Master Skylark: A Story of Shakspere's Time by John Bennett (top rated books of all time txt) 📕
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- Author: John Bennett
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Simon Attwood arose from the chair where he had been sitting. There was a bewildered look upon his face, and he was twisting his horny fingers together until the knuckles were white. His lips parted as if to speak, but he only swallowed very hard once or twice instead, and looked around at them all. “Why, sir,” he said at length, looking at Master Shakspere, “why, sirs, all of ye—I ha’ been a hard man, and summat of a fool, sirs, ay, sirs, a very fool. I ha’ misthought and miscalled ye foully many a time, and many a time. God knows I be sorry for it from the bottom of my heart!” And with that he sat down and buried his face in his arms among the dishes on the buffet.
“Nay, Simon Attwood,” said Master Shakspere, going to his side and putting his hand upon the tanner’s shoulder, “thou hast only been mistaken, that is all. Come, sit thee up. To see thyself mistaken is but to be the wiser. Why, never the wisest man but saw himself a fool a thousand times. Come, I have mistaken thee more than thou hast me; for, on my word, I thought thou hadst no heart at all—and that is far worse than having one which has but gone astray. Come, Neighbor Attwood, sit thee up and eat with us.”
“Nay, I’ll go home,” said the tanner, turning his face away that they might not see his tears. “I be a spoil-sport and a mar-feast here.”
“Why, by Jupiter, man!” cried Master Jonson, bringing his fist down upon the board with a thump that made the spoons all clink, “thou art the very merry-maker of the feast. A full heart’s better than a surfeit any day. Don’t let him go, Will—this sort of thing doth make the whole world kin! Come, Master Attwood, sit thee down, and make thyself at home. ’Tis not my house, but ’tis my friend’s, and so ’tis all the same in the Lowlands. Be free of us and welcome.”
“I thank ye, sirs,” said the tanner, slowly, turning to the table with rough dignity. “Ye ha’ been good to my boy. I’ll ne’er forget ye while I live. Oh, sirs, there be kind hearts in the world that I had na dreamed of. But, masters, I ha’ said my say, and know na more. Your pleasure wunnot be my pleasure, sirs, for I be only a common man. I will go home to my wife. There be things to say before my boy comes home; and I ha’ muckle need to tell her that I love her—I ha’ na done so these many years.”
“Why, Neighbor Tanner,” cried Master Jonson, with flushing cheeks, “thou art a right good fellow! And here was I, no later than this morning, red-hot to spit thee upon my bilbo like a Michaelmas goose!” He laughed a boyish laugh that did one’s heart good to hear.
“Ay,” said Master Shakspere, smiling, as he and Simon Attwood looked into each other’s eyes. “Come, neighbor, I know thou art my man—so do not go until thou drinkest one good toast with us, for we are all good friends and true from this day forth. Come, Ben, a toast to fit the cue.”
“Why, then,” replied Master Jonson, in a good round voice, rising in his place, “here’s to all kind hearts!”
“Wherever they may be!” said Master Shakspere, softly. “It is a good toast, and we will all drink it together.”
And so they did. And Simon Attwood went away with a warmth and a tingling in his heart he had never known before.
“Margaret,” said he, coming quickly in at the door, as she went silently about the house with a heavy heart preparing the supper, “Margaret.”
She dropped the platter upon the board, and came to him hurriedly, fearing evil tidings.
He took her by the hands. This, even more than his unusual manner, alarmed her. “Why, Simon,” she cried, “what is it? What has come over thee?”
“Nought,” he replied, looking down at her, his hard face quivering; “but I love thee, Margaret.”
“Simon, what dost thou mean?” faltered Mistress Attwood, her heart going down like lead.
“Nought, sweetheart—but that I love thee, Margaret, and that our lad is coming home!”
Her heart seemed to stop beating.
“Margaret,” said he, huskily, “I do love thee, lass. Is it too late to tell thee so?”
“Nay, Simon,” answered his wife, simply, “’tis never too late to mend.” And with that she laughed—but in the middle of her laughing a tear ran down her cheek.
FROM the windows of the New Place there came a great sound of men singing together, and this was the quaint old song they sang:
Wherever they may be;
For kindly hearts make but one kin
Of all humanity.
“And here’s a rouse to all kind hearts
Wherever they be found;
For it is the throb of kindred hearts
Doth make the world go round!”
“Why, Will,” said Master Burbage, slowly setting down his glass, “’tis altogether a midsummer night’s dream.”
“So it is, Dick,” answered Master Shakspere, with a smile, and a far-away look in his eyes. “Come, Nicholas, wilt thou not sing for us just the last few little lines of ‘When Thou Wakest,’ out of the play?”
Then Nick stood up quietly, for they all were his good friends there, and Master Drayton held his hand while he sang:
In your waking shall be shown:
Jack shall have Jill,
Nought shall go ill,
The man shall have his mare again, and all shall be well!”
They were very still for a little while after he had done, and the setting sun shone in at the windows across the table. Then Master Shakspere said gently, “It is a good place to end.”
“Ay,” said Master Jonson, “it is.”
So they all got up softly and went out into the garden, where there were seats under the trees among the rose-bushes, and talked quietly among themselves, saying not much, yet meaning a great deal.
But Nick and Cicely said “Good-night, sirs,” to them all, and bowed; and Master Shakspere himself let them out at the gate, the others shaking Nick by the hand with many kind wishes, and throwing kisses to Cicely until they went out of sight around the chapel corner.
When the children came to the garden-gate in front of Nick’s father’s house, the red roses still twined in Cicely’s hair, Simon Attwood and his wife Margaret were sitting together upon the old oaken settle by the door, looking out into the sunset. And when they saw the children coming, they arose and came through the garden to meet them, Nick’s mother with outstretched hands, and her face bright with the glory of the setting sun. And when she came to where he was, the whole of that long, bitter year was nothing any more to Nick.
For then—ah, then—a lad and his mother; a son come home, the wandering ended, and the sorrow done!
She took him to her breast as though he were a baby still; her tears ran down upon his face, yet she was smiling—a smile like which there is no other in all the world: a mother’s smile upon her only son, who was astray, but has come home again.
Oh, the love of a lad for his mother, the love of a mother for her son—unchanged, unchanging, for right, for wrong, through grief and shame, in joy, in peace, in absence, in sickness, and in the shadow of death! Oh, mother-love, beyond all understanding, so holy that words but make it common!
“My boy!” was all she said; and then, “My boy—my little boy!”
And after a while, “Mother,” said he, and took her face between his strong young hands, and looked into her happy eyes, “mother dear, I ha? been to London town; I ha’ been to the palace, and I ha’ seen the Queen; but, mother,” he said, with a little tremble in his voice, for all he smiled so bravely, “I ha’ never seen the place where I would rather be than just where thou art, mother dear!”
The soft gray twilight gathered in the little garden; far-off voices drifted faintly from the town. The day was done. Cool and still, and filled with gentle peace, the starlit night came down from the dewy hills; and Cicely lay fast asleep in Simon Attwood’s arms.
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