Master Skylark

11 111

ROOM

NY PUBLIC LIBRARY THE BRANCH LIBRARIES

3 3333 08101 2425

Copyright, 1896, 1897, 1922, by
THE CENTURY Co.

Copyright, 1897, by
JOHN BENNETT

FEINTED IN U. 8. A.

ALL THAT NICHOLAS ATWOOD'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

THE NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRAttY

CIRCULATION DEPARTMENT
MTU AN STRAUS BRANCH 348 EAST 32M STREET

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

I THE LORD ADMIRAL'S PLAYERS 3

II NICHOLAS ATT WOOD'S HOME 12

III THE LAST STRAW 21

IV OFT FOR COVENTRY 29

V IN THE WARWICK ROAD 32

VI THE MASTER-PLAYER 38

VII "WELL SUNG, MASTER SKYLARK!" .... 44

VIII THE ADMIRAL'S COMPANY 52

IX THE MAY-DAY PLAY 58

X AFTER THE PLAY 67

XI DISOWNED 72

XII A STRANGE BIDE 77

XIII A DASH FOR FREEDOM 88

XIV AT BAY 96

XV LONDON TOWN 101

XVI MA'M'SELLE CICELY CAREW 113

XVII CAREW'S OFFER 125

XVIII MASTER HEYWOOD PROTESTS 132

XIX THE ROSE PLAY-HOUSE 139

XX DISAPPOINTMENT 147

XXI "THE CHILDREN OF PAUL'S" 153

vil

viii CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGB

XXII THE SKYLARK'S SONG 160

XXIII A NEW LIFE 168

XXIV THE MAKING OF A PLAYER 174

XXV THE WANING OF THE YEAR 183

XXVI To SING BEFORE THE QUEEN 192

XXVII THE QUEEN'S PLAISANCE ..../.. 200

XXVIII CHRISTMAS WITH QUEEN BESS 208

XXIX BACK TO GASTON CAREW 222

XXX AT THE FALCON INN 229

XXXI IN THE TWINKLING OF AN EYE 237

XXXII THE LAST OF GASTON CAREW 247

XXXIII CICELY DISAPPEARS 258

XXXIV THE BANDY-LEGGED MAN 262

XXXV A SUDDEN RESOLVE 277

XXXVI WAYFARING HOME 284

XXXVII TURNED ADRIFT 297

XXXVIII A STRANGE DAY 302

XXXIX ALL 's WELL THAT ENDS WELL 308

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Nick sniffed in the air, for it was full of

Odors FRONTISPIECE

FACING PAGE

Nick sang the little song once more 64

Nick cried out, and beat his palfrey with the reins ... 84

"That voice, that voice," he panted 164

"Stand, dear lads," said she, heartily 216

"Come, boy, what is it?" said Ben Jonson 244

Carew was in the middle cell, ironed hand and foot . . . 250
Master Shakspere met them 304

PROPERT
THE CITY OF NEW YORK

CHAPTER I

THE LORD ADMIRAL'S PLAYERS

HERE 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

[3]

MASTER SKYLAEK

the lowland to the town, brown-faced, barefoot youngsters sat be-
side 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 water-
side among 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

[4]

THE LORD ADMIRAL'S PLAYERS

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 com-
ing, Robin — hark 'e to the trampling!'1

Robin Getley held his breath and turned his ear toward the
south. The far-off murmur was a mutter now, denned 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 Cots-
wold 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!"

[5]

MASTER SKYLARK

Robin held his hand above his eyes. A cloud of dust was ris-
ing 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

[6]

THE LORD ADMIRAL'S PLAYERS

the players of the Lord High Admiral were coming up to Strat-
ford 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 trum-
peter proving his lips.

Fynes Morrison and Walter Stirley, who had gone to Cowslip

[7]

MASTER SKYLARK

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 kettle-
drums 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

[8]

THE LOKD ADMIKAL'S PLAYEKS

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 sun-
light 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, hold-
ing 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.

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

[9]

MASTER SKYLARK

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,
worldy 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!'1
A dropping shout went up the street like an arrow-flight scat-
tering over the throng; and the players, waving their scarlet

[10]

THE LORD ADMIRAL'S PLAYERS

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 Row.

"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 Strat-
ford town.

"Oh," cried Robin, "it is brave, brave!"

"Brave?" cried Nick. "It makes my very heart jump. And
see, Robin, 't is a shilling, a real silver shilling— oh, what fellows
they all be! Hurrah for the Lord High Admiral's men!"

[11]

CHAPTER II

NICHOLAS ATTWOOD'S HOME

ICK Attwood's father came home that night bit-
terly 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 ! ' '

[12]

NICHOLAS ATTWOOD'S HOME

"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. 'T is the
sweetest earth! Nick shall take the hangings down, and right
things up when the chimley 's done.'1

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 springs 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 mis-
guided 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.

[13]

MASTER SKYLARK

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 's 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.

[14]

NICHOLAS ATTWOOD'S HOME

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!'1

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 gab-
bling ducks waddled hurriedly down to the river through the
primroses under the hedge. He could hear the milkmaids call-
ing 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

[15]

MASTER SKYLARK

and where the spreading elms leaned over it the
of red tiles. .._

j was green with moss.

ve of the house was a garden of lettuce; beyond the
At the sid ,,,,.,

ugh wall on which the grass was growing. Some-
garden a ro .

>nmroses grew on top ot this wall, and once a yellow
times wild p

eyond the wall were other gardens owned by thrifty
daffodil. B .

nd open lands in common to them all, where foot-
Ted here and there in a free, haphazard way.
paths wande ...

ie house was a well and a wood-pile, and along the

whitewashed paling fence with a little gate, from

' ath went up to the door through rows of bright, old-
which the pi

)wers.

)ther was getting the breakfast. She was a gentle
N ick s m(

L a sweet, kind face, and a little air of quiet dignity

J ier doubly dear to Nick by contrast with his father's
that made h ' .

ays. He used to think that, in her worsted gown,

ling collar of Antwerp linen, and a soft, silken coif
with its fal _.

„ idmg hair, she was the most beautiful woman in all
upon her ±i

3ne arm about his shoulders, brushed back his curly
She put < .

, .ssed him on the forehead,
hair aTifi ki

't mine own good little son," said she, tenderly, "and
J liou ai

thee a cake in the new chimley on the morrow for thy
I will bake

„ sast.
JVLay-day f€

i helped him fetch the trestles from the buttery, set
Then she

NICHOLAS ATTWOOD'S HOME

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 com-
pany 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 Eeign 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.

[17]

MASTER SKYLARK

"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 scapegraces."

"But, Simon," said Mistress Attwood, "'t is 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,
't is 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 '11 find a thing or two for him to do among the vats
that will take th'is 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 him-
self saw her at Coventry ten years ago. Is what the Queen does
idle folly?" 5

His mother took him by the hand and drew him to her side.

[18]

NICHOLAS ATTWOOD'S HOME

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 they 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 mur-
mur 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

[19]

MASTEE SKYLARK

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 Mar-
gery was chosen Queen of the May. And Peter Finch was to
be Eobin Hood, and Nan Eogers 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.

[20]

CHAPTER III

THE LAST STRAW

ITTLE 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 mur-
mured 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

[21]

MASTER SKYLARK

all at once, each louder than the other, until the noise was deafen-
ing.

"Oh, Mck, 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 hope-
less 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 Mck, 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 Gre-
ville 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.'1

[22]

THE LAST STRAW

" 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 Shak-
spere'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-gal-
lows.':

"Surely he did na say that in Stratford Council1?" 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 who-
soever 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!'1

"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

[23]

MASTER SKYLARK

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'?"
"Narry, 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.r;

"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 Cham-
berlain's company in London before the Queen. It would be a

[24]

THE LAST STEAW

black score against them all with the Lord Admiral — I doubt not
he would pay them out."

"That he would," said Eobin, "and so said my father and Al-
derman 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 Ealeigh
and the young Earl of Sussex, and would by no means hear of it.
So Master Bailiff Stubbes, who, 't is 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 wher-
ever he chose to jump."

"And so they be," sneered Hal Saddler.

"How?" cried Eobin, hotly. "My father is a burgess. Dost
thou call him a sheep, Hal Saddler?"

"Nay, nay," stammered Hal, hastily; "'t was not thy father I
meant."

"Then hold thy tongue with both hands," said Eobin, sharply,
"or it will crack thy pate for thee some of these fine days."

"But come, Eobin," asked Nick, eagerly, "what became of the
quarrel?"

[25]

tt\
It'
it

MASTER SKYLARK

' '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 re-
venge 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 break-
fast 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."

[26]

THE LAST STRAW

"What! Is lie 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 '11 run away ! ' :

Kit Sedgewick laughed ironically. "And when the skies fall
we '11 catch sparrows, Nick Attwood," said he. "Whither wilt
thourun?"

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 '11 show ye ! 'T is 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 f enough for me

[27]

MASTER SKYLAUK

this day! There 's bluebells blowing in the dingles, and cuckoo-
buds no end. And while ye are all grinding at your old ^Esop 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.'1

"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.

" 'T is 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 '11 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 '11 have my
good day's game out first."

"But wilt thou truly go to Coventry, Nick?" asked Robin Get-
ley, 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.

[28]

Tom Carpenter

"'

CHAPTER IV

OFF FOR COVENTRY

T the Bridge street crossing Nick paused irresolute.
Around the public pump a chattering throng of
housewives were washing out their towels and hang-
ing 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

[29]

MASTER SKYLARK

not a Coventry merchant in sight to be driven away from Strat-
ford 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.

"Farther wull na have I go to school, since us ha' corned 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' 't is 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

[30]

OFF FOR COVENTRY

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 Sam-
son's pate wi' 's ale-can yestreen. "

But Mck pushed on. A few ruddy-faced farmers and drovers
from the Red 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. 'T was Dawson's Hodge
and some like ne'er-do-well. "j

[31]

CHAPTER V

IN THE WARWICK ROAD

HE 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,

[32]

IN THE WARWICK ROAD

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 free-
dom 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, f eckins, 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 blad-
der 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 '11 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 '11 go no

[33]

MASTER SKYLABK

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?'1

"I dunno," faltered Hodge; "a told Muster Kobin Bowles it
was na right to drownd 'em in the river. ' ;

Nick hesitated. "Maybe it kills the fish," said he; "and Mas-
ter 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' 't is but poorly done. I could do
better wi' my own whittle.'1

"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 Att-
wood, a might do a little thing passing well — so there, now!':

[34]

a

U'

IN THE WARWICK KOAD

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 f oiks 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 Mas-
ter Will Shakspere goose. He married my own mother's cousin,
and I will na have it. ' :

"La, now," drawled Hodge, staring, " 't is nowt to me. Thy
Muster Wully Shaxper may be all the long-necked fowls in War-
rickshire 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 Kick Hawkins, that 's blind of an eye, a shill-
ing 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

[35]

MASTEK SKYLABK

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 Daw-
son," he exclaimed with flashing eyes, "that 't is 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 scat-
tered to the four winds. "Whoy," said he, vaguely, "if 't is all o'
that to thee, I take it back.':

Nick rose, and Hodge scrambled clumsily to his feet. "I '11 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
IWully Shaxper be-eth an old gray goose, an' boo to he, says I!"

As he spoke he turned, dived through the thin hedge, and gal-
loped 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,

[36]

IN THE WARWICK EOAD

Hodge Dawson : when I do come back, I '11 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.

[37]

CHAPTER VI

THE MASTER PLAYER

E had trim, straight legs, this stranger, and a slen-
der, 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 mus-
tache were twisted so that they stood up fiercely on either side of

[38]

THE MASTER PLAYER

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.'1

"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

[39]

MASTER SKYLARK

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.

"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 Shak-
spere'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, nay, 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,

[40]

THE MASTER PLAYER

— young Nick, — I hope Old Nick will never catch thee — upon my
word I do, and on the remnant of mine honour 1 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-ham-
mer 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 shoul-
der, "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.

[41]

r

MASTER SKYLAEK

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 blue-
bells, 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 roll-
ing 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 Bidf ord, 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 packs 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

[42]

THE MASTER PLAYER

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 '11
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 despite-
fully handled you?"

"With their tongues, ay," said Carew, bitterly; "but not other-
wise." He clasped 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 '11 thistle him! He called Will Shak-
spere 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 vehe-
mently, "he thought to buy my tongue! Marry, if tongues were
troubles he has bought himself a peck ! What ! Buy my silence ?
Nay, he '11 see a deadly flash of silence when I come to my Lord
the Admiral again!"

[43]

^^^m;%^%%%%^
J2r^J5a:?s£t££~

CHAPTER VII

"WELL SUNG, MASTER SKYLARK!"

! T 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?"

[44]

"WELL SUNG, MASTER, SKYLARK!"

"Nothing at all, sir."

Master Carew pulled from his pouch some barley-cakes and
half a small B anbury cheese, yellow as gold and with a keen, sharp
savour. " 'T is 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 '11 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 wander-
ing tune. Nick took the sound up softly, and stood by the wet
stones a little while, imitating the bird's trilling note, and laugh-
ing 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

[45]

MASTER SKYLARK

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.

Mck mocked the wild bird, called again with a mellow, war-
bling 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, clap-
ping 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 Engish 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

[46]

"WELL SUNG, MASTER SKYLARK!"

of dark-blue serge, gray homespun hose, and heelless shoes of rus-
set 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 Kenil worth — "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 i Then nightly sings the staring owl, tu-who, tu-

[47]

MASTER SKYLARK

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 is n'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

[48]

"WELL SUNG, MASTER SKYLARK!"

boldly. "I '11 do it," lie said; "I '11 do it if I dance on air for it!
I '11 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 '11 do it — I will, upon my
word, and on the remnant of mine honour I ' ;

"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

[49]

MASTER SKYLARK

thee lad ; I '11 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 discon-
nected 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."

1 1 What, Master Carew !" gasped Nick. ' ' I— truly ? With the
Lord Admiral's players?"

"Why, to be sure!" cried the master-player, in great glee, clap-
ping 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 Hey wood'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 Ad-
miral'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.

[50]

"WELL SUNG, MASTER SKYLARK!"

"Have thee?" said Master Carew, haughtily. "If I say go,
thou shalt go. I am master here. And I tell thee, Mck, that thou
shalt see the play, and be the play, in part, and — well, we shall
see what we shall see.'1

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.

[51]

CHAPTER VIII

THE ADMIRAL'S COMPANY

HE 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 pag-
eants 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

[52]

THE ADMIRAL'S COMPANY

voices, the rush of feet, wheels, and hoofs, and the shrill pipe of
music. Here and there were little knots of country folks 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.

11 They 're here,'1 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,

[53]

MASTER SKYLARK

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 Ad-
miral'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.'1

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,

[54]

THE ADMIRAL'S COMPANY

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 be-
hind him, and several grinned mockingly and winked in a know-
ing 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 — out-
side of heaven and the holy angels!" He lowered his tone and
bowed his head a little. "I '11 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 : i l 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 be-

[55]

MASTER SKYLARK

fore lie 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; in-
stead, 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 jack-daw 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 ven-
ture 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.

[56]

THE ADMIRAL'S COMPANY

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 attention 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 '11 do it — on my soul,
I will!" rolled into bed, and was soon fast asleep.

As for Nick, what with the excitment 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.

[57]

CHAPTER IX

THE MAY-DAY PLAY

T 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

[58]

THE MAY-DAY PLAY

say his lines a hundred times until lie 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 sur-
reptitious 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 throw-
ing a sky-blue silken cloak about Nick's shoulders, 'thou 'It 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 '11 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

[59]

MASTER SKYLAEK

the ground, while up and down a girl's shrill voice went all the
time, crying high, "Cherry ripe, cherry ripe! Who '11 buy my
sweet May cherries I1'

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 be-
hind the curtain, just outside the door, Nick could hear the mas-
ter-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 Aquit-

[60]

THE MAY-DAY PLAY

aine, 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 Hey-
wood, 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 out-

[61]

MASTER SKYLARK

side — 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 '11 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 iron-
monger's apprentice, "Whoy, bullies, there be hayseed in his
hair. 'T is took off pasture over-soon. I fecks ! they Ve plucked
him green!"

[62]

THE MAY-DAY PLAY

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!'1' stepped
back and left him there alone.

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 sum-
mer'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

[63]

MASTER SKYLARK

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 stupe-
fied, 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, "did n't I say 't was catched out in the fields

[64]

ontcmorct

THE MAY-DAY PLAY

— 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 tri-
umph, and his dark eyes danced with pride. "Ay, Nicholas Sky-
lark; '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

[65]

MASTER SKYLARK

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.r

" Speak for thyself, Gat Carew!" answered Master Heywood,
firmly. "I '11 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.

[66]

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5 a

F-"-'"-' • •*.•" • ? '.'••""• "i i°"
rV" •'•'*.''*' '': ••••*•'

»• • .• • • •-• • .•*.-«

• . -• •_ • « • • V **

CHAPTER X

AFTER THE PLAY

HEOUGH 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 gin-
ger-nuts and caraway cakes with currants on the top, and gave
them all to Nick, who thanked him kindly, but said if Master

[67]

MASTER SKYLAEK

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 re-
past, 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!"

[68]

? ?

AFTER THE PLAY

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 '11 have in the
morning. 'T is the way with these inns, — to feed the early birds
with scraps, — so the more we leave from supper the more we '11
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

[69]

MASTER SKYLARK

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 measur-
ing him with an ellwand.

"When the supper came, filling the whole table and the side-
board 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 '11 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 'It ride to-morrow like a king, and have all Strat-
ford 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 '11 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 '11 not go back to Stratford town; but we

[70]

AFTER. THE PLAY

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.

[71]

CHAPTER XI

DISOWNED

IGHT 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 twink-
ling 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 '11 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

[72]

DISOWNED

supper-time again ; and supper-time crept into dusk — and still no
Nicholas Attwood.

His mother grew uneasy ; but his father only growled : " We '11
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 '11 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 '11 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.

[73]

MASTER SKYLARK

" 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' Diecon 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 ccping-
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 Ms 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.

[74]

DISOWNED

"Here, leave be!" choked Roger, wriggling hard; but the tan-
ner 's grip was like iron. "Wert thou in Coventry May-day?"
he asked sternly.

"Nay, that I was na," sputtered Hodge. "A plague on Coven-
try!"

"Do na lie to me — thou wert there wi' my son Nicholas."

"I was na," snarled Hodge. "Nick Attwood threshed me in
the Warwick 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 sink-
ing at heart in spite of his wrath.

"How should I know? A went away wi' a play-actoring fel-
low 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, 't is all I know!':

"Is 't Nicholas ye seek, Master Attwood?" asked Tom Carpen-
ter, turning from his fleur-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

[75]

MASTER SKYLARK

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-play-
ing 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.

[76]

CHAPTER XII

A STRANGE RIDE

AT-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

[77]

MASTER SKYLARK

and barred; nobody was abroad, and the night-watch slept in
comfortable doorways here and there, with lolling heads and lan-
terns 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 court-
yard, 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 chamber-
lain and sleepy-lidded maids stood at the door, waiting their
farewell 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 undertones 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

[78]

A STRANGE RIDE

Nick ; and stood there silently with a very queer expression watch-
ing him eat it, until Carew's groom led up a stout hackney and a
small road palfrey to the block, and the master-player, crying im-
patiently, "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. "'T is 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. — " 'T
is 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 strap-

[79]

MASTER SKYLARK

ping a dirty urchin who bellowed lustily. Nick winced at the
sight.

' ' Hollo ! ' ' cried Carew. ' ' What 's to do 1 "

"Why, sir," said Nick, ruefully, "father will thresh me well
this night."

"Nay," said Carew, in a quite decided tone; "that he 11 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 '11 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

[80]

A STRANGE RIDE

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, bath-
ing the riders in dazzling rosy light.

"Why, Master Carew," cried Nick, no little startled, "there
comes the sun, almost ahead! We 're riding eastward, 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.

[81]

MASTER SKYLARK

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 fellow-
ship. His heart was blithe as he reined his curveting palfrey by
the master-player's side, and watched the sunlight dance and spar-
kle 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 wonder-
ful 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.

[82]

A STRANGE RIDE

"Are ye sure, Master Carew,"1 he ventured timidly — "are ye
sure we be na going wrong, sir?"

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 '11 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 '11 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 mas-
ter-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 per-

[83]

MASTEE SKYLABK

plexed, 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 I This
was not the Stratford road; he was certain of that now. But
"Stop him — stop him there !" he heard the 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 dis-
order ; 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!"

[84]

A STRANGE RIDE

"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 wi' 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 help-
lessly 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 Ro-
man 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

[85]

MASTER SKYLARK

looked back at Mm 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, although 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 Tow-

[86]

A STRANGE RIDE

cester, 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.

[87]

CHAPTER XIII

A DASH FOR FREEDOM

ICK 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, in-
deed!" 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

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A DASH FOR FREEDOM

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?'1

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. ' l 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.

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MASTER SKYLARK

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
muttonpie, 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, 't will 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 won-
der 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 ?

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A DASH FOR FREEDOM

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 handi-
craft, 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 mas-
ter-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.

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MASTER SKYLARK

Carew started with a look of alarm. ' ' Come, come, Nicholas, this
will never do — never do in the world ; thou 'It spoil thy voice. ' :

"I do na care," said Nick.

"But I do," said Carew, sharply. "So we '11 have no more of
it !" and he clapped his hand upon his poniard. "But, nay — nay,
lad, I did not mean to threaten thee — 't is 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 'It 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. 'T will break
their hearts if thou wilt not. Come, Nick, thou 'It 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 '11
leave thee go back to Stratford town to-morrow morning!"

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A DASH FOR FREEDOM

"To Stratford — to-morrow?" stammered Nick, with a glad, in-
credulous 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 manu-
script 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 thee 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.

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MASTER SKYLARK

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-
play er'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, burst-

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A DASH FOR FREEDOM

ing in to 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 expres-
sion 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?'1

"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.

[95]

CHAPTER XIV

AT BAY

FTER him! — stop Mm! — 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 straight-
way; 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 hang-
ers-on— ran whooping, howling, and hallooing like wild hunts-
men.

Nick's frightened heart was in his mouth, and his breath came

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AT BAY

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 win-
dows 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 sob-
bing 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,

rcm

MASTER SKYLARK

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 glow-
ing 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 puttenit?"

All the rout and riot now came plunging into the smithy, breath-
less with the chase. Master Carew himself, his ale-can still
clutched in his hand, and bearing himself with a high air of dig-
nity, followed after them, frowning.

[98]

AT BAY

"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.'1

"Then fetch him out of this hole!" cried Carew, sniffing dis-
dainfully 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 pla-
cidly 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

[99]

MASTER SKYLAEK

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 ruffing it here. This shop be mine, and I be free-born
Englishman. I '11 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 'It get a dab o' the red-hot
shoe.': As he spoke he gave the black tongs an extra whirl.

[100]

CHAPTER XV

LONDON TOWN

OME," 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, 't is 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 amaze-
ment.

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MASTER SKYLARK

"And here thou needs must up and spoil it all, because, for-
sooth, 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 '11 ha' no stealing o' lads awa-ay from ho-ome in County
Herts!"

"Nay, that we wont!" 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,

[102]

LONDON TOWN

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, — 't is 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 '11 speak thee fair, and I '11 treat thee true" — and he
smiled so frankly that even Nick's doubts almost wavered.
"Come, I '11 swear it on my hilt," said he.

The smith's brow clouded. "Nay," said he; "we '11 no swear-
ing by hilts or by holies here ; the bailiff will na have it, sir.';

"Good! then upon mine honour as an Englishman!" cried Ca-
rew. "What, how, bullies? Upon my honour as an English-
man!— 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 con-

[103]

MASTEE SKYLAEK

sequence. "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!"1 bellowed the crowd, swept along like bub-
bles in a flood. "Fair play, says we — English fair play — hur-
rah!" 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 Al-
bans town!"

And what did the crowd 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-

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LONDON TOWN

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 Admira1 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 'It go ; and when I bid thee come, thou 'It come :
and when I say, 'Here, follow me!' thou 'It 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

[105]

MASTER SKYLARK

they piled the noble dead like corn upon a threshing-floor. Since
then," said he, with quiet irony, "men have stopped making Eng-
lish 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, mysteri-
ous 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,

[106]

LONDON TOWN

and the wary eyeing 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 adven-
turer, when 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 es-
cape 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

[107]

MASTER SKYLARK

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

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LONDON TOWN

with gold — have filled thy lap with glory — have crowned thine
head with fame! And yet, 'What have I done for theeT Fie!
Thou art a stubborn hearted little fool. But, marry come up!
I '11 mend thy mind. I '11 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 Hempstead 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 people crowding to their doors, and set the shut-
ters 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'

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MASTER SKYLAKK

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 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,

[110]

LONDON TOWN

standing in a dismal, dirty street, and that it had a gloomy hall-
way 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 'It 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 uncer-
tain 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:

[in]

MASTER SKYLARK

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.

[112]

CHAPTER XVI

MA'M'SELLE CICELY CAREW

OW long lie 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 think-
ing 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
tip 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.

[113]

MASTER SKYLARK

"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 Strat-
ford 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 candle-
stick, 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

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MA'M'SELLE CICELY CAREW

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. l i 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, draw-
ing 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;

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MASTER SKYLAKK

"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 mis-
take somewhere.

"Art hungry, boy?" she asked suddenly, spying the empty
trencher on the floor. "There is a pasty and a cake in the but-
tery, 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,
wrathf ully ; 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

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MA'M'SELLE CICELY CAKEW

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."

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MASTER SKYLARK

She turned upon him with an air of dainty scorn. ' t 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 '11 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 wotest of." And she looked the very picture of diminutive
severity.

"Very good, ma'm'selle; just as ye say," said Gregory, fawn-
ing, with very poor grace, however. "But, knave," he snarled,
as he turned away, with a black scowl at Nick, "if thou dost ven-
ture on any of thy scurvy pranks while I be gone, I '11 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. i i My mother — ' '

Nick caught his breath, and his eyes filled.

"Nay, boy," said she, gently; "'t is 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

[118]

MA'M'SELLE CICELY CAREW

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; "myvfather will like
that"; and then went quietly on: "That is why Gregory Goole
doth call me 'ma'm'selle' — because my mother was a French-
woman. 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 beauti-
ful, flower-like little maid, and listened in shy silence to the won-
derful 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.

[119]

MASTER SKYLARK

"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
hut 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 — 't is
spoken like a gentleman. Nay, I will kiss thee — for I love thee,
Nick, upon my word, and on the remnant of mine honour ! ' ' Tak-
ing 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

[120]

MA'M'SELLE CICELY CAREW

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.
" 'T is 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 door-
step of a golden-lined success. See, Nick, how the light shines
through!'1' and he tilted up the flagon. "It is one of old Jake
Vessaline's Murano- Venetian glasses; a beautiful thing, now, is
it not? 'T is good as any made abroad!" but his hand was shak-
ing so that half the cordial missed the cup and ran into a little
shimmering pool upon the table-top.

"And thou 'It send him home again, daddy, wilt thou not?"

"Yes, yes, of course — why, to be sure — we '11 send him any-
where 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 Tambur-
laine the Great," and he laughed a quick, dry, nervous laugh that

[121]

MASTER SKYLARK

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 eouldst not go to-
night. See, 't is dark, and thou a stranger in the town. 'T is far
to Stratford town — thou eouldst 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 unshrif t. What ! lad ? — come all the way from Coven-
try, and never show that face of thine, nor let them hear thy sky-
lark's song? Why, 't were a shame! And, Nick, my lord the
Admiral shall hear thee sing when he comes home again; per-
chance the Queen herself. Why, Nick, of course thou 'It sing.
Thou hast not heart to say thou wilt not sing — even for me whom
thouhatest."

[122]

MA'M'SELLE CICELY CAREW

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. 'T will 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; 't was 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 lift-
ing up his clear young voice, he sang the quaint old madri-
gal.

Carew sat with his face in his hand, and after it was done arose
unsteadily and said, "Come, Golden-heart; 't is music such as
charmeth care and lureth sleep out of her dark valley — we must
be trotting off to bed."

[123]

MASTER SKYLARK

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.

[124]

CHAPTER XVII

CAREW'S OFFER

EXT 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 drift-
ing 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

[125]

MASTER SKYLARK

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 book-
men 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 Shear-
man, 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 Poster lane, hats on, loud-
voiced, and using the very font itself for a counter. By the col-

[126]

CAREW'S OFFER

umns 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 players
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

[127]

MASTER SKYLAEK

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 '11 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. 'T is 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 scur-
vily!"

Carew shrugged his shoulders.

[128]

CAREW 'S OFFER

"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. r

"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 Bur-
bages 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 bull-
dogs 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 'c the tide,
and at the flood. I have offered you an argosy. Will ye sail or

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MASTER SKYLARK

stick in the mud ? Ye '11 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 sky-
lark voice that ever sugared ears!':

"But, man, man, one fourth!'1

"Better one fourth than lose it all," said Carew. "But, pshaw !
Master Ned Alleyn, I '11 not beg a man to swim that 's bent on
drowning ! We will be at the play-house this afternoon ; mayhap
thou 'It 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 had 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,

[130]

CAREW'S OFFER

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 Row, "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.

"Did ve hear me. Master Carew?" asked Nick.

t/ /

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."

icn irieu again: JL piaj nice, sir —
tf

"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.

[131]

CHAPTER XVIII

MASTER HEYWOOD PROTESTS

T 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 Black-
friars landing in a stream of merrymakers, high and low, rich

[132]

MASTER HEYWOOD PROTESTS

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 Bargehouse 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

[133]

MASTER SKYLARK

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 hailed a wherry, and they were half-way over to the South-
wark 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 play-
ers, with Master Tom Heywood at their head, frolicking and can-
tering along like so many overgrown school-boys.

"So we are to have thee with us awhile1?" 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.'1

"Carew," said Heywood, suddenly turning, "how can ye have
the heart?"

"Come, Heywood," quoth the master-player, curtly, though his

[134]

MASTER HEYWOOD PROTESTS

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 Mck, "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 fs 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 trem-
bling. "'T is not the heart, Tom," he cried bitterly, "upon my
word, and on the remnant of mine honour ! 'T is the head which
doeth this. For, Tom, I cannot leave him go. Why, Tom, hast

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MASTER SKYLARK

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, 't
is worth a thousand pound! How can I leave him go?"

"Oh, fie for shame upon the man I took thee for!" cried Hey-
wood.

"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 '11 be gone, Tom, I '11 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 '11 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.

[136]

MASTEE HEYWOOD PROTESTS

"Now, Heywood, on thy soul, no more of this!" cried the mas-
ter-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 the 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 si-
lently.

"Nay, Nick, my lad, don't cry," said Heywood, gently; " 't will
only make bad matters worse. Never is a weary while ; but the
longest lane will turn at last : some day thou 'It find thine home
again all in the twinkling of an eye. Why, Nick, 't is England

[137J

MASTEE SKYLAEK

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 Eose 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 M 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 'It 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 'It
be the pet of every high-born dame in London town."

"I 'd rather be my mother's boy," Nick answered simply.

[138]

CHAPTER XIX

THE ROSE PLAY-HOUSE

HE 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 Mck with such de-
light had seen come up the Oxford road a few short days before.
Under the stairway was a narrow door marked "For the Play-
eres 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

[139]

MASTER SKYLARK

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, L't was lost in the river from the barge at Paul's wharf! A
good two pound.'1

"Hard luck!" said Carew.

"Hard? Adamantine, I say! Why, 't is 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?"

Mck started. An idea came creeping into his head. Will
Shakspere had married his mother's own cousin, Anne Hatha-
way 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.

[140]

THE ROSE PLAY-HOUSE

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,' Hey wood, 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
— 't is Shakspere, Shakspere; our City flat-caps will ha' noth-
ing but Shakspere ! ' !

Nick listened eagerly. Master Will Shakspere must indeed
be somebody in London town! He stared across into the drift-
ing 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 Mar-
tin 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

[141]

MASTER SKYLARK

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 lead-
ing 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.
" 'T is the best thing ye ever lent ear to."

[142]

THE BOSE PLAY-HOUSE

"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. "'T was 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 begin-
ning to tremble as he put them out touching the stools. Along
the rail were ornamented 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 in-
side 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

[143]

MASTER SKYLARK

was a great uproar at the entrance. Some apprentices had
caught a cutpurse in the crowd, and were beating him unmerci-
fully. 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, two-
penny 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-buck-
ets 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 !

[144]

THE ROSE PLAY-HOUSE

"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 sus-
picion. It was above his head.

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.

[145]

MASTER SKYLARK

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 for 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.

[146]

CHAPTER XX

DISAPPOINTMENT

ICK 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
frudged 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

[147]

MASTER SKYLAEK

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?'1

"For thrippence," said the boatman, hauling the wherry along-
side 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.'3

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 '11 toss up wi? thee
for it.'1 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.

[148]

DISAPPOINTMENT

"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, " 't is 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!'1' 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 fright-
ened 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

[149]

MASTER SKYLAKR

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 stop-
ping 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, shav-
ings, 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 1 ' '

"I asked if Master Will Shakspere was in?"

The fellow scratched his head with a bit of shaving. "Noa;
Muster Wull Zhacksper beant in."

[150]

DISAPPOINTMENT

Nick's heart stopped with a thump. "Where is he — do ye
know?7'

"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 'It 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.

[151]

MASTER SKYLARK

"Noa," drawled the carpenter; " Muster Bubbage beant here;
doan't want un, nuther — nuwer 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 begin-
ning 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.

[152]

CHAPTER XXI

"THE CHILDREN OF PAUL'S"

N 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 be-
low, Nick had leaned his log-pillow against the wainscot, and,
climbing up, looked out into the sky. It was clear, for a wonder,

[153]

MASTER SKYLARK

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 thros-
tles 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 whis-
pering 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 durst n'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.

[154]

"THE CHILDKEN OF PAUL'S'1

"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 night-
mare. 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 ? 'T is 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,

[155]

MASTER SKYLARK

brave!" cried Cicely, and danced around him, clapping her hands.
" Why, it is a very prince — a king ! Oh, Nick, thou art most beau-
tiful to see!'1

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

[156]

"THE CHILDREN OF PAUL'S"

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 car-
rots; asparagus, biscuits, 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 'It 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 bo-fool with me? Five shil-
lings! A fico for their five shillings — and this for them!" and he

[157]

MASTER SKYLARK

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. 'T was casting
pearls before swine, Nick, to offer thee to Henslowe and Alleyn;
but we 've found a better trough than theirs — hey, Cicely Golden-
heart, have n'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, — 't is Paul's Cathedral boys I mean. Marry,
what dost say to that?"

"I 'd like another barley-cake."

"You 'd wlnatT* 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 him-
self to the honey.

"Upon my word, and on the remnant of mine honour!" ejac-
ulated 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 par-

[158]

"THE CHILDREN OP PAUL'S"

ticular 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. 'T is 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 'It sing thy very best?"

"There 's nothing else to do," replied Nick, doggedly.

[159]

CHAPTER XXII

THE SKYLARK'S SONG

ASTER 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 Scliolarum, Gustos Morum, Quartus Gustos Rotulorum,

— so the title stands, sir; and I know my place."

[160]

THE SKYLARK'S SONG

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' — 't is 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!"

[161]

MASTER SKYLARK

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 'It pawn thine ears
to hear him twice.'1

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

[162]

THE SKYLAEK'S SONG

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, ex-
ultemus — 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 'It 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

[163]

MASTER SKYLAEK

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 — 't was 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 mur-
murings 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

[164]

fitrt vote ,tRat v

fte

THE SKYLAKK'S SONG

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

[165]

MASTER SKYLARK

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 '11 leave thee go, lad, — ma foi, 1 11 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.

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 im-
possible est — because it is impossible. Tell me, Carew, do I wake
or dream — or, stay, was it a soul I heard? Ay, Carew, 't was 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 'It 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

[166]

THE SKYLARK'S SONG

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 '11 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 '11 teach
the lad myself ; ay, all I know. I studied in the best schools in the
world."

"And, *bark 'e, Master Gyles," said Carew, sternly all at once;
"thou 'It 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 privi-
leges 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 pre-
centor, haughtily. "Dost think me perjured — Primus Magister
Scliolarum, 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?"

[167]

CHAPTER XXIII

A NEW LIFE

ND 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 com-
forts 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

[168]

A NEW LIFE

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 spitch-
cocked 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 Bartholo-
mew'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 of
the Rose instead, which Nick enjoyed immensely, for Carew him-
self 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

[169]

MASTER SKYLARK

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 West-
minster, with a sham-fight and a great shooting of guns and hurl-
ing of balls of wild-fire. The Queen was there, and the ambassa-
dors 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

[170]

A NEW LIFE

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 chief est 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 shout-
ing 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

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MASTER SKYLARK

help staring at Mm 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?'1

"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.

[172]

A NEW LIFE

"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.

[173]

CHAPTER XXIV

THE MAKING OF A PLAYER

ASTER 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

[174]

THE MAKING OF A PLAYER

from every shadowy corner; and when he went with Carew any-
where, 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
Blackf riars 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 — some-
where 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 Lon-
don. 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.

[175]

MASTER SKYLARK

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 '11 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 grim-
acing 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 there-
fore everywhere esteemed fit by birth and breeding to teach the

[176]

THE MAKING OF A PLAYER

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 care-
fully 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 Chan-
cellor 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 embarrass-
ment. 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

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MASTER SKYLARK

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 candle-sticks. 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

[178]

THE MAKING OF A PLATER

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 con-
structed 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 O 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 weari-
ness 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.

[179]

MASTER SKYLARK

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 sat-
isfaction. 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.

[180]

THE MAKING OF A PLAYEE

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, toilworn 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 com-
mon 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 prompter 's-screen, and waved Nick off with a forbidding
frown. Yet all the while he chuckled to himself until it seemed

[181]

MASTER SKYLARK

as if his dry old ribs would rattle in his sides ; and every day, be-
fore Nick sang, he had him up to his little room for a broken egg
and a cup of rosy cordial.

1 'To clear thy voice and to cheer the cockles of thine heart/'
said he; "and to tune that pretty throat of thine ad gustum Re-
gina — 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 G-yles 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.

[182]

CHAPTER XXV

THE WANING OF THE YEAR

N September the Lord Admiral's company made a
tour of the Midlands during the great English fair-
ing-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 never saw 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 ex-
pressed 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.

[183]

MASTER SKYLARK

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 trades-
men'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

[184]

THE WANING OF THE YEAR

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 cuil up on the
hearth and blow the crackling fire, sometimes staring at the mas-
ter-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-boards
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

[185]

MASTER SKYLARK

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 pav-
ing 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 con-
stantly.

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

[186]

THE WANING OF THE YEAR

did not rest quite easy in his mind until lie 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 neigh-
bor'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 waterman 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 bur-
gess 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 — " 'T is 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 Hempstead Heath, and robber-

[187]

MASTER SKYLARK

ies 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 Jul-
iet," 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 sweet-
ness 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 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

[188]

THE WANING OF THE YEAR

man had been the prick of conscience, but in him was only an in-
definite uneasiness like a blunted cockle-burr. For the lad's pa-
tient perseverance at his work, his delight in singing, and the
tone of longing threaded through his voice, crept into the mas-
ter-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. Where upon 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

[189]

MASTER SKYLARK

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?v

"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.'1

"Ay, Nick, 't is 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

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THE WANING OF THE YEAK

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-rib-
bon 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 — 't is 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 '11
have no words about it!"

Kising 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.

[191]

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 this 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!"

ICK 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 smoul-
jdering on the hearth. The draught, too, whistled
'shrilly under the door, in spite of the rushes that

he had piled along the crack.

[192]

TO SING BEFORE THE QUEEN

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."

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MASTER SKYLARK

But it was no use ; all he could hear was :

"Down-a-down, hey, down-a-down,
Hey derry derry down-a-down !' r

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 lis-
tened to the song :

"Cold 'B the wind, and wet 's the rain;

Saint Hugh, be our good speed!
Ill is the weather that foringeth 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 morn-
ing 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 instru-
ments were bewitched, and would not let the boys sing any more.
Colley Warren was Nick's best friend — a dark-eyed, quiet lad, as

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TO SING BEFORE THE QUEEN

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 dis-
tinctly 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 tram-
pling as of horses standing at the gate. And while he was still la-
zily 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, Sky-

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MASTER SKYLAKK

lark! 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 whirl-
ing 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 '11 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 ap-

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TO SING BEFORE THE QUEEN

prentices 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!'1

"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 altogether 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 thorough-
fare 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

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MASTER SKYLARK

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, Gustos Morum, Quartus Gustos
Rotulorum," said the old man softly to himself, the fire-light 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

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TO SING BEFORE THE QUEEN

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.

[199]

CHAPTER XXVII

THE QUEEN'S PLAISANCE

|T 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 burn-
ing 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.

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THE QUEEN'S PLAISANCE

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!'3

"Into the wherries!" echoed the under-masters.

"Into the wherries, my bullies!" roared old Brueton the boat-
man, 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 !
'T is 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 pre-

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MASTER SKYLARK

clous 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 oyster-
men, the White Tower and the Traitors' Gate, past the shipping,
where brown, foreign-looking faces stared at them above sea-bat-
tered 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 dropping 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 pen-
nies. Thereupon the Dutchmen stood up in their boat and bowed
like jointed ninepins; and the lords, not to be outdone, stood up

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THE QUEEN'S PLAISANCE

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 boat-
men 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 bril-
liant 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, pin-
nacles, 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.

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MASTER SKYLAEK

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 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 saf-
fron cakes with raisins in them, and spiced red 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

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THE QUEEN'S PLAISANCE

worth more than a thousand crowns. He was very glad he had
eaten first, for such a 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 shift-
ing colors as the birds of paradise, and wrought in exquisite de-
sign. The throne was set with diamonds, with rubies, garnets,
and sapphires, glittering like a pastry-crust of stars, and gar-
nished with gold-lace work, pearls, and ornament ; and under the
velvet canopy which hung above the throne was embroidered in
seed-pearls, <TYivat Regina Elizabetha!': There was no door
without a gorgeous usher, no room without a page, no corridor

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MASTER SKYLARK

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 draw-
ings 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 en-
dured 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, with-

[206]

THE QUEEN'S PLAISANCE

out 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 seei
what passed him by, yet of which he durst not let go.
The palace was much too much for him.

[207]

CHAPTER XXVIII

CHRISTMAS WITH QUEEN BESS

HRISTMAS morning came and went as if on swal-
low-wings, in a gale of royal merriment. Four hun-
dred sat to dinner that day in Greenwich halls, and
all the palace streamed with banners and green gar-
lands.

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 to come.

[208]

CHRISTMAS WITH QUEEN BESS

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, Mont-
gomery, Pembroke, and Huntington were there; and William
Cecil, Lord Burleigh, the Queen's High Treasurer, to smooth his
care-lined forehead with a Yule-tide 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 pen-
sioners 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 gentle-
men of the chamber came and went with golden chains about their

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MASTER SKYLAEK

necks, was bowing and scraping without stint, and reverent civil-
ity ; 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 be-
hind their fans, or daintily nibbled comfits, lacking anything to
say.

The windows were all curtained in, making a night-time in mid-
day ; and from the walls and galleries flaring links and great bou-
quets of candles threw an eddying flood of yellow light across the
stirring scene. From clump to clump of banner-staves and bur-
nished 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 bra-
ziers ; 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 twi-
light ; for a dull glow came down overhead from the lights in the

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CHRISTMAS WITH QUEEN BESS

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 pen-
sioners 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, bear-
ing 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

[211]

MASTER SKYLARK

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 be-
ginning 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, and while she spoke she smiled
and made a joke upon it in Latin, at which they all laughed heart-
ily, whether they understood what it meant or not. Then, with
her ladies in waiting, she passed to a dais near the stage, and stood

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CHRISTMAS WITH QUEEN BESS

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 Raf e, the smallest of them all, and
down the stage to speak the foreword of the piece. He was fright-
ened, 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, " where-
in both claim to 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

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MASTER SKYLARK

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 a 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

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CHRISTMAS WITH QUEEN BESS

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 sky-
lark'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

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MASTEE SKYLAEK

quite laughing, not quite sobbing. The manuscript of the Eevel
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 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. "CM 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 Eng-
land!" She clapped her hands. "I will speak with those lads,"
said she.

Straightway certain pages ran through the press and came be-
hind 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 whisper-
ing, "Look!" as they passed.

On the dais they knelt together, bowing, side by side. Eliza-
beth, 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

[216]

CHEISTMAS WITH QUEEN BESS

by thy song. And name me the price of that same song — 't was
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

[217]

MASTEE SKYLARK

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 refly'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, countrybred, 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 courte-
ous," 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."

[218]

CHRISTMAS WITH QUEEN BESS

"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 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?'1

"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 Eliza-
beth, 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."

[219]

MASTER SKYLAEK

"Now verily," laughed Elizabeth, "if it be floors that thou
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 'It 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 bedazzled
like," she said. "Think twice — preferment doest 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 ac-
cept?"

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

[220]

CHRISTMAS WITH QUEEN BESS

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 Lon-
don 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 un-
likely 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.

[221]

CHAPTER XXIX

BACK TO GASTON CAREW

O 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 forest 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

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BACK TO GASTON CAEEW

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, fantas-
tical.

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 earl's 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.

[223]

MASTER SKYLARK

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 '11 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

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BACK TO GASTON CAREW

wert grown so great, thou wouldst come home in a coach-and-f our,
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.

"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 brighten-
ing 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 foi! it passeth understanding — a freed skylark come back to
its cage! I thought we had lost him forever.'1

[225]

MASTER SKYLARK

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-starved 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!'1 His voice was husky. "Let thee go? — send the
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 grow-
ing 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 hav-
ing 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

[226]

BACK TO GASTON CAREW

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 rat that was gnawing a rind on the hearth
looked up, and ran a little nearer to his hole. "Tsst ! come back,'1
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, peer-
ing 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

[227]

MASTEE SKYLAEK

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.

[228]

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.

O says that wonder-ballad of the sea.

But over London came a gale that made the chim-
neys 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

[229]

MASTER SKYLARK

the river; and sometimes upon a breezy afternoon it was pleas-
ant 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,

[230]

AT THE FALCON INN

that Master Carew had come to the Falcon Inn, on the South-
wark 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
clothes, 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!" brawled 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 '11 pay
the score."

At that they all began to laugh and to slap one another on the

[231]

MASTEE SKYLARK

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

[232]

AT THE FALCON INN

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 gallop-
ing over the bowling-green to the arbor side calling for ale.
They drank it in their saddles, while their panting horses snif-
fled at the fresh young grass. 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 drink-
ing, 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'?"

[233]

MASTER SKYLARK

A muffled stir ran round. Mck 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-f ubbles, Carew ; there 's nought the matter with the dice. ' '

A man came down from the tap-room door. Mck 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 fear-
less, 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.

" 'T is just beyond Ned Alleyn's, by the ditch. Ye '11 never
mistake the ditch, sir — Billingsgate is roses to it.':

"Oh, I '11 find it fast enough," the stranger answered; "but he
should have sent to meet me, knowing I might come at any hour.

[234]

AT THE FALCON INN

'T is 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 wel-
come had been lighted there. "What, Ben!': he cried; "thou
here? Why, bless thine heart, old gossip, 't is 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 doors. 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"?

[235]

MASTER SKYLARK

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.

[236]

CHAPTER XXXI

IN THE TWINKLING OF AN EYE

N a garden near the old bear-yard, among tall rose-
trees which would soon be in bloom, a merry com-
pany of men were sitting around a table which stood
in the angle of a quick-set hedge beside a path grav-
eled with white stones and bordered with mus-
sel-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 over-

[237]

MASTER SKYLARK

hanging 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 eat-
ing 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 tampering down the loose tobacco with his fore-
finger. 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 con-
stantly 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 sol-
emnly, took the little man by the collar as a huntsman takes a
pup, and laid him softly in the grass without a word.

[238]

IN THE TWINKLING OF AN EYE

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 out-
stretched 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.':

[239]

MASTER SKYLAUK

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 shoul-
ders, 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 scar-
let 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 rip-
ple 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

[240]

"i

Ul

IN THE TWINKLING OF AN EYE

caught each other by the hand, and, suddenly, the silence there
seemed somehow louder than a shout.

"We '11 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 peo-
ple on the river stopped their boats, and came ashore asking
where the fire was. And over all the cheering arose 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 'It 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 '11 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 Hundson'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, re-

[241]

MASTER SKYLARK

stored 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 '11 have a supper
at the Mermaid Inn. We '11 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.
'T is Edmund with the news," cried one.

've dished him," said Ben Jonson.

'T is Condell come to raise our wages," said Robin Armin,
with a grin.

[242]

n.

41

u

IN THE TWINKLING OF AN EYB

"Thou 'It 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 '11 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!"

1 i 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 '11 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 Warwickshire1?"

"Why, Ben," replied the quiet man, "'t is not the kite that

[243]

MASTER SKYLARK

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 '11 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 Att-
wood. 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.

"Welly my lad" said the quiet man; "what will 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.

[244]

IN THE TWINKLING OF AN EYE

Across the fields beyond the hedge the pathway ran through
Paris Garden, stark and clear in the white moonshine, 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 re-
mote. 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.

[245]

MASTER SKYLARK

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, catch-
ing 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 vcice,
turned swiftly to it, crying out, "The Skylark! Zooks! It is
the place!" and ran through the fog to where the lantern glim-
mered 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.

" 'T is I, Tom Heywood. There 's to-do for players at the Fal-
con Inn. Gaston Carew hath stabbed Fulk Sandells, for cheat-
ing at the dice, as dead as a door-nail, and hath been taken by the
watch."

[246]

_

*^* *x "*"•*. *" I •**•• **^^3S

•

.)

. ' •%•>— •* ^-^-^.^r<^

CHAPTER XXXII

THE LAST OF GASTON CAREW

T 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

[241]

MASTEK SKYLARK

his regular summer visit there; and Nick was going with hi™, —
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 un-
combed, 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 ly-
ing in wait outside to catch him if he stirred abroad.

"He says that he must see thee without fail, and that straight-
way. 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. 'T is hard to refuse so small a favor to a
doomed man.':

"Thou 'It surely fetch me back?"

[248]

n

it

THE LAST OF GASTON CAEEW
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. Bur-
bage knows me. I '11 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 toll-
ing, 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 chop-
ping-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.

[249]

MASTER SKYLARK

"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 damp, 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 rene-
gade 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

[250]

THE LAST OF GASTON CAREW

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 cov-
ered 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. 'T will not be worth thy while, Nick ;
the night is coming fast."

"Why, sir," said Nick, "it is not so dark outside- -'t is 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 al-
ready 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.
" 'T is a shilling's worth, ye mind."

[251]

THE LAST OF GASTON CAEEW

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,"1 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 'It be good and true to Cicely — thou 'It deal fairly with my
girl? Why, surely, yes." He paused again, as if irresolute.
"I '11 trust thee, Nick. We 've taken money, thou and I; good
gold and silver — tsst! what 's that?'1 He stopped suddenly.

Nick heard no sound but the Spaniard's cursing.

"'T is 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 fel-
low in it had his ear pressed close against the bars. "He is lis-
tening," said Nick.

The fellow cursed and shook his fist, and then, when Master Ca-
rew dropped his voice and would have gone on whispering, set

[252]

THE LAST OF GASTON CAREW

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. ' :

"Yah, yah, yah, thou gallows-bird!"

"Yet I must tell thee, Nick."

"Yah, yah, dangle-rope!'1

"Stay! would Will Shakspere come? Why, here, I'll send
him word. He '11 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 '11
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 't was
where there was a sweet, green field and a stream flowing through
a little wood. Methought 't was on the road past Warwick toward
Coventry. Thou 'It go there some day and remember Graston
Carew, wilt not, lad? And, Nick, for thine own mother's sake,

[253]

THE LAST OF GASTON CAEEW

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 & surly bear; "have done. 'T is a fat shilling's worth."

"'T was there I heard thee sing first, Nick," said Carew,
holding to the boy's hands through the bars. "I '11 never hear
thee sing again."

"Why, sir, I '11 sing for thee now," said Mck, 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 the 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 rest-
ful 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 rene-

[254]

THE LAST OP GASTON CAREW

gade 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!"

"'T is 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! 'T is no one's business but mine. I Ve a good two
shillings' worth in my ears. 'T is 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.':

"Na, 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.'1

The master-player loosed his grasp. "I will not seek to be ex-
cused to thee," he said huskily. "I Ve prisoned thee as that
clod prisons me ; but, Nick, the play is almost out, down comes the

[255]

MASTER SKYLARK

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 't was 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 hon-
our!"

"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. "'T is
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 'It send Will Shakspere? And, oh, Nick," cried
Carew, holding "him yet a little longer, "thou 'It keep my Cicely
from harm?"

"I '11 do my best," said Nick, his own eyes full.

The turnkey raised his heavy bunch of keys. "I '11 ding thee
out o' this," said he.

[256]

THE LAST OF GASTON CAKEW

And the last Nick Attwood saw of Gaston Carew was his wist-
ful 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.

[257]

CHAPTER XXXIII

CICELY DISAPPEARS

HAT 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

[258]

CICELY DISAPPEARS

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 Jon-
son 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 '11 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 '11 come some day," Master Shakspere would say; "give

[259]

MASTER SKYLARK

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 Strat-
ford!

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 peachbloom 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; the skirts of the jacket Were
dripping with dew from the bushes.

" Good-morrow, sir,'- said Nick, and bowed. "It is a lovely
day."

[260]

CICELY DISAPPEARS

"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 '11 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 serv-
ants 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 '11 keep my Cicely from harm?'1

[261]

CHAPTER XXXIV

THE BANDY-LEGGED1 MAN

NTIL 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 Kobin 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.

[262]

THE BANDY-LEGGED MAN

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 pub-
lished 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 un-
frequented courts, among the warehouses and wharf -sheds along

[263]

MASTER SKYLARK

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 sud-
denly into a dingy court, and when Nick reached the corner of the
entry-way was gone as though the earth had swallowed him.

Mck 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 passage-
way there was blind and black, a place unspeakable for dirt, and
filled with people past description. A woman peered out after

[264]

THE BANDYLEGGED MAN

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 'It 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

[265]

MASTEB SKYLARK

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 '11 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 '11 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 torn-noddy, to be
gulled. And, hark 'e, be less glib with that 'rogue' of thine, or
I '11 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 cow-
ardly 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

[266]

THE BANDY-LEGGED MAN

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?" fal-
tered Cicely.

"Eigh! just don't he wish that he might!" laughed Goole.

"Oh, ay," said she, and nodded bravely to herself; "he may be

[267]

MASTER SKYLAEK

very busy now, and so lie 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 '11 go
with thee wherever he taketh thee ; I '11 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 '11 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 '11 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

[268]

THE BANDY-LEGGED MAN

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-Mayiug, and the foreigners from Soho, too. Up in the bel-
fries, 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 door-
way 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.

[269]

MASTER SKYLARK

At first all Mck 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, ruddyfaced 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 rib-
bon, 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!"

[270]

tl

it
ti

THE BANDY-LEGGED MAN

"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 All-
ston, crack me his crown!'1

"Good master," 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 '11 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.

[271]

MASTER SKYLARK

' * The fellow lieth in his throat, ' ' said he. ' ' My mother is in Strat-
ford town; and Cicely's mother is dead."

"Thou whelp!" cried the bandy-legged man, and aimed a sud-
den blow at Nick, "I '11 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 'It 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 Groole, 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, — 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

[272]

THE BANDY-LEGGED MAN

tried to thrust Tom Webster back. "Thou 'It 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 stamping 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!'1

"Good, sweetheart!" quoth Tom Webster, eying the bandy-
legged man with a curious snap in his honest eyes. "So the ras-
cal 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!'1

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, Eobin'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-

[273]

MASTEE SKYLARK

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 '11 bide the toll," said he, in half apology.

"What! is there anything to pay?" she asked with a rueful
quaver in her voice. "Oh, Mck, 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. r;

"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,

[274]

THE BANDY-LEGGED MAN

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 in-
surrection, and came down Cheapside bawling, " Peace, in the
name of the Queen!" But when he found it was only the appren-
tices 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 — "tipsy daisy!" — 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

[275]

MASTER SKYLARK

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!'1 Whereupon the others
laughed and punched him in the ribs with their clubs, until he
bellowed, " Quits! We '11 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, Mck, 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 '11 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 '11
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.

[276]

CHAPTER XXXV

A SUDDEN RESOLVE

ICK and Cicely were sitting on a bench in the sun
beside the tap-room door, munching a savory mut-
ton-pie which Tommy Webster had bought for
them. Beside them over the window-sill the tap-
ster twirled his spigot cheerfully, and in the door
the carrier was bidding the servant-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

[277]

MASTER SKYLARK

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-hu-
mored countenance, and a wife beside him round and rosy of face
as he, came bustling out of the private door. "How far yet, Mas-
ter 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 be-
yond, sir, and the roads be werry deep."

Nick stared at the man for Oxford. Forty-two miles to Ox-
ford ! 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, turn-
ing 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 'It 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."

[278]

A SUDDEN RESOLVE

"Away from daddy and me? Why, Nick!"

"But my mother is in Stratford town.'1

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 'It come back
soon?"

"I am na coming back.'1

"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 be-
fore. "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 his breeches' bottoms like the legs of a letter A. He
looked like a pudding on two skewers.

[279]

MASTER SKYLAKK

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 tap-
ster'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-wop, 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 ;

[280]

"

"

A SUDDEN RESOLVE

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 f

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 'Idst 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 some-
where 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
f orevermore. '•

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

[281]

MASTER SKYLARK

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 sud-
den, 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 't is, and
find yourself; it is an honest fare.r

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! Gad-
zooks!" said he, "art thou a prince in hiding, boy? 'T would
buy me, horses, wains, and all. Why, man alive, 't is but a nip
o'this!"

[282]

A SUDDEN KESOLVE

"Good, then," said Mck, " 't is done — we '11 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 mat-
ter hath a queer look.':

"'T was 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."

' ' Stratf ord-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 Underbill'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 sheep-
skin, 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.

[283]

CHAPTER XXXVI

WAYFARING HOME

T Kensington watering-place, five miles from Lon-
don 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 were n't, sir," said John, "but there be now";
and out with the whole story.

"Well, I ha' farmed for fifty years," 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 flat fields. "Come hither, Moll — here 's company

[284]

WAYFARING HOME

for thee. For sure, John, they '11 ride wi' Moll and I; 't is god-
send— angels on a baggage-cart! Moll ha' lost her only one, and
the little maid will warm the cockles o' her heart, say naught
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 Wy combe, into
and over the Chiltern Hills in Buckinghamshire. In parts the
land was passing fair, with sheep in flocks upon the hills, and cat-
tle 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 milk-
maids 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

[285]

MASTER SKYLAEK

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 blow-
ing 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 wind-
ing 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 fa-
mous 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

[286]

WAYFARING HOME

Carfax church, a large, substantial hostelry, one of merry Eng-
land'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 foam. Master Davenant himself saw to the
storing of the wains ; and Mistress Davenant, a comely dame, with
smooth brown hair and ruddy cheeks, and with no less than
sprightly grace, was in the porch to meet the company. "Well,
good Dame Clout," said she, "art home again? What tales we '11
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 Ravenant!" cried Roger Clout, "art pass-
ing 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.'1

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

[287]

MASTER SKYLARK

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 serv-
er'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!'

"King, 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,

[288]

Allegro

1. Hey! lad -die, hark, to the mer-ry,mer-ry lark,

2. God save us all, my jol-ly gen -tie -men!

3f*

^

1 E

How high he sing - eth clear.
We'llmer-ry be to - day ;

O a morn in JSpring is the sweet-est thing That com-eth in
For the cue- koo sings till the greenwood rings, And it is the

^

-»-= — »•

all the year : O a morn in Spring is the sweet-est thing That com-eth in all the year !

month of May : For the cue - koo sings till the greenwood rings,And it is the month of May !

REFRAIN. Vivace.

Fed.

^m

Ring ! Ting ! It is the mer - ry Spring-time. How

I-: • ' *

full of heart a bod - y feels ! Sing

fijfrrlT-

Repeat Refrain after 3d Stanza.

~* * • f

±

'- — •-

J- *

hey trol - ly lol - ly ! O to live is to be jol - ly, When Spring -time cometh with the Summer at her heels!

i

* 1 ^

SE

MASTER SKYLARK

We '11 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.

' 'What, lad!" cried good Dame Davenant, "come, stay with me
all year and sing, thou and this little maid o' thine. 'T will cost
thee neither cash nor care. Why, thou 'Idst fill the house with
such a throng as it hath never seenP; 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, fur-
thermore, 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

[290]

WAYFARING HOME

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."

[291]

MASTEE SKYLAEK

His courtly speech and manner, as well as Ms 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. ' t 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 l Queen's Own Measure,' 'La Donzella,'
the new 'Allemand' of my Lord Pembroke, a pavone or a tinter-
nell, or the 'Galliard of Savoy.' Which doth it please you, mis-
tresses?" and he bowed to the huddling young women, who
scarcely knew what to make of it.

"La, Joan," whispered one, "he calleth thee i 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 '11 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."

"'T is not a tantrums, goody," said Nick, politely, "but a co-
ranto."

[292]

WAYFARING HOME

"La! young master, what 's the odds, just so we sees it done1?
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 'It 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, " 't is off, 't is 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 sway-
ing motion of the coupee, courtesying gracefully as one tiny slip-
pered foot peeped out from her rustling skirt, tapping on the turf,
now in front and now in 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, "'t is fairy
folk — she doth na even touch the ground !': "The pretty dear!"
the mothers said. "Doll, why canst thou na do the like, thou lum-
mox?" "Tut," sighed the buxom Doll, "I have na wingses on
my feet ! ' :

[293]

MASTER SKYLARK

Then Cicely, breathless, bowed, and ran to Nick's side asking,
"Was it all right, Nick?"

"Right?'1' said he, and stroked her hair; "'t was 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 straw-,
berries and Cicely fell fast asleep with the last of the straw-
berries 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

[294]

WAYFARING HOME

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 the 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 me1?" he

asked.

[295]

MASTER SKYLARK

Nick laughed. ' l Why, father, do ye na know me ? ' ' he cried out.
"'T is I — 't is 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.

[296]

CHAPTER XXXVII

TURNED ADRIFT

OWN 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 bee-hives, and the bees humming
among the orchard boughs.

"Why, father, what!" cried Nick, "dost na know me yet?
See, 't is 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 't is I!"

[297]

MASTER SKYLARK

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 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 amaze-
ment, 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!"

[298]

TURNED ADRIFT

"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 tim-
ber, its cherry 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

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MASTEK SKYLAKK

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 Att-
wood!"

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

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TURNED ADRIFT

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!"

[301]

CHAPTER XXXVIII

A STRANGE DAY

HERE in the Great House garden under the mul-
berry-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 Underbill, 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

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A STRANGE DAY

brought her home all safe and sound — why, 't is done like a true
knight-errant!"

Master Shakspere met them with outstretched hands. ''Thou
young rogue,'1' 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?'1

"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 halfway 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 '11 read him reason with a ven-

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MASTER SKYLARK

geance!" With a clink of Ms rapier he made as if to be off at
once.

"Nay, Ben," said Master Shakspere; "cool thy blood — a quar-
rel 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 '11 think thee a thought offhand to
serve the turn. What? Why, this tanner calls us vagabonds.
Vagabonds, forsooth! Yet vagabonds are gallows-birds, and gal-
lows-birds are ravens. And ravens, men say, do foster forlorn
children. Take my point? Good, then; let us ravenous vaga-
bonds 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.'1

"Why, here, here, Ben Jonson," spoke up Master Burbage,
"this is all very well for Will and thee; but, pray, where do Hem-
ynge, Condell, and I come in upon the bill ? Come, man, 't is a
pity if we cannot all stand together in this real play as well as
in all the make-believe."

"That 's my sore!" 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

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aster pfiaKespetr met

A STRANGE DAY

folly, — common stock with us all ! Marry, 't is 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 Con-
dell was a cold, shrewd man. "There 's merit in the lad besides
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,"1 said he, turning to Master
Shakspere, who listened with half a smile to all that the others
said. "He '11 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

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MASTER SKYLARK

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.

[306]

A STRANGE DAY

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!'1 And when the day began to wane above
the woods of Arden, he arose, and came up from the river, walk-
ing 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 liquor from his vats, the tanner
strode into the dining-hall.

[307]

CHAPTER XXXIX

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

HE table had been cleared of trenches and nap-
kins, 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 Hem-
ynge, Master Shakspere 's partners; Master Ben Jonson, his dear-
est friend; Thomas Pope, who played his finest parts; John
Lowin, Samuel Gilburne, Robert Nash, and William Kemp, play-
ers of the Lord Chamberlain's company; Edmund Shakespere,
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,

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ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

and Willam Hart, the Stratford Hatter, brother-in-law to Mas-
ter 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 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.

'T was 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'

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MASTER SKYLARK

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.'1

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 I Nick ! " he faltered
brokenly, "I be wrung from 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 tooked 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 't will somehow right the wrong I ha' done," he

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ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

added huskily. "And, neighbors, I '11 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 '11 make out,
lad, we '11 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 heed of more ; Simon Attwood was answered.

Voices buzzed around 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

[311]

MASTER SKYLARK

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 com-
panion'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 Shakespere
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 sym-
pathy. But there were still some in London who would not leave
him totally friendless in such straights."

"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

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ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

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 plead-
ing 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 Hens-
lowe, 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.'1

Cicely was sitting up, listening with wide eyes, and eagerly
nodded her head as if to say, "Of course.'1

"He also begged of Nicholas Attwood that he would forgive
him what ever wrong he had done him."

"Why, that I will, sir," choked Nick, brokenly; "he was won-
drous 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."

[313]

MASTER SKYLARK

" 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 be-
ing 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 Attwode, alias Mastre Skie-lark, whom I
Gaston Carew, Player, Stole Away from Stratford Toune, Anno
Domini 1596."

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ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

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 pau-
pers here.r

Everybody laughed then and clapped their hands, and the Lon-
don players gave a rousing cheer. Master Ben Jonson's shouts
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 Shakespere
added, "we have, through my young Lord Hunsdon, who has

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MASTER SKYLARK

just been made State Chamberlain, Her Majesty's gracious per-
mission 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 Mas-
ter Skylark here is surely fit to rear the little maid."

The London players thumped the table. "Why, 't is the very
trick," said Hemynge. "Marry, this is better than a play."

" It is indeed, ' ' quoth Condell. "See the plot come out ! ' '

"Thou 'It do it, Attwood — why, of course thou 'It do it," said
Master Shakspere. " 'T is 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 Att-
wood? They tell me thy 'prentice, Job Hortop, is to marry in
July — he '11 take thine old house at a fair rental. Why, here,

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ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

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,"1 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 o'
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 's far worse than having one which has but
gone astray. Come, Neighbor Attwood, sit thee up and eat with

us."

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MASTER SKYLARK

"Nay, I '11 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. 'T is not my
house, but 't is my friend's, and so 't is all the same in the Low-
lands. 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 '11 never
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 years1.'

"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 Mich-
aelmas goose!" He laughed a boyish laugh that did one's heart
good to hear.

"Ay," said Master Shakspere, smiling, as he and Simon Att-

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ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

wood 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 Stiakspere, softly. "It
is a good toast, and we will all drink it together.'3

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 quiver-
ing; "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.

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MASTER SKYLARK

"Margaret," said he, huskily, "I do love thee, lass. Is it too
late to tell thee so I"

"Nay; Simon," answered his wife, simply, "'t is 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, "'t is 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

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ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

friends there, and Master Drayton held his hand while he sang:

1 ' Every man. shall take his own,
In your waking shall be shown:
Nought shall go ill,
Jack shall have Jill,
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 Mas-
ter Shakspere said gently, "It is a good place to end.'1

"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, and 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

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MASTER SKYLARK

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 noth-
ing 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 !

1 ' 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 uown; 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 smiltd 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.

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THE NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY

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