AMERICAN PHOTOGRAPHERTHE ONLY ONE IN EXISTENCEStep up and have your picture taken
This sign he nailed to a tree near the road which he made his headquarters. He preferred to keep the location and nature of his abode a secret, and so spent his days under his tree or sitting in the porch of some neighboring house, for he was not long in making friends, and his marvellous tales made him very popular.
It was difficult for him to fix a price at first, notbeing acquainted with the coin of the realm, but he put his whole mind to the acquisition of reliable information on this point, and his native shrewdness brought him success.
He found that it was wisest for every reason to let it be believed that the pictures were produced by hand. The camera, he explained, was a mere aid to accuracy of observation and memory in reproduction of what he saw through it. Thus he was able to command much higher prices for the excellence and perfection of his work and, had he but known it, further avoided suspicion of witchcraft which would probably have attached to him had he let it be known that the camera really produced the picture.
In the course of his daily gossip with neighbors and with the customers, rustic and urban, who were attracted by his fame, he soon learned that "Good Queen Bess" ruled the land, and his speech gradually took on a tinge of the Elizabethan manner and vocabulary which, mingling with his native New England idioms, produced a very picturesque effect.
It was a warm night some weeks after Droop had "hung out his shingle" as a professional photographer that he sat in the main room of the Panchronicon, reading for perhaps the twentieth time Phœbe's famous book on Bacon and Shakespeare, which she had left behind. The other books on hand he found too dry, and he whiled away his idle hours with this invaluable historic work, feeling that its tone was in harmony with his recent experiences.
So to-night he was reading with the shutters tightly closed to prevent attracting the gaze of outsiders. No one had yet discovered his residence, and he had flattered himself that it would remain permanently a secret.
His surprise and consternation were great, therefore, when he was suddenly disturbed in his reading by a gentle knocking on the door at the foot of the stairs.
"Great Jonah!" he exclaimed, closing his book and cocking his head to listen. "Now, who—wonder ef it's Cousin Rebecca or Phœbe!"
The knock was repeated.
"Why, 'f course 'tis!" he said. "Couldn't be anybody else. Funny they never come back sooner!"
He laid his book upon the table and started down the stairs just as the knocking was heard for the third time.
"Comin'—comin'!" he cried. "Save the pieces!"
He threw open the door and started back in alarm as there entered a strange man wrapped in a black cloak, which he held so as to completely hide his features.
The new-comer sprang into the little hallway and hastily closed the door behind him.
"Close in the light, friend," he said.
Then, glancing about him, he ascended the stairs and entered the main room above.
Droop followed him closely, rubbing his hand through his hair in perplexity. This intrusion threatened to spoil his plans. It would never do to have the neighbors swarming around the Panchronicon.
The stranger threw off his cloak on entering the upper room and turned to face his host.
"I owe you sincere acknowledgment of thanks, good sir," he said, gravely.
He appeared to be about thirty-five years of age, a man of medium stature, dark of hair and eyes, with a pale, intellectual face and a close-clipped beard. His entire apparel was black, save for his well-starched ruff of moderate depth and the lace ruffles at his wrists.
"Wal, I dunno," Droop retorted. "Marry, an I hed known as thou wast not an acquaintance——"
"You would not have given me admittance?"
The calm, dark eyes gazed with disconcerting steadiness into Droop's face.
"Oh—well—I ain't sayin'——"
"I hope I have not intruded to your hurt or serious confusion, friend," said the stranger, glancing about him. "To tell the very truth, your hospitable shelter hath offered itself in the hour of need."
"What—doth it raineth—eh?"
"Oh, no!"
"What can I do fer ye? Take a seat," said Droop, as the stranger dropped into a chair. "Thou knowest, forsooth, that I don't take photygraphs at night—marry, no!"
"Are you, then, the new limner who makes pictures by aid of the box and glass?"
"Yea—that's what I am," said Droop.
"I was ignorant of the location of your dwelling. Indeed, it is pure accident—a trick of Fortune that hath brought me to your door to-night."
Droop seated himself and directed an interrogative gaze at his visitor.
"My name's Droop—Copernicus Droop," he said. "An' you——"
"My name is Francis Bacon, Master Droop—your servitor," he bowed slightly.
Droop started up stiff and straight in his chair.
"Francis Bacon!" he exclaimed. "What! Not the one as wrote Shakespeare?"
"Shakespeare—Shakespeare!" said the stranger, in a slow, puzzled tone. "I do admit having made some humble essays in writing—certain modest commentaries upon human motives and relations—but, in good sooth, the title you have named, Master Droop, is unknown to me. Shakespeare—Shakespeare. Pray, sir, is it a homily or an essay?"
"Why, ye see, et's—as fur's I know it's a man—a sorter poet or genius or play-writin' man," said Droop, somewhat confused.
"A man—a poet—a genius?" Bacon repeated, gravely. "Then, prithee, friend, how meant you in saying you thought me him who had written Shakespeare? Can a man—a poet—be written?"
"Nay—verily—in good sooth—marry, no!" stuttered Droop. "What they mean is thet 'twas youwrote the things Shakespeare put his name to—you did, didn't you?"
"Ahem!" said the stranger, with dubious slowness. "A poet—a genius, you say? And I understand that I am reputed to have been the true author of—eh?"
"Yes, indeed—yea—la!" exclaimed Droop, now sadly confused.
"Might I ask the name of some work imputed to me, and which this—this Shake—eh——"
"Shakespeare."
"Ay, this Shakespeare hath impudently claimed for his own credit and reputation?"
"Well—why—suffer me—jest wait a minute," said Droop. He clutched the book he had been reading and opened it at random. "Here," he said. "'Love's Labor's Lost,' for instance."
"What!" exclaimed Bacon, starting indignantly to his feet. "'Tis but a sennight I saw this same dull nonsense played by the Lord Chamberlain's players. 'Love's Labor's—" he broke off and repressed his choler with some effort. Then in a slow, grave voice he continued: "Why, sir, you have been sadly abused. Surely the few essays I have made in the field of letters may stand my warrant that I should not so demean myself as is implied in this repute of me. Pray tell me, sir, who are they that so besmirch my reputation as to impute to my poor authority the pitiful lines of this rascal player?"
"Why, in very truth—marry, it's in that book. It was printed in Chicago."
Bacon glanced contemptuously at the volume without deigning to open it.
"And prithee, Master Droop, where may Chicago be?"
"Why itwasin—no! I mean it will be—oh, darn it all! Chicago's in Illinois."
"Illinois—yes—and Illinois?" Bacon's dark eyes were turned in grave question upon his companion.
"Why, that's in America, ye know."
"Oh!" said Bacon. Then, with a sigh of great relief: "Ah!" he exclaimed.
"Yea, verily—in sooth—or—or thereabouts," said Droop, not knowing what to say.
"Ah, in America! A land of heathen savages—red-skinned hunters of men. Yes—yes! 'Twere not impossible such persons might so misapprehend my powers. 'Twould lie well within their shallow incapacities, methinks, to impute to Francis Bacon, Barrister of Gray's Inn, Member of Parliament for Melcombe, Reversionary Clerk of the Star Chamber, the friend of the Earl of Essex—to impute to me, I say, these frothings of a villain player—this Shake—eh? What?"
"Shakespeare."
"Ay."
Bacon paced placidly up and down for a few moments, while Droop followed him apologetically with his eyes. Evidently this was a most important personage. It behooved him to conciliate such a power as this. Who could tell! Perhaps this friend ofthe Earl of Essex might be the capitalist for whom he was in search.
For some time Master Bacon paced back and forth in silence, evidently wrapped in his own thoughts. In the meantime Droop's hopes rose higher and higher, and at length he could no longer contain himself.
"Why, Master Bacon," he said, "I'm clean surprised—yea, marry, am I—that anybody could hev ben sech a fool—a—eh? Well, a loon—what?—as to hev said you wrote Shakespeare. You're a man o' science—that's what you are. You don't concern yourself with no trumpery poetry. I can see that stickin' out."
Bacon was startled and examined himself hurriedly.
"What!" he exclaimed, "what is sticking out, friend?"
"Oh, I was jest sayin' it in the sense of the word!" said Droop, apologetically. "What I mean is, it's clear that you're not a triflin' poet, but a man of science—eh?"
"Why, no. I do claim some capacity in the diviner flights of lyric letters, friend. You are not to despise poetry. Nay—rather contemn those who bring scorn to the name of poet—vain writers for filthy pence—fellows like this same Shakespeare."
"Yes—that's what I meant," said Droop, anxious to come to the point. "But your high-water markis science—philosophy—all that. Now, you're somethin' of a capitalist, too, I surmise."
He paused expectant.
"A what, friend?"
"Why, you're in some Trust er other, ain't ye?—Member of Congress—I mean Parlyment—friend of Lord What's-'is-name—Clerk of the Star—suthin' or other. Guess you're pretty middlin' rich, ain't ye?"
Bacon's face grew long at these words, and he seated himself in evident melancholy.
"Why, to speak truth, friend," he said, "I find myself at this moment in serious straits. Indeed, 'tis an affair of a debt that hath driven me thus to your door."
"A debt!" said Droop, his heart sinking.
"Ay. The plain truth is, that at this moment I am followed by two bailiffs—bearers of an execution of arrest upon my person. 'Twas to evade these fellows that I entered this deserted garden, leaving my horse without. 'Tis for this cause I am here. Now, Master Droop, you know the whole truth."
"Great Jonah!" said Droop, helplessly. "But didn't you say you had friends?"
"None better, Master Droop. My uncle is Lord Burleigh—Lord High Treasurer to her Gracious Majesty. My patron is the Earl of Essex——"
"Why don't they give ye a lift?"
Bacon's face grew graver.
"Essex is away," he said. "On his return my necessities will be speedily relieved. As for mine uncle,to him have I applied; but his lordship lives in the sunshine of her Majesty's smiles, and he cannot be too sudden in aid of Francis Bacon for fear of losing the Queen's favor else."
"Why so?"
"A long tale of politics, friend. A speech made by me in Parliament in opposing monopolies."
"Oh!" said Droop, dismally. "You're down on monopolies, air ye?"
Bacon turned a wary eye upon his companion.
"Why ask you this?" he said.
"Why, only to—" He paused. "To say sooth," he continued, with sudden resolution, "I want to get a monopoly myself—two or three of 'em. I've got some A1 inventions here, an' I want to get 'em patented. I thought, perhaps, you or your friends might help me."
"Ah!" Bacon exclaimed, with awakening interest. "You seek my influence in furtherance of these designs. Do I apprehend you?"
"That's jest it," said Droop.
"And what would be the—ahem—the recognition which——"
"Why, you'd git a quarter interest in the hull business," said Droop, hopefully. "That is, provided you've got the inflooence, ye know."
"Too slight—too slight for Francis Bacon, Master Droop."
Copernicus thought rapidly for a minute or two. Then he pretended indifference.
"Oh, very good!" he said. "I'll take up with Sir Thomas Thingumbob—What's-'is-name."
Bacon pretended to accept the decision and changed the subject.
"Now permit me to approach the theme of my immediate need," he said. "These bailiffs without—they must be evaded. May I have your assistance, friend, in this matter?"
"Why—what can I do?"
"Pray observe me with all attention," Bacon began. "These my habiliments are of the latest fashion and of rich texture. Your habit is, if I may so speak, of inferior fashion and substance. I will exchange my habit for yours on this condition—that you mount my horse forthwith and ride away. The moon is bright and you will be pursued at once by these scurvy bailiffs. Lead them astray, Master Droop, to the southward, whilst I slip away to London in your attire, wherein I feel sure no man will recognize me. Once in London, there is a friend of mine—one Master Isaac Burton—who is hourly expected and from whom I count upon having some advances to stand me in present stead. What say you? Will you accept new clothing and rich—for old and worn?"
Droop approached his visitor and slowly examined his clothing, gravely feeling the stuff between thumb and finger and even putting his hand inside the doublet to feel the lining. Bacon's outraged dignity struggled within him with the sense of his necessity.Finally, just as he was about to give violent expression to his impatience, Droop stepped back and took in the general effect with one eye closed and his head cocked on one side.
"Jest turn round, will ye?" he said, with a whirling movement of the hand, "an' let me see how it looks in the back?"
Biting his lips, the furious barrister turned about and walked away.
"Needs must where the devil drives," he muttered.
Droop shook his head dismally.
"Marry, come up!" he exclaimed. "I guess I can't make the bargain, friend Bacon."
"But why?"
"I don't like the cut o' them clothes. I'd look rideec'lous in 'em. Besides, the's too much risk in it, Bacon, my boy," he said, familiarly, throwing himself into the arm-chair and stretching out his legs comfortably. "Ef the knaves was to catch me an' find out the trick I'd played 'em, why, sure as a gun, they'd put me in the lock-up an' try me fer stealin' your duds—your habiliments."
"Nay, then," Bacon exclaimed, eagerly, "I'll give you a writing, Master Droop, certifying that the clothes were sold to you for a consideration. That will hold you blameless. What say you?"
"What about the horse and the saddle and bridle?"
"These are borrowed from a friend, Master Droop," said Bacon. "These rascals know this, else had they seized them in execution."
"Ah, but won't they seize your clothes, Brother Bacon?" said Droop, slyly.
"Nay—that were unlawful. A man's attire is free from process of execution."
"I'll tell ye wherein I'll go ye," said Droop, with sudden animation. "You give me that certificate, that bill of sale, you mentioned, and also a first-class letter to some lord or political chap with a pull at the Patent Office, an' I'll change clothes with ye an' fool them bailiff chaps."
"I'll e'en take your former offer, then," said Bacon, with a sigh. "One fourth part of all profits was the proposal, was it not?"
"Oh, that's all off!" said Droop, grandly, with a wave of the hand. "If I go out an' risk my neck in them skin-tight duds o' yourn, I get the hull profits an' you get to London safe an' sound in these New Hampshire pants."
"But, good sir——"
"Take it or leave it, friend."
"Well," said Bacon, angrily, after a few moments' hesitation, "have your will. Give me ink, pen, and paper."
These being produced, the barrister curiously examined the wooden penholder and steel pen.
"Why, Master Droop," he said, "from what unknown bird have you plucked forth this feather?"
"Feather!" Droop exclaimed. "What feather?"
"Why this?" Bacon held up the pen and holder.
"That ain't a feather. It's a pen-holder an' a steelpen, man. Say!" he exclaimed, leaning forward suddenly. "Ye hain't ben drinkin', hev ye?"
To this Bacon only replied by a dignified stare and turned in silence to the table.
"Which you agoin' to write first," said Droop, considerately dropping the question he had raised.
"The bill of sale."
"All right. I'd like to have ye put the one about the patent real strong. I don't want to fail on the fust try, you know."
Bacon made no reply, but dipped his pen and set to work. In due time the two documents were indited and carefully signed.
"This letter is addressed to my uncle, Lord Burleigh," said Bacon. "He is at the Palace at Greenwich, with the Queen."
"Shall I hev to take it to him myself?"
"Assuredly."
"Might hev trouble findin' him, I should think," said Droop.
"Mayhap. On more thought, 'twere better you had a guide. I know a worthy gentleman—one of the Queen's harbingers. Take you this letter to him, for which purpose I will e'en leave it unsealed that he may read it. He will conduct you to mine uncle, for he hath free access to the court."
"What's his name?"
"Sir Percevall Hart. His is the demesne with the high tower of burnt bricks, near the west end of Tower Street. But stay! 'Twere better you didseek him at the Boar's Head Tavern in Eastcheap."
"Sir Percevall Hart—Boar's Head—Eastcheap. That's in London City, I s'pose."
"Yes—yes," said Bacon, impatiently. "Any watchman or passer-by will direct you. Now, sir, 'tis for you to fulfil your promise."
"All right," said Droop. "It's my innin's—so here goes."
In a few minutes the two men had changed their costumes and stood looking at each other with a very evident disrelish of their respective situations.
Droop held his chin high in the air to avoid contact with the stiff ruff, while his companion turned up the collar of his nineteenth-century coat and held it together in front as though he feared taking cold.
"Why, Master Droop," said Bacon, glancing down in surprise at his friend's nether extremities, "what giveth that unwonted spiral look to your legs? They be ribbed as with grievous weals."
Droop tried to look down, but his wide ruff prevented him. So he put one foot on the table and, bringing his leg to the horizontal, gazed dismally down upon it.
"Gosh all hemlock—them's my underdrawers!" he exclaimed. "These here ding-busted long socks o' yourn air so all-fired tight the blamed drawers hez hiked up in ridges all round! Makes me look like a bunch o' bananas in a bag!" he said, crossly.
"Well—well—a truce to trivial complaints," saidBacon, hurriedly, fearful that Droop might withdraw his consent to the rescue. "Here are my cloak and hat, friend; and now away, I pray you, and remember—ride to southward, that I may have a clear field to London."
Droop donned the hat and cloak and gazed at himself sorrowfully in the glass.
"Darned ef I don't look like a cross 'tween a Filipino and a crazy cowboy!" he muttered.
"And think you I have not suffered in the exchange, Master Droop?" said Bacon, reproachfully. "In very truth, I were not worse found had I shrunken one half within mine own doublet!"
After some further urging, Droop was induced to descend the stairs, and soon the two men stood together at the breach in the brick wall. They heard the low whinnying of a horse close at hand.
"That is my steed," Bacon whispered. "You must mount with instant speed and away with all haste to the south, Master Droop."
"D'ye think I won't split these darned pants and tight socks?" said Droop.
"Hush, friend, hush!" Bacon exclaimed. "The bailiffs must not know we are here till they see you mount and away. Nay—nay—fear not. The hose and stockings will hold right securely, I warrant you."
"Well, so long!" said Droop, and the next moment he was in the saddle. "G'lang there! Geet ap!" he shouted, slapping the horse's neck with his bridle.
With a snort of surprise, the horse plunged forwarddashing across the moonlit field. A moment later, Bacon saw two other horses leap forward in pursuit from the dark cover of a neighboring grove.
"Good!" he exclaimed. "The lure hath taken!"
Then leaning over he rubbed his shins ruefully.
"How the night wind doth ascend within this barbarous hose!" he grumbled.
While Copernicus Droop was acquiring fame andfortune as a photographer, Rebecca and Phœbe were leading a quiet life in the city.
Phœbe was perfectly happy. For her this was the natural continuation of a visit which her father, Isaac Burton, had very unwillingly permitted her to pay to her dead mother's sister, Dame Goldsmith. She was very fond of both her aunt and uncle, and they petted and indulged her in every possible way.
Her chief source of happiness lay in the fact that the Goldsmiths favored the suit of Sir Guy Fenton, with whom she found herself deeply in love from the moment when he had so opportunely arrived to rescue the sisters from the rude horse-play of the Southwark mob.
Poor Rebecca, on the other hand, found herself in a most unpleasant predicament. She had shut herself up in her room on the first day of her arrival on discovering that her new hosts were ale drinkers, and she had insisted upon perpetuating this imprisonment when she had discovered that she would only be accepted on the footing of a servant.
Phœbe, who remembered Rebecca both as hernineteenth-century sister and as her sixteenth-century nurse and tiring-woman, thought this determination the best compromise under the circumstances, and explained to her aunt that Rebecca was subject to recurring fits of delusion, and that it was necessary at such times to humor her in all things.
On the very day of the visit of Francis Bacon to the Panchronicon, the two sisters were sitting together in their bed-room. Rebecca was at her knitting by the window and Phœbe was rereading a letter for the twentieth time, smiling now and then as she read.
"'Pears to amuse ye some," said Rebecca, dryly, looking into her sister's rosy face. "How'd it come? I ain't seen the postman sence we've ben here. Seems to me they ain't up to Keene here in London. We hed a postman twice a day at Cousin Jane's house."
"No, 'twas the flesher's lad brought it," said Phœbe.
Rebecca grunted crossly.
"I wish the land sake ye'd say 'butcher' when ye mean butcher, Phœbe," she said.
"Well, the butcher's boy, then, Miss Particular!" said Phœbe, saucily.
Rebecca's face brightened.
"My! It does sound good to hear ye talk good Yankee talk, Phœbe," she said. "Ye hevn't dropped yer play-actin' lingo fer days and days."
"Oh, 'tis over hard to remember, sis!" said Phœbe, carelessly. "But tell me, would it be unmaidenly, think you, were I to grant Sir Guy a private meeting—without the house?"
"Which means would I think ye was wrong to spark with that high-falutin man out o' doors, eh?"
"Yes—say it so an thou wilt," said Phœbe, shyly.
"Why, ef you're goin' to keep comp'ny with him 'tall, I sh'd think ye'd go off with him by yerself. Thet's the way sensible folks do—at least, I b'lieve so," she added, blushing.
"Aunt Martha hath given me free permission to see Sir Guy when I will," Phœbe continued. "But she hath been full circumspect, and ever keepeth within ear-shot."
"Humph!" snapped Rebecca. "Y'ain't got any Aunt Martha's fur's I know, but ef ye mean that fat, beer-drinkin' woman downstairs, why, 'tain't any of her concern, an' I'd tell her so, too."
Phœbe twirled her letter between her fingers and gazed pensively smiling out of the window. There was a long pause, which was finally broken by Rebecca.
"What's the letter 'bout, anyway?" she said. "Is it from the guy?"
"You mean Sir Guy," said Phœbe, in injured tones.
"Oh, well, sir or ma'am! Did he write it?"
"Why, truth to tell," said Phœbe, slipping the note into her bosom, "'Tis but one of the letters I read to thee from yon carved box, Rebecca."
"My sakes—that!" cried her sister. "How'd the butcher's boy find it? You don't s'pose he stole it out o' the Panchronicle, do ye?"
"Lord warrant us, sis, no! 'Twas writ this very day. What o'clock is it?"
She ran to the window and looked down the street toward the clock on the Royal Exchange.
"Three i' the afternoon," she muttered. "The time is short. Shall I? Shall I not?"
"Talkin' o' letters," said Rebecca, suddenly, "I wish'd you take one down to the Post-Office fer me, Phœbe." She rose and went to a drawer in the dressing-table. "Here's one 't I wrote to Cousin Jane in Keene. I thought she might be worried about where we'd got to, an' so I've written an' told her we're in London."
"The Post-Office—" Phœbe began, laughingly. Then she checked herself. Why undeceive her sister? Here was the excuse she had been seeking.
"Yes; an' I told her more'n that," Rebecca continued. "I told her that jest's soon as the Panchronicle hed got rested and got its breath, we'd set off quick fer home—you an' me. Thet's so, ain't it, Phœbe?" she concluded, with plaintive anxiety in her voice.
"I'll take the letter right along," said Phœbe, with sudden determination.
But Rebecca would not at once relax her hold on the envelope.
"That's so, ain't it, dearie?" she insisted. "Won't we make fer home as soon's we can?"
"Sis," said Phœbe, gravely, "an I be not deeply in error, thou art right. Now give me the letter."
Rebecca relinquished the paper with a sigh of relief, then looked up in surprise at Phœbe, who was laughing aloud.
"Why, here's a five-cent stamp, as I live!" she cried. "Where did it come from?"
"I hed it in my satchel," said Rebecca. "Ain't that the right postage?"
"Yes—yes," said Phœbe, still laughing. "And now for the Post-Office!"
She donned her coif and high-crowned hat with silver braid, and leaned over Rebecca, who had seated herself, to give her a good-by kiss.
"Great sakes!" exclaimed Rebecca, as she received the unaccustomed greeting. "You do look fer all the world like one o' the Salem witches in Peter Parley's history, Phœbe."
With a light foot and a lighter heart for all its beating, Phœbe ran down the street unperceived from the house.
"Bishopsgate!" she sang under her breath. "The missive named Bishopsgate. He'll meet me within the grove outside the city wall."
Her feet seemed to know the way, which was not over long, and she arrived without mishap at the gate.
Here she was amazed to see two elderly men, evidently merchants, for they were dressed much like her uncle the goldsmith, approach two gayly dressed gentlemen and, stopping them on the street, proceed to measure their swords and the width of their extravagant ruffs with two yardsticks.
The four were so preoccupied with this ceremony that she slipped past them without attracting the disagreeable attention she might otherwise have received.
As she passed, the beruffled gentlemen were laughing, and she heard one of them say:
"God buy you, friends, our ruffs and bilbos have had careful measurement, I warrant you."
"Right careful, in sooth," said one of those with the yardsticks. "They come within a hair's breadth of her Majesty's prohibition."
Phœbe had scant time for wonder at this, for she saw in a grove not a hundred yards beyond the gate the trappings of a horse, and near by what seemed a human figure, motionless, under a tree.
Making a circuit before entering the grove, she came up behind the waiting figure, far enough within the grove to be quite invisible from the highway.
She hesitated for some time ere she felt certain that it was indeed Sir Guy who stood before her. He was dressed in the extreme of fashion, and she fancied that she could smell the perfumes he wore, as they were borne on the soft breeze blowing toward her.
His hair fell in curls on either side from beneatha splendid murrey French hat, the crown of which was wound about with a gold cable, the brim being heavy with gold twist and spangles. His flat soft ruff, composed of many layers of lace, hung over a thick blue satin doublet, slashed with rose-colored taffeta and embroidered with pearls, the front of which was brought to a point hanging over the front of his hose in what was known as a peascod shape. The tight French hose was also of blue satin, vertically slashed with rose. His riding-boots were of soft brown Spanish leather and his stockings of pearl-gray silk. A pearl-gray mantle lined with rose-colored taffeta was fastened at the neck, under the ruff, and fell in elegant folds over his left arm, half concealing the hand resting upon the richly jewelled hilt of a sword whose scabbard was of black velvet.
"God ild us!" Phœbe exclaimed in low tones. "What foppery have we here!"
Then, slipping behind a tree, she clapped her hands.
Guy turned his head and gazed about in wonder, for no one was visible. Phœbe puckered her lips and whistled softly twice. Then, as her lover darted forward in redoubled amazement, she stepped into view, and smiled demurely upon him with hands folded before her.
The young knight leaped forward, and, dropping on one knee, carried her hand rapturously to his lips.
"Now sink the orbed sun!" he exclaimed. "Forbehold a fairer cometh, whose love-darting eyes do slay the night, rendering bright day eternate!"
Smiling roguishly down into his face, Phœbe shook her head and replied:
"You are full of pretty phrases. Have you not been acquainted with goldsmiths' wives, and conned them out of rings?"
For an instant the young man was disconcerted. Then rising, he said:
"Nay, from the rings regardant of thine eyes I learned my speech. What are golden rings to these?"
"Why, how much better is thy speech when it ringeth true," said Phœbe. "Thy speech of greeting was conned with much pains from the cold book of prior calculation, and so I answered you from a poet's play. I would you loved me!"
"Loved thee, oh, divine enchantress—too cruel-lovely captress of my dole-breathing heart!"
"Tut—tut—tut!" she broke in, stamping her foot. "Thou dost it badly, Sir Guy. A truce to Euphuistic word-coining and phrase-shifting! Wilt show thy love—in all sadness, say!"
"In any way—or sad or gay!"
"Then prithee, good knight, stand on thy head by yonder tree."
The cavalier stepped back and gazed into his lady's face as though he thought her mad.
"Stand—on—my—head!" he exclaimed, slowly.
Phœbe laughed merrily and clapped her hands.
"Good my persuasion!" she rippled. "See howthou art shaken into thyself, man. What! No phrase of lackadaisical rapture! Why, I looked to see thee invert thine incorporate satin in an airy rhapsody—upheld and kept unruffled by some fantastical twist of thine imagination. Oh, Fancy—Fancy! Couldst not e'en sustain thy knight cap-à-pie!" and she laughed the harder as she saw her lover's face grow longer and longer.
"Why, mistress," he began, soberly, "these quips and jests ill become a lover's tryst, methinks——"
"As ill as paint and scent and ear-rings—as foppish attire and fantastical phrases do become an honest lover," said Phœbe, indignantly. "Dost think that Mary Burton prizes these weary labyrinthine sentences—all hay and wool, like the monstrous swelling of trunk hose? Far better can I read in Master Lilly's books. Thinkest thou I came hither to smell civet? Nay—I love better the honest odor of cabbages in mine aunt's kitchen! And all this finery—this lace—this satin and this pearl embroidery——"
"In God His name!" the knight broke in, stamping his foot. "Dost take me for a little half-weaned knave, that I'll learn how to dress me of a woman? An you like not my speech, mistress——"
Phœbe cut him short, putting her hand on his mouth.
Then she leaned her shoulder against a tree, and looking up saucily into his face:
"Now, don't get mad!" she said.
"Mad—mad!" said Sir Guy, with a puzzled look. "An this be madness, mistress, then is her Majesty's whole court a madhouse."
"Well, young man," Phœbe replied, with her prim New England manner, "if you want to marry me, you'll have to come and live in a country where they don't have queens, and you'll work in your shirt-sleeves like an honest man. You might just's well understand that first as last."
The knight moved back a step, with an injured expression on his face.
"Nay, then," he said, "an thou mock me with uncouth phrases, Mary, I'd best be going."
"Perhaps you'd better, Guy."
With a reproachful glance, but holding his head proudly, the young man mounted his horse.
"He hath a noble air on horseback," Phœbe said to herself, and she smiled.
The young man saw the smile and took courage.
He urged his horse forward to her side.
"Mary!" he exclaimed, tenderly.
"Fare thee well!" she replied, coolly, and turned her back.
He bit his lip, clinched his hand, and without another word, struck fiercely with his spurs. With a snort of pain, the horse bounded forward, and Phœbe found herself alone in the grove.
She gazed wistfully after the horseman and clasped her hands in silence for a few moments. Then, at thought of the letter she knew he was soonto write—the letter she had often seen in the carved box—she smiled again and, patting her skirts, stepped forth merrily from the edge of the grove.
"After all, 'twill teach the silly lad better manners!" she said.
Scarcely had she reached the highway again when she heard a man's voice calling in hearty tones.
"Well met, Mistress Mary! I looked well to find you near—for I take it 'twas Sir Guy passed me a minute gone, spurring as 'twere a shame to see."
She looked up and saw a stout, middle-aged countryman on horseback, holding a folded paper in his hand.
"Oh, 'tis thou, Gregory!" she said, coolly. "Mend thy manners, man, and keep thy place."
The man grinned.
"For my place, Mistress Mary," he said, "I doubt you know not where your place be."
She looked up with a frown of angry surprise.
"Up here behind me on young Bess," he grinned. "See, here's your father's letter, mistress."
She took the paper with one hand while with the other she patted the soft nose of the mare, who was bending her head around to find her mistress.
"Good Bess—good old mare!" she said, gently, gazing pensively at the letter.
How well she knew every wrinkle in that paper, every curve in the clumsy superscription. Full well she knew its contents, too; for had she not read this very note to Copernicus Droop at the North Pole?However, partly that he might not be set to asking questions, partly in curiosity, she unfolded the paper.
"Dear Poll"—it began—"I'm starting behind the grays for London on my way to be knighted by her Majesty. I send this ahead by Gregory on Bess, she being fast enow for my purpose, which is to get thee out of the clutches of that ungodly aunt of thine. I know her tricks, and I learn how she hath suffered that damned milk-and-water popinjay to come courting my Poll. So see you follow Gregory, mistress, and without wait or parley come with him to the Peacock Inn, where I lie to-night.
"The grays are in fine fettle, and thy black mare grows too fat for want of exercise. Thy mother-in-law commands thy instant return with Gregory, having much business forward with preparing gowns and fal lals against our presentation to her Majesty.—Thy father, Isaac Burton, of Burton Hall.
"Thy mother thinks thou wilt make better speed if I make thee to know that the players thou wottest of are to stop at the Peacock Inn and will be giving some sport there."
"The players!" she exclaimed, eagerly. "Be these the Lord Chamberlain's men?" she asked. "Is there not among them one Will Shakespeare, Gregory? What play give they to-night?"
"All one to me, mistress," said Gregory, slowly dismounting. "There be players at the Peacock, forthe kitchen wench told me of them as I stopped there for a pint; but be they the Lord Chamberlain's or the Queen's, I cannot tell."
"Do they play at the Shoreditch Theatre or at the inn, good Gregory?"
"I' faith I know not, mistress," he replied, bracing his brawny right hand, palm up, at his knee.
Mechanically she put one foot into his palm and sprang lightly upon the pillion behind the groom's saddle.
As they turned and started at a jog trot northward, she remembered her sister and her new-found aunt.
"Hold—hold, Gregory!" she cried. "What of Rebecca? What of my aunt—my gowns?"
"I am to send an ostler from the Peacock for your nurse and clothing, mistress," said Gregory. "My orders was not to wait for aught, but bring you back instant quickly wheresoever I found you." After a pause he went on with a grin: "I doubt I came late, hows'ever. Sir Guy hath had his say, I'm thinkin'!" and he chuckled audibly.
"Now you mind your own business, Gregory!" said Phœbe, sharply.
His face fell, and during the rest of their ride he maintained a rigid silence.
The next morning found Phœbe sitting in her room in the Peacock Inn, silently meditating in an effort to establish order in the chaos of her mind. Her hands lay passively in her lap, and between herfingers was an open sheet of paper whose crisp folds showed it to be a letter.
Daily contact with the people, customs, dress, and tongue of Elizabethan England was fast giving to her memories of the nineteenth century the dim seeming of a dream. As she came successively into contact with each new-old acquaintance, he took his place in her heart and mind full grown—completely equipped with all the associations, loves, and antipathies of long familiarity.
Gregory had brought her to the inn the night before, and here she had received the boisterous welcome of old Isaac Burton and the cooler greeting of his dame, her step-mother. They took their places in her heart, and she was not surprised to find it by no means a high one. The old lady was overbearing and far from loving toward Mistress Mary, as Phœbe began to call herself. As for Isaac Burton, he seemed quite subject to his wife's will, and Phœbe found herself greatly estranged from him.
That first afternoon, however, had transported her into a paradise the joys of which even Dame Burton could not spoil.
Sitting in one of the exterior galleries overlooking the courtyard of the inn, Phœbe had witnessed a play given on a rough staging erected in the open air.
The play was "The Merchant of Venice," and who can tell the thrills that tingled through Phœbe's frame as, with dry lips and a beating heart, she gazeddown upon Shylock. Behind that great false beard was the face of England's mightiest poet. That wig concealed the noble forehead so revered by high and low in the home she had left behind.
She was Phœbe Wise, and only Phœbe, that afternoon, enjoying to the full the privilege which chance had thrown in her way. And now, the morning after, she went over it all again in memory. She rehearsed mentally every gesture and intonation of the poet-actor, upon whom alone she had riveted her attention throughout the play, following him in thought, even when he was not on the stage.
Sitting there in her room, she smiled as she remembered with what a start of surprise she had recognized one among the groundlings in front of the stage after the performance. It was Sir Guy, very plainly dressed and gazing fixedly upon her. Doubtless he had been there during the entire play, waiting in vain for one sign of recognition. But Shylock had held her spellbound, and even for her lover she had been blind.
She felt a little touch of pity and compunction as she remembered these things, and suddenly she lifted to her lips the letter she was holding.
"Poor boy!" she murmured. Then, shaking her head with a smile: "I wonder how his letter found my room!" she said.
She rose, and, going to the window where the light was stronger, flattened out the missive and read it again: