CHAPTER XVIII
MASTER HEYWOOD PROTESTS
It was a cold, raw day. All morning long the sun had shone through thechoking fog as the candle-flame through the dingy yellow horn of an oldstable-lantern. But at noon a wind sprang up that drove the mist throughLondon streets in streaks and strings mixed with smoke and the reek ofsteaming roofs. Now and then the blue gleamed through in ragged patchesoverhead; so that all the town turned out on pleasure bent, not mindingif it rained stewed turnips, so they saw the sky.
But the fog still sifted through the streets, and all was damp andsticky to the touch, so Cicely was left behind to loneliness anddisappointment.
Nick and the master-player came down Ludgate Hill to Blackfriars landingin a stream of merrymakers, high and low, rich and poor, faring forth toLondon's greatest thoroughfare, the Thames; and as the river and thenoble 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, stretchedfrom shore to shore. There were towers on it with domes and gildedvanes, and the river foamed and roared under it, strangled by the piers.From the dock at St. Mary Averies by the Bridge to Barge-house stairs,the landing-stages all along the river-bank were thronged with boats;and to and fro across the stream, wherries, punts, barges, andwater-craft of every kind were plying busily. In middle streamsail-boats tugged along with creaking sweeps, or brown-sailedtrading-vessels slipped away to sea, with costly freight for Muscovy,Turkey, and the Levant. And amid the countless water-craft a multitudeof stately swans swept here and there like snow-flakes on thedusky river.
Nick sniffed at the air, for it was full of strange odors--the smell ofbreweries, of pitchy oakum, Norway tar, spices from hot countries,resinous woods, and chilly whiffs from the water; and as they came outalong the wharf, there were brown-faced, hard-eyed sailors there, whohad been to the New World--wild fellows with silver rings in their earsand a swaggering stagger in their petticoated legs. Some of them heldshort, crooked brown tubes between their lips, and puffed great cloudsof 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 theguard in the Queen's rich livery.
But ere Nick had fairly begun to stare, confused by such a rout, Carewhad hailed a wherry, and they were half-way over to the Southwark side.
Landing amid a deafening din of watermen bawling hoarsely for a placealong the Paris Garden stairs, the master-player hurried up the lanethrough the noisy crowd. Some were faring afoot into Surrey, and some togreen St. George's Fields to buy fresh fruit and milk from thefarm-houses and to picnic on the grass. Some turned aside to the FalconInn for a bit of cheese and ale, and others to the play-houses beyondthe trees and fishing-ponds. And coming down from the inn they met acrowd of players, with Master Tom Heywood at their head, frolicking andcantering along like so many overgrown school-boys.
"So we are to have thee with us awhile?" said Heywood, and put his armaround Nick's shoulders as they trooped along.
"Awhile, sir, yes," replied Nick, nodding; "but I am going home soon,Master Carew says."
"Carew," said Heywood, suddenly turning, "how can ye have the heart?"
"Come, Heywood," quoth the master-player, curtly, though his whole facecolored up, "I have heard enough of this. Will ye please to mind yourown affairs?"
The writer of comedies lifted his brows, "Very well," he answeredquietly; "but, lad, this much for thee," said he, turning to Nick, "ifever thou dost need a friend, Tom Heywood's one will never speakthee false."
"Sir!" cried Carew, clapping his hand upon his poniard Heywood lookedup steadily. "How? Wilt thou quarrel with me, Carew? What ugly poisonhath been filtered through thy wits? Why, thou art even falser than Ithought! Quarrel with me, who took thy new-born child from her dyingmother's arms when thou wert fast in Newgate gaol?"
Carew's angry face turned sickly gray. He made as if to speak, but nosound came. He shut his eyes and pushed out his hand in the air as if tostop the voice of the writer of comedies.
"Come," said Heywood, with deep feeling; "thou canst not quarrel with meyet--nay, though thou dost try thy very worst. It would be a sorry storyfor my soul or thine to tell to hers."
Carew groaned. The rest of the players had passed on, and the threestood there alone. "Don't, Tom, don't!" he cried.
"Then how can ye have the heart?" the other asked again.
The master-player lifted up his head, and his lips were trembling. "'Tis not the heart, Tom," he cried bitterly, "upon my word, and on theremnant of mine honour! 'Tis the head which doeth this. For, Tom, Icannot leave him go. Why, Tom, hast thou not heard him sing? A voicewhich would call back the very dead that we have loved if they mightonly hear. Why, Tom, 'tis worth a thousand pound! How can I leavehim go?"
"Oh, fie for shame upon the man I took thee for!" cried Heywood.
"But, Tom," cried Carew, brokenly, "look it straightly in the face; Iam no such player as I was,--this reckless life hath done the trick forme, Tom,--and here is ruin staring Henslowe and Alleyn in the eye. Theycannot keep me master if their luck doth not change soon; and Burbagewould not have me as a gift. So, Tom, what is there left to do? How canI shift without the boy? Nay, Tom, it will not serve. There'sCicely--not one penny laid by for her against a rainy day; and I'll begone, Tom, I'll be gone--it is not morning all day long--we cannot lastforever. 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'dsay ten times more in one little minute just to hear thee sing than Iwould stand to in a month of Easters afterward. Come, Nick, be fair.I'll feed thee full and dress thee well and treat thee true--all forthat song of thine."
"But, sir, my mother--"
"Why, Carew, hath the boy a mother, too?" cried the writer of comedies.
"Now, Heywood, on thy soul, no more of this!" cried the master-player,with quivering lips. "Ye will make me out no man, or else a fiend. Icannot let the fellow go--I will not let him go." His hands weretwitching, 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 werebears to poor Nick, whose last faint hope that the master-player meantto keep his word and send him home again was gone?
They passed the Paris Garden and the tall round play-house that FrancisLangley had just built. A blood-red banner flaunted overhead, with alarge white swan painted thereon; but Nick saw neither the play-housenor the swan; he saw only, deep in his heart, a little gable-roof amongold 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 tocry silently.
"Nay, Nick, my lad, don't cry," said Heywood, gently; "'twill only makebad matters worse. _Never_ is a weary while; but the longest lane willturn at last: some day thou'lt find thine home again all in thetwinkling of an eye. Why, Nick, 'tis England still, and thou anEnglishman. 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 thyfriend--let this be thine earnest." As he spoke he slipped upon theboy's finger a gold ring with a green stone in it cut with a tall tree:this was his seal.
They had now come through the garden to the Rose Theatre, where the LordAdmiral's company played; and Carew was himself again. "Come,Nicholas," said he, half jestingly, "be done with thy d
olefuldumps--care killed a cat, they say, lad. Why, if thy hateful looks couldstab, I'd be a dead man forty times. Come, cheer up, lad, that I mayknow thou lovest me."
"But I do na love thee!" cried Nick, indignantly.
"Tut! Do not be so dour. Thou'lt soon be envied by ten thousand men.Come, don't make a face at thy good fortune as though it were a tripefried in tar. Come, lad, be pleased; thou'lt be the pet of everyhigh-born dame in London town."
"I'd rather be my mother's boy," Nick answered simply.