MASTER HEYWOOD PROTESTS
It was a cold, raw day. All morning long the sun had shone through the
choking fog as the candle-flame through the dingy yellow horn of an old
stable-lantern. But at noon a wind sprang up that drove the mist through
London streets in streaks and strings mixed with smoke and the reek of
steaming roofs. Now and then the blue gleamed through in ragged patches
overhead; so that all the town turned out on pleasure bent, not minding
if it rained stewed turnips, so they saw the sky.
But the fog still sifted through the streets, and all was damp and
sticky to the touch, so Cicely was left behind to loneliness and
disappointment.
Nick and the master-player came down Ludgate Hill to Blackfriars landing
in a stream of merrymakers, high and low, rich and poor, faring forth to
London’s greatest thoroughfare, the Thames; and as the river and the
noble mansions along the Strand came into view, Nick’s heart beat fast.
It was a sight to stir the pulse.
Far down the stream, the grim old Tower loomed above the drifting mist;
and, higher up, old London Bridge, lined with tall houses, stretched
from shore to shore. There were towers on it with domes and gilded
vanes, and the river foamed and roared under it, strangled by the piers.
From the dock at St. Mary Averies by the Bridge to Barge-house stairs,
the landing-stages all along the river-bank were thronged with boats;
and to and fro across the stream, wherries, punts, barges, and
water-craft of every kind were plying busily. In middle stream
sail-boats tugged along with creaking sweeps, or brown-sailed
trading-vessels slipped away to sea, with costly freight for Muscovy,
Turkey, and the Levant. And amid the countless water-craft a multitude
of stately swans swept here and there like snow-flakes on the
dusky river.
Nick sniffed at the air, for it was full of strange odors—the smell of
breweries, of pitchy oakum, Norway tar, spices from hot countries,
resinous woods, and chilly whiffs from the water; and as they came out
along the wharf, there were brown-faced, hard-eyed sailors there, who
had been to the New World—wild fellows with silver rings in their ears
and a swaggering stagger in their petticoated legs. Some of them held
short, crooked brown tubes between their lips, and puffed great clouds
of pale brown smoke from their noses in a most amazing way.
Broad-beamed Dutchmen, too, were there, and swarthy Spanish renegades,
with sturdy craftsmen of the City guilds and stalwart yeomen of the
guard in the Queen’s rich livery.
But ere Nick had fairly begun to stare, confused by such a rout, Carew
had hailed a wherry, and they were half-way over to the Southwark side.
Landing amid a deafening din of watermen bawling hoarsely for a place
along the Paris Garden stairs, the master-player hurried up the lane
through the noisy crowd. Some were faring afoot into Surrey, and some to
green St. George’s Fields to buy fresh fruit and milk from the
farm-houses and to picnic on the grass. Some turned aside to the Falcon
Inn for a bit of cheese and ale, and others to the play-houses beyond
the trees and fishing-ponds. And coming down from the inn they met a
crowd of players, with Master Tom Heywood at their head, frolicking and
cantering along like so many overgrown school-boys.
“So we are to have thee with us awhile?” said Heywood, and put his arm
around Nick’s shoulders as they trooped along.
“Awhile, sir, yes,” replied Nick, nodding; “but I am going home soon,
Master Carew says.”
“Carew,” said Heywood, suddenly turning, “how can ye have the heart?”
“Come, Heywood,” quoth the master-player, curtly, though his whole face
colored up, “I have heard enough of this. Will ye please to mind your
own affairs?”
The writer of comedies lifted his brows, “Very well,” he answered
quietly; “but, lad, this much for thee,” said he, turning to Nick, “if
ever thou dost need a friend, Tom Heywood’s one will never speak
thee false.”
“Sir!” cried Carew, clapping his hand upon his poniard Heywood looked
up steadily. “How? Wilt thou quarrel with me, Carew? What ugly poison
hath been filtered through thy wits? Why, thou art even falser than I
thought! Quarrel with me, who took thy new-born child from her dying
mother’s arms when thou wert fast in Newgate gaol?”
Carew’s angry face turned sickly gray. He made as if to speak, but no
sound came. He shut his eyes and pushed out his hand in the air as if to
stop the voice of the writer of comedies.
“Come,” said Heywood, with deep feeling; “thou canst not quarrel with me
yet—nay, though thou dost try thy very worst. It would be a sorry story
for my soul or thine to tell to hers.”
Carew groaned. The rest of the players had passed on, and the three
stood there alone. “Don’t, Tom, don’t!” he cried.
“Then how can ye have the heart?” the other asked again.
The master-player lifted up his head, and his lips were trembling.
“’Tis not the heart, Tom,” he cried bitterly, “upon my word, and on
the remnant of mine honour! ’Tis the head which doeth this. For, Tom,
I cannot leave him go. Why, Tom, hast thou not heard him sing? A voice
which would call back the very dead that we have loved if they might
only hear. Why, Tom, ’tis worth a thousand pound! How can I leave him
go?”
“Oh, fie for shame upon the man I took thee for!” cried Heywood.
“But, Tom,” cried Carew, brokenly, “look it straightly in the face; I
am no such player as I was,—this reckless life hath done the trick for
me, Tom,—and here is ruin staring Henslowe and Alleyn in the eye. They
cannot keep me master if their luck doth not change soon; and Burbage
would not have me as a gift. So, Tom, what is there left to do? How can
I shift without the boy? Nay, Tom, it will not serve. There’s
Cicely—not one penny laid by for her against a rainy day; and I’ll be
gone, Tom, I’ll be gone—it is not morning all day long—we cannot last
forever. Nay, I cannot leave him go!”
“But, sir,” broke in Nick, wretchedly, holding fast to Hey wood’s arm,
“ye said that I should go!”
“Said!” cried the master-player, with a bitter smile; “why, Nick, I’d
say ten times more in one little minute just to hear thee sing than I
would stand to in a month of Easters afterward. Come, Nick, be fair.
I’ll feed thee full and dress thee well and treat thee true—all for
that song of thine.”
“But, sir, my mother—”
“Why, Carew, hath the boy a mother, too?” cried the writer of comedies.
“Now, Heywood, on thy soul, no more of this!” cried the master-player,
with quivering lips. “Ye will make me out no man, or else a fiend. I
cannot let the fellow go—I will not let him go.” His hands were
twitching, and his face was pale, but his lips were set determinedly.
“And, Tom, there’s that within me will not abide even _thy_ pestering.
So come, no more of it! Upon my soul, I sour over soon!”
So they came on gloomily past the bear-houses and the Queen’s kennels.
The river-wind was full of the wild smell of the bears; but what were
bears to poor Nick, whose last faint hope that the master-player meant
to keep his word and send him home again was gone?
They passed the Paris Garden and the tall round play-house that Francis
Langley had just built. A blood-red banner flaunted overhead, with a
large white swan painted thereon; but Nick saw neither the play-house
nor the swan; he saw only, deep in his heart, a little gable-roof among
old elms, with blue smoke curling softly up among the rippling leaves;
an open door with tall pink hollyhocks beside it; and in the door,
watching for him till he came again, his own mother’s face. He began to
cry silently.
“Nay, Nick, my lad, don’t cry,” said Heywood, gently; “’twill only make
bad matters worse. _Never_ is a weary while; but the longest lane will
turn at last: some day thou’lt find thine home again all in the
twinkling of an eye. Why, Nick, ’tis England still, and thou an
Englishman. Come, give the world as good as it can send.”
Nick raised his head again, and, throwing the hair back from his eyes,
walked stoutly along, though the tears still trickled down his cheeks.
“Sing thou my songs,” said Heywood, heartily, “and I will be thy
friend—let this be thine earnest.” As he spoke he slipped upon the
boy’s finger a gold ring with a green stone in it cut with a tall tree:
this was his seal.
They had now come through the garden to the Rose Theatre, where the Lord
Admiral’s company played; and Carew was himself again. “Come,
Nicholas,” said he, half jestingly, “be done with thy doleful
dumps—care killed a cat, they say, lad. Why, if thy hateful looks could
stab, I’d be a dead man forty times. Come, cheer up, lad, that I may
know thou lovest me.”
“But I do na love thee!” cried Nick, indignantly.
“Tut! Do not be so dour. Thou’lt soon be envied by ten thousand men.
Come, don’t make a face at thy good fortune as though it were a tripe
fried in tar. Come, lad, be pleased; thou’lt be the pet of every
high-born dame in London town.”
“I’d rather be my mother’s boy,” Nick answered simply.