CHAPTER XXV
THE WANING OF THE YEAR
In September the Lord Admiral's company made a tour of the Midlandsduring the great English fairing-time; but Carew did not go with them.For, though still by name master-player with Henslowe and Alleyn, hisbusiness with them had come to be but little more than pocketing hisshare of the profits; and for the rest, nothing but to take Nick dailyto and from St. Paul's, and to draw his wages week by week.
Of those wages Nick saw never a penny: Carew took good care of that. Yethe gave him everything that any boy could need, and bought him whateverhe fancied the instant he so much as expressed a wish for it: which, intruth, was not much; for Nick had lived in only a country town, and knewnot many things to want.
But with money a-plenty thus coming so easily into his hands,--money fordicing, for luxuries, for all his wild sports, money for Cicely, moneyfor keeps, money to play chuckie-stones with if he chose,--there was nobridle to Gaston Carew's wild career. His boon companions werespendthrifts and gamesters, dissolute fellows, of whom the least saidsoonest mended; and with them he was brawling early and late, very oftenall night long. And though money came in fast, he wasted it faster, sothat matters went from bad to worse. Duns came spying about his door,and bailiffs hunted after him around the town with unpaid tradesmen'sbills. Yet still he laughed and clapped his hand upon his poniard in theold bold way.
September faded away in wistful haze along the Hampstead hills. TheAdmiral's men came riding back with keen October ringing at their heels,and all the stalls were full of red-cheeked apples striped with emeraldand gold. November followed, with its nipping frost, and all St.George's merry green fields turned brown and purple-gray. The old yearwas 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 getabout, the gutters and streets being very foul, and the by-lanesimpassable. And now the children of Paul's gave no more plays in theyard of the Mitre Inn, but sang in their own warm hall; for winterwas at hand.
There came black nights when an ugly wind moaned in the shiveringchimneys and howled across the peaked roofs, nights when there was noplaying at the Rose, but it was hearty to be by the fire. Then sometimesCarew sat at home all evening long, with Cicely upon his knee, and toldstrange tales of lands across the sea, where he had traveled when he wasyoung, and where none spoke English but chance travelers, and even theloudest shouting could not serve to make the people understand.
While he spun these wondrous yarns Nick would curl up on the hearth andblow the crackling fire, sometimes staring at the master-player'sstories, sometimes laughing to himself at the funny faces carved uponthe sides of the chubby Dutch bellows, and sometimes neither laughingnor listening, but thinking silently of home. Then Carew, looking at himthere, would quickly turn his face away and tell another tale.
But oftener the master-player stayed all night at the Falcon Inn withDick Jones, Tom Hearne, Humphrey Jeffs, and other reckless roysterers,dicing and flipping shillings at shovel-board until his finger-nailswere sore. Then Nick would read aloud to Cicely out of the "HundredMerry Tales," or pop old riddles at her puzzled head until she,laughing, cried, "Enough!" But most of all he liked the story of braveGuy of Warwick, and would tell it again and again, with other legends ofArden Wood, till bedtime came.
In the gray of the morning Carew would come home, unshaven andleaden-eyed, with his bandy-legged varlet trotting like a watch-dog athis heels; and then, if the gaming had gone well, he was a lord, anearl, 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 orsodden 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 meethim in the shadows of the hall; so that when he came into the lightedroom, with her upon his shoulder, his face was smiles, his step afrolic, and his bearing that of a happy boy.
But day by day the weather grew worse, with snow and ice paving thestreets with a glassy glare and choking the frozen drains; and there wastrouble and want among the poor in the wretched alleys near Carew'shouse: for fuel was high and food scarce, and there were many deaths, sothat the knell was tolling constantly.
Cicely cried until her eyes were red for the very sadness of it all,since she might do nothing for them, and hated the sound of thesullen bell.
"Pshaw, Cicely!" said Nick; "why should ye cry? Ye do na know them; soye need na care."
"But, Nick," said she, "_nobody_ seems to care! And, sure, _somebody_ought to care; for it may be some one's mother that is dead."
At that Nick felt a very queer choking in his own throat, and did notrest quite easy in his mind until he had given the silver buckle fromhis 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 intheir own streets, and knocked at their next-door neighbor's gate to askthe way home. All day long, down by the Thames drums beat upon thewharves and bells ding-donged to guide the watermen ashore; but most ofthose who needs must fare abroad went over London Bridge, becausethere, although they might in no wise see, it felt, at least, as if theworld 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, byorder of the Council, every alderman and burgess hung a light before hisdoor, torches, links, and candles only sputtered feebly in the gloom, ofno more use than jack-o'-lanterns gone astray, and none but blind menknew the roads.
The city watch was doubled everywhere; and all night long their shoutswent up and down--"'Tis what o'clock, and a foggy night!"--and right andleft their hurrying staves came thumping helplessly along the walls toanswer cries of "Murder!" and of "Help! Watch! Help!" For under cover ofthe fog great gangs of thieves came down from Hampstead Heath, androbberies were done in the most frequented thoroughfares, between thevery lights set up by the corporation; so that it was dangerous to goabout save armed and wary as a cat in a crowd.
While such foul days endured there was no singing at St. Paul's, norstage-plays anywhere, save at Blackfriars play-house, which was roofedagainst the weather. And even there at last the fog crept in throughcracks and crannies until the players seemed but moving shadows talkingthrough a choking cloud; and Master Will Shakspere's famous new piece of"Romeo and Juliet," which had been playing to crowded houses, taking tenpound twelve the day, was fairly smothered off the boards. Nick waseager 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 araven's throat, let alone the sweetness from a honey-pot like thine--andbottom crust is the end of pie!" With which, bang went the door, creakwent the key, and Carew was off to the Falcon Inn.
* * * * *
So went the winter weather, and so went Carew; for there was no denyingthat both had fallen into a very bad way. Yet another change camecreeping over Carew all unaware.
Nick's face had from the first attracted him; and now, living with theboy day after day, housed up, a prisoner, yet cheerful through it all,the master-player began to feel what in a better man had been the prickof conscience, but in him was only an indefinite uneasiness like ablunted cockle-bur. For the lad's patient perseverance at his work, hisdelight in singing, and the tone of longing threaded through his voice,crept into the master-player's heart in spite of him; and Nick's gentleways with Cicely touched him more than all the rest: for if there wasone thing in all the world that Gaston Carew truly loved, it was hisdaughter Cicely. So for her sake, as well as for Nick's own, themaster-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 abovethe Spanish chest. At night, when the house was still and all the restasleep, Carew often came and stood bef
ore 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. Whereuponthe panel slipped away within the wainscot, leaving a little closet inthe hollow of the wall, in which a few strange things were stowed: anempty flask, an inlaid rosewood box, a little slipper, and a dustygittern with its strings all snapped and a faded ribbon tied aboutits neck.
The rosewood box he would take down, and with it open in his lap wouldsit beside the fire like a man within a dream, until the hearth grewwhite and cold, and the draught had blown the ashes out in streaksacross the floor. In the box was a woman's riding-glove and a miniatureupon ivory, Cicely's mother's face, painted at Paris in other days.
One night, while they were sitting all together by the fire, Nick andCicely snug in the chimney-seat, Carew spoke up suddenly out of a littlesilence 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, "Iwonder if thou couldst play?"
"What, sir?" asked Nick; "a game?" and made the bellows whistle in hismouth.
"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 ispassing sweet." "Ay, Nick, 'tis passing sweet," said Carew,quickly--and no more; but spoke of France, how the lilies grow in theditches there, and the tall trees stand like soldiers by the road thatruns to the land of sunny hills and wine; and of the radiant womenthere, with hair like night and eyes like the summer stars. Then all atonce he stopped as if some one had clapped a hand upon his mouth, andsat and stared into the fire.
But in the morning at breakfast there was a gittern at Nick's place--arare old yellow gittern, with silver scrolls about the tail-piece, ivorypegs, and a head that ended in an angel's face. It was strung withbright new silver strings, but near the bridge of it there was a littlerut worn into the wood by the tips of the fingers that had rested therewhile playing, and the silken shoulder-ribbon was faded and worn.
Nick stopped, then put out both his hands as if to touch it, yet didnot, being half afraid.
"Tut, take it up!" said Carew, sharply, though he had not seemed toheed. "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, ordo I filter my wits through thee? Did I not say that it is thine? Good,then--'tis thine, although it were thrice somebody else's; and thrice asmuch thy very own through having other owners. Dost hear? Well, then,enough--we'll have no words about it!"
Rising abruptly as he spoke, he clapped his hat upon his head and leftthe room, Nick standing there beside the table, staring after him, withthe gittern in his hands.