CHAPTER XXXII
THE LAST OF GASTON CAREW
It was Monday morning, and a beautiful day.
Master Will Shakspere was reading a new play to Masters Ben Jonson andDiccon Burbage at the Mermaid Inn.
Thomas Pope, the player, and Peter Hemynge, the manager, were there withthem at the table under the little window. The play was a comedy of awicked money-lender named Shylock; but it was a comedy that made Nickshudder as he sat on the bench by the door and listened to it throughhappy thoughts of going home.
Sunday had passed like a wondrous dream. He was free. Master Carew wasdone for. On Saturday morning Master Will Shakspere would set out on thejourney to Stratford town, for his regular summer visit there; and Nickwas going with him--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 thewords, not knowing that he did so. Nick watched him, fascinated.
A man came hurrying down Cheapside, and peered in at the open door. Itwas Master Dick Jones of the Admiral's company. He looked worried and asif he had not slept. His hair was uncombed, and the skin under his eyeshung in little bags. He squinted so that he might see from the broaddaylight outside into the darker room.
"Gaston Carew wants to see thee, Skylark," said he, quickly, seeing Nickbeside the door.
Nick drew back. It seemed as if the master-player must be lying in waitoutside to catch him if he stirred abroad.
"He says that he must see thee without fail, and that straightway. He isin Newgate prison. Wilt come?"
Nick shook his head.
"But he says indeed he _must_ see thee. Come, Skylark, I will bring theeback. I am no kidnapper. Why, it is the last thing he will ever ask ofthee. 'Tis hard to refuse so small a favor to a doomed man."
"Thou'lt surely fetch me back?"
"Here, Master Will Shakspere," called the Admiral's player; "I am tofetch the boy to Carew in Newgate on an urgent matter. My name isJones--Dick Jones, of Henslowe's company. Burbage knows me. I'll bringhim 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 OldBailey, the black arch of the ancient gate loomed grimly against thesky, its squinting window-slits peering down like the eyes of an oldogre. The bell of St. Sepulchre's was tolling, and there was a crowdabout the door, which opened, letting out a black cart in which was apriest praying and a man in irons going to be hanged on Tyburn Hill. Hissweating face was ashen gray; and when the cart came to the church doorthey gave him mockingly a great bunch of fresh, bright flowers. Nickcould not bear to watch.
The turnkey at the prison gate was a crop-headed fellow with jowls likea bulldog, and no more mercy in his face than a chopping-block. "GastonCarew, the player?" he growled. "Ye can't come in without a permit fromthe warden."
"We must," said Jones.
"Must?" said the turnkey. "I am the only one who says 'must' inNewgate!" and slammed the door in their faces.
The player clinked a shilling on the bar.
"It was a boy he said would come," growled the turnkey through thewicket, pocketing the shilling; "so just the boy goes up. A shilling'sworth, ye mind, and not another wink." He drew Nick in, and droppedthe bars.
It was a foul, dark place, and full of evil smells. Drops of water stoodon the cold stone walls, and a green mould crept along the floor. Theair was heavy and dank, and it began to be hard for Nick to breathe. Themen in the dungeons were singing a horrible song, and in the corner wasa 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 thestairs.
The common room above was packed with miserable wretches, fighting,dancing, gibbering like apes. Some were bawling ribald songs, othersmoaning with fever. The strongest kept the window-ledges near light andair by sheer main force, and were dicing on the dirty sill. The turnkeypushed and banged his way through them, Nick clinging desperately tohis jerkin.
In a cell at the end of the corridor there was a Spanish renegade whocursed the light when the door was opened, and cursed the darkness whenit closed. "Cesare el Moro, Cesare el Moro," he was saying over and overagain 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 torn hissleeves and tucked the lace under the rough edges of the metal to keepit from chafing the skin. He sat on a pile of dirty straw, with his facein his folded arms upon his knees. By his side was a broken biscuit andan empty stone jug. He had his fingers in his ears to shut out thetolling 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 covered with atwo days' beard. He had slept in his clothes, and they were full ofbroken straw and creases. But his haggard face lit up when he saw theboy, and he came to the grating with an eager exclamation: "And thouhast truly come? To the man thou dost hate so bitterly, but wilt nothate any more. Come, Nick, thou wilt not hate me any more. 'Twill notbe worth thy while, Nick; the night is coming fast."
"Why, sir," said Nick, "it is not so dark outside--'tis scarcely noon;and thou wilt soon be out."
"Out? Ay, on Tyburn Hill," said the master-player, quietly. "I've spentmy whole life for a bit of hempen cord. I've taken my last cue. Lastnight, at twelve o'clock, I heard the bellman under the prison wallscall my name with the names of those already condemned. The play isnearly out, Nick, and the people will be going home. It has been a wildplay, Nick, and ill played."
"Here, if ye've anything to say, be saying it," said the turnkey. "'Tisa shilling's worth, ye mind."
Carew lifted up his head in the old haughty way, and clapped hisshackled hand to his hip--they had taken his poniard when he came intothe gaol. A queer look came over his face; taking his hand away, hewiped it hurriedly upon his jerkin. There were dark stains uponthe silk.
"Ye sent for me, sir," said Nick.
Carew passed his hand across his brow. "Yes, yes, I sent for thee. Ihave something to tell thee, Nick." He hesitated, and looked through thebars at the boy, as if to read his thoughts. "Thou'lt be good and trueto Cicely--thou'lt deal fairly with my girl? Why, surely, yes." Hepaused again, as if irresolute. "I'll trust thee, Nick. We've takenmoney, thou and I; good gold and silver--tsst! what's that?" Hestopped suddenly.
Nick heard no sound but the Spaniard's cursing.
"'Tis 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 oldoak wainscot in the dining-hall, and the carven panel by the Spanishchest? Good, then! Upon the panel is a cherubin, and--tsst! what'sthat, I say?"
There was a stealthy rustling in the right-hand cell. The fellow in ithad his ear pressed close against the bars. "He is listening,"said Nick.
The fellow cursed and shook his fist, and then, when Master Carewdropped his voice and would have gone on whispering, set up so loud ahowling and clanking of his chains that the lad could not make out oneword the master-player said.
"Peace, thou dog!" cried Carew, and kicked the grating. But the fellowonly yelled the louder.
Carew looked sorely troubled. "I dare not let him hear," said he. "Thevery walls of Newgate leak."
"_Yak, yah, yah, thou gallows-bird!_"
"Yet I must tell thee, Nick."
"_Yah, yah, dangle-rope!_"
"Stay! would Will Shakspere come? Why, here, I'll send him word. He'llcome--Will Shakspere never bore a grudge; and I shall so soon go whereare no grudges, envy, storms, or noise, but silence and the soft lap ofeverlasting sleep. He'll come--Nick, bid him come, upon his life, tothe Old Bailey when I am taken up."
Nick nodded. It was strange t
o have his master beg.
Carew was looking up at a thin streak of light that came in through thenarrow window at the stair. "Nick," said he, huskily, "last night Idreamed I heard thee singing; but 'twas where there was a sweet, greenfield and a stream flowing through a little wood. Methought 'twas on theroad past Warwick toward Coventry. Thou'lt go there some day andremember Gaston Carew, wilt not, lad? And, Nick, for thine own mother'ssake, do not altogether hate him; he was not so bad a man as he mighteasily have been."
"Come," growled the turnkey, who was pacing up and down like a surlybear; "have done. 'Tis a fat shilling's worth."
"'Twas there I heard thee sing first, Nick," said Carew, holding to theboy's hands through the bars. "I'll never hear thee sing again."
"Why, sir, I'll sing for thee now," said Nick, choking.
The turnkey was coming back when Nick began suddenly to sing. He lookedup, staring. Such a thing dumfounded him. He had never heard a song likethat in Newgate. There were rules in prison. "Here, here," he cried, "bestill!" But Nick sang on.
The groaning, quarreling, and cursing were silent all at once. The guardoutside, who had been sharpening his pike upon the window-ledge, stoppedthe shrieking sound. Silence like a restful sleep fell upon the wearyplace. Through dark corridors and down the mildewed stairs the quaintold 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 allbeen gathered in that little song--all but the sound of the voice of hisdaughter Cicely.
It ceased, and yet a gentle murmur seemed to steal through the mouldywalls, of birds and flowers, sunlight and the open air, of once-lovedmothers, and of long-forgotten homes. The renegade had ceased hiscursing, and was whispering a fragment of a Spanish prayer he had notheard for many a day.
Carew muttered to himself. "And now old cares are locked in charmedsleep, and new griefs lose their bitterness, to hear thee sing--to hearthee sing. God bless thee, Nick!"
"'Tis three good shillings' worth o' time," the turnkey growled, andfumbled with the keys. "All for one shilling, too," said he, and kickedthe door-post sulkily. "But a plague, I say, a plague! 'Tis no one'sbusiness but mine. I've a good two shillings' worth in my ears. 'Tisthirty year since I ha' heard the like o' that. But what's a gaolfor?--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 endof the corridor, he marked at random upon the wall.
"Oh, Nick, I love thee," said the master-player, holding the boy's handswith a bitter grip. "Dost thou not love me just a little? Come, lad, saythat thou lovest me."
"'WHY, SIR, I'LL SING FOR THEE NOW.' SAID NICK,CHOKING."] "Nay, Master Carew," Nick answered soberly, "I do na lovethee, 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 wishthee out--for Cicely. But, Master Carew, do na break my hands."
The master-player loosed his grasp. "I will not seek to be excused tothee," he said huskily. "I've prisoned thee as that clod prisons me;but, Nick, the play is almost out, down comes the curtain on my heels,and thy just blame will find no mark. Yet, Nick, now that I am fast andthou art free, it makes my heart ache to feel that 'twas not I who setthee free. Thou canst go when pleaseth thee, and thank me nothing forit. And, Nick, as my sins be forgiven me, I truly meant to set thee freeand send thee home. I did, upon my word, and on the remnant ofmine honour!"
"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 menow, if thou wert never friendly before. Kiss me, lad. There--now thyhand." The master-player clasped it closely in his own, and pressingsomething into the palm, shut down the fingers over it. "Quick! Keep ithid," he whispered. "'Tis the chain I had from Stratford's burgesses, tosome good usage come at last."
"Must I come and fetch thee out?" growled the turnkey.
"I be coming, sir."
"Thou'lt send Will Shakspere? And, oh, Nick," cried Carew, holding himyet a little longer, "thou'lt keep my Cicely from harm?"
"I'll do my best," said Nick, his own eyes full.
The turnkey raised his heavy bunch of keys. "I'll ding thee out o' this"said he.
And the last Nick Attwood saw of Gaston Carew was his wistful eyeshunting down the stairway after him, and his hand, with its torn finelaces, 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 tapstersick with laughing.