“There,” said Master Shakspere, pointing to the second bag, “are one hundred and fifty gold rose-nobles. In the other just three hundred more. Neighbor Attwood, we shall have no paupers here.”
Everybody laughed then and clapped their hands, and the London players gave a rousing cheer. Master Ben Jonson’s shout might have been heard in Market Square.
At this tremendous uproar the servants peeped at the doors and windows; and Tom Boteler, peering in from the buttery hall, and seeing the two round money-bags plumping on the table, crept away with such a look of amazement upon his face that Mollikins, the scullery-maid, thought he had seen a ghost, and fled precipitately into the pantry.
“And what’s more, Neighbor Tanner,” said Master Richard Burbage, “had Carew’s daughter not sixpence to her name, we vagabond players, as ye have had the scanty grace to dub us, would have cared for her for the honour of the craft, and reared her gently in some quiet place where there never falls even the shadow of such evil things as have been the end of many a right good fellow beside old Kit Marlowe and Gaston Carew.”
“And to that end, Neighbor Attwood,” Master Shakspere added, “we have, through my young Lord Hunsdon, who has just been made State Chamberlain, Her Majesty’s gracious permission to hold this money in trust for the little maid as guardians under the law.”
Cicely stared around perplexed. “Won’t Nick be there?” she asked. “Why, then I will not go—they shall not take thee from me, Nick!” and she threw her arms around him. “I’m going to stay with thee till daddy comes, and be thine own sister forever.”
Master Jonson laughed gently, not his usual roaring laugh, but one that was as tender as his own bluff heart. “Why, good enough, good enough! The woman who mothered a lad like Master Skylark here is surely fit to rear the little maid.”
The London players thumped the table. “Why, ’tis the very trick,” said Hemynge. “Marry, this is better than a play.”
“It is indeed,” quoth Condell. “See the plot come out!”
“Thou’lt do it, Attwood—why, of course thou’lt do it,” said Master Shakspere. “’Tis an excellent good plan. These funds we hold in trust will keep thee easy-minded, and warrant thee in doing well by both our little folks. And what’s more,” he cried, for the thought had just come in his head, “I have ever heard thee called an honest man; hard, indeed, perhaps too hard, but honest as the day is long. Now I need a tenant for this New Place of mine—some married man with a good housewife, and children to be delving in the posy-beds outside. What sayst thou, Simon Attwood? They tell me thy ’prentice, Job Hortop, is to marry in July—he’ll take thine old house at a fair rental. Why, here, Neighbor Attwood, thou toil-worn, time-damaged tanner, bless thy hard old heart, man, come, be at ease—thou hast ground thy soul out long enough! Come, take me at mine offer—be my fellow. The rent shall trickle off thy finger-tips as easily as water off a duck’s back!”