Anne Feversham by J. C. Snaith - HTML preview

CHAPTER XL

IT happened that one afternoon of early autumn, William Shakespeare rode out to Richmond, as he had done so many times of late, and sought poor Anne where she still lay in the house of a good friend. Her bed was in a charming chamber, from which she could see the sunlit Thames winding through its green valley. Gervase, thin and careworn, was kneeling by the bed, and his arms were holding its frail occupant.

For many days Anne had lain between life and death. But the fire of youth was in her veins. She had fine courage, moreover, pure strength of body, therefore Nature fought for her. And in the end Nature prevailed. Yet long after life itself had conquered, it was feared that reason, the sovereign goddess, would be dethroned forever in that finely tempered spirit.

Her friends never gave up hope. Many were the dark and cruel days in which she hovered upon the verge of that abyss, by comparison with which death itself is more than kind. And at last, very slowly, very fitfully, the wisdom, the patience, the devotion of those that watched over her met with their reward.

When at last it became known that the grimmest of all her perils was past, there were those of her friends who laid upon a certain famous man as being the foremost of their number, the happy task of bearing the tidings to the Queen that all was well with poor Rosalind.

The player, humble-minded as he was, would have been the last man in the world to arrogate to himself any such privilege. But the insistence of Anne’s friends was strong. Well they knew the valiant part this man had played. Moreover, the Queen, it seemed, had caused many inquiries to be made of “the brave thing” who was fighting the sternest of all her battles. The heart of the woman had been moved by the gallant story. It may have been that Gloriana felt that honor had been done to the sex of which she herself was a foremost ornament. She may have felt that even in an heroic age here was a fitting mother for heroes.

Be that as it may, the heart of the woman had been melted. And that golden afternoon, William Shakespeare was the bearer of glad tidings from the Queen in her palace at Greenwich. She was graciously pleased to grant a full and free pardon to Gervase Heriot and Anne Feversham.

There was a look of joy in the face of the player as he entered her chamber with the high news. He found her propped up with pillows, thin as a ghost, but her eyes were no longer wild. By the side of the bed knelt Gervase. One arm clasped the frail form that now was all his life; and in one hand he held the newly printed and authentic version of the tragical history of “Romeo and Juliet” which he was reading to Anne in his gentle voice.

“Ah, here is the author himself.”

Gervase laid the book down on the counterpane and rose with a shy smile. The lovers greeted their friend, to whom they owed everything, with shining eyes. The player’s apology for so unseasonably disturbing them was humorously tender, but such news admitted no delay.

“I am the bearer of great tidings,” the player cried. “All is forgiven.”

There came a silence, and then “All!” gasped Anne.

“All,” said the player. “All is forgiven you by Gloriana in her clemency.”

Again a silence.

“But my father!”

The three simple words seemed almost to tear at the heart of the poet.

“All is forgiven him also.”

That also was true.

“But why does he not come to me? Is it that he will not?”

Alas, that was a question the poet dare not answer. The plain truth was he knew not in what sort to answer it. As soon as the Queen had been apprised of Sir John Feversham’s complete innocence, almost her first act had been to order his immediate release from the Tower. But even when a free pardon had been granted to him and he was once more at liberty and no longer in danger of losing his head, he was yet a very unhappy man. He was as one completely overborne by the sense of his daughter’s crime. Even as she lay in her extremity, he could not be induced to visit her, nor even to speak of her. And now that the awful force of her suffering was past, and wan and spent, yet with mind at last clear and reasonable, poor Anne waited in vain for her father’s coming. A powerful nature had been wounded to the depths. It was not the act of filial treachery that Sir John Feversham found unforgivable; it was the disloyalty to the august sovereign whom he had served all his days that he found impossible to overpass.

Now it chanced that one man, and he the most devoted among all the friends of Mistress Anne had had the wit to realize the why and wherefore of this. Shakespeare saw clearly that even if the outraged father had been able to forgive, the loyal and devoted subject yet found it impossible so to do. And no sooner did this tender-hearted maker of plays realize that such was the case than daring greatly he went to the Queen.

“That is a matter, Master Shakespeare, in which we may never be able to move,” was the Queen’s answer. “And yet perhaps....”

For the present, the player felt he must rest content with that.

In the meantime, the author of the tragical history of “Romeo and Juliet” had to suffer the entreaties of this pair of young lovers that he should remain and read to them a portion of that wondrous tale of love which he had given to the world in the spring tide of his own youth.

The poet was not proof against the importunities of these children of destiny whom he had come to love with a father’s tenderness. Therefore he took his book presently from the hands of Gervase and sat at the bed foot. In his low and clear voice he began to read the immortal story.

Hand in hand, their fingers intertwined, Anne and Gervase listened with strange rapture. That recital was ever afterwards to be a landmark in their lives. The romance which ravished their ears had its parallel in their own experience. They could live again their hours of supremest exaltation. Was it not all distilled in those magical pages? It has been the destiny of this story of ill-starred love to evoke the wide world over the tears of those who have known a great passion. But here were two who had greatly loved to whom even the author’s own rendering of the exquisite story brought no tears.

To such a nadir of the spirit had these twin souls descended that it seemed to them then that they could never weep again. They could never weep again, yet were they very far from being unhappy. Still, even now they could hardly realize the nature of the miracle that had happened to them. Gervase was a free man; life and liberty had been granted to him; Anne had been given back her reason; and henceforward the only fetters they were to know were to be the silken one each imposed upon the other. Yet it was all very hard to realize!

While the poet continued to read his noble invention he was gravely preoccupied. His thoughts were forever straying from the creatures of his fancy to that wan and fragile thing propped up with pillows who looked as if she could never smile nor weep again. If only Sir John Feversham could come to his daughter now! If only the forgiveness of that just man could be granted to her! Even as he read, the words of the Queen were ever in his ears. “It is a matter, Master Shakespeare, in which we may never be able to move. And yet perhaps...!”

The poet, however, had wrought better than he knew. His plea to Gloriana had not fallen barren on those august ears. The girl had earned absolution by her courage, nor had the Queen been slow to make her pleasure known to Sir John Feversham.

And so it came to pass that the poet was still seated at the bed foot reading aloud to these children of destiny his entrancing tale of love when a servant entered the room. A few words were whispered into the poet’s ear. And then with a sudden startled smile, William Shakespeare laid down the book on the bed and went hastily out of the room.

It seemed that a miracle had happened. Sir John Feversham had arrived at that house, was waiting below and was desirous of seeing his daughter.

Only a very little while was William Shakespeare gone from the room. He had soon returned, to usher into the sunlit chamber a man who looked strangely bent and old. His hair was perfectly white. Sir John Feversham had changed much in appearance. And the events of more than one lifetime had been crowded into poor Anne’s experience since last she had seen her father.

At first she did not realize who the frail man was with the snow-white hair who had come into the room.

It was not indeed until this grave personage informed Anne that he was come from the Queen with a present and a message that she recognized her father. And even then it may have been the slow and deep melancholy of the voice that told her. She gave a little wild cry, and clutched Gervase with a sudden pang of terror. But there was nought in her father’s voice nor in his bearing to inspire it now.

With a gesture all humility, as one who knows that the will of man is little, and that man himself is hardly more than a puppet in the hands of fate, Sir John Feversham knelt by the bed and gave his daughter a kiss on the lips.

“It is the token of the Queen’s forgiveness,” he said, “which I am commanded to bring you.”

Anne shivered. Dry-eyed and in silence, her arms were flung round her father’s neck. It was as if she also had come to understand that she was no more than a plaything in the hands of fate.

The Queen’s messenger rose from his knees. And now for all his look of frailty which was almost pitiful, he had the tense and vital air of a man of affairs who is proud to serve a great sovereign.

“Further I am bidden by the Queen’s majesty,” he said in his slow and melancholy speech which was yet like a fine and rare music, “to bestow upon you, Mistress Anne Feversham, in her name, this chaplet of pearls.”

As Sir John spoke he took a small shagreen case out of the lining of his cloak. It contained a small necklace.

“At the Queen’s behest, thus do I place it round your throat, Mistress Anne Feversham. Moreover, it is her Majesty’s express command that you be well and strong again by Twelfth Night, since noon of that day is the hour her Majesty has appointed for the celebration of your nuptials with Mr. Gervase Heriot in the Chapel of her grandfather within the Abbey at Westminster. The Queen hopes herself to be present on the occasion. And I am further to inform you that on the eve of that day Mr. William Shakespeare, to whose efforts on your behalf the late signal acts of the Royal clemency are wholly due, has undertaken to present a new interlude to the Queen and the ladies and gentlemen of her Court. His former ones, the Queen commands me to say,”—Sir John Feversham bowed to the playwright who with a grave smile bowed to him again—“have been much admired.”

END