +drifted faintly from the town. The day was done. Cool and still, and +filled with gentle peace, the starlit night came down from the dewy +hills; and Cicely lay fast asleep in Simon Attwood's arms.</p> +<br> +<hr class="full"> +<pre> + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MASTER SKYLARK*** + +******* This file should be named 11574-h.txt or 11574-h.zip ******* + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:<br /> +<a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/1/1/5/7/11574">https://www.gutenberg.org/1/1/5/7/11574</a> + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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