Nick stood hesitating between Cicely and his father, faithful to his promise, though his heart was sick for home.
An odd light had been struggling dimly in Simon Attwood’s troubled eyes. Then all at once it shone out bright and clear, and he clapped his bony hand upon the stout oak chair. “Bring her along,” he said. “I ha’ little enough, but I will do the best I can. Maybe ’twill somehow right the wrong I ha’ done,” he added huskily. “And, neighbors, I’ll go surety to the Council that she shall na fall a pauper or a burden to the town. My trade is ill enough, but, sirs, it will stand for forty pound the year at a fair cast-up. Bring the lass wi’ thee, Nick—we’ll make out, lad, we’ll make out. God will na let it all go wrong.”
Master Jonson and Master Shakspere had been nodding and talking together in a low tone, smiling like men very well pleased about something, and directly Master Shakspere left the room.
“Wilt thou come, lad?” asked the tanner, holding out his hands.
“Oh, father!” cried Nick; then he choked so that he could say no more, and his eyes were so full of mist that he could scarcely find his father where he stood.
But there was no need of more; Simon Attwood was answered.
Voices buzzed about the room. The servants whispered in the hall. Nick held his father’s gnarled hand in his own, and looked curiously up into his face, as if for the first time knowing what it was to have a father.
“Well, lad, what be it?” asked the tanner, huskily, laying his hand on his son’s curly head, which was nearly up to his shoulder now.
“Nothing,” said Nick, with a happy smile, “only mother will be glad to have Cicely—won’t she?”
Master Shakspere came into the room with something in his hand, and walking to the table, laid it down.