CHAPTER IX
PHOEBE AT THE PEACOCK INN
While Copernicus Droop was acquiring fame and fortune as a photographer,Rebecca and Phoebe were leading a quiet life in the city.
Phoebe was perfectly happy. For her this was the natural continuationof a visit which her father, Isaac Burton, had very unwillinglypermitted her to pay to her dead mother's sister, Dame Goldsmith. Shewas very fond of both her aunt and uncle, and they petted and indulgedher in every possible way.
Her chief source of happiness lay in the fact that the Goldsmithsfavored the suit of Sir Guy Fenton, with whom she found herself deeplyin love from the moment when he had so opportunely arrived to rescue thesisters from the rude horse-play of the Southwark mob.
Poor Rebecca, on the other hand, found herself in a most unpleasantpredicament. She had shut herself up in her room on the first day of herarrival on discovering that her new hosts were ale drinkers, and she hadinsisted upon perpetuating this imprisonment when she had discoveredthat she would only be accepted on the footing of a servant.
Phoebe, who remembered Rebecca both as her nineteenth-century sisterand as her sixteenth-century nurse and tiring-woman, thought thisdetermination the best compromise under the circumstances, and explainedto her aunt that Rebecca was subject to recurring fits of delusion, andthat it was necessary at such times to humor her in all things.
On the very day of the visit of Francis Bacon to the Panchronicon, thetwo sisters were sitting together in their bed-room. Rebecca was at herknitting by the window and Phoebe was rereading a letter for thetwentieth time, smiling now and then as she read.
"'Pears to amuse ye some," said Rebecca, dryly, looking into hersister's rosy face. "How'd it come? I ain't seen the postman sence we'veben here. Seems to me they ain't up to Keene here in London. We hed apostman twice a day at Cousin Jane's house."
"No, 'twas the flesher's lad brought it," said Phoebe.
Rebecca grunted crossly.
"I wish the land sake ye'd say 'butcher' when ye mean butcher,Phoebe," she said.
"Well, the butcher's boy, then, Miss Particular!" said Phoebe,saucily.
Rebecca's face brightened.
"My! It does sound good to hear ye talk good Yankee talk, Phoebe," shesaid. "Ye hevn't dropped yer play-actin' lingo fer days and days."
"Oh, 'tis over hard to remember, sis!" said Phoebe, carelessly. "Buttell me, would it be unmaidenly, think you, were I to grant Sir Guy aprivate meeting--without the house?"
"Which means would I think ye was wrong to spark with that high-falutinman out o' doors, eh?"
"Yes--say it so an thou wilt," said Phoebe, shyly.
"Why, ef you're goin' to keep comp'ny with him 'tall, I sh'd think ye'dgo off with him by yerself. Thet's the way sensible folks do--at least,I b'lieve so," she added, blushing.
"Aunt Martha hath given me free permission to see Sir Guy when I will,"Phoebe continued. "But she hath been full circumspect, and everkeepeth within ear-shot."
"Humph!" snapped Rebecca. "Y'ain't got any Aunt Martha's fur's I know,but ef ye mean that fat, beer-drinkin' woman downstairs, why, 'tain'tany of her concern, an' I'd tell her so, too."
Phoebe twirled her letter between her fingers and gazed pensivelysmiling out of the window. There was a long pause, which was finallybroken by Rebecca.
"What's the letter 'bout, anyway?" she said. "Is it from the guy?"
"You mean Sir Guy," said Phoebe, in injured tones.
"Oh, well, sir or ma'am! Did he write it?"
"Why, truth to tell," said Phoebe, slipping the note into her bosom,"'Tis but one of the letters I read to thee from yon carved box,Rebecca."
"My sakes--that!" cried her sister. "How'd the butcher's boy find it?You don't s'pose he stole it out o' the Panchronicle, do ye?"
"Lord warrant us, sis, no! 'Twas writ this very day. What o'clock isit?"
She ran to the window and looked down the street toward the clock on theRoyal Exchange.
"Three i' the afternoon," she muttered. "The time is short. Shall I?Shall I not?"
"Talkin' o' letters," said Rebecca, suddenly, "I wish'd you take onedown to the Post-Office fer me, Phoebe." She rose and went to a drawerin the dressing-table. "Here's one 't I wrote to Cousin Jane in Keene. Ithought she might be worried about where we'd got to, an' so I'vewritten an' told her we're in London."
"The Post-Office--" Phoebe began, laughingly. Then she checkedherself. Why undeceive her sister? Here was the excuse she had beenseeking.
"Yes; an' I told her more'n that," Rebecca continued. "I told her thatjest's soon as the Panchronicle hed got rested and got its breath, we'dset off quick fer home--you an' me. Thet's so, ain't it, Phoebe?" sheconcluded, with plaintive anxiety in her voice.
"I'll take the letter right along," said Phoebe, with suddendetermination.
But Rebecca would not at once relax her hold on the envelope.
"That's so, ain't it, dearie?" she insisted. "Won't we make fer home assoon's we can?"
"Sis," said Phoebe, gravely, "an I be not deeply in error, thou artright. Now give me the letter."
Rebecca relinquished the paper with a sigh of relief, then looked up insurprise at Phoebe, who was laughing aloud.
"Why, here's a five-cent stamp, as I live!" she cried. "Where did itcome from?"
"I hed it in my satchel," said Rebecca. "Ain't that the right postage?"
"Yes--yes," said Phoebe, still laughing. "And now for thePost-Office!"
She donned her coif and high-crowned hat with silver braid, and leanedover Rebecca, who had seated herself, to give her a good-by kiss.
"Great sakes!" exclaimed Rebecca, as she received the unaccustomedgreeting. "You do look fer all the world like one o' the Salem witchesin Peter Parley's history, Phoebe."
With a light foot and a lighter heart for all its beating, Phoebe randown the street unperceived from the house.
"Bishopsgate!" she sang under her breath. "The missive namedBishopsgate. He'll meet me within the grove outside the city wall."
Her feet seemed to know the way, which was not over long, and shearrived without mishap at the gate.
Here she was amazed to see two elderly men, evidently merchants, forthey were dressed much like her uncle the goldsmith, approach two gaylydressed gentlemen and, stopping them on the street, proceed to measuretheir swords and the width of their extravagant ruffs with twoyardsticks.
The four were so preoccupied with this ceremony that she slipped pastthem without attracting the disagreeable attention she might otherwisehave received.
As she passed, the beruffled gentlemen were laughing, and she heard oneof them say:
"God buy you, friends, our ruffs and bilbos have had carefulmeasurement, I warrant you."
"Right careful, in sooth," said one of those with the yardsticks. "Theycome within a hair's breadth of her Majesty's prohibition."
Phoebe had scant time for wonder at this, for she saw in a grove not ahundred yards beyond the gate the trappings of a horse, and near by whatseemed a human figure, motionless, under a tree.
Making a circuit before entering the grove, she came up behind thewaiting figure, far enough within the grove to be quite invisible fromthe highway.
She hesitated for some time ere she felt certain that it was indeed SirGuy who stood before her. He was dressed in the extreme of fashion, andshe fancied that she could smell the perfumes he wore, as they wereborne on the soft breeze blowing toward her.
His hair fell in curls on either side from beneath a splendid murreyFrench hat, the crown of which was wound about with a gold cable, thebrim being heavy with gold twist and spangles. His flat soft ruff,composed of many layers of lace, hung over a thick blue satin doublet,slashed with rose-colored taffeta and embroidered with pearls, the frontof which was brought to a point hanging over the front of his hose inwhat was known as a peascod shape. The tight French hose was also ofblue satin, vertically slashed with rose. His riding-boots were of softbrown Spanish leather and his stockings of pearl-gray silk. A pea
rl-graymantle lined with rose-colored taffeta was fastened at the neck, underthe ruff, and fell in elegant folds over his left arm, half concealingthe hand resting upon the richly jewelled hilt of a sword whose scabbardwas of black velvet.
"God ild us!" Phoebe exclaimed in low tones. "What foppery have wehere!"
Then, slipping behind a tree, she clapped her hands.
Guy turned his head and gazed about in wonder, for no one was visible.Phoebe puckered her lips and whistled softly twice. Then, as her loverdarted forward in redoubled amazement, she stepped into view, and smileddemurely upon him with hands folded before her.
The young knight leaped forward, and, dropping on one knee, carried herhand rapturously to his lips.
"Now sink the orbed sun!" he exclaimed. "For behold a fairer cometh,whose love-darting eyes do slay the night, rendering bright dayeternate!"
Smiling roguishly down into his face, Phoebe shook her head andreplied:
"You are full of pretty phrases. Have you not been acquainted withgoldsmiths' wives, and conned them out of rings?"
For an instant the young man was disconcerted. Then rising, he said:
"Nay, from the rings regardant of thine eyes I learned my speech. Whatare golden rings to these?"
"Why, how much better is thy speech when it ringeth true," saidPhoebe. "Thy speech of greeting was conned with much pains from thecold book of prior calculation, and so I answered you from a poet'splay. I would you loved me!"
"Loved thee, oh, divine enchantress--too cruel-lovely captress of mydole-breathing heart!"
"Tut--tut--tut!" she broke in, stamping her foot. "Thou dost it badly,Sir Guy. A truce to Euphuistic word-coining and phrase-shifting! Wiltshow thy love--in all sadness, say!"
"In any way--or sad or gay!"
"Then prithee, good knight, stand on thy head by yonder tree."
The cavalier stepped back and gazed into his lady's face as though hethought her mad.
"Stand--on--my--head!" he exclaimed, slowly.
Phoebe laughed merrily and clapped her hands.
"Good my persuasion!" she rippled. "See how thou art shaken intothyself, man. What! No phrase of lackadaisical rapture! Why, I looked tosee thee invert thine incorporate satin in an airy rhapsody--upheld andkept unruffled by some fantastical twist of thine imagination. Oh,Fancy--Fancy! Couldst not e'en sustain thy knight cap-a-pie!" and shelaughed the harder as she saw her lover's face grow longer and longer.
"Why, mistress," he began, soberly, "these quips and jests ill become alover's tryst, methinks----"
"As ill as paint and scent and ear-rings--as foppish attire andfantastical phrases do become an honest lover," said Phoebe,indignantly. "Dost think that Mary Burton prizes these wearylabyrinthine sentences--all hay and wool, like the monstrous swelling oftrunk hose? Far better can I read in Master Lilly's books. Thinkest thouI came hither to smell civet? Nay--I love better the honest odor ofcabbages in mine aunt's kitchen! And all this finery--this lace--thissatin and this pearl embroidery----"
"In God His name!" the knight broke in, stamping his foot. "Dost take mefor a little half-weaned knave, that I'll learn how to dress me of awoman? An you like not my speech, mistress----"
Phoebe cut him short, putting her hand on his mouth.
Then she leaned her shoulder against a tree, and looking up saucily intohis face:
"Now, don't get mad!" she said.
"Mad--mad!" said Sir Guy, with a puzzled look. "An this be madness,mistress, then is her Majesty's whole court a madhouse."
"Well, young man," Phoebe replied, with her prim New England manner,"if you want to marry me, you'll have to come and live in a countrywhere they don't have queens, and you'll work in your shirt-sleeves likean honest man. You might just's well understand that first as last."
The knight moved back a step, with an injured expression on his face.
"Nay, then," he said, "an thou mock me with uncouth phrases, Mary, I'dbest be going."
"Perhaps you'd better, Guy."
With a reproachful glance, but holding his head proudly, the young manmounted his horse.
"He hath a noble air on horseback," Phoebe said to herself, and shesmiled.
The young man saw the smile and took courage.
He urged his horse forward to her side.
"Mary!" he exclaimed, tenderly.
"Fare thee well!" she replied, coolly, and turned her back.
He bit his lip, clinched his hand, and without another word, struckfiercely with his spurs. With a snort of pain, the horse boundedforward, and Phoebe found herself alone in the grove.
She gazed wistfully after the horseman and clasped her hands in silencefor a few moments. Then, at thought of the letter she knew he was soonto write--the letter she had often seen in the carved box--she smiledagain and, patting her skirts, stepped forth merrily from the edge ofthe grove.
"After all, 'twill teach the silly lad better manners!" she said.
Scarcely had she reached the highway again when she heard a man's voicecalling in hearty tones.
"Well met, Mistress Mary! I looked well to find you near--for I take it'twas Sir Guy passed me a minute gone, spurring as 'twere a shame tosee."
She looked up and saw a stout, middle-aged countryman on horseback,holding a folded paper in his hand.
"Oh, 'tis thou, Gregory!" she said, coolly. "Mend thy manners, man, andkeep thy place."
The man grinned.
"For my place, Mistress Mary," he said, "I doubt you know not where yourplace be."
She looked up with a frown of angry surprise.
"Up here behind me on young Bess," he grinned. "See, here's yourfather's letter, mistress."
She took the paper with one hand while with the other she patted thesoft nose of the mare, who was bending her head around to find hermistress.
"Good Bess--good old mare!" she said, gently, gazing pensively at theletter.
How well she knew every wrinkle in that paper, every curve in the clumsysuperscription. Full well she knew its contents, too; for had she notread this very note to Copernicus Droop at the North Pole? However,partly that he might not be set to asking questions, partly incuriosity, she unfolded the paper.
"DEAR POLL"--it began--"I'm starting behind the grays for London on myway to be knighted by her Majesty. I send this ahead by Gregory on Bess,she being fast enow for my purpose, which is to get thee out of theclutches of that ungodly aunt of thine. I know her tricks, and I learnhow she hath suffered that damned milk-and-water popinjay to comecourting my Poll. So see you follow Gregory, mistress, and without waitor parley come with him to the Peacock Inn, where I lie to-night.
"The grays are in fine fettle, and thy black mare grows too fat for wantof exercise. Thy mother-in-law commands thy instant return with Gregory,having much business forward with preparing gowns and fal lals againstour presentation to her Majesty.--Thy father, Isaac Burton, of BurtonHall.
"Thy mother thinks thou wilt make better speed if I make thee to knowthat the players thou wottest of are to stop at the Peacock Inn and willbe giving some sport there."
"The players!" she exclaimed, eagerly. "Be these the Lord Chamberlain'smen?" she asked. "Is there not among them one Will Shakespeare, Gregory?What play give they to-night?"
"All one to me, mistress," said Gregory, slowly dismounting. "There beplayers at the Peacock, for the kitchen wench told me of them as Istopped there for a pint; but be they the Lord Chamberlain's or theQueen's, I cannot tell."
"Do they play at the Shoreditch Theatre or at the inn, good Gregory?"
"I' faith I know not, mistress," he replied, bracing his brawny righthand, palm up, at his knee.
Mechanically she put one foot into his palm and sprang lightly upon thepillion behind the groom's saddle.
As they turned and started at a jog trot northward, she remembered hersister and her new-found aunt.
"Hold--hold, Gregory!" she cried. "What of Rebecca? What of my aunt--mygowns?"
"I am to send an ostler from the Peacock for yo
ur nurse and clothing,mistress," said Gregory. "My orders was not to wait for aught, but bringyou back instant quickly wheresoever I found you." After a pause he wenton with a grin: "I doubt I came late, hows'ever. Sir Guy hath had hissay, I'm thinkin'!" and he chuckled audibly.
"Now you mind your own business, Gregory!" said Phoebe, sharply.
His face fell, and during the rest of their ride he maintained a rigidsilence.
* * * * *
The next morning found Phoebe sitting in her room in the Peacock Inn,silently meditating in an effort to establish order in the chaos of hermind. Her hands lay passively in her lap, and between her fingers wasan open sheet of paper whose crisp folds showed it to be a letter.
Daily contact with the people, customs, dress, and tongue of ElizabethanEngland was fast giving to her memories of the nineteenth century thedim seeming of a dream. As she came successively into contact with eachnew-old acquaintance, he took his place in her heart and mind fullgrown--completely equipped with all the associations, loves, andantipathies of long familiarity.
Gregory had brought her to the inn the night before, and here she hadreceived the boisterous welcome of old Isaac Burton and the coolergreeting of his dame, her step-mother. They took their places in herheart, and she was not surprised to find it by no means a high one. Theold lady was overbearing and far from loving toward Mistress Mary, asPhoebe began to call herself. As for Isaac Burton, he seemed quitesubject to his wife's will, and Phoebe found herself greatly estrangedfrom him.
That first afternoon, however, had transported her into a paradise thejoys of which even Dame Burton could not spoil.
Sitting in one of the exterior galleries overlooking the courtyard ofthe inn, Phoebe had witnessed a play given on a rough staging erectedin the open air.
The play was "The Merchant of Venice," and who can tell the thrills thattingled through Phoebe's frame as, with dry lips and a beating heart,she gazed down upon Shylock. Behind that great false beard was the faceof England's mightiest poet. That wig concealed the noble forehead sorevered by high and low in the home she had left behind.
She was Phoebe Wise, and only Phoebe, that afternoon, enjoying tothe full the privilege which chance had thrown in her way. And now, themorning after, she went over it all again in memory. She rehearsedmentally every gesture and intonation of the poet-actor, upon whom aloneshe had riveted her attention throughout the play, following him inthought, even when he was not on the stage.
Sitting there in her room, she smiled as she remembered with what astart of surprise she had recognized one among the groundlings in frontof the stage after the performance. It was Sir Guy, very plainly dressedand gazing fixedly upon her. Doubtless he had been there during theentire play, waiting in vain for one sign of recognition. But Shylockhad held her spellbound, and even for her lover she had been blind.
She felt a little touch of pity and compunction as she remembered thesethings, and suddenly she lifted to her lips the letter she was holding.
"Poor boy!" she murmured. Then, shaking her head with a smile: "I wonderhow his letter found my room!" she said.
She rose, and, going to the window where the light was stronger,flattened out the missive and read it again:
"MY DEAR, DEAR MARY--dear to me ever, e'en in thy displeasure--have Ifallen, then, so low in thy sight! May I not be forgiven, sweet girl, orshall I ever stand as I have this day, gazing upward in vain for thedear glance my fault hath forfeited?
"In sober truth, dear heart, I hate myself for what I was. What a sadmummery of lisping nothings was my speech--and what a vanity was myattire! Thou wast right, Mary, but oh! with what a ruthless hand didstthou tear the veil from mine eyes! I have seen my fault and will amendit, but oh! tell me it was thy love and not thine anger that hathprompted thee. And yet--why didst thou avert thine eyes from me thiseven? Sweet--speak but a word--write but a line--give some assurance,dear, of pardon to him who is forever thine in the bonds of love."
She folded the letter slowly and slipped it into the bosom of her dresswith a smile on her lips and a far-away look in her eyes. She had knownthis letter almost by heart before she received it. Had it not been oneof her New England collection? Foreknowledge of it had emboldened her torebuke her lover when she met him by the Bishopsgate--and yet--it hadbeen a surprise and a sweet novelty to her when she had found it on herdressing-table the night before.
At length she turned slowly from the window and said softly:
"Guy's a good fellow, and I'm a lucky girl!"
There was a quick thumping of heavy feet on the landing, and a momentlater a young country girl entered. It was Betty, one of the servinggirls whom Dame Burton had brought with her to London.
The lass dropped a clumsy courtesy, and said:
"Mistress bade me tell ye, Miss Mary, she would fain have ye wait on herat once. She's in the inn parlor." Then, after a pause: "Sure she hathmatter of moment for ye, I warrant, or she'd not look so solemnsatisfied."
Phoebe was strongly tempted to decline this peremptory invitation, butcuriosity threw its weight into the balance with complaisance, and witha dignified lift of the chin she turned to the door.
"Show the way, Betty," she said.
Through several long corridors full of perplexing turns and varied bymany a little flight of steps, the two young women made their way to theprincipal parlor of the inn, where they found Mistress Burton standingexpectantly before a slow log fire.
Phoebe's worthy step-mother was a dame of middle age, ruddy,black-haired, and stout. Her loud voice and sudden movements betrayed agreat fund of a certain coarse energy, and, as her step-daughter nowentered the parlor, she was fanning her flushed face with an openletter. Her expression was one of triumph only half-concealed byill-assumed commiseration.
"Aha, lass!" she cried, as she caught sight of Phoebe, "art here,then? Here are news in sooth--news for--" She broke off and turnedsharply upon Betty, who stood by the door with mouth and ears wide open.
"Leave the room, Betty!" she exclaimed. "Am I to have every lazy jade inLondon prying and eavesdropping? Trot--look alive!"
She strode toward the reluctant maid and, with a good-natured push,hastened her exit. Then, closing the door, she turned again towardPhoebe, who had seated herself by the fire.
"Well, Polly," she resumed, "art still bent on thy foppish lover, lass?Not mended since yesternight--what?"
A cool slow inclination of Phoebe's head was the sole response.
"Out and alas!" the dame continued, tossing her head with mingled piqueand triumph. "'Tis a sad day for thee and thine, then! This Sir Guy ofthine is as good as dead, girl! Thy popinjay is a traitor, and hiscrimes have found him out!"
"A traitor!"
Phoebe stood erect with one hand on her heart.
Dame Burton repressed a smile and continued with a slow shake of thehead:
"Ay, girl; a traitor to her blessed Majesty the Queen. His brother hathbeen discovered in traitorous correspondence with the rebel O'Neill, andis on his way to the Tower. Sir Guy's arrest hath been ordered, and thetwo brothers will lose their heads together."
Very pale, Phoebe stood with hands tight clasped before her.
"Where have you learned this, mother?" she said.
"Where but here!" the dame replied, shaking the open sheet she held inher hand. "Thy Cousin Percy, secretary to my good Lord Burleigh, he hathdespatched me this writing here, which good Master Portman did read tome but now."
"Let me see it."
As Phoebe read the confirmation of her step-mother's ill news, shetried to persuade herself that it was but the fabrication of a jealousrival, for this Percy was also an aspirant to her hand. But it provedtoo circumstantial to admit of this construction, and her first fearswere confirmed.
"Ye see," said Dame Burton, as she received the note again, "the provostguard is on the lad's track, and with a warrant. I told thee thy wilfulways would lead but to sorrow, Poll!"
Phoebe heard only the firs
t sentence of this speech. Her mind waspossessed by one idea. She must warn her lover. Mechanically she turnedaway, forgetful of her companion, and passing through the door with everquicker steps, left her step-mother gazing after her in speechlessindignation.
Phoebe's movements were of necessity aimless at first. Ignorant of SirGuy's present abiding-place, knowing of no one who could reach him, shewandered blindly forward, up one hall and down another without adistinct immediate plan and mentally paralyzed with dread.
The sick pain of fear--the longing to reach her lover's side--these werethe first disturbers of her peace since her return into this strange yetfamiliar life of the past. Now for the first time she was learning howvital was the hold of a sincere and deep love. The thought of harm tohim--the fear of losing him--these swept her being clear of all smallcoquetries and maiden wiles, leaving room only for the strong, true,sensitive love of an anxious woman. Over and over again she whispered asshe walked:
"Oh, Guy--Guy! Where shall I find you? What shall I do!"
She had wandered long through the mazes of the quaint old caravansaryere she found an exit. At length she turned a sharp corner and foundherself at the top of a short flight of steps leading to a door whichopened upon the main outer court. At that moment a new thought leapedinto her mind and she stopped abruptly, a rush of warm color mantling onher cheeks.
Then, with a sigh of content, she sank down upon the top step of theflight she had reached and gently shook her head, smiling.
"Too much Mary Burton, Miss Phoebe!" she murmured.
She had recollected her precious box of letters. Of these there was onewhich made it entirely clear that Mary Burton and her lover weredestined to escape this peril; for it was written from him to her aftertheir flight from England. All her fears fell away, and she was leftfree to taste the sweetness of the new revelation without the bitternessin which that revelation had had its source.
Very dear to Phoebe in after life was the memory of the few momentswhich followed. With her mind free from every apprehension, she leanedher shoulder to the wall and turned her inward sight in charmedcontemplation upon the new treasure her heart had found.
How small, how trifling appeared what she had until then called herlove! Her new-found depth and height of tender devotion even frightenedher a little, and she forced a little laugh to avert the tears.
Through the open door her eyes registered in memory the casual movementswithout, while her consciousness was occupied only with her soul'sexperience. But soon this period of blissful inaction was sharplyterminated. Her still watching eyes brought her a message so incongruouswith her immediate surroundings as to shake her out of her waking dream.She became suddenly conscious of a nineteenth-century intruder amid heralmost medieval surroundings.
All attention now, she sat quickly upright and looked out again.Yes--there could be no mistake--Copernicus Droop had passed the door andwas approaching the principal entrance of the inn on the other side ofthe courtyard.
Phoebe ran quickly to the door and, protecting her eyes with one handfrom the flood of brilliant sunlight, she called eagerly after theretreating figure.
"Mr. Droop--Mr. Droop!"
The figure turned just as Phoebe became conscious of a small crowd ofstreet loafers who had thronged curiously about the courtyard entrance,staring at the new-comer's outlandish garb. She saw the grinning facesturn toward her at sound of her voice, and she shrank back into thehallway to evade their gaze.
The man to whom she had called re-crossed the courtyard with eagersteps. There was something strange in his gait and carriage, but thestrong sunlight behind him made his image indistinct, and besides,Phoebe was accustomed to eccentricities on the part of this somewhatdisreputable acquaintance.
Her astonishment was therefore complete when, on removing his hat as heentered the hallway, this man in New England attire proved to be acomplete stranger.
Evidently the gentleman had suffered much from the rudeness of hisunwelcome followers, for his face was flushed and his manner constrainedand nervous. Bowing slightly, he stood erect just within the door.
"Did you do me the honor of a summons, mistress?" said he.
The look of amazement on Phoebe's face made him bite his lips withincrease of annoyance, for he saw in her emotion only renewed evidenceof the ridicule to which he had subjected himself.
"I--I crave pardon!" Phoebe stammered. "I fear I took you for another,sir."
"For one Copernicus Droop, and I mistake not!"
"Do you know him?" she faltered in amazement.
"I have met him--to my sorrow, mistress. 'Tis the first time and thelast, I vow, that Francis Bacon hath dealt with mountebanks!"
"Francis Bacon!" cried Phoebe, delight and curiosity now added topuzzled amazement. "Is it possible that I see before me Sir FrancisBacon--or rather Lord Verulam, I believe." She dropped a courtesy, towhich he returned a grave bow.
"Nay, good mistress," he replied. "Neither knight nor lord am I, butonly plain Francis Bacon, barrister, and Secretary of the Star Chamber."
"Oh!" Phoebe exclaimed, "not yet, I see."
Then, as a look of grave inquiry settled over Bacon's features, shecontinued eagerly: "Enough of your additions, good Master Bacon. 'Twerebetter I offered my congratulations, sir, than prated of these lessermatters."
"Congratulations! Good lady, you speak in riddles!"
Smiling, she shook her head at him, looking meaningly into his eyes.
"Oh, think not _all_ are ignorant of what you have so ably hidden,Master Bacon," she said. "Can it be that the author of that wondrousplay I saw here given but yesternight can be content to hide his namebehind that of a too greatly favored player?"
"Play, mistress!" Bacon exclaimed. "Why, here be more soothsayingmanners from a fairer speaker--but still as dark as the uncouth ravingsof that fellow--that--that Droop."
"Nay--nay!" Phoebe insisted. "You need fear no tattling, sir. I willkeep your secret--though in very truth, were I in your worship's place,'twould go hard but the whole world should know my glory!"
"Secret--glory!" Bacon exclaimed. "In all conscience, mistress, I begyou will make more clear the matter in question. Of what play speak you?Wherein doth it concern Francis Bacon?"
"To speak plainly, then, sir, I saw your play of the vengeful Jew andgood Master Antonio. What! Have I struck home!"
She leaned against the wall with her hands behind her and looked up athim triumphantly. To her confusion, no answering gleam illumined theyoung man's darkling eyes.
"Struck home!" he exclaimed, shaking his head querulously. "Perhaps--butwhere? Do you perchance make a mock of me, Mistress--Mistress----?"
She replied to the inquiry in his manner and tone with disappointment inher voice:
"Mistress Mary Burton, sir, at your service."
Bacon started back a step and a new and eager light leaped into hiseyes.
"The daughter of Isaac Burton?" he cried, "soon to be Sir Isaac?"
"The same, sir. Do you know my father?"
"Ay, indeed. 'Twas to seek him I came hither."
Then, starting forward, Bacon poured forth in eager accents a fullaccount of his meeting with Droop in the deserted grove--of how they twohad conspired to evade the bailiffs, and of his reasons for borrowingDroop's clothing.
"Conceive, then, my plight, dear lady," he concluded, "when, on reachingLondon, I found that the few coins which remained to me had been left inthe clothes which I gave to this Droop, and I have come hither toimplore the temporary aid of your good father."
"But he hath gone into London, Master Bacon," said Phoebe. "It is mostlike he will not return ere to-morrow even."
Droop's hat dropped from Bacon's relaxed grasp and he seemed to wilt inhis speechless despair.
Phoebe's sympathy was awakened at once, but her anxiety to know moreof the all-important question of authorship was perhaps the keenest ofher emotions.
"Why," she exclaimed, "'tis a little matter that needs not my father,methinks. If ten po
unds will serve you, I should deem it an honor toprovide them."
Revived by hope, he drew himself up briskly as he replied:
"Why, 'twill do marvellous well, Mistress Mary--marvellous well--norshall repayment be delayed, upon my honor!"
"Nay, call it a fee," she replied, "and give me, I beg of you, a legalopinion in return."
Bacon stooped to pick up the hat, from which he brushed the dust withhis hand as he replied, with dubious slowness, looking down:
"Why, in sooth, mistress, I am used to gain a greater honorarium. As abarrister of repute, mine opinions in writing----"
"Ah, then, I fear my means are too small!" Phoebe broke in, with asmile. "'Tis a pity, too, for the matter is simple, I verily believe."
Bacon saw that he must retract or lose all, and he went on with somehaste:
"Perchance 'tis not an opinion in writing that is required," he said.
"Nay--nay; your spoken word will suffice, Master Bacon."
"In that case, then----"
She drew ten gold pieces from her purse and dropped them into hisextended palm. Then, seating herself upon a bench against the wall hardby, she said:
"The case is this: If a certain merchant borrow a large sum from a Jewin expectation of the speedy arrival of a certain argosy of greattreasure, and if the merchant give his bond for the sum, the penalty ofthe bond being one pound of flesh from the body of the merchant, and ifthen the argosies founder and the bond be forfeit, may the Jew recoverthe pound of flesh and cut it from the body of the merchant?"
As she concluded, Phoebe leaned forward and watched her companion'sface earnestly, hoping that he would betray his hidden interest in thisShakespearian problem by some look or sign.
The face into which she gazed was grave and judicial and the reply was aready one.
"Assuredly not! Such a bond were contrary to public policy and void _abinitio_. The case is not one for hesitancy; 'tis clear and certain. Nocourt in Christendom would for a moment lend audience to the Jew. Why,to uphold the bond were to license murder. True, the victim hath to thisconsented; but 'tis doctrine full well proven and determined, that noman can give valid consent to his own murder. Were this otherwise,suicide were clearly lawful."
"Oh!" Phoebe exclaimed, as this new view of the subject was presentedto her. "Then the Duke of Venice----"
She broke off and hurried into new questioning.
"Another opinion hath been given me," she said. "'Twas urged that theJew could have his pound of flesh, for so said the bond, but that hemight shed no blood in the cutting, blood not being mentioned in thebond, and that his goods were forfeit did he cut more or less than apound, by so much as the weight of a hair. Think you this be law?"
Still could she see no shadow in Bacon's face betraying consciousnessthat there was more in her words than met the ear.
"No--no!" he replied, somewhat contemptuously. "If that A make promiseof a chose tangible to B and the promise fall due, B may have not onlythat which was promised, but all such matters and things accessory asmust, by the very nature of the agreed transfer, be attached to thething promised. As, if I sell a calf, I may not object to his removalbecause, forsooth, some portion of earth from my land clingeth to hishoofs. So blood is included in the word 'flesh' where 'twere impossibleto deliver the flesh without some blood. As for that quibble of nor morenor less, why, 'tis the debtor's place to deliver his promise. If hehimself cut off too much, he injures himself, if too little he hath notmade good his covenant."
Complete conviction seemed to spring upon Phoebe, as though it hadbeen something visible to startle her. It shook off her old English selffor a moment, and she leaped to her feet, exclaiming:
"Well, there now! That settles that! I guess if anybody wroteShakespeare, it wasn't Bacon!"
The astonishment--almost alarm--in her companion's face filled her withamusement, and her happy laugh rang through the echoing halls.
"Many, many gracious thanks, good Master Bacon!" she exclaimed. "Rightwell have you earned your honorarium. And now, ere you depart, may Imake bold to urge one last request?"
With a bow the young man expressed his acquiescence.
"If I mistake not, you will return forthwith to Master Droop, to the endthat you may regain your proper garb, will you not?"
"That is my intention."
"Then I pray you, good Master Bacon, deliver this message to MasterDroop from one Phoebe Wise, an acquaintance of his whom I know well.Tell him he must have all in readiness for flight and must not leave hisabode until she come. May I rely on your faithful repetition of this tohim?"
"Assuredly. I shall forget no word of the message wherewith I am sohonored."
"Tell him that it is a matter of life and death, sir--of life anddeath!"
She held out her hand. Bacon pressed his lips to the dainty fingers andthen, jamming the hard Derby hat as far down over his long locks aspossible, he stepped forth once more into the courtyard.
The Panchronicon Page 9
