MR. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE had had a bad night. Indeed he had hardly slept at all. For the life of him he could not rid his mind of that tragic matter in which by fate’s unkindness he had come to be an unwilling actor.
His thoughts reverted continually to those hapless children of destiny begging their bread in the hamlets round Oxford, while their lives hung by a thread; and to the luckless falconer, man of high instincts and strong tormented soul, pursuing them relentlessly from place to place. To this man, moreover, whatever his God and his conscience might have to say to him, he had been tempted to lie.
It was now eight o’clock of another glorious summer morning, and the playwright, looking rather wild-eyed and haggard, sat on the bench before the door of the Crown Tavern as he had done the previous day. But now, instead of holding a mass of papers on his knee he was seeking solace from a thick brown folio lately from the press, North’s noble translation of the Lives of Plutarch.
It is strange how events repeat themselves. As on the previous day at that hour, the player suddenly looked up from the page and beheld the identical sight upon which his eyes had then rested. Two nut-brown wanderers were coming towards him, without a noise of music this time, but walking hand in hand as if each desired the sustenance of the other’s courage.
Clearly the player was more than a little startled by the sight of them. A curious look flitted across his face. It was almost that of one who has seen a phantom in the daylight.
The fugitives were quick to notice that the player’s manner towards them had changed. For all their raggedness his address was far more considered than it had been the previous day. In lieu of the air of light, graceful badinage that had charmed them then was a grave tone which was not without a note of respectfulness. It was as if he had learned since last he had seen them that they were not as they appeared.
“I give you good morrow, sir,” said Gervase.
He kept the humble tone he was wont to use in his present condition. But now a look of pity came into the face of the play-actor.
Somehow this entire change in Shakespeare’s manner, together with the nature of the errand on which they had come, served to embarrass discourse. On the side of neither was the lightness and ease of the day before. The few lame sentences they exchanged seemed further to increase the difficulty.
But at last said the player suddenly, fixing them both with his gentle but somber eyes: “Sit here, my friends, on the bench beside me and tell me a little of yourselves.”
The look of the man was so gravely beguiling that they were fain to do as he desired.
How to begin his strange, his incredible story was now the problem for Gervase. How much should he tell? He would take this man fully into his confidence in all that concerned himself, but in regard to Anne it was another affair. Indeed, so little did the part she had borne relate to their present need of this man’s kindness that Gervase was determined not to mention her unless circumstances forced him to do so.
It was not easy to begin the story. But, after a moment of awkwardness in which there was a slow gathering of all he had of resolution, the young man took the plunge. “First,” he said, turning his own candid eyes full upon those of the player, “I would have you to know that I am about to intrust my life to your hands.”
The player did not speak except that which his eyes spoke for him.
“My name is Gervase Heriot,” said the young man. “I am being hunted for my life. I broke out of my prison three hours before I was to die by the ax.”
“You say you were to die by the ax,” said the player in a tone so low as hardly to be audible. “For what reason had you to meet a death so sharp and so shameful?”
“For the reason,” said Gervase, “that a wicked, covetous man has plotted away my life.”
“Why has he done this?”
“It is merely because he would succeed to that to which he is not entitled.”
“He has sworn away your life, you say?”
“Yes, he has himself borne false testimony. And he has suborned others as vile as himself to swear a tissue of lies in order to prove me guilty of a crime of which I am incapable.”
“Who, pray, is this infamous man?”
“He is my uncle, Simon Heriot.”
“And have you no means of disproving this black conspiracy?”
“None, alas. My Uncle Simon has a very cunning and subtle mind. His design has been laid very deep. It is a matter of my unsupported oath against those of specious knaves who are well found in the trade of swearing away men’s lives.”
The play-actor grew silent. Not for a moment could he doubt that Gervase Heriot was innocent of the crime alleged against him.
It was a grievous story. And one-half of it had not been told. And he knew it to be all compact of those elements of which his own mind was formed. It was such a tale of passion, of poetry, of high romance as the imagination could not surpass, and the living evidence of it was before him.
A great desire to help these hapless wanderers surged in this man’s soul. There were those who were seeking them far and near; a price was on the head of Heriot; yet if he were allowed to get clear it might be that a cruel and shameful penalty would be paid by a man of stainless honor. All these swift thoughts were thrown into the alembic of that wonderful mind. But the call of nature was too strong; his heart went out to these fugitives in their tragic need. Cost what it may, he must render any help that lay in his power.
“Mr. Heriot,” said the player after a long interval of silence had passed, “I would fain save your life?”
The young man shook his head gravely. “There’s little chance of that unless I fly the country.”
“I was thinking so,” said the player.
“But in order to do that I must have some money. And I will now tell you, sir—” Gervase sank his voice very low—“the manner in which I propose to get it.”
Thereupon the young man divulged the plan he had formed of visiting his uncle that night.
“Simon Heriot lives in solitude in his gloomy old manor-house but ten miles off, with only a few decrepit old servants to take care of him. And my design is to break into his house in the middle of this very night, to frighten the wits out of the old knave and make him disgorge money enough for mine and my brother’s journey across the seas.”
This hasty and ill-considered scheme, however, did not appeal to the player. It was too clearly the expedient of a thoroughly desperate man. There were many reasons which seemed to make it impracticable. “No, Mr. Heriot,” he said, “I do not think that way is to be commended. Let us try to find a better. I will go and think upon this matter. And in the meantime do you and your friend remain here and I will send you out some food, which I have no doubt will come not amiss to you.”
For that surmise at least the player had good warrant. Soon a stately pigeon pie and a noble flagon of October ale were laid on the bench before them. And they were able to eat without misgiving. They had given this man all their trust, and they had staked their lives on the fact that he was incapable of betraying it.