MA’M’SELLE CICELY CAREW
How long he lay there in a stupor of despair Nick Attwood never knew. It
might have been days or weeks, for all that he took heed; for he was
thinking of his mother, and there was no room for more.
The night passed by. Then the day came, by the lines of light that crept
across the floor. The door was opened at his back, and a trencher of
bread and meat thrust in. He did not touch it, and the rats came out of
the wall and pulled the meat about, and gnawed holes in the bread, and
squeaked, and ran along the wainscot; but he did not care.
The afternoon dragged slowly by, and the creeping light went up the wall
until the roofs across the street shut out the sunset. Sometimes Nick
waked and sometimes he slept, he scarce knew which nor cared; nor did he
hear the bolts grate cautiously, or see the yellow candle-light steal in
across the gloom.
“Boy!” said a soft little voice.
He started up and looked around.
For an instant he thought that he was dreaming, and was glad to think
that he would waken by and by from what had been so sad a dream, and
find himself safe in his own little bed in Stratford town. For the
little maid who stood in the doorway was such a one as his eyes had
never looked upon before.
She was slight and graceful as a lily of the field, and her skin was
white as the purest wax, save where a damask rose-leaf red glowed
through her cheeks. Her black hair curled about her slender neck. Her
gown was crimson, slashed with gold, cut square across the breast and
simply made, with sleeves just elbow-long, wide-mouthed, and lined with
creamy silk. Her slippers, too, were of crimson silk, high-heeled,
jaunty bits of things; her silken stockings black. In one hand she held
a tall brass candlestick, and through the fingers of the other the
candle-flame made a ruddy glow like the sun in the heart of a hollyhock.
And in the shadow of her hand her eyes looked out, as Nick said long
afterward, like stars in a summer night.
Thinking it was all a dream, he sat and stared at her.
“Boy!” she said again, quite gently, but with a quaint little air of
reproof, “where are thy manners?”
Nick got up quickly and bowed as best he knew how. If not a dream, this
was certainly a princess—and perchance—his heart leaped up—perchance
she came to set him free! He wondered who had told her of him? Diccon
Field, perhaps, whose father had been Simon Attwood’s partner till he
died, last Michaelmas. Diccon was in London now, printing books, he had
heard. Or maybe it was John, Hal Saddler’s older brother. No, it could
not be John, for John was with a carrier; and Nick had doubts if
carriers were much acquainted at court.
Wondering, he stared, and bowed again.
“Why, boy,” said she, with a quaint air of surprise, “thou art a very
pretty fellow! Why, indeed, thou lookest like a good boy! Why wilt thou
be so bad and break my father’s heart?”
“Break thy father’s heart?” stammered Nick. “Pr’ythee, who is thy
father, Mistress Princess?”
“Nay,” said the little maid, simply; “I am no princess. I am Cicely
Carew.”
“Cicely Carew?” cried Nick, clenching his fists. “Art thou the daughter
of that wicked man, Gaston Carew?”
“My father is not wicked!” said she, passionately, drawing back from the
threshold with her hand trembling upon the latch. “Thou shalt not say
that—I will not speak with thee at all!”
“I do na care! If Master Gaston Carew is thy father, he is the wickedest
man in the world!”
“Why, fie, for shame!” she cried, and stamped her little foot. “How
darest thou say such a thing?”
“He hath stolen me from home,” exclaimed Nick, indignantly; “and I shall
never see my mother any more!” With that he choked, and hid his face in
his arm against the wall.
The little maid looked at him with an air of troubled surprise, and,
coming into the room, touched him on the arm. “There,” she said
soothingly, “don’t cry!” and stroked him gently as one would a little
dog that was hurt. “My father will send thee home to thy mother, I know;
for he is very kind and good. Some one hath lied to thee about him.”
Nick wiped his swollen eyes dubiously upon his sleeve; yet the little
maid seemed positive. Perhaps, after all, there was a mistake somewhere.
“Art hungry, boy?” she asked suddenly, spying the empty trencher on the
floor. “There is a pasty and a cake in the buttery, and thou shalt have
some of it if thou wilt not cry any more. Come, I cannot bear to see
thee cry—it makes me weep myself; and that will blear mine eyes, and
father will feel bad.”
“If he but felt as bad as he hath made me feel—” began Nick,
wrathfully; but she laid her little hand across his mouth. It was a very
white, soft, sweet little hand.
“Come,” said she; “thou art hungry, and it hath made thee cross!” and,
with no more ado, took him by the hand and led him down the corridor
into a large room where the last daylight shone with a smoky glow.
The walls were wainscoted with many panels, dark, old, and mysterious;
and in a burnished copper brazier at the end of the room cinnamon,
rosemary, and bay were burning with a pleasant smell. Along the walls
were joined-work chests for linen and napery, of brass-bound oak—one a
black, old, tragic sea-chest, carved with grim faces and weird griffins,
that had been cast up by the North Sea from the wreck of a Spanish
galleon of war. The floor was waxed in the French fashion, and was so
smooth that Nick could scarcely keep his feet. The windows were high up
in the wall, with their heads among the black roof-beams, which with
their grotesquely carven brackets were half lost in the dusk. Through
the windows Nick could see nothing but a world of chimney-pots.
“Is London town all smoke-pipes?” he asked confusedly.
“Nay,” replied the little maid; “there are people.”
Pushing a chair up to the table, she bade him sit down. Then pulling a
tall, curiously-made stool to the other side of the board, she perched
herself upon it like a fairy upon a blade of grass. “Greg!” she called
imperiously, “Greg! What, how! Gregory Goole, I say!”
“Yes, ma’m’selle,” replied a hoarse voice without; and through a door at
the further end of the room came the bandy-legged man with the bow of
crimson ribbon in his ear.
Nick turned a little pale; and when the fellow saw him sitting there, he
came up hastily, with a look like a crock of sour milk. “Tut, tut!
ma’m’selle,” said he; “Master Carew will not like this.”
She turned upon him with an air of dainty scorn. “Since when hath father
left his wits to thee, Gregory Goole? I know his likes as well as
thou—and it likes him not to let this poor boy starve, I’ll warrant.
Go, fetch the pasty and the cake that are in the buttery, with a glass
of cordial,—the Certosa cordial,—and that in the shaking of a black
sheep’s tail, or I will tell my father what thou wottest of.” And she
looked the very picture of diminutive severity.
“Very good, ma’m’selle; just as ye say,” said Gregory, fawning, with
very poor grace, however. “But, knave,” he snarled, as he turned away,
with a black scowl at Nick, “if thou dost venture on any of thy scurvy
pranks while I be gone, I’ll break thy pate.”
Cicely Carew knitted her brows. “That is a saucy rogue,” said she; “but
he hath served my father well. And, what is much in London town, he is
an honest man withal, though I have caught him at the Spanish wine
behind my father’s back; so he doth butter his tongue with smooth words
when he hath speech with me, for I am the lady of the house.” She held
up her head with a very pretty pride. “My mother—”
Nick caught his breath, and his eyes filled.
“Nay, boy,” said she, gently; “’tis I should weep, not thou; for _my_
mother is dead. I do not think I ever saw her that I know,” she went on
musingly; “but she was a Frenchwoman who served a murdered queen, and
she was the loveliest woman that ever lived.” Cicely clasped her hands
and moved her lips. Nick saw that she was praying, and bent his head.
“Thou art a good boy,” she said softly; “my father will like that”; and
then went quietly on: “That is why Gregory Goole doth call me
‘ma’m’selle’—because my mother was a Frenchwoman. But I am a right
English girl for all that; and when they shout, ‘God save the Queen!’ at
the play, why, I do too! And, oh, boy,” she cried, “it is a brave thing
to hear!” and she clapped her hands with sparkling eyes. “It drove the
Spaniards off the sea, my father ofttimes saith.”
“Poh!” said Nick, stoutly, for he saw the pasty coming in, “they can na
beat us Englishmen!” and with that fell upon the pasty as if it were the
Spanish Armada in one lump and he Sir Francis Drake set on to do the
job alone.
As he ate his spirits rose again, and he almost forgot that he was
stolen from his home, and grew eager to be seeing the wonders of the
great town whose ceaseless roar came over the housetops like a distant
storm. He was still somewhat in awe of this beautiful, flower-like
little maid, and listened in shy silence to the wonderful tales she
told: how that she had seen the Queen, who had red hair, and pearls like
gooseberries on her cloak; and how the court went down to Greenwich. But
the bandy-legged man kept popping his head in at the door, and, after
all, Nick was but in a prison-house; so he grew quite dismal after
a while.
“Dost truly think thy father will leave me go?” he asked.
“Of course he will,” said she. “I cannot see why thou dost hate him so?”
“Why, truly,” hesitated Nick, “perhaps it is not thy father that I hate,
but only that he will na leave me go. And if he would but leave me go,
perhaps I’d love him very much indeed.”
“Good, Nick! thou art a trump!” cried Master Carew’s voice suddenly from
the further end of the hall, where in spite of all the candles it was
dark; and, coming forward, the master-player held out his hands in a
most genial way. “Come, lad, thy hand—’tis spoken like a gentleman.
Nay, I will kiss thee—for I love thee, Nick, upon my word, and on the
remnant of mine honour!” Taking the boy’s half-unwilling hands in his
own, he stooped and kissed him upon the forehead.
“Father,” said Cicely, gravely, “hast thou forgotten me?”
“Nay, sweetheart, nay,” cried Carew, with a wonderful laugh that somehow
warmed the cockles of Nick’s forlorn heart; and turning quickly, the
master-player caught up the little maid and kissed her again and again,
so tenderly that Nick was amazed to see how one so cruel could be so
kind, and how so good a little maid could love so bad a man; for she
twined her arms about his neck, and then lay back with her head upon his
shoulder, purring like a kitten in his arms.
“Father,” said she, patting his cheek, “some one hath told him naughty
things of thee. Come, daddy, say they are not so!”
The master-player’s face turned red as flame. He coughed and looked up
among the roof-beams. “Why, of course they’re not,” said he, uneasily.
“There, boy!” cried she; “I told thee so. Why, daddy, think!—they said
that thou hadst stolen him away from his own mother, and wouldst not
leave him go!”
“Hollo!” ejaculated the master-player, abruptly, with a quiver in his
voice; “what a hole thou hast made in the pasty, Nick!”
“Ah, daddy,” persisted Cicely, “and what a hole it would make in his
mother’s heart if he had been stolen away!”
“Wouldst like another draught of cordial, Nick?” cried Carew, hurriedly,
reaching out for the tall flagon with a trembling hand. “’Tis good to
cheer the troubled heart, lad. Not that thou hast any reason in the
world to let thy heart be troubled,” he added hastily. “No, indeed, upon
my word; for thou art on the doorstep of a golden-lined success. See,
Nick, how the light shines through!” and he tilted up the flagon. “It is
one of old Jake Vessaline’s Murano-Venetian glasses; a beautiful thing,
now, is it not? ’Tis good as any made abroad!” but his hand was shaking
so that half the cordial missed the cup and ran into a little shimmering
pool upon the table-top.
“And thou’lt send him home again, daddy, wilt thou not?”
“Yes, yes, of course—why, to be sure—we’ll send him anywhere that thou
dost say, Golden-heart: to Persia or Cathay—ay, to the far side of the
green-cheese moon, or to the court of Tamburlaine the Great,” and he
laughed a quick, dry, nervous laugh that had no laughter in it. “I had
one of De Lannoy’s red Bohemian bottles, Nick,” he rattled on
feverishly; “but that butter-fingered rogue”—he nodded his head at the
outer stair—“dropped it, smash! and made a thousand most counterfeit
fourpences out of what cost me two pound sterling.”
“But will ye truly leave me go, sir?” faltered Nick.
“Why, of course—to be sure—yes, certainly—yes, yes. But, Nick, it is
too late this night. Why, come, thou couldst not go to-night. See, ’tis
dark, and thou a stranger in the town. ’Tis far to Stratford town—thou
couldst not walk it, lad; there will be carriers anon. Come, stay awhile
with Cicely and me—we will make thee a right welcome guest!”
“That we will,” cried Cicely, clapping her hands. “Oh, do stay; I am so
lonely here! The maid is silly, Margot old, and the rats run in
the wall.”
“And thou must to the theater, my lad, and sing for London town—ay,
Nicholas,” and Carew’s voice rang proudly. “The highest heads in London
town must hear that voice of thine, or I shall die unshrift. What!
lad?—come all the way from Coventry, and never show that face of thine,
nor let them hear thy skylark’s song? Why, ’twere a shame! And, Nick, my
lord the Admiral shall hear thee sing when he comes home again;
perchance the Queen herself. Why, Nick, of course thou’lt sing. Thou
hast not heart to say thou wilt not sing—even for me whom thou hatest.”
Nick smiled in spite of himself, for Cicely was leaning on the arm of
his chair, devouring him with her great dark eyes: “Dost truly, truly
sing?” she asked.
Nick laughed and blushed, and Carew laughed. “What, doth he sing? Why,
Nick, come, tune that skylark note of thine for little Golden-heart and
me. ’Twill make her think she hears the birds in verity—and, Nick, the
lass hath never seen a bird that sang, except within a cage. Nay, lad,
this is no cage!” he cried, as Nick looked about and sighed. “We will
make it very home for thee—will Cicely and I.”
“That we will!” cried Cicely. “Come, boy, sing for me—my mother used to
sing.”
At that Gaston Carew went white as a sheet, and put his hand quickly up
to his face. Cicely darted to his side with a frightened cry, and caught
his hand away. He tried to smile, but it was a ghastly attempt. “Tush,
tush! little one; ’twas something stung me!” said he, huskily, “Sing,
Nicholas, I beg of thee!”
There was such a sudden world of weariness and sorrow in his voice that
Nick felt a pity for he knew not what, and lifting up his clear young
voice, he sang the quaint old madrigal.
Carew sat with his face in his hand, and after it was done arose
unsteadily and said, “Come, Golden-heart; ’tis music such as charmeth
care and lureth sleep out of her dark valley—we must be trotting off
to bed.”
That night Nick slept upon a better bed, with a sheet and a blue serge
coverlet, and a pillow stuffed with chaff.
But as he drifted off into a troubled dreamland, he heard the door-bolt
throb into its socket, and knew that he was fastened in.