"Hate him? Oh, Nick! Why?"

"If thou be asking whys," said Nick, bitterly, "why did he steal me away from my mother?"

"Oh, surely, Nick, that cannot be true--no, no, it cannot be true. Thou hast forgotten, or thou hast slept too hard and had bad dreams. My father would not steal a pin. It was a nightmare. Doth thine head hurt thee?" She came over and stroked his forehead with her cool hand. She was a graceful child, and gentle in all her ways. "I am sorry thou dost not feel well, Nick. But my father will come presently, and he will heal thee soon. Don't cry any more."

"I'm not crying," said Nick, stoutly, though as he spoke a tear ran down his cheek, and fell upon his hand.

"Then it is the roof leaks," she said, looking up as if she had not seen his tear-blinded eyes. "But cheer up, Nick, and be a good boy--wilt thou not? 'Tis dinner-time, and thy new clothes have come; and thou art to come down now and try them on."

When Nick came out of the tiring-room and found the master-player come, he knew not what to say or do. "Oh, brave, brave, brave!" cried Cicely, and danced around him, clapping her hands. "Why, it is a very prince--a king! Oh, Nick, thou art most beautiful to see!"

And Master Carew's own eyes sparkled; for truly it was a pleasant sight to see a fair young lad like Nick in such attire.

There was a fine white shirt of Holland linen, and long hose of grayish blue, with puffed and slashed trunks of velvet so blue as to be almost black. The sleeveless jerkin was of the same dark color, trellised with roses embroidered in silk, and loose from breast to broad lace collar so that the waistcoat of dull gold silk beneath it might show. A cloak of damask with a silver clasp, a buff-leather belt with a chubby purse hung to it by a chain, tan-colored slippers, and a jaunty velvet cap with a short white plume, completed the array. Everything, too, had been laid down with perfume, so that from head to foot he smelt as sweet and clean as a drift of rose-mallows.

"My soul!" cried Carew, stepping back and snapping his fingers with delight. "Thou art the bravest skylark that ever broke a sh.e.l.l! Fine feathers--fine bird--my soul, how ye do set each other off!" He took Nick by the shoulders, twirled him around, and, standing off again, stared at him like a man who has found two pound sterling in a cast-off coat.

"I can na pay for them, sir," said Nick, slowly.

"There's nought to pay--it is a gift."

Nick hung his head, much troubled. What could he say; what could he think? This man had stolen him from home,--ay, made him tremble for his very life a dozen times,--and with his whole heart he knew he hated him--yet here, a gift!

"Yes, Nick, it is a gift--and all because I love thee, lad."

"Love me?"

"Why, surely! Who could see thee without liking, or hear thy voice and not love thee? Love thee, Nick? Why, on my word and honour, lad, I love thee with all my heart."

"Thou hast chosen strange ways to show it, Master Carew," said Nick, and looked straight up into the master player's eyes.

Carew turned upon his heel and ordered the dinner.

It was a good dinner: fat roast capon stuffed with spiced carrots; asparagus, biscuit, barley-cakes, and honey; and to end with, a flaky pie, and Spanish cordial sprinkled with burnt sugar. With such fare and a keen appet.i.te, a marvelous brand-new suit of clothes, and Cicely chattering gaily by his side, Nick could not be sulky or doleful long.

He was soon laughing; and Carew's spirits seemed to rise with the boy's.

"Here, here!" he cried, as Nick was served the third time to the pie; "art hollow to thy very toes? Why, thou'lt eat us out of house and home--hey, Cicely? Marry come up, I think I'd best take Ned Alleyn's five shillings for thine hire, after all! What! Five shillings? Set me in earth and bowl me to death with boiled turnips!--do they think to play bob-fool with me? Five shillings! A fico for their five shillings--and this for them!" and he squeezed the end of his thumb between his fingers. "Cicely, what dost think?--Phil Henslowe had the face to match Jem Bristow with our Nick!"

"Why, daddy, Jem hath a face like a halibut!"

"And a voice like a husky crow. Why, Nick's mere shadow on the stage is worth a ton of Jemmy Bristows. 'Twas casting pearls before swine, Nick, to offer thee to Henslowe and Alleyn; but we've found a better trough than theirs--hey, Cicely Goldenheart, haven't we? Thou art to be one of Paul's boys."

"Paul who?"

Carew lay back in his chair and laughed. "Paul who? Why, Saint Paul, Nick,--'tis Paul's Cathedral boys I mean. Marry, what dost say to that?"

"I'd like another barley-cake."

"You'd _what_?" cried the master-player, letting the front legs of his chair come down on the floor with a thump.

"I'd like another barley-cake," said Nick, quietly, helping himself to the honey.

"Upon my word, and on the remnant of mine honour!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Carew.

"Tell a man his fortune's made, and he calls for barley-cakes! Why, thou'dst say 'Pooh!' to a cannon-ball! My faith, boy, dost understand what this doth mean?"

"Ay," said Nick; "that I be hungry."

"But, Nick, upon my soul, thou art to sing with the Children of Paul's; to play with the cathedral company; to be a bright particular star in the sweetest galaxy that ever shone in English sky! Dost take me yet?"

"Ay," said Nick, and sopped the honey with his cake.

Carew played with his gla.s.s uneasily, and tapped his heel upon the floor. "And is that all thou hast to say--hast turned oyster? There's no R in May--n.o.body will eat thee! Come, don't make a mouth as though the honey of the world were all turned gall upon thy tongue. 'Tis the flood-tide of thy fortune, boy! Thou art to sing before the school to-morrow, so that Master Nathaniel Gyles may take thy range and worth.

Now, truly, thou wilt do thy very best?"

The bandy-legged man had brought water in a ewer, and poured some in a basin for Nick to wash his hands. There was a green ribbon in his ear, and the towel hung across his arm. Nick wiped his hands in silence.

"Come," said Master Carew, with an ugly sharpness in his voice, "thou'lt sing thy very best?"

"There's nothing else to do," replied Nick, doggedly.

CHAPTER XXII

THE SKYLARK'S SONG

Master Nathaniel Gyles, Precentor of St. Paul's, had pipe-stem legs, and a face like an old parchment put in a box to keep. His sandy hair was thin and straggling, and his fine cloth hose wrinkled around his shrunken shanks; but his eye was sharp, and he wore about his neck a broad gold chain that marked him as no common man.

For Master Nathaniel Gyles was head of the Cathedral schools of acting and of music, and he stood upon his dignity.

"My duty is laid down," said he, "in most specific terms, sir,--_lex cathedralis_,--that is to say, by the laws of the cathedral; and has been, sir, since the reign of Richard the Third. _Primus Magister Scholarum, Custos Morum, Quartus Custos Rotulorum_,--so the t.i.tle stands, sir; and I know my place."

He pushed Nick into the anteroom, and turned to Carew with an irritated air.

"I likewise know, sir, what is what. In plain words, Master Gaston Carew, ye have grossly misrepresented this boy to me, to the waste of much good time. Why, sir, he does not dance a step, and cannot act at all."

"Soft, Master Gyles--be not so fast!" said Carew, haughtily, drawing himself up, with his hand on his poniard; "dost mean to tell me that I have lied to thee? Marry, sir, thy tongue will run thee into a blind alley! I told thee that the boy could sing, but not that he could act or dance."

"Pouf, sir,--words! I know my place: one peg below the dean, sir, nothing less: '_Magister, et cetera'_--'tis so set down. And I tell thee, sir, he has no training, not a bit; can't tell a p.r.i.c.ksong from a bottle of hay; doesn't know a canon from a crocodile, or a fugue from a hole in the ground!"

"Oh, fol-de-riddle de fol-de-rol! What has that to do with it? I tell thee, sir, the boy can sing."

"And, sir, I say I know my place. Music does not grow like weeds."

"And fa-la-las don't make a voice."

"What! How? Wilt thou teach me?" The master's voice rose angrily. "Teach me, who learned descant and counterpoint in the Gallo-Belgic schools, sir; the best in all the world! Thou, who knowest not a staccato from a stick of liquorice!"