PARFLETE was put to bed at once, and late as was the hour a chirurgeon
was sent for. He dressed the wound, and inclined to the opinion that
the limb might be saved. But the injury was so severe that weeks must
pass before the young actor could hope to appear again in the theater.
Now this accident and its consequences had filled Shakespeare with
consternation. On the Thursday following, but six days hence, the
new comedy was to be given by the Queen’s command in Richmond Park.
The chief female character, that of _Rosalind_, had been written and
designed for this rising young actor. It was impossible at such short
notice to fill his place. There was no other member of the company who
came near Parflete in fitness for the part. The author felt that much
depended on a graceful, slender and attractive _Rosalind_. It was with
such a personage ever in his mind that the play had been composed for
the delectation of an exacting critic.
The next morning, when the full extent of the calamity was known,
Shakespeare bitterly lamented the lack of judgment which had allowed
Parflete to bear a part in the perilous transactions of the night
before. It was vain to repine, but the playwright would now have given
much to be able to undo this grievous accident.
There was also another aspect of the case that filled him with concern.
Gervase Heriot had been recognized by his uncle’s steward. The aid of
the law must already have been invoked. If the young man remained at
the Crown, it was doubtful whether his present disguise would be a
sufficient concealment, and if taken he would certainly be charged with
the murder of his uncle. Not that that mattered particularly to one
already under sentence of death. But it might matter very much to those
who had associated themselves with the young man in the harebrained
enterprise which had ended so disastrously.
Truly the reflections of William Shakespeare were not of roseate hue
this morning. Looking back on the night’s adventure, it seemed to be
as grimly fantastic as a scene out of one of his own plays. When he
had planned the weird scene that had been enacted to the very letter
of his invention, he had had a very special object in view, yet he had
not looked to the matter to be pushed to that extremity. It was hardly
in human nature to mourn the occurrence, for the world was undoubtedly
well rid of a bad man. Moreover, the object of the playwright’s
audacious stratagem had been achieved. He held in his hands a paper,
which even if obtained by means so irregular, was enough to clear
Gervase Heriot, always provided that the Queen could be brought to
reconsider his case. But the feeling now uppermost in the mind of
the dramatist was one of distress. He feared that he had drawn his
companions into one of those sinister transactions in which no man in
that age could afford to be involved.
Two things must be done, and they must be done speedily. It was
imperative for the Lord Chamberlain’s players to leave Oxford at once.
And an efficient substitute for Parflete must be found immediately if
the comedy was to be given in its integrity before the Queen on the
Thursday following.
In the stress of these urgent matters, the playwright took counsel of
Richard Burbage. That worthy was in the middle of a substantial if
belated breakfast.
“In the first matter, I agree with you,” he said, upon hearing what
his colleague had to say. “There will be security for none of us until
we are out of Oxford, and perhaps not even then. As to who is to play
_Rosalind_ now that Parflete is sick, heaven help us but I know not.”
“Tarbert might play the part,” said the author of the comedy. “He has a
light womanish voice, but then his legs do not match and he has no more
grace than a soused mackerel. As I see my sweet _Rosalind_, she should
be all grace and limberness, all delicacy, tenderness and fantasy.”
“Yes, I grant you it would be asking too much of Tarbert,” said the
tragedian, addressing himself very seriously to a quart of ale. “It
would be asking too much of any of us except Parflete. I am afraid,
William Shakespeare, this is going to be a sad detriment to your play.”
The playwright agreed.
“With a good _Rosalind_,” he said, “the play might pass. But without a
good _Rosalind_, it is like to be a plaguy poor thing. I confess I had
Parflete in my mind from the first. The lad has not yet had scope for
his talent. He is a youth of most excellent refined wit and very neat
and comely besides. I am sure if Gloriana could but have seen him as
_Rosalind_ to young Warburton’s _Celia_, she would have been very well
pleased with him.”
“Yes, and with the play, too,” said Burbage. “’Tis a thousand pities.
For between ourselves, my William, if _Rosalind_ fails us, there
is mighty little substance in our new comedy to set before such an
appetite as Gloriana’s.”
“That’s true enough,” said the playwright, gloomily. “And a writer is a
fool who leans too heavily on a single character. Yet I love that sweet
saucy quean, but God help us all if Tarbert plays her.”
“Would it offend Gloriana if you put on one of your older pieces?”
“Yes, accursedly--you know that, Dick, well enough. It is her whim to
have something entirely new as a midsummer masque, and if she is fobbed
off with an old thing, we shall none of us ever be forgiven.”
“‘Measure for Measure’ she has not seen.”
The playwright shook his head.
“It moves too slow for Gloriana,” he said. “It is too much the work
of the apprentice. And she’d smell out its weakness before we were
half through the first act, for that crabbed old woman--whom God
protect!--has got the keenest nose in the realm in matters dramatical.
The old harridan is wonderful in some ways.” The tone of the playwright
was more reverent than the words it expressed.
“Well, it is a plaguy ill business, William Shakespeare,” said the
tragedian, again having serious recourse to his tankard. “A plaguy ill
business altogether, what with this affair of last night, which is very
like to land us all in the Jug, and young Parflete’s hurt, and now this
offence to Gloriana. However, it is a poor heart that repines. ’Tis all
in the great comedy, my William, ’tis all in the great comedy. Sit ye
down, man, and cut yourself a piece of this most excellent pasty, and
I’ll call the drawer, who shall comfort you with an honest quart of
this right excellent ale.”
Mr. William Shakespeare, however, had little use just now for this
robust philosophy. Mutton pasties and tankards of ale did not appeal to
him this morning. Far more serious matters were afoot.
At this moment, Anne Feversham chanced to enter the inn parlor. And it
was almost as if that sweetly forlorn figure had been conjured up by
the instancy of the poet’s thoughts. She was still in her boy’s dress.
Here was the natural grace, the delicacy of limb and feature, the
perfect harmony of mind and mansion of the true _Rosalind_.
Indeed, that shy and slender grace was the ideal of the poet’s fancy.
He knew now that it was the sight of her in hawking dress in the
tailor’s shop that had set his mind upon the Forest of Arden. And now
her presence in that room kindled once again the eager mind. An idea
sprang into it; an idea audacious, impulsive, extravagant, yet not
wholly outside the region of the possible.
If only this creature, all charm and grace, could be taught to play the
part at so short a notice!
There was no need for the poet to put into words that which had flashed
through his brain. Nay, hardly did he need to look at Richard Burbage
for his friend to read that which was published already in a face so
expressive that it declared his lightest thought.
“Yes, why not?” said the playwright suddenly, without context.
Burbage shook his head. He had a clear perception of the idea that had
kindled the mind of his friend, but it was hardly to be taken seriously.
“Why not, I ask you?” said the playwright. “I am sure there is a ready
wit in that face, and if she has a quick apprehension, there is no
reason why she should not learn the part in a week. Besides,”--the poet
began to pace the room in the stress of the excitement the idea was
generating in his brain--“it would be a means of bringing her to the
Queen’s notice.”
Richard Burbage, however, lent no countenance to this fantastic idea.
He knew Anne’s tragic story. But he had a sufficient awe of the Queen’s
displeasure to have a grave regard for the peril of such a course.
“No, no,” he said, “I pray you dismiss so wild a thought. No one knows
better than you the temper of the Queen. And if she took this matter
amiss, it would bode as ill for us at it would for Mistress Feversham.”
But already the idea had sunk deep. The playwright was alive also to
its possibilities from another point of view. It might prove a means of
gaining the Queen’s sympathies for Gervase Heriot.
“Dick,” he said, “do not forget that now we hold a proof of Mr.
Heriot’s innocence. And should we adduce it in the right season, as
I have good hope of doing, there is every reason to suppose that
Gloriana, who at heart is a just woman, will view the matter tenderly.”
“I beg leave to differ from you there, William Shakespeare,” said
Burbage. “As far as I can see, there is precious little reason to
believe anything of the kind. No one has yet fathomed the Queen’s
caprices. And it ill behooves us of all men, who exist by favor of the
public, to be mixed up in treasonable matters. Besides, after what
happened last night I for one have no longer a stomach for them.”
The poet, however, was not to be deterred by these counsels of
prudence. His sympathies were too deeply engaged. He had taken this
ill-starred pair to his heart. Assured that Gervase Heriot was the
victim of a callous conspiracy, he was fully determined not to rest now
until his wrong had been redressed.
Like Burbage, however, he was fully alive to the peril of mixing
in matters that could so readily be construed as treason. And none
realized more clearly than he the danger that lurked in any affront
to the Queen. Poet as he was, and a dreamer of dreams, he owed his
position among his fellows primarily to the fact that he was a
remarkably able man of affairs. His was the vision that could see, the
wit that could mold, the tenacious power of will that could compass the
design.
Thus in spite of his friend’s caution, the playwright went presently in
search of Anne. Ultimately, he found her in the inn garden sitting by
the side of Gervase Heriot, within the shade of its single yew tree.
Taken by surprise, she had barely time to disengage her arms from about
the young man’s neck, let alone to check the tears that were flowing
down her cheeks.
Gervase, it seemed, was bent on going to London that day. Now that he
had learned Sir John Feversham’s peril, he felt it impossible to stay
longer in hiding. To do so would surely cause the Constable’s life to
be forfeit.
The player did his best to reassure the young man. Sir John’s peril was
undoubtedly great, but hardly so immediate as all that. As he had not
yet been brought to his trial, there was hardly reason to suppose that
he would have lost his head six days hence, when the player would have
the ear of the Queen.
At the same time, Shakespeare agreed that after the unlucky business
of the previous night, Oxford was no place for any one of them. The
sooner they quitted it the better, since at any moment a hue and cry
was likely to be upon them. A play had to be given at two o’clock that
afternoon by the Lord Chamberlain’s servants. But Shakespeare had
already come to the conclusion that as soon as it was at an end, the
Company would do well to lose no time in setting out for London.
The player now proposed that Gervase should keep his present disguise
and return that evening with the others. Particularly anxious not to
lose sight of the young man, and hoping also to prevent his doing
anything unwise, Shakespeare entreated him to stay with the Company and
accept the hospitality of his lodging on the Bankside until such time
as his case could be brought to the Queen’s notice.
Much persuasion was necessary before Gervase could be brought to accede
to this course. But when Shakespeare gave a solemn promise that he
would return to London that evening, and that he would take care to
keep well informed of all that related to the position of Sir John
Feversham, the young man gave a reluctant consent. He would lie in
hiding in the player’s lodging in Southwark, until a favorable moment
came to present his case to the Queen.
Shakespeare was glad to have obtained this promise from Gervase Heriot.
And he then unfolded the design that was in his mind. Having referred
to Parflete’s accident and its disastrous effect upon the new comedy
which depended so much on the part that young actor had to play, the
author made so bold as to suggest to Anne that she should undertake
the chief female character in her boy’s dress. Nature, he said, had
equipped her perfectly for the part of _Rosalind_, if only she could
learn to play it at so short a notice. Moreover, it would be a golden
opportunity to bring her to the favorable consideration of the Queen.
Would Mistress Feversham venture upon a task so delicate and so
difficult?
“Yes,” said Anne, “I will, indeed, if you think my doing so may help to
save the life of Gervase.”
She spoke with a candor, a simplicity, a decision which told the
playwright that here was a firm will and a high courage. And such
evidence removed at least half of the risk he was about to run. One
who could take such a resolve with such a clear determination was not
likely to fail in the critical hour.
“Mistress,” said Shakespeare, “you shall receive instruction at once.
And if you can make yourself reasonably perfect in the part by next
Thursday, you shall play before the Queen.”
Gervase, however, was strongly averse from the scheme. Still, the
event of the previous night had furnished signal proof of the player’s
wisdom. Such a design might appear far sought, yet surely not more so
than the one which a few hours ago had been brought to such a terrible
issue.
Gervase, therefore, was bound to heed the proposal. And, after all,
the most grievous of his many misgivings were those concerning the
fate of Anne herself. In the event of his own sentence being carried
out, she was determined to die, too. Even if now he went to London to
give himself up, her whole mind was set on accompanying him. All that
dissuasion could do had failed to move her from that clear design.
Wherever he went she would go with him, even into eternity itself.
In the end, it was perhaps the resolved attitude of Anne that enabled
Shakespeare to get his way. And, after all, if she had the courage to
embrace a plan so desperate, it was hardly for Gervase to dissent.
And she, it seemed, with a strange faith discerned some slender hope in
it. Such a faith could only spring out of the depths of her despair.
But with the dauntless courage that had carried her through everything,
she began at once to bring the whole force of her will to bear on the
matter in hand.
Little as she knew of the man who had made this singular proposal,
she could not remain insensible to his personality. It appealed to
her in a subtle way. This man, with his gentle voice and face of sad
expressiveness, had masked depths of power that few men and fewer women
were able to resist.
Thus it was that the luckless fugitives came to yield themselves to
the player’s care. Their pass was desperate, indeed. Whatever happened
now could not make it worse. God knew, the expedient offered was
forlorn enough, but for the sake of the slender hope it bore, they
would submit themselves entirely to this man’s hands.