CHAPTER XXXIX
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL
The table had been cleared of trenchers and napkins, the crumbs brushedaway, and a clean platter set before each guest with pared cheese, freshcherries, biscuit, caraways, and wine.
There were about the long table, beside Master Shakspere himself, whosat at the head of the board, Masters Richard and Cuthbert Burbage,Henry Condell, and Peter Hemynge, Master Shakspere's partners; MasterBen Jonson, his dearest friend; Thomas Pope, who played his finestparts; John Lowin, Samuel Gilburne, Robert Nash, and William Kemp,players of the Lord Chamberlain's company; Edmund Shakspere, the actor,who was Master William Shakspere's younger brother, and Master JohnShakspere, his father; Michael Drayton, the Midland bard; BurgessRobert Getley, Alderman Henry Walker, and William Hart, the Stratfordhatter, brother-in-law to Master Shakspere.
On one side of the table, between Master Jonson and Master RichardBurbage, Cicely was seated upon a high chair, with a wreath of earlycrimson roses in her hair, attired in the gown in which Nick saw herfirst a year before. On the other side of the table Nick had a placebetween Master Drayton and Robert Getley, father of his friend Robin.Half-way down there was an empty chair. Master John Combe was absent.
It was no common party. In all England better company could not havebeen found. Some few of them the whole round world could not havematched then, and could not match now.
It would be worth a fortune to know the things they said,--the quips,the jests, the merry tales that went around that board,--but time hasleft too little of what such men said and did, and it can be imaginedonly by the brightest wits.
'Twas Master Shakspere on his feet, welcoming his friends to his "NewPlace" with quiet words that made them glad to live and to be there,when suddenly he stopped, his hands upon the table by his chair,and stared.
The tanner stood there, silent, in the door.
Nick's face turned pale. Cicely clung to Master Jonson's arm.
Simon Attwood stepped into the room, and Master Shakspere went quicklyto meet him in the middle of the floor.
"Master Will Shakspere," said the tanner, hoarsely, "I ha' come about amatter." There he stopped, not knowing what to say, for he wasoverwrought.
"Out with it, sir," said Master Shakspere, sternly. "There is much hereto be said."
The tanner wrung his hat within his hands, and looked about the ring ofcold, averted faces. Soft words with him were few; he had forgottentender things; and, indeed, what he meant to do was no easy thingfor any man.
"Come, say what thou hast to say," said Master Shakspere, resolutely;"and say it quickly, that we may have done."
"There's nought that I can say," said Simon Attwood, "but that I besorry, and I want my son! Nick! Nick!" he faltered brokenly, "I be wrungfor thee; will ye na come home--just for thy mother's sake, Nick, if yewill na come for mine?"
Nick started from his seat with a glad cry--then stopped. "But Cicely?"he said.
The tanner wrung his hat within his hands, and his face was dark withtrouble. Master Shakspere looked at Master Jonson.
Nick stood hesitating between Cicely and his father, faithful to hispromise, though his heart was sick for home.
An odd light had been struggling dimly in Simon Attwood's troubled eyes.Then all at once it shone out bright and clear, and he clapped his bonyhand upon the stout oak chair. "Bring her along," he said. "I ha' littleenough, but I will do the best I can. Maybe 'twill somehow right thewrong I ha' done," he added huskily. "And, neighbors, I'll go surety tothe Council that she shall na fall a pauper or a burden to the town. Mytrade is ill enough, but, sirs, it will stand for forty pound the yearat a fair cast-up. Bring the lass wi' thee, Nick--we'll make out, lad,we'll make out. God will na let it all go wrong."
Master Jonson and Master Shakspere had been nodding and talking togetherin a low tone, smiling like men very well pleased about something, anddirectly Master Shakspere left the room.
"Wilt thou come, lad?" asked the tanner, holding out his hands.
"Oh, father!" cried Nick; then he choked so that he could say no more,and his eyes were so full of mist that he could scarcely find his fatherwhere he stood.
But there was no need of more; Simon Attwood was answered.
Voices buzzed about the room. The servants whispered in the hall. Nickheld his father's gnarled hand in his own, and looked curiously up intohis face, as if for the first time knowing what it was to have a father.
"Well, lad, what be it?" asked the tanner, huskily, laying his hand onhis son's curly head, which was nearly up to his shoulder now.
"Nothing," said Nick, with a happy smile, "only mother will be glad tohave Cicely--won't she?"
Master Shakspere came into the room with something in his hand, andwalking to the table, laid it down.
It was a heavy buckskin bag, tied tightly with a silken cord, and sealedwith red wax stamped with the seals of Master Shakspere andMaster Jonson.
Every one was watching him intently, and one or two of the gentlemenfrom London were smiling in a very knowing way.
He broke the seals, and loosening the thong which closed the bag, tookout two other bags, one of which was just double its companion's size.They also were tied with silken cord and sealed with the two seals onred wax. There was something printed roughly with a quill pen upon eachbag, but Master Shakspere kept that side turned toward himself so thatthe others could not see.
"Come, come, Will," broke in Master Jonson, "don't be all day about it!"
"The more haste the worse speed, Ben," said Master Shakspere, quietly."I have a little story to tell ye all."
So they all listened.
"When Gaston Carew, lately master-player of the Lord High Admiral'scompany, was arraigned before my Lord Justice for the killing of thatrascal, Fulk Sandells, there was not a man of his own company had thegrace to lend him even so much as sympathy. But there were still some inLondon who would not leave him totally friendless in such straits."
"Some?" interrupted Master Jonson, bluntly; "then o-n-e spells 'some.'The names of them all were Will Shakspere."
"Tut, tut, Ben!" said Master Shakspere, and went on: "But when thecharge was read, and those against him showed their hand, it was easy tosee that the game was up. No one saw this any sooner than Carew himself;yet he carried himself like a man, and confessed the indictment withouta quiver. They brought him the book, to read a verse and save his neck,perhaps, by pleading benefit of clergy. But he knew the temper of thoseagainst him, and that nothing might avail; so he refused the pleaquietly, saying, 'I am no clerk, sirs. All I wish to read in this caseis what my own hand wrote upon that scoundrel Sandells.' It was soonover. When the judge pronounced his doom, all Carew asked was for afriend to speak with a little while aside. This the court allowed; so hesent for me--we played together with Henslowe, he and I, ye know. He hadnot much to say--for once in his life,"--here Master Shakspere smiledpityingly,--"but he sent his love forever to his only daughter Cicely."
Cicely was sitting up, listening with wide eyes, and eagerly nodded herhead as if to say, "Of course."
"He also begged of Nicholas Attwood that he would forgive him whateverwrong he had done him."
"Why, that I will, sir," choked Nick, brokenly; "he was wondrous kind tome, except that he would na leave me go."
"After that," continued Master Shakspere, "he made known to me a slidingpanel in the wainscot of his house, wherein was hidden all he had onearth to leave to those he loved the best, and who, he hoped,loved him."
"Everybody loves my father," said Cicely, smiling and nodding again.Master Jonson put his arm around the back of her chair, and she leanedher head upon it.
"Carew said that he had marked upon the bags which were within the panelthe names of the persons to whom they were to go, and had me swear,upon my faith as a Christian man, that I would see them safely deliveredaccording to his wish. This being done, and the end come, he kissed meon both cheeks, and standing bravely up, spoke to them all, saying thatfor a man such as
he had been it was easier to end even so than to goon. I never saw him again."
The great writer of plays paused a moment, and his lips moved as if hewere saying a prayer. Master Burbage crossed himself.
"The bags were found within the wall, as he had said, and were sealed byBen Jonson and myself until we should find the legatees--for they haddisappeared as utterly as if the earth had gaped and swallowed them.But, by the Father's grace, we have found them safe and sound at last;and all's well that ends well!"
Here he turned the buckskin bags around.
On one, in Master Carew's school-boy scrawl, was printed, "For myneOnelie Beeloved Doghter, Cicely Carew"; on the other, "For NicholasAttewode, alias Mastre Skie-lark, whom I, Gaston Carew, Player, StoleAway from Stratford Toune, Anno Domini 1596."
Nick stared; Cicely clapped her hands; and Simon Attwood sat downdizzily.
"There," said Master Shakspere, pointing to the second bag, "are onehundred and fifty gold rose-nobles. In the other just three hundredmore. Neighbor Attwood, we shall have no paupers here."
Everybody laughed then and clapped their hands, and the London playersgave a rousing cheer. Master Ben Jonson's shout might have been heard inMarket Square.
At this tremendous uproar the servants peeped at the doors and windows;and Tom Boteler, peering in from the buttery hall, and seeing the tworound money-bags plumping on the table, crept away with such a look ofamazement upon his face that Mollikins, the scullery-maid, thought hehad seen a ghost, and fled precipitately into the pantry.
"And what's more, Neighbor Tanner," said Master Richard Burbage, "hadCarew's daughter not sixpence to her name, we vagabond players, as yehave had the scanty grace to dub us, would have cared for her for thehonour of the craft, and reared her gently in some quiet place wherethere never falls even the shadow of such evil things as have been theend of many a right good fellow beside old Kit Marlowe andGaston Carew."
"And to that end, Neighbor Attwood," Master Shakspere added, "we have,through my young Lord Hunsdon, who has just been made State Chamberlain,Her Majesty's gracious permission to hold this money in trust for thelittle maid as guardians under the law."
Cicely stared around perplexed. "Won't Nick be there?" she asked. "Why,then I will not go--they shall not take thee from me, Nick!" and shethrew her arms around him. "I'm going to stay with thee till daddycomes, and be thine own sister forever."
Master Jonson laughed gently, not his usual roaring laugh, but one thatwas as tender as his own bluff heart. "Why, good enough, good enough!The woman who mothered a lad like Master Skylark here is surely fit torear the little maid."
The London players thumped the table. "Why, 'tis the very trick," saidHemynge. "Marry, this is better than a play."
"It is indeed," quoth Condell. "See the plot come out!"
"Thou'lt do it, Attwood--why, of course thou'lt do it," said MasterShakspere. "'Tis an excellent good plan. These funds we hold in trustwill keep thee easy-minded, and warrant thee in doing well by both ourlittle folks. And what's more," he cried, for the thought had just comein his head, "I have ever heard thee called an honest man; hard, indeed,perhaps too hard, but honest as the day is long. Now I need a tenant forthis New Place of mine--some married man with a good housewife, andchildren to be delving in the posy-beds outside. What sayst thou, SimonAttwood? They tell me thy 'prentice, Job Hortop, is to marry inJuly--he'll take thine old house at a fair rental. Why, here, NeighborAttwood, thou toil-worn, time-damaged tanner, bless thy hard old heart,man, come, be at ease--thou hast ground thy soul out long enough! Come,take me at mine offer--be my fellow. The rent shall trickle off thyfinger-tips as easily as water off a duck's back!"
Simon Attwood arose from the chair where he had been sitting. There wasa bewildered look upon his face, and he was twisting his horny fingerstogether until the knuckles were white. His lips parted as if to speak,but he only swallowed very hard once or twice instead, and looked aroundat them all. "Why, sir," he said at length, looking at Master Shakspere,"why, sirs, all of ye--I ha' been a hard man, and summat of a fool,sirs, ay, sirs, a very fool. I ha' misthought and miscalled ye foullymany a time, and many a time. God knows I be sorry for it from thebottom of my heart!" And with that he sat down and buried his face inhis arms among the dishes on the buffet.
"Nay, Simon Attwood," said Master Shakspere, going to his side andputting his hand upon the tanner's shoulder, "thou hast only beenmistaken, that is all. Come, sit thee up. To see thyself mistaken is butto be the wiser. Why, never the wisest man but saw himself a fool athousand times. Come, I have mistaken thee more than thou hast me; for,on my word, I thought thou hadst no heart at all--and that is far worsethan having one which has but gone astray. Come, Neighbor Attwood, sitthee up and eat with us."
"Nay, I'll go home," said the tanner, turning his face away that theymight not see his tears. "I be a spoil-sport and a mar-feast here."
"Why, by Jupiter, man!" cried Master Jonson, bringing his fist down uponthe board with a thump that made the spoons all clink, "thou art thevery merry-maker of the feast. A full heart's better than a surfeit anyday. Don't let him go, Will--this sort of thing doth make the wholeworld kin! Come, Master Attwood, sit thee down, and make thyself athome. 'Tis not my house, but 'tis my friend's, and so 'tis all thesame in the Lowlands. Be free of us and welcome."
"I thank ye, sirs," said the tanner, slowly, turning to the table withrough dignity. "Ye ha' been good to my boy. I'll ne'er forget ye while Ilive. Oh, sirs, there be kind hearts in the world that I had na dreamedof. But, masters, I ha' said my say, and know na more. Your pleasurewunnot be my pleasure, sirs, for I be only a common man. I will go hometo my wife. There be things to say before my boy comes home; and I ha'muckle need to tell her that I love her--I ha' na done so thesemany years."
"Why, Neighbor Tanner," cried Master Jonson, with flushing cheeks, "thouart a right good fellow! And here was I, no later than this morning,red-hot to spit thee upon my bilbo like a Michaelmas goose!" He laugheda boyish laugh that did one's heart good to hear.
"Ay," said Master Shakspere, smiling, as he and Simon Attwood lookedinto each other's eyes. "Come, neighbor, I know thou art my man--so donot go until thou drinkest one good toast with us, for we are all goodfriends and true from this day forth. Come, Ben, a toast to fitthe cue."
"Why, then," replied Master Jonson, in a good round voice, rising in hisplace, "_here's to all kind hearts!_"
"Wherever they may be!" said Master Shakspere, softly. "It is a goodtoast, and we will all drink it together."
And so they did. And Simon Attwood went away with a warmth and atingling in his heart he had never known before.
"Margaret," said he, coming quickly in at the door, as she went silentlyabout the house with a heavy heart preparing the supper, "Margaret."
She dropped the platter upon the board, and came to him hurriedly,fearing evil tidings.
He took her by the hands. This, even more than his unusual manner,alarmed her. "Why, Simon," she cried, "what is it? What has comeover thee?"
"Nought," he replied, looking down at her, his hard face quivering; "butI love thee, Margaret."
"Simon, what dost thou mean?" faltered Mistress Attwood, her heart goingdown like lead.
"Nought, sweetheart--but that I love thee, Margaret, and that our lad iscoming home!"
Her heart seemed to stop beating.
"Margaret," said he, huskily, "I do love thee, lass. Is it too late totell thee so?"
"Nay, Simon," answered his wife, simply, "'tis never too late to mend."And with that she laughed--but in the middle of her laughing a tear randown her cheek.
FROM the windows of the New Place there came a great sound of mensinging together, and this was the quaint old song they sang:
"Then here's a health to all kind hearts Wherever they may be; For kindly hearts make but one kin Of all humanity.
"And here's a rouse to all kind hearts Wherever they be found; For it is the throb of kindred hearts
Doth make the world go round!"
"Why, Will," said Master Burbage, slowly setting down his glass, "'tisaltogether a midsummer night's dream."
"So it is, Dick," answered Master Shakspere, with a smile, and afar-away look in his eyes. "Come, Nicholas, wilt thou not sing for usjust the last few little lines of 'When Thou Wakest,' out of the play?"
Then Nick stood up quietly, for they all were his good friends there,and Master Drayton held his hand while he sang:
"Every man shall take his own, In your waking shall be shown: Jack shall have Jill, Nought shall go ill, The man shall have his mare again, and all shall be well!"
They were very still for a little while after he had done, and thesetting sun shone in at the windows across the table. Then MasterShakspere said gently, "It is a good place to end."
"Ay," said Master Jonson, "it is."
So they all got up softly and went out into the garden, where there wereseats under the trees among the rose-bushes, and talked quietly amongthemselves, saying not much, yet meaning a great deal.
But Nick and Cicely said "Good-night, sirs," to them all, and bowed; andMaster Shakspere himself let them out at the gate, the others shakingNick by the hand with many kind wishes, and throwing kisses to Cicelyuntil they went out of sight around the chapel corner.
When the children came to the garden-gate in front of Nick's father'shouse, the red roses still twined in Cicely's hair, Simon Attwood andhis wife Margaret were sitting together upon the old oaken settle by thedoor, looking out into the sunset. And when they saw the childrencoming, they arose and came through the garden to meet them, Nick'smother with outstretched hands, and her face bright with the glory ofthe setting sun. And when she came to where he was, the whole of thatlong, bitter year was nothing any more to Nick.
For then--ah, then--a lad and his mother; a son come home, the wanderingended, and the sorrow done!
She took him to her breast as though he were a baby still; her tears randown upon his face, yet she was smiling--a smile like which there is noother in all the world: a mother's smile upon her only son, who wasastray, but has come home again.
Oh, the love of a lad for his mother, the love of a mother for herson--unchanged, unchanging, for right, for wrong, through grief andshame, in joy, in peace, in absence, in sickness, and in the shadow ofdeath! Oh, mother-love, beyond all understanding, so holy that words butmake it common!
"My boy!" was all she said; and then, "My boy--my little boy!"
And after a while, "Mother," said he, and took her face between hisstrong young hands, and looked into her happy eyes, "mother dear, I ha?been to London town; I ha' been to the palace, and I ha' seen the Queen;but, mother," he said, with a little tremble in his voice, for all hesmiled so bravely, "I ha' never seen the place where I would rather bethan just where thou art, mother dear!"
The soft gray twilight gathered in the little garden; far-off voicesdrifted faintly from the town. The day was done. Cool and still, andfilled with gentle peace, the starlit night came down from the dewyhills; and Cicely lay fast asleep in Simon Attwood's arms.
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