But Simon Attwood went down to the river, and sat upon a flat stone under some pollard willows, and looked into the water.

What his thoughts were no one knew, nor ever shall know; but he was fighting with himself, and more than once groaned bitterly. At first he only shut his teeth and held his temples in his hands; but after a while he began to cry to himself, over and over again, "O Absalom, my son, my son! O my son Absalom!" and then only "My son, my son!" And when the day began to wane above the woods of Arden, he arose, and came up from the river, walking swiftly; and, looking neither to the right nor to the left, came up to the Great House garden, and went in at the gate.

At the door the servant met him, but saw his face, and let him pa.s.s without a word; for he looked like a desperate man whom there was no stopping.

So, with a grim light burning in his eyes, his hat in his hand, and his clothes all drabbled with the liquor from his vats, the tanner strode into the dining-hall.

CHAPTER x.x.xIX

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

The table had been cleared of trenchers and napkins, the crumbs brushed away, and a clean platter set before each guest with pared cheese, fresh cherries, biscuit, caraways, and wine.

There were about the long table, beside Master Shakspere himself, who sat at the head of the board, Masters Richard and Cuthbert Burbage, Henry Condell, and Peter Hemynge, Master Shakspere's partners; Master Ben Jonson, his dearest friend; Thomas Pope, who played his finest parts; John Lowin, Samuel Gilburne, Robert Nash, and William Kemp, players of the Lord Chamberlain's company; Edmund Shakspere, the actor, who was Master William Shakspere's younger brother, and Master John Shakspere, his father; Michael Drayton, the Midland bard; Burgess Robert Getley, Alderman Henry Walker, and William Hart, the Stratford hatter, brother-in-law to Master Shakspere.

On one side of the table, between Master Jonson and Master Richard Burbage, Cicely was seated upon a high chair, with a wreath of early crimson roses in her hair, attired in the gown in which Nick saw her first a year before. On the other side of the table Nick had a place between Master Drayton and Robert Getley, father of his friend Robin.

Half-way down there was an empty chair. Master John Combe was absent.

It was no common party. In all England better company could not have been found. Some few of them the whole round world could not have matched then, and could not match now.

It would be worth a fortune to know the things they said,--the quips, the jests, the merry tales that went around that board,--but time has left too little of what such men said and did, and it can be imagined only by the brightest wits.

'Twas Master Shakspere on his feet, welcoming his friends to his "New Place" with quiet words that made them glad to live and to be there, when suddenly he stopped, his hands upon the table by his chair, and stared.

The tanner stood there, silent, in the door.

Nick's face turned pale. Cicely clung to Master Jonson's arm.

Simon Attwood stepped into the room, and Master Shakspere went quickly to meet him in the middle of the floor.

"Master Will Shakspere," said the tanner, hoa.r.s.ely, "I ha' come about a matter." There he stopped, not knowing what to say, for he was overwrought.

"Out with it, sir," said Master Shakspere, sternly. "There is much here to be said."

The tanner wrung his hat within his hands, and looked about the ring of cold, averted faces. Soft words with him were few; he had forgotten tender things; and, indeed, what he meant to do was no easy thing for any man.

"Come, say what thou hast to say," said Master Shakspere, resolutely; "and say it quickly, that we may have done."

"There's nought that I can say," said Simon Attwood, "but that I be sorry, and I want my son! Nick! Nick!" he faltered brokenly, "I be wrung for thee; will ye na come home--just for thy mother's sake, Nick, if ye will na come for mine?"

Nick started from his seat with a glad cry--then stopped. "But Cicely?"

he said.

The tanner wrung his hat within his hands, and his face was dark with trouble. Master Shakspere looked at Master Jonson.

Nick stood hesitating between Cicely and his father, faithful to his promise, though his heart was sick for home.

An odd light had been struggling dimly in Simon Attwood's troubled eyes.

Then all at once it shone out bright and clear, and he clapped his bony hand upon the stout oak chair. "Bring her along," he said. "I ha' little enough, but I will do the best I can. Maybe 'twill somehow right the wrong I ha' done," he added huskily. "And, neighbors, I'll go surety to the Council that she shall na fall a pauper or a burden to the town. My trade is ill enough, but, sirs, it will stand for forty pound the year at a fair cast-up. Bring the la.s.s wi' thee, Nick--we'll make out, lad, we'll make out. G.o.d will na let it all go wrong."

Master Jonson and Master Shakspere had been nodding and talking together in a low tone, smiling like men very well pleased about something, and directly Master Shakspere left the room.

"Wilt thou come, lad?" asked the tanner, holding out his hands.

"Oh, father!" cried Nick; then he choked so that he could say no more, and his eyes were so full of mist that he could scarcely find his father where he stood.

But there was no need of more; Simon Attwood was answered.

Voices buzzed about the room. The servants whispered in the hall. Nick held his father's gnarled hand in his own, and looked curiously up into his face, as if for the first time knowing what it was to have a father.

"Well, lad, what be it?" asked the tanner, huskily, laying his hand on his son's curly head, which was nearly up to his shoulder now.

"Nothing," said Nick, with a happy smile, "only mother will be glad to have Cicely--won't she?"

Master Shakspere came into the room with something in his hand, and walking to the table, laid it down.

It was a heavy buckskin bag, tied tightly with a silken cord, and sealed with red wax stamped with the seals of Master Shakspere and Master Jonson.

Every one was watching him intently, and one or two of the gentlemen from London were smiling in a very knowing way.

He broke the seals, and loosening the thong which closed the bag, took out two other bags, one of which was just double its companion's size.

They also were tied with silken cord and sealed with the two seals on red wax. There was something printed roughly with a quill pen upon each bag, but Master Shakspere kept that side turned toward himself so that the others could not see.

"Come, come, Will," broke in Master Jonson, "don't be all day about it!"

"The more haste the worse speed, Ben," said Master Shakspere, quietly.

"I have a little story to tell ye all."

So they all listened.

"When Gaston Carew, lately master-player of the Lord High Admiral's company, was arraigned before my Lord Justice for the killing of that rascal, Fulk Sandells, there was not a man of his own company had the grace to lend him even so much as sympathy. But there were still some in London who would not leave him totally friendless in such straits."

"Some?" interrupted Master Jonson, bluntly; "then o-n-e spells 'some.'

The names of them all were Will Shakspere."

"Tut, tut, Ben!" said Master Shakspere, and went on: "But when the charge was read, and those against him showed their hand, it was easy to see that the game was up. No one saw this any sooner than Carew himself; yet he carried himself like a man, and confessed the indictment without a quiver. They brought him the book, to read a verse and save his neck, perhaps, by pleading benefit of clergy. But he knew the temper of those against him, and that nothing might avail; so he refused the plea quietly, saying, 'I am no clerk, sirs. All I wish to read in this case is what my own hand wrote upon that scoundrel Sandells.' It was soon over. When the judge p.r.o.nounced his doom, all Carew asked was for a friend to speak with a little while aside. This the court allowed; so he sent for me--we played together with Henslowe, he and I, ye know. He had not much to say--for once in his life,"--here Master Shakspere smiled pityingly,--"but he sent his love forever to his only daughter Cicely."

Cicely was sitting up, listening with wide eyes, and eagerly nodded her head as if to say, "Of course."

"He also begged of Nicholas Attwood that he would forgive him whatever wrong he had done him."

"Why, that I will, sir," choked Nick, brokenly; "he was wondrous kind to me, except that he would na leave me go."

"After that," continued Master Shakspere, "he made known to me a sliding panel in the wainscot of his house, wherein was hidden all he had on earth to leave to those he loved the best, and who, he hoped, loved him."