CHAPTER XII
HOW SHAKESPEARE WROTE HIS PLAYS
As Francis Bacon returned to London from the Peacock, Phoebe had stoodat the foot of the steps leading into the courtyard and watched himdepart. She little foresaw the strange adventure into which he wasdestined to lead her sister. Indeed, her thoughts were too fullyoccupied with another to give admittance to Rebecca's image.
Her lover was in danger--danger to his life and honor. She knew he wasto be saved, yet was not free from anxiety, for she felt that it was tobe her task to save him. To this end she had sent Bacon with his messageto Copernicus. She believed now that a retreat was ready for youngFenton. How would her confidence have been shaken could she have knownthat Copernicus had already left the Panchronicon and that Bacon hadbeen sent in vain!
In ignorance of this, she stood now at the foot of the stairs and lether thoughts wander back to the day before, dwelling with tendernessupon the memory of her lover's patient attendance upon her in that groupof rustic groundlings. With a self-reproachful ache at the heart shepictured herself as she had sat far up in the gallery gazing downwardwith every faculty centred upon the stage, while he, thinking only ofher----
She started and looked quickly to right and left. Why, it was here,almost upon these very stones, that he had stood. Here she had seen himfor one moment at the last as she was leaving her seat. He was leaningupon a rude wooden post. She sought it with her eyes and soon caughtsight of it not ten feet away.
Then she noticed for the first time that she was not alone. A youngfellow in the garb of a hostler stood almost where Guy had been the daybefore. He paid no attention to Phoebe, for he was apparently deeplypreoccupied in carving some device upon the very post against which Guyhad leaned.
Already occupied with her own tenderness, she was quick to conclude thathere, too, was a lover, busy with some emblem of affection. Had notOrlando cut Rosalind's name into the bark of many a helpless tree?
Clasping her hands behind her, she smiled at the lad with head thrownback.
"A wager, lad!" she cried. "Two shillings to a groat thou art cutting alove-token!"
The fellow looked up and tried to hide his knife. Then, grinning, hereplied:
"I'll no take your challenge, mistress. Yet, i' good faith, 'tis but tocrown another's work."
Then, pointing with his blade:
"See where he hath carved letters four," he continued. "Wi' love-links,too. A watched un yestre'en, whiles the play was forward. A do but carvea heart wi' an arrow in't."
She blushed suddenly, wondering if it were Guy who had done this.Stepping to the side of the stable-boy, she examined the post.
The letters were in pairs. They were M. B. and G. F.
Her feeling bubbled over in a little half-stifled laugh.
"Silly!" she exclaimed. Then to the boy: "Know you him who cut theletters?" she asked, with affected indifference.
"Nay, mistress," he replied, falling again to his work, "but he be arare un wi' the bottle."
"The bottle!" Phoebe exclaimed, in amazement. Then quite sternly:"Thou beliest him, knave! No more sober--" She checked herself, suddenlyconscious of her indiscretion.
"Why, how knowest his habits?" she asked, more quietly.
"A saw un, mistress, sitting in the kitchen wi' two bottles o' Spanishwine. Ask the player else."
"The player! What player?"
"Him as was drinking wi' him. Each cracked his bottle, and 'twas nip andtuck which should call first for the second."
So Guy had spent the evening--those hours when she was tenderlydreaming of him with love renewed--drinking and carousing with somedissolute actor!
Within her Phoebe Wise and Mary Burton struggled for mastery of heropinion.
What more natural than that a poor lad, tired with waiting on his feetfor hours for one look from the mistress who disdained him, should seekto forget his troubles quaffing good wine in the company of some wittyplayer? This was Mary's view.
What! To leave the presence of his sweetheart--the girl to whom he hadjust written that penitent letter--to go fresh from the inspiration ofall that should uplift a lover, and befuddle his brains with "rum,"gossiping with some coarse-grained barn-stormer! So Phoebe railed.
"Who was the player?" she asked, sharply.
"Him as wore the long white beard," said the boy. "The Jew, to wit. Eh,but a got his cess, the runnion!"
"Shylock!" she cried, in spite of herself.
So this was the gossiping barn-stormer, the dissolute actor. WillShakespeare it was with whom her Guy had spent the evening! PhoebeWise could but capitulate, and Mary Burton took for a time triumphantpossession of the heart that was Guy Fenton's.
"Have the players left the Peacock?" she asked, eagerly.
"Nay, mistress, know you not that they play to-night at the home of SirWilliam Percy?"
"Then they are here, at the inn, boy?"
"A saw him that played the Jew i' the garden not a half hour since. He'swont to wander there and mutter the words of the play. I'll warrant himthere now, mistress."
Here, indeed, was good fortune! Shakespeare was in the garden. He shouldtell her where to find Guy that she might warn him. Quickly she turnedaway and hurried out of the yard and around the north L, beyond whichwas the garden, laid out with ancient hedges and long beds ofold-fashioned flowers.
Now this same garden was the chief pride of the neighborhood, the moreespecially that gardens were but seldom found attached to inns in thosedays. Here there had been a partly successful attempt to imitate Italianlandscape gardening; but the elaborately arranged paths, beds, andparterres, with their white statues and fountains, lost theireffectiveness closed in as they were by high walls of vine-coveredbrick. It was rumored that once a stately peacock had here once flauntedhis gorgeous plumage, giving his name to the inn itself--but this legendrested upon little real evidence.
When Phoebe reached the entrance to the main walk she stopped andlooked anxiously about her. Nowhere could she see or hear anyone. Sadlydisappointed, she moved slowly forward, glancing quickly to right andleft, still hoping that he whom she sought had not utterly departed.
She reached a small stone basin surmounted by a statue of Plenty, whoseinverted horn suggested a copious stream long since choked up. Behindthe fountain there was a stone bench with a high back. Peeping behindthis, Phoebe found that a second seat was placed beyond the back,inviting a seclusion whose expected purpose was distinctly suggested bya sly little Cupid on a pedestal, holding one forefinger to his smilinglips.
At this moment Phoebe was conscious of a distant mumbling to her left,and, glancing quickly in that direction, she saw a plainly dressed,bareheaded man of medium height just turning into the main walk out of aby-path, where he had been hidden from view by a thick hedge of privet.His eyes were turned upon some slips of paper which he held in one hand.
Could this be he? Shakespeare! The immortal Prince of Poets!
To Mary Burton, the approach of a mere player would have given littleconcern. But Phoebe Wise, better knowing his unrivalled rank, wasseized with a violent attack of diffidence, and in an instant she dodgedbehind the stone seat and sat in hiding with a beating heart.
The steps of the new-comer slowly approached. Phoebe knew not whetherpleasure or a painful fear were stronger within her. Here was indeed theculmination of her strange adventure! There, beyond the stone whichmercifully concealed her, He was approaching--the wondrous Master Mindof literature.
Would he go by unheeding? Could she let him pass on without oneglance--one word? And yet, how address him? How dare to show her face?
The slow steps ceased and at the same time he fell silent. She couldpicture him gazing with unconscious eyes at the fountain while within helistened to the Genius that prompted his majestic works. Again thegravel creaked, and then she knew that he had seated himself on theother bench. The two were sitting back to back with only a stonepartition between them.
To her own surprise, the diffidence which had oppressed her
seemed nowto be gradually passing off. She still realized the privilege sheenjoyed in thus sharing his seat, but perhaps Mary Burton was gainingher head as well as her heart, for she positively began to think ofleaving her concealment, contemplating almost unmoved a meeting with herdemi-god.
Then he spoke.
"The infant first--then the school-boy," he muttered. "So far good! Thethird age--m--m--m--" There was a pause before he proceeded, slowly anddistinctly:
"Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, Sighing his heart out in a woful ballad--
m--m--m--Ah!--
Made to his mistress' eyebrow."
He chuckled audibly a moment, and then, speaking a little louder:
"Fenton to the life, poor lad!" he said.
Phoebe sat up very straight with a startled movement. Oh, to think ofit! That she should have forgotten Sir Guy! To have sought WillShakespeare for the sole purpose of tracing her threatened lover--andthen to forget him for a simple name--a mere celebrity!
Unconscious of the small inward drama so near at hand, the playwrightproceeded with his composition.
"'Sighing his heart out,'" he mused. "Nay, that were too strong a touchfor Jacques. Lighter--lighter." Then, after a moment of thought:"Ay--ay!" he chuckled. "'Sighing like furnace'--poor Fenton! How like avery furnace in his dolor! Yet did he justice to the Canary. So--so! Togo back now:
"Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, Sighing like furnace with a woful ballad Made to his mistress' eyebrow."
'Twill pass, in sooth, 'twill pass!"
Lightly Phoebe climbed onto the bench and peeped over the back. Shelooked down sidewise upon the author, who was writing rapidly in anillegible hand upon one of his paper slips.
There was the head so familiar to us all--the domelike brow, the longhair hanging over the ears. This she could see, but of his face onlythe outline of his left cheek was visible. Strange and unexpected toherself was the light-hearted calm with which, now that she really sawhim, she could contemplate the great poet.
He ceased writing and leaned against the back, gazing straight ahead.
"The third age past, what then? Why the soldier, i' faith--thesoldier----"
"Full of strange oaths"
came a mischievous whisper from an invisible source--
"and bearded like the pard. Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon's mouth."
For a moment the poet sat as though paralyzed with astonishment. Thenrising, he turned and faced the daring girl.
Now she saw the face so well remembered and yet how little known before.Round it was and smooth, save for the small, well-trimmed mustache abovethe beautifully moulded mouth and chin--sensitive yet firm. But aboveall, the splendid eyes! Eyes of uncertain color that seemed to Phoebemirrors of universal life, yet just now full of a perplexed admiration.
For she was herself the centre of a picture well fitted to arrest apoet's attention. Her merry face was peering over the smooth whitestone, with four pink finger-tips on each side clinging for greatersecurity. Behind her a cherry-tree was dropping its snowy blossoms, andtwo or three had fallen unheeded upon her wavy brown hair, making acharming frame for the young eyes and tender lips whose smiling harmonyseemed to sing with arrant roguishness.
With a trilling laugh, half-suppressed, she spoke at last.
"A penny for your thoughts, Master Shakespeare!" she said.
The mood of the astonished player had quickly yielded to the girl'scompelling smile, and his fine lips opened upon a firm line of teeth.
"'Show me first your penny,'" he quoted.
"I'll owe you it."
He laughed and shook his head.
"That would I not my thoughts, damsel."
"Pay them, then. Pay straightway!" she pouted, "and see the account befair."
"Nay, then," he replied, bowing half-mockingly, "an the accountant be sopassing fair, must not the account suffer in the comparison?"
The face disappeared for a moment, and then Phoebe emerged from behindthe stone rampart, dusting her hands off daintily one against the other.
"Did not your wit exceed your gallantry, sir," she said, courtesyingslightly, "I had had my answer sooner."
Shakespeare was somewhat taken aback to see a developed young woman,evidently of gentle birth, where he had thought to find the mereprank-loving child of some neighboring cottager. Instantly his mannerchanged. Bowing courteously, he stepped forward and began in adeferential voice:
"Nay, then, fair mistress, an I had known----"
"Tut--tut!" she interrupted, astonished at her own boldness. "Youthought me a chit, sir. Let it pass. Pray what think you of my lines?"
"They seemed the whisper of a present muse," he said, gayly, but withconviction in his voice. "'Twas in the very mood of Jacques, my lady--amelancholy fellow by profession----"
"Holding that light which another might presently approve"--she brokein--"and praise bestowing on ill deserts in the mere wantonness of acynic wit! What!--doth the cap fit?"
The amazement in her companion's face was irresistible, and Phoebeburst forth into a spontaneous laugh of purest merriment.
"'A hit--a hit--a very palpable hit!'" she quoted, clapping her hands inher glee.
"Were not witches an eldritch race," said Shakespeare, "you, mistress,might well lie under grave suspicion."
"What--what! Do I not fit the wizened stamp of Macbeth's sistersthree?"
Shakespeare flung out his arms with a gesture of despair.
"Yet more and deeper mystery!" he cried. "My half-formedplots--half-finished scraps--the clear analysis of souls whose only lifeis here!" he tapped his forehead. "Say, good lady, has Will Shakespearespoken, perchance, in sleep--yet e'en so, how could----"
He broke off and coming to her side, spoke earnestly in lowered tones.
"Tell me. Have you the fabled power to read the soul? Naught elseexplains your speech."
"Tell me, sir, first the truth," said Phoebe. "In all sadness, MasterShakespeare, have you had aught from Francis Bacon? I mean by way of aidin writing--or e'en of mere suggestion?"
"Bacon--Francis Bacon," said he, evidently at a loss. "There was oneNicholas Bacon----"
"Nay, 'tis of his son I speak."
"Then, in good sooth, I can but answer 'No,' mistress; since that I knewnot even that this Nicholas had a son."
Phoebe heaved a sigh of relief and then went on with a partial returnof her former spirit.
"Then all's well!" she exclaimed. "I am a muse well pleased; and now, anyou will, I'll teach you straight more verses for your play."
"As you like it," said Shakespeare, bowing, half-amused and whollymystified.
"Good!" she retorted, brightly. "'As You Like It' shall you name thepiece, that henceforth this our conversation you may bear in mind."
Smiling, he took up his papers and wrote across the top of one of them"As You Like It" in large characters.
"Now write as I shall bid you," Phoebe said. "Pray be seated, good mypupil, come."
Then, seated there by Phoebe's side, the poet committed to paper thewhole of Jacques's speech on "The Seven Ages," just as Phoebe spoke itfrom her memory of the Shakespeare club at home.
When he ceased scribbling, he leaned forward with elbows on his kneesand ran his eyes slowly and wonderingly over each line in turn,whispering the words destined to become so famous. Phoebe leaned alittle away from her companion, resting one hand on the bench, while shewatched his face with a smile that slowly melted to the mood of dreamymeditation. They sat thus alone in silence for some time, so still thata wren, alighting on the path, hopped pecking among the stones at theirvery feet.
At length the poet, without other change in position, turned his headand looked searchingly and seriously into the young girl's eyes. Whatamazing quality was it that stamped its impress upon the maiden'sface--a something he had never seen or dreamed of? Even a Shakespearecould give no name to that sp
irit of the future out of which she hadcome.
"Is it then true?" he said, in an undertone. "Doth the muse live? Not amere prompting inward sense, but in bodily semblance visiting the poet'seye? Or art thou a creature of Fancy's colors blended, feigningreality?"
Never before had the glamour of her situation so penetrated her to whomthese words were addressed. She was choked by an irrepressible sob thatwas half a laugh, and a film of moisture obscured her vision. With asudden movement, she seized the poet's hand and pressed it to her lips.Then, half-ashamed, she rose and turned away to toy with the foliage ofa shrub that stood beside the path.
"Nay, then!" Shakespeare cried, with something like relief in his voice,"you are no insubstantial spirit, damsel. Yet would I fain more clearlycomprehend thee!"
There was a minute's pause ere Phoebe turned toward the speaker, thatspirit of mischief dancing again in her eyes and on her lips.
"I am Mary Burton, of Burton Hall," she said.
"Oh!" he exclaimed. And then again: "Oh!" with much of understanding andsomething of disappointment.
"Is all clear now?" she asked, roguishly.
Shakespeare rose, and, shaking one finger playfully at her, he said:
"Most clear is this--that Sir Guy knows well to choose in love;although, an I read you aright, my Mistress Mockery, his wife is like toprove passing mettlesome. For the rest, your lover knows poor WillShakespeare's secrets--his Macbeth and half-written Hamlet. 'Tis withthese you have made so bold to-day! My muse, in sooth! Oh, fie--fie!"And he shook his head, laughing.
"Indeed! In very sooth!" said Phoebe, with merry sarcasm. "And was it,then, Guy who brought me these same lines of Jacques the melancholy?"And she pointed to the papers in his hand.
"Nay, there I grant you," said the poet, shaking his head, while thepuzzled expression crept once more into his face.
"Ay, there, and in more than this!" Phoebe exclaimed. "You have spokenof Hamlet, Master Shakespeare. Guy hath told me something of thattragedy. This Prince of Denmark is a most unhappy wight, if I mistakenot. Doth he not once turn to thought of self-murder?"
"Ay, mistress. I have given Sir Guy my thoughts on the theme of Hamlet,and have told him I planned a speech wherein should be made patentHamlet's desperate weariness of life, sickened by brooding on hismother's infamy."
"'To be or not to be, that is the question,'" quoted Phoebe. "Runs itnot so?"
"This passes!" cried Shakespeare, once more all amazement. "I told notthis to your friend!"
"Nor did I from Guy receive it," said Phoebe. "Tell me, MasterShakespeare, have you yet brought that speech to its term?"
"No," he replied, "nor have I found the task an easy one. Much have Iwritten, but 'tis all too slight. Can you complete these lines, thinkyou?"
"My life upon it!" she cried, eagerly.
He shook his head, smiling incredulously.
"You scarce know what you promise," he said. "Can one so young--adamsel, too--sound to its bitter deeps the soul of Hamlet!"
"Think you so?" Phoebe replied, her eyes sparkling. "Then what say youto a bargain, Master Shakespeare? You know where Sir Guy Fenton may befound?"
"Ay, right well! 'Tis a matter of one hour's ride."
"So I thought," she said. "Hear, then, mine offer. I must perforceconvey a message straight that touches the life and honor of Sir Guy. Tosend my servant were over-dangerous, for there may be watchers on mygoing and coming. Will you go, sir, without delay, if that I speak foryou the missing lines completing young Hamlet's soliloquy?"
Shakespeare looked into her face for a few moments in silence.
"Why, truly," he said at last, "I have here present business with myfellow-player Burbidge." He paused, and then, yielding to the pleadingin her eyes: "Yet call it a bargain, mistress," he said. "Speak me thelines I lack and straightway will I take your word to Sir Guy."
"Now blessings on thee!" cried Phoebe. "Give me straight the line youlast have written."
At once the poet began:
"When he himself might his quietus make----"
"With a bare bodkin"--broke in the excited girl. "Who would fardelsbear, to grunt and sweat beneath a weary life, but that the thought ofsomething after death--the undiscovered country from whose bourne notraveller returns--puzzles the will, and makes us rather bear the illswe have than fly to others that we know not of. Thus conscience doesmake cowards of us all, and so the native hue of resolution is sickliedo'er with the pale cast of thought, and enterprises of great pith andmoment by this regard their currents turn awry and lose the name ofaction."
"No more--no more!" cried Shakespeare, in an ecstasy. "More thancompletely hast thou made thy bargain good, damsel unmatchable! What!Can it be! Why here have we the very impress of young Hamlet's soul--'Togrunt and sweat beneath a weary life'--feel you not there compunctionand disgust, seeing in life no cleanly burden, but a 'fardel' truly,borne on the greasy shoulders of filthy slaves!"
He turned and paced back and forth upon the gravel, repeating withoutmistake and with gestures and accents inimitable the lines whichPhoebe had dictated. She watched him, listening attentively, consciousthat what she saw and heard, though given in a moment, were to becarried with her forever; convinced as well that she was for somethingin this, and thankful while half afraid.
Reaching the end of the soliloquy, Shakespeare turned to the maiden, whowas still standing, backed by the warm color of a group of peonies.
"Nay, but tell me, damsel," he cried, appealingly. "Explain this power!Art thou, indeed, no other than Mary Burton?"
How refuse this request? And yet--what explanation would be believed?Perhaps, if she had time, she thought, some intelligible account of thetruth would occur to her.
"And have you forgot your bargain so soon?" she said, reproachfullyshaking her head. "Away, friend, away! Indeed, the matter is urgent andgrave. If, when you return, you will ask for Mary Burton, knowing yourtask fulfilled, she may make clear for you what now must rest inmystery."
"You say well," he replied. "Give me your message, and count fully onWill Shakespeare to carry it with all despatch and secrecy."
Phoebe's face grew grave as she thought of all that depended on hermessenger. She stepped closer to her companion and glanced to right andleft to make sure they were still alone. Then, drawing from her finger aplain gold ring, she offered it to her companion, who took it as shespoke.
"If you will show this to Sir Guy," she said, "he will know that thecase is serious. It beareth writing within the circle--'Sois fidele'--doyou see?"
"Be faithful--ay."
"'Twill be an admonition for you both," said Phoebe, with a faintsmile. "Tell him to be in the lane behind the Peacock garden at sunsetto-morrow even with two good horses, one for himself and one for me.Tell him to come alone and to travel by back ways. Bid him in myname--in God's name--close till then, trusting in me that there is need.Tell him to obey now, that later he may have the right to command."
"Good!" said Shakespeare. "And now good-by until we meet again."
A parting pressure of the hand, and he turned to go to the stables. Shestood by the fountain musing, her eyes fixed on the entrance gate of thegarden until at length a horseman galloped past. He rose in his stirrupsand waved his hand. She ran forward, swept by a sudden dread of hisloss, waving her hands in a passionate adieu.
When she reached the gate no one was in sight.