then the crowd lapped them up and closed them in, and I saw no more, being called by my master, who was in a rage because a joint that the scrivener had ordered was forgot, though I take all the saints to witness that to blame ME for that miscarriage were like holding the unborn babe to judgment for sins com — ”
“Out of my sight, idiot! Thy prating drives me mad! Hold! Whither art flying? Canst not bide still an instant? Went they toward Southwark?”
“Even so, your worship — for, as I said before, as to that detestable joint, the babe unborn is no whit more blameless than — ”
“Art here YET! And prating still! Vanish, lest I throttle thee!” The servitor vanished. Hendon followed after him, passed him, and plunged down the stairs two steps at a stride, muttering, “‘Tis that scurvy villain that claimed he was his son. I have lost thee, my poor little mad master — it is a bitter thought — and I had come to love thee so! No! by book and bell, NOT lost! Not lost, for I will ransack the land till I find thee again. Poor child, yonder is his breakfast — and mine, but I have no hunger now; so, let the rats have it — speed, speed! that is the word!” As he wormed his swift way through the noisy multitudes upon the Bridge he several times said to himself — clinging to the thought as if it were a particularly pleasing one — ”He grumbled, but he WENT — he went, yes, because he thought Miles Hendon asked it, sweet lad — he would ne’er have done it for another, I know it well.”
Chapter XIV. ‘Le Roi est mort — vive le Roi.’
Toward daylight of the same morning, Tom Canty stirred out of a heavy sleep and opened his eyes in the dark. He lay silent a few moments, trying to analyse his confused thoughts and impressions, and get some sort of meaning out of them; then suddenly he burst out in a rapturous but guarded voice —
“I see it all, I see it all! Now God be thanked, I am indeed awake at last! Come, joy! vanish, sorrow! Ho, Nan! Bet! kick off your straw and hie ye hither to my side, till I do pour into your unbelieving ears the wildest madcap dream that ever the spirits of night did conjure up to astonish the soul of man withal! … Ho, Nan, I say! Bet!”
A dim form appeared at his side, and a voice said —
“Wilt deign to deliver thy commands?”
“Commands? … O, woe is me, I know thy voice! Speak thou — who am I?”
“Thou? In sooth, yesternight wert thou the Prince of Wales; to-day art thou my most gracious liege, Edward, King of England.”
Tom buried his head among his pillows, murmuring plaintively —
“Alack, it was no dream! Go to thy rest, sweet sir — leave me to my sorrows.”
Tom slept again, and after a time he had this pleasant dream. He thought it was summer, and he was playing, all alone, in the fair meadow called Goodman’s Fields, when a dwarf only a foot high, with long red whiskers and a humped back, appeared to him suddenly and said, “Dig by that stump.” He did so, and found twelve bright new pennies — wonderful riches! Yet this was not the best of it; for the dwarf said —
“I know thee. Thou art a good lad, and a deserving; thy distresses shall end, for the day of thy reward is come. Dig here every seventh day, and thou shalt find always the same treasure, twelve bright new pennies. Tell none — keep the secret.”
Then the dwarf vanished, and Tom flew to Offal Court with his prize, saying to himself, “Every night will I give my father a penny; he will think I begged it, it will glad his heart, and I shall no more be beaten. One penny every week the good priest that teacheth me shall have; mother, Nan, and Bet the other four. We be done with hunger and rags, now, done with fears and frets and savage usage.”
In his dream he reached his sordid home all out of breath, but with eyes dancing with grateful enthusiasm; cast four of his pennies into his mother’s lap and cried out —
“They are for thee! — all of them, every one! — for thee and Nan and Bet — and honestly come by, not begged nor stolen!”
The happy and astonished mother strained him to her breast and exclaimed —
“It waxeth late — may it please your Majesty to rise?”
Ah! that was not the answer he was expecting. The dream had snapped asunder — he was awake.
He opened his eyes — the richly clad First Lord of the Bedchamber was kneeling by his couch. The gladness of the lying dream faded away — the poor boy recognised that he was still a captive and a king. The room was filled with courtiers clothed in purple mantles — the mourning colour — and with noble servants of the monarch. Tom sat up in bed and gazed out from the heavy silken curtains upon this fine company.
The weighty business of dressing began, and one courtier after another knelt and paid his court and offered to the little King his condolences upon his heavy loss, whilst the dressing proceeded. In the beginning, a shirt was taken up by the Chief Equerry in Waiting, who passed it to the First Lord of the Buckhounds, who passed it to the Second Gentleman of the Bedchamber, who passed it to the Head Ranger of Windsor Forest, who passed it to the Third Groom of the Stole, who passed it to the Chancellor Royal of the Duchy of Lancaster, who passed it to the Master of the Wardrobe, who passed it to Norroy King-at-Arms, who passed it to the Constable of the Tower, who passed it to the Chief Steward of the Household, who passed it to the Hereditary Grand Diaperer, who passed it to the Lord High Admiral of England, who passed it to the Archbishop of Canterbury, who passed it to the First Lord of the Bedchamber, who took what was left of it and put it on Tom. Poor little wondering chap, it reminded him of passing buckets at a fire.
Each garment in its turn had to go through this slow and solemn process; consequently Tom grew very weary of the ceremony; so weary that he felt an almost gushing gratefulness when he at last saw his long silken hose begin the journey down the line and knew that the end of the matter was drawing near. But he exulted too soon. The First Lord of the Bedchamber received the hose and was about to encase Tom’s legs in them, when a sudden flush invaded his face and he hurriedly hustled the things back into the hands of the Archbishop of Canterbury with an astounded look and a whispered, “See, my lord!” pointing to a something connected with the hose. The Archbishop paled, then flushed, and passed the hose to the Lord High Admiral, whispering, “See, my lord!” The Admiral passed the hose to the Hereditary Grand Diaperer, and had hardly breath enough in his body to ejaculate, “See, my lord!” The hose drifted backward along the line, to the Chief Steward of the Household, the Constable of the Tower, Norroy King-at-Arms, the Master of the Wardrobe, the Chancellor Royal of the Duchy of Lancaster, the Third Groom of the Stole, the Head Ranger of Windsor Forest, the Second Gentleman of the Bedchamber, the First Lord of the Buckhounds, — accompanied always with that amazed and frightened “See! see!” — till they finally reached the hands of the Chief Equerry in Waiting, who gazed a moment, with a pallid face, upon what had caused all this dismay, then hoarsely whispered, “Body of my life, a tag gone from a truss-point! — to the Tower with the Head Keeper of the King’s Hose!” — after which he leaned upon the shoulder of the First Lord of the Buckhounds to regather his vanished strength whilst fresh hose, without any damaged strings to them, were brought.
But all things must have an end, and so in time Tom Canty was in a condition
