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, hoarsely, “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.