Part 7 (1/2)

”Good citizens of Coventry, and high-born gentles all: know ye now that we, the players of the company of His Grace, Charles, Lord Howard, High Admiral of England, Ireland, Wales, Calais, and Boulogne, the marches of Normandy, Gascony, and Aquitaine, Captain-General of the Navy and the Seas of Her Gracious Majesty the Queen--”

At that the crowd in the courtyard cheered and cheered again.

”--will, with your kind permission, play forthwith the laughable comedy of 'The Three Grey Gowns,' by Master Thomas Heywood, in which will be spoken many good things, old and new, and a brand-new song will be sung.

Now, hearken all--the play begins!”

The trumpet blared, the kettledrum crashed again, and as a sudden hush fell over the throng without Nick heard the voices of the players going on.

It was a broad farce, full of loud jests and nonsense, a great thwacking of sticks and tumbling about; and Nick, with his eye to the crack of the door, listened with all his ears for his cue, far too excited even to think of laughing at the rough jokes, though the crowd in the inn-yard roared till they held their sides.

Carew came hurrying up, with an anxious look in his restless eyes.

”Ready, Nicholas!” said he, sharply, taking Nick by the arm and lifting the latch. ”Go straight down front now as I told thee--mind thy cues--speak boldly--sing as thou didst sing for me--and if thou wouldst not break mine heart, do not fail me now! I have staked it all upon thee here--and we _must_ win!”

”How now, who comes?” Nick heard a loud voice call outside--the door-latch clicked behind him--he was out in the open air and down the stage before he quite knew where he was.

The stage was built against the wall just opposite the gates. It was but a temporary platform of planks laid upon trestles. One side of it was against the wall, and around the three other sides the crowd was packed close to the platform rail.

At the ends, upon the boards, several wealthy gallants sat on high, three-legged stools, within arm's reach of the players acting there. The courtyard was a sea of heads, and the balconies were filled with gentlefolk in holiday attire, eating cakes and chaffing gaily at the play. All was one bewildered cloud of staring eyes to Nick, and the only thing which he was sure he saw was the painted sign that hung upon the curtain at the rear, which in the lack of other scenery announced in large red print: ”This is a Room in Master Jonah Jackdawe's House.”

And then he heard the last quick words, ”I'll match him for the ale!”

and started on his lines.

It was not that he said so ill what little he had to say, but that his voice was homelike and familiar in its sound, one of their own, with no amazing London accent to the words--just the speech of every-day, the sort that they all knew.

First, some one in the yard laughed out--a shock-headed ironmonger's apprentice, ”Whoy, bullies, there be hayseed in his hair. 'Tis took off pasture over-soon. I f.e.c.ks! they've plucked him green!”

There was a hoa.r.s.e, exasperating laugh. Nick hesitated in his lines. The player at his back tried to prompt him, but only made the matter worse, and behind the green curtain at the door a hand went ”clap” upon a dagger-hilt. The play lagged, and the crowd began to jeer. Nick's heart was full of fear and of angry shame that he had dared to try. Then all at once there came a brief pause, in which he vaguely realized that no one spoke. The man behind him thrust him forward, and whispering wrathfully, ”Quick, quick--sing up, thou little fool!” stepped back and left him there alone.

[Ill.u.s.tration: ”NICK THOUGHT OF HIS MOTHER'S SINGING ON A SUMMER'S EVENING--DREW A DEEP BREATH AND BEGAN TO SING.”]

A viol overhead took up the time, the gittern struck a few sharp notes. This unexpected music stopped the noise, and all was still. Nick thought of his mother's voice singing on a summer's evening among the hollyhocks, and as the viol's droning died away he drew a deep breath and began to sing the words of ”Heywood's newest song”:

”Pack, clouds, away, and welcome, day; With night we banish sorrow; Sweet air, blow soft; mount, lark, aloft, To give my love good-morrow!”

It was only a part of a madrigal, the air to which they had fitted the words,--the same air that Nick had sung in the woods,--a thing scarce meant ever to be sung alone, a simple strain, a few plain notes, and at the close one brief, queer, warbling trill like a bird's wild song, that rose and fell and rose again like a silver ripple.

The instruments were still; the fresh young voice came out alone, and it was done so soon that Nick hardly knew that he had sung at all. For a moment no one seemed to breathe. Then there was a very great noise, and all the court seemed hurling at him. A man upon the stage sprang to his feet. What they were going to do to him Nick did not know. He gave a frightened cry, and ran past the green curtain, through the open door, and into the master-player's excited arms.

”Quick, quick!” cried Carew. ”Go back, go back! There, hark!--dost not hear them call? Quick, out again--they call thee back!” With that he thrust Nick through the door. The man upon the stage came up, slipped something into his hand--Nick, all bewildered, knew not what; and there he stood, quite stupefied, not knowing what to do. Then Carew came out hastily and led him down the stage, bowing, and pressing his hand to his heart, and smiling like a summer sunrise; so that Nick, seeing this, did the same, and bowed as neatly as he could; though, to be sure, his was only a simple, country-bred bow, and no such ceremonious to-do as Master Carew's courtly London obeisance.

Every one was standing up and shouting so that not a soul could hear his ears, until the ironmonger's apprentice bellowed above the rest; ”Whoy, bullies!” he shouted, amid a chorus of cheers and laughter, ”didn't I say 'twas catched out in the fields--it be a skylark, sure enough! Come, Muster Skylark, sing that song again, an' thou shalt ha' my brand-new cap!”

Then many voices cried out together, ”Sing it again! The Skylark--the Skylark!”

Nick looked up, startled. ”Why, Master Carew,” said he, with a tremble in his voice, ”do they mean me ?”

Carew put one hand beneath Nick's chin and turned his face up, smiling.