Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Master Skylark: A Story of Shakspere's Time by John Bennett (interesting books to read in english .txt) 📖
- Author: John Bennett
Book online «Master Skylark: A Story of Shakspere's Time by John Bennett (interesting books to read in english .txt) 📖». Author John Bennett
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 buttery, with a glass 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 butter 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, ‘God 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. Nay, I will kiss thee—for I love thee, Nick, upon my word, and on the remnant of mine honour!” Taking the boy’s half-unwilling hands in his own, he stooped and kissed him upon the forehead.
“Father,” said Cicely, gravely, “hast thou forgotten me?”
“Nay, sweetheart, nay,” cried Carew, with a wonderful laugh that somehow warmed the cockles of Nick’s forlorn heart; and turning quickly, the master-player caught up the little maid and kissed her again and again, so tenderly that Nick was amazed to see how one so cruel could be so kind, and how so good a little maid could love so bad a man; for she twined her arms about his neck, and then lay back with her head upon his shoulder, purring like a kitten in his arms.
“Father,” said she, patting his cheek, “some one hath told him naughty things of thee. Come, daddy, say they are not so!”
The master-player’s face turned red as flame. He coughed and looked up among the roof-beams. “Why, of course they’re not,” said he, uneasily.
“There, boy!” cried she; “I told thee so. Why, daddy, think!—they said that thou hadst stolen him away from his own mother, and wouldst not leave him go!”
“Hollo!” ejaculated the master-player, abruptly, with a quiver in his voice; “what a hole thou hast made in the pasty, Nick!”
“Ah, daddy,” persisted Cicely, “and what a hole it would make in his mother’s heart if he had been stolen away!”
“Wouldst like another draught of cordial, Nick?” cried Carew, hurriedly, reaching out for the tall flagon with a trembling hand. “’Tis good to cheer the troubled heart, lad. Not that thou hast any reason in the world to let thy heart be troubled,” he added hastily. “No, indeed, upon my word; for thou art on the doorstep of a golden-lined success. See, Nick, how the light shines through!” and he tilted up the flagon. “It is one of old Jake Vessaline’s Murano-Venetian glasses; a beautiful thing, now, is it not? ’Tis good as any made abroad!” but his hand was shaking so that half the cordial missed the cup and ran into a little shimmering pool upon the table-top.
“And thou’lt send him home again, daddy, wilt thou not?”
“Yes, yes, of course—why, to be sure—we’ll send him anywhere that thou dost say, Golden-heart: to Persia or Cathay—ay, to the far side of the green-cheese moon, or to the court of Tamburlaine the Great,” and he laughed a quick, dry, nervous laugh that had no laughter in it. “I had one of De Lannoy’s red Bohemian bottles, Nick,” he rattled on feverishly; “but that butter-fingered rogue”—he nodded his head at the outer stair—“dropped it, smash! and made a thousand most counterfeit fourpences out of what cost me two pound sterling.”
“But will ye truly leave me go, sir?” faltered Nick.
“Why, of course—to be sure—yes, certainly—yes, yes. But, Nick, it is too late this night. Why, come, thou couldst not go to-night. See, ’tis dark, and thou a stranger in the town. ’Tis far to Stratford town—thou couldst not walk it, lad; there will be carriers anon. Come, stay awhile with Cicely and me—we will make thee a right welcome guest!”
“That we will,” cried Cicely, clapping her hands. “Oh, do stay; I am so lonely here! The maid is silly, Margot old, and the rats run in the wall.”
“And thou must to the theater, my lad, and sing for London town—ay, Nicholas,” and Carew’s voice rang proudly. “The highest heads in London town must hear that voice of thine, or I shall die unshrift. What! lad?—come all the way from Coventry, and never show that face of thine, nor let them hear thy skylark’s song? Why, ’twere a shame! And, Nick, my lord the Admiral shall hear thee sing when he comes home again; perchance the Queen herself. Why, Nick, of course thou’lt sing. Thou hast not heart to say thou wilt not sing—even for me whom thou hatest.”
Nick smiled in spite of himself, for Cicely was leaning on the arm of his chair, devouring him with her great dark eyes: “Dost truly, truly sing?” she asked.
Nick laughed and blushed, and Carew laughed. “What, doth he sing? Why, Nick, come, tune that skylark note of thine for little Golden-heart and me. ’Twill make her think she hears the birds in verity—and, Nick, the lass hath never seen a bird that sang, except within a cage. Nay, lad, this is no cage!” he cried, as Nick looked about and sighed. “We will make it very home for thee—will Cicely and I.”
“That we will!” cried Cicely. “Come, boy, sing for me—my mother used to sing.”
At that Gaston Carew went white as a sheet, and put his hand quickly up to his face. Cicely darted to his side with a frightened cry, and caught his hand away. He tried to smile, but it was a ghastly attempt. “Tush, tush! little one; ’twas something stung me!” said he, huskily, “Sing, Nicholas, I beg of thee!”
There was such a sudden world of weariness and sorrow in his voice that Nick felt a pity for he knew not what, and lifting up his clear young voice, he sang the quaint old madrigal.
Carew sat with his face in his hand, and after it was done arose unsteadily and said, “Come, Golden-heart; ’tis music such as charmeth care and lureth sleep out of her dark valley—we must be trotting off to bed.”
That night Nick slept upon a better bed, with a sheet and a blue serge coverlet, and a pillow stuffed with chaff.
But as he drifted off into a troubled dreamland, he heard the door-bolt throb into its socket, and knew that he was fastened in.
CAREW’S OFFER
Next morning Carew donned his plum-colored cloak, and with Nick’s hand held tightly in his own went out of the door and down the steps into a drifting fog which filled the street, the bandy-legged man with the ribbon in his ear following close upon their heels.
People passed them like shadows in the mist, and all the houses were a blur until they came into a wide, open place where the wind blew free above a wall with many great gates.
In the middle of this open place a huge gray building stood, staring out over the housetops—a great cathedral, wonderful and old. Its walls were dark with time and smoke and damp, and the lofty tower that rose above it was in part but a hollow shell split by lightning and blackened by fire. But crowded between its massive buttresses were booths and chapmen’s stalls; against its hoary side a small church leaned like a child against a mother’s breast; and in and round about it eddied a throng of men like ants upon a busy hill.
All around the outer square were shops with gilded fronts and most amazing signs: golden angels with outstretched wings, tiger heads, bears, brazen serpents, and silver cranes; and in and out of the shop-doors darted apprentices with new-bound books and fresh-printed slips; for this was old St. Paul’s, the meeting-place of London town, and in Paul’s Yard the printers and the bookmen dealt.
With a deal of elbowing the master-player came up the broad steps into the cathedral, and down the aisle to the pillars where the merchant-tailors stood with table-books in hand, and there ordered a brand-new suit of clothes for Nick of old Roger Shearman, the best cloth-cutter in Threadneedle street.
While they were deep in silk and silver thread, Haerlem linen, and Leyden camelot, Nick stared about him half aghast; for it was to him little less than monstrous to see a church so thronged with merchants plying their trades as if the place were no more sacred than a booth in the public square.
The long nave of the cathedral was crowded with mercers from Cheapside, drapers from Throgmorton street, stationers from Ludgate Hill, and goldsmiths from Foster lane, hats on, loud-voiced, and using the very font itself for a counter. By the columns beyond, sly, foxy-faced lawyers hobnobbed; and on long benches by the wall, cast-off serving-men, varlets, grooms, pastry-bakers, and pages sat, waiting to be hired by some new master. Besides these who came on business there was a host of gallants in gold-laced silk and velvet promenading up and down the aisle, with no business there at all but to show their faces and their clothes. And all about were solemn shrines and monuments and tombs, and overhead a splendid window burned like a wheel of fire in the eastern wall.
While Nick stared, speechless, a party of the Admiral’s placers came strolling by, their heads half hidden in their huge starched ruffs, and with prodigious swords that would have dragged along the ground had they not been cocked up behind so fiercely in the air. Seeing Master Carew and the
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