TURNED ADRIFT
Down the path and under the gate the rains had washed a shallow rut in
the earth. Two pebbles, loosened by the closing of the gate, rolled down
the rut and out upon the little spreading fan of sand that whitened in
the grass.
There was the house with the black beams checkering its yellow walls.
There was the old bench by the door, and the lettuce in the garden-bed.
There were the beehives, and the bees humming among the orchard boughs.
“Why, father, what!” cried Nick, “dost na know me yet? See, ’tis I,
Nick, thy son.”
A strange look came into the tanner’s face. “I do na know thee, boy,” he
answered heavily; “thou canst na enter here.”
“But, father, indeed ’tis I!”
Simon Attwood looked across the town; yet he did not see the town:
across the town into the sky, yet he did not see the sky, nor the
drifting banks of cloud, nor the sunlight shining on the clouds. “I say
I do na know thee,” he replied; “be off to the place whence ye
ha’ come.”
Nick’s hand was almost on the latch. He stopped. He looked up into his
father’s face. “Why, father, I’ve come home!” he gasped.
The gate shook in the tanner’s grip. “Have I na telled thee twice I do
na know thee, boy? No house o’ mine shall e’er be home for thee. Thou
hast no part nor parcel here. Get thee out o’ my sight.”
“Oh, father, father, what do ye mean?” cried Nick, his lips scarcely
able to shape the words.
“Do na ye ‘father’ me no more,” said Simon Attwood, bitterly; “I be na
father to stage-playing, vagabond rogues. And be gone, I say. Dost hear?
Must I e’en thrust thee forth?” He raised his hand as if to strike.
Nick fell away from the latchet-gate, dumb-stricken with amazement,
shame, and grief.
“Oh, Nick,” cried Cicely, “come away—the wicked, wicked man!”
“It is my father, Cicely.”
She stared at him. “And thou dost hate _my_ father so? Oh, Nick! oh,
Nick!”
“Will ye be gone?” called Simon Attwood, half-way opening the gate;
“must I set constables on thee?”
Nick did not move. A numbness had crept over him like palsy. Cicely
caught him by the hand. “Come, let us go back to my father,” she said.
“He will not turn us out.”
Scarcely knowing what he did, he followed her, stumbling in the level
path as though he were half blind or had been beaten upon the head. He
did not cry. This was past all crying. He let himself be led along—it
made no matter where.
In Chapel lane there was a crowd along the Great House wall; and on the
wall Ned Cooke and Martin Addenbroke were sitting. There were heads of
people moving on the porch and in the court, and the yard was all
a-bustle and to-do. But there was nobody in the street, and no one
looked at Nick and Cicely.
The Great House did look very fair in the sun of that May day, with its
homely gables of warm red brick and sunburnt timber, its cheery roof of
Holland tile, and with the sunlight flashing from the diamond panes that
were leaded into the sashes of the great bay-window on the eastern
garden side.
In the garden all was stir-about and merry voices. There was a little
green court before the house, and a pleasant lawn coming down to the
lane from the doorway porch. The house stood to the left of the
entry-drive, and the barn-yard to the right was loud with the blithe
crowing of the cocks. But the high brick wall shut out the street where
Nick and Cicely trudged dolefully along, and to Nick the lane seemed
very full of broken crockery and dirt, and the sunlight all a mockery.
The whole of the year had not yet been so dark as this, for there had
ever been the dream of coming home. But _now_—he suffered himself to be
led along; that was enough.
They had come past the Great House up from Chapel street, when a girl
came out of the western gate, and with her hand above her eyes looked
after them. She seemed in doubt, but looked again, quite searchingly.
Then, as one who is not sure, but does not wish to miss a chance, called
out, “Nick Attwood! Nick Attwood!”
Cicely looked back to see who called. She did not know the girl, but saw
her beckon. “There is some one calling, Nick,” said she.
Nick stopped in a hopeless sort of way, and looked back down the street.
When he had turned so that the girl at the gate could see his face, she
left the gate wide open behind her, and came running quickly up the
street after them. As she drew nearer he saw that it was Susanna
Shakspere, though she was very much grown since he had seen her last. He
watched her running after them as if it were none of his affair. But
when she had caught up with them, she took him by the shoulder smartly
and drew him back toward the gate. “Why, Nicholas Attwood,” she cried,
all out of breath, “come straightway into the house with me. My father
hath been hunting after thee the whole way up from London town!”