by Anthology
"No more--no more!" cried Shakespeare, in an ecstasy. "More than completely hast thou made thy bargain good, damsel unmatchable! What! Can it be! Why here have we the very impress of young Hamlet's soul--'To grunt and sweat beneath a weary life'--feel you not there compunction and disgust, seeing in life no cleanly burden, but a 'fardel' truly, borne on the greasy shoulders of filthy slaves!"
He turned and paced back and forth upon the gravel, repeating without mistake and with gestures and accents inimitable the lines which Phoebe had dictated. She watched him, listening attentively, conscious that what she saw and heard, though given in a moment, were to be carried with her forever; convinced as well that she was for something in this, and thankful while half afraid.
Reaching the end of the soliloquy, Shakespeare turned to the maiden, who was still standing, backed by the warm color of a group of peonies.
"Nay, but tell me, damsel," he cried, appealingly. "Explain this power! Art thou, indeed, no other than Mary Burton?"
How refuse this request? And yet--what explanation would be believed? Perhaps, if she had time, she thought, some intelligible account of the truth would occur to her.
"And have you forgot your bargain so soon?" she said, reproachfully shaking her head. "Away, friend, away! Indeed, the matter is urgent and grave. If, when you return, you will ask for Mary Burton, knowing your task fulfilled, she may make clear for you what now must rest in mystery."
"You say well," he replied. "Give me your message, and count fully on Will Shakespeare to carry it with all despatch and secrecy."
Phoebe's face grew grave as she thought of all that depended on her messenger. She stepped closer to her companion and glanced to right and left to make sure they were still alone. Then, drawing from her finger a plain gold ring, she offered it to her companion, who took it as she spoke.
"If you will show this to Sir Guy," she said, "he will know that the case is serious. It beareth writing within the circle--'Sois fidèle'--do you see?"
"Be faithful--ay."
"'Twill be an admonition for you both," said Phoebe, with a faint smile. "Tell him to be in the lane behind the Peacock garden at sunset to-morrow even with two good horses, one for himself and one for me. Tell him to come alone and to travel by back ways. Bid him in my name--in God's name--close till then, trusting in me that there is need. Tell him to obey now, that later he may have the right to command."
"Good!" said Shakespeare. "And now good-by until we meet again."
A parting pressure of the hand, and he turned to go to the stables. She stood by the fountain musing, her eyes fixed on the entrance gate of the garden until at length a horseman galloped past. He rose in his stirrups and waved his hand. She ran forward, swept by a sudden dread of his loss, waving her hands in a passionate adieu.
When she reached the gate no one was in sight.
CHAPTER XIII
HOW THE FAT KNIGHT DID HOMAGE
On Rebecca's arrival with the royal attendants at Greenwich Palace, the Queen had ordered that she be given a splendid suite of apartments for her own use, and that she be constantly attended by a number of young gentlewomen assigned to her establishment. The news soon spread through the palace that an American princess or empress had arrived, and she was treated in every way on the footing of a sort of inferior royalty. Elizabeth invited her to share every meal with her, and took delight in her accounts of the manners and customs of the American aborigines.
As for Rebecca, she finally yielded to the conviction that Elizabeth was not Victoria, and found it expedient to study her companions with a view to avoiding gross breaches of etiquette. Of these, the first which she corrected was addressing Elizabeth as "Mrs. Tudor."
In twenty-four hours the shrewd and resourceful New England woman was able to learn many things, and she rapidly found her bearings among the strange people and stranger institutions by which she was surrounded.
Seated in her own "presence chamber," as she called it, surrounded by her civil and assiduous attendants, she discovered a charm in being constantly taken care of which was heightened by the contrast which it presented with her usually independent habits of life. The pleasing effect of novelty had never more strongly impressed her.
Her anxiety in Phoebe's behalf had been dispelled when she learned that Isaac Burton was expected at the palace, and was to bring his family with him. With diplomatic shrewdness, she resolved to improve every opportunity to win the Queen's favor, in order that when the time came she might have the benefit of her authority in removing her younger sister from her pretended relatives.
It was about five in the afternoon of the day succeeding her adventure on the Thames, and Rebecca sat near a window overlooking the entrance court. She was completing the knitting upon which she had been engaged when Droop made his first memorable call on her in Peltonville.
On either side of Rebecca, but on stools set somewhat lower than her chair, were her two favorites, the Lady Clarissa Bray, daughter of Walter Bray, Lord Hunsforth, and the Honorable Lady Margaret Welsh, daughter of the Earl of March.
Clarissa was employed in embroidering a stomacher whose green, gold, and russet set off her dark curls very agreeably. The Lady Margaret was playing a soft Italian air upon the cithern, which she managed with excellent taste, to the entertainment of her temporary mistress and her half dozen attendants.
Rebecca's needles moved in time with the graceful measure of the music, while her head nodded in unison, and she smiled now and then.
As the air was concluded she let her hands sink for a moment into her lap, turning to bend an approving look upon the fair young musician.
"There, now!" she said. "I declare, Miss Margaret, that's real sweet music. I'm much obliged to ye, I'm sure."
Margaret arose and courtesied, blushing.
"Would your Highness that I play again?" she asked.
"No, thank ye," said Rebecca, resuming her knitting. "The's no sort o' use in drivin' folks to death as are kind to ye. Sit right down an' rest now, an' I'll tell ye all a story thet hez a bearin' right on that point."
She turned to the four maids of honor seated behind her.
"Now you girls can jest's well come an' set in front o' me while I'm talkin'. I'll like it a heap better, I'm sure."
With great diffidence on the part of her attendants, and after much coaxing on Rebecca's part, this change was accomplished. The idea of being seated in the presence of royalty was in itself quite distasteful to these young courtiers, but upon this Rebecca had insisted from the first. It made her feel tired, she said, to see people standing continually on their feet.
"Well," she began, when all were disposed to their satisfaction, "it all happened in my country, ye know. 'Twas 'bout ten years ago now, I guess--or rather then--I mean it will be----"
Clarissa's wondering eyes caught the speaker's attention and she coughed.
"Never mind when 'twas," she went on. "Ye see, things are very different here--time as well's the rest. However, 'long 'bout then, my cousin Ann Slocum took a notion to 'nvite me down to Keene fer a little visit. Phoebe--thet's my sister--she said I could go jest's well's not, an' so I went. The fust night I was there, when dinner was over, of course I offered to wash up the dishes, seem'----"
An involuntary and unanimous gasp of amazement from her fair auditors cut Rebecca short at this point.
"Well," she said, a little anxiously, "what's the matter? Anythin' wrong?"
The Lady Clarissa ventured to voice the general sentiment.
"Did we hear aright, your Highness?" she asked. "Said you--'wash up the dishes'?"
"Oh!" said Rebecca, conscious for the first time of her slip, "did that puzzle ye?"
"Do queens and princesses perform menial offices in America?" asked the Honorable Lady Margaret.
Short as was the time allowed, it had sufficed for Rebecca to compose a form of words which should not wound her conscience by direct falsehood, while not undeceiving her hearers as to her rank.
"Why, to
tell ye the truth," she said, in a semi-confidential manner, "all the queens and princesses there are in America wash the dishes after dinner."
There was some whispering among the girls at this, and Rebecca's ears caught the expressions "passing strange" and "most wonderful" more than once.
She waited until the first excitement thus produced had subsided and then proceeded.
"Of course Cousin Ann hadn't no objection, an' so I went into the kitchen. When we got through, blest ef she didn't ask me to wash out the dish-towels while she filled the lamps! Now----"
The growing amazement in the round, open eyes and shaking curls of her audience brought Rebecca once more to a standstill. Evidently some further explanation of this unwonted state of things would be expected. To gain time for further invention, Rebecca rose and carried her knitting to the window as though to pick up a stitch. Mechanically she glanced down into the court-yard, where there was now a large assemblage, and uttered an exclamation of astonishment.
"Gracious alive!" she cried. "If there ain't a bicycle! Well, well, don't that look nat'ral, now! Makes me feel homesick."
She turned to her companions, each of whom was ceremoniously standing, but all showing clearly in their faces the curiosity which consumed them.
"Come 'long!" said Rebecca, smiling. "Come one and all! I'm blest ef ye don't make me think of Si Pray's dog waitin' to be whistled fer when Si goes out to walk."
The obedience to this summons was prompt and willing, and Rebecca turned again to observe those who came with the mysterious bicycle.
"Land o' sunshine!" she exclaimed, "did ye ever see sech a fat man as that! Do any of you girls know who 'tis?"
"'Tis Sir Percevall Hart, harbinger to the Queen, I ween," Clarissa replied.
"Gracious!" said Rebecca, anxiously. "I do hope now he ain't bringin' any very bad news!"
"Wherefore should he, your Highness?" said Clarissa.
"Why, if he's a harbinger of woe--ain't that what they call 'em?" she spoke, with some timidity.
"Nay," said the Lady Margaret. "Sir Percevall is reputed a wit and a pleasant companion, your Highness. He is harbinger to the Queen."
"An' who's the man with him in black togs an' rumpled stockin's?" said Rebecca. "The one holdin' the bicycle?"
"Mean you him holding the two bright wheels, your Highness?"
"Yes."
Lady Margaret could not answer, nor could any of the other attendants. Could Rebecca have had a more advantageous view of the stranger, she would herself have been the only one in the palace to recognize him. She could only see his hat and his borrowed clothes, however, and her curiosity remained unsatisfied.
"That looks like Copernicus Droop's wheel," she muttered. "I wonder ef somebody's ben an' stole it while he was away. 'Twould serve him right fer givin' me the slip."
Then turning to Lady Margaret again, she continued:
"Would you mind runnin' down to ask who that man is, Miss Margaret? Seems to me I know that bicycle."
Courtesying in silence, the maid backed out of the room and hurried down the stairs quite afire with the eagerness of her curiosity. This strange, bright-wheeled thing to which the American princess so easily applied a name, could only be some wonderful product of the New World. She was overjoyed at the thought that she was to be the first to closely examine and perhaps to touch this curiosity.
Her plans were delayed, however, for when she reached the court-yard she found herself restrained by a row of men with halberds, one of whom informed her that her Majesty was returning from chapel.
The Queen and her retinue were obliged to pass across the courtyard on the way to the apartment where Elizabeth was to take her evening meal. Her progress at such times was magnificently accompanied, and was often much delayed by her stopping to notice her favorites as she passed them, and even at times to receive petitions.
Copernicus, who, as we have seen, had just arrived, was inclined to bewail the interruption caused by this procession, but his companion insisted that, on the contrary, all was for the best.
"Why, man," said he, "Dame Fortune hath us in her good books for a surety. What! Could we have planned all better had we willed it? To meet the Queen in progress from chapel! 'Twill go hard but Sir Percevall shall win his suit--and you, Master Droop, your monopolies. Mark me now--mark me well!"
So saying, the fat knight advanced and joined one of the long lines of courtiers already forming a hedge on each side of the direct way which the Queen was to traverse. Droop, leaning his bicycle against the palace wall and taking in his hands his phonograph and box of cylinders, placed himself behind his guide and watched the proceedings with eager curiosity.
A door opened at one end of the lane between the two courtiers and there appeared the first of a long procession of splendidly apparelled gentlemen-in-waiting, walking bareheaded two by two. Of these, the first were simple untitled knights and gentlemen. These were followed by barons, then earls, and lastly knights of the garter, each gentleman vying with the others in richness of apparel and lavish display of collars, orders, jewelled scabbards, and heavy chains of gold.
Behind these there came three abreast. These were the Lord High Chancellor, in wig and robes, carrying the Great Seal of England in a red silk bag. On his right walked a gentleman carrying the golden sceptre, jewelled and quaintly worked, while he on the left carried the sword of state, point up, in a red scabbard, studded with golden fleur-de-lis.
A few steps behind this imposing escort came the Queen, with a small but richly covered prayer-book in her hand. She looked very majestic on this occasion, being dressed in white silk bordered with pearls of the size of beans, over which was thrown a mantle of black silk shot with silver threads. An oblong collar of jewelled gold lay upon her otherwise bare bosom.
The Queen's train was very long and was carried by a marchioness, whose plain attire set off the magnificence of royalty.
As Elizabeth proceeded across the yard, she spoke to one by-stander or another, and Droop, looking on, made up his mind that the rule was that anyone to whom she addressed a word, or even a look, should drop forthwith to his knees and so remain until she had passed, unless she pleased to extend her hand to raise him up.
On each side of this main procession there was a single file of five and twenty gentlemen pensioners, each carrying a gilt battle-axe.
The remainder of the procession consisted of a train of court ladies all dressed in white and nearly destitute of ornaments. Evidently the Royal Virgin would suffer no rivalry in dress from those of her own sex.
Just behind Elizabeth and to one side, in such a position as to be within easy reach for consultation, walked the Lord High Treasurer, William Cecil, Baron of Burleigh. It was to this nobleman that his nephew, Francis Bacon, had addressed the letter which he had given to Copernicus Droop.
By dint of much squeezing and pushing, Sir Percevall made his way to the front of the waiting line, and, as Elizabeth approached, he dropped painfully to his knees, and, with hat in hand, gazed earnestly into the Queen's face, not daring to speak first, but with a petition writ large in every feature.
Now, Elizabeth was most jealous of her dignity, and valued her own favors very highly. In her eyes it was downright impertinence at a time like this for anyone to solicit the honor of her attention by kneeling before he was noticed.
Knowing this, Burleigh, who recognized the knight and wished him well, motioned to him earnestly to rise. Alarmed, Sir Percevall made a desperate effort to obey the hint, and, despite his huge bulk, would perhaps have succeeded in regaining his feet without attracting the notice of the Queen but for the impatient movement of the crowd behind him. Unfortunately, however, he had but half risen when the bustling multitude moved forward a little against his expansive rear. The result was disastrous.
Sir Percevall lost his balance, and, feeling himself toppling, threw his hands out forward with a cry and fell flat on his face.
Elizabeth was at this moment addressing a few gracious
words to a white-haired courtier, who kneeled among those gathered on the right of her line of progress. Startled by the loud cry of the falling knight, she turned swiftly and saw at her feet a man of monstrous girth struggling in vain to raise his unwieldy form. His plumed hat had rolled to some distance, exposing a bald head with two gray tufts over the ears. His sword stood on its hilt, with point in air, and his short, fat legs made quick alternate efforts to bend beneath him--efforts which the fleshy knees successfully resisted.
The helpless, jerking limbs, the broad, rolling body, and the mixture of expletives and frantic apologies poured forth by the prostrate knight turned the Queen's first ready alarm to irrepressible laughter, in which the bystanders joined to their great relief. Droop alone was grave, for he could only see in this accident the ruin of his plans.
"Now, by the rood!" cried the Queen, as soon as she could speak distinctly, "fain would we see your face, good gentleman. Of all our subjects, not one doth us such low obeisance!" Then, beckoning to those of her gentleman pensioners who stood nearest:
"Raise us yon mighty subject of ours, whose greatness we might in our majesty brook but ill did not his humble bearing proclaim a loyal submission."
Four gentlemen, dropping their gilt axes, hastened to Sir Percevall's aid, raising him by the arms and shoulders.
"Enough--enough, lads!" cried the knight, when they had got him to his knees. "Let it not be said that Sir Percevall Hart dared to tempt erect the dreadful glance of majesty. Here let him lowly bend beneath the eyes that erstwhile laid him low."
Still holding him, the four gentlemen turned their eyes to the Queen for orders, and Sir Percevall, clasping his mud-stained hands, addressed himself directly to Elizabeth, in whose still laughing face he foresaw success.
"O Majesty of England!" he cried. "Marvel not at this my sudden fall--for when, with more than royal glory is linked the potency of virgin loveliness, who can withstand!"
"Why, how now, Sir Knight!" said Elizabeth, banteringly. "Are we less lovely or less awful now than a moment since? You seem at least one half restored."