CHAPTER XXII
THE SKYLARK'S SONG
Master Nathaniel Gyles, Precentor of St. Paul's, had pipe-stem legs, anda face like an old parchment put in a box to keep. His sandy hair wasthin and straggling, and his fine cloth hose wrinkled around hisshrunken shanks; but his eye was sharp, and he wore about his neck abroad gold chain that marked him as no common man.
For Master Nathaniel Gyles was head of the Cathedral schools of actingand of music, and he stood upon his dignity.
"My duty is laid down," said he, "in most specific terms, sir,--_lexcathedralis_,--that is to say, by the laws of the cathedral; and hasbeen, sir, since the reign of Richard the Third. _Primus MagisterScholarum, Custos Morum, Quartus Custos Rotulorum_,--so the titlestands, sir; and I know my place."
He pushed Nick into the anteroom, and turned to Carew with an irritatedair.
"I likewise know, sir, what is what. In plain words, Master GastonCarew, ye have grossly misrepresented this boy to me, to the waste ofmuch good time. Why, sir, he does not dance a step, and cannot actat all."
"Soft, Master Gyles--be not so fast!" said Carew, haughtily, drawinghimself up, with his hand on his poniard; "dost mean to tell me that Ihave lied to thee? Marry, sir, thy tongue will run thee into a blindalley! I told thee that the boy could sing, but not that he could actor dance."
"Pouf, sir,--words! I know my place: one peg below the dean, sir,nothing less: '_Magister, et cetera'_--'tis so set down. And I tellthee, sir, he has no training, not a bit; can't tell a pricksong from abottle of hay; doesn't know a canon from a crocodile, or a fugue from ahole in the ground!"
"Oh, fol-de-riddle de fol-de-rol! What has that to do with it? I tellthee, 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. "Teachme, who learned descant and counterpoint in the Gallo-Belgic schools,sir; the best in all the world! Thou, who knowest not a staccato from astick of liquorice!"
Carew shrugged his shoulders impatiently. "Come, Master Gyles, this isfool play. I told thee that the boy could sing, and thou hast not yetheard him try. Thou knowest right well I am no such simple gull as tomistake 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 needif thou wouldst win the favor of the Queen. He has the voice, and thouthe thingumbobs to make the most of it. Don't be a fool, now; hear himsing. That's all I ask. Just hear him once. Thou'lt pawn thine ears tohear him twice."
The music-school stood within the old cathedral grounds. Through thewindows came up distantly the murmur of the throng in Paul's Yard. Itwas mid-afternoon, quite warm; blundering flies buzzed up and down thelozenged panes, and through the dark hall crept the humming sound ofchildish voices reciting eagerly, with now and then a sharp, small cryas some one faltered in his lines and had his fingers rapped. Somewhereelse there were boyish voices running scales, now up, now down, withouta stop, and other voices singing harmonies, two parts and threetogether, here and there a little flat from weariness.
The stairs were very dark, Nick thought, as they went up to anotherfloor; but the long hall they came into there was quite bright withthe sun.
At one end was a little stage, like the one at the Rose play-house, witha small gallery for musicians above it; but everything here was paintedwhite and gold, and was most scrupulously clean. The rush-strewn floorwas filled with oaken benches, and there were paintings hanging upon thewall, portraits of old head-masters and precentors. Some of them were sodark with time that Nick wondered if they had been blackamoors.
Master Gyles closed the great door and pulled a cord that hung by thestage. A bell jangled faintly somewhere in the wall. Nick heard themuffled voices hush, and then a shuffling tramp of slippered feet cameup the outer stair.
"Pouf!" said the precentor, crustily. "_Tempus fugit_--that is to say,we have no time to waste. So, marry, boy, _venite, exultemus_--in otherwords, if thou canst sing, be up and at it. Come, _cantate_--sing, I bidthee, and that instanter--if thou canst sing at all."
The under-masters and monitors were pushing the boys into their seats.Carew pointed to the stage. "Thou'lt do thy level best!" he said in alow, hard tone, and something clashed beneath his cloak like steelon steel.
Nick went up the steps behind the screen. It seemed cold in the room; hehad 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 Stratfordfair, which wore a crimson jerkin and a cap. The man who had thejackanapes played upon a pipe and a tabor; and when he said, "Dance!"the jackanapes danced, for it was sorely afraid of the man. Yet whenNick looked around and did not see the master-player anywhere in thehall, he felt exceedingly lonely all at once without him, though he bothfeared and hated him.
There still was a shuffling of feet and a low talking; but soon itbecame 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, metallicring. As he listened, lonely, his heart cried out for home. In hisfancy the wind seemed rippling over the Avon, and the elm-leaves rustledlike rain upon the roof above his bed. There were red and whitewild-roses in the hedge, and in the air a smell of clover and ofnew-mown hay. The mowers would be working in the clover in themoonlight. He could almost see the sweep of the shining scythes, andhear the chink-a-chank, chink-a-chank of the whetstone on the long,curving blades. Chink-a-chank, chink-a-chank--'twas but the clock, andhe in London town.
Carew, sitting there behind the carven prompter's-screen, put down hishead between his hands and listened. There were murmurings a littlewhile, then silence. Would the boy never begin? He pressed his knucklesinto his temples and waited. Bow Bells rang out the hour; but the roomwas as still as a deep sleep. Would the boy never begin?
The precentor sniffed. It was a contemptuous, incredulous sniff. Carewlooked up--his lips white, a fierce red spot in each cheek. He wastalking to himself. "By the whistle of the Lord High Admiral!" hesaid--but there he stopped and held his breath. Nick was singing.
Only the old madrigal, with its half-forgotten words that othergenerations sang before they fell asleep. How queer it sounded there! Itwas a very simple tune, too; yet, as he sang, the old precentor startedfrom his chair and pressed his wrinkled hands together against hisbreast. He quite forgot the sneer upon his face, and it went fading outlike breath from a frosty pane.
He had twelve boys who could sing a hundred songs at sight fromunfamiliar notes; who kept the beat and marked the time as if theirthroats were pendulums; could syncopate and floriate as readily asbreathe. And this was only a common country song.
But--"That voice, that voice!" he panted to himself: for old Nat Gyleswas music-mad; melody to him was like the very breath of life. And theboy's high, young voice, soft as a flute and silver clear, throbbed inthe 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, tillthe older choristers held their breath and feared that the vibrant tonewould break, so slender, film-like was the trembling thread of the boy'swild skylark song. But no; it trembled there, high, sweet, and clear, amoment in the air; and then came running, rippling, floating down, asthough some one had set a song on fire in the sky, and dropped itquivering and bright into a shadow world. Then suddenly it was gone, andthe long hall was still.
The old precentor stepped beyond the screen.
Gaston Carew's face was in his hands, and his shoulders shookconvulsively. "I'll leave thee go, lad,_--ma foi_, I'll leave thee go.But, nay, I dare not leave thee go!"
Some one came and tapped him on the shoulder. It was the sub-precentor."Master Gyles would speak with thee, sir," said he, in a low tone, as ifhalf afraid of the sound of his own voice in the quiet that was inthe hall.
Carew drew hi
s hand hastily over his face, as if to take the old one offand put a new one on, then arose and followed the man.
"'THAT VOICE, THAT VOICE,' NAT GYLES PANTED TOHIMSELF."]
The old precentor stood with his hands still clasped against hisbreast. "_Mirabile_!" he was saying with bated breath. "It isimpossible, and I have dreamed! Yet _credo_--I believe--_quiaimpossibile est_--because it is impossible. Tell me, Carew, do I wake ordream--or, stay, was it a soul I heard? Ay, Carew, 'twas a soul: thelad'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 oldfool; and there's a sour bug flown in mine eye that makes it water so!"He wiped his eyes, for the tears were running down his cheeks.
"Thou'lt take him, then?" asked Carew.
"Take him?" cried the old precentor, catching the master-player by thehand. "Marry, that will I; a voice like that grows not on every bush.Take him? Pouf! I know my place--he shall be entered on the rollsat once."
"Good!" said Carew. "I shall have him learn to dance, and teach him howto act myself. He stays with me, ye understand; thy school fare ismiserly. I'll dress him, too; for these students' robes are shabbystuff. But for the rest--"
"Trust me," said Master Gyles; "he shall be the first singer of themall. He shall be taught--but who can teach the lark its song, and not dohorrid murder on it? Faith, Carew, I'll teach the lad myself; ay, all Iknow. I studied in the best schools in the world."
"And, hark 'e, Master Gyles," said Carew, sternly all at once; "thou'ltcome no royal placard and seizure on me--ye have sworn. The boy is mineto have and to hold with all that he earns, in spite of thyprerogatives."
For the kings of old had given the masters of this school the right totake for St. Paul's choir whatever voices pleased them, wherever theymight be found, by force if not by favor, barring only the royal singersat Windsor; and when men have such privileges it is best to be wary howone puts temptation in their way.
"Thou hadst mine oath before I even saw the boy," said the precentor,haughtily. "Dost think me perjured--_Primus Magister Scholarum, CustosMorum, Quartus Custos Rotulorum?_ Pouf! I know my place. My oath's myoath. But, soft; enough--here comes the boy. Who could have told askylark in such popinjay attire?"