CHAPTER XX
DISAPPOINTMENT
Nick landed upon a pile of soft earth. It broke away under his feet andthrew him forward upon his hands and knees. He got up, a little shakenbut unhurt, and stood close to the wall, looking all about quickly. Aparty of gaily dressed gallants were haggling with the horse-boys at thesheds; but they did not even look at him. A passing carter stared up atthe window, measuring the distance with his eye, whistled incredulously,and trudged on.
Nick listened a moment, but heard only the clamor of voices inside, andthe zoon, zoon, zoon of the viol. He was trembling all over, and hisheart was beating like a trip-hammer. He wanted to run, but was fearfulof exciting suspicion. Heading straight for the river, he walked as fastas he could through the gardens and the trees, brushing the dirt fromhis hose as he went.
There was a wherry just pushing out from Old Marigold stairs with asingle passenger, a gardener with a basket of truck.
"Holloa!" cried Nick, hurrying down; "will ye take me across?"
"For thrippence," said the boatman, hauling the wherry alongside againwith his hook.
Thrippence? Nick stopped, dismayed. Master Carew had his goldrose-noble, and he had not thought of the fare. They would soon findthat he was gone.
"Oh, I must be across, sir!" he cried. "Can ye na take me free? I belittle and not heavy; and I will help the gentleman with his basket."
The boatman's only reply was to drop his hook and push off with the oar.
But the gardener, touched by the boy's pitiful expression, to saynothing of being tickled by Nick's calling him gentleman, spoke up:"Here, jack-sculler," said he; "I'll toss up wi' thee for it." He pulleda groat from his pocket and began spinning it in the air. "Come, thoulookest a gamesome fellow--cross he goes, pile he stays; best two inthree flips--what sayst?"
"Done!" said the waterman. "Pop her up!"
Up went the groat.
Nick held his breath.
"Pile it is," said the gardener. "One for thee--and up she goes again!"The groat twirled in the air and came down _clink_ upon the thwart.
"Aha!" cried the boatman, "'tis mine, or I'm a horse!"
"Nay, jack-sculler," laughed the gardener; "cross it is! Ka me, ka thee,my pretty groat--I never lose with this groat."
"Oh, sir, do be brisk!" begged Nick, fearing every instant to see themaster-player and the bandy-legged man come running down the bank.
"More haste, worse speed," said the gardener; "only evil weeds growfast!" and he rubbed the groat on his jerkin. "Now, jack-sculler, holdthy breath; for up she goes again!"
A man came running over the rise. Nick gave a little frightened cry. Itwas only a huckster's knave with a roll of fresh butter. The groat camedown with a splash in the bottom of the wherry. The boatman picked it upout 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 Nickaside, and scrambled into the wherry, puffing for breath. The boat felloff into the current. Nick, making a plunge for it into the water, justmanaged to catch the gunwale and get aboard, wet to the knees. But hedid not care for that; for although there were people going up ParisGarden lane, and a crowd about the entrance of the Rose, he could notsee Master Carew or the bandy-legged man anywhere. So he breathed alittle freer, yet kept his eyes fast upon the play-house until thewherry bumped against Blackfriars stairs.
Picking up the basket of truck, he sprang ashore, and, dropping it uponthe landing, took to his heels up the bank, without stopping to thankeither gardener or boatman.
The gray walls of the old friary were just ahead, scarcely a stone'sthrow from the river. With heart beating high, he ran along the close,looking eagerly for the entrance. He came to a wicket-gate that wasstanding half ajar, and went through it into the old cloisters.
Everything there was still. He was glad of that, for the noise and therush of the crowd outside confused him.
The place had once been a well-kept garden-plot, but now was become amere stack of odds and ends of boards and beams, shavings, mortar, andbroken brick. A long-legged fellow with a green patch over one eye wasbuilding a pair of stairs to a door beside which a sign read: "PlayeresHere: 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, staringstupidly. "Didst za-ay zummat?"
"I asked if Master Will Shakspere was in?"
The fellow scratched his head with a bit of shaving. "Noa; Muster WullZhacksper beant in."
Nick's heart stopped with a thump. "Where is he--do ye know?"
"A's gone awa-ay," drawled the workman, vaguely.
"Away? Whither!"
"A's gone to Ztratvoard to-own, whur's woife do li-ive--wenta-yesterday."
Nick sat blindly down upon the other trestle. He did not put his cap onagain: 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 randown his face again.
"Here, here, odzookens, lad!" grinned the workman, stolidly, "thou'ltvetch 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 ashaving. It was a curly shaving, and as fast as the beetle crept up tothe top the shaving rolled over, and dropped the beetle upon its back inthe dust; but it only got up and tried again. Nick looked up.
"Is--is Master Richard Burbage here, then?"
Perhaps Burbage, who had been a Stratford man, would help him.
"Noa," drawled the carpenter; "Muster Bubbage beant here; doan't wantun, nuther--nuvver do moind a's owen business--always jawin' volks. Abeant 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, zummersover there a bit yon, zure"; and he waved his hand about in a way thatpointed to nowhere at all.
"When will he be back?" asked Nick, desperately.
"Be ba-ack?" drawled the workman, slowly taking up his saw again; "backwhur?--here? Whoy, a wun't pla-ay here no mo-ore avore next Martlemas."
Martinmas? That was almost mid-November. It was now but middle May.
Nick got up and went out at the wicket-gate. He was beginning to feelsick and a little faint. The rush in the street made him dizzy, and thesullen roar that came down on the wind from the town, mingled with thetramping of feet, the splash of oars, the bumping of boats along thewharves, and the shouts and cries of a thousand voices, stupefied him.
He was standing there motionless in the narrow way, as if dazed by aheavy fall, when Gaston Carew came running up from the river-front, withthe bandy-legged man at his heels.