BACK TO GASTON CAREW
So they marched back out of the palace gates, down to the landing-place,
the last red sunlight gleaming on the basinets of the tall halberdiers
who marched on either side.
Nick looked out toward London, where the river lay like a serpent,
bristling with masts; and beyond the river and the town to the forests
of Epping and Hainault; and beyond the forests to the hills, where the
waning day still lingered in a mist of frosty blue. At their back,
midway of the Queen’s park, stood up the old square tower Mirefleur, and
on its top one yellow light like the flame of a gigantic candle. The day
seemed builded of memories strange and untrue.
A belated gull flapped by them heavily, and the red sun went down.
England was growing lonely. A great barge laden with straw came out of
the dusk, and was gone without a sound, its ghostly sail drawing in a
wind that the wherry sat too low to feel. Nick held his breath as the
barge went by: it was unreal, fantastical.
Then the river dropped between its banks, and the woods and the hills
were gone. The tide ran heavily against the shore, and the wake of the
wherry broke the floating stars into cold white streaks and zigzag
ripplings of raveled light that ran unsteadily after them. The craft at
anchor in the Pool had swung about upon the flow, and pointed down to
Greenwich. A hush had fallen upon the never-ending bustle of the town;
and the air was full of a gray, uncanny afterglow which seemed to come
up out of the water, for the sky was grown quite dark.
They were all wrapped in their boat-cloaks, tired and silent. Now and
then Nick dipped his fingers into the cold water over the gunwale.
This was the end of the glory.
He wished the boat would go a little faster. Yet when they came to the
landing he was sorry.
The man-at-arms who went with him to Master Carew’s house was one of the
Earl of Arundel’s men, in a stiff-wadded jacket of heron-blue, with the
earls colors richly worked upon its back and his badge upon the sleeves.
Prowlers gave way before him in the streets, for he was broad and tall
and mighty, and the fear of any man was not in the look of his eye.
As they came up the slow hill, Nick sighed, for the long-legged
man-at-arms walked fast. “What, there!” said he, and clapped Nick on the
shoulder with his bony hand; “art far spent, lad? Why, marry, get thee
upon my back. I’ll jog thee home in the shake of a black sheep’s tail.”
So Nick rode home upon the back of the Earl of Arundel’s man-at-arms;
and that, too, seemed a dream like all the rest.
When they came to Master Carew’s house the street was dark, and Nick’s
foot was asleep. He stamped it, tingling, upon the step, and the empty
passage echoed with the sound. Then the earl’s man beat the door with
the pommel of his dagger-hilt, and stood with his hands upon his hips,
carelessly whistling a little tune.
Nick heard a sound of some one coming through the hall, and felt that at
last the day was done. A tired wonder wakened in his heart at how so
much had come to pass in such a little while; yet more he wondered why
it had ever come to pass at all. And what was the worth of it, anyway,
now it was over and gone?
Then the door opened, and he went in.
Master Gaston Carew himself had come to the door, walking quickly
through the hallway, with a queer, nervous twitching in his face. But
when he made out through the dusk that it was Nick, he seemed in no wise
moved, and said quite simply, as he gave the man-at-arms a penny: “Oh,
is it thou? Why, we have heard somewhat of thee; and upon my word I
thought, since thou wert grown so great, thou wouldst come home in a
coach-and-four, all blowing horns!”
Nevertheless he drew Nick quickly in, and kissed him thrice; and after
he had kissed him kept fast hold of his hand until they came together
through the hall into the great room where Cicely was sitting quite
dismally in the chimney-seat alone.
[Illustration: “SO NICK RODE HOME UPON THE BACK OF THE EARL OF ARUNDEL’S
MAN-AT-ARMS.”]
“There, Nick,” said he; “tell her thyself that thou hast come back. She
thought she had lost thee for good and all, and hath sung, ‘Hey ho, my
heart is full of woe!’ the whole twilight, and would not be comforted.
Come, Cicely, doff thy doleful willow—the proverb lies. ‘Out of sight,
out of mind’—fudge! the boy’s come back again! A plague take
proverbs, anyway!”
But when the children were both long since abed, and all the house was
still save for the scamper of rats in the wall, the heavy door of Nick’s
room opened stealthily, with a little grating upon the uneven sill, and
Master Carew stood there, peeping in, his hand upon the bolt outside.
He held a rush-light in the other. Its glimmer fell across the bed upon
Nick’s tousled hair; and when the master-player saw the boy’s head upon
the pillow he started eagerly, with brightening eyes. “My soul!” he
whispered to himself, a little quaver in his tone, “I would have sworn
my own desire lied to me, and that he had not come at all! It cannot
be—yet, verily, I am not blind. _Ma foil_ it passeth understanding—a
freed skylark come back to its cage! I thought we had lost him forever.”
Nick stirred in his sleep. Carew set the light on the floor. “Thou
fool!” said he, and he fumbled at his pouch; “thou dear-beloved little
fool! To catch the skirts of glory in thine hand, and tread the heels of
happy chance, and yet come back again to ill-starred twilight—and to
me! Ai, lad, I would thou wert my son—mine own, own son; yet Heaven
spare thee father such as I! For, Nick, I love thee. Yet thou dost hate
me like a poison thing. And still I love thee, on my word, and on the
remnant of mine honour!” His voice was husky. “Let thee go?—send thee
back?—eat my sweet and have it too?—how? Nay, nay; thy happy cake
would be my dough—it will not serve.” He shook his head, and looked
about to see that all was fast. “Yet, Nick, I say I love thee, on
my soul!”
Slipping to the bedside with stealthy step, he laid a fat little Banbury
cheese and some brown sweet cakes beside Nick’s pillow; then came out
hurriedly and barred the door.
The fire in the great hall had gone out, and the room was growing cold.
The table stood by the chimney-side, where supper had been laid, Carew
brought a napkin from the linen-chest, and spread it upon the board.
Then he went to the server’s screen and looked behind it, and tried the
latches of the doors; and having thus made sure that all was safe, came
back to the table again, and setting the rush-light there, turned the
contents of his purse into the napkin.
There were both gold and silver. The silver he put back into the purse
again; the gold he counted carefully; and as he counted, laying the
pieces one by one in little heaps upon the cloth, he muttered under his
breath, like a small boy adding up his sums in school, saying over and
over again, “One for me, and one for thee, and two for Cicely Carew. One
for me, and one for thee, and two for Cicely Carew”; and told the coins
off in keeping with the count, so that the last pile was as large as
both the others put together. Then slowly ending, “None for me, and one
for thee, and two for Cicely Carew,” he laid the last three nobles
with the rest.
Then he arose and stood a moment listening to the silence in the house.
An old he rat that was gnawing a rind on the hearth looked up, and ran a
little nearer to his hole. “Tsst! come back,” said Carew, “I’m no cat!”
and from the sliding panel in the wall took out a buckskin bag tied like
a meal-sack with a string.
As he slipped the knot the throat of the bag sagged down, and a gold
piece jangled on the floor. Carew started as if all his nerves had
leaped within him at the unexpected sound, and closed the panel like a
flash. Then, setting his foot upon the fallen coin, he stopped its
spinning, and with one hand on his poniard, peering right and left, blew
the candle out.
A little while he stood and listened in the dark; a little while his
feet went to and fro in the darkness. The wind cried in the chimney. Now
and then the casements shivered. The timbers in the wall creaked with
the cold, and the boards in the stairway cracked. Then the old he rat
came back to his rind, and his mate came out of the crack in the wall,
working her whiskers hungrily and snuffing the smell of the candle-drip;
for there was no sound, and the coast of rat-land was clear.