"My dear, dear Mary—dear to me ever, e'en in thy displeasure—have I fallen, then, so low in thy sight! May I not be forgiven, sweet girl, or shall I ever stand as I have this day, gazing upward in vain for the dear glance my fault hath forfeited?
"In sober truth, dear heart, I hate myself for what I was. What a sad mummery of lisping nothings was my speech—and what a vanity was my attire! Thou wast right, Mary, but oh! with what a ruthless hand didst thou tear the veil from mine eyes! I have seen my fault and will amend it, but oh! tell me it was thy love and not thine anger that hath prompted thee. And yet—why didst thou avert thine eyes from me this even? Sweet—speak but a word—write but a line—give some assurance, dear, of pardon to him who is forever thine in the bonds of love."
She folded the letter slowly and slipped it into the bosom of her dress with a smile on her lips and a far-away look in her eyes. She had known this letter almost by heart before she received it. Had it not been one of her New England collection? Foreknowledge of it had emboldened her to rebuke her lover when she met him by the Bishopsgate—and yet—it had been a surprise and a sweet novelty to her when she had found it on her dressing-table the night before.
At length she turned slowly from the window and said softly:
"Guy's a good fellow, and I'm a lucky girl!"
There was a quick thumping of heavy feet on the landing, and a moment later a young country girl entered. It was Betty, one of the serving girls whom Dame Burton had brought with her to London.
The lass dropped a clumsy courtesy, and said:
"Mistress bade me tell ye, Miss Mary, she would fain have ye wait on her at once. She's in the inn parlor." Then, after a pause: "Sure she hath matter of moment for ye, I warrant, or she'd not look so solemn satisfied."
Phœbe was strongly tempted to decline this peremptory invitation, but curiosity threw its weight into the balance with complaisance, and with a dignified lift of the chin she turned to the door.
"Show the way, Betty," she said.
Through several long corridors full of perplexing turns and varied by many a little flight of steps, the two young women made their way to the principal parlor of the inn, where they found Mistress Burton standing expectantly before a slow log fire.
Phœbe's worthy step-mother was a dame of middle age, ruddy, black-haired, and stout. Her loud voice and sudden movements betrayed a great fund of a certain coarse energy, and, as her step-daughter now entered the parlor, she was fanning her flushed face with an open letter. Her expression was one of triumph only half-concealed by ill-assumed commiseration.
"Aha, lass!" she cried, as she caught sight of Phœbe, "art here, then? Here are news in sooth—news for—" She broke off and turned sharply upon Betty, who stood by the door with mouth and ears wide open.
"Leave the room, Betty!" she exclaimed. "Am I to have every lazy jade in London prying and eavesdropping? Trot—look alive!"
She strode toward the reluctant maid and, with a good-natured push, hastened her exit. Then, closing the door, she turned again toward Phœbe, who had seated herself by the fire.
"Well, Polly," she resumed, "art still bent on thy foppish lover, lass? Not mended since yesternight—what?"
A cool slow inclination of Phœbe's head was the sole response.
"Out and alas!" the dame continued, tossing her head with mingled pique and triumph. "'Tis a sad day for thee and thine, then! This Sir Guy of thine is as good as dead, girl! Thy popinjay is a traitor, and his crimes have found him out!"
"A traitor!"
Phœbe stood erect with one hand on her heart.
Dame Burton repressed a smile and continued with a slow shake of the head:
"Ay, girl; a traitor to her blessed Majesty the Queen. His brother hath been discovered in traitorous correspondence with the rebel O'Neill, and is on his way to the Tower. Sir Guy's arrest hath beenordered, and the two brothers will lose their heads together."
Very pale, Phœbe stood with hands tight clasped before her.
"Where have you learned this, mother?" she said.
"Where but here!" the dame replied, shaking the open sheet she held in her hand. "Thy Cousin Percy, secretary to my good Lord Burleigh, he hath despatched me this writing here, which good Master Portman did read to me but now."
"Let me see it."
As Phœbe read the confirmation of her step-mother's ill news, she tried to persuade herself that it was but the fabrication of a jealous rival, for this Percy was also an aspirant to her hand. But it proved too circumstantial to admit of this construction, and her first fears were confirmed.
"Ye see," said Dame Burton, as she received the note again, "the provost guard is on the lad's track, and with a warrant. I told thee thy wilful ways would lead but to sorrow, Poll!"
Phœbe heard only the first sentence of this speech. Her mind was possessed by one idea. She must warn her lover. Mechanically she turned away, forgetful of her companion, and passing through the door with ever quicker steps, left her step-mother gazing after her in speechless indignation.
Phœbe's movements were of necessity aimless at first. Ignorant of Sir Guy's present abiding-place, knowing of no one who could reach him, she wandered blindly forward, up one hall and down another without a distinct immediate plan and mentally paralyzed with dread.
The sick pain of fear—the longing to reach her lover's side—these were the first disturbers of her peace since her return into this strange yet familiar life of the past. Now for the first time she was learning how vital was the hold of a sincere and deep love. The thought of harm to him—the fear of losing him—these swept her being clear of all small coquetries and maiden wiles, leaving room only for the strong, true, sensitive love of an anxious woman. Over and over again she whispered as she walked:
"Oh, Guy—Guy! Where shall I find you? What shall I do!"
She had wandered long through the mazes of the quaint old caravansary ere she found an exit. At length she turned a sharp corner and found herself at the top of a short flight of steps leading to a door which opened upon the main outer court. At that moment a new thought leaped into her mind and she stopped abruptly, a rush of warm color mantling on her cheeks.
Then, with a sigh of content, she sank down upon the top step of the flight she had reached and gently shook her head, smiling.
"Too much Mary Burton, Miss Phœbe!" she murmured.
She had recollected her precious box of letters. Of these there was one which made it entirely clearthat Mary Burton and her lover were destined to escape this peril; for it was written from him to her after their flight from England. All her fears fell away, and she was left free to taste the sweetness of the new revelation without the bitterness in which that revelation had had its source.
Very dear to Phœbe in after life was the memory of the few moments which followed. With her mind free from every apprehension, she leaned her shoulder to the wall and turned her inward sight in charmed contemplation upon the new treasure her heart had found.
How small, how trifling appeared what she had until then called her love! Her new-found depth and height of tender devotion even frightened her a little, and she forced a little laugh to avert the tears.
Through the open door her eyes registered in memory the casual movements without, while her consciousness was occupied only with her soul's experience. But soon this period of blissful inaction was sharply terminated. Her still watching eyes brought her a message so incongruous with her immediate surroundings as to shake her out of her waking dream. She became suddenly conscious of a nineteenth-century intruder amid her almost medieval surroundings.
All attention now, she sat quickly upright and looked out again. Yes—there could be no mistake—Copernicus Droop had passed the door and wasapproaching the principal entrance of the inn on the other side of the courtyard.
Phœbe ran quickly to the door and, protecting her eyes with one hand from the flood of brilliant sunlight, she called eagerly after the retreating figure.
"Mr. Droop—Mr. Droop!"
The figure turned just as Phœbe became conscious of a small crowd of street loafers who had thronged curiously about the courtyard entrance, staring at the new-comer's outlandish garb. She saw the grinning faces turn toward her at sound of her voice, and she shrank back into the hallway to evade their gaze.
The man to whom she had called re-crossed the courtyard with eager steps. There was something strange in his gait and carriage, but the strong sunlight behind him made his image indistinct, and besides, Phœbe was accustomed to eccentricities on the part of this somewhat disreputable acquaintance.
Her astonishment was therefore complete when, on removing his hat as he entered the hallway, this man in New England attire proved to be a complete stranger.
Evidently the gentleman had suffered much from the rudeness of his unwelcome followers, for his face was flushed and his manner constrained and nervous. Bowing slightly, he stood erect just within the door.
"Did you do me the honor of a summons, mistress?" said he.
The look of amazement on Phœbe's face made him bite his lips with increase of annoyance, for hesaw in her emotion only renewed evidence of the ridicule to which he had subjected himself.
"I—I crave pardon!" Phœbe stammered. "I fear I took you for another, sir."
"For one Copernicus Droop, and I mistake not!"
"Do you know him?" she faltered in amazement.
"I have met him—to my sorrow, mistress. 'Tis the first time and the last, I vow, that Francis Bacon hath dealt with mountebanks!"
"Francis Bacon!" cried Phœbe, delight and curiosity now added to puzzled amazement. "Is it possible that I see before me Sir Francis Bacon—or rather Lord Verulam, I believe." She dropped a courtesy, to which he returned a grave bow.
"Nay, good mistress," he replied. "Neither knight nor lord am I, but only plain Francis Bacon, barrister, and Secretary of the Star Chamber."
"Oh!" Phœbe exclaimed, "not yet, I see."
Then, as a look of grave inquiry settled over Bacon's features, she continued eagerly: "Enough of your additions, good Master Bacon. 'Twere better I offered my congratulations, sir, than prated of these lesser matters."
"Congratulations! Good lady, you speak in riddles!"
Smiling, she shook her head at him, looking meaningly into his eyes.
"Oh, think notallare ignorant of what you have so ably hidden, Master Bacon," she said. "Can it be that the author of that wondrous play I saw heregiven but yesternight can be content to hide his name behind that of a too greatly favored player?"
"Play, mistress!" Bacon exclaimed. "Why, here be more soothsaying manners from a fairer speaker—but still as dark as the uncouth ravings of that fellow—that—that Droop."
"Nay—nay!" Phœbe insisted. "You need fear no tattling, sir. I will keep your secret—though in very truth, were I in your worship's place, 'twould go hard but the whole world should know my glory!"
"Secret—glory!" Bacon exclaimed. "In all conscience, mistress, I beg you will make more clear the matter in question. Of what play speak you? Wherein doth it concern Francis Bacon?"
"To speak plainly, then, sir, I saw your play of the vengeful Jew and good Master Antonio. What! Have I struck home!"
She leaned against the wall with her hands behind her and looked up at him triumphantly. To her confusion, no answering gleam illumined the young man's darkling eyes.
"Struck home!" he exclaimed, shaking his head querulously. "Perhaps—but where? Do you perchance make a mock of me, Mistress—Mistress——?"
She replied to the inquiry in his manner and tone with disappointment in her voice:
"Mistress Mary Burton, sir, at your service."
Bacon started back a step and a new and eager light leaped into his eyes.
"The daughter of Isaac Burton?" he cried, "soon to be Sir Isaac?"
"The same, sir. Do you know my father?"
"Ay, indeed. 'Twas to seek him I came hither."
Then, starting forward, Bacon poured forth in eager accents a full account of his meeting with Droop in the deserted grove—of how they two had conspired to evade the bailiffs, and of his reasons for borrowing Droop's clothing.
"Conceive, then, my plight, dear lady," he concluded, "when, on reaching London, I found that the few coins which remained to me had been left in the clothes which I gave to this Droop, and I have come hither to implore the temporary aid of your good father."
"But he hath gone into London, Master Bacon," said Phœbe. "It is most like he will not return ere to-morrow even."
Droop's hat dropped from Bacon's relaxed grasp and he seemed to wilt in his speechless despair.
Phœbe's sympathy was awakened at once, but her anxiety to know more of the all-important question of authorship was perhaps the keenest of her emotions.
"Why," she exclaimed, "'tis a little matter that needs not my father, methinks. If ten pounds will serve you, I should deem it an honor to provide them."
Revived by hope, he drew himself up briskly as he replied:
"Why, 'twill do marvellous well, Mistress Mary—marvellous well—nor shall repayment be delayed, upon my honor!"
"Nay, call it a fee," she replied, "and give me, I beg of you, a legal opinion in return."
Bacon stooped to pick up the hat, from which he brushed the dust with his hand as he replied, with dubious slowness, looking down:
"Why, in sooth, mistress, I am used to gain a greater honorarium. As a barrister of repute, mine opinions in writing——"
"Ah, then, I fear my means are too small!" Phœbe broke in, with a smile. "'Tis a pity, too, for the matter is simple, I verily believe."
Bacon saw that he must retract or lose all, and he went on with some haste:
"Perchance 'tis not an opinion in writing that is required," he said.
"Nay—nay; your spoken word will suffice, Master Bacon."
"In that case, then——"
She drew ten gold pieces from her purse and dropped them into his extended palm. Then, seating herself upon a bench against the wall hard by, she said:
"The case is this: If a certain merchant borrow a large sum from a Jew in expectation of the speedy arrival of a certain argosy of great treasure, and if the merchant give his bond for the sum, the penalty of the bond being one pound of flesh from the bodyof the merchant, and if then the argosies founder and the bond be forfeit, may the Jew recover the pound of flesh and cut it from the body of the merchant?"
As she concluded, Phœbe leaned forward and watched her companion's face earnestly, hoping that he would betray his hidden interest in this Shakespearian problem by some look or sign.
The face into which she gazed was grave and judicial and the reply was a ready one.
"Assuredly not! Such a bond were contrary to public policy and voidab initio. The case is not one for hesitancy; 'tis clear and certain. No court in Christendom would for a moment lend audience to the Jew. Why, to uphold the bond were to license murder. True, the victim hath to this consented; but 'tis doctrine full well proven and determined, that no man can give valid consent to his own murder. Were this otherwise, suicide were clearly lawful."
"Oh!" Phœbe exclaimed, as this new view of the subject was presented to her. "Then the Duke of Venice——"
She broke off and hurried into new questioning.
"Another opinion hath been given me," she said. "'Twas urged that the Jew could have his pound of flesh, for so said the bond, but that he might shed no blood in the cutting, blood not being mentioned in the bond, and that his goods were forfeit did he cut more or less than a pound, by somuch as the weight of a hair. Think you this be law?"
Still could she see no shadow in Bacon's face betraying consciousness that there was more in her words than met the ear.
"No—no!" he replied, somewhat contemptuously. "If that A make promise of a chose tangible to B and the promise fall due, B may have not only that which was promised, but all such matters and things accessory as must, by the very nature of the agreed transfer, be attached to the thing promised. As, if I sell a calf, I may not object to his removal because, forsooth, some portion of earth from my land clingeth to his hoofs. So blood is included in the word 'flesh' where 'twere impossible to deliver the flesh without some blood. As for that quibble of nor more nor less, why, 'tis the debtor's place to deliver his promise. If he himself cut off too much, he injures himself, if too little he hath not made good his covenant."
Complete conviction seemed to spring upon Phœbe, as though it had been something visible to startle her. It shook off her old English self for a moment, and she leaped to her feet, exclaiming:
"Well, there now! That settles that! I guess if anybody wrote Shakespeare, it wasn't Bacon!"
The astonishment—almost alarm—in her companion's face filled her with amusement, and her happy laugh rang through the echoing halls.
"Many, many gracious thanks, good MasterBacon!" she exclaimed. "Right well have you earned your honorarium. And now, ere you depart, may I make bold to urge one last request?"
With a bow the young man expressed his acquiescence.
"If I mistake not, you will return forthwith to Master Droop, to the end that you may regain your proper garb, will you not?"
"That is my intention."
"Then I pray you, good Master Bacon, deliver this message to Master Droop from one Phœbe Wise, an acquaintance of his whom I know well. Tell him he must have all in readiness for flight and must not leave his abode until she come. May I rely on your faithful repetition of this to him?"
"Assuredly. I shall forget no word of the message wherewith I am so honored."
"Tell him that it is a matter of life and death, sir—of life and death!"
She held out her hand. Bacon pressed his lips to the dainty fingers and then, jamming the hard Derby hat as far down over his long locks as possible, he stepped forth once more into the courtyard.
For Rebecca, left alone in the goldsmiths' cityhouse, the past night and day had been a period of perplexity. She had been saved from any serious anxiety by the arrival of a messenger soon after Phœbe's departure, who had brought her word that her "mistress" was safe in the Peacock Inn, and had left a verbal message commanding her to come with him at once to rejoin her.
This command she naturally refused to comply with, and sent word to the much-puzzled man-servant that she wasn't to be "bossed around" by her younger sister, and that if Phœbe wanted to see her she knew where to find her. This message was delivered to old Mistress Burton, who refrained from repeating it to her step-daughter. For her own ends, she thought it best to keep Mistress Mary from her nurse, whose influence seemed invariably opposed to her own.
Left thus alone, Rebecca had had a hitherto unequalled opportunity for reflection, and the result of her deliberations was most practical. Whatever might be said of the inhabitants of London in general, it was clear to her mind that poor Phœbe wasmentally unbalanced.
The only remedy was to lure her into the Panchronicon, and regain the distant home they ought never to have left.
The first step to be taken was therefore to rejoin Copernicus and see that all was in readiness. It was her intention then to seek her sister and, by humoring her delusion and exercising an appropriately benevolent cunning, to induce her to enter the conveyance which had brought them both into this disastrous complication. The latter part of this programme was not definitely formed in her mind, and when she sought to give it shape she found herself appalled both by its difficulties and by the probable twists that her conscience would have to undergo in putting her plan into practice.
"Well, well!" she exclaimed at length. "I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. The fust thing is to find Copernicus Droop."
It was at about eleven o'clock in the morning of the day after Phœbe's departure that Rebecca came to this audible conclusion, and she arose at once to don her jacket and bonnet. This accomplished, she gathered up her precious satchel and umbrella and approached her bed-room window to observe the weather.
She had scarcely fixed her eyes upon the muddy streets below her when she uttered a cry of amazement.
"Good gracious alive! Ef there ain't Copernicus right this minute!"
Out through the inner hall and down the stairs she hurried with short, shuffling steps, impatient of the clinging rushes on the floor. Speechless she ran past good Mistress Goldsmith, who called after her in vain. The only reply was the slam of the front door.
Once in the street, Rebecca glanced sharply up and down. The man she sought was not in sight, but she shrewdly counted upon his having turned into Leadenhall Street, toward which she had seen him walking. Thither she hurried, and to her infinite gratification she saw, about a hundred yards ahead, the unmistakable trousers, coat, and Derby hat so familiar on the person of Copernicus Droop.
"Hey!" she cried. "Hey, there, Mister Droop! Copernicus Droop!"
She ended with a shrill, far-carrying, long-drawn call that sounded much like a "whoop." Evidently he heard her, for he started, looked over his shoulder, and then set off with redoubled speed, as though anxious to avoid her.
She stopped short for a moment, paralyzed with astonishment.
"Well!" she exclaimed. "If I ever! I suppose it's a case of 'the wicked flee,' but he can't get away from me as easy's that."
And then began a race the like of which was never seen before. In advance, Francis Bacon scurriedforward as fast as he dared without running, dreading the added publicity his rapid progress was sure to bring upon him, yet dreading even more to be overtaken by this amazing female apparition, in whose accents and intonation he recognized another of the Droop species.
Behind Bacon came Rebecca, conspicuous enough in her prim New England gown and bonneted head, but doubly remarkable as she skipped from stone to stone to avoid the mud and filth of the unpaved streets, and swinging in one hand her little black satchel and in the other her faithful umbrella.
From time to time she called aloud: "Hey, stop there! Copernicus Droop! Stop, I say! It's only Rebecca Wise!"
The race would have been a short one, indeed, had she not found it impossible to ignore the puddles, rubbish heaps, and other obstacles which half-filled the streets and obstructed her path at every turn. Bacon, who was accustomed to these conditions and had no impeding skirts to check him, managed, therefore, to hold his own without actually running.
These two were not long left to themselves. Such a progress could not take place in the heart of England's capital without forming in its train an ever-growing suite of the idle and curious. Ere long a rabble of street-walkers, beggars, pick-pockets, and loafers were stamping behind Rebecca, repeating her shrill appeals with coarse variations, and assailing herwith jokes which, fortunately for her, were worded in terms which her New England ears could not comprehend.
In this order the two strangely clad beings hurried down toward the Thames; he in the hope of finding a waterman who should carry him beyond the reach of his dreaded persecutors; she counting upon the river, which she knew to lie somewhere ahead, to check the supposed Copernicus in his obstinate flight.
To the right they turned, through St. Clement's Lane into Crooked Lane, and the ever-growing mob clattered noisily after them, shouting and laughing a gleeful chorus to her occasional solo.
Leaving Eastcheap and its grimy tenements, they emerged from New Fish Street and saw the gleam of the river ahead of them.
At this moment one of the following crowd, more enterprising than his fellows, ran close up behind Rebecca and, clutching the edge of her jacket, sought to restrain her.
"Toll, lass, toll!" he shouted. "Who gave thee leave to run races in London streets?"
Rebecca became suddenly fully conscious for the first time of the sensation she had created. Stopping short, she swung herself free and looked her bold assailant fairly in the face.
"Well, young feller," she said, with icy dignity, "what can I do fer you?"
The loafer fell back as she turned, and when shehad spoken, he turned in mock alarm and fled, crying as he ran:
"Save us—save us! Ugly and old as a witch, I trow!"
Those in the background caught his final words and set up a new cry which boded Rebecca no good.
"A witch—a witch! Seize her! Stone her!"
As they now hung back momentarily in a new dread, self-created in their superstitious minds, Rebecca turned again to the chase, but was sorely put out to find that her pause had given the supposed Droop the advantage of a considerable gain. He was now not far from the river side. Hoping he could go no farther, she set off once more in pursuit, observing silence in order to save her breath.
She would apparently have need of it to save herself, for the stragglers in her wake were now impelled by a more dangerous motive than mere curiosity or mischief. The cry of "Witch" had awakened cruel depths in their breasts, and they pressed forward in close ranks with less noise and greater menace than before.
Two or three rough fellows paused to kick stones loose from the clay of the streets, and in a few moments the all-unconscious Rebecca would have found herself in a really terrible predicament but for an accident seemingly without bearing upon her circumstances.
Without warning, someone in the upper story of one of the houses near by threw from a window apail of dirty water, which fell with a startling splash a few feet in front of Rebecca.
She stopped in alarm and looked up severely.
"I declare to goodness! I b'lieve the folks in this town are all plumb crazy! Sech doin's! The idea of throwin' slops out onto the road! Why, the Kanucks wouldn't do that in New Hampshire!"
Slipping her bag onto her left wrist, she loosened the band of her umbrella and shook the ribs free.
"Lucky I brought my umbrella!" she exclaimed. "I guess it'll be safer fer me to h'ist this, ef things is goin' to come out o' windows!"
All unknown to her, two or three of the rabble behind her were in the act of poising themselves with great stones in their hands, and their muscles were stiffening for a cast when, just in the nick of time, the obstinate snap yielded, and with a jerk the umbrella spread itself.
Turning the wide-spread gloria skyward, Rebecca hurried forward once more, still bent upon overtaking Copernicus Droop.
That simple act saved her.
A mere inactive witch was one thing—a thing scarce distinguishable from any other old woman. But this transformation of a black wand into a wide-spreading tent was so obviously the result of magic, that it was self-evident they had to do with a witch in full defensive and offensive state.
Stones fell from deadened hands and the threatening growls and cries were lost in a unanimous gaspof alarm. A moment's pause and then—utter rout. There was a mad stampede and in a trice the street was empty. Rebecca was alone under that inoffensive guardian umbrella.
To her grief, she found no one on the river's brim. He whom she sought was half-way across, his conveyance the only wherry in sight, apparently. Having passed beyond the houses, Rebecca now folded her umbrella and looked carefully about her. To her great relief, she caught sight of a man's figure recumbent on a stone bench near at hand. A pair of oars lay by him and betrayed his vocation.
She stepped promptly to his side and prodded him with her umbrella.
"Here, mister!" she cried. "Wake up, please. What do you charge for ferryin' folks across the river?"
The waterman sat up, rubbed his eyes and yawned. Then, without looking at his fare, he led the way to his boat without reply. He was chary of words, and after all, did not all the world know what to pay for conveyance to Southwark?
Rebecca gazed after him for a moment and then, shaking her head pityingly, she murmured:
"Tut—tut! Deef an' dumb, poor man! Dear, dear!"
To hesitate was to lose all hope of overtaking the obstinate Copernicus. So, first pointing vigorously after the retreating boat with closed umbrella, and with many winks and nods which she supposed supplied full meaning to her gestures, she stepped into the wherry, and the two at once glided out on the placid bosom of the Thames.
Far different was the spectacle that greeted her then from that which may now be witnessed near London Bridge. In those days that bridge was alone visible, not far to the East, and the tide that moves now so darkly between stone embankments beneath a myriad of grimy steamers, then flowed brightly between low banks and wooden wharves, bearing a gliding fleet of sailing-vessels. To the south were the fields and woods of the open country, save where loomed the low frame houses and the green-stained wharves of Southwark village. Behind Rebecca was a vast huddle of frame buildings, none higher than three stories, sharp of gable overhanging narrow streets, while here a tower and there a steeple stood sentinel over the common herd. To the east the four great stone cylinders of the Tower, frowning over the moving world at their feet, loomed grimly then as now.
Rebecca had fixed her eyes at first with a fascinated stare on this mighty mass of building, penetrated by a chill of fear, although ignorant of its tragic significance. Turning after a minute or two from contemplation of that gloomy monument of tyrannical power, she gazed eagerly forward again, bent upon keeping sight of the man she was pursuing.
He and his boat had disappeared, but her disappointment was at once lost in admiring stupefaction as she gazed upon a magnificent craft bearing across the bows of her boat and coming from the direction of Westminster.
The hull, painted white, was ornamented with a bold arabesque of gilding which seemed to flow naturally in graceful lines from the garment of a golden image of Victory mounted high on the towering prow.
From the deck at the front and back rose two large cabins whose sides were all of brilliant glass set between narrow panels on which were paintings, which Rebecca could not clearly distinguish from where she was sitting.
At the waist, between and below the cabins, ten oars protruded from each side of the barge, flashing rhythmically as they swept forward together, seeming to sprinkle drops of sunlight into the river.
The splendor of this apparition, contrasting as it did with the small and somewhat dingy craft otherwise visible above the bridge, gave a new direction to Rebecca's thoughts and forced from her an almost involuntary exclamation.
"For the lands sakes!" she murmured. "Whoever in the world carries on in sech style's that!"
The waterman looked over his shoulder, and no sooner caught sight of the glittering barge than, with a powerful push of his oars, he backed water and brought his little boat to a stand.
"The Queen!" he exclaimed.
Rebecca glanced at the boatman with slightly raised brows.
"Thought you was deef an' dumb," she said. Then, turning once more to the still approaching barge, she continued: "An' so thet's Queen Victoria's ship, is it?"
"Victoria!" growled the waterman. "Ye seem as odd in speech as in dress, mistress. Who gave ye license to miscall our glorious sovereign?"
Rebecca's brows were knit in a thoughtful frown and she scarce knew what her companion said. The approach of the Queen suggested a new plan of action. She had heard of queens as all-powerful rulers, women whose commands would be obeyed at once and without question, in small and personal things as in matters of greater moment. Of Queen Victoria, too, some accounts had reached her, and all had been in confirmation of that ruler's justice and goodness of heart.
Rebecca's new plan was therefore to appeal at once to this benign sovereign for aid, entreat her to command the Burtons to release Phœbe and to order Copernicus Droop to carry both sisters back to their New England home. This course recommended itself strongly to the strictly honest Rebecca, because it eliminated at once all necessity for "humoring" Phœbe's madness, with its implied subterfuges and equivocations. The moment was propitious for making an attempt which could at least do no harm, shethought. She determined to carry out the plan which had occurred to her.
Standing up in the boat: "What's the Queen's last name?" she asked.
"Be seated, woman!" growled the waterman, who was growing uneasy at sight of the increasing eccentricity of his fare. "The Queen's name is Elizabeth, as well ye know," he concluded, more gently. He hoped to soothe the woman's frenzy by concessions.
"Now, mister," said Rebecca, severely, "don't you be sassy to me, fer I won't stand it. Of course, I don't want her first name—she ain't hired help. What's the Queen's family name—quick!"
The waterman, now convinced that his fare was a lunatic, could think of naught better than to use soothing tones and to reply promptly, however absurd her questions. "I' faith," he said, in a mild voice, "I' faith, mistress, her Gracious Majesty is of the line of Tudor. Methought——"
But he broke off in horror.
Waving her umbrella high above her head, Rebecca, still standing upright in the boat, was calling at the top of her voice:
"Hallo there! Mrs. Tudor! Stop the ship, will ye! I want to speak to Mrs. Tudor a minute!"
All nature seemed to shiver and shrink in silence at this enormous breach of etiquette—to use a mild term. Involuntarily the ten pairs of oars in the royal barge hung in mid-air, paralyzed by that sudden outrage. The great, glittering structure, impelled by momentum, glided forward directly under the bows of Rebecca's boat and not a hundred yards away.
Again Rebecca's cry was borne shrill and clear across the water.
"Hallo! Hallo there! Ain't Mrs. Tudor on the ship? I want to speak to her!" Then, turning to the stupefied and trembling waterman:
"Why don't you row, you? What's the matter, anyway? Don't ye see they've stopped to wait fer us?"
Someone spoke within the after cabin. The command was repeated in gruff tones by a man's voice, and the ten pairs of oars fell as one into the water and were held rigid to check the progress of the barge.
"Wherry, ahoy!" a hail came from the deck.
"Ay, ay, sir!" the waterman cried.
"Come alongside!"
"Ay, ay, sir!"
Pale and weak with dread, the boatman pulled as well as he could toward the splendid vessel ahead, while Rebecca resumed her seat, quite satisfied that all was as it should be.
A few strokes of the oars brought them to the barge's side, and Rebecca's waterman threw a rope to one of the crew.
A young man in uniform glowered down upon them, and to him the waterman turned, pulling off his cap and speaking with the utmost humility.
"The jade is moon-struck, your worship!" he exclaimed, eagerly. "I would not for a thousand pound——"
"Moon-struck!" snapped the lieutenant. "Who gave thee commission to ferry madmen, fellow?"
The poor waterman, at his wits' end, was about to reply when Rebecca interposed.
"Young man," she said, standing up, "I'll thank you to 'tend to business. Is Mrs. Victoria Tudor at home?"
At this moment a young gentleman, magnificently apparelled, stepped forth from the after cabin and approached the man in uniform.
"Lieutenant," he said, "her Majesty commands that the woman be brought before her in person. As for you," he continued, turning to the waterman, "return whence you came, and choose your fares better henceforth."
Two of the barge's crew extended each a hand to Rebecca.
"Bend onto that, Poll!" said one, grinning.
"Well, I declare!" exclaimed Rebecca. "I never see sech impident help in all my born days! Ain't ye got any steps for a body to climb?"
A second gorgeously dressed attendant backed hastily out of the cabin.
"Look alive!" he said, peremptorily. "Her Majesty waxes impatient. Where is the woman?"
"Ay, ay, sir!" replied the sailors. "Here she be!"
They leaned far forward and, grasping the astonished Rebecca each by a shoulder, lifted her quickly over the rail.
The first gentleman messenger beckoned to her and started toward the cabin.
"Follow me!" he said, curtly.
Rebecca straightened her skirt and bonnet, shook her umbrella, and turned quietly to the rail, fumbling with the catch of her bag.
"I pity yer manners, young man!" she said, coldly. Then, with some dismay:
"Here you, mister, don't ye want yer money?"
But the waterman, only too glad to escape at all from being involved in her fate, was pulling back to the northern shore as fast as his boat would go.
"Suit yourself," said Rebecca, simply. "Saves me a dime, I guess."
Turning then to the impatient gentleman waiting at the door:
"Guess you're one o' the family, ain't ye? Is your ma in, young man?"
Fortunately her full meaning was not comprehended, and the person addressed contented himself with drawing aside the heavy curtain of cloth of gold and motioning to Rebecca to precede him.
She nodded graciously and passed into the cabin.
"That's better," she said, with an ingratiating smile. "Good manners never did a mite o' harm, did they?"
Before following her, the messenger turned again to the young lieutenant.
"Give way!" he said.
At once the sweeps fell together, and the great barge resumed its course down the river.
As Rebecca entered the glass and gold enclosure, she was at first quite dazzled by the crowd of gorgeously arrayed courtiers who stood in two compact groups on either side of her. Young and old alike, all these men of the sword and cloak seemed vying one with another for precedence in magnificence and foppery. The rarest silks of every hue peeped forth through slashed velvets and satins whose rustling masses bedecked men of every age and figure. Painted faces and ringed ears everywhere topped snowy ruffles deep and wide, while in every hand, scented gloves, fans, or like toys amused the idle fingers.
In the background Rebecca was only vaguely conscious of a group of ladies in dresses of comparatively sober pattern and color; but seated upon a luxurious cushioned bench just in front of the others, one of her sex struck Rebecca at once as the very centre and climax of the magnificence that surrounded her.
Here sat Elizabeth, the vain, proud, tempestuous daughter of "bluff King Hal." Already an old woman, she yet affected the dress and carriage of young maidenhood, possessing unimpaired the vanity of a youthful beauty, and, despite her growing ugliness, commanding the gallant attentions that gratified and supported that vanity.
Her face, somewhat long and thin, was carefullypainted, but not so successfully as to hide the many wrinkles traced there by her sixty-five years. Her few blackened teeth and her false red hair seemed to be mocked by the transcendent lustre of the rich pearl pendants in her ears. Her thin lips, hooked nose, and small black eyes betokened suppressed anger as she glared upon her admiring visitor; but, far from being alarmed by the Queen's expression, Rebecca was only divided between her admiration of her magnificent apparel and blushing uneasiness at sight of the frankly uncovered bosom which Elizabeth exhibited by right of her spinsterhood. Rebecca remembered ever afterward how she wished that "all those men" would sink through the floor of the cabin.
The Queen was at first both angry at the unheard-of language Rebecca had used, and curious to see what manner of woman dared so to express herself. But now that she set eyes upon the outlandish garb of her prisoner, her curiosity grew at the expense of her wrath, and she sat silent for some time while her little black eyes sought to explore the inmost depths of Rebecca's mind.
Rebecca, for her part, was quite unconscious of having infringed any of the rules of courtly etiquette, and, without expressing her belief in her complete social equality with the Queen or anyone else present, was so entirely convinced of this equality that she would have deemed a statement of it ridiculously superfluous.
For a few moments she stood in the middle of the open space immediately before the Queen, partly dazed and bewildered into silence, partly expectant of some remark from her hostess.
At length, observing the grimly rigid aspect of the silent Queen, Rebecca straightened herself primly and remarked, with her most formal air: "I s'pose you are the Queen, ma'am. You seem to be havin' a little party jest now. I hope I'm not intruding but to tell ye the truth, Mrs. Tudor, I've got into a pretty pickle and I want to ask a little favor of you."
She looked about to right and left as though in search of something.
"Don't seem to be any chairs around, only yours," she continued. Then, with a quick gesture of the hand: "No, don't get up. Set right still now. One o' your friends here can get me a chair, I guess," and she looked very meaningly into the face of a foppish young courtier who stood near her, twisting his thin yellow beard.
At this moment the rising wonder of the Queen reached a climax, and she burst into speech with characteristic emphasis.
"What the good jere!" she cried. "Hath some far planet sent us a messenger. The dame is loyal in all her fantasy. Say, my Lord of Nottingham, hath the woman a frenzy, think you?"
The gentleman addressed stood near the Queen and was conspicuous for his noble air. His prominentgray eyes under rounded brows lighted up a long, oval face surmounted by a high, bald forehead. The long nose was aquiline, and the generous, full-lipped mouth was only half hidden by a neatly trimmed full blond beard. Rebecca noticed his dress particularly as he stepped forward at the Queen's summons, and marvelled at the two doublets and heavy cape coat over which hung a massive gold chain supporting the brilliant star of some order. She wondered how he could breathe with that stiff ruff close up under his chin and inclined downward from back to front.
Dropping on one knee, Nottingham began his reply to the Queen's inquiry, though ere he finished his sentence he rose to his feet again at a gracious sign from his royal mistress.
"May it please your Majesty," he said, "I would humbly crave leave to remove the prisoner from a presence she hath nor wit nor will to reverence. Judicial inquiry, in form appointed, may better determine than my poor judgment whether she be mad or bewitched."
This solemn questioning of her sanity produced in Rebecca's mind a teasing compound of wrath and uneasiness. These people seemed to find something fundamentally irregular in her behavior. What could it be? The situation was intolerable, and she set to work in her straightforward, energetic way to bring it to an end.
Stepping briskly up to the astonished Earl of Nottingham, she planted herself firmly before him, turning her back upon Elizabeth.
"Now look a-here, Mr. Nottingham," she said, severely, "I'd like to know what in the world you see that's queer about me or my ways. What's the matter, anyway? I came here to make a quiet call on that lady," here she pointed at the Queen with her umbrella, "and instead of anybody bringin' a chair, or sayin' 'How d'ye do,' the whole raft of ye hev done nothin' but stare or call me loony. I s'pose you're mad because I've interrupted your party, but didn't that man there invite me in? Ef you're all so dreadful particler, I'll jest get out o' here till Mrs. Tudor can see me private. I'll set outside, ef I can find a chair."
With an air of offended dignity she stalked toward the door, but turned ere she had gone ten steps and continued, addressing the assembled company collectively:
"As fer bein' loony, I can tell you this. Ef you was where I come from in America, they'd say every blessed one of ye was crazy as a hen with her head off."
"America!" exclaimed the Queen, as a new thought struck her. "America! Tell me, dame, come you from the New World?"
"That's what it's sometimes called in the geographies," Rebecca stiffly replied. "I come from Peltonville, New Hampshire, myself. Perhaps I'd ought to introduce myself. My name's Rebecca Wise,daughter of Wilmot and Nancy Wise, both deceased."
She concluded her sentence with more of graciousness than she had shown in the beginning, and the Queen, now fully convinced of the innocent sincerity of her visitor, showed a countenance of half-amused, half-eager interest.
"Why, Sir Walter," she cried, "this cometh within your province, methinks. If that this good woman be an American, you should be best able to parley with her and learn her will."
A dark-haired, stern-visaged man of middle height, dressed less extravagantly than his fellows, acknowledged this address by advancing and bending one knee to the deck. Here was no longer the gay young courtier who so gallantly spoiled a handsome cloak to save his sovereign's shoes, but the Raleigh who had fought a hundred battles for the same mistress and had tasted the bitterness of her jealous cruelty in reward.
There was in his pose and manner, however, much of that old grace which had first endeared him to Elizabeth, and even now served to fix her fickle favor.
"Most fair and gracious Majesty," he said in a low, well-modulated voice, turning upward a seeming fascinated eye, "what Walter Raleigh hath learned of any special knowledge his sovereign hath taught him, and all that he is is hers of right."
"'Tis well, my good knight," said Elizabeth, beckoning with her slender finger that he might rise."We know your true devotion and require now this service, that you question this stranger in her own tongue concerning her errand here and her quality and estate at home."
As Raleigh rose and advanced toward Rebecca, without turning away from the Queen, the half-bewildered American brought the end of her umbrella sharply down upon the floor with a gesture of impatience.
"What everlastin' play-actin' ways!" she snapped. Then, addressing Sir Walter: "Say, Mr. Walter," she continued, "ef you can't walk only sideways, you needn't trouble to travel clear over here to me. I'll come to you."
Suiting the action to the word, Rebecca stepped briskly forward until she stood in front of the rather crestfallen courtier.
He rallied promptly, however, and marshalling by an effort all he could remember of the language of the red man, he addressed the astonished Rebecca in that tongue.
"What's that?" she said.
Again Sir Walter poured forth an unintelligible torrent of syllables which completed Rebecca's disgust.
With a pitying smile, she folded her hands across her stomach.
"Who's loony now?" she said, quietly.
Raleigh gazed helplessly from Rebecca to the Queen and back again from the Queen to Rebecca.
Elizabeth, who had but imperfectly heard what had passed between the two, leaned forward impatiently.
"What says she, Raleigh?" she demanded. "Doth she give a good account?"
"Good my liege," said Raleigh, with a despairing gesture, "an the dame be from America, her tribe and race must needs be a distant one, placed remote from the coast. The natives of the Floridas——"
"Florida!" exclaimed Rebecca. "What you talkin' about, anyway? That's away down South. I come from New Hampshire, I tell you."
"Know you that region, Raleigh?" said the Queen, anxiously.
Raleigh shook his head with a thoughtful expression.
"Nay, your Majesty," he replied. "And if I might venture to hint my doubts—" He paused.
"Well, go on, man—go on!" said the Queen, impatiently.
"I would observe that the name is an English one, and 'tis scarce credible that in America, where our tongue is unknown, any region can be named for an English county."
"Land sakes!" exclaimed Rebecca, in growing amazement. "Don't know English! Why—don't I talk as good English as any of ye? You don't have to talk Bible talk to speak English, I sh'd hope!"
Elizabeth frowned and settled back in her chair,turning her piercing eyes once more upon her mysterious visitor.
"Your judgment is most sound, Sir Walter," she said. "In sooth, 'twere passing strange were our own tongue to be found among the savages of the New World! What have ye to say to this, mistress?"
Rebecca turned her eyes from one to the other of the bystanders, doubtful at first whether or not they were all in a conspiracy to mock her. Her good sense told her that this was wellnigh impossible, and she finally came to the conclusion that sheer ignorance was the only explanation.
"Well, well!" she exclaimed at last. "I've heerd tell about how simple Britishers was, but this beats all! Do you reely mean to tell me," she continued, vehemently nodding her head at the Queen, "that you think the's nothin' but Indians in America?"
A murmur of indignation spread through the assembly caused by language and manners so little suited to the address of royalty.
"The woman hath lost her wits!" said the Queen, dryly.
"There 'tis again!" said Rebecca, testily. "Why, ef it comes to talk of simpletons and the like, I guess the pot can't call the kettle black!"
Elizabeth gripped the arm of her chair and leaned forward angrily, while two or three gentlemen advanced, watching their mistress for the first sign of a command. At the same moment, a triumphantthought occurred to Rebecca, and, dropping her umbrella, she opened her satchel with both hands.
"Ye needn't to get mad, Mrs. Tudor," she said. "I didn't mean any offence, but I guess you wouldn't like to be called a lunatic yerself. See here," she continued, dragging forth a section of the newspaper which she had brought with her, "ef you folks won't believe my word, jest look at this! It's all here in the newspaper—right in print. There!"
She held the paper high where all might see, and with one accord Queen and courtiers craned forward eagerly, burning with curiosity at sight of the printed columns interspersed with nineteenth-century illustrations.
Rebecca stepped forward and handed the paper to the Queen, and then, drawing forth another section from her bag, she carried it to the bewildered Raleigh, who took it like one in a trance.
For some time no one spoke. Elizabeth turned the paper this way and that, reading a bit here and a bit there, and gazing spellbound upon the enigmatic pictures.
Having completely mastered the situation, Rebecca now found time to consider her comfort. Far on one side, near the door through which she had entered, there stood a youth of perhaps sixteen, clad in the somewhat fantastic garb of a page. Having picked up her umbrella, Rebecca approached this youth and said in a sharp whisper:
"Couldn't you get me a chair, sonny?"
The lad disappeared with startling promptitude, but he did not return. It was an agony of perplexity and shyness which had moved him, not a willingness to serve.
Rebecca gazed about at the etiquette-bound men and women around her and muttered, with an indignant snort and toss of the head:
"Set o' decorated haystacks!"
Then, with head held high and a frigid "Beg pardon, mister!" she elbowed her way through the dense throng of gentlemen-in-waiting and seated herself on the bench arranged along the side of the cabin.
"Oof!" she exclaimed. "Feels though my legs would drop clear off!"
At length the Queen looked up.
"Why, what now!" she exclaimed. "Whither hath the strange woman gone?"
A tall man dressed in black and gold stepped forward and dropped upon one knee. He had a long, humorous face, with high cheek bones, a straight, good-humored mouth, with a high mustache well off the lip and a pointed beard. The eyes, set far apart, twinkled with the light of fun as he awaited permission to speak.
"Well, my Lord of Southampton," said the Queen, kindly, "I doubt some gay mischief be afoot. Your face tells me as much, my lord."
"Nay, my liege," was the humble reply. "Can my face so far forget the duty owed to Royalty as to speak thus, not being first admitted to discourse!"
Elizabeth smiled and replied:
"Even so, my lord, but we forgive the offence if that your face hath spoken truth. Know you aught of the strange woman? Pray be standing."
The earl arose and replied:
"Of her rank and station, she must be a queen at least, or she doth forget herself. This may your Majesty confirm if but these your Majesty's servants be commanded to cross the room."
Elizabeth, puzzled, bowed her head slightly, and the courtiers behind whom Rebecca had sought rest walked with one accord to the other side of the cabin, revealing to the astonished eyes of the Queen her visitor quietly seated upon the bench.
Rebecca nodded with a pleased look.
"Well, there!" she exclaimed. "Much obliged to you all. That's certainly better."
"Dame," said Elizabeth, sternly, "is this the respect you show to them above you in America?"
"Above me!" said Rebecca, straightening up stiffly. "There ain't anybody put above me at home, I can tell you. Ef the' was, I'd put 'em down mighty quick, I guess."
Elizabeth raised her brows and, leaning toward the lord treasurer, who stood at her side, she said in an undertone:
"This must be some sovereign princess in her own country, my lord. How comes it I have not had earlier intelligence of her arrival in this realm?"
Lord Burleigh bowed profoundly and mumbledsomething about its being out of his immediate province—he would have investigation made—etc., etc.
The Queen cut him short a little impatiently.
"Let it be done, my lord," she said.
Then turning to Rebecca, she continued:
"Our welcome is somewhat tardy, but none the less sincere. England hath e'er been friendly to the American, and you had been more fittingly received had our informants been less negligent."
Here the Queen shot a glance at poor Sir Walter Raleigh, who now seemed the personification of discomfiture.
"By what name are you called?" Elizabeth continued.
"Wise," said Rebecca, very graciously, "Rebecca Wise."
"Lady Rebecca, will you sit nearer?"
Instantly one of the pages sprang forward with a low chair, which, in obedience to a sign from the Queen, he placed at her right hand.
"Why, I'd be right pleased," said Rebecca. "That is, if the other folks don't mind," she continued, looking around. "I don't want to spile your party."
So saying, she advanced and sat beside the Queen, who now turned once more to the luckless Raleigh.
"Well, Sir Walter," she said, "what say you now? You have the printed proof. Can you make aught of it? How comes it that in all your fine travels in the New World you have heard no English spoken?"
"Oh, I dare say 'tain't his fault!" said Rebecca,indulgently. "I'm told they have a mighty queer way o' talkin' down South, where he's ben. Comes o' bein' brought up with darkies, ye know."
Elizabeth took up the newspaper once more.
"Was this printed in your realm, Lady Rebecca?" she asked.
"Hey!"
Elizabeth started haughtily, but recollected herself and repeated:
"Was this leaf printed in your country?"
"Oh, yes—yes, indeed! Down to New York. Pretty big paper, ain't it?"
"Not voluminous alone, but right puzzling to plain English minds," said the Queen, scanning the paper severely. "Instance this."
Slowly she read the opening lines of a market report:
"The bulls received a solar-plexus blow yesterday when it was reported that the C. R. and L. directors had resigned in a body owing to the extensive strikes."
"What words are these?" Elizabeth exclaimed in a despairing tone. "What is a plexus of the sun, and how doth it blow on a bull?"
Rebecca jumped up and brought her head close to the Queen's, peering over the paper which she held. She read and reread the paragraph in question and finally resumed her chair, slowly shaking her head.
"I guess that's the Wall Street talk I've heerd tell of," she said. "I don't understand that kind myself."
"Why, Sir Walter," Elizabeth exclaimed, triumphantly, "here have we two separate tribes at least, each speaking its proper dialect. Can it be that you have heard no word of these before?"
"Even so, my liege," was the dejected reply, "the tribes of the North are known to no man as yet."
"Passing strange!" mused the Queen, running a critical eye over the printed page before her. "Your talk, and that of others, hath been only of wild, copper-colored savages, living in rude huts and wearing only skins. Sure such as these have not types and printing-presses! What is this book, Lady Rebecca?"
"That's a newspaper, ma'am. Don't you have 'em in London? They come out every day an' people pay a penny apiece fer 'em."
Elizabeth flashed a stern glance upon her visitor.
"'Twere best not go too far, my lady," she said, harshly. "E'en traveller's tales must in some sort ape the truth at least. Now, prithee, to what end is such a pamphlet printed—why, 'tis endless!"
"I'll shet right up, Mis' Tudor, ef ye think I'm tellin' wrong stories," said Rebecca, indignantly. "Thet's a newspaper an' thet's all there is to it."
Elizabeth evaded the issue and turned now to the illustrations.
"These be quaint-wondrous images!" she said. "Pray, what now may this be? Some fantastic reverie limned for amusement?"
Rebecca jumped up again and peered over the Queen's shoulder.
"Why, thet's a picture of the troops marchin' downBroadway, in New York City. See, it's all explained in print underneath it."
"But these men carry arquebuses and wear a livery. And these temples—to what false gods are they set up?"
"False gods!" exclaimed Rebecca. "Bless your simple heart, those ain't temples. They're jest the buildin's where the men hev their offices."
Elizabeth sat in mute contemplation, vainly seeking to realize it all.
"My lords!" she burst forth suddenly, casting the paper violently to the floor, "or this be rank forgery and fraud or else have we been strangely deceived."
She frowned at Sir Walter, who dropped his eyes.
"'Tis not to be believed that such vast cities and great armies habited by peoples polite and learned may be found across the sea and no report of it come to them that visit there. How comes it that we must await so strange a chance as this to learn such weighty news?"
She paused and only silence ensued.
Rebecca stooped and recovered the paper, which in falling had opened so as to expose new matter.
"Don't be surprised," she said, soothingly. "I allus did hear that Britishers knew mighty little 'bout America."
Still frowning, Elizabeth mechanically stretched forth her hand and Rebecca gave her the paper. The Queen glanced at the sheet and her face lost its sternaspect as she eagerly brought the print nearer to her eyes.
"Why, what now!" she exclaimed. "God mend us, here have we strange attire! Is this a woman of your tribe, my lady?"
Rebecca looked and blushed. Then, in an uneasy tone, she said:
"That's jest an advertisement fer a new corset, Mis' Tudor. I never did see how folks ever allowed sech things to be printed—'tain't respectable!"
"A corset, call you it! And these, then?"
"Oh, those are the styles, the fashions! That's the fashion page, ye know. That's where they tell all about what the rich folks down to New York are wearin'."
There was a murmur and a rustle among the ladies-in-waiting, who had hitherto made no sign, and upon the Queen's cheek there spread an added tinge, betokening a high degree of interest and gratification.
"Ah!" she sighed, and glanced pleasantly over her shoulder, "here be matters of moment, indeed! Your Grace of Devonshire, what say you to this?"
Eagerly the elderly lady so addressed stepped forward and made a low reverence.
"Look—look here, ladies all!" Elizabeth continued, with a tremor of excitement in her voice. "Saw you ever such an array as this?"
With one accord the whole bevy of assembled ladies pressed forward, trembling with delighted anticipation. A fashion sheet—and from the New World! What wonder they were moved!
Her Majesty was about to begin perusal of one of the fascinating paragraphs wherein were described those marvellous fashion-plates when there was a cry outside of "Way 'nough!" and a moment later the smart young lieutenant who had before accosted Rebecca entered and stood at attention.
Elizabeth looked up and frowned slightly. Folding the paper carefully, she called to Sir Walter, who still held in his unconscious hand the other section of the paper.
"Bring hither yon sheet, Sir Walter," she cried. "Perchance there may be further intelligence of this sort therein. We will peruse both pamphlets at our leisure anon."
Then, turning to the Lord High Admiral: