Part 13 (1/2)

”He hath stolen me from home,” exclaimed Nick, indignantly; ”and I shall never see my mother any more!” With that he choked, and hid his face in his arm against the wall.

The little maid looked at him with an air of troubled surprise, and, coming into the room, touched him on the arm. ”There,” she said soothingly, ”don't cry!” and stroked him gently as one would a little dog that was hurt. ”My father will send thee home to thy mother, I know; for he is very kind and good. Some one hath lied to thee about him.”

Nick wiped his swollen eyes dubiously upon his sleeve; yet the little maid seemed positive. Perhaps, after all, there was a mistake somewhere.

”Art hungry, boy?” she asked suddenly, spying the empty trencher on the floor. ”There is a pasty and a cake in the b.u.t.tery, and thou shalt have some of it if thou wilt not cry any more. Come, I cannot bear to see thee cry--it makes me weep myself; and that will blear mine eyes, and father will feel bad.”

”If he but felt as bad as he hath made me feel--” began Nick, wrathfully; but she laid her little hand across his mouth. It was a very white, soft, sweet little hand.

”Come,” said she; ”thou art hungry, and it hath made thee cross!” and, with no more ado, took him by the hand and led him down the corridor into a large room where the last daylight shone with a smoky glow.

The walls were wainscoted with many panels, dark, old, and mysterious; and in a burnished copper brazier at the end of the room cinnamon, rosemary, and bay were burning with a pleasant smell. Along the walls were joined-work chests for linen and napery, of bra.s.s-bound oak--one a black, old, tragic sea-chest, carved with grim faces and weird griffins, that had been cast up by the North Sea from the wreck of a Spanish galleon of war. The floor was waxed in the French fas.h.i.+on, and was so smooth that Nick could scarcely keep his feet. The windows were high up in the wall, with their heads among the black roof-beams, which with their grotesquely carven brackets were half lost in the dusk. Through the windows Nick could see nothing but a world of chimney-pots.

”Is London town all smoke-pipes?” he asked confusedly.

”Nay,” replied the little maid; ”there are people.”

Pus.h.i.+ng a chair up to the table, she bade him sit down. Then pulling a tall, curiously-made stool to the other side of the board, she perched herself upon it like a fairy upon a blade of gra.s.s. ”Greg!” she called imperiously, ”Greg! What, how! Gregory Goole, I say!”

”Yes, ma'm'selle,” replied a hoa.r.s.e voice without; and through a door at the further end of the room came the bandy-legged man with the bow of crimson ribbon in his ear.

Nick turned a little pale; and when the fellow saw him sitting there, he came up hastily, with a look like a crock of sour milk. ”Tut, tut!

ma'm'selle,” said he; ”Master Carew will not like this.”

She turned upon him with an air of dainty scorn. ”Since when hath father left his wits to thee, Gregory Goole? I know his likes as well as thou--and it likes him not to let this poor boy starve, I'll warrant.

Go, fetch the pasty and the cake that are in the b.u.t.tery, with a gla.s.s of cordial,--the Certosa cordial,--and that in the shaking of a black sheep's tail, or I will tell my father what thou wottest of.” And she looked the very picture of diminutive severity.

”Very good, ma'm'selle; just as ye say,” said Gregory, fawning, with very poor grace, however. ”But, knave,” he snarled, as he turned away, with a black scowl at Nick, ”if thou dost venture on any of thy scurvy pranks while I be gone, I'll break thy pate.”

Cicely Carew knitted her brows. ”That is a saucy rogue,” said she; ”but he hath served my father well. And, what is much in London town, he is an honest man withal, though I have caught him at the Spanish wine behind my father's back; so he doth b.u.t.ter his tongue with smooth words when he hath speech with me, for I am the lady of the house.” She held up her head with a very pretty pride. ”My mother--”

Nick caught his breath, and his eyes filled.

”Nay, boy,” said she, gently; ”'tis I should weep, not thou; for _my_ mother is dead. I do not think I ever saw her that I know,” she went on musingly; ”but she was a Frenchwoman who served a murdered queen, and she was the loveliest woman that ever lived.” Cicely clasped her hands and moved her lips. Nick saw that she was praying, and bent his head.

”Thou art a good boy,” she said softly; ”my father will like that”; and then went quietly on: ”That is why Gregory Goole doth call me 'ma'm'selle'--because my mother was a Frenchwoman. But I am a right English girl for all that; and when they shout, 'G.o.d save the Queen!' at the play, why, I do too! And, oh, boy,” she cried, ”it is a brave thing to hear!” and she clapped her hands with sparkling eyes. ”It drove the Spaniards off the sea, my father ofttimes saith.”

”Poh!” said Nick, stoutly, for he saw the pasty coming in, ”they can na beat us Englishmen!” and with that fell upon the pasty as if it were the Spanish Armada in one lump and he Sir Francis Drake set on to do the job alone.

As he ate his spirits rose again, and he almost forgot that he was stolen from his home, and grew eager to be seeing the wonders of the great town whose ceaseless roar came over the housetops like a distant storm. He was still somewhat in awe of this beautiful, flower-like little maid, and listened in shy silence to the wonderful tales she told: how that she had seen the Queen, who had red hair, and pearls like gooseberries on her cloak; and how the court went down to Greenwich. But the bandy-legged man kept popping his head in at the door, and, after all, Nick was but in a prison-house; so he grew quite dismal after a while.

”Dost truly think thy father will leave me go?” he asked.

”Of course he will,” said she. ”I cannot see why thou dost hate him so?”

”Why, truly,” hesitated Nick, ”perhaps it is not thy father that I hate, but only that he will na leave me go. And if he would but leave me go, perhaps I'd love him very much indeed.”

”Good, Nick! thou art a trump!” cried Master Carew's voice suddenly from the further end of the hall, where in spite of all the candles it was dark; and, coming forward, the master-player held out his hands in a most genial way. ”Come, lad, thy hand--'tis spoken like a gentleman.