MEANWHILE William Shakespeare had gone in quest of Richard Burbage, that fidus Achates whose counsel was often invoked by this eager, but, at times, irresolute spirit. Now, however, Shakespeare was fully determined to help these ill-starred fugitives to the utmost of his power.
To render aid that should be in any way effective was likely to prove a supremely difficult matter. The most obvious thing to be done was to give them money enough to enable them to fly the country. Such a course offered a strong temptation at the moment. But when Shakespeare came to consider all the consequences that would follow upon it he put it out of his mind. At the back of his thoughts was ever the distraught figure of the falconer, the unhappy man whom he had been compelled to deceive. If Heriot fled the country Sir John Feversham would lose his life. No, the hour was not yet for such an irrevocable step. “But, my friend,” whispered a sinister voice, too often heard in that overwrought brain, “you of all men have reason to know that delays are dangerous!”
Alas he was face to face once more with the old sore problem—the problem of how to make up his mind. Once more he began to see too much of this grievous matter, as he saw too much of all things. He owed it to himself that he should do all in his power to help this unlucky pair. But no hurt must be done to the falconer, or to the honorable man his master, who lay in the Tower in such tragic case.
The playwright, in the toils of an irresolution as great as he had ever known, went to seek the tragedian in his favorite place, which was the pleasant garden at the back of the inn. Fortune favored him, inasmuch that Richard Burbage was found to be seated on a bench in the ample shade of a yew tree.
The manager was alone, and with the aid of a pipeful of the new Indian weed which seldom failed to excite the wit of his peers, was diligently conning the acting parts of the new comedy to be given a fortnight hence in the Queen’s presence.
“William Shakespeare,” said Burbage, looking up as the shadow of the playwright was cast across the page, “let these young fools say what they please, but my belief is you have never written anything choicer.”
“I am glad to hear you say that, Dick,” said the playwright, who spoke, however, as if his thoughts were elsewhere. “If I could have taken another fortnight to it perhaps it might have been tolerable, but as it is I am afraid it is a poor thing.”
“The thing is good enough,” said Burbage robustly. “It is full of most excellent fantasy. The fact is, some of these fools have not wit enough for a thing of such delicacy.”
The playwright shook his head. “Yes, Dick,” he said, “but a man makes a great mistake when he gets above the crowd. There should be something for all the world and his wife in a comedy.”
Richard Burbage, one of the intellectuals of his day, was a little shocked by such a banal observation. Had it been possible for the god of his idolatry to seem less than himself, he had never been in such imminent danger. But the true prince must ever be allowed to speak as it seemed good to him.
“We will thank God that Gloriana has at any rate a shrewd and seizing mind,” said Richard Burbage, with enthusiasm. “At least, it will not be above her.”
The playwright smiled the little sad smile that was so often his when others chose to refer to his writings in his presence. None had ever been able to interpret that gesture; none ever would, but it was a smile of pain rather than of happiness.
With a sudden effort of the will the playwright cast these trivialities out of his thoughts. “Dick,” he said, “I am come to talk of a matter of more account than this. I would have you know that our poor young Egyptians are returned.”
“Oh, a murrain on them!” The face of the tragedian grew startled and discomposed. “Plague take them,” he said, “I had hoped we had seen the last of them.”
“Poor souls!” said the playwright.
Never had Burbage seen his too-sensitive comrade—to whom he had come to stand in the relation of a protective elder brother—in such a state of distress. The tragic story had torn his heart. But the counsel of the tragedian was sadly discouraging.
“If you will be ruled by me, my friend,” said that sage and practical man of the world, “you will take precious care to keep out of this matter. Let them go their ways. The times are perilous. And he who touches affairs of state generally finds it easier to lose his head than to keep it.”
“You are right there, Dick,” said the playwright, with an odd light in his eyes. “But better a man should lose his head than forswear his soul.”
Burbage knew that it was vain to argue with William Shakespeare in a matter of this kind. There were certain things in which he was not as other men. For all his childlike simplicity of character, he had yet the power, as he had proved many times, to take a line of his own when occasion called.
“Dick, we must help them,” he said.
“The surest way to do that is to give them money enough to quit the country,” said the tragedian.
“But what of Sir John Feversham?”
Burbage threw up his hands impatiently. “He concerns us not,” he said. “And I beseech you, my dear Will, to give not another thought to him.”
The playwright shook his head. “Nay, my friend,” he said, “let us not leave a brave and honorable man to die.”
“To that I would say amen if in any sort we could avail him.”
“The Queen should learn the truth, I think.”
“How, pray, is she to learn it?”
“On Thursday se’nnight, if this unlucky man still lives, we must find a way to tell her.”
But Burbage dissented strongly. “It would be madness, Will, sheer madness for us to breathe a word on the subject. You know what the times are. And when it comes to treason it takes but a very slight thing to undo the best man alive.”
The playwright had sadly to admit that that was true enough. But his face showed clearly that he could never be the slave of mere worldly wisdom. And Burbage knew it. He might do his best to dissuade his friend from touching this ill-starred affair, yet from the outset he had little hope of success. William Shakespeare’s mind was made up already.
“Come what may, Dick, we must help these poor souls to the utmost of our capacity.”
“Yes, but how will you do it, my master?”
But now that the sympathy of the playwright was fully engaged he was proof against all scepticism. “First I would have you give me the key of the tiring-room,” he said.
“For what purpose, you mad fellow?”
“An uncivil question breeds an uncivil answer. Whatever the purpose it is nothing to it.”
With many misgivings and great reluctance, Burbage gave Shakespeare the key of the tiring-room.