A NEW LIFE
And now a strange, new life began for Nicholas Attwood, in some things
so grand and kind that he almost hated to dislike it.
It was different in every way from the simple, pinching round in
Stratford, and full of all the comforts of richness and plenty that make
life happy—excepting home and mother.
Master Gaston Carew would have nothing but the best, and what he wanted,
whether he needed it or not; so with him money came like a summer rain,
and went like water out of a sieve: for he was a wild blade.
They ate their breakfast when they pleased; dined at eleven, like the
nobility; supped at five, as was the fashion of the court. They had
wheat-bread the whole week round, as only rich folk could afford, with
fruit and berries in their season, and honey from the Surrey bee-farms
that made one’s mouth water with the sight of it dripping from the flaky
comb; and on Fridays spitchcocked eels, pickled herrings, and plums,
with simnel-cakes, poached eggs and milk, cream cheese and cordial,
like very kings; so that Nick could not help thriving.
The master-player very seldom left him by himself to mope or to be
melancholy; but, while ever vaguely promising to let him go, did
everything in his power to make him rather wish to stay; so that Nick
was constantly surprised by the free-handed kindness of this man whom he
had every other reason in the world, he thought, for deeming his
worst enemy.
When there were any new curiosities in Fleet street,—wild men with
rings in their noses, wondrous fishes, puppet-shows, or red-capped
baboons whirling on a pole,—Carew would have Nick see them as well as
Cicely; and often took them both to Bartholomew’s Fair, where there was
a giant eating raw beef and a man dancing upon a rope high over the
heads of the people. He would have had Nick every Thursday to the
bear-baiting in the Paris Garden circus beside; but one sight of that
brutal sport made the boy so sick that they never went again, but to the
stage-plays at the Rose instead, which Nick enjoyed immensely, for Carew
himself acted most excellently, and Master Tom Heywood always came and
spoke kindly to the lonely boy.
For, in spite of all, Nick’s heart ached so at times that he thought it
would surely break with longing for his mother. And at night, when all
the house was still and dark, and he alone in bed, all the little,
unconsidered things of home—the beehives and the fragrant mint beside
the kitchen door, the smell of the baking bread or frying carrots, the
sound of the red-cheeked harvest apples dropping in the orchard, and the
plump of the old bucket in the well—came back to him so vividly that
many a time he cried himself to sleep, and could not have forgotten
if he would.
On Midsummer Day there was a Triumph on the river at Westminster, with a
sham-fight and a great shooting of guns and hurling of balls of
wild-fire. The Queen was there, and the ambassadors of France and
Venice, with the Duke of Lennox and the Earls of Arundel and
Southampton. Master Carew took a wherry to Whitehall, and from the green
there they watched the show.
The Thames was fairly hidden by the boats, and there was a grand state
bark all trimmed with silk and velvet for the Queen to be in to see the
pastime. But as for that, all Nick could make out was the high carved
stern of the bark, painted with England’s golden lions, and the bark was
so far away that he could not even tell which was the Queen.
Coming home by Somerset House, a large barge passed them with many
watermen rowing, and fine carpets about the seats; and in it the old
Lord Chamberlain and his son my Lord Hunsdon, who, it was said, was to
be the Lord Chamberlain when his father died; for the old lord was
failing, and the Queen liked handsome young men about her.
In the barge, beside their followers, were a company of richly dressed
gentlemen, who were having a very gay time together, and seemed to
please the old Lord Chamberlain exceedingly with the things they said.
They were somebodies, as Nick could very well see from their carriage
and address; and, so far as the barge allowed, they were all clustered
about one fellow in the seat by my Lord Hunsdon. He seemed to be the
chiefest spokesman of them all, and every one appeared very glad indeed
to be friendly with him. My Lord Hunsdon himself made free with his own
nobility, and sat beside him arm in arm.
What he was saying they were too far away to hear in the shouting and
splash; but those with him in the barge were listening as eagerly as
children to a merry tale. Sometimes they laughed until they held their
sides; and then again as suddenly they were very quiet, and played
softly with their tankards and did not look at one another as he went
gravely on telling his story. Then all at once he would wave his hand
gaily, and his smile would sparkle out; and the whole company, from the
old Lord Chamberlain down, would brighten up again, as if a new dawn had
come over the hills into their hearts from the light of his hazel eyes.
Nick made no doubt that this was some young earl rolling in wealth; for
who else could have such listeners? Yet there was, nevertheless,
something so familiar in his look that he could not help staring at him
as the barge came thumping through the jam.
They passed along an oar’s-length or two away; and as they came abeam,
Carew, rising, doffed his hat, and bowed politely to them all.
In spite of his wild life, he was a striking, handsome man.
The old Lord Chamberlain said something to his son, and pointed with his
hand. All the company in the barge turned round to look; and he who had
been talking stood up quickly with his hand upon the young lord’s arm,
and, smiling, waved his cap.
Nick gave a sharp cry.
Then the barge pushed through, and shot away down stream like a wild
swan.
“Why, Nick,” exclaimed Cicely, “how dreadful thou dost look!” and,
frightened, she caught him by the hand. “Why, oh!—what is it,
Nick—thou art not ill?”
“It was Will Shakspere!” cried Nick, and sank into the bottom of the
wherry with his head upon the master-player’s knee. “Oh, Master Carew,”
he cried, “will ye never leave me go?”
Carew laid his hand upon the boy’s head, and patted it gently.
“Why, Nick,” said he, and cleared his throat, “is not this better than
Stratford?”
“Oh, Master Carew—mother’s there!” was the reply.
There was no sound but the thud of oars in the rowlocks and the hollow
bubble of the water at the stern, for they had fallen out of the hurry
and were coming down alone.
“Is thy mother a good woman, Nick?” asked Cicely.
Carew was staring out into the fading sky. “Ay, sweetheart,” he answered
in a queer, husky voice, suddenly putting one arm about her and the
other around Nick’s shoulders. “None but a good mother could have so
good a son.”
“Then thou wilt send him home, daddy?” asked Cicely.
Carew took her hand in his, but answered nothing.
They had come to the landing.