rnia 
 J 
 
 hake 
 
 vueefheart*
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 IN MEMORY OF 
 MRS. VIRGINIA B. SPORER
 
 r**_pM* r-t-hj- M r^r 1 -^ -j^ jj, , 
 
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 FUBLK ftGD fiC 
 
 ET GfiDRGe CT. JfiCDRS -&^- CD.
 
 COPYRIGHT, A. D. 1905, BY 
 GEORGE W. JACOBS & CO. 
 PUBLISHED OCTOBER, 1905.
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 X* Ho^v jMLwtstcr j - r. s 1 1~. _ 3. . . . t * c i rr~3. trcrc. ..*................ n 
 
 EL It Was a Lover and Hi* Lav 25 
 
 HL The Coarse off True Love 37 
 
 IV. Under the Greenwood Tree 51 
 
 V. O Cursed Spite. 9 
 
 VL Poor Players 73 
 
 VIL Breaking tbe Locks of Prison Gates. .. .... 89 
 
 VlJLL A Willow Grows Aslant die Brook 101 
 
 IX. A Young Maid's Whs .117 
 
 X. A Pretty Boy. 131 
 
 XL A Dark Lady. MS 
 
 XIL Love Given Unsought 159 
 
 XIIL Romero and Juliet 173 
 
 XIV. Look Upon This Pkluie and on This 191 
 
 XV. By the Church 307 
 
 XVL Take, oh, Take Those Lips Away 217 
 
 XVIL His Wedded Lady *sg 
 
 iVlll. A Fan- Vestal Throned by the West. 945 
 
 XIX. After Life's Fitful Fever. . . . . sfo 
 
 -79
 
 It is my lady! Oh, it is my love! Facing page 32 
 
 A health to Shakespeare's freedom and Shakespeare's Sweetheart! 84 
 
 A widow grows aslant the brook 106 
 
 Nay if thotfrt bent on fighting, then most e'en fight me 332

 
 asleep beside the Avon, 
 long and lonely years! 
 
 Five years have now 
 passed since he left us and 
 the world that will forever 
 love and mourn him. Five 
 times have the seasons run their course since he fell 
 
 never to waken more. Five 
 And yet and yet to me it 
 seems that he is never far away. Lonely in body have 
 I been, but never hath my soul dwelt solitary. My 
 grief for him is as no other's; yet my joy is such as 
 none can ever take from me. I was his, he was mine. 
 The world's poet was my beloved, too. It makes me 
 almost catch my breath to say it, and I often marvel 
 why this crown of my life was given me. 'Tis a mys- 
 tery sweet as strange, a very sacrament of wonder and 
 of love. And a mystery, whether human or divine, we 
 may adore, but never comprehend. 
 
 For I was Shakespeare's sweetheart verily and 
 alone his sweetheart, even after I became his wedded 
 wife. From that first wondrous day when we read in 
 
 13
 
 each other's eyes the new-born love which was to live 
 forever, to the time when he left me for a while, five 
 years ago; nay, even until now, I am Shakespeare's 
 sweetheart. And so it is my right, as it is also my 
 pride and delight, to tell the story of our love for the 
 great multitudes who held Will dear, for the shadowy, 
 unborn multitudes who shall pay homage to his mem- 
 ory in years to come. Truly, the story is sacred to me ; 
 but he is not mine alone; he is also the world's, the 
 world that loved him, that he loved. 
 
 After all, however, Master Ben Jonson is respon- 
 sible for my trying to tell this tale of mine. For yes- 
 terday, with a great noise and bustle, as is his wont, 
 he rode up to the gates of New Place and called loudly 
 for me. I was sitting in the garden, sewing, and the 
 instant after he had bellowed forth my name he be- 
 held me. 
 
 "Good-morrow, Mistress Shakespeare," he cried, 
 waving his hand to me. "Thou art the very dame I 
 wish to see. Art weary, art busy? If so, I will leave 
 my errand until later. This sorry nag of mine must 
 be stabled at the inn;" and he gave a vicious dig at 
 the poor beast he bestrode. Master Jonson is not at 
 his best on horseback.
 
 "I am neither weary nor busy, Master Jonson," I 
 replied, walking down to the gateway, that we might 
 converse more freely. "Prythee, come in at once ; Will's 
 friends are always welcome at New Place." 
 
 "Marry, it is about Will that I would speak with 
 thee," he said, bluntly, looking at me with shrewd, 
 kindly eyes. "Moreover, I am mistaken sorely if my 
 errand shall not please thee. Natheless, on my way 
 hither I ordered dinner at the inn, and I must e'en go 
 there first. Then I will return, an it like thee. I have 
 many things to talk about." 
 
 I expressed my pleasure at the prospect, and he 
 looked delighted. "I will return, then, as speedily as 
 may be," he said, beginning a somewhat unsuccessful 
 attempt to turn his horse about. "Au revoir, Mistress 
 
 Shakespeare, and may all the gods of Olympus 
 
 The devil take thee, thou evil-faced, sorry steed! Ac- 
 cursed be the day I hired thee! Wilt thou obey my 
 rein? Ah, at last. Go on, thou imp of Satan!" With 
 which cheerful adjuration Master Jonson ambled away, 
 too absorbed in guiding his steed to take further notice 
 of me then. 
 
 I laughed a little as I watched his ungraceful 
 progress; but as I turned from the gate I sighed. 
 
 15
 
 Master Jonson had been Will's true friend. They had 
 loved each other right well. I remembered, on the day 
 of Will's funeral, how swollen and marred with tears 
 had been that kindly, whimsical face into which I had 
 just been looking. What could it be in connection with 
 Will that he had to say to me? No matter what, it 
 would be something arising from the love these two 
 had borne toward each other. So thinking, I once 
 more seated myself in the garden, took up my sewing 
 and awaited Master Jonson's return. 
 
 An hour later I saw him again approaching. He 
 was on foot this time, and looked much more com- 
 fortable than before. I smiled and nodded to him, and 
 rose to give him welcome. An instant after, we were 
 seated at the table in our garden where, in years gone 
 by, Will had often entertained his London friends. My 
 little maid brought us cakes and wine, then left us. 
 Master Jonson smacked his lips at sight of them. 
 
 "Mistress Shakespeare, thou good angel !" he cried. 
 "Execrable was my inn dinner, but now thou wilt make 
 amends. Well do I remember," and a shadow fell over 
 his face, "well do I remember thy hospitality of yore." 
 
 I replied, simply, that I was glad he was pleased, 
 and bade him do justice to the fare, since he approved 
 
 16
 
 it. Nothing loth, he attacked the wine, and had drunk 
 several glasses before he spoke again. 
 
 "Methinks Will was right," he said at length, sud- 
 denly; "he told me once that there was one woman 
 who could guard her tongue," and he looked at me 
 with a twinkle in his eyes. I smiled at his words, 
 although a little sadly. 
 
 "Will said many things that I did not deserve," I 
 replied; "nor do I think I have justified in my life the 
 opinion thou hast quoted. I betrayed my one great 
 secret in a moment of terror and distress. Natheless, 
 'tis sooth that I have never been prone to gossip after 
 the fashion of my sex." 
 
 "Art anxious to know what hath brought me down 
 thus suddenly from London?" he said, abruptly, pour- 
 ing out more wine. 
 
 I answered, truthfully, that I was; but added that 
 I would await his convenience to tell me his errand. 
 
 "And, therefore, one woman can restrain her nat- 
 ural curiosity," he replied, promptly and teasingly. 
 "Will was right Well, virtue shall be rewarded, and 
 I will tell thee at once. Thou know*st Will's plays- 
 Hamlet, Romeus and Juliet, Much Ado and the rest?" 
 
 I nodded, silently, my eyes fixed upon his face.
 
 "And soothly," he continued, gazing at me thought- 
 fully, "I think I know now why the women of Will's 
 plays are what they are. The rest of us cannot pic- 
 ture women. We can show drabs or shrews, but Portias 
 and Imogens are not for us. I know why now; there 
 is but one Anne Hathaway." 
 
 I blushed at that, for it was base flattery. I am 
 not a young woman now, and what girlish charm I 
 may have had is gone. 
 
 "You cozen me, Master Jonson," I observed with 
 some coldness ; "you cozen me, indeed ; and it is ill done 
 of one whom Will deemed his dear friend. Surely you 
 seek some favor of me that you give me these soft 
 words." 
 
 "Nay," he said, eagerly, "nay, and yet ay. It is 
 true I seek a favor ; but, on my soul, I seek not to cozen 
 thee. Let me tell thee without more words than need 
 be. These plays of Will's never had our London 
 players such to perform, nor ever will again are at 
 last to be published. Art not pleasured by these tid- 
 ings?" 
 
 I assented, but a little doubtfully. "I wonder " 
 
 I began. 
 
 "I know what thou wouldst say," interrupted 
 
 18
 
 Master Jonson, quickly; "thou dost wonder whether 
 Will's honor would permit this to be done, were he 
 alive. Ay, Mistress Shakespeare, for I would not coun- 
 tenance the proceeding else. I love his honor as my 
 own, nor would I see it smirched. The public seeks 
 now to have these plays in print, and in a form put 
 forth in authorized fashion. While Will lived it was 
 different. He sought not a dishonorable double profit, 
 after the fashion of some. Having sold his play to 
 the theatre, he took it not also to the printer's. But 
 now conditions are changed. Were Will himself alive, 
 he would do what John Hemminge and John Condell 
 seek to do for him to prepare the plays for publica- 
 tion. Their work is one of love, but, of necessity, im- 
 perfect. Would that he were here to do it for himself! 
 God knows I wish it sore!" 
 
 He dropped his face into his hands and was silent 
 for an instant. As for me, sudden tears blinded me, 
 and I sat gazing at the garden with eyes that beheld, 
 as in a vision, the beloved form I could no longer see 
 with mortal sight. For a moment we sat thus. Then, 
 with an impetuous movement, Master Jonson raised 
 his head, and, rapidly pouring out two glasses of wine, 
 handed one to me. 
 
 19
 
 "To his memory !" he cried, holding the other aloft. 
 "To his memory, and to his soul's rest! Will Shake- 
 speare, Comrade and Poet!" 
 
 We drank the little toast together. 
 
 "It is glad news, indeed, then," I said. "Since the 
 act smircheth not his honor, I shall be right glad to 
 see the plays in lawful printed form. Thou wilt super- 
 intend the task, Master Jonson?" 
 
 "Ay," he answered, flushing with delight at my 
 pleased tone. There was always much of the child 
 about him, despite his learning. "I am glad that thou 
 approvest. Were't otherwise, the enterprise would end 
 forthwith. Ay, I will see that as few errors are made 
 as may be. Master Hemminge and Master Condell will 
 
 perform their task faithfully, I am sure; and I " 
 
 he began to feel in his pockets; "I have here a copy 
 of some verses I have written which are to be printed 
 as preface to the volume. I brought them down to 
 Stratford, thinking they would be of interest to thee." 
 He had found the lines by this time in the chaos of his 
 pockets. He pushed back the wine-glasses and cleared 
 his throat portentously, then paused and looked at me 
 anxiously. 
 
 "Perchance," he began, "perchance thou dost not
 
 ESlfhake spcare$l . iSliwc et-hea rR 
 
 care to hear them. They are faulty lines enough, un- 
 worthy of the subject, but, at least, they are written 
 by one who loved Will right dearly." 
 
 "And no other apology is needed, if need there be 
 for any," I said, gently. "Proceed, Master Jonson. I 
 know already that the verses will pleasure me greatly." 
 
 He cleared his throat again, and began to read in 
 a somewhat pompous tone, although with real feeling. 
 I sat listening, my head resting on my hand. Mingled 
 with Master Jonson's voice were the old, familiar ones 
 of the wind and of the river; the soft sighing of the 
 breeze; the low murmur of the Avon, which always 
 whisper to me one name, Will, Will, Will. 
 
 "To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name, 
 Am I thus ample to thy Book and Fame: 
 While I confess thy writings to be such 
 As neither Man nor Muse can praise too much." 
 
 Thus the stately beginning, followed by lines equal- 
 ing them in felicity and beauty. How perfect the 
 tribute that came an instant later: 
 
 "Soul of the Age! The applause! delight! the wonder 
 
 of our Stage! 
 My Shakespeare, rise ; I will not lodge thee by
 
 Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie 
 A little further, to make thee a room : 
 Thou art a Monument, without a tomb, 
 And art alive still, while thy Book doth live. 
 
 The verses continued, a perfect and gracious tribute 
 from one poet to another. All know them well, yet 
 I will put down the magnificent closing lines, because 
 I love them: 
 
 "Sweet Swan of Avon ! what a sight it were 
 To see thee in our waters yet appear, 
 And make those flights upon the banks of Thames, 
 That so did take Eliza and our James ! 
 But stay, I see thee in the Hemisphere 
 Advanc'd, and made a Constellation there! 
 Shine forth, thou Star of Poets, and with rage, 
 Or influence, chide, or cheer the drooping Stage ; 
 Which, since thy flight from hence, hath mourn'd like night, 
 And despaires day, but for thy volumes light." 
 
 Master Jonson looked at me as he finished without 
 a trace of his usual noise and bluster. 
 
 "Art pleased with the verses, Mistress Shake- 
 speare?" he asked, simply.
 
 "Tli -I ^e mat ! j^ r j !_. ...1 ** T r* 
 
 swered. "I thank thee, Master Jonson. They are noble 
 
 lines." 
 
 "Then," he said, "since thou art pleased with them, 
 and with the idea of the volume they are to prefix, I 
 am emboldened to tett thee my chief errand to Strat- 
 ford." 
 
 I wfll not write here what he said next. At first 
 I was so aghast at his proposal that I refused, in a 
 panic at the idea. But, at last, after he had talked long 
 to me, and made me understand his reason for the re- 
 quest, I wavered, then pondered, and finally gave my 
 consent. When he left me, I had begun to look forward 
 to the task. 
 
 xiis 1 <oiioon c^otivrT^offs ^FSI.O snfi^*^ oi him <^^> DtuL'vcr 
 and as poet," said Master Jonson. "Thou alone, Mis- 
 tress Shakespeare, knew him as lover and as man. 
 One other, *f*dkrij ** He paused abruptly, aiVi 
 hastily changed his sentence. "This being so, I pry- 
 thee tell his love story for the world that loves him." 
 
 I knew weU what his unfinished sentence iiicani, 
 and who that "one" was to whom he referred. He did 
 not know that I knew, but he wfll when he reads aU 
 I shall write. That Dark Lady of whom he spoke
 
 caused me much anguish once; but now, when my life 
 has reached its evening, I can remember even her with 
 pity and forgiveness. 
 
 So, obeying Master Jonson, I set about my unac- 
 customed task. I am not a learned woman; yet I feel 
 no fear, rather a strange confidence. Is it that the 
 theme inspires me; or does Will's spirit enfold and 
 strengthen me as I begin this labor of love? Truly, I 
 do not know; but verily my happiness as I do so is 
 strangely deep and sweet. Here follows, then, my love 
 story and his. 'Tis for the world, and the world may 
 one day forget him, although I think not so. Nay, 
 meseems that the glory he brought to Stratford and 
 to England is not like to fade away; but that Stratford 
 and England will honor forevermore Will Shakespeare, 
 poet and player. Mayhap, however, this is but a fond 
 woman's fancy.
 
 May Day dawned 
 fair and smiling on 
 Stratford that year; and 
 lads and lasses, as was 
 their wont, rose early to 
 greet it fittingly. As I 
 went about my usual household tasks throughout the 
 morn, I caught glimpses now and again of blithe youths 
 and maidens, decked with flowers, on their way to the 
 Maypole. I heard snatches of gay song and peals of 
 merry laughter, but always from afar. No lad came 
 hastening to Shottery to beg Anne Hathaway as a 
 partner for the Maying. No maiden comrade came to 
 lure her forth to share the merrymaking. 
 
 I can scarce say I was grieved that this was so. 
 Such a state of affairs had come to be so much a matter 
 of custom to me that, as a rule, I thought not of it at 
 all. But that May morning something in the spring 
 softness of the air, the sweet freshness of the earth, 
 filled me with that sense of pulsating youth and love 
 which comes even to the sad and solitary at this season. 
 
 27
 
 Conscious of a strange unrest, I found myself, as the 
 day wore on, by the window. There I stood, gazing 
 across the fields, with their wealth of spring beauty, 
 toward the place where Stratford lay fair and smiling 
 beyond. 
 
 There was a strange wistfulness in my heart as I 
 leaned upon the sill, almost hidden by the clustering 
 vines. Standing there, I realized, as often before, with 
 a quiet, sorrowful wonder, how little of the beauty and 
 the sweetness of life had come to me. Twenty-five May 
 Days had I seen as child and woman, and from the first 
 to the present one I had spent them all alike, in solitude 
 and joylessness. No other lass in Stratford and Shot- 
 tery, perhaps no other in England, I dared swear could 
 say the same. 
 
 But I knew why ; ah, I knew why ! I shivered as if 
 a sudden chill had come to me from the balmy May air, 
 and I passed my hand drearily across my eyes. In the 
 room below I heard my grandam stirring about with 
 a cheerful clatter. She and I alone lived in the cottage 
 now; but it had not been always so. Six months ago 
 had ceased to beat the poor restless heart of one who, 
 while she lived, had made our home, tranquil now, an 
 evil den of torture. Mad was she, that poor mother of 
 
 28
 
 mine, and had been since my earliest remembrance. 
 Never had I seen, either, my grandam's hair aught but 
 silvered, although when I was a little child she scarce 
 could have been a very old woman. I knew now what 
 had blanched those locks and made her aged before 
 her time; I realized why I had been transformed into 
 a grave woman while yet a girl in years. It was the 
 care of my poor mad mother, sometimes gentle and 
 harmless, but again brooding, violent, seeking with 
 devilish cunning to murder us while we slept. Alack! 
 I knew the very book of madness in its extremest tor- 
 tures. I conned it, where other children learn happy 
 and blessed things, at my mother's knee. 
 
 What made her mad I never knew until she had 
 become sane forever. On the night before her burial 
 I suddenly and softly asked my grandam the question. 
 
 "Grandam," I said, "why was it? What drove her 
 wits astray?" 
 
 I was looking down at the dead face, and it was 
 as if I beheld my own in a glass. The clustering golden 
 hair was mine, the oval outline of cheek and chin, the 
 clear pallor of the complexion. The eyes were closed 
 forever, but in life they had been as dark and sombre 
 as mine own. 
 
 29
 
 My grandam saw, I think, the resemblance that I 
 noted, and a shudder ran through her, whether at the 
 thought or at my question I knew not. She looked at 
 me with eyes at once fierce and pitiful. 
 
 "What makes thee ask that?" she whispered, 
 sharply, and I noticed that her worn and knotted hands 
 were clenched. "What makes thee ask that?" 
 
 Sooth, I myself knew not what sudden impulse 
 had prompted the inquiry. I made no answer, but 
 stood as before, gazing into the still dead face, full 
 of that strange, tranquil beauty which death always 
 brings. 
 
 Suddenly I was aware that my grandam was gaz- 
 ing at that calm countenance, too, but not quietly, as 
 I was doing. Another moment and a great sob broke 
 the stillness. My grandam fell on her knees beside my 
 mother's body, and tenderly, tremulously, lifted the 
 stark left hand in hers. Then I saw that her shaking 
 finger strove to point out to me something on the still 
 dead hand she held. What was it? For an instant I 
 gazed, uncomprehending. Then suddenly I understood. 
 I looked my sobbing grandam in the eyes searchingly, 
 gravely. 
 
 The knowledge that she strove to convey came to 
 30
 
 me with a strange sense of familiarity. The dead hand 
 had no wedding-ring upon it, nor had I recollection of 
 a father. I was a nameless child. 
 
 And that was why, upon this May Day, when the 
 spring-time called youth and love to make merry, that 
 I stood alone and sorrowful, while the joy of the world 
 passed by me, as hi a vision far away. 
 
 Suddenly another sound broke melodiously across 
 the low crooning of my grandam in the room below, 
 across the twitter of the birds without; a sound which 
 somehow seemed akin to the May Day itself in daunt- 
 less youth and frank delight. It was a young man's 
 voice that I heard, mellow and joyous: 
 
 "Her beauty hangs upon the cheek of night 
 Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear; 
 Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear." 
 
 At the same instant the speaker came in sight. He 
 looked up and saw me in the window, framed about 
 with blossoming vines. I knew him at once. It was 
 young Will Shakespeare. 
 
 For a breathless instant we gazed at each other. 
 I had often passed him in Stratford streets. He knew 
 my name and my story. We had probably seen each 
 
 31
 
 other before a hundred times; but never thus, face to 
 face, on a May morning that made all the world young ; 
 never amid sights and sounds that spoke of love alone. 
 In that moment, somehow, some way, all was told. 
 With a strange rush of joy I caught my breath half- 
 sobbingly. I knew that I was no longer solitary and 
 unloved. 
 
 As for him, he bared his head and bent it low, just 
 breathing words which I afterwards found were those 
 of his Italian Romeus when he looked on the love of 
 
 his life: 
 
 "It is my lady! Oh, it is my love !" 
 
 Then, cap still in hand, he raised his face towards 
 mine, and spoke in more ordinary fashion. 
 
 "Mistress Anne, greeting. Wilt come a-Maying 
 with me?" 
 
 I was flushed and trembling, and I could not an- 
 swer at once. I realized that he had used the com- 
 monplace words to still my agitation; but I could not 
 immediately avail myself of his consideration. 
 
 "Nay," I faltered at length; "I I " There I 
 
 paused, and my face grew suddenly crimson. I remem- 
 bered who and what I was. What right had I to such 
 
 32
 
 joy? Moreover, he was a mere, happy lad; I a sad, 
 mature woman. The hard thought thrust itself upon 
 me unbidden. There were numberless fair Stratford 
 maidens, among whom he could find a more fitting 
 May Day sweetheart. 
 
 "Thou dost forget," I said at length, still falter- 
 ing, although I strove to speak coldly; "thou dost for- 
 get. It is " I hesitated, then went on hurriedly; 
 
 "it is necessity that isolates me. It is thy choice that 
 thou art solitary." 
 
 He must have known my meaning at once, for my 
 story was familiar in Stratford; but he replied in- 
 stantly. 
 
 "Sweet Mistress Anne," he said, and his voice was, 
 if possible, a shade more courteous than before, "be- 
 lieve me, thou art the only lass that I desire to go 
 a-Maying with me. If thou dost refuse me I will go 
 solitary still." 
 
 There was that in his manner which suggested 
 more than his words; which told me that he wished 
 my company for a much longer period than a spring 
 day, and that if I did not yield, his loneliness would 
 be for all his life. I hesitated, my mind in a whirl. 
 Impetuously, he leaped the gate, clambered up the 
 
 33
 
 trellis work over which the vines grew and brought 
 his face at last on a level with mine own. 
 
 "Anne," he breathed in tones so silver sweet as to 
 melt the hardest woman's heart; "dear Mistress Anne, 
 surely thou dost know, surely dost understand, that 
 I ah, what need of words? And yet oh, Anne, dear- 
 est, stand not silent there, with the color flaming into 
 thy dear fair face. I am envious of the very vines 
 that screen thee. Say but three words, sweet, and 
 make Will Shakespeare happy f orevermore !" 
 
 In the midst of his impetuous pleading there came 
 to me the recollection of my thoughts a half hour since ; 
 the memory of the mad presence that had haunted my 
 childhood and girlhood ; the vision of my poor mother's 
 ringless hand 
 
 I turned from the window. He reached forward 
 and laid his hand on mine as it rested upon the sill. 
 The touch was light, but insistent, imperative. 
 
 "Thou dost forget " I whispered again, falter- 
 
 ingly, looking at him with pleading eyes, "thou dost 
 forget. There is there is a shadow on my life. Oh, 
 haste thee from me, lest it fall likewise on thee." 
 
 His lips rested on my hand for an instant. 
 
 "Ay, sweetheart," he said, and I could never tell 
 
 34
 
 half the trndtmcaB that spoke in his voice; "ay, I do 
 forget it, as thou, too, shalt forget. I will give thee a 
 key to release thee from thy prison of gloom and sor- 
 row ; a key of three parts. Tis 1 love thee,' Nan. Say 
 it, sweetheart, sweetheart. Say only now, *I love thee'; 
 then come with me from out the shadows into sun- 
 light forevennore.''

 
 And so, good sooth, 
 was lifted the heavy pal] 
 that had lain over my youth 
 and happiness, and what 
 was seeming dead arose to 
 glorious resurrection. "Forevermore!" Will had said. 
 "Come with me from out the shadows into sunlight 
 forevermore !" Ah, thou didst speak truly, thou dear 
 light of my life ! Though clouds have often sought to 
 darken the eternal brightness of thy love, behind them 
 still its radiance hath never ceased to shine; will shine 
 forever. 
 
 For a month after that most joyous May Day none 
 knew of our love. In this matter Will bowed to my 
 wish. Many saw us together during the afternoon, 
 and marveled thereat; but the excitements of the day 
 were many, and our companionship was speedily for- 
 got. When, our Maying ended, Will brought me 
 home, he said, as we parted at the gate: 
 
 "To-morrow, sweetheart, to-morrow wilt thou 
 come with me to my parents as my promised bride? 
 
 39
 
 Our formal betrothal shall follow as speedily as may 
 be; our marriage when thou wilt." 
 
 I was silent for a moment. The soft, star-lit night 
 seemed to whisper calm and confidence, yet my heart 
 was far from quiet. 
 
 "Nay," I said, suddenly, wistfully, "thou dost not 
 know me, although our faces have been familiar to each 
 other these many years. For a month a month let 
 me keep my happy secret. Then, if thou dost desire 
 still to to wed me " 
 
 He flung himself upon his knee before me, and, in 
 knightly fashion, kissed my hand. "As thou wilt," he 
 said. "But if me no ifs, thou cruel fair. One month, 
 then, from to-night see, sweet Nan, the round moon 
 
 rises yonder, and by yonder blessed moon I swear " 
 
 I laid my finger upon his lips. 
 
 "The moon changes," I said, half laughing, half in 
 earnest; "she changes monthly, Will. Swear not by 
 the moon, lest, like her, thy love prove variable." 
 
 "Then name the oath," he begged, still kneeling. 
 
 "Nay," said I; "no oath is needed. Swear not at 
 all; or, if thou wilt " my voice grew suddenly pas- 
 sionate "swear by thyself, thy dear and gracious self. 
 Ah, Will, God forgive thee if thou dost play me false!" 
 
 40
 
 CSfrhake s pcare?! gltu/c ef h 
 
 * a 
 
 He sprang up instantly in indignant denial, pour- 
 ing forth vows and fond words. I listened and be- 
 lieved him, as is weak woman's wont. The evening 
 fled on wings. The round moon rose higher and higher 
 in the heavens. When he left me, at length, his be- 
 trothal kiss was upon my lips, his promise given to keep 
 our love secret for a month, as I desired. 
 
 Ah, what a month it was that followed ! 
 
 What wanderings had we through the Stratford 
 fields! What new music we found in the song of the 
 birds, what fresh sweetness in the flowers ! The voices 
 of the wind and the river, ever eloquent to him, spoke 
 also through him to me. Ofttimes the Avon and I 
 have listened to the stories that the world knows now. 
 The dear stream seemed to sigh with Juliet or laugh 
 with Rosalind. Methought it hushed its babble as the 
 spirit of Prince Hamlet passed, wrapped in ineffable 
 mystery; and sobbed in stormy trouble as poor mad 
 Lear rushed by. 
 
 We learned to know each other, too. Will heard 
 of my sad childhood, my shadowed girlhood, and swore 
 in tender wrath that never should I know sorrow more. 
 I learned of his far different past; a childhood of plenty; 
 a youth, which, although not altogether care-free, was 
 
 41
 
 yet blessed with a happy home. His father was one 
 of Stratford's most honored citizens; his mother, a 
 stately dame of ancient family. I have said that his 
 youth was not altogether care-free; nor was it; for he 
 was tormented by increasing poverty as he grew older. 
 His father's affairs became, at length, hopelessly en- 
 tangled, and Will was obliged to seek some means of 
 livelihood. Not having been educated with any expec- 
 tation of such a necessity, he found it hard to choose 
 an occupation. He had tried his hand at many things 
 before I met him. For a while he was lawyer's clerk. 
 Later he left the desk to become apprentice to a butcher, 
 who offered higher wages. Yet again he occupied the 
 schoolmaster's chair. When we met, however, he had 
 at length decided on the life-work that was destined to 
 bring him both fame and wealth, although as yet he 
 had had no opportunity of adopting it. Other Strat- 
 ford lads had gone to London, and had won success as 
 players. A poet and a player he would be, then, and 
 strive thus to restore his family's fortunes. 
 
 All his dreams, all his plans, he confided to me, as 
 we wandered through the fields or sat in my grandam's 
 little garden. The great of history and legend bore us 
 company, too, and whispered of a time to come when 
 
 42
 
 they would live for all the world. Meanwhile the mys- 
 tery of Will's love was mine, and we were happy in 
 each other. 
 
 At last the month ended. Strangely, safely, our 
 secret had been kept. None knew, or so we thought, 
 why Will came so frequently to Shottery. None 
 dreamed that he had any attraction there save the 
 spring beauty of the fields and woods he was known 
 to love well. Come what might, that month was ours 
 forever. 
 
 The round moon was rising again as it had risen 
 that night of our Maying. I stood at the gate as I had 
 stood then, watching for Will's arrival. As I waited 
 there my grandam came out and joined me. 
 
 Now, during the month just completed I had fre- 
 quently noticed that my grandam never let me far from 
 her sight. She must have conjectured, of course, the 
 state of affairs between Will and me, although I had 
 not actually told her of our happiness. So unobtrusive 
 had been her constant presence that Will had marked 
 it not at all. When I saw her lingering about us I 
 thought that her life, which had held so little joy and 
 peace, was brightened by the sight of our love and 
 happiness. The sequel proved me wrong. 
 
 43
 
 I was surprised when she joined me at the gate; 
 for, though never far apart in the cottage, we seldom 
 sought each other's company. I was still more sur- 
 prised when she spoke first, for she was a woman of 
 few words. 
 
 "It is a clear and beauteous night," she observed, 
 calmly, glancing up at the moon; "but the summer is 
 still young, and it is damp here at the gate. Dost wait 
 for young Shakespeare, Nan?" 
 
 She asked the question in the same tone in which 
 she had commented upon the beauty of the night. I 
 flushed a little at her matter-of-fact manner. 
 
 "Ay, grandam," I said, dutifully. 
 
 "He hath never yet failed thee," she went on, look- 
 ing at me strangely; "and yet he is late to-night, Anne, 
 very late." 
 
 "He will come," I said, proudly, and turned away 
 from her. 
 
 She paused a moment, and the searching gaze she 
 fixed upon me brought back my eyes unwillingly to 
 her face. 
 
 "Hath he " she hesitated a little, and now her 
 
 voice was full of suppressed feeling ; "hath he ever said 
 aught to thee of marriage?" 
 
 44
 
 I looked her proudly in the eyes, and I felt my 
 face aflame. "Ay," I said, hotly; "ay, from the first. 
 A month ago he would have betrothed me, but I be- 
 sought him to wait." 
 
 My grandam's bosom rose and fell with a quick 
 breath of relief, but when she spoke her voice was cold 
 again. 
 
 "Thou fool!" she said, calmly. "Thou didst be- 
 seech him to wait! Thou foolf 
 
 She paused an instant. I opened my lips to reply, 
 but my indignation choked me. Before I found words 
 she continued: 
 
 "Thou art a fool, but why do I blame thee? Thou 
 scarce canst help it. Thy mother was the like. I did 
 not know her folly until too late." Her voice broke a 
 little, but hardened again as she resumed, "I do know 
 thine I trust to heaven in time. I hope wisdom will 
 not reach thee when it will avail thee not." And with 
 that she turned and went into the cottage. 
 
 As the door closed upon her I felt two hands 
 clasped across my eyes. 
 
 "Thou must guess," said a voice I knew well, rich 
 with laughter. The penalty's a kiss if thou dost not 
 know. Guess who blinds thee!" 
 
 45
 
 I named his name in tones that quivered a little. 
 He heard my tremulous answer, he felt the tears in 
 my eyes, and his voice changed instantly. 
 
 "What ails thee, sweeting? Why dost weep? 
 Share thy sorrow with me." 
 
 But this I could not do, although he begged me 
 sorely. My grandam's words had been harsh, but they 
 were kindly meant and she had deemed them deserved. 
 I could not repeat them to Will, for they would show 
 lack of trust in him. Besides, my sorrow was ended 
 now he had come. I told him so, smiling my tears away. 
 
 He shook his head when I evaded an answer to 
 his entreating, but yielded to my desire. "I have a 
 story to tell thee," he said, gravely. "Before I begin 
 let me ask thee to believe that I would not beg of thee 
 the boon that I shall crave, seemed it not best for thee. 
 Thou knowest Sir Thomas Lucy?" 
 
 I looked at him askance at this abrupt changing 
 of the subject, and I nodded. 
 
 "Everyone knows Sir Thomas," I said. "Had he 
 been given his way the Maypole would have been cut 
 down and the players would not be coming to Strat- 
 ford next week. He is a Puritan of the Puritans, Will. 
 Why dost thou speak of him now?" 
 
 4 6
 
 "For many reasons, sweetheart," Will answered; 
 "but chiefly because the tale is long. Wilt go within?" 
 
 "Nay," I said, hurriedly, bitterly. "Nay, I will not 
 within; speak on." 
 
 He glanced at me as if puzzled by my tone, but 
 said nothing about it then. In a rapid, low voice he 
 told his story, interrupting himself now and again to 
 laugh at some reminiscence of the past or at some plan 
 for the future. 
 
 Sir Thomas Lucy, the pompous, Puritanical owner 
 of Charlcote, had strictly forbidden the stealing of deer 
 from his Park. This I knew, and also that the law, 
 although just, was scarce generous; for it had been a 
 tradition in his family to allow a certain number of 
 deer each twelve-month for the use of the people of the 
 surrounding country. This unwritten compact with 
 the commoners Sir Thomas had set aside, thereby 
 arousing wonder, and later wrath, among them. At 
 first the countryfolk had been unable to believe Sir 
 Thomas in earnest, and deer continued to disappear 
 now and then from the Park. Finally, however, the 
 wrath of the knight had blazed high at the continued 
 disregard of his decree. One or two Stratford lads had 
 been arrested several days before on the charge of deer- 
 
 47
 
 stealing. Therefore, to-morrow night all loyal Strat- 
 ford youths 
 
 At this point, in the interest of his narrative, Will's 
 voice unconsciously rose. So absorbed was I in what 
 he was saying that I scarce noted the fact, but after- 
 wards I realized that it had been so. Had I looked 
 back then, I imagine, I should have seen my grandarn 
 somewhere near. But I did not look, and Will thought 
 not of any auditor save myself. 
 
 "Therefore, Nan," he said, "the brave lads of 
 Stratford have planned a vengeance to rebuke the 
 churlish knight. To-morrow evening we meet at Charl- 
 cote and go a-hunting, sweetheart, but not for deer 
 alone. And when we have found our game we will 
 sing for Sir Thomas that little song of mine : 
 
 "What shall he have that killed the deer?" 
 
 He carolled the line lustily, then broke into a laugh. 
 
 "Sir Thomas will long remember that hunting, me- 
 thinks." 
 
 He paused a moment, then looked at me anxiously. 
 
 "The moon hath gone behind a cloud, sweet Nan, 
 and the light is dim ; yet soothly, I can read disapproval 
 in thy face. 'Tis a rough joke enough; but truly the 
 
 48
 
 knight deserves that it be played upon him. Nathe- 
 less, I should not have told thee of it, not troubled thee 
 with the story, except " 
 
 He paused again, then came closer to me and put 
 his arm about me. 
 
 "Sweetheart," he said, "beyond Charlcote there is 
 a priest, and we can find two witnesses among the 
 Stratford lads. To-day the month ends, dear Nan. 
 To-morrow, wilt be mine forever?" 
 
 I clung to him in silence, and for an instant could 
 not speak. He went on rapidly, gently. 
 
 "Sooth, I were proud to wed thee, dear, before all 
 the world; but who knows, who knows what may be- 
 fall? Besides daily my family's affairs grow more 
 straitened. If the players come next week, I may per- 
 chance go with them back to London. Such an oppor- 
 tunity might not occur again. Before I go I would 
 have thee safely mine, dear heart; and a wedding after 
 the usual fashion would take long to arrange." 
 
 He paused again. Still I could not speak. 
 
 "Nan, Nan," he went on, passionately, "God wot, 
 I grieve sore to ask this of thee, yet I see no other way. 
 For this once trust me, sweetheart, and listen to my 
 plan. The sport will be rough and fast to-morrow 
 
 49
 
 night at Charlcote. While it is at its height we can 
 slip away, find the priest, and " 
 
 "But," I faltered forth at length, "but how can I 
 go with thee?" 
 
 "I will bring horses hither," Will answered with- 
 out an instant's hesitation. He had evidently thought 
 out the plan most carefully. "A long cloak shall dis- 
 guise thee effectually enough, for thou wilt not be long 
 among the rest. Then, after we are wedded, I will 
 bring thee home at once." 
 
 "My grandam " I whispered. 
 
 Will looked at me in surprise. 
 
 "Thy grandam?" he repeated. "Thou wilt tell her, 
 of course. She surely hath guessed what lies between 
 us. Tell her, by all means. To-morrow night at this 
 hour will I come for thee, bringing the cloak and the 
 horses. What say'st, Nan? Wilt be ready, sweet?" 
 
 I felt his firm, tender hand on mine. Ah, how 
 could I hesitate an instant? I raised my face to his 
 and spoke, forgetting all else: "I shall be ready; and 
 whither thou wilt, I shall go, my beloved." 
 
 I heard him give a quick breath of relief. 
 
 "It is well," he said, and kissed me. "I will not 
 fail thee, sweetheart; and may God speed our plan!"
 
 rhe 
 
 All was still in the 
 house, and the door of 
 my grandam's room was 
 closed, when, an hour 
 later, I went to bed. 
 I hesitated beside her 
 
 chamber a moment, half-minded to go in and tell her 
 of our plan; but it was late; all was quiet. I went on 
 to my own room, resolving to reveal all in the morning. 
 I had uneasy dreams that night, and once I awak- 
 ened with a start, quite certain that I had heard the 
 cautious opening and closing of a door. I listened 
 attentively for several moments, but heard nothing; 
 and I concluded that I must have been dreaming. 
 When at length I fell asleep again my slumber was 
 sound, and I did not awaken until much later than was 
 my wont. Dismayed that the sun had moved so high, 
 I dressed hurriedly and ran down-stairs. My grandam 
 was nowhere to be seen. 
 
 For a while I stood dismayed at her absence, all 
 sorts of wild conjectures floating through my brain. 
 But presently I calmed myself. My grandam often
 
 went into Stratford to the innkeeper, Mistress Quickly, 
 to sell the produce of our garden. This was probably 
 what she had done this morning. Sometimes she spent 
 the night at the inn. If she did so this time, nothing 
 of our marriage need be said to her until I chose. If 
 she returned early or late in the evening, however, and 
 found me gone I dismissed the fear with an effort. 
 All was pointing towards a happy consummation of 
 our plans. I would not imagine trouble. Speed on- 
 ward, happy day, and bring the joyous night! 
 
 The hours went by and my grandam came not. 
 Evening arrived and still there were no signs of her. 
 At length, with trembling fingers, I dressed myself in 
 my darkest gown and sat down to await Will's coming. 
 
 I had not long to wait. Promptly at moonrise I 
 heard the clatter of hoofs, next his familiar quick foot- 
 step on the path below. I went to meet him. 
 
 "Art ready?" he whispered. "That's brave. Come. 
 Here is thy cloak." He wrapped it about me with 
 rapid, skillful fingers, then put on a similar one himself. 
 So closely were we muffled that one could not tell which 
 was man, which maid. Even after we had mounted, 
 Will paused and arranged the draperies so that the 
 distinction would still be hard to make. 
 
 54
 
 SSlfrake spcarg&l . (Sltu/g efrhearrt 
 
 Once on horseback, I forgot my tremors. The 
 night was very lovely. There was a June softness in 
 the air. The round moon smiled upon us. The friendly 
 stars brightened our pathway. The scent of roses made 
 the evening faintly sweet, mysterious. And through 
 this brightness and sweetness I rode with my true lover 
 at my side, and forgot all else. 
 
 Arriving at the Charlcote gates, at last, we dis- 
 mounted cautiously, and Will led the horses to some 
 distance before tying them. Then he returned to me, 
 and spoke low and rapidly: 
 
 "Keep thy cloak well about thee, and come, dear 
 Nan. I must show myself to the lads, that they may 
 see I am faithful to the compact. They are not aware 
 of thy presence, nor need they know who thou art. 
 Follow, and trust to me." 
 
 A moment later we arrived in the midst of a silent, 
 cautiously-moving group which had evidently been 
 awaiting Will's arrival. He quickly gave a few sug- 
 gestions and commands, obeying which the crowd scat- 
 tered in various directions. At the house all were to 
 meet, bring Sir Thomas Lucy forth and clap upon his 
 head the horns from one of the stolen deer, while the 
 lads sang Will's derisive verses. The plan had been 
 
 55
 
 arranged before. It took but a few moments to start 
 the youths on their way to the house. Will waited 
 until the last; then turned to me. 
 
 "Now, Nan, now is our time. They will deem that 
 I have deserted them, but all can be explained later. I 
 have asked two of my comrades to join us at a certain 
 point; I did not say for what reason, but I know they 
 will keep tryst. Come, then, sweetheart, let us hasten 
 to the meeting-place. The Charlcote woods await us 
 in the moonlight; such woods as these surely are not 
 in all England else, Nan. See how the sweet night doth 
 gently kiss the trees, and look how the floor of heaven 
 is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold." 
 
 So talking, he hurried me along, peopling the forest 
 for me, as often before, with the creatures of his fancy. 
 
 "Canst not almost see the fairies, Nan?" he said. 
 "That mossy bank is fit to be the couch of Queen 
 Titania herself. Mark those lights that thou seest 
 flicker hither and yon. They are not glow-worms, Nan, 
 as thou might'st think ; but King Oberon and his elves, 
 who are flitting there. See yon bat ! his flight's impeded 
 by a fairy on his back. Would we had more time to 
 search beneath these nodding blossoms; for there the 
 
 sprites sleep, airily and soft. And yonder " 
 
 56
 
 A sudden loud confusion of voices broke across his 
 murmured fancies and put an end to the peace of the 
 perfect night. Will stopped short. 
 
 "What has happened?" he cried, half to himself, 
 half to me. "Surely, the plan could not fail. Nan, stay 
 here until I join thee. We are near the meeting-place 
 that I appointed." And with that he darted off through 
 the woods like an arrow. 
 
 But for once I disobeyed him. After him I fol- 
 lowed as rapidly as I could, for I was encumbered by 
 my cloak, and went far enough to see him at length 
 rush forward and join in the yelling, confused melee 
 that pushed and swore and shouted just outside the 
 door of the mansion. I paused on the edge of the Park, 
 within the shadow of a tree. 
 
 I saw in an instant that Sir Thomas had not been 
 captured. The reverse seemed to be the case; for I 
 noted that several of the Stratford lads had their arms 
 bound, while the knight stood pompously on the steps, 
 apparently giving directions as to the disposal of his 
 prisoners. The struggle between those who had not 
 yet been overpowered and the knight's servants still 
 continued, and the issue seemed doubtful. Will rushed 
 at once into the thick of the fight, and I loved him the 
 
 57
 
 better for not deserting his comrades in their peril. His 
 arrival seemed to give the rest new courage, and they 
 struggled desperately to escape capture; but it was a 
 vain endeavor. Many as they were, the knight's men 
 outnumbered them three to one. One by one the Strat- 
 ford lads were overpowered, lastly even Will. He 
 made a fierce endeavor to conquer his captors, and his 
 strength seemed almost preternatural. I knew why. 
 He thought of me, waiting for him among the trees, 
 and of our plans for the happy ending to this night's 
 frolic. But at last, even he was overcome. 
 
 Two burly knaves bore him to the earth with a 
 shout of triumph. For a moment he ceased to struggle, 
 and he lay as if dead. When I saw that I forgot all 
 else. I remembered not who nor where I was. I saw 
 only Will lying stark upon the ground. I sped forward 
 from the tree's friendly shadow, and the next instant 
 found myself, I scarce knew how, kneeling beside him. 
 There was a sudden calm in the tumult about me. All 
 eyes were fixed upon my face in wonder. But to me 
 it was as if Will and I were alone. The rest seemed 
 as shadows. I heard my own voice like some one's 
 else, sobbing and calling his name.
 
 Coursed! 
 
 "Ha! what means this?" 
 I heard Sir Thomas Lucy 
 exclaim, as, realizing on the 
 instant the imprudence of 
 my action, I cowered down 
 beside Will, muffling my 
 face in my cloak. "Seize 
 him, varlets, seize him! 
 What new villainy is this?" 
 
 Two stout men stepped forward immediately. Ere 
 they reached me, however, attention was diverted from 
 me. As if knowing that I had need of him, Will stirred, 
 opened his eyes in dazed fashion, then sat upright. The 
 next moment, comprehending the situation in a flash, 
 he was on his feet. 
 
 "Nay," he cried, standing between me and the glare 
 of the torches, and making a quick gesture betwixt 
 command and appeal ; "nay, I protest, Sir Thomas Lucy. 
 This friend is no Stratford lad, and hath not taken part 
 in this night's business. Prythee, therefore, bid thy 
 servants forbear!" 
 
 Will's body shielding me, I raised my head breath- 
 lessly and peeped at Sir Thomas with wide eyes of 
 apprehension. The torches' light shone full upon him, 
 
 61
 
 and revealed a look of satisfied malice and sneering 
 triumph on his pale, puritanical face. 
 
 "Aha!" he said, slowly, replying to Will. "A 
 friend, say'st? A friend of thine, most like; a poor 
 recommendation! What ho! More torches there!" 
 
 Will had done his best to shield me and had failed. 
 He gave a deep, despairing sigh as the lights came 
 flashing towards us. I rose, trembling, my cloak still 
 wrapped about me. But again a diversion occurred. 
 The heavy door behind Sir Thomas opened ponder- 
 ously; and on its threshold appeared three unexpected 
 figures; Lady Lucy, Mistress Mary Shakespeare, and 
 my grandam. 
 
 At sight of them I stood as if turned to stone. I 
 had nerved myself to meet exposure and recognition; 
 but I had not expected treachery. Will made no sign 
 of surprise. He stood immovable, his arms folded. Sir 
 Thomas shot a quick glance at us both; then gave a 
 rapid order to his servants. In reply, the latter began 
 the difficult task of removing the captive Stratford lads 
 to the house for safe-keeping. 'Twas an arduous duty 
 that they strove to perform, for their prisoners were 
 most unruly. The air was filled with mocking protests, 
 profane threatenings, and rough jests at Sir Thomas's 
 
 62
 
 
 expense. These last made the knight turn purple with 
 rage, and he was restrained from setting upon the saucy 
 knaves himself only by the cries and pleadings of his 
 lady. Finally, however, the task was accomplished. 
 The last Stratford lad was forced into the house by his 
 captors, the great door closed upon them all, and a 
 brief lull ensued. 
 
 Sir Thomas, choking and sputtering with anger, at 
 length managed to regain some slight measure of self- 
 control. When he had reached this point, he put his 
 lady impatiently aside and beckoned to Will and me. 
 At the summons Will offered me his hand in silence. 
 I laid my cold fingers within his. So, like two children, 
 we went forward to meet our fate. 
 
 "Will Shakespeare," began Sir Thomas, pomp- 
 ously, as we finally came to a standstill before him; 
 " 'tis a mad and vicious deed that thou didst plan this 
 night. The Lord be praised that thou wast hindered 
 from carrying it out." 
 
 Will gazed at him without a word. The knight's 
 whining piety was so obviously an outer crust of his 
 real nature. 'Twas a convenient coat to show a goodly 
 outside to the world; but within there dwelt how poor 
 and mean a soul! 
 
 63
 
 "Thou hast done me good service, Dame Hath- 
 away," the knight continued, condescendingly, turning 
 to my grandam. He was evidently somewhat confused 
 by Will's steadfast, scornful eyes. "I shall not forget 
 it, and " 
 
 "The service is Mistress Shakespeare's as well as 
 mine," responded my grandam, her eyes fixed full upon 
 my face. "I told her of the plot I overheard; and it 
 was by her advice that I came hither to seek thy wor- 
 ship. I trust that thou wilt not forget the promise thou 
 didst make, that my grand-daughter's share in this 
 escapade shall remain unknown except to those here 
 present. This boon, Sir Thomas, thou hast granted me 
 in return for my warning. As for Master Shakespeare, 
 his mother must speak. She learned to-day, for the first, 
 of her son's entanglement with my grand-daughter." 
 
 "And heard it to my sorrow and shame," added 
 Mistress Shakespeare, in a low, clear voice, so like 
 Will's that my heart was strangely stirred. "I had 
 deemed my son a man of honor, worthy of his Arden 
 blood. Never before in all his life hath he been guilty 
 of deception, nor concealed aught from me." 
 
 Then, indeed, Will started as if stung. He made 
 an impetuous step towards her. 
 
 6 4
 
 "Sweet mother," he began, eagerly, imploringly, 
 "dear lady, say not so. Thou know'st not all. I could 
 not tell thee sooner. Indeed, indeed, deception and dis- 
 honor were far from my thoughts. I have longed for 
 the day when I could bring her to thee, could give thee 
 a daughter " 
 
 His mother made a gesture of abhorrence, and cast 
 a fleeting, scornful glance at me. 
 
 "Thou didst intend to marry her!" she said, slowly, 
 and the disdain in her voice cut me to the very heart. 
 "This passes ! Thou wouldst have taken as thy wedded 
 wife this madwoman's daughter, this bastard " 
 
 Will's imperative, uplifted hand made her pause; 
 his eyes blazed with anger. He turned from Mistress 
 Shakespeare and drew me to his breast with an ex- 
 quisite movement of protection. 
 
 "By that speech thou hast lost a son, mother," he 
 said, quietly, and the calm decision of his words was 
 more effective than any storm of rage. Then he spoke 
 to me, with infinite tenderness. "Thou hearest, be- 
 loved! 'Tis as I feared, and yet I hoped also. This 
 is why I sought to wed thee as I did. All my life shall 
 recompense thee for those words, sweetheart!" 
 
 His voice was low, but perfectly distinct. His 
 65
 
 mother turned scarlet, and the tears rushed to her eyes. 
 Despising me before, surely she hated me now. But 
 Will's self-control was an inheritance. She turned 
 calmly to Sir Thomas. 
 
 "Do with him as thou wilt. Some madness soothly 
 affects him or some potent spell hath bewitched him. 
 Strive, prythee, to bring him to his senses. Dame 
 Hathaway, I thank thee for thy warning. Lady Lucy, 
 I crave thy hospitality for the night. On the morrow 
 I will return to Stratford." 
 
 So saying, with a stately curtsey to Sir Thomas 
 and Lady Lucy, and a gracious inclination to my 
 grandam, Mistress Shakespeare entered the house. 
 
 The knight cleared his throat pompously as she 
 disappeared. 
 
 "A foolish son is the heaviness of his mother," he 
 observed, sanctimoniously, rolling his eyes heavenward ; 
 "and the way of the transgressor is hard. Thy sin 
 hath found thee out, Will Shakespeare, and " 
 
 "Waste no words, Sir Thomas," said Will, inter- 
 rupting him unceremoniously; "I am in thy power, as 
 thou knowest right well. Do with me as thou wilt." 
 
 The knight opened his mouth to utter another 
 high-sounding sentence, but this time, to my surprise, 
 
 66
 
 my grandam interposed. Her face was white, and her 
 voice sounded curiously husky. 
 
 "Sir Thomas," she said, "thou hast said that I have 
 done thee good service this night. I have now a further 
 boon to crave than the one thou hast already granted 
 me. Prythee, let me speak to these two for a brief 
 space in private." 
 
 Sir Thomas looked at her, amazed; but her face 
 was inscrutable. He muttered to himself for a moment, 
 gazing upon her with suspicion; but finally his coun- 
 tenance cleared. She had indeed done him a great 
 service. The favor she asked was a harmless one. His 
 triumph over his enemies had been so complete that he 
 could afford to be somewhat magnanimous. 
 
 "Have thy wish," he said at length, albeit some- 
 what ungraciously. "I will remain just within. If he 
 should attempt escape, one call will suffice to bring me." 
 And with that he made his exit, his lady fluttering 
 about him like a bird around its mate. 
 
 The instant he was gone, Will's self-restraint flew 
 to the winds. He caught me yet closer to him, mur- 
 muring passionate caressing words, explanations, apol- 
 ogies. It was as if he could not do enough to make 
 amends for his mother's cruel scorn. 
 
 67
 
 "But stay," he said, suddenly checking himself; 
 "the time is brief. Tell me, sweetheart, tell me that 
 thou dost trust me still. Oh, never fear, dear love; 
 happiness shall yet be ours, and this past woe shall 
 seem to us as naught. See, Nan," and he gently turned 
 my face towards the tranquil scene beyond ; "see where 
 Charlcote lies in the moonlight, calm and heavenly fair. 
 Even so, one day, shall be our wedded bliss, Nan, dear 
 Nan, my sweetheart, my wife!" 
 
 I murmured a tender word or two, and laid my 
 hands in his with perfect trust. Past troubles, future 
 perplexities, were as naught. He bent his head and 
 kissed me. 
 
 "Light of my life, I thank thee. A time will come, 
 I hope, when thy trust shall be rewarded; a time when 
 thou wilt be proud that thou art Shakespeare's sweet- 
 heart." 
 
 "Of that she is proud now," said a low voice be- 
 hind us. We turned with a start. We had entirely 
 forgotten my grandam's presence. "She is proud now, 
 and well she may be," she added, to my complete sur- 
 prise. Will looked at her sternly. 
 
 "Why thou didst choose to play the spy I know 
 not, Dame Hathaway," he said, somewhat bitterly. 
 
 68
 
 "Methinks thou didst do so scarce effectually. I 
 brought thy grand-daughter here this night, meaning 
 to take her back to Shottery as my wedded wife. That 
 she is not such at this moment is thine own fault, and 
 thine alone." 
 
 "Ay," answered my grandam, in an odd, breathless 
 tone, and her hands made a strange wavering move- 
 ment as if she besought his pardon; "ay, so I heard 
 thee tell thy mother. I have wronged thee, Will Shake- 
 speare, wronged thee much. I crave thy forgiveness. 
 I had a daughter once 'tis an old story. Well, I feared 
 lest that daughter's daughter " She paused abruptly. 
 
 "I cannot make amends," she went on presently; 
 "yet I can at least explain, and hope for the future. 
 Tis true, I overheard but part of thy plans. I under- 
 stood that Nan was coming hither with thee, and that 
 she would be the only woman present. Ere thou hadst 
 gone I slipped away to Stratford and told thy mother 
 all I knew. She was amazed and displeased, as thou 
 hast seen, and advised that Sir Thomas Lucy be warned. 
 When I returned to Shottery it was very late. Thou 
 hadst gone and Nan had retired to her chamber. I had 
 left my door closed, that she might think I slept within. 
 When I returned from my interview with thy mother, 
 
 69
 
 I opened it most cautiously, yet it creaked villainously, 
 and again when I closed it. Didst hear it, Nan?" 
 
 "Ay," I answered ; "but thought it a dream. I had 
 no idea that thou wert not in the house when I sought 
 my room." 
 
 "To-day," my grandam went on, "I went to Mis- 
 tress Shakespeare as we had planned, and we came to- 
 gether to Sir Thomas with our story. I meant all for 
 the best; wilt not believe it, Nan? Wilt not believe it, 
 Master Shakespeare? Sir Thomas has promised me 
 that Nan's share in this night's doings shall remain a 
 secret. When thy punishment is over " 
 
 "Ay, when," Will said, more gloomily than I had 
 ever heard him speak. "Sir Thomas is not a man to 
 forgive easily, nor to punish lightly." 
 
 "But he cannot do more than imprison thee," my 
 grandam urged. "And when thou art free -" 
 
 What sudden impulse caused the thought I know 
 not, but at that moment an idea occurred to me. 
 
 "Free!" I whispered. "Never fear, Will, thou shalt 
 be free soon. I know a way." 
 
 He shook his head. "What thou mean'st I know 
 not, sweetheart; but free I shall be one day, assuredly, 
 
 and until then " 
 
 70
 
 '.fakegpcafeTl 
 
 Itwceffrearfj 
 
 The great door creaked and we heard Sir Thomas 
 Lucy's voice. Will turned hurriedly to my grandam 
 and spoke with sudden passion: 
 
 "Dame Hathaway, I trust thee; I must perforce. 
 Guard her for me until I may make her mine; and God 
 forgive thee if thou dost play us false f
 
 The next morning at 
 dawn my grandam and I 
 returned to Shottery. We 
 traversed the way on foot, 
 and for the most part in 
 silence. What had become 
 of the two horses that Will 
 had left on the borders of the Park was a mystery to 
 me then. Afterwards I learned that one of Sir Thomas's 
 servants had captured them as spoils of war. That we 
 walked in silence was no surprise to me, for my 
 grandam was, as I have said, a woman of few words. 
 Her flow of conversation to Will and me on the ter- 
 race had astonished me. Only sudden and great reason 
 could have so stirred her to speech. 
 
 The night before, I had galloped on horseback 
 along this same road in its moonlit beauty. To-day 
 in the dreary dawn I dragged my laggard feet towards 
 home. Yet all was not dark. My grandam and Will 
 had reached an understanding; and my idea, the sud- 
 den hopeful thought that had come to me the night 
 before, still stayed with me and animated my weary 
 spirits. 
 
 My grandam said naught of this, nor of anything 
 
 75
 
 else. She had relapsed again into her ordinary mood 
 of calm self-possession. Only once did she speak to 
 me. That was when we stood again at the door of our 
 cottage. 
 
 "The way was long and weary," she said, looking 
 at me with a new softness in her eyes; "but take 
 courage, Nan. The sun hath risen." 
 
 I understood the double meaning she intended to 
 convey. 
 
 "Ay, grandam," I answered, gently; "but for me 
 the sun rose forever a month since, when Will Shake- 
 speare first told me of his love." 
 
 And with that we entered the cottage, and, with- 
 out speaking further, began our morning tasks. 
 
 The day passed slowly, but evening came at last, 
 and with it a neighbor who brought us tidings of Will 
 and his friends. The knight's wrath had blazed high 
 at his repeated injuries, and all the lads were sentenced 
 to varying terms of imprisonment. Will, being the 
 ringleader, was doomed to the longest captivity. 
 
 The news was not unexpected, so neither my 
 grandam nor I evinced great surprise. When, disap- 
 pointed at our lack of emotion, the gossip had gone to 
 spread the news elsewhere, I said: 
 
 76
 
 Ifhte g pcareFl 
 
 "Have the players come yet to Stratford, grandam?" 
 
 "Nay, lass, but they arrive to-morrow," she an- 
 swered. "When I was in the town yesterday Dame 
 Quickly was making great preparations. They are 
 huge feeders, she says." 
 
 "I wonder," I said, reflectively, "I wonder if she 
 would care to have me go to help her. I have done 
 so before when she was hard pressed." 
 
 "Ay, I think likely, since thou art a favorite of 
 hers," my grandam answered. "Why dost wish to go?" 
 
 But I did not desire yet to tell my real reason, 
 even to her. 
 
 "The extra coins she pays me will not come amiss," 
 I answered, evasively; "and I should like to see the 
 players. I have never yet beheld them." 
 
 "Then go when thou wilt, lass," said my grandam. 
 "To-morrow morn, if thou desirest. Dame Quickly 
 will welcome thee, I know.'* 
 
 Before we slept that night it was agreed that I 
 should do this, and I went to bed well pleased. 
 
 The town was all astir when I entered it next day. 
 The coming of the players always formed one of the 
 few great excitements in Stratford. The inn, espe- 
 cially, I found in bustle and excitement, and as my 
 
 77
 
 grandam had predicted, Dame Quickly welcomed me 
 with effusion. The players were expected in the after- 
 noon, and I was set to making a huge pasty for their 
 delectation. 
 
 How many hopes and fears, what tremors and 
 confidences, went into that pasty along with the ma- 
 terials that composed it! So far my sudden plan 
 had prospered well. Would I be able to carry it yet 
 further? 
 
 I put my best skill into the making of the pasty, 
 and it looked most inviting when I had finished. Dame 
 Quickly was so delighted with its success that I was 
 emboldened to take my second step in the pathway 
 I had planned for myself. 
 
 "Wilt let me wait on the table, Mistress Quickly? 
 I would like well to see the players." 
 
 She pursed up her lips and looked at me critically, 
 kindly. 
 
 "Thou art well, if thou wilt have it, thou art too 
 comely, Nan," she said at length. "They are loose, 
 rough men, some of them. Thy golden hair, thy large 
 eyes, thy smooth skin would captivate their eyes 
 perhaps to thine own hurt. I should never forgive 
 myself shouldst thou meet harm through me." 
 
 78
 
 jSliwc et hear 
 
 I flushed rosily, both at the suggestion of her words 
 and at the admiration they conveyed. What woman 
 loves not to hear that she is beautiful? 
 
 "I will strive to conduct myself properly," I said, 
 demurely, "and if they prove too boisterous I can come 
 to thee. Prythee let me do it, dame. I have heard 
 so much of the players and have never seen them." 
 
 Somewhat reluctantly she promised, and my heart 
 leaped with delight. Another part of my self-imposed 
 task was accomplished. 
 
 A few hours later, loud shouting and the blare of 
 trumpets heralded the arrival of the players. The 
 whole town turned out to welcome them, and amid a 
 storm of huzzas, greetings and jests they rode into 
 Stratford, and alighted at the door of the inn. 
 
 When they had actually arrived, I was seized for 
 an instant with a perfect agony of apprehension. There 
 seemed to be so many of them; they were so big and 
 boisterous. How could I ever carry out my plan? 
 
 Dame Quickly's voice calling me brought me back 
 to my senses. I thought of Will and grew strong. I 
 went to obey the summons, and found that my duties 
 were to begin at once, since the players had arrived 
 ravenous. Dame Quickly had put them into a room 
 
 79
 
 by themselves, with one huge table for them all, and 
 she bade me hasten, since they were impatient for their 
 wine. 
 
 As I stood on the threshold of the room an in- 
 stant, gathering up my courage for an entrance, I 
 heard a melodious voice within carolling out a catch 
 which the others were interrupting without the least 
 ceremony : 
 
 "Which is the happiest day to drink?" 
 
 sang forth the mellow tones. 
 
 "How can I name one day?" 
 
 roared the chorus. 
 
 "Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, 
 Saturday, Sunday, Monday!" 
 
 shouted the whole noisy company. 
 
 I pushed open the door and entered. To my aston- 
 ishment and confusion, at my appearance instant silence 
 fell. I almost dropped the cups I held, in my embar- 
 rassment. 
 
 "Hebe, and no other," cried the same rich, careless 
 so
 
 voice that had been singing. "By St. George, where 
 gat the little town this daughter of the gods?" 
 
 "Hist, Marlowe," interposed a gentler voice. "The 
 maid is modest, and thou dost trouble her." 
 
 "Modest, and a tavern wench!" cried a coarser 
 player, who sat near the door. "Impossible! Come 
 and kiss me, pretty sweeting!" 
 
 "Nay," called the one who had spoken in my favor; 
 "nay, let be, Kyd. Prythee bring the cups hither, mis- 
 tress, an it please thee." 
 
 The tone was deferential, yet gently admonitory. 
 
 I ventured to raise my eyes, as I obeyed. The 
 speaker I recognized instantly, although he was some 
 years older than when I had seen him, a lad in Strat- 
 ford streets. 'Twas Dick Burbadge, who had been my 
 champion. He beckoned to me to bring the cups, and 
 as I obediently set them before him, he murmured so 
 that none could hear: "I know not who thou art; but 
 this is no place for a modest maid, and such thou 
 seemest. Ask Dame Quickly to send another in thy 
 place." 
 
 Now was my chance, or never. I answered, breath- 
 lessly and low, "I have a reason for being here. Let 
 me speak with thee privately." 
 
 81
 
 He glanced at me, surprised, but my strong desire 
 must have shown in my face, for he nodded almost on 
 the instant. 
 
 "Be it so. I will watch for an opportunity. Go 
 hence now." 
 
 "Take that, Kit Marlowe!" suddenly cried a shrill, 
 angry voice that I had not heard as yet; and the 
 speaker, a slender, petulant-looking youth, followed 
 his speech by a box on Marlowe's ear. "Why wilt 
 thou treat me like a fool? I am no woman, in sooth, 
 though I may act a woman's part." 
 
 "How now! What is the dispute?" asked Bur- 
 badge, who seemed to be peacemaker in general for 
 the company. 
 
 "Nay," drawled Marlowe in his rich, lazy voice, 
 "I did but beg my lady here to press her lips upon 
 the cup ere I drank from it. As Ben Jonson hath it: 
 
 "Drink to me only with thine eyes, 
 
 And I will pledge with mine ; 
 Or leave a kiss within the cup, 
 And I'll not look for wine. 
 
 "I'm practising for the play, Dick, that is all." 
 The youth he was teasing gave an angry flounce.
 
 "Robin, Robin Greene, dost not know Kit by this 
 time?" said Burbadge, his grave face relaxing into a 
 smile. 
 
 "I care not," replied Greene, still petulantly. "He 
 shall not flout me, as if I were no man. I am slender, 
 indeed, and my beard is scant; yet I can drink any one 
 of you under the table, I'll wager my purse." 
 
 "Ay, I warrant," said Burbadge, with something 
 like a sigh. "Were Jonson here, he'd have a classical 
 allusion to illustrate that same wager of thine." 
 
 "Which is the happiest day to drink?" 
 
 carolled Marlowe again, winking at Greene insolently; 
 and under cover of the vociferous chorus that followed 
 I made my exit. 
 
 I went and told Dame Quickly that I found the 
 company e'en too boisterous for my taste, whereat she 
 nodded her head wisely and sent her homeliest maid 
 in my place. I followed her as far as the door and 
 stood there quaking, wondering if Burbadge could and 
 would keep his promise. The instant red-cheeked 
 Sukey entered the room I heard an uproar of voices, 
 then a crash of breaking glass, followed by her un- 
 ceremonious exit in tears. The next instant Burbadge 
 
 83
 
 came out, also. As he did so the noise within sub- 
 sided. 
 
 "They will have none but thee," he said, hurriedly, 
 breathlessly. "They refused to let the other wench 
 wait upon them. They threw the china on the floor 
 in anger. Thou must e'en come, I fear; but I will see 
 that thou dost not meet with insult. First, however, 
 what dost thou want with me? I said I would find 
 and bring thee. I did so that I might have the oppor- 
 tunity of speaking with thee privately, as thou didst 
 desire." 
 
 "Oh, sir," I began, hurriedly, clasping my hands 
 in passionate entreaty, " 'tis about Will Shakespeare." 
 
 He gave me a quick glance. 
 
 "My right good friend! I wondered why I did 
 not see him as we came through the town. What of 
 him?" 
 
 Then, rapidly, beseechingly, I told of his imprison- 
 ment and its cause; spoke also of Will's intention of 
 joining the players when they came; then reached the 
 point of my story. 
 
 "And now, wilt thou not free him?" I cried, the 
 tears springing to my eyes unbidden, as I caught 
 Master Burbadge's hand. "Ye are many, and the gaol
 
 health fo fi hahgspeare?) 
 
 {freedom! ond j^i hates] 
 
 tWef hearfl I
 
 wfll be deserted to-morrow while the town is at the 
 play. I will show you where the prison is. Will not 
 some of you go and free him? Then he will to London 
 with you, and when he comes back ah, then the prank 
 that made him captive may be forgotten or forgiven. 
 
 Master Burbadge, thou art his friend ! Set him free, 
 prythee set him free.'* 
 
 He looked at me in deep thought for an instant. 
 
 "Tis possible, I think/* he said at last, and for 
 very joy at the words I bent and kissed his hand; "but 
 no one must know of our plan save ourselves/' He 
 paused and looked at me as if a sudden thought had 
 struck him. "Come,** he said, and motioned to the 
 room he had just left; "come. Thou thyself wilt be 
 thine own best advocate." 
 
 With no thought save of Will, I followed him. 
 The players set up a shout of joy at my entrance, but 
 
 1 heard them not; nor did I heed the amorous glances 
 that some cast at me. Burbadge raised his hand to 
 commsnci sii.cn.cc. 
 
 "This maid hath a tale to tell us, my masters," he 
 said. "Prythee listen well." 
 
 Then, quickly and to the best of my power, I told 
 my story once again. The players were most appre-
 
 ciative listeners. They roared with laughter at the plot 
 against Sir Thomas, and their faces grew sober as they 
 heard of Will's overthrow. Most of them knew him 
 or knew of him, for many belonged to Stratford or its 
 neighborhood; and then, he had always taken a warm 
 interest in the players and their work. When, at 
 length, my tale was ended and my plan to free Will 
 was revealed, one of the actors I had not noticed be- 
 fore sprang upon the table, a cup of wine in his hand. 
 
 "Down with the Puritans!" he cried in a whining, 
 nasal voice irresistibly comic. "To the rescue of gal- 
 lant Will and his comrades." 
 
 "If thou shoutest out thy opinions in that fashion, 
 Will Kempe, thou wilt join Shakespeare and his friends, 
 instead of going to their rescue," observed Greene. 
 "Play not the clown now. 'Tis not the time nor place !" 
 
 "Nay, chide not honest Kempe," said Burbadge, 
 kindly, as Kempe, looking somewhat abashed, got 
 down from the table. "He voices all our thoughts, I 
 know. What say you, comrades? Shall we rescue 
 Will and take him with us to London?" 
 
 "Ay," they all shouted, heartily, even Greene; 
 while Marlowe, leaping to his feet, raised his glass in 
 his hand as Kempe had done.
 
 "A health," he cried, his handsome, insolent eyes 
 fixed full upon me, a mocking smile upon his lips, "a 
 health to Shakespeare's freedom, and Shakespeare's 
 sweetheart!"
 
 llhaprerl 1\/1I]
 
 freakmaj thelQ(5cRs> 
 
 The Stratford streets 
 were deserted next day, as 
 I passed hurriedly along 
 them on my way to the 
 gaol. The play was pro- 
 gressing in the inn-yard, and 
 all the town, apparently, had gone thither. 
 
 Here and there an old grandsire nodded in the 
 sun; and occasionally I saw a young mother standing 
 in a doorway, her baby in her arms. Otherwise, all 
 the town, young and old, rich and poor, had gone to 
 the play. 
 
 We had counted on this condition of affairs, the 
 players and I, when we had made our plans the day 
 before. It cheered me now to see how aptly circum- 
 stances were falling in with our schemes. In less than 
 a half-hour, should all go well, Will would be free. 
 
 The glad thought put a spring into my step, and 
 I gave a low, happy laugh. At the same moment I 
 looked up and found that I was passing Will's home, 
 and that Mistress Shakespeare was standing by the 
 window. 
 
 91
 
 When I had seen her last she had carried herself 
 in stately wise, and had looked at me with scorn and 
 abhorrence. Now she did not see me, and her whole 
 figure was drooping, as she leaned against the open 
 window. One arm was curved listlessly above her 
 head, the other rested carelessly on the sill. Her beau- 
 tiful, hazel eyes, so like Will's, were wide and sad. 
 Her exquisite, disdainful face looked pale and drawn. 
 
 My heart smote me at sight of her, so lovely and 
 so sorrowful. Alas ! what was I, to come between such 
 a mother and such a son? Will was like her in stately 
 figure and clear-cut features, and I could imagine how 
 dearly they had loved each other. As I saw her droop- 
 ing form, her sorrowful face, I paused involuntarily, 
 and she glanced up and saw me. Instantly her expres- 
 sion hardened, and she drew herself erect. 
 
 All my impulse of pity vanished. I looked at her 
 proudly, also. For one instant, without speaking, we 
 faced each other thus Shakespeare's mother and 
 Shakespeare's sweetheart. It was the indication of 
 our lifelong attitude. Then she vanished from the 
 window, and I went on down the street with even, 
 leisurely steps, my head still high in the air. A few 
 moments later I reached the gaol. 
 
 92
 
 It took hard knocking to arouse the custodian, and 
 when he at length admitted me, he looked as if he had 
 been sleeping. 
 
 He was grumbling to himself about his hard fate. 
 Other men, he muttered, could go to the play; but he 
 must remain to watch these lazy varlets who were in 
 his charge. 
 
 "Well, here is consolation," I said, after sympa- 
 thizing with his complaint. "Dame Quickly, of the inn, 
 was once servant to the Shakespeares in their better 
 days, and she sends a pasty to Master Will. She bade 
 me also give this one to thee, if thou wouldst let me 
 take his to him." This speech was a skillful mixture 
 of fiction and fact. Dame Quickly had, indeed, been 
 servant to the Shakespeares, but she knew nothing of 
 the present plan. 
 
 He leered at me sleepily. "And why art thou mes- 
 senger, pretty Nan?" he said, in what was intended for 
 a fascinating manner. 
 
 I lowered my lashes as if it were indeed irresist- 
 ible, and answered demurely: 
 
 "I am maid at the inn for the nonce, and Mistress 
 Quickly was kind enough to say that she trusted me." 
 
 "Curse me, then," he cried, growing even more 
 
 93
 
 sentimental, "but thou shalt do as she desires, and I 
 will trust thee, too, on one condition. I will allow 
 thee to take the pasty up to Will, if first thou wilt let 
 me give thee a kiss;" and he leered at me again. 
 
 I hesitated, my face aflame. Then I laughed dep- 
 recatingly. 
 
 "Why shouldst thou care to buss me, Master?" I 
 said. "Thou knowest me well and hast seen me oft. 
 Why this sudden wish to touch my lips?" 
 
 "Thou hast never seemed so fair before," he an- 
 swered, gazing at me amorously; "and, besides, thou 
 art the only maid within reach. I'll have a kiss, I say, 
 or thou shalt not take the pasty to Will Shakespeare." 
 
 His tone was growing threatening, and what mat- 
 tered it, after all? A kiss was but an ordinary inter- 
 change of civilities; only I cared not to have this red- 
 faced knave bring his face so near to mine. However, 
 that I should reach Will speedily was of the greatest 
 importance; and so, without more ado, I lifted my 
 mouth to the gaoler's and gave him his desire. 
 
 "Good!" he cried, smacking his lips, after having 
 bestowed on me several resounding kisses; "now the 
 pasty thou didst promise me, Gramercy! Ah!" and he 
 began to bite into it. "Mistress Quickly 's hand hath 
 
 94
 
 GS]fha_ke spc are^l . |S]iv*>c er hea rp) 
 
 not lost its old cunning. Here are the keys, wench. 
 I cannot leave this dainty dish." 
 
 This was more than I had hoped for. I seized the 
 keys and fled up the stairs precipitately, leaving him 
 busy with the pasty. I did not know in which room 
 Will was confined, but I trusted to heaven to find out. 
 
 Meanwhile the gaoler was devouring, in huge 
 bites, the pasty which had been drugged with a power- 
 ful liquid provided by Master Burbadge. The effect 
 of the same would be to put him in a stupor, but it 
 would not harm him further. So Master Burbadge 
 assured me, or I would not have used it, even to free 
 Will from his imprisonment. 
 
 I ran along the corridor, calling Will's name as 
 loudly as I dared. Presently I heard his voice reply 
 in a tone of great surprise. 
 
 Fortunately, the keys were not many, and I speed- 
 ily found the one that fitted. Then, half laughing, half 
 in tears, I stumbled into his room, to be met with a 
 cry of utter astonishment as he caught me in his arms. 
 
 "Nan!" he cried. "Nan! whence didst thou come? 
 What miracle is this?" 
 
 "Oh, hush !" I panted, laying my finger on his lips. 
 "Here, here's the pasty. Thou must take it with thee 
 
 95
 
 to avert suspicion from me. I told the players; they 
 are coming to free thee. O Will, I had to kiss the 
 gaoler to get to thee. There, quick! Burbadge will 
 explain all to thee afterwards. The door is open. 
 Come!" 
 
 "But to what end?" he began, obeying me, how- 
 ever, as I urged him towards the door. "Sir Thomas 
 Lucy " 
 
 "Thou wilt soon be far away from him," I an- 
 swered, impatiently. "Come, come!" 
 
 He said no more, although he was evidently mys- 
 tified, but obeyed, as I drew him with me. We ran 
 lightly down the stairs together. The gaoler lay in a 
 stupor, the half-eaten dainty beside him. I dropped 
 the keys at his feet. We passed swiftly into the air, 
 and there Master Burbadge and Master Kempe were 
 waiting for us, according to agreement. 
 
 "Welcome, Will," cried the latter, in a voice that 
 was no less joyous because it was in a low key from 
 caution. "Thank this brave lass that thou art free. 
 Art ready to go to London with us? We start within 
 the hour, before thy gaoler shall awaken." 
 
 "I am in darkness still, although I have left my 
 prison," answered Will, giving a hand to each of the 
 
 96
 
 players as we began to walk rapidly away from the 
 gaol, "but I think light is dawning. Ay, Burbadge, I 
 
 will to London with thee, although " he hesitated, 
 
 and glanced at me. 
 
 "Fear not, Will," I interposed; "none knows of 
 my share in thy escape save the gaoler, and methinks 
 shame at being outwitted by a wench will keep him 
 silent. Besides, when it is found that thou art gone 
 with the players, they will be suspected of having set 
 thee free. Fear not for me. To London, and god- 
 speed!" 
 
 He stood still a moment in deep thought. Kempe 
 looked around uneasily, but none saw us; not a soul 
 was in sight. 
 
 "Stay," he said, suddenly; "I would first Kempe, 
 Burbadge, are your parts in the play over?" 
 
 "Ay," Burbadge answered; "the rest are acting 
 the last scene now. We came to do our part in setting 
 thee free, but find thee no longer a prisoner. What 
 wouldst say, Will? Speak quickly, for time presses." 
 
 "How long before thou dost start for London?" 
 said Will, who seemed curiously forgetful of his peril- 
 ous position as escaped prisoner, although he walked 
 on again in obedience to Burbadge's gesture. 
 
 97
 
 "We have planned to do so within the hour; and 
 so we must, if thou art to go with us, so that thy 
 escape may not be discovered too soon." 
 
 "Then," cried Will, the light of a sudden resolve 
 brightening his face; "I will ask one boon further, com- 
 rades. I will not join you now, but I will meet you 
 to-morrow morn at Luddington. Go back to the play- 
 ers, and watch for me when you reach that town. I 
 will join you there without fail." 
 
 "But why?" began Burbadge, expostulatingly. 
 " J Tis foolish, needless. Why not come with us now? 
 I have a cloak and a wig ready, which will make thee 
 escape recognition in Stratford." 
 
 "Say what thou wilt," answered Will, obstinately. 
 "I will join thee at Luddington, or nowhere. Ah, com- 
 rades," and his voice once more took on its usual win- 
 ning quality, "believe me, I am not ungrateful. I have 
 some business to which I must first attend, else I can- 
 not to London with a free mind. Do as I desire, and 
 I will meet you at Luddington." 
 
 With ill grace they consented at last and took 
 their departure. Will seized my hand and drew me in 
 the opposite direction. We had now nearly reached 
 the outskirts of Stratford. "Quick, Nan," he said, "go 
 
 98
 
 ode fti^iJffHt fl*MJ Richardson. They dwell about a 
 qiiMlrr of a mile further. Most like they are not at 
 the play, since they are sober-minded men. They are 
 faithful friends of mine, and I think will do what I 
 ask. Bid them come with me at once and we will all 
 to Luddington together." 
 
 "But why," I began, in utter perplexity, "why 
 wilt thou risk thy freedom?" 
 
 Then, indeed, his face relaxed. He laughed, and 
 
 "Dost not thou know, either?" he said, still laugh- 
 ing. We were now walking rapidly out of Stratford, 
 in the opposite direction to the inn-yard, and towards 
 the homes of Sandells and Richardson. "Because I 
 would make thee safely my wife before I go to London, 
 sweetheart. Now, the bans will not need to be de- 
 clared, if my good friends will do as I desire. I will 
 ask them to become sureties on a bond freeing the 
 Bishop from liability in case of lawful impediment; 
 which, thou knowest, does not exist. I feared lest 
 player's bond would not suffice else would I have asked 
 Kempe and Burbadge to do me this service. That is 
 why I go to Luddington, sweetheart. There! yonder 
 lies Sandells's house, and not for from it is Richard-
 
 son's. Haste thee, and ask them if they will do me 
 this favor. I will go on, since I dare not linger." 
 
 As in a dream, I obeyed him ; and as in a dream, I 
 lived during the next few hours. 
 
 Master Sandells and Master Richardson consented 
 to Will's request, and we all made our way as quickly 
 as possible to Luddington. There, at last, were spoken 
 the words that made me Will's wife. In haste and 
 secrecy our marriage took place, yet it brought us none 
 the less joy. 
 
 The players reached Luddington that same even- 
 ing, but did not depart until the following morning. 
 Master Sandells and Master Richardson remained, also, 
 that they might take me back to Shottery. 
 
 In the dim, chill dawn of the next day I bade Will 
 farewell, and watched him ride away to London. All 
 the light of my life went with him. Then, in Master 
 Richardson and Master Sandells's kindly care, I went 
 back to Shottery, Will's wedded wife at last, the bride 
 of a night.
 
 Glhaprer ( iVJIll
 
 Strangely, unexpectedly, 
 my share in Will's escape 
 remained unknown. The 
 gaoler, as I had hoped, was 
 ashamed of the way in which 
 he had been outwitted; and 
 
 when it was found that Will had gone with the players, 
 the fellow did his best to make suspicion point towards 
 them. 
 
 To do him justice, this endeavor may have arisen 
 also from a desire to shield me. My absence from 
 Shottery that one night was not generally known until 
 years afterwards; for I reached home again the next 
 morning before any was astir, and Master Sandells and 
 Master Richardson kept faith. Altogether, I was 
 shielded in a way I scarce had dared to expect; and 
 the months that followed Will's departure, although 
 dull, were not unhappy. It was for his good that we 
 were separated. I was his true wife. I had his letters 
 to cheer me. What more could I desire at present? 
 
 Sir Thomas stormed and raged, indeed, when he 
 found that his chief prisoner had escaped; but public 
 
 103
 
 sentiment was against him, and he dared not go too 
 far. The players were under powerful protection, and 
 he did not wish to meet a rebuff in an attempt to get 
 Will back. So gradually all became calm once more. 
 The other lads were released, one by one; and at last 
 the deer-stealing episode was almost forgotten. 
 
 There followed then, after that expedition to Charl- 
 cote and the events connected with it, a peaceful, 
 monotonous year. Will's letters often brightened it; 
 he came once or twice to see me, secretly, since Sir 
 Thomas's wrath had not then died away; and before 
 its close there was set upon my brows the crown of a 
 woman's life. 
 
 My babe, Susannah, was born. She was a sturdy 
 lass, with Will's chestnut hair and my dark eyes, and 
 it seemed to me that a sweeter, prettier infant never 
 lived. Will's delight when he heard of her birth over- 
 flowed into a letter so full of the perfect bliss and pride 
 of fatherhood that I have long since destroyed it, deem- 
 ing it too sacred to be read by other eyes. He longed 
 to come to the christening, but could not, being de- 
 tained in London; and he did not see the little lass for 
 many weary months. 
 
 Ah, how the gossips' tongues clacked when Su- 
 104
 
 sannah was born! Our marriage still remained secret, 
 and I think the impression never quite died away in 
 Stratford, even after all was known, that the little lass 
 was a nameless child, as her mother had been. For 
 me, I cared not. Safe in the harbor of Will's honor- 
 able love, I could wait to let time justify us both. 
 Master Sandells and Master Richardson came to me, 
 when the gossip reached their ears, and asked me 
 whether they should keep silence still. I answered, 
 proudly, ay, nor did I ever regret it. I was accustomed 
 to averted glances and looks askance. They could not 
 harm me, while I knew the truth. Will would have 
 been vexed had he been aware of the state of affairs; 
 but as I alone was concerned, I chose to suit myself. 
 I was too proud to offer justification. 'Twas a mistake, 
 perhaps, yet I do not regret it, even now. 
 
 Meanwhile Will's letters spoke of increasing suc- 
 cess, of growing popularity, whereat my heart rejoiced. 
 He had not as yet written a play, but he had helped 
 to remodel old ones, and had acted in very many. His 
 prospects seemed fair, and I was glad. Soothly, ay, 
 that year was not unhappy; in the light of what fol- 
 lowed it stands out bright and blessed. 
 
 And now, at last, I come to the place in my story 
 105
 
 g|fchafeescare$3 
 
 where I must, as it were, begin to write with my heart's 
 blood. Alack! alack! how anguished is e'en the mem- 
 ory of that awful time! Yet it must be told, to make 
 my tale complete. One confusion of horror and per- 
 plexity it is in the recollection; yet I must e'en disen- 
 tangle the snarled threads and tell all as it happened, 
 so far as may be. 
 
 One fair autumn day I took my little Susannah 
 with me into Stratford. She was now several months 
 old, and an adorable babe, full of pretty pranks and 
 charming rogueries. I had some message to Mistress 
 Quickly from my grandam, and I took Susannah with 
 me, partly because I could never bear to have her far 
 from my sight and also because she was a favorite 
 with good Dame Quickly. 
 
 As usual, I had a pleasant time with the mistress 
 at the inn, while Susannah was petted and fussed over 
 to her heart's content. Dame Quickly had been a loyal 
 friend to me during the past year, and this kindness 
 I had never forgotten. My business ended, at length, 
 I left her, and my babe and I went down for a brief 
 stroll beside the willows on the river's bank before re- 
 turning to Shottery. Susannah loved the sweeping, 
 graceful trees, and she laughed and crowed, and 
 
 106
 
 ke sPcareTl 
 
 stretched her dimpled hands towards them in high 
 glee. 
 
 We were very happy. Only Will's presence was 
 needed to make our happiness complete. I told my 
 babe so, talking to her in the fond, foolish way that 
 mothers have. We were seated beside the stream as 
 I said it, Susannah at play on my knees; and as I 
 caught her closer to my heart at the thought of her 
 dear father, behold, I heard his name! 
 
 "Will Shakespeare!" said a woman's full, rich 
 voice in a tone of contempt. "Will Shakespeare!" 
 
 The words came from a point near by. I was 
 sitting close to the bank of the stream, quite hidden 
 on each side by the low, sweeping branches of the 
 willows. Cautiously I crept back a space and peeped 
 around the tree to see who had spoken. 
 
 These were no Stratford folk who sat there by the 
 Avon, both brave in sflks and jewels. Upon the ground 
 the man had spread his yellow satin cloak, and beside 
 it he half knelt, half reclined. Upon this glowing 
 throne there sat, with regal air, the most beauteous 
 and the most haughty woman mine eyes have e'er be- 
 held; soothly, a queen in seeming. 
 
 I saw her afterwards many times; and to my mem-
 
 ory of her then is doubtless added succeeding recollec- 
 tions. Yet never was her scornful loveliness so vivid 
 and so perfect in my sight as that first time I beheld it. 
 
 She was very dark, gloriously, ominously dark. 
 Her raven hair was lustreless, a cloudy background to 
 her perfect face. Deep blue were her eyes, of the color 
 that grows black in excitement or in passion. They 
 were almond-shaped, and heavily fringed with dark, 
 curling lashes. Her nose was straight, with quivering, 
 scornful nostrils; and no words of mine could convey 
 the haughty sweetness of that mouth like Cupid's bow. 
 
 Her skin was clear and smooth, and I could see 
 that the rich color mantling upon it was due to no 
 cosmetic. For the rest, her figure was all voluptuous, 
 sweeping curves, set off by the close-fitting crimson 
 taffeta she wore, and the rubies at her throat, upon her 
 hands. 
 
 Her companion I did not note at once. He was 
 in court attire, his colors blue and gold, and he had 
 yellow, curling hair and a chestnut beard. So much 
 I saw in a rapid, fleeting glance, and then my eyes 
 turned once more in fascination to the wondrous face 
 beside him. As I looked, she spoke again, in that 
 strangely rich, melodious voice. 
 
 1 08
 
 "Will Shakespeare!" she exclaimed again, more 
 petulantly this time. "Thou dost ring the changes on 
 his name until I am right weary of the sound. Dost 
 think I would stoop to favor a mere player?" 
 
 Her companion shrugged his shoulders and raised 
 his eyebrows. Yet methought he looked at her in 
 somewhat anxious wise. 
 
 "None may dare predict aught about thee, Count- 
 ess," he said, half mockingly, yet with a singular def- 
 erence. 
 
 She gave him a side glance from under her sweep- 
 ing lashes. 
 
 "Nay, thou didst not foresee," she observed, with 
 a little laugh, "thou didst not foresee when thou didst 
 present Will Shakespeare to me that within one short 
 fortnight he would be my slave." 
 
 I did not hear the other's reply to that taunting 
 little speech. The words had gone as a dagger to mine 
 own heart. I started involuntarily, and the babe Su- 
 sannah, in my arms, opened her mouth to give a fright- 
 ened cry. I laid my hand fiercely across her lips. At 
 that moment, rather than be discovered before I heard 
 more, methinks I could have stilled forever her baby 
 breath. 
 
 109
 
 For an instant pain and passion made me blind 
 and deaf to all about me. When I could see and hear 
 again the woman was speaking. 
 
 " 'For what is life?' Will Shakespeare said to me; 
 'what is life without love; love such as you can be- 
 stow, madam, and only you?' Poor fellow! He pleaded 
 
 well, and seemed passion-shaked indeed. But I " she 
 
 flung out her white hands with a gesture of abandon; 
 "I have sworn that in love matters I shall never be the 
 conquered, but the conqueror!" 
 
 The man sighed, and for an instant turned his face 
 thoughtfully towards the gentle stream flowing past so 
 placidly. Only for a second stayed he so, however. No 
 man near that face and figure could gaze long else- 
 where than upon them. 
 
 "Thou art playing with a noble heart, madam," he 
 said, gravely. 
 
 She laughed; and the sound was a very ripple of 
 concentrated scorn. 
 
 "Say'st thou so? Well, I know not, my Lord 
 William. Soothly, methinks 'tis because his name and 
 thine are the same that thou art so leal a friend to 
 him. But," she leaned towards him with an air of mys- 
 tery, "but know'st thou what gossip I heard the other
 
 day? Dame Rumor saith it that my handsome player 
 hath already a sweetheart here in Stratford town." 
 
 I did not start again, but a shudder ran through 
 me. Who was this woman who had discovered Will's 
 love and mine, and why was she in Stratford now? 
 
 "Kit Marlowe, in his cups, betrayed the secret," 
 the Countess went on, carelessly. "Whether the tale 
 be true I know not, but sooth, if it be so " 
 
 She came to a long pause, and for the first time 
 her wondrous face was in repose. She sat gazing at 
 the Avon, as he had done a moment since, and her 
 eyes were large and dark. 
 
 "If it be true," she repeated presently, and as she 
 spoke her mocking expression returned, "his is no noble 
 soul, but that of a false coward; for the tale goes 
 further, that there is a child, also. And after that, he 
 
 comes " she made a gesture of contempt and 
 
 abruptly changed her sentence; "he is as other men 
 as thou art, for example." 
 
 He started at the words, and seized her hand be- 
 seechingly. She made no attempt to withdraw it, but 
 let it stay passively within his grasp. It was as if she 
 felt so remote from him in spirit that the enforced im- 
 prisonment of her hand was a matter of little moment.
 
 " 'As other men,' " he repeated, in a voice hoarse 
 with feeling. "Nay, that am I not, dear heart ; beloved ! 
 Thou knowest that thy words are untrue. I have no 
 desire to use thee as the toy of an idle hour; nor are 
 any of my professions of dishonorable intent. To- 
 morrow, to-day, would I wed thee, if thou wouldst con- 
 sent. Goddess of my idolatry, saint of my prayers " 
 
 She interrupted him at this point with another 
 short, scornful laugh. Her hand she withdrew from 
 his, and patted him on the cheek with a certain con- 
 tempt. 
 
 "Child, child, thrice a child, though grown to man's 
 estate!" she exclaimed in a voice full of mirth, yet me- 
 thought also with a hint of pain. "No saint am I, nor 
 ever shall be. Even a fond man's blasphemy cannot 
 make me so. Cease raving, William, and let us go back 
 for the horses. My Lord of Leicester will miss our 
 presence at Kenilworth." 
 
 With a face of deep dejection he offered his hand 
 to assist her to rise. She sprang gracefully to her 
 feet without his aid, and moved to depart, her lithe, 
 supple figure, with its perfect curves, showing clearly 
 against the green of the meadow. He stooped, lifted 
 the cloak, and threw it carelessly over his arm.
 
 "One moment, Countess," he said, speaking sud- 
 denly, as if unable to restrain himself; "wilt not tell 
 me now why it was thy whim to ride hither?" 
 
 "Canst not guess?" she answered, and shook her 
 finger at him. "Oh, stupid man ! Being so near, I was 
 curious to behold what kind of town it was in which 
 thy paragon was reared, and moreover well, I wish 
 to find out whether Kit Marlowe's tale be very sooth, 
 and whether thine idol may still remain on his pedestal. 
 Come, let us to the inn. The dame there seems a gar- 
 rulous mistress. We can find out from her what we 
 desire to know." 
 
 "Why dost wish to find out?" he said, doggedly, 
 still not moving; and my own heart echoed his ques- 
 tion. 
 
 Again she gave him that dangerous side glance 
 from under her long lashes. 
 
 "That, my lord," she observed, with a touch of 
 hauteur, "that concerns me alone. Wilt go to the inn 
 with me? If not, I will seek it myself;" and again she 
 moved a pace or two. 
 
 He followed her, of course, and they walked slowly 
 away, without either having discovered my presence. 
 I watched them until the last glimpse of blue and 
 
 "3
 
 crimson had vanished from my sight. Then I turned, 
 and, clutching my child to my breast, gazed out tragic- 
 ally at the placid Avon. Susannah had fallen asleep. 
 How long I stood thus, what mad thoughts of a swift 
 death beneath the smiling water tormented me I can 
 scarce say. My mind was in a turmoil. My next clear 
 recollection is of sinking to the ground and bursting 
 into a passion of tears. My child awoke and cried, also, 
 and so we crouched and sobbed there by the willows, 
 a forlorn pair enough, while the autumn leaves fell 
 softly about us. 
 
 Heedless of the flight of time in my dumb misery, 
 I know not how long it was before I saw the twilight 
 beginning to descend. I welcomed the darkness as a 
 friend. A few hours since I would have dreaded 
 traversing the road to Shottery alone at night. Now 
 the dusk would serve as a mask to screen my distress 
 from curious eyes. 
 
 By this time the haughty Countess and her attend- 
 ant knight would have satisfied their curiosity. They 
 would know me for what I was, forlorn and deserted. 
 My tears were gone now. I was past weeping. With 
 a long sigh I lifted Susannah to my bosom. 
 
 "Come, Sue, come little one," I said, aloud; and 
 114
 
 wearily I noted the dull sadness of my voice; "we must 
 home to grandam, our only friend now, sweeting, our 
 only friend. Thy father is dead, my baby; dead, and 
 he never saw thee; and thy mother's heart is broken, 
 little lover
 
 inaprer (
 
 Slowly and painfully I 
 walked back to Shottery 
 that evening, holding my 
 fretful babe to my bosom. 
 I met no one as I went, but 
 at the door of the cottage 
 my grandam stood, anxiously awaiting me. I remem- 
 ber her shocked exclamation when she saw my face in 
 the light, and I recollect how I put Susannah into her 
 arms with a smile which must have been ghastly, in- 
 deed, and said: 
 
 "She is thine, now, grandam. Poor little orphan! 
 Her father and mother are dead!" 
 
 And at that the color fled from my face, and I 
 dropped prone across the threshold. 
 
 With that swoon a long blank in my memory be- 
 gins. This part of my story must be written entirely 
 from what my grandam and others have told me since. 
 I recollect nothing from the time I dropped unconscious 
 on the floor of our cottage until a later day, months 
 afterwards, of which I shall speak in due course. 
 
 My grandam, in alarm and perplexity, strove at 
 119
 
 once to restore me; but the attempt was vain for some 
 time. The babe was wailing piteously from fright and 
 hunger, and my grandam at length turned her atten- 
 tion to Susannah, soothed her with difficulty, and at 
 last laid her to rest. When my grandam returned she 
 was surprised to find me risen to a sitting position. 
 
 "So thou art better, Nan," she said, in a relieved 
 way, as she hastened towards me. I turned and looked 
 at her with blank, unseeing eyes. 
 
 "Better?" I repeated, in a toneless voice. "Nay, 
 I shall never be better. My heart is broken, grandam, 
 
 broken, I tell thee " I leaned towards her, coax- 
 
 ingly, and caught her hands in mine. 
 
 "Send word to Will, and he'll come," I whispered. 
 "He will come and cure me." Then a sudden convul- 
 sion crossed my face and I flung her hands away. 
 "Nay, nay!" I cried, wildly. "I had forgot. He will 
 never come again; no, no, no, never again!" and with 
 tears in mine eyes I crooned a snatch of an old country 
 
 song: 
 
 "Will he not come again, 
 Will he not come again? 
 No, no, he is dead; 
 Gone to his death-bed; 
 He never will come again !"
 
 My grandam stood an instant in stony silence, 
 while I rocked and muttered before the fire. Past and 
 present seemed to meet as she gazed at me. Often had 
 she seen my mother thus, gloomy and distraught. Was 
 the long nightmare of her life to be repeated in her 
 child? 
 
 "Nay, Nan," she said at length, coaxingly; "nay, 
 Nan, thou art mistaken. He will come again surely, 
 lass, and bring joy to thee and me. To bed now. 
 Little Sue is already sleeping." 
 
 She attempted to lift me ; but I withstood her, pet- 
 tishly. "Let be, let be," I muttered, gazing into the fire 
 and pointing to the red embers. "I am watching the 
 autumn leaves. Once they were green, and tender and 
 young. It was May then. What comes in May? Ah, 
 yes, I remember; it is love! 
 
 " 'It was a lover and his lass, 
 
 Sing hey and ho, and ho nonnino! 
 And through the green fields they did pass, 
 In the spring time ' 
 
 "But 'tis autumn. Crimson are they, those leaves, 
 like the blood of my heart. My heart is broken and I 
 am dead. Why am I not buried, grandam?"
 
 "Thou dreamest, Nan," said my grandam, but her 
 voice was hopeless. 
 
 "Ah, I know," I murmured, wisely, nodding at the 
 fire. " "Tis because there are no violets. I must have 
 violets upon my grave. Canst not get me some, 
 grandam? Then I could rest; and I am tired, oh, so 
 tired!" I moved my head restlessly from side to side, 
 and moaned. 
 
 "Child, they are all withered," my grandam an- 
 swered, attempting to humor my fancy. 
 
 "Ay, I know," I answered, instantly. " 'Twas 
 when Will died that they withered, was't not? Me- 
 thinks he died in autumn; I cannot remember 
 
 " 'They bore him barefaced on his bier, 
 And on his grave rained many a tear.' 
 
 "Nay, I cannot remember I must be patient. 
 " 'It is my lady ! oh, it is my love !' 
 
 "So spake he, but I bade him swear not by the 
 moon, because it changes oft. He must have done so, 
 after all. And yet 
 
 " 'Bonny sweet Robin is all my joy !'
 
 "Nay, that is wrong. Robin is not the name. 'Tis 
 'tis ah, yes! I know; 'tis Will!" 
 
 With that I sprang up suddenly, with a joyous 
 laugh, and went to the door. My grandam interposed 
 before I could open it. 
 
 "Where art going, lass?" she said, soothingly. 
 " Tis late, dear maid." 
 
 "Will comes late," I answered, with a happy smile. 
 "The world does not know yet, but he is mine. The 
 moon has risen. He will be here soon. Let me go, 
 grandam. I must to the gate to meet him. Let me go, 
 I say !" I narrowed my eyes and looked at her in threat- 
 ening wise. She deemed it best to give me my way, 
 and stood aside. I flung wide the door and looked out. 
 
 The beauteous afternoon had ended in a dreary 
 night. Rain was beginning to fall. The sky was pitchy 
 dark. The path to the gate was strewn thick with 
 autumn leaves. A dreary wind was howling. 
 
 For an instant I stood gazing at the dismal scene, 
 with mute but increasing distress. Then I turned and 
 fell sobbing into my grandam's arms; weeping, I al- 
 lowed her to lead me to bed ; tearfully, I let her do with 
 me as she would. And I was tractable for the re- 
 mainder of that night. 
 
 123
 
 She had some hope that when morning came I 
 would be restored to my usual state; but it was not so 
 to be. My first waking, troubled words referred again 
 to Will's death, to faded violets, and to some crimson 
 horror which apparently preyed upon my mind. My 
 poor grandam was in dire perplexity and distress as 
 regarded my wanderings. She had no clue to the mys- 
 tery. In the morning she brought the babe Susannah 
 to me, trusting that I would be aroused at sight of 
 her. Instead, I looked at the child with lack-lustre 
 eyes, although the dear poppet crowed and stretched 
 out her dimpled hands to me. Then suddenly I began 
 to weep again, and to murmur sorrowful words about 
 her orphaned state. 
 
 That was the beginning of a weary winter, the 
 most sorrowful one of my grandam's sad life. She 
 knew of absolutely no reason for my condition. I had 
 mentioned Mistress Quickly's name in my wanderings, 
 and my grandam went to consult her, but was not aided 
 thereby. The cheery innkeeper did not connect me 
 with the fine visitors she had had. As I learned long 
 afterwards, the Countess and Lord William had made 
 their inquiries with seeming carelessness, and had not 
 dwelt long upon the subject. Neither Mistress Quickly 
 
 124
 
 nor my grandam suspected that their presence in Strat- 
 ford was responsible for my condition. 
 
 My grandam could neither read nor write; so she 
 had no way of letting Will know about my state. Let- 
 ters came from him occasionally, but they were as a 
 sealed book to her. Afterwards I read these, and found 
 that they gradually grew more wondering and in- 
 sistent as to the cause of my silence. He wrote that 
 he could not well leave London during the winter, but 
 when spring came he would seek Stratford speedily. 
 Meanwhile, why, why did I not write? 
 
 Once or twice my grandam thought of asking 
 someone to write to Will ; but she was a proud woman, 
 and she felt, from what I said in my wanderings, that 
 something must be wrong between us; that he was, in 
 some mysterious way, partly responsible for my con- 
 dition, and all her old mistrust of him revived. 
 
 The poor babe felt the change in her mother; and 
 from a healthy, happy child, turned into a quiet, pen- 
 sive infant. My grandam oft hath said since that it 
 was sad to see how little Sue would sit and gaze at 
 me in mournful silence, as if half -comprehending that 
 something was wrong. As for me, I took no notice 
 whatever of the babe. It was as if she did not exist. 
 
 125
 
 Wearily, sadly, the months dragged away, until 
 at last the spring-time came. With the violets for 
 which I had longed, my healing seemed to begin. I 
 grew less gloomy. I loved to be out of doors, and to 
 deck myself with flowers. I began to notice the child, 
 and to play with her a little. My grandam saw these 
 happy changes, and, almost unbidden, hope sprang up 
 again in her heart. 
 
 The final restoration of my wits came at length, 
 without warning. One balmy day in early April I 
 came in from the fields, crowned and garlanded with 
 flowers. I sang snatches of old songs and murmured 
 about the same old themes. The next morning I awoke 
 myself again, the past months a blank, the afternoon 
 beneath the willows alone a distinct remembrance. 
 
 Never did I see my grandam so moved as when 
 she found, that day, that I was once more myself. She 
 gazed at me a moment, I remember, with incredulous 
 joy. Then as I made some sensible remarks about the 
 babe at play near by, she suddenly burst into tears. 
 
 "Anne, Anne," she cried, coming close to me and 
 looking yearningly into my face; "is it truly thou thy- 
 self once more?" And then she checked her words, as 
 I gazed at her in amazement. 
 
 126
 
 "Why not, dear grandam?" I said, wonderingly, 
 looking at her with inquiring glance. "Ah!" and my 
 face clouded; "thou meanest that conversation that so 
 troubled me. Sooth, it brought me much sadness; but 
 
 I have thought it over, and meseems that perhaps 
 
 Well, we will talk later about that. Where is the babe? 
 Come hither, sweet, and kiss thy mother." 
 
 A short time after, I told her, apparently with 
 little emotion, of the words I had overheard by the 
 willows that autumn day. To my listener it made 
 many more things clear than I quite understood then. 
 I remember still the anxious feeling I had while nar- 
 rating the incident. It was as if what I told was about 
 some other person, for whom I felt sorry. When I 
 had finished, I added, in a business-like way: 
 
 "It would not be fair to Will, I have concluded, 
 to take their word, without having seen with mine own 
 eyes whether they spoke truth. I will to London and 
 find out for myself." 
 
 My grandam stared at me aghast. I spoke as air- 
 ily as if going to London were as easy an affair as 
 walking into Stratford. She did not venture to cross 
 me, however; but, hoping to divert my attention from 
 the idea I had just expressed, she brought out Will's 
 
 127
 
 letters and gave them to me without comment. Her 
 wish was that my desire to go to him would vanish 
 when I had learned the contents of the letters; but 
 she was disappointed. 
 
 I opened the epistles and read them calmly. They 
 did not arouse any wonder in my mind; why, I have 
 never been able to understand. I was not impressed 
 by the number of the letters, nor by the change in tone 
 of their contents. The first few were simply narratives 
 of events; but as time had gone on, and he had still 
 not heard from me, the spirit of the epistles had grown 
 first wondering, then reproachful. The last one vowed 
 that if I did not write within a month he would run 
 down to Stratford to find the cause of my long silence. 
 He added that he had been sore distressed throughout 
 the winter, owing to the lack of news from Shottery; 
 but his business had held him close in London. 
 
 I pondered over this last letter with something like 
 a sneer. If, indeed, the words of the Countess were 
 true, his duties had soothly held him close in London; 
 
 and if so I went to the window and locked out. 
 
 Beyond I saw the fair familiar scene in its spring fresh- 
 ness and beauty. When I had gazed thence last, con- 
 sciously, it had lain in autumn desolation. 
 
 128
 
 "It is spring," I said, turning at last to my 
 grandam, with a sudden smile; "spring, and the roads 
 are open. Within a fortnight I ride to London, 
 grandam." 
 
 "But, lass," she answered, cautiously, scarce know- 
 ing what to say, "I fear me that thou canst not. The 
 way to London is long and hard. For a man, even, 
 'tis difficult; for a woman, impossible." 
 
 I broke into light laughter, ran over to her and 
 threw both my arms around her neck. She stared at 
 me uneasily. Such demonstration was new on my part. 
 
 "Ay," I cried, gayly; "ay, thou'rt right. Impos- 
 sible for a woman, thou say'st sooth; but for a man, 
 
 grandam ; even a young one ; a mere boy " I paused 
 
 and smiled at her in mocking, suggestive fashion. 
 
 "Nan, what mean'st thou?" said my grandam, 
 startled into sternness. She feared that my wits had 
 once more gone wandering; and I am not sure now 
 but that they were; "what mean'st thou, lass?" 
 
 I laughed again, and leaned my cheek against hers. 
 
 "A doublet and hose, a cloak," I whispered; "these 
 would transform any woman. Moreover, dyed hair, 
 and skin stained dark dost think e'en a lover would 
 know his mistress thus, much less a husband faith- 
 
 129
 
 less perchance?" My face grew dark for an instant, 
 then lighted with laughter again. 
 
 "Ay, for a woman 'tis nigh impossible to travel 
 to London; but for a boy, e'en one so slight as I 
 what think'st thou, grandam?" 
 
 I released her and laughed again. Then I stuck 
 my hand upon my hip in jaunty boyish fashion, and 
 strode up and down the room, humming an air in 
 braggadocio- wise. 
 
 My grandam sat gazing at me helplessly. She 
 knew my meaning now. Madder than ever was I, she 
 had no doubt; and yet how dared she cross me?
 
 QltiaprerJ
 
 A fortnight later, as I 
 had planned, I joined a 
 party at a near-by town 
 and started out for London. 
 My grandam had yielded 
 to me in sheer despair. 
 Soothly, I think she deemed 
 my wits still wandering. 
 Belike, they were, after a fashion. 
 
 Looking back, methinks 'twas the last remnant of 
 my maftnv*ai that made me so bold to devise, so deter- 
 mined in execution. Many of the players had seen me 
 before, and this made recognition possible. Therefore, 
 I stained my skin and dyed my close-cropped hair. 
 The male attire was a difficulty, but my grandam 
 measured me and took the items to a tailor in a town 
 near by. The suit he sent home fitted me ill, but served 
 my purpose. Should any ask the cause of my absence, 
 in Stratford or in Shottery, my grandam was to say 
 that I had gone to spend some time with a cousin in 
 a distant town. She trusted, so she was to add, that 
 change of air and scene would restore my bewildered 
 
 With what dire misgivings, with how foreboding 
 133
 
 a heart, my grandam saw me begin that journey to 
 London I can only partly conjecture. It was in the 
 early dawn that I left the cottage door, with never a 
 glance backward at her standing with the babe in the 
 doorway. I seemed to be possessed with but one 
 thought, to go to London and to Will, and learn 
 whether the tale I had heard were calumny or truth. 
 I had no place in my mind for any other person or idea. 
 That journey is not clear in my remembrance. It 
 presented fewer difficulties than I had expected; for I 
 was a country lass, accustomed to rough roads and 
 bluff companions. I was used to walking, yet could 
 ride, if occasion required. My purse was not deep, but 
 it was by no means empty. I did not suffer hunger 
 at any time, nor extreme fatigue, and I met many kind- 
 nesses along the way. I suppose I looked so boyish 
 and so young that men and women both strove to treat 
 me gently. Many a good housewife gave me a meal 
 and scoffed at the idea of payment. Many a pretty 
 girl looked softly upon me and offered me fruit or 
 flowers, with no recompense but a kiss. Burly men, 
 thinking perhaps of a young son at home, befriended 
 me, also, while lads of my own apparent age adopted 
 me as comrade. Altogether my journey to London
 
 IS]fhakesPcare> 
 
 proved to me that the world was a less cruel place 
 tha i I had deemed it on that autumn afternoon by the 
 willows. 
 
 At last, one fair spring morn, we rode into London. 
 As we entered the city the mists and shadows that had 
 obscured my brain seemed suddenly to clear away. It 
 was as if, my goal attained, the thorny way that I had 
 trodden was forgot. Near the haven of my desire, my 
 stormy voyage thither dwelt no longer in my remem- 
 brance. So, perhaps, after life's trials and sorrows, the 
 blessed feel who rest within the gates of Paradise. 
 
 Soothly, like Paradise, indeed, looked to me those 
 green gardens and fair mansions past which I rode 
 that spring morning. The thought crossed my mind 
 that Will would not have far to go to renew the re- 
 membrances of his country home. Here, as in Strat- 
 ford, on the outskirts of the city, were woods and 
 winding streams. Here, as there, rose homes quaint 
 and stately, surrounded by beauteous gardens. Even 
 after we entered London proper we still saw many 
 green lawns and budding flowers, and heard the birds 
 singing joyously among the trees. 
 
 At length, after one or two inquiries on my part, 
 I safely reached the precinct of St. Helen's, where I 
 
 135
 
 ISlffakc SPC are; 
 
 knew Will's lodgings lay. Instinctively, I sought the 
 nearest inn, thinking to ask there more particularly as 
 to his accustomed haunts. 
 
 The place was dark and low-ceiled, and as I en- 
 tered it I blinked and saw little until my eyes became 
 accustomed to the subdued light. When, finally, I was 
 able to distinguish my surroundings, I gave a slight 
 start. The room was empty save for one group around 
 a table just across from me. In that cluster of faces 
 there were four out of the half-dozen that I knew; one 
 of them my heart leapt to behold. Marlowe sat there, 
 with his handsome, dissipated face and wild, sparkling 
 eyes. Burbadge was gazing at the others with his ac- 
 customed meditative look. A scowl, as usual, spoiled 
 Greene's fair, boyish face. Talking eagerly, persua- 
 sively, Will stood back of Marlowe's chair, but his 
 voice was too low for me to catch his words. 
 
 The other two members of the group were strange 
 to me. One, I was afterwards to learn, was Master 
 Jonson, at that time just beginning his career. He was 
 short and rather stout, with a kindly, wise face that I 
 learned later to love well. I have said that he was 
 stout; yet he appeared not so that afternoon. His bulk 
 faded into insignificance because placed beside a very 
 
 136
 
 mountain of flesh. To his right, looking over the table, 
 sat a fellow so fat that he filled the places of three 
 ordinary men. At first sight he was disgusting in his 
 tremendous size; but there was a droll expression in 
 his rubicund face which promised more value in his 
 society than his general appearance indicated. 
 
 My back was towards the light, and although they 
 all gave me a quick glance as I entered, their gaze did 
 not rest on me for any length of time. With an odd 
 feeling, between relief and disappointment at their lack 
 of recognition, I found a place, still carefully keeping 
 my back to the window, and ordered wine. The group 
 around the table, having seen, apparently, but a slender 
 country lad, continued their conversation freely. 
 
 Will went on speaking rapidly for a few minutes; 
 but I could not understand what he said. Then I heard 
 Robin Greene's high, petulant voice in reply. 
 
 "Say what thou wilt, I'll not; and there's an end," 
 he said, positively and disagreeably. 
 
 Will became suddenly silent. He possessed the 
 rare talent of knowing when words are useless. Mar- 
 lowe grimaced at Greene and gave an expressive shrug. 
 Burbadge looked troubled, and Jonson meditative. The 
 fat man suddenly broke the silence. 
 
 137
 
 "Think again, Robin, sweet wag," he said, and the 
 coaxing tones of his oily voice were almost irresistibly 
 wheedling. " 'Tis always well to oblige a friend ; Will 
 is thy friend; therefore " 
 
 "Thy idea of a friend is one who pays the tavern 
 reckoning, as Will hath done to-day," observed Bur- 
 badge, somewhat dryly. 
 
 The fat man looked at him with gentle reproach. 
 
 "Well, so thou say'st," he said, heaving a great 
 sigh that almost made the table shake; "thou say'st 
 it may be true. God forgive ye, lads, 'tis your fault 
 if so it be. Before I knew the players I knew nothing 
 evil." 
 
 He sighed again as they gave a derisive shout of 
 laughter; but there was a twinkle in his eyes. 
 
 "Why, thou old sinner!" cried Marlowe, clapping 
 him on the back; " 'tis thou that leadest us astray. If 
 there be any scandal in London, who hath it at his 
 tongue's end? Jack! If there be a lady to serenade, 
 or a purse to steal, who is ready for either? Jack! 
 Sooth, now I bethink me, thou didst escape hardly from 
 that last adventure of thine upon the highway." He 
 winked at the others. "Tell us about it, Jack." 
 
 The fat man cleared his throat impressively, and 
 138
 
 a look of extreme gravity and importance came upon 
 his face. The eyes of the rest grew merry, and they 
 crowded as closely about him as his bulk permitted. 
 
 " 'Twas at Eastcheap, one dark night, a month 
 since," he began with unction. 
 
 "Methought 'twas in Blackfriars a year ago," mur- 
 mured Marlowe, with mock interest. 
 
 "Nay, thou art mistaken," replied the fat man, 
 gravely; " 'twas as I have stated but now." 
 
 "It boots not," said Will, with extreme politeness, 
 his eyes bright with amusement. "Proceed, Sir John!" 
 
 "Sir John!" exclaimed the stout story-teller in a 
 gratified tone. "Ah, Will, good friend, thou art the 
 only one who so calls me; yet truly I deserve a title, 
 for I have done valorous deeds in my time. Not the 
 first is this I am about to tell thee of. It happened 
 near the theatre, across the river." 
 
 "Nay, 'twas at Eastcheap," said Burbadge, laugh- 
 ingly- J ac k gazed at him reproachfully. 
 
 "Thou must have misunderstood me strangely," he 
 said in a tone of mild correction. " 'Twas in Black- 
 friars that it chanced " 
 
 "What?" interrupted Robin Greene, petulantly; 
 "that what chanced?"
 
 "This of which I am about to tell thee," answered 
 Sir John, imperturbably. There was a laugh at Greene's 
 expense, and he subsided, frowning. The fat man 
 paused to drink a measure of wine; then continued, 
 impressively : 
 
 "By a dozen was I beset that night, and for two 
 hours together did I engage with them. Eight times 
 was I thrust through the doublet, and four through 
 the hose, my buckler cut through and through, my 
 sword hacked like a hand saw " 
 
 "Sooth, no hero of Troy knew ever such a com- 
 bat," observed Jonson, wiping his eyes, which were 
 filled with tears of laughter. 
 
 "How didst thou live?" asked Marlowe, with mock 
 horror. 
 
 "Heroes are not as other men," said Will, gravely. 
 His eyes were very bright, and they were fixed on Sir 
 John. "Proceed, proceed!" 
 
 "Ay," continued the fat man, growing excited as 
 he went on, and rising ponderously to act out his story ; 
 "sixteen, at least, set upon me that night. Sixteen, 
 said I? Nay, fifty. Beshrew me if there were not two 
 or three and fifty upon poor old Jack! Two of them 
 I peppered well;" he drew his sword and flourished 
 
 140
 
 ) 
 
 it in the air; "thus I bore my point. Four rogues in 
 buckram then let drive at me " 
 
 "Two," interjected Greene, quickly. 
 
 'Tour, little Rob," returned Sir John, gazing at 
 fiffp in a paternal manner that immediately reduced 
 Greene to voiceless rage. "All their seven points I took 
 in my target thus." He illustrated dramatically. 
 
 "Seven? O Jack, Jack!" cried Marlowe, with a 
 roar of laughter. 
 
 "Seven, by these hilts," replied Sir John in a sol- 
 emn, offended tone. "These nine in buckram then be- 
 gan to give me ground; but seven of the eleven I 
 
 "Enough!" cried Jonson, laughing heartily. 
 "Homer and Virgil are quite surpassed, and the tragic 
 heroes of Rome and Greece are as naught beside thee 
 and thy deeds, Sir John." 
 
 Sir John bowed and smiled, with a look of gratified 
 vanity. 
 
 "Of none of them can it be said," cried Greene, 
 rudely, striking the sword out of the fat man's hand 
 with a deft turn of his own wrist; "of none of them 
 can it be said that they fought eleven buckram men 
 grown out of two!"
 
 Slfaikc gpcare?! 
 
 At the insulting words and action the fat man's 
 face became furious. By a dexterous movement, sin- 
 gular in one of his size, he recovered his sword, and 
 with the flat of it began to belabor Greene over the 
 shoulders. 
 
 "Thou boy, thou cur, thou pig!" he cried between 
 the strokes. "Thou art beneath aught but chastise- 
 ment, else would I demand the satisfaction of a gentle- 
 man; and I would prove to thee my swordsmanship, 
 thou - " 
 
 "Peace, peace," interrupted Will, arresting Sir 
 John's sword at imminent danger of its being turned 
 upon himself, and motioning the fat man to his seat. 
 "Robin is but a lad, Sir John; forgive him. Robin, 
 thou dost not well to doubt the knight's word. Come, 
 landlord, another cup of sack !" 
 
 With some difficulty the storm was calmed; Sir 
 John, breathing forth threatenings against Robin 
 Greene, at length subsided into his former place. His 
 tormentor and victim, almost weeping with pain and 
 rage, shook his boyish fists at the fat man, in impotent 
 anger. Marlowe sat laughing derisively at them both, 
 but Burbadge's face remained grave. Jonson was 
 pouring forth a flood of classical comparisons, in which 
 
 142
 
 the late undignified encounter was likened to some of 
 the famous combats before Troy. Will's face wore an 
 abstracted expression. Meseemed he looked older and 
 graver than when I had seen him last. At length all 
 became peaceful again. Sir John, having gulped down 
 much liquor, presently nodded himself into a doze. 
 Greene sat in sulky silence. The rest became quiet 
 when the fat man's inspiring jollity had sunk into 
 slumber. 
 
 "The old villain!" said Marlowe, gazing at him 
 contemplatively. "He's rare sport, indeed, but what a 
 liar! Thy mock title soothly delights him greatly, 
 Will. 'Tis said there's some strain of noble blood in 
 him, which accounts for his pleasure when thou dost 
 dub him knight. Why dost humor him so?" 
 
 Will smiled a little, but made no reply. 
 
 "Canst not conjecture, Marlowe?" interposed Bur- 
 badge, quickly and kindly. "Sir John will be in a play 
 some day that will capture the town. Then the Queen's 
 Majesty " 
 
 Will interrupted him by a gesture of protest. 
 
 "Castles in Spain," he said, lightly, yet methought 
 somewhat sadly, also. "Castles in Spain! Sooth, such 
 are they like to remain, meseems just now Robin, 
 
 143
 
 Robin, thou knowest my future welfare may hang on 
 this performance. Wilt not act my Juliet?" 
 
 "Nay," said Robin, curtly and decisively, and 
 turned his back upon the others. 
 
 "Thou saucy lad!" began Jonson, angrily. 
 
 "Thy reason?" said Burbadge, gazing at the boy 
 sternly. He pouted and shrugged his shoulders, but 
 made no other reply. 
 
 "He's the only player who will look the part," said 
 Jonson, mournfully. A fleeting glance of triumph 
 swept over Greene's face at the words. 
 
 Burbadge sighed and looked away from the rest 
 in thought. As he did so his eyes fell on me. His 
 face brightened a little and he touched Will's arm and 
 whispered in his ear. 
 
 Fully conscious of his movement, yet obliged to 
 appear unseeing, I sat in agony for a moment. Was 
 I recognized, in this place, among this company? A 
 strange feeling, half joy, half sorrow, tugged at my 
 heart. The next instant I was calm again. At Bur- 
 badge's whispered words Will uttered an exclamation 
 of relief. He rose and came towards me. The rest 
 stared at him in amazement; then, with one accord, 
 followed, all except Greene and Sir John. The group
 
 closed around the table where I sat. There was no 
 recognition in their gaze. Even Will looked me in the 
 eyes and knew me not. 
 
 He spoke presently with the ready charm that was 
 always his. 
 
 "Good-morrow, lad. Hast come to London to seek 
 thy fortune? By thy countenance and dress I judge 
 that thou art not of the city." 
 
 I nodded, my eyes searching his face half eagerly, 
 half fearfully, for any sign of recognition. I did not 
 find it. 
 
 "Why, then, thy fortune's thine without seeking 
 further," Will continued, cheerily. "We're players, lad. 
 Wilt join us? Thy face and figure are rarely suited 
 to a woman's part, and lads like thee are scarce in 
 London town. Yon fellow, sulking at the table, hath 
 been the only one, and he is spoilt through prosperity. 
 Wilt be his rival?" 
 
 I looked at the different players, hesitating, 
 dubious. I had not dreamed of this ; yet in what better 
 way could my mission be accomplished? Will thought 
 my silence rose from boyish timidity, and continued, 
 kindly, encouragingly. 
 
 "I have a play, an Italian play, and need a heroine 
 145
 
 for it." He looked at me critically again, and mur- 
 mured : 
 
 "It is my lady ; oh, it is my love !" 
 
 I had to hold myself rigid to prevent a visible 
 shiver running through me. Alack! what bitter-sweet 
 memories those words awakened! 
 
 At that moment Robin Greene awoke to some ink- 
 ling of what was going on. He rose from the table 
 and joined the rest. 
 
 "Who is this?" he said in his high-pitched voice, 
 gazing at me superciliously. 
 
 "Thy rival, Robin!" cried Marlowe, with a great 
 laugh, as he clapped him on the shoulder. 
 
 A mean, dangerous expression came into Greene's 
 eyes. He looked at me jealously, contemptuously; then 
 darted a glance of hatred at Will. The last look de- 
 cided me. 
 
 "I am at your service, sirs," I said, speaking in a 
 voice higher than my natural one, in order to disguise 
 it more effectually. "I will follow you, master," I said 
 to Will. And thus quickly my mission was half-per- 
 formed. 
 
 Jonson's face and Burbadge's lighted generously. 
 146
 
 Marlowe gazed from Greene's jealous countenance to 
 mine with a look of malicious amusement. 
 
 Will's face relaxed, and he smiled die rare and 
 
 fmiV that I had once loved welL 
 "Then welcome, my Juliet," said he, and gave me 
 
 his nanc to se<Li trie corr.p-act..
 
 haprerl 1X1
 
 
 One fair June day, a 
 few weeks after that scene 
 in the tavern, I stood at 
 the entrance of the Globe, 
 idly awaiting a rehearsal. 
 So far, most of my plans 
 had been carried out with 
 a success beyond my most 
 hopeful dreams. I had obtained confidential access to 
 Will without the least difficulty. I was with him every 
 day, my lodgings were near his, we talked and worked 
 together; yet he showed no passing realization of my 
 identity. 
 
 I had displaced Robin Greene in Will's new play, 
 thereby making the former the lasting enemy of us 
 both. I had become a favorite among the actors in 
 general, however, and they made much of me. The 
 stout Sir John patronized me with his usual humorous 
 effrontery. Marlowe was contemptuously kind. He 
 knew not how to show good feeling otherwise. Jonson 
 treated me in hearty, whole-souled fashion, while Bur- 
 badge was fatherly and courteous, as was his wont 
 towards all things young and delicate. The rest were 
 kindly, too; I was their friend and confidant. I heard
 
 all the gossip of the company; their loves and hates, 
 their sins and virtues; yet 
 
 I passed my hand across my brow with an im- 
 patient gesture as the thought came to me, as often 
 before, that June morning. I had been told the faults 
 and foibles, the weaknesses and transgressions, of so 
 many in the company. And yet not one had men- 
 tioned the Countess, nor had any spoken of him she 
 had called Lord William that afternoon beside the 
 Avon. Could it be that they both had lied? If so, 
 why the falsehood, since they thought none was by to 
 hear? If their words had been truth, why had none 
 of the players mentioned the existence of either Count 
 or Countess? To be sure, they had been busy with the 
 new play; still 
 
 I was waiting now for Will, who, as usual, was to 
 direct the rehearsal that morning. He was later than 
 was his custom, since he had said the day before that 
 he expected to bring a friend with him to rehearsal. 
 When he had so spoken the others had looked at each 
 other significantly. I had caught their quick glances, 
 and had wondered as to their meaning. 
 
 Suddenly, as I stood there, impatiently awaiting 
 Will's coming, I saw a small boat leave the opposite 
 
 152
 
 shore and move rapidly in the direction of the Globe. 
 As the tiny craft drew near I saw that there were two 
 occupants besides the boatman. One was Will; the 
 other 
 
 Involuntarily I put both hands over my heart, as 
 if to hush its wild beating. I closed my eyes dizzily 
 for a moment, then opened them and stared again at 
 Will's companion. I had seen, before, that handsome, 
 careless face, and the stately figure in its bravery of 
 blue and gold. The yellow cloak, glistening in the sun- 
 light, I had beheld spread as a throne for her who had 
 wrecked my life, the dark enchantress who had lured 
 my love from me. Was my mission to London nearly 
 completed, was my problem almost solved? 
 
 Fortunately, no one was near to witness my agita- 
 tion, and by the time the boat had landed I had regained 
 my self-possession. Will and the Count sprang to the 
 shore and came towards me in confidential conversa- 
 tion with each other. The Count paused to throw a 
 coin to the boatman. It glistened yellow in the sun. 
 
 "There!" he cried; "there's for thy pains, good 
 fellow! Take it as token of my joy to be once more 
 in London with my good comrade," and again he passed 
 his arm affectionately across Will's shoulders. 
 
 153
 
 "Ay," said Will, smiling at him in reply; "I can 
 believe that thou art glad to be once again on English 
 soil. France would scarce be to the liking of so direct 
 a soul as thyself." 
 
 "Nay; and it was away from her," the Count said, 
 passionately. He spoke lower, yet I caught the words. 
 "Before heaven, Will, my love will consume me, an 
 she still prove cruel; and yet for thy sake " 
 
 Will made no reply in words; but I can scarce 
 describe the look that answered the Count. In it there 
 was love, and sorrow, and comprehension; yet for 
 whom were the affection, the sadness, the understand- 
 ing? Ah, for whom? 
 
 "And yet," the Count went on, eagerly, plead- 
 ingly; "once more, grant me this boon I beg of thee. 
 To me she would never vouchsafe it; yet to thee " 
 
 Will sighed; and as he looked away from the 
 Count his eyes happened to fall upon me, standing still 
 and pale before the entrance to the Globe. He gazed 
 at me an instant, as if the sight suggested an idea. 
 Then he spoke again to the Count. 
 
 "Ay, well, I'll grant thee this boon, and the fates 
 favor us. I'll send yon boy as messenger. He's young, 
 and hath a pretty wit, and will please her, methinks. 
 
 154
 
 Remember, no word of this to any of the players else. 
 They know naught positively of my connection with 
 her. They conjecture much, I doubt me not, and some 
 of them visit her, but I have made it understood that I 
 will endure no jesting about the lady." 
 
 This, then, was the reason why I had heard noth- 
 ing of the Countess thus far. Alack, none knew better 
 than I how well Will could keep a secret. None had 
 known of our love-story for a month. This new one 
 of his apparently had been secret for a year. 
 
 The Count gave an eager word of assent to Will's 
 last words; but the latter scarce heard him. He had 
 paused suddenly, and was looking dreamily across the 
 Thames. He turned again to the Count. 
 
 "Will," he said, "leal comrade, true friend, thou 
 lovest her well ; but not as she can be loved. Ah, Will, 
 Will, thou knowest not what love is!" 
 
 That passionate speech, that look of tender adora- 
 tion; both once had been mine; and now the Count's 
 face was full of despair; and as for me, the world grew 
 dark about me for an instant. The pangs of death 
 were not more sharp than my feelings then. In mine 
 ears there rang as a refrain some old words I had heard 
 once in church: 
 
 155
 
 "Love is strong as death; jealousy jealousy as 
 cruel as the grave!" 
 
 "Enough, Will," the Count said at length, after a 
 moment's silence. His voice was low and trembling, 
 and there were tears in his eyes. "I yield thee place; 
 and yet since she herself is thine, grant me at least 
 this painted image of her that I crave." 
 
 They were standing somewhat apart. Will put 
 out his hand and drew the other close. 
 
 "Ay, lad," he said, simply, "ay, dear lad. The 
 
 miniature shall be thine; and perhaps, some day " 
 
 He checked himself, and with the Count, walked over 
 to where I stood. 
 
 "Cesario," he said for such was the fanciful name 
 I had chosen for my disguise "Cesario, I will excuse 
 thee from rehearsal this morning. I have an errand 
 which thou must perform. The boat in which the 
 Count and I came hither still waits below. Cross to 
 the Blackfriars Staircase. There thou wilt find a page 
 clad in crimson awaiting thee. Follow him and thou 
 wilt be taken to the abode of a fair lady. Tell her that 
 thou dost come from Will Shakespeare, and she will 
 give thee a packet for me. See that thou dost lose it 
 not, but bring it hither. Go now, and quickly." 
 
 156
 
 "I like not the sound of the enterprise," I said, not 
 moving. Sooth, I knew not whether I could endure 
 the sight of the Countess that morning. "It hath a 
 woman in it. Therefore, 'tis dangerous." 
 
 The Count burst into a laugh; but Will looked at 
 me sternly. 
 
 "How now, sirrah!" he said; " 'tis not for thee to 
 comment upon the tasks I set thee. Thy part is to 
 obey." 
 
 "I am an English lad," I answered, lifting my head 
 defiantly; "and I am no one's slave." 
 
 "Nay, but thou art a servant," Will replied, calmly. 
 "Carry not thyself in coxcomb-wise, Cesario. Thy 
 Juliet likes me well, 'tis true; but thou art not the 
 only lad in London. An my errands do not pleasure 
 thee, we'd best part company." 
 
 At this threat I succumbed, for it did not suit my 
 plans to leave Will at this juncture of affairs. I grum- 
 bled sulkily, and with laggard steps started towards 
 the boat. 
 
 "A pettish lad," I heard the Count say, with some 
 amusement, as I went. 
 
 " 'Tis a new development," Will replied in a puz- 
 zled tone. "He hath been gentle and obedient hereto- 
 
 157
 
 fore. Natheless, 'tis but a mood, and 'twill pass, no 
 doubt. He's a good Juliet, and I'll endure him till 
 the play's over, at least." 
 
 Most unreasonably hurt by this speech, which was 
 not intended for my ears, I stumbled into the boat, 
 with tears in my eyes; gave a hasty order to the man, 
 and was rowed away from the theatre. As the boat 
 went onward I looked back and saw the Count and 
 Will enter the Globe together, talking busily. As the 
 door closed upon them despair seemed to descend upon 
 me. It was true, then. The dark Countess had be- 
 witched them both. "Ah, Will, Will, thou know'st not 
 what love is!" he had cried; and yet knew he himself? 
 Passion he had felt, indeed; but love, lasting and true? 
 
 "Ah, Will," I cried aloud, not realizing that I did 
 so; "thou know'st not what love is!" 
 
 And at that I checked myself, as I saw the boat- 
 man looking at me in wondering fashion. 
 
 "A pox on thy staring face!" I cried, in sudden 
 passion; "and a murrain on thy snail of a boat. Bring 
 me to Blackfriars within a moment more or I'll pre- 
 vent the actors of the Globe from hiring thee again. 
 To Blackfriars, fellow, and speedily!"
 
 igapreri IX Hi
 
 The Countess! By no 
 other name did I ever 
 know her, then, or after- 
 wards, but, sooth, I should 
 have instinctively given her 
 noble title. No coronet was 
 needed upon those lustreless raven tresses, no sceptre 
 in those white, taper fingers to proclaim her right of 
 sway. As I entered the room, in response to the bid- 
 ding of the lazy, scornful voice that I so well remem- 
 bered, I saw her, seated by the window on a heap of 
 yellow cushions. 
 
 She was dressed in thinnest silk, that clung around 
 her figure, revealing its perfect, glorious curves. Her 
 robe was flame-colored, and as she sat there, blood-red 
 against the light, she seemed to me some baleful spirit 
 incarnate. 
 
 I had found the page, as Will had said, and had 
 followed him to a stately house in a fine street. 
 Through many corridors, up many staircases, we had 
 gone together, without speech, and meeting no one, 
 until at last we stood before a certain closed door. 
 
 161
 
 Here the page told me to knock. I obeyed; and in 
 reply the Countess's voice graciously bade me enter. 
 
 Now, at last, I stood in her presence. 
 
 There was a half-mocking look in her eyes as I 
 came in, but when she saw me she started slightly and 
 sat erect. An attendant was fanning her. With an 
 imperious gesture she bade her cease. 
 
 "Whence com'st thou?" she asked, and her dark 
 eyes searched my face, as if she would read it through. 
 They wore an expression that I could not fathom. 
 
 "From Will Shakespeare," I answered. My voice 
 was low and trembling; for at sight of her the remem- 
 brance of the time when I had last beheld her came 
 over me like a destroying flood. 
 
 A smile, scornful, triumphant, just crossed her 
 face, and was gone. So have I seen the evil lightning 
 illumine for an instant the dark and stormy sky. That 
 radiance is not a cheerful nor a holy light. 
 
 She threw herself back among the cushions. 
 
 "Wherefore?" she drawled, lazily, her eyes still 
 fixed upon my face. 
 
 Her indifference angered me. I knew so well what 
 Will's love meant that I burned with sudden rage at 
 her apparent lack of feeling. 
 
 162
 
 "Wherefore?" I repeated, defiantly; and I felt my 
 face flush warmly. "Because because, in sooth, he 
 loves thee, madam!" 
 
 "Doth he so?" she said, smothering a yawn, and 
 she motioned to her woman to begin fanning her again. 
 "The tale is somewhat old, sir page. Hast nothing 
 newer to delight mine ears?" 
 
 I gasped with rage. 
 
 "An old tale, truly, madam," I answered, finger- 
 ing my cap with agitated, angry hands; "an old tale, 
 but sweet, to any save a tigress, gloating o'er her 
 prey." 
 
 She laughed outright. Her very merriment had 
 a scornful ring. She lifted a fold of her red robe and 
 let it fall again. 
 
 "So tigers have crimson coats?" she said, and the 
 lazy amusement in her voice goaded me to the last 
 pitch of exasperation. "Thy knowledge of animals 
 needs addition, little page/' 
 
 "I know naught of their coats," I answered, im- 
 mediately, for my hatred of her seemed to spur my 
 wits; "I know naught of their outside seeming; but 
 good sooth, madam, I can discern a tiger's heart" 
 
 She looked at me in silence for an instant, and her 
 163
 
 gloomy, inscrutable eyes seemed to reach my very soul. 
 The laughter was gone out of her face. 
 
 "So?" she said at last, suddenly. "Where didst 
 get thy knowledge, boy; thou, a mere child? Art Will 
 Shakespeare's messenger?" She made no pause be- 
 tween her first question and her last; and, indeed, the 
 former words seemed rather to herself than to me. 
 
 "Ay, madam," I answered. "I am his messenger; 
 and soothly an easy thing it was for me to reach thee." 
 
 "And why, little page?" she said in a softer tone 
 than she had yet used. 
 
 "Ah, madam, dost need to ask?" I replied. "Dost 
 not know that love hath wings?" 
 
 She leaned forward with sudden, curious eager- 
 ness. 
 
 "And was it love that brought thee hither?" she 
 said in a low, passionate voice. 
 
 "Ay madam," I said, again. "Will Shakespeare's 
 love inspired me, his love brought me hither;" and 
 even as the words passed my lips I realized how bit- 
 terly true they were. 
 
 She sighed, and sat an instant in deep thought; 
 I remained silent, also, and during that quiet moment 
 a strange and sudden resolution seized me. Why the 
 
 164
 
 singular determination came to me I never knew; but 
 true it is that then and there I resolved to play my 
 part ; to plead Will's cause as it were my own. I would 
 show this cruel enchantress what manner of man it 
 was that she flouted. I would win her for him if I 
 could. 'Twas all that was left me to do for him. What 
 was my life, now that he loved me no longer? 
 
 "Thou speakest well, little page," the Countess said 
 at length, rousing from her revery; "so well that it 
 pleases me to hear thee further. Leave us, Margaret." 
 
 The woman cast a glance of surprise, first at her 
 mistress, then at me ; but she did as she was told. Lay- 
 ing down the fan, she bowed to the Countess, and left 
 the room quickly and silently. 
 
 "Ah !" said the Countess, when she was gone, "now 
 we can talk with more freedom. Come nearer, little 
 page, and sit by me." She moved over a little and 
 made an inviting gesture to a place beside her on the 
 cushions. 
 
 "Nay, madam," I said ; "not such my place of right, 
 but here at thy feet. I am love's messenger; and love 
 is ever humble." I moved forward and knelt beside 
 her. Sooth, I could not have seated myself where she 
 indicated, although not for the reason I gave. I feared 
 
 165
 
 lest the scorn and loathing I felt for her would over- 
 whelm me in such close proximity. 
 
 "So be it, then," said the Countess, with a curious 
 look. Did I dream it or was there truly a strange new 
 softness in her voice? "Thy name?" 
 
 "Cesario," I said; "Cesario, and thy servant, 
 madam." 
 
 "Cesario!" she repeated; and then again, "Cesario! 
 Cesario!" in a voice that was liquid music. Ah, 
 heavens! what divine melody it was to hear her speak! 
 No wonder that those siren notes drew forth men's 
 hearts to rest with gladness beneath her cruel feet! 
 
 "Thou say'st thou art my servant?" she went on, 
 after a moment, and her voice was low and sweet, with 
 no trace in it of mockery nor scorn. "Is't, sooth? Art 
 thou verily my servant, Cesario?" 
 
 "Will Shakespeare's servant, madam, and there- 
 fore thine," I replied, perplexed by her tone and man- 
 ner. 
 
 "Ah, yes, I had forgot," she said, with a gesture 
 of impatience. "Well, thou com'st from him, thou hast 
 said. Speak on." 
 
 "I come on a quest, madam," I replied. "He sent 
 me hither for a packet that thou didst promise him." 
 
 166
 
 Slfrake speared . JlDtwc et frearH 
 
 She looked at me, unheeding, in frowning, thought- 
 ful fashion. "Thou say'st he loves me," she said, sud- 
 denly; "ay, so I think; yet is he worthy of my love?" 
 
 "Worthy?" I repeated, angrily; "worthy? Madam, 
 there dwells not the woman on earth who is worthy 
 of him; nay, not even the Queen's Majesty!" 
 
 "Thou plead'st well, Cesario," she observed, and I 
 saw her eyes narrow in the curious, cat-like way I 
 remembered well; "thou plead'st well but I have 
 heard Art from the country?" 
 
 "Ay, madam," I replied, wondering at what point 
 she aimed. 
 
 "Hast known Will Shakespeare long?" she asked, 
 looking at me keenly. 
 
 For a moment I was scared most mightily. Should 
 I lie or not? Woman's wits are keen. Was't possible 
 she guessed my sex? 
 
 "Ay," I replied, cautiously, at length. "We lived 
 in the same neighborhood." 
 
 "Oh, brave!" she exclaimed, with sudden anima- 
 tion. Once more she leaned forward, and fixed her 
 eyes intently upon my face. "Now shall I learn that 
 which I have long desired to know. Hath Will Shake- 
 speare a deserted sweetheart in Stratford town?" 
 
 167
 
 Suddenly, directly, the question was put to me. I 
 stood a moment in a quandary, indeed. Should I tell 
 all, betray him, save myself; or should I choose the 
 nobler part? In a flash my decision was made. I 
 strove to make my voice careless as I answered. 
 
 "Nay, 'tis not true. Will Shakespeare hath been 
 always well beloved among both men and maids. His 
 name hath been coupled oft with various lasses' names ; 
 
 especially with one " I paused, and my voice broke 
 
 a little ; "with whom he once went Maying. I am sure 
 now that he never loved her." 
 
 She shot a quick glance at me from under her 
 long lashes. 
 
 "Thy voice trembles," she said, abruptly. "Art 
 sorry for her?" 
 
 "Ay, madam," I answered, gently; and my traitor 
 voice would tremble still; "ay, for I knew her and I 
 am sure that she loved him, even to the breaking of 
 her heart. Natheless, that was no fault of Will's," I 
 added, hastily. 
 
 "Nay; 'tis woman's way," said the Countess, with 
 a tinge of bitterness in her voice. "Cesario, thou lov'st 
 thy master well." She paused a moment; then con- 
 tinued, abruptly. "Dost love no other, boy?"
 
 I stared at her in sudden, horrified comprehension. 
 She rose and came towards me, and for the first time 
 I noticed that we were of a height. 
 
 "Cesario," she murmured, again in that tone of 
 low, beguiling music; "Cesario, dost love no other, lad, 
 dear lad?" 
 
 Still too dismayed to speak, I stood without 
 moving. 
 
 "Cesario," she went on, and I swear her spoken 
 words were sweeter than those that others sing; 
 "Cesario, thou hast plead well thy master's cause. 
 How rarely couldst thou present thine own! Dost 
 love no woman, boy?" 
 
 She was close beside me. The perfume of her 
 garments made my senses reel. She swayed her lissome 
 body towards me, and her smouldering eyes sought to 
 draw forth my soul. What good angel gave me voice 
 and words to answer her I know not, but I spoke as by 
 inspiration. 
 
 "Ay, I love, I love already, Countess. I love one 
 of my master's favor." She paused at my reply, and 
 the jealous rage that clouded her beauty was horrible 
 to see. 
 
 "But how?" she whispered, hoarsely, putting her 
 169
 
 hand on my arm; "how dost thou love her? Couldst 
 not love more truly one like me?" 
 
 I made no reply, and she hurried on, eagerly, en- 
 treatingly. 
 
 "Many men have sought to win my heart, Cesario, 
 but all have I denied. I have sworn never to be con- 
 quered, because once, long ago well, 'tis an old story, 
 and I will not tell it thee. But now now, I have met 
 my master. Oh, Cesario, have mercy! I love thee." 
 
 "The packet, madam?" I repeated, mechanically; 
 and I stayed her as she would have knelt at my feet. 
 
 " "Pis thine," she answered, and she began to un- 
 loose a chain from about her neck. " "Pis thine," she 
 repeated, and she drew forth from her bosom a min- 
 iature set with pearls and laid it in my hands. "Re- 
 member, 'tis not Will Shakespeare's, but thine. Many 
 have sought the bauble. Behold how freely I give it 
 thee. How wilt thank me?" 
 
 "Madam, thus," I answered, bending to kiss the 
 hand that had bestowed the favor, "thus I thank thee, 
 and take my leave, for I have tarried long." 
 
 She looked at me and sighed. "As thou wilt," she 
 said at length, submissively, "as thou wilt, so thou dost 
 come again. Thou wilt come?" 
 
 170
 
 "If my master sends," I answered, and as I spoke 
 I moved towards the door, for I longed to leave her. 
 
 "He will do so," she said, with a trace of her old 
 mocking manner. "Farewell, then, Cesario, until we 
 meet again." My hand was on the door. With a sud- 
 den, sweeping movement she was beside me, and ere 
 I was aware of her intention she kissed me lightly 
 upon the mouth. 
 
 "I have kissed thee on the lips," she whispered. 
 "Has woman ever done the like before? Remember, 
 I have sealed thee mine. Farewell, Cesario, my love, 
 my love!" 
 
 Blindly, I opened the door and fled along the cor- 
 ridor, down the staircase and thence into the street. 
 How I found my way I never knew; but at length, 
 when I had in some measure recovered my self-pos- 
 session, I was at the Blackfriars landing. I stood a 
 moment or two striving to collect my thoughts, but, 
 finding the task a vain one, I hailed a boat and started 
 to return to the Globe. 
 
 My mind was in a turmoil. Here was a coil, in- 
 deed. The Countess was in love with me, or, rather, 
 with my disguise. What should I do? Were it wiser 
 to let the comedy go on, or should I declare myself 
 
 171
 
 and end it forthwith? When I reached the theatre the 
 problem was still unsolved, and with a shrug I dis- 
 missed it from my thoughts. 
 
 Time must disentangle the situation; 'twas too 
 hard a knot for me to untie.
 
 .haprer T
 
 Everything was in con- 
 fusion when I entered the 
 theatre. Rushes were be- 
 ing strewed upon the stage, 
 and the hangings for a 
 tragedy were going up. I 
 saw actors busy here, there, 
 and everywhere ; and in the 
 
 midst of all stood Will, directing, commanding, sug- 
 gesting. In a dark corner of the stage lolled Sir John, 
 interjecting occasional remarks, which caused the actors 
 to roar with laughter. Count William was nowhere to 
 be seen. 
 
 Will saw me at the instant I entered, and hailed 
 me with an air of relief. 
 
 "At last, Cesario," he cried; "thou hast tarried 
 long. Come hither, boy, and quickly; for we await thy 
 presence. There's need that we should work briskly; 
 for her Majesty, God save her ! has just sent word that 
 she wishes to have this play performed at the palace 
 within a fortnight." 
 
 "Thou wilt be in royal company, then, Will," ob- 
 served Sir John, pretending to wipe his eyes; "thou'lt 
 have no place in thy heart for poor old John." 
 
 175
 
 "Nay, thou'lt not let him forget thee so long as 
 he hath money in his purse," cried Marlowe, giving the 
 fat man a boisterous slap on the shoulder. Sir John 
 shook under the blow, but he made no attempt to re- 
 taliate. He only began to rub the place, with an air 
 of offended dignity. Meanwhile I had come close to 
 Will. 
 
 "Hast the miniature?" he said to me in a quick, 
 anxious undertone. 
 
 "Ay," I answered, beginning to reach under my 
 doublet for the toy. I had not the least desire to retain 
 it for my own, despite the Countess's words. 
 
 " Tis well, keep it safe," said Will, staying my 
 movement with a quick gesture. "Not here and now. 
 The Count hath gone hence. Moreover, we shall be 
 observed. To-morrow, after the play, will serve." 
 
 "Take, oh, take those lips away, 
 
 That so sweetly were forsworn ; 
 And those eyes, the break of day, 
 
 Lights that do mislead the morn " 
 
 a rich voice began to carol behind us. Will started, 
 and turned with an exclamation of annoyance. I also 
 looked around to see who sang. Behold, 'twas no other 
 
 176
 
 than Sir John, who sat there, his eyes half closed, 
 breathing forth the pathetic words in a voice infinitely 
 rich and sorrowful. One wondered how so rare a 
 thing could be enclosed in so cumbrous a casket. 
 
 "Enough!" said Will, imperatively; "no more, Jack. 
 That song belongs not to Romeus and Juliet." 
 
 Sir John paused, obediently, but went on Humming 
 the air in a kind of undertone. His choice had been 
 accidental, no doubt; but the words he had sung 
 sounded like the voice of fate. Will had been visibly 
 annoyed by them. Was conscience troubling him? I 
 went sorrowfully to my place, the wonder torment- 
 ing me. 
 
 The rehearsal began. Master Jonson was Capulet, 
 Marlowe did Tybalt, and Burbadge, Mercutio. The 
 latter took the part of hero, as a rule; but as this was 
 Will's own play, he himself was to act Romeus. How 
 bitter-sweet this last arrangement made the part of 
 Juliet to me! Sometimes it seemed as if I were re- 
 living my own love-story. Had it not also begun in 
 rapture and ended in despair? Again, the contrast 
 between Will's falsehood and the faith of Romeus 
 would cut me to the heart so deep that I found my 
 double part passing difficult to play. 
 
 177
 
 Pale and quiet, I stood on my balcony that after- 
 noon and went through the wooing scene. The min- 
 iature lay upon my heart, and seemed to burn my 
 bosom. How careful Will had been that e'en the sem- 
 blance of the Countess should not be exposed to the 
 players' idle gaze; while I stood here, before them all, 
 for them to jest over and criticise as they would. 'Twas 
 true he knew me not, but had it not been for his false- 
 hood I had not been there at all. That day's long 
 and difficult rehearsal was the final one. The follow- 
 ing afternoon occurred the first public performance, in 
 preparation for the great one at the palace. I slept 
 with the miniature under my pillow that night; and 
 methought it gave me uneasy dreams. 
 
 The next day I reached the Globe at the appointed 
 time. It was still early, but there was already a great 
 crowd about the theatre. Swearing, singing, jostling 
 one another, they awaited the opening of the doors. 
 The red sign announcing the performance of a tragedy 
 was hung without the building; and as I read it 
 mechanically I thought of how much pleasure it would 
 have given me, in my own person, to witness my hus- 
 band's triumph. As it was I pushed further 
 
 thought away, and entered. 
 
 178
 
 jS]i\i/cef hearf-) 
 
 I found Will pacing up and down the stage. Sir 
 John was at his elbow, following and imitating him, 
 so far as his unwieldy frame would permit. 
 
 "Ha, fellow!" cried the latter, importantly, as he 
 saw me. "Why hast tarried so long? Thou'st wor- 
 ried our dear WilL" 
 
 "I am not subject to your reproof, sirrah!" I an- 
 swered, tartly, for the speech angered me. Will's brow 
 had cleared as I came in. 
 
 "The lad is right, Sir John," he said, somewhat 
 imperiously. "He is here in time and 'tis enough. 
 Thou art not his monitor." 
 
 Sir John's tone changed instantly. "Nay, I meant 
 not to be hard on the boy," he said, smiling at me 
 unctuously. "So thou art satisfied, Will, I am, also. 
 Had he not come, remember," he paused impressively, 
 "remember, I offered to take his place." 
 
 This remark was made with much gravity, and 
 the speaker's size rendered the idea of his performing 
 Juliet irresistibly ludicrous. 
 
 "Thou!" said Will, his face relaxing into a laugh. 
 "Nay, thou shouldst rather play the Nurse. A truce 
 to thy folly. Sir John; and get thee to thy place. Hark! 
 the doors are opening!" 
 
 179
 
 We heard the cannon fired without, announcing 
 the opening of the play, and fled to get ready. 
 
 A little while later I peeped out between the cur- 
 tains to get a glance at the audience. There was a 
 full house. The pit was crowded with commoners, 
 who had made up the unruly mob without. The air 
 resounded with their jests and oaths and snatches of 
 song, while they waited for the play to begin. In the 
 balcony beyond sat the gentry; and on each side of the 
 stage were chairs, as yet vacant, which the nobles 
 would occupy later. The last were usually tardy in 
 their arrival, since they felt more secure of their places 
 than did the masses. 
 
 Standing in a corner of the pit I saw Robin Greene, 
 looking gloomily about, and, greatly to my surprise, 
 stout Sir John was close beside him. Even as I looked, 
 Robin turned, and the two began to talk together con- 
 fidentially, with occasional glances towards the stage. 
 So utterly surprised was I that I scarce knew what to 
 do. Surely this amiable converse between Will's sworn 
 enemy and one who accepted his favors and professed 
 to be his friend boded no good to Will himself. For 
 an instant I hesitated as to what course to follow ; then 
 the power to decide was taken from me. Will, dressed 
 
 180
 
 in black and wearing a cloak, came forward to speak 
 the prologue, and I left the stage precipitately. 
 
 I had already donned my feminine attire, and was 
 struck with a sudden fear lest he should recognize me 
 in these more familiar garments; but he did not. He 
 had seen me only in peasant garb, not in the bravery 
 of Juliet's silks and satins. Moreover, my dyed locks 
 and stained face still stood me in good stead. He 
 looked at me approvingly, and remarked that the gown 
 became me well. Then, as I left the stage, I heard 
 his clear voice begin: 
 
 "Two households, both alike in dignity " 
 
 The opening scene followed, amid much applause, 
 and at length it was time for my first appearance. 
 How natural and delightful it seemed to be a maid 
 once more. Now that the time had come, I quite en- 
 joyed my part. Lightly I ran on the stage in answer 
 to the call of Lady Capulet and the Nurse, and cried, 
 blithely: 
 
 "Madam, I am here ! What is your will?" 
 
 As I was in the midst of this scene Count William 
 entered quietly and took his seat at the right of the 
 stage. He caught my eye presently, and gave me a 
 
 181
 
 kindly nod and smile. As for me, I flushed guiltily 
 for an instant. I could not help wondering what he 
 and Will would have said had they overheard the con- 
 versation between the Countess and myself the day be- 
 fore. As for that kiss at parting 
 
 "I'll look to like if looking liking move, 
 But no more deep will I endart mine eye 
 Than your consent gives strength to make it fly." 
 
 I came back, with a start, to the scene about me 
 as my own voice uttered the words. 
 
 There were sounds of unmistakable approval from 
 the audience as Juliet's interview with her mother 
 ended; and the nobles came crowding around Will and 
 me, congratulating him on his new actor. Will thanked 
 them for us both, and uttered a few words of com- 
 mendation on his own account, which were at once 
 pleasing and distressing to me. These congratulations 
 ended, the play progressed a little further, and then 
 came my first trying ordeal, the ball-room scene, where 
 Romeus and Juliet meet. For some minutes I was on 
 the stage, scarce knowing what was going on. Then, 
 ah, then! I was brought back with a sudden rush of 
 feeling to the play and to my part. Will entered as 
 
 182
 
 Romeus, with Burbadge as Mercutio, and some lesser 
 actor as Benvolio. An instant later his melodious voice 
 who knew so well as I its music and its charm? 
 broke across the ordinary accents of the rest: 
 
 "What lady's that, which doth enrich the hand 
 Of yonder knight?" 
 
 And then came those words which had been spoken 
 to me, to me alone, one happy May morn dear God! 
 how many years ago? 
 
 "Her beauty hangs upon the cheek of night, 
 Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear; 
 Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!" 
 
 I swayed an instant where I stood. Gone was the 
 restless pit, with its noisy, pushing crowd; gone the 
 roofless theatre, with the blue sky fair above ; gone was 
 the hall of the Capulets and the Italian revellers. Only 
 Will and I remained ; and he stood in a sweet-smelling 
 country lane on a fair English May Day, while I leaned 
 from a vine-framed window above; and love undying, 
 strong as death, entered my poor heart. 
 
 Kit Marlowe's fiery Tybalt interrupted my thought 
 and restored my sense of things present. During the 
 
 183
 
 rapid dialogue that followed, my wits came slowly 
 back to me. When Will drew near, at last, I was com- 
 paratively calm; yet when I saw his eyes looking into 
 mine, with the old, impassioned light; when I heard 
 his voice, pregnant with love and reverence, I nearly 
 lost my self-control once more. 
 
 "If I profane with my unworthiest hand 
 This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this: 
 My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand 
 To smooth the rough touch with a tender kiss." 
 
 Ah, and if he knew whose lips had last touched 
 mine! Hurriedly, mechanically, I gave Juliet's reply, 
 and I fear that all her light speeches were delivered 
 somewhat heavily. My relief was great when the brief 
 dialogue ended and I was able to leave Will's side. 
 Ah, what a lover, what a traitor ! cried my heart. Little 
 wonder he could act passion so well. He had had good 
 practice ; and all my pent-up sorrow and anguish found 
 vent in the words I cried to the Nurse: 
 
 "Go ask his name. If he be married, 
 My grave is like to prove my wedding-bed." 
 
 If this scene were difficult, how much more was 
 
 184
 
 Juliet's wooing on the balcony. Alack! could I ever 
 play this part again, with its numberless suggestions 
 of the dear had been? Natheless, once undertaken, it 
 must be gone through with somehow, and so from 
 Juliet's balcony was sighed forth, that day, Anne Hath- 
 away 's soul. That scene, which I had helped to make, 
 what sorrow it brought me now! In the old, happy 
 days Will had told me that the first idea of his Juliet 
 was dawning upon him when he met me; and that 
 afterwards he wrote as if inspired. Mine, then, were 
 Juliet's sudden love and heavenly wooing; mine, her 
 hasty marriage; ay, and mine, too, when my task was 
 ended, would be, I hoped, her tragic death. But Romeus 
 would not lie beside her then. 
 
 At length the scene ended, leaving me faint and 
 wavering with the effort it had cost me. What mock- 
 ery were the words that Will's voice sent after me as 
 I staggered from my balcony: 
 
 "Sleep dwell on thine eyes, peace on thy breast! 
 Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest." 
 
 "Thou art doing well, Cesario," cried Jonson's 
 kindly voice, as I left the stage. He came to me and 
 held out his hand. "If thou dost go on as thou hast 
 
 185
 
 begun, thy fortune's made!" Alack! how little he 
 knew what would make my fortune; a man's smile, a 
 man's love. I tried to thank him, somewhat wearily. 
 Burbadge looked at me compassionately. 
 
 "Thou'rt tired, lad," he said. "'Twill be some 
 time before thou wilt appear again, so rest thee. I add 
 my congratulations to Ben's. I shall ask Will to lend 
 thee to me when he finishes the play of which he talks 
 now; a new version of the story of Prince Hamlet. 
 There's a mad, love-lorn girl in it that thou wouldst 
 do well, I know." 
 
 "Ay," I answered, laughing somewhat hysterically; 
 "I thank thee, Master Burbadge, thou art right; such 
 a part as that a mad, love-lorn girl I love right well 
 to play." And with that I left them, for I felt that if 
 I stayed a moment longer the audience would not wait 
 for Hamlet to see a mad, love-lorn girl rush upon the 
 stage. 
 
 The play went on. Mercutio was done with fine 
 effect by Burbadge, and the brilliant, witty part after- 
 wards became a favorite with the London people. Droll 
 Will Kempe made the Nurse utterly humorous, and my 
 scenes with him were a delight, for they relieved the 
 strain to which I was subjected while acting with Will. 
 
 1 86
 
 At length the wedding in the Friar's cell was cele- 
 brated; and then, suddenly, the performance was 
 brought to a standstill. Kit Marlowe had disappeared. 
 
 During the alarmed turmoil that followed, while 
 they searched for him, I went once more to the cur- 
 tains and glanced out at the audience. In the agita- 
 tions of the play I had forgotten about the singular 
 conjunction of Sir John and Robin Greene in the audi- 
 ence. As I looked out at the pit again, however, 1 
 remembered it, and my eye sought them once more. 
 Robin Greene had come close to the stage, and was 
 standing there with an expectant look on his petulant 
 face. Sir John had disappeared. 
 
 Scarce had I time to wonder at his absence when 
 my attention was again withdrawn from the audience. 
 Kempe entered, sputtering and angry, bringing with 
 him Marlowe, much the worse for liquor. 
 
 "There he sat," he began in a furious tone, so in 
 contrast with his costume as the Nurse that it was very 
 ludicrous; "there he sat, drinking with Jack Falstaff, 
 as if there were no play in progress. Jack was telling 
 his best stories and Kit was pouring wine down his 
 throat, and applauding. Thou renegade! What hast 
 thou to say for thyself?" 
 
 187
 
 But Marlowe had turned sulky and refused to 
 speak. Will, much relieved at sight of him, said a few 
 pacific words, and, after some experiments to see 
 whether Marlowe were sufficiently sober to go through 
 the scene, the play went on. 
 
 It had not continued long, however, before Mar- 
 lowe's sorry plight was discovered by the nobles, 
 and they burst into derisive laughter and satirical gibes, 
 which were taken up in rougher fashion by the pit. 
 This, perhaps, sobered Marlowe, who was accustomed 
 to being a favorite. At any rate, the wavering motion 
 left his legs, and in the ensuing duel with Mercutio he 
 fought magnificently. Finally Burbadge dropped in 
 his supposed death agony, and Marlowe made his exit. 
 A few moments later, in response to Romeus's taunt, 
 he re-entered, and the second duel began. 
 
 I was watching from the side, where I could see 
 at once both the scene and the spectators. It seemed 
 to me the mock-duel was lasting longer than it should. 
 Involuntarily, I turned and looked at the audience. 
 Robin Greene was close to the stage now. His neck 
 was craned forward, and upon his face was an expres- 
 sion of eager, delighted malice. I heard murmurs 
 among the nobles. I looked again at the combat on 
 
 1 88
 
 the stage. The truth came to me with overwhelming 
 conviction. 'Twas no play duel being fought there: 
 and the mimic tragedy was like to prove a real one. 
 I could not move, I could not cry out. I stood in 
 
 agony, my eyes fixed upon the flashing swords. An 
 instant later, that which I looked for came. Will fell, 
 with a half-suppressed groan, the blood streaming. 
 Marlowe threw away his rapier and stood in a gran- 
 diloquent attitude, a look of drunken triumph on his 
 face. The nobles on the stage arose, horrified. The 
 actors crowded about Will's prostrate figure. The pit, 
 not realizing yet that the play was otherwise than as 
 written, applauded frantically. 
 
 As for me, limbs and tongue suddenly seemed 
 loosened. With a scream I ran forward, and, pushing 
 all the rest aside, knelt beside Will, striving to stanch 
 the blood in whose plenteous stream his life seemed 
 flowing forth.
 
 apfer (
 
 At the end of a beauti- 
 ful summer afternoon, two 
 months later, I sat by the 
 window in Will's lodgings, 
 
 gazing out at the quiet street beyond. Will lay asleep 
 upon the bed, pale, wasted, yet more like his former 
 self than he had been for many weeks. The room was 
 very still, and my thoughts were busy, as I looked 
 dreamily at the narrow, deserted street and the soar- 
 ing spire of St. Helen's, visible far above the many 
 roofs. The ordinary, peaceful scene upon which my 
 bodily eyes rested was assuredly in contrast to the 
 tumultuous ones that my spirit's vision beheld. 
 
 First I recalled the end of that dreadful duel upon 
 the stage. I remembered how, at length, thanks to 
 Master Burbadge's cool head and wise directions, a 
 doctor had been secured and Will's wound cared for. 
 Then Master Jonson had dismissed the audience, mak- 
 ing light of the accident, although his kindly heart was 
 full of anxiety. When he returned to Will's side, how- 
 
 193
 
 ever, he met good news. The doctor had pronounced 
 the hurt serious, but not mortal, and had said that 
 with careful nursing he would be himself again within 
 a few months. Count William at once cried out that 
 his house should be his friend's shelter; but, mucb to 
 my relief, the doctor shook his head. Strange sur- 
 roundings might aggravate his illness. His own lodg- 
 ings would be more favorable to his speedy recovery. 
 
 So at length it was settled that Will should be re- 
 moved to his room in the precinct of St. Helen's, and 
 that I should be his nurse. I was pale and quiet by 
 this time, not knowing how far I had betrayed my 
 secret in my first outburst of alarm and agony. In 
 response to Count William's inquiry whether I would 
 act as nurse I nodded assent, and forthwith Will was 
 laid upon a hastily devised stretcher, ' and several of 
 the actors took it up, ready to carry to his lodgings. 
 As they did so, Burbadge glanced around him. 
 
 "Marlowe!" he said, as he lifted his share of the 
 burden, "Marlowe has disappeared." 
 
 Count William set his teeth, with an ugly look. 
 
 "Ay," he answered; "in the turmoil he hath made 
 good his escape. I will find him, fear not. There is 
 a law against duelling. He shall feel its weight." 
 
 194
 
 gSVhakgsPcareTl 
 
 The Count's words aroused me from my lethargy. 
 
 "Find also, then, Robin Greene and Jack Falstaff," 
 I said, speaking in a forced, toneless voice; "find also 
 Robin Greene and Jack Falstaff." 
 
 He looked at me in amazement. "Why, lad?" he 
 said, gently. "Why dost thou say so?" 
 
 I shook my head and passed my hand across my 
 brow, with a bewildered gesture. 
 
 "I cannot tell thee now," I said. "Somehow the 
 words will not come. But do as I beg, prythee, Count 
 William. Find also Robin Greene and Jack Falstaff." 
 
 And with that the sentence died upon my lips, as 
 a strange thing happened. The actors had borne their 
 burden carefully and tenderly as far as the entrance to 
 the street. There they set the stretcher down, in order 
 to unbar the door. 
 
 The movement, perhaps, caused Will to regain his 
 consciousness. At any rate, he stirred. Noticing this, 
 instantly I rushed to his side, and saw that his eyes 
 were open. They met mine, with a look of entire, de- 
 lighted recognition. Then, in a weak, far-away voice 
 he breathed my name. 
 
 "Nan," he said, softly, tenderly, as if for me alone; 
 and then again, more faintly: "Nan sweetheart - " 
 
 195
 
 And then he sighed, his eyes closed and he re- 
 lapsed into unconsciousness once more. 
 
 I had much ado to control myself. Methinks I 
 had cared little then had my identity been instantly 
 discovered. Master Burbadge glanced at Master Jon- 
 son significantly. I remembered that he knew of my 
 existence, probably of Will's marriage. Count William 
 had not heard the words. Naught was said, however, 
 and without further delay we started on our slow 
 journey to Will's lodgings. 
 
 And then, after that terrible afternoon, for two 
 brief months, my love was all mine again. My love! 
 Ay, though faithless to me, he was always and forever 
 my own and only love. The light of my eyes, the glory 
 of my life, was restored to me for a brief space. It 
 was enough. I rejoiced that I had come to London. 
 When he was himself again the Countess would claim 
 him; but now, now he was mine, all mine. 
 
 In his delirium he had never mentioned either my 
 name or hers. His talk was all of the theatre, and 
 plays, and parts. Not once did any Stratford name 
 or place cross his lips. Of Count William and of the 
 various actors he talked freely, although in rambling 
 fashion. He seemed to recognize me as my assumed 
 
 196
 
 self and called me Cesario. This relieved me much, for 
 I did not choose that he should know me yet. Lately, 
 however, his delirium had ceased, and as he began to 
 gain strength he had said little. To-day, for the first 
 time, he had shown a desire to talk at length, but I 
 had discouraged him, as the doctor bade me. 
 
 Naught had been heard of Greene or Falstaff since 
 that day when Will was wounded. When I had grown 
 calmer I had told Count William my reasons for sus- 
 pecting them, and he had deemed them good. Despite 
 constant searching, however, he had so far been un- 
 successful. This was the more remarkable because 
 of FalstafTs unusual appearance. We concluded, at 
 length, that both must have left the city. 
 
 Marlowe, with ready and repentant nobility, had 
 come to Count William and given himself up when he 
 had recovered from his drunken brawl and had learned 
 of Will's condition. Count William had promptly 
 caused his imprisonment, and he was still a captive, so 
 far as I knew. I could not help regretting this, for 
 Marlowe had excellent and generous qualities, despite 
 his failings; and in this case I felt that his weaknesses 
 had made him merely the tool of others. As usual, 
 the least guilty suffered, while the really culpable
 
 I drew my brows together in a little frown of per- 
 plexity as I thought this, staring out at the placid sky; 
 and suddenly I was startled by a voice from the bed. 
 
 "What's the problem, Cesario? Sooth, there are 
 many in this weary coil of our mortal life." I heard 
 an impatient sigh. "Come hither and talk to me, lad." 
 He smiled teasingly. "Truly, thou must get that ugly 
 frown from thy face, or no sweet woman wilt thou ever 
 play again. Thou lookest now more like Kit Mar- 
 lowe's Tamburlaine." 
 
 I smiled and shook my head as I came obediently 
 and sat beside him. 
 
 "Nay," I said, somewhat rashly, "no play of Mar- 
 lowe's will I ever act in, nor of Robin Greene's, 
 
 neither " and then I paused rather abruptly, for I 
 
 feared my words were imprudent. 
 
 He looked at me curiously. "Whence this rage 
 against Kit and Robin ah, I think I know! Help my 
 memory, Cesario. 'Twas Kit wounded me, was't not?" 
 
 He spoke slowly, falteringly, as if tormented by 
 a half-formed recollection. I took quick counsel with 
 myself. Then I decided that uncertainty would be 
 worse for him than to know all. So forthwith I began 
 and told him everything with which my thoughts had 
 
 198
 
 just been busy; of the real duel that had replaced the 
 mock one; of the share that I thought Greene and Fal- 
 staff had played in it; and of how Marlowe had given 
 himself up and now lay in prison, by Count William's 
 command. 
 
 He started when I said this. "Nay," he said, with 
 energy; "that is ill done of Count William; Marlowe, 
 too, could have eluded justice ; instead, he yielded him- 
 self up, and should have met with mercy. Well, the 
 remedy will come soon. I will speak with Count 
 William. The London stage needs Marlowe. He " 
 
 Will broke off an instant and lay gazing with 
 bright, unseeing eyes at the blue sky beyond the win- 
 dow, which had now begun to darken into twilight. 
 
 "He writes wondrous plays," he continued at 
 length, quietly. "Thou'st been at Paul's, lad, when 
 the organ is pealing forth, and when the music rolls 
 in mighty, majestic waves towards heaven. E'en such 
 is Marlowe's verse verse that I have not yet equalled, 
 perhaps never shall." 
 
 He paused, then continued in a lighter tone: "As 
 for Robin Greene he is a mere boy, and no doubt is 
 frightened to death now at the result of his plot. He, 
 
 too, must be spared. But Jack Falstaff " his tone 
 
 199
 
 grew stern "Jack Falstaff is a man, and should have 
 known better. Besides, Robin Greene was my declared 
 enemy; Jack, my pretended friend." 
 
 He paused again for a moment; then his brows 
 contracted, as if at some puzzling memory. 
 
 "The miniature?" he said, looking at me. "That 
 miniature? Hast it still?" 
 
 I started as if stung. He had been speaking of 
 mercy to all who had injured him, and now, for me, 
 whose heart lay beneath his feet, he had naught but 
 cruelty, unconscious yet most bitter. "Ay," I said in 
 a low voice, and turned away my face from him. The 
 afternoon had passed now, and the sky had darkened 
 into night. The outline of the houses was misty. 
 
 "Hath she " he paused an instant "hath she 
 
 ever been here?" 
 
 "Nay," I said, shortly; then added, unwillingly, 
 "but I have heard Count William say that she hath in- 
 quired oft as to thy well-being." 
 
 He was silent. I had my head turned from him 
 and could not see his face. At length he sighed. "Well, 
 the miniature/' he said. "Let's see it, lad. Little did 
 I deem, when I sent thee for it, that 'twould be so 
 long before mine eyes beheld it."
 
 Obediently I drew it forth from the place in my 
 bosom where it had rested many weeks. Little had I 
 thought, either, that its hated presence would be near 
 me for so long. It was still upon the chain which had 
 held it when she gave it me. I freed it from my neck 
 and laid the porcelain trifle in his hand. 
 
 "A light," he said. "Bring hither a candle, Cesario." 
 
 I obeyed. He lifted the miniature feebly and held 
 it so that he could gaze at it. Thus he lay long, but 
 at last he broke silence. 
 
 "A fair face, Cesario," he said; "a fair face. Is't 
 the mirror of as fair a soul?" 
 
 He spoke as if to himself rather than to me, but I 
 answered. 
 
 "I know not," I said; then added, desperately, 
 "Count William deems it so." 
 
 A spasm of pain crossed his face. 
 
 "Ay, I know," he answered, gently, and again 
 gazed reflectively at the painted bit of porcelain. The 
 eyes, insolent, yet dreamy, looked back at him. The 
 lustreless raven hair lay heavy over the white brow. 
 The countenance was mocking, elusive, as in life 
 
 "A fair face," he said again, musingly. "Methinks 
 I have never seen a fairer."
 
 I blew out the candle with a quick breath and 
 answered his words on impulse. Why I spoke as I did 
 I know not. Methinks the pent-up jealousy and an- 
 guish of months suddenly burst the bounds so sternly 
 set before them. 
 
 "Thou didst deem otherwise once," I said, and 
 gazed out into the night with tragic eyes. The world 
 was dark now, ah, very dark ! Even so, the sun of my 
 life had set, and soon the night of death and darkness 
 would encompass me. The river the river lay near, 
 flowing flowing swiftly to the sea. It bore many 
 things upon its bosom. What if I entrusted to its 
 kindly care a broken heart, a weary body 
 
 Will started at my words. I could feel his eyes 
 upon me. 
 
 "What mean'st thou?" he said, imperiously. 
 "What mean'st thou?" 
 
 I did not turn from the window. "The face of 
 the Countess is fair, indeed," I said; "dusky as night is 
 her hair as a night without stars. Her eyes fathom- 
 less wells of truth? of falsehood? who shall read 
 them? Ay, she is fair; but once thou didst find charm, 
 master, in a different face." 
 
 I heard the quick turn of his body in the bed be-
 
 hind me, his fast, irregular breathing; but he did not 
 speak. 
 
 " 'Twas a face," I went on, "a face sorrowful, yet 
 fair ; at least, so thou didst call it once. Her eyes were 
 very dark and sad, until thou didst come into her life. 
 Then they grew joyous for a while. I wonder if they 
 be sad now. Her hair was golden " 
 
 He interrupted me with a sharp cry. "Where didst 
 thou learn all this?" he queried. 
 
 I went on, unheeding the appeal in his voice. 
 
 "Men say she went mad for love poor fool! Tis 
 woman's way. What matter? Thou hast the Countess 
 now." 
 
 Again he cried out, in a way that startled me 
 imperious, bewildered: 
 
 "How knowest thou this; how knowest thou?" 
 
 But I was looking out into the night, and I did 
 not turn. 
 
 " "Will he not come again? Will he not come again?' 
 
 "Thus she sang," I said. " 'Tis passing sad, her 
 story. I had it from a Stratford lad." 
 
 I turned now and looked at him. The room was 
 too dark for us to see each other, but I felt his eyes 
 
 203
 
 ESlfhake spcare&l _ gfllwc efrk^g) 
 
 striving to search my face. He had risen into a half- 
 sitting position. He sank back now with a deep, long- 
 drawn sigh. 
 
 "Thou know'st my story in some strange way," 
 he said in a low, trembling voice. "Has she written in 
 these months?" 
 
 "Nay," I answered, truthfully. 
 
 "Can aught be wrong?" he murmured. "Thou 
 know'st Stratford, then, lad. Light the candles and 
 tell me more." 
 
 As I obeyed the first part of his command, wonder- 
 ing how I could evade the second, a shadow fell across 
 the threshold. 
 
 "Well, prince of poets," exclaimed a rich, lazy 
 voice that we both knew well, "how goes the world 
 with thee?" 
 
 She swept a magnificent curtsey, and came for- 
 ward into the light. 
 
 It was the Countess, fair and stately, her crimson 
 robes sweeping the floor, her velvet cloak half falling 
 from her shoulders. For an instant she stood thus; 
 then Will spoke in a voice curiously suppressed. 
 
 "Be seated, Countess," he said. "Cesario, fetch 
 hither a chair." He paused an instant as I obeyed 
 
 204
 
 him, glancing from the Countess's face to mine with 
 evident indecision. Then, in a curiously apologetic 
 tone, he continued: 
 
 "St. Helen's is near. Go thither, Cesario, and wait 
 upon the church steps until I send for thee."
 
 iinapter I
 
 Furiously, blindly, I 
 stumbled down the stairs 
 and out into the night. So 
 insensible was I to all things 
 except the inward fire of my 
 jealous rage that I saw and 
 heard naught until I had 
 been seated for some time 
 on the broad steps of St. Helen's. 
 
 The corner I had chosen was mercifully obscure, 
 and there, crouched upon the unyielding stone, I wept 
 and ground my teeth and clenched my fists in impotent, 
 overwhelming despair. There, in the well-lit room she, 
 the beautiful sorceress, sat with him, while here in the 
 darkness I lay, alone. Who and what was she, this 
 shameless, gorgeous woman, who, despite her noble 
 title, her costly attire, came at nightfall, unattended, 
 to a man's lodgings? Why had she come? Wherefore 
 had I been sent away? A flood of conjectures and un- 
 certainties overwhelmed my brain. 
 
 It was very dark on the church steps, and St. 
 Helen's was a quiet district. I was weary and un- 
 strung in mind and body. Beyond a certain point of 
 endurance even extreme anguish cannot go. At length 
 
 30Q
 
 nerves and brain alike relaxed. My hard vigil was 
 ended and I slept. 
 
 How long I thus forgot my troubles I know not. 
 I awoke suddenly, with a start. The church was light 
 now, and within I heard the choir practising. Frag- 
 ments of an anthem floated out, interrupted by numer- 
 ous silences, during which, no doubt, the choirmaster 
 was explaining and instructing. I lay still an instant, 
 listening dully. They were chanting the "Magnificat." 
 
 "He hath showed strength with His arm : He hath scattered 
 the proud in the imagination of their hearts." 
 
 Thrice were the words repeated, each time with 
 some slight change in rendering, due, probably, to the 
 choirmaster's suggestion. The third time I noticed 
 languidly that one of the church doors had been left 
 open, and that the brightness from within streamed 
 past the corner where I crouched, out into the street 
 itself. My eyes followed the shaft of light and I sprang 
 upright with a cry. In its full radiance stood the 
 Countess, looking at me. Her crimson draperies 
 seemed, in my excited imagination, to radiate flames. 
 
 When she saw me looking at her, in scorn and 
 abhorrence, she held out her hands beseechingly.
 
 "Cesario! Thou cruel one!" she barely breathed 
 in a tone of tenderest reproach. "Where hast thou 
 been all these long, long weeks?" 
 
 I raised my hands to shut out the sight of her 
 despicable beauty, her devilish charm. 
 
 "Thou hast two victims already, madam," I said, 
 and I took no pains to hide my disgust and hatred. 
 "Thou shalt not have a third. I return to my master," 
 and I moved a step to pass her. She spread out her 
 arms to bar my way. I could not go without creating 
 an outcry. I paused. She seized my hand in both of 
 hers, and I felt her burning lips upon it. 
 
 "Ah, Cesario," she whispered, "how beautiful are 
 even contempt and anger on thy lips! Nor all my wit 
 nor reason can hide my passion for thee. Cesario, be 
 not cruel. Men have deemed me beautiful. Canst not 
 love me a little, even a little, Cesario? Many have sued 
 me; behold, I lay my heart at thy feet; it is thine! 
 Wilt thou spurn it?" 
 
 The choir in the church had been silent for a space. 
 Now they burst forth into the next strain of the "Mag- 
 nificat." 
 
 "He hath put down the mighty from their seat, and hath 
 exalted the humble and meek."
 
 Methinks I was half mad with rage and despair, 
 or else the devil himself tempted me in the Countess's 
 guise. At any rate, a fiendish plan entered my mind 
 that instant; a cruel scheme, since it involved the hap- 
 piness of three others and would make my lot no better. 
 Yet my idea seemed sweet to me then because it spelled 
 revenge. 
 
 The holy words pealed forth again, joyously: 
 
 "He hath ut down the mighty from their seat, and hath 
 exalted the humble and meek." 
 
 I looked at the Countess, bending her proud head 
 before me, and a triumphant smile touched my lips. 
 Now I shudder to think how I applied the meaning of 
 those sacred words, first spoken for so holy a reason; 
 but then they seemed sent from heaven to suggest to 
 me my vengeance. 
 
 The Countess looked up and saw my smile. Her 
 face lighted with joy, and she drew closer to me. 
 
 "Thou wilt love me, Cesario? Thou wilt " she 
 
 hesitated an instant. "Wilt thou even wed me?" 
 
 "Listen, madam," I said, and I put my arm around 
 her, repugnant as the touch of her sinuous body was 
 to me. She gave a cry of joy at my embrace, and clung
 
 to me. "Beseech thee, think a moment. Thou knowest 
 me not. Remember, I warn thee. Thou knowest me 
 not." 
 
 Some last fragment of compunction made me give 
 her this hint. She was too blinded by her inf atuation, 
 however, to heed my words. 
 
 "It matters not," she murmured, and she laid her 
 dusky head upon my shoulder. "It matters not who 
 thou art. I love thee." 
 
 "Enough, then, madam," I responded. I stood. 
 holding her in my arms, my eyes staring straight for- 
 ward in cold, unseeing fashion as I elaborated my plan, 
 "Enough! I make thee, then, this promise. At Michael- 
 mas I will go to church with thee." 
 
 She gave a little cry, half delight, half disappoint- 
 ment. 
 
 "So long to wait! Ah, Cesario! Why not to- 
 morrow?" 
 
 "Because, madam," I answered, steadily, "neither 
 Count William nor my master must know aught of this 
 until after after I have been at church with thee." I 
 held carefully to the phrase I had chosen. "At Michael- 
 mas it is rumored that her Gracious Majesty will re- 
 quest a performance of Romeus and Juliet at the palace. 
 
 313
 
 If that prove true, I am bound to act Juliet, and I can- 
 not go to church with thee until that day." 
 
 "But why," she whispered, "why not wed me to- 
 morrow, and let the marriage remain a secret until 
 Michaelmas?" 
 
 "Because, madam," I said, again, "because, after 
 I have been at church with thee, methinks I shall not 
 act Juliet nor any other part again." 
 
 She looked at me in deep thought, her eyes nar- 
 rowing. For an instant she seemed again the haughty, 
 wary creature I had seen beneath the willows at Strat- 
 ford. Then her face relaxed, and she smiled and sighed 
 together. No wonder she could play with men's hearts. 
 
 "Be it so," she whispered low, in that voice which 
 was liquid music. She laid her head upon my shoulder 
 once again. "Cesario, Cesario, must I do all the woo- 
 ing? Give me my betrothal kiss." 
 
 I bent my lips and touched hers calmly. 
 
 "Until Michaelmas, then, adieu, Countess," I said. 
 
 She drew herself erect instantly. 
 
 "Until Michaelmas," she repeated. "Shall I not 
 see thee until then? Oh, Cesario, be not cruel!" 
 
 "No, madam," I answered, firmly, for on this point 
 I was determined to have my way; else the rest of my 
 
 314
 
 plans might miscarry. "Bethink thee and thou wilt 
 see that I am wise. Should we be meeting constantly, 
 suspicion assuredly would be aroused. We desire no 
 hint of our undertaking to escape until Michaelmas." 
 
 She bent her beautiful head and stood a moment 
 in troubled silence, biting her red lips and clenching 
 her hands. At length she roused herself with a sigh. 
 
 "Thou art right," she said. "Thou art right, 
 Cesario. Farewell, then, until we meet again on the 
 morning of Michaelmas. Let our wedding take place 
 at Paul's. 'Tis a church I love well." 
 
 I agreed, for it mattered little what place she chose 
 for a marriage that would never take place. Again she 
 offered me her lips. 
 
 "Until Michaelmas, adieu," she murmured, as I 
 once more kissed her. Then she went down the church 
 steps, her crimson gown brilliant in the light that 
 streamed from the still open door. The choir had 
 finished the "Magnificat" long since, but now they were 
 going over bits that the exacting master had found 
 unsatisfactory. 
 
 As the Countess, brilliant as an evil spirit, lithe 
 as a panther, passed from my view, these words floated 
 after her: 
 
 215
 
 "He hath filled the hungry with good things, and the rich 
 He hath sent empty away." 
 
 I fell upon my knees in a sudden revulsion of feel- 
 ing. There, yonder, she went, the rich woman, and 
 how empty was the prospect towards which she looked 
 with joy so delirious! And I I, kneeling here upon 
 the church steps ah, how good was the revenge which 
 satisfied the hunger of my hatred!
 
 I found Will asleep 
 when I returned that night, 
 and the next morning he 
 did not mention the Countess, nor did I. In a few 
 days we were both busy with thoughts of the coming 
 performance at the palace. The command had, indeed, 
 been sent by her Majesty that our company should 
 play Romeus and Juliet before her; and Will was like 
 a boy in his delight Master Jonson and Master Bur- 
 badge shared his pleasure with unselfish joy, and, in- 
 deed, all the company seemed glad that their comrade 
 had such an honor bestowed upon him. The only 
 drawback was Will's bodily condition; but that im- 
 proved steadily from the time the Queen's command 
 arrived, and the doctor gave it as his opinion that Will 
 would be fully able to play by Michaelmas. So, as 
 soon as possible, he and I were once more rehearsing 
 our old familiar parts as lovers. 
 
 The first time Will left his room, he went with
 
 Count William to the prison and ordered Marlowe's 
 release. What was said at that time I never knew; 
 but thenceforth Marlowe treated Will with a dog-like 
 fidelity and devotion touching to see, and singular in 
 one of his haughty carriage and careless manners. 
 Robin Greene and Jack Falstaff had not yet been heard 
 of. They seemed to have buried themselves in the 
 earth. 
 
 During those weeks I never saw the Countess. 
 She was faithful to our compact; and Will did not speak 
 of her. I wondered a little at this, but finally concluded 
 that the excitements of the preparation for the palace 
 had driven her temporarily from his mind. To me she 
 seemed like a nightmare; one that had tormented me 
 in the past, that would come again, but which now 
 was not. I tried to forget her until Michaelmas. 
 
 The miniature had disappeared. I never saw it on 
 Will's person, and I thought he must have it hidden 
 among some secret treasures. I tormented myself for 
 awhile with conjectures about this, but finally dis- 
 missed them with a shrug. At Michaelmas, if my plan 
 prospered, all would become clear. 
 
 And at length September, cool and beautiful, came, 
 passed, was nearly ended. The Feast of St. Michael
 
 and All Angels dawned, and with it the thought of 
 my revenge. 
 
 As I finished dressing that morning I saw, slipped 
 under my door, a small, flat package secured by a crim- 
 son ribbon. Inside was a lock of lustreless raven hair 
 tied with a blood-colored love knot. 'Twas at once a 
 token and a reminder, as I knew well. Had there been 
 a fire at hand I would have burned the accursed thing. 
 I dared not leave it lying in my room. I thrust it into 
 my bosom, with loathing. 
 
 We were to be at the theatre at noon. The day 
 before I had begged Count William and Will to meet 
 me at the entrance to Paul's at ten. They had mar- 
 velled at my request, and Will had demurred slightly, 
 since it would be a busy morning for him. At length, 
 however, when I said the matter was urgent, they con- 
 sented, and so everything pointed to a successful con- 
 summation of my plans. 
 
 I broke my fast but frugally that morning. I was 
 filled with alternate dread and triumph. Soon, soon 
 would come the hour for my revenge. Then Marlowe 
 indeed had stabbed Will's body; but I would kill his 
 heart. Alack, alack! in what a coil was I involved. 
 Natheless, I could not bear my anguish longer! I
 
 could not! And, starting up with the thought, I threw 
 down a coin to pay for the food I had eaten, and 
 rushed away to fulfill my appointment. 
 
 It was just ten as I neared Paul's, and, prompt as 
 I was, the Countess had reached there before me. I 
 noted, with relief, that neither Count William nor Will 
 was with her. I did not desire that they should come 
 too soon. 
 
 When she saw me, she stretched out her hands 
 to me, regardless of the numerous passers-by. Paul's 
 is a busy place, and its nave is a fashionable promenade. 
 We were quite near the entrance. 
 
 "Cesario," she cried in a joyous undertone; "at 
 last, at last! Didst receive my token? Is all ar- 
 ranged?" 
 
 "Ay, madam," I said, truthfully, although I had 
 engaged no priest, which was what she meant; "ay, 
 madam, but we must wait a little. I have invited two 
 
 friends as witnesses " I turned to look for them, 
 
 and the words I had been about to speak remained un- 
 uttered. I saw Will and the Count approaching. Her 
 gaze followed mine. She caught her breath inward 
 with a sharp sound, and looked at me piercingly, 
 piteously. For a moment I was sorry for her.
 
 There was an instant's silence. "What means 
 this?" she said at length, in a quick, incisive whisper. 
 "What means this?" 
 
 "It means, madam," I answered, "that the comedy 
 is near its close." 
 
 I caught her hand and held it, despite her wild 
 effort to withdraw it. 
 
 "Let me go," she cried, although still in a low tone. 
 "Art mad, Cesario?" 
 
 "No, madam," I said, and I caught her other hand, 
 thus making her my prisoner; "I am not mad now, 
 although I have been, and may be. Natheless, I hope 
 my remedy is near." 
 
 And thus we stood until the Count and Will 
 reached us. 
 
 "What unwilling fair one hast thou there, Cesario?" 
 called Will, his face alight with mischief. The Coun- 
 tess had averted her face and he did not recognize her 
 at once. Count William opened his lips to fling a gay 
 gibe at me, but closed them with the jest unuttered. 
 Will gave a sharp exclamation. The Countess had 
 raised her head and looked at them. 
 
 For a moment no one spoke. Then Will turned 
 to me.
 
 "Explain," he said, and his voice was cold with 
 contempt. "Thou brought'st us hither, sir. Explain !" 
 
 I had been trembling; but at his challenge I grew 
 suddenly calm and collected. My all was placed upon 
 this throw. 
 
 "Surely, no explanation is needed," I said. "The 
 
 Countess " I indicated her by a slight gesture 
 
 "the Countess has done me the honor of promising to 
 be my bride. I have summoned you as witnesses." 
 
 Count William was very white. He uttered a 
 fierce oath at my words and started towards me. 
 Will's hand restrained him. 
 
 "Peace, friend," he said, gently, "we are in a crowd. 
 Make no demonstration here." Then to me, once more 
 coldly, "When was all this arranged?" 
 
 "A month ago," I answered, airily, "a month ago 
 we agreed to go to church to-day," and I drew out 
 from my bosom the raven lock of hair tied with the 
 crimson love-knot. 
 
 "Let me go," said the Count, fiercely, struggling 
 beneath Will's restraining hand and turning blazing 
 eyes on me as he saw the trifle in my hand. "Let me 
 choke the lie in his throat, the accursed, soft-spoken 
 traitor!" 
 
 224
 
 "Nay," cried the Countess, wrenching herself free 
 from me and standing erect. "Nay, thou shall not 
 blame him. I loved him at first sight. I made him 
 woo me. Thou shalt not punish him, thou shall not!" 
 
 There was something noble in her supreme self- 
 surrender. Again I felt a pang of pity for her. Will 
 glanced around him at the gathering crowd. It struck 
 me for the first time that he was curiously calm. 
 
 "Let us go to a more retired place/' he said to 
 the Count. 
 
 "No," replied the latter, furiously. "I will punish 
 him here and now for his insolence and treachery." 
 
 I put my arm around the Countess. 
 
 "You refuse to act as witnesses, then?" I said, and 
 smiled at her tenderly. At the look, the caress, Count 
 William's self-control gave way. He flung off Will's 
 hand as if it were a feather and whipped out his rapier. 
 
 "Thy sword," he gasped. 'Thy sword, fellow! 
 Ah, thou hast none! Thine, friend, prythee," cour- 
 teously, to one of the bystanders. It was proffered 
 him instantly. He drew it out of its sheath with a 
 lightning flash of steel and struck the Countess's love- 
 token from out my hand. "Here, thou low-born milk- 
 sop!" he cried, tendering the borrowed weapon to me, 
 
 225
 
 "I will soil my hands by killing thee, and so leave in 
 the world one whining Judas less." 
 
 I turned white. Here was a development of which 
 I had not dreamed. I had a true woman's horror of 
 swords, and knew naught about fencing. Sooth, I 
 would die bravely, gladly, but not in this fashion. I 
 looked about me desperately for means of escape. 
 
 The Count saw my shudder and my pallor, and 
 laughed derisively. 
 
 "A brave lover!" he said. "The mere look of a 
 sword makes him chalk-white. See how he dangles it 
 in his hand. What! must I kill thee without the pre- 
 tense of a duel? So be it, then!" He lifted his rapier. 
 
 "End it quickly, Count. The crowd grows," said 
 Will, glancing about him. 
 
 The Countess uttered a piercing scream and held 
 out her hands beseechingly to the crowd that now 
 hemmed us in, calling for help. The sympathy of the 
 people was against us, however, for the cause of the 
 quarrel had been whispered from one to another. 
 
 "Not even thy tears shall save him, Countess," 
 cried Count William, furiously. "Come, fellow, lift thy 
 point. Thou hast played with two hearts, madam; 'tis 
 fitting that thine own should break." 
 
 226
 
 I lifted the weapon I held in gingerly fashion, and 
 the crowd roared with laughter. The Countess sobbed. 
 Will looked at me with a smile of contempt. A mist 
 rose before my eyes. 
 
 The Count lunged at me furiously. His point 
 barely missed my heart. With the narrow escape such 
 courage as I had suddenly deserted me. I forgot my 
 disguise, remembered nothing save the present. I was 
 all woman again. I began to sob, and. dropping the 
 sword, ran forward and fell at Will's feet, embracing 
 his knees in an agony of terror. 
 
 "O Will," I cried, "Will, save me ! O Will, be not 
 so cruel to me!" 
 
 There was another great burst of laughter from 
 the crowd, echoed derisively by the Count. But Will 
 did not share in their mirth. He looked down at me, 
 amazement and contempt struggling for the mastery 
 in his expression. Then suddenly his countenance 
 changed. He bent towards me and gazed searchingly 
 into my eyes. Then recognition flashed into his face. 
 He lifted me suddenly, drew me to his heart and laid 
 my tear-stained countenance upon his breast. 
 
 "Nan," he whispered in my ear, "Nan, dear Nan, 
 my sweetheart and my wife!"
 
 Ihaprer I IXVII;
 
 An instant thus we 
 stood. Then Count Wil- 
 liam's voice broke the spell 
 that bound us. 
 
 "What means this?" 
 he said. "Thy kindliness 
 of heart, Will, hath made 
 thee strangely forgetful of 
 
 friendship's ties. Release the lad and let me conclude 
 his punishment." 
 
 "The watch!" cried a boy's shrill voice suddenly 
 on the outskirts of the crowd. "The watch ap- 
 proaches." 
 
 The Count stood his ground ; not so the idle rabble 
 that surrounded us. They gave cries of alarm in 
 various keys, and melted away like dew before the sun. 
 The man who had lent the sword to me left it where 
 it lay, and fled. Count William sheathed his, and 
 folded his arms. When at length the officers of the 
 law did approach, puffy and important, he bestowed 
 a gold-piece or two upon them, which instantly ren- 
 dered them blind and obsequious. At their departure 
 he turned to me again. 
 
 I had raised my head, but still stood with Will's 
 231
 
 Elfhake sPcareFl 
 
 arm encircling me in protecting fashion. The Coun- 
 tess had sunk down on the church steps, and sat there 
 pale and erect, awaiting the outcome of the scene. 
 
 "Now 'tis quiet enough in all conscience, and the 
 watch will not trouble us again. Pick up thy sword, 
 Cesario." 
 
 "Nay," interposed Will, releasing me, and himself 
 taking up the weapon. "Nay, Will, if thou'rt bent on 
 fighting, thou must e'en fight me." 
 
 The Count stared at him in utter amazement. 
 The Countess rose from where she sat and came for- 
 ward. 
 
 "And why?" the former demanded at last, recover- 
 ing his voice. 
 
 Will put his arm around me again. "Because," he 
 answered, "because I know not how nor why, but a 
 miracle hath been wrought. An instant since, Cesario, 
 my page, stood here. Now 'tis Anne Shakespeare, my 
 dear and honored wife." 
 
 I gave a cry and again hid my glowing face upon 
 his shoulder. 
 
 The Count was silent from sheer amazement, but 
 I felt his eyes upon me. The Countess gave a curious 
 cry, whether of pain, of surprise, of disappointment, it 
 
 232
 
 on~f tefjfmfll (Thou musr
 
 would be difficult to say. I raised my head again and 
 looked at her. She was staring at me, her eyes large, 
 her face pale. 
 
 "A woman!" she muttered, as if to herself. "A 
 woman!" 
 
 Then she paused, and her expression became in- 
 scrutable and mocking as of old. She gave a hard 
 little laugh. 
 
 "I have been the heroine of a pretty comedy, it 
 seems," she said, her eyes still full upon me and her 
 face ablaze with anger. Then suddenly her expression 
 softened and grew curiously wistful. 
 
 " 'Tis a Paradise I cannot share," she said, slowly; 
 and she meant our love, methinks. "I might have 
 known it. Only the innocent can enter those white 
 gates. I dreamed that I might but I was wrong. 
 The truest love of my poor sinful soul has been given 
 to a shadow." 
 
 She came towards us. and gave her hand to Will 
 to kiss. He bent over it obediently. Then suddenly 
 she leaned forward, and once again, for the last time, 
 her lips touched mine. 
 
 "Farewell, my shadow love," she said, smiling 
 sombrely, "and farewell, Mistress Shakespeare. Love 
 
 333
 
 and loyalty are not altogether dreams, though I have 
 sometimes thought them so. Your secret is safe 
 Cesario!" 
 
 Her face was convulsed with grief for an instant 
 as she looked at me. It was as if she gazed on the 
 corpse of one beloved. And so, indeed, she did. Then, 
 composing herself, she bowed slightly to each of us 
 and went down the street alone. We stood watching 
 her until the last glimmer of her scarlet robe had dis- 
 appeared. Then Count William broke into a cry. 
 
 "Ah, Will, I love her, love her still! What shall I 
 do to make her mine?" 
 
 Will shook his head and laid his hand, with a 
 caressing gesture, upon the Count's shoulder. 
 
 "Patience, Will, patience ! She is broken now over 
 the shattering of her dream; but that she could love 
 even a shadow so sincerely shows that her heart is 
 noble, as I have deemed it ever. Surely, thy long de- 
 votion will touch her at last. Wait and love " 
 
 "As thy lady here hath done," said the Count, 
 courteously interrupting. He knelt before me. "Mis- 
 tress Shakespeare, I know not how nor why thou 
 wearest this disguise, but thy secret is safe with me 
 also. I hope thou wilt forgive my hasty rudeness a
 
 while since. Prythee remember I labored under a mis- 
 take." 
 
 I gave him my hand, and smiled in token of for- 
 giveness. He pressed his lips upon it and then rose. 
 
 "Farewell, Will," he said, drawing his cloak about 
 
 him, "farewell until noon Ah, where now will be 
 
 thy performance at the palace?" 
 
 Will's face fell, and he looked at me in comical 
 perplexity. 
 
 "Nay," I said, readily, although I blushed; "why 
 need any change be made? None knows who I am 
 save you two and the Countess, and none need be told. 
 Let the play go on." 
 
 Will shook his head doubtfully, but his face cleared 
 in spite of him^lf- 
 
 "The lady is wise," said Count William. "Let it 
 be as she says, Will. Thou canst get no other Juliet 
 at this late hour, and the change would create com- 
 ment." 
 
 "So be it, then," said WilL " Thou'st played thy 
 part so well, Nan, that 'twill do no harm to play it a 
 little longer. Then to Stratford, and an end to mys- 
 teries," 
 
 Again applauding his decision, Count William
 
 bowed and left us. We watched him, also, out of sight, 
 his golden hair and gleaming blue satin shining in the 
 sun. Then Will turned to me. 
 
 "Sweetheart," he said, and his tone was as love- 
 filled as of old; "sweetheart, what means it all? I am 
 bewildered. Prythee enlighten my darkness." 
 
 We began to walk down the street together. 
 
 "It grows near noon," I answered, "and we shall 
 not have time for many words now ; but ere I enlighten 
 thy darkness thou must let the sun rise on mine." 
 
 And then, as we went slowly towards the boat 
 landing, I told him all that had happened in those 
 dreary months since we parted. I began with the con- 
 versation I had overheard beside the willows. Then 
 followed the story of my madness, at which he groaned, 
 and murmured words of love and commiseration. 
 Finally I narrated how and why I had come to London. 
 Then I paused an instant and looked at him. 
 
 "Will," I said, and my voice trembled, betraying 
 the anguish that had tormented me so long, "thou 
 seem'st thy old, dear self to me, and yet didst thou 
 didst thou ever love her?" 
 
 He looked at me with so amazed an expression 
 that my question was answered before he spoke. 
 
 336
 
 "Never," he said, and his voice was as wondering 
 as his face ; then, in a pained way, "Nan, hadst no faith 
 in my truth and honor?" 
 
 "Forgive me," I murmured, with instant repen- 
 tance; "forgive me; and yet " 
 
 "Yet perhaps thou wert justified. She thought, 
 too, that I loved her for a while," he went on, half to 
 himself. "So did Count William at one time. 
 
 "A woman's face, with nature's own hand painted, 
 
 Hast thou, the master mistress of my passions ; 
 A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted 
 
 With shifting change, as is false woman's fashion. 
 An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling, 
 
 Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth ; 
 A man in hue, all hues in his controlling, 
 
 Which steals men's eyes, and women's souls amazeth." 
 
 He paused and turned to me, his face illumined. 
 " 'Twas of Count William I wrote thus, Nan," he said. 
 "Is't not true ? Hath he not a woman's face in beauty, 
 and a woman's gentle heart? Ah, loyal, loving friend! 
 Deem not, however, dearest, that I thought of thee 
 when I spoke of false women. Nay, 'tis the majority 
 I mean ; and Nan Nan, thou hast been a lad in London 
 long enough to know that of most women it is sooth." 
 
 237
 
 "But the Countess what of her?" I said, with 
 diffidence. 
 
 "The Countess? Ah!" he said, with the same 
 strange, speculative look he had worn before when 
 speaking of her. 
 
 "How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame 
 
 Which, like a canker in a favorite rose, 
 Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name. 
 O, in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose !" 
 
 He paused again, and looked at me with a curious 
 expression. 
 
 "Dost understand?" he said. 
 
 I did as in a lightning flash. Many things I had 
 not comprehended were now made clear. I remem- 
 bered the Countess's singular freedom of dress and 
 manner; and how she had come alone, at nightfall, to 
 Will's lodgings. I recalled the tragic despair with 
 which she had spoken of her "poor sinful soul" a short 
 space since. Not of ordinary human frailty are such 
 tones used. I looked at Will in sudden, wide-eyed 
 comprehension. 
 
 "Yet," I began, doubtfully, "she lives in a right 
 
 stately house she's called the Countess " 
 
 238
 
 "And 'tis no nickname," interrupted Will, "and 'tis 
 in the halls of her ancestors that she dwells. Sorrow 
 and anguish she hath brought to her proud house, and 
 yet and yet despite all, she hath a noble heart. She 
 gave it freely to thee in thy disguise, and some day, 
 perhaps, Count William " 
 
 He fell into a thoughtful silence, looking into 
 space with the calm, large gaze that saw broader and 
 deeper than other men. But I could not forbear in- 
 terrupting his revery. Although my doubts as to his 
 loyalty were laid at rest, my curiosity was not yet sat- 
 isfied. 
 
 "But Will," I said, "Will, thou didst long so for 
 her miniature; thou didst bid me keep it safely; oh, 
 and she deemed that thou didst love her and Count 
 William, that day by the Globe, when thou first didst 
 send me to her " 
 
 He laughed, and patted me lightly on the cheek. 
 
 "What, sweeting, still wondering? Listen, then, 
 and learn all the heart of thy true lover in a few words 
 as brief as may be. Count William was kind to me 
 when I first came to London. Among other things, 
 as our friendship grew, he confided to me his passion 
 for the Countess. I visited her with him. For a time
 
 e sPcareTH 
 
 I think her fancy was taken by me, and so thought 
 Count William. While he labored under this delusion 
 he was nobly willing to leave the field to me. He 
 begged, however, that he might have the miniature 
 which she had lightly offered to me as a keepsake one 
 day. 'Twas this conversation thou didst overhear be- 
 tween us. After thou hadst left us, then I told him, 
 in confidence, of my marriage, and my undying love 
 for thee. Since that day he has known that my heart 
 was never hers, nor ever would be. That night, when 
 she came to my lodgings, 'twas to seek thee, as I know 
 now. Then I could not understand her appearance, but 
 seized the opportunity to plead Count William's cause. 
 I did not know then why my words were so unavail- 
 ing. 'Twas because Cesario filled her heart and mind. 
 And now poor, noble, misguided soul what will be 
 the end?" 
 
 Again he sank into thought, but again I was not 
 quite satisfied. 
 
 "But Will," I said, timidly, "thou didst visit her 
 thou didst write poetry about her Count William and 
 she both thought - " 
 
 He turned to me with a swift, indignant gesture. 
 
 "Nan," he said in a tone of quiet reproach, "Nan, 
 240
 
 have I deserved this? Nay " as I instantly craved 
 
 his pardon "let us make an end, for our comrades 
 wait, and in a few minutes more thou must be Cesario 
 again, and Romeus and Juliet must fill all our thoughts. 
 Ever in body and soul have I been loyal to thee, 
 Nan. Never hath a day passed since our parting that 
 thy image hath not been in my heart, and thy long, 
 mysterious silence has caused me bitter grief. Yet, 
 for thy own sake, I could not leave London, Thou 
 hast seen how I am bound by the theatre, and lately 
 by my illness. As for the Countess my name has, 
 indeed, been coupled with hers, for I frequently accom- 
 panied Count William on his visits to her. Never hath 
 it been so associated with just reason, though, I swear. 
 I have sought to further his cause. The poetry I have 
 just now said to thee was written for that purpose. 
 All the interviews, few in number, I have ever had 
 with the Countess alone have been towards the same 
 end. There is another reason ay, I freely admit it." 
 
 His face lit with mysterious fire, as I had seen it 
 oft at Stratford when he told me of his dreams. 
 
 "That reason I may tell to thee alone, Nan," he 
 went on, slowly. "None other would understand. I 
 am a poet, Nan. All nature is the book I read, and 
 
 941
 
 Eltoake SPC are>1 
 
 all mankind. Naught is too high, naught too low for 
 me to find of interest and of value. Each man and 
 woman, every tree and flower, all words and gestures 
 that I see and hear are preserved in the world that 
 lives within my heart and soul. There are many figures 
 in it, Nan, and many scenes. Some of our Stratford 
 walks and talks dwell there, and London haunts of 
 vice and sorrow. Our love story and Count William's 
 are constantly re-lived in that world within. Jack Fal- 
 staff , humorist and traitor, exists in my dream universe, 
 and the Countess, mocking and inscrutable ; and I think 
 of all these, and many others; and live with them, and 
 strive to enter into their minds and souls ; and then - " 
 
 His tone, which had been exalted and mysterious, 
 broke off with a little laugh. He ended in matter-of- 
 fact fashion. 
 
 "And some day, I hope, in one way or another, 
 this dream-world shall materialize into comforts for 
 thee and the babe, sweetheart; and that Will Shake- 
 speare shall become a respectable Stratford citizen." 
 
 I leaned against him in perfect content. We had 
 reached the boat-landing now, and the little craft he 
 had signalled to take us to the theatre was coming 
 rapidly towards us. 
 
 243
 
 "And so," he ended, "the Countess is not the one 
 woman in the world for me, as thou art, beloved, but 
 she is one of many, whom it is alike my pleasure and 
 my business to study and to admire. Art satisfied 
 now, sweetheart, sweetheart? Ah, I love thee better 
 for thy jealousy. Thou wert less a woman without it; 
 but it was groundless, dear. Listen ; among the poems 
 I have written for Count William and his wooing, now 
 and again I have slipped interludes, which are for thee 
 and me. Canst guess of whom this speaks?" 
 
 The river lay fair and sparkling in the noon sun- 
 light. I stood gazing at it dreamily, recalling how, a 
 few hours since, I had thought to seek its waters to 
 still the anguish of my heart forever. Ah ! what a con- 
 trast was the happy present, while the voice dearest to 
 me in all the world murmured in my ear the last con- 
 clusive witness of his loyalty and love: 
 
 "From you I have been absent in the spring, 
 
 When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim, 
 Hath put a spirit of youth in everything, 
 
 That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him. 
 Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell 
 
 Of different flowers in odor and in hue, 
 Could make me any summer's story tell, 
 
 243
 
 Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew. 
 Nor did I wonder at the lilies white, 
 
 Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose ; 
 They were but sweet, but figures of delight, 
 
 Drawn after you, you pattern of all those. 
 Yet seemed it winter still, and you away ; 
 
 As with your shadow, I with these did play."
 
 haprcr I (XVIII
 
 We were late at the 
 theatre, and with a laugh- 
 ing jest regarding our de- 
 linquency we jumped from the boat and rushed rapidly 
 up the path to the doorway. The outside of the Globe 
 was deserted, but as we reached the entrance we heard 
 angry voices wrangling within. Two of them struck 
 upon my ear with strange familiarity. As we entered, 
 both of us stopped short and I gave an exclamation of 
 surprise. 
 
 There before our eyes stood the couple who had 
 disappeared so entirely from the face of the earth dur- 
 ing the last few months Robin Greene and Jack Fal- 
 staff. 
 
 The former, always slender, was emaciated now, 
 and his petulant young face was drawn and haggard. 
 Methought it wore, also, a certain look of shame. Jack 
 Falstaff, however, was as mountainous and self-pos- 
 sessed, as urbane and calm, as ever. 
 
 247
 
 The other actors were crowded around them, ex- 
 citedly striving to eject them from the theatre. With 
 Robin Greene this was possible; but Jack Falstaff's 
 bulk made his forcible removal a giant's task. More- 
 over, the gentle reproaches, the calm self-assurance 
 with which he met their threats and protests, made 
 them laugh as of old, despite themselves. 
 
 "Ah, here is my dear friend Will!" cried the stout 
 sinner as he saw us. "Now all will be well with us. 
 Congratulations, Will. I heard that thou wert to have 
 thy play performed at the palace, and I, being of noble 
 birth by rights, as thou knowest, came to assist thee. 
 Robin and I have been wandering in France and have 
 just returned." He gazed, smiling and complacent, 
 full into Will's face, but he met there no response. 
 Those hazel eyes, always so ready to twinkle at his 
 folly, were calm with quiet scorn. The countenance, 
 usually so mobile, was coldly expressionless. The 
 actors surrounding us fell into a strained silence, await- 
 ing an unexpected development. 
 
 For a moment the two gazed at each other. Then 
 Will spoke. 
 
 "I do not know you, old man. Get you hence. 
 Those white hairs ill become a fool and jester." 
 
 34 8
 
 The few icy words were as pitiless as deserved. 
 FalstafTs face went pale. He glanced around him for 
 sympathy, but met none. Then, what attempted force 
 had failed to do, Will's scorn accomplished. Slowly, 
 without a word, he crept to the door and left the the- 
 atre. What became of him I know not. He was not 
 seen in London again. 
 
 There was an instant's silence after his exit. Then 
 Robin Greene moved to follow him; but ere he had 
 reached the door Will called to him. 
 
 "Come hither, Robin." 
 
 He turned, his thin face flushing with surprise. 
 Will's voice was gentle. 
 
 "There is no place here for traitors; but thy 
 enmity was open. Dost wish to be friends again?" 
 
 The lad was very young, and very feeble now, 
 from hardships and hunger. The few kind, unexpected 
 words unstrung him utterly. He cast himself at Will's 
 feet and clung to his hand, weeping like a child. The 
 other actors moved away, myself included, but we 
 could hear Will's deep voice. 
 
 "There, cheer thee, lad, all is forgiven. What! I 
 know that thy jealousy and anger drove thee mad, and 
 that Jack Falstaff "
 
 "He said he hated thee in his heart," sobbed 
 Robin, "and between us we made Marlowe drunk, and 
 oh, Will, we might have killed thee;" and he fell to 
 kissing the kindly hand to which he clung. 
 
 "But ye did not and to-day we play at the palace. 
 Come, lad, cheer thee and be one of us again." 
 
 And so, coaxing, consoling, he at last brought 
 Robin Greene over to the rest of the players, red-eyed 
 and ashamed, and ordered one of the minor actors to 
 take him off to dinner and meet us later at the palace. 
 
 And then, with all his heart, he threw himself into 
 the work of getting our costumes and properties in 
 shape for temporary removal. I walked in a kind of 
 happy dream, and the other actors seemed in tune with 
 my mood. All were in high glee at the honor bestowed 
 upon Will and upon the company, and I was as joyous 
 as the rest for that reason and another. Finally, with 
 jests and laughter, we left the theatre, and with neither 
 mishap nor adventure reached the palace in good time. 
 
 All London knew that, after the Queen had eaten 
 her Michaelmas goose, the players were to entertain 
 her, and a large crowd had assembled in front of the 
 palace to welcome us. They shouted good-natured 
 jests at us, and the players returned their compliments
 
 with interest. In the palace, too, as we passed through 
 the various halls and apartments, we caused much ex- 
 citement and delight, although in gentler wise. Once 
 or twice I recognized a nobleman whom I had seen at 
 the Globe. The ladies' faces were all strange to me; 
 for no woman who valued her good name attended 
 the theatre. At last we entered the long hall in which 
 the play was to be given. Platform and curtains were 
 already there, and it was deserted, by the Queen's or- 
 ders, that we might make our preparations in peace. 
 Finally, after a busy half-hour, all arrangements were 
 completed, and word was sent to her Majesty that her 
 poor players stood ready to do her bidding. 
 
 Then, indeed, for the first time I felt an instant's 
 panic. Was I truly to look upon her glorious face, that 
 Queen of whom poets sung, before whom sages trem- 
 bled, at whose feet all men bowed in homage? Then, 
 suddenly, my agitation was stilled as quickly as it had 
 arisen. Will's comforting hand clasped mine. 
 
 "Courage, Cesario!" he exclaimed, aloud. "Thou 
 hast less cause for fear than any of us, thou'st played 
 thy part so well!" 
 
 His bright, tender smile, the double meaning in 
 his words, his furtive caress, calmed me and gave me 
 
 a 5 i
 
 confidence again. For his sake I could command my- 
 self. I smiled at him and lifted my head. 
 
 My courage had returned just in time. We heard 
 voices without, heralding the approach of the Queen. 
 An instant later the heavy doors were flung wide, and 
 through them swept a glittering throng of courtiers. 
 The players peeped through the curtains and beheld 
 the gay multitude take their places. The costumes of 
 both men and women were gorgeous, the jewels mag- 
 nificent. So noble an array of handsome men and 
 beauteous women I had never seen before, nor ever 
 would again. Will, standing by my side, named some 
 of them to me in a whisper. Yonder was Sir Philip 
 Sidney, England's ideal. There was Sir Walter 
 Raleigh, gentleman, adventurer, and friend of Edmund 
 Spenser, the poet, now in Ireland. Beside him stood 
 the Earl of Essex, fiery and impetuous, whom rumor 
 said the Queen loved well. There was Leicester, too, 
 another who sought her smiles, and Burleigh, pompous 
 and self-contained. That slender lad was young Fran- 
 cis Bacon. He scorned plays and players, but came 
 hither from policy because her Majesty loved them. 
 That fair lady was the Countess of Pembroke, Sidney's 
 
 sister; and yonder 
 
 252
 
 His whispered gossip came to an abrupt close. 
 The courtiers, with one accord, bent low their heads. 
 So did the players, though hidden by the curtains. 
 
 There was a cry of "Long live the Queen!" Then, 
 through the midst of that glittering, obeisant crowd, 
 she came, moving slow and stately. Her rich satin 
 robe surpassed the numerous magnificent gowns around 
 her. Her many jewels flashed a little world of light, 
 She held high her haughty, warm-hued head, and 
 walked with conscious grace. 
 
 So she came, through the light and the color and 
 the homage that she loved, and reached, at length, her 
 place ; stood there an instant, then sank into the carved 
 chair that awaited her. The court also seated them- 
 selves about and behind her. So she sat, imperious 
 and brilliant, the slender woman who held all England 
 in the strong white hand that lay idly on the chair- 
 arm, the sovereign and mistress of many loyal hearts, 
 Elizabeth, our Virgin Queen. 
 
 A courtier said something to her as she seated 
 herself. I did not catch his words, nor the reply, but 
 it must have been a sharp one, for he looked much 
 discomfited. A page tittered at his expression, and her 
 Majesty rewarded the saucy imp with a sharp box on
 
 the ear; then turned her bright, piercing eyes on Will, 
 as he stepped forward to speak the prologue. 
 
 "Thy name, Master Player," she called out sud- 
 denly, as he made his bow at its conclusion and was 
 about to retire. 
 
 Will told her, bending his knee. 
 
 "Will Shakespeare," she repeated. "Rise, Will. 
 'Tis my will that thou shouldst do so." She smiled 
 at the courtiers around her, and they laughed duti- 
 fully. "Proceed with thy play, Will, and if I will that 
 the play please me, perchance 'twill be my will to take 
 thee and thy companions under my protection." 
 
 "Ah, your Majesty " began Will, assuming an 
 
 expression of ecstatic delight. 
 
 "Proceed, Sir Player. The Court waits," she 
 crisply cut him short. 
 
 The combat between the rival Montagues and 
 Capulets and the succeeding scene followed. When it 
 ended we heard sounds of applause, led by the Queen, 
 and the soft, silvery comment of women's tongues 
 rising above the deeper accents of the men. That 
 pretty murmur was strange to me, accustomed to the 
 entirely male audiences at the Globe, always as rough 
 in their manifestations of approval as of disapproval. 
 
 354
 
 The play, so auspiciously begun, continued 
 smoothly, rapidly. I have had sadness in my life, but 
 also many happy days, thank God. Methinks, when I 
 say so, I thank Him both for the sorrow and the joy. 
 And of all the glad remembrances I have locked within 
 my memory, there is none more delightsome than that 
 afternoon at the palace, when, my sex unknown, I 
 played a double part before the Queen and the Court. 
 And those love scenes with Will, formerly such torture, 
 what delight were they now! The later ones of pain 
 and death alone were not ours. It seemed, that bright 
 day, that they could never be. And yet, if so 
 
 "Let love devouring death do what he dare, 
 It is enough I may but call her mine." 
 
 So Will, as Romeus, cried with passion, thinking 
 of me, I knew, and in my heart the words devoutly 
 were echoed. 
 
 The duel scene was difficult for us alL I was not 
 on the stage, but, standing at the side, I saw on Mar- 
 lowe's brow great drops of sweat, quite unwarranted 
 by his exertions. Robin Greene, beside me, for he had 
 no part in the play, of course, groaned and hid his 
 face in his hands. Marlowe, indeed, fenced so care- 
 ass
 
 fully that he had to be urged to put more spirit into 
 the duel, that it might not seem a farce. 
 
 At length, however, the trying scene was safely 
 concluded, and there began the entirely new part of 
 the play, the scenes which had never been given in 
 public, owing to the untimely ending of that first per- 
 formance. 
 
 The Queen had been watching me with special in- 
 tentness from the beginning. The other actors noticed 
 and commented upon this fact, and offered me laugh- 
 ing, although sincere, congratulations. Her steady 
 gaze made me slightly uncomfortable, for my part was 
 no more important than Will's, yet she did not look 
 at him so constantly. When, at length, Juliet drank 
 the Friar's potion, I was alone upon the stage, and just 
 as I lifted the phial to my lips the Queen's intent gaze 
 met mine again. I stammered a little over my part, 
 in sheer embarrassment, and almost dropped the tiny 
 bottle. 
 
 The play drew near its close. Juliet lay sleeping 
 in her death-like trance, and Romeus came to take his 
 last farewell. In the corpse-like rigidity of my atti- 
 tude I could not see the audience, but I felt the Queen's 
 bright, steady eyes still upon me. A few moments 
 
 256
 
 later, while I searched for Romeus's dagger, I noted 
 that her gaze yet intently followed all my actions. 
 
 Romeus and Juliet, the star-crossed lovers, lay at 
 rest. The play was ended. The curtains were drawn 
 together. In the babel of applause and conversation 
 that followed we heard the Queen's voice speaking 
 distinctly. 
 
 "Where is Will Shakespeare? Where is Romeus?" 
 
 Obeying the summons, Will passed out between 
 the curtains and stood before her. The rest of us 
 peeped, and saw her gazing at his noble figure criti- 
 cally. 
 
 "A fine play, Will Shakespeare," she said at length. 
 "Thou shall act others here, and often, if they prove 
 so good as this. Where is thy Juliet?" 
 
 Will came back for me, and I followed him, trem- 
 bling. We stood together before her. The jewels 
 sparkled bright upon her person, but her eyes outshone 
 them in hardness and brilliancy. Methought I should 
 not care to have those eyes turned on me in anger. 
 Yet withal, there was a certain graciousness about her, 
 an air of majesty and charm which made me dimly 
 understand at that moment why she could draw such 
 men and women around her. I knew, now, why she
 
 had excited tributes of loyalty and devotion so pas- 
 sionate from men whom no bribes could have forced 
 to adulation. She gazed at us both an instant with 
 that bright, penetrating gaze; then nodded to a cour- 
 tier. 
 
 "Clear the room," she said, imperiously. 
 
 "Your Majesty?" the nobleman faltered, thinking 
 he misunderstood. 
 
 "Clear the room," she repeated, "of all, of cour- 
 tiers and players alike. I would speak to Romeus and 
 Juliet alone." 
 
 In a few moments her command was obeyed. The 
 long, stately apartment was empty save for us three. 
 The Queen sat there, looking at me as she had done 
 in the play. I trembled, wondering what her steady 
 gaze meant. I never dreamed of the truth. At length 
 she spoke. 
 
 "What means this? A maid disguised as a man 
 among players?" 
 
 With a surprised exclamation I was bathed in 
 blushes as in a flame. I stood there, my head droop- 
 ing. Will gave a low, amused laugh, and put his arm 
 around me. 
 
 "We might have known it was impossible to de- 
 258
 
 ceive your Majesty," he said, tactfully, holding me 
 close the while. "I am the only player who knows 
 Juliet's sex. Your Majesty's eyes are keen." 
 
 "But why is this?" the Queen persisted, although 
 her face relaxed somewhat at Will's subtle flattery. 
 " 'Tis a scandal, were it known, Master Player." 
 
 "Nay, then," replied Will, readily; "you shall have 
 the tale, your Majesty, an it please you to listen. You 
 will find it another play, indeed." 
 
 Then, briefly, softly, eloquently, he narrated our 
 love-story as I have striven to write it here; but ah! 
 how infinitely more touching and tender it was on his 
 lips! 'Twas a tale, as he told it, to melt any woman's 
 heart. 
 
 When at last he had finished, the Queen sat gaz- 
 ing at him with a look of wonder and admiration. 
 Methought there were even tears in her bright eyes. 
 
 "A tale fit for a play, indeed," she said, and she 
 sighed a little; "a tale fit for a play, indeed." 
 
 She paused a moment. Then she added, more im- 
 pulsively than I yet had heard her speak: 
 
 "I am glad to know thee, Master Shakespeare, and 
 thee, also, madam," courteously to me. Then, more 
 calmly, "What dost intend to do with thy sweetheart,
 
 Master Shakespeare? The theatre is no place for a 
 woman." 
 
 "We return to Stratford to-morrow," I heard Will 
 answer, to my surprise. "I shall come back to London 
 as speedily as may be, and I hope for a continuance 
 of the favor your Majesty hath shown me to-day." 
 
 She smiled suddenly, graciously, and gave him her 
 hand to kiss. 
 
 "Thou hast it, sir," she said, "thou hast it, e'en 
 well, e'en for the sake of thy brave sweetheart, and 
 the tale that thou hast told so well. Ay, Will Shake- 
 speare, thou shalt be under my patronage henceforth, 
 and thy fortunes shall be my care." 
 
 She interrupted herself, still smiling: 
 
 "Nay," she said, graciously, "thy fortune is already 
 thine ; for this thy sweetheart is treasure rich enough." 
 
 She bent forward, in stately fashion, and kissed 
 me on the mouth. 
 
 "There, Mistress Shakespeare," she went on, "thou 
 canst say until thy dying day that thou bearest a 
 Queen's kiss upon thy lips. Go back to Stratford with 
 thy husband and let thy trust in him henceforth be 
 perfect. Such as he grow not on every bush. As for 
 thee, Will Shakespeare, shame consume thee if thou 
 
 260
 
 dost ever play her false! Soothly, methinks ye have 
 proved to the full each other's love and truth. Nay, 
 thank me no thanks. The play is well ended. Call in 
 the Court, Master Shakespeare."
 
 The next day, as Will 
 had told the Queen, we 
 
 started back to Stratford, 
 thereby creating much won- 
 derment among the players. 
 
 Master Jonson and Master Burbadge urged Will 
 strongly not to leave London just after his success at 
 the palace. He stood in his own light by so doing, 
 they said. But Will was firm. He could not explain 
 to them why he felt so sure of a continuance of her 
 Majesty's favor, nor make them understand why he 
 was so suddenly seized with a desire to visit Strat- 
 ford. Cesario, he said, he would take with him, be- 
 cause the lad had come from Stratford, and was home- 
 sick. It remained unknown that I was not to return 
 to London. 
 
 Ah, what a happy journey it was that we made 
 together, comrade-wise, from London to Stratford! 
 When I had come to the great city it had been spring- 
 time. The birds had sung love-notes on every bush 
 and tree. The tender flowers had been budding. All
 
 things had told of youth and hope and sweetness; and 
 yet my heart had been aged, and despairing, and bitter. 
 Now it was autumn, and the leaves had begun to fall. 
 The birds were hushed. The landscape spoke of 
 change, and sorrow, and death; yet my spirit sang for 
 joy within my bosom. True, change would come, and 
 sorrow, also, and death; yet what mattered it when I 
 had love immortal? 
 
 I kept my boy's disguise, for it was more con- 
 venient for the journey, and we would arrive at Strat- 
 ford at nightfall. As we rode together through the 
 beautiful autumn land it was as if the past months 
 were blotted out. Once more we paced through Strat- 
 ford roads to Charlcote, and talked eagerly of our love, 
 of Will's aspirations. And now we had also our child 
 to talk about and long for. 
 
 "Think, I have never seen her," Will said; "but 
 thy letters made her live for me. I wondered much 
 that none had come while I was ill, and had planned 
 to go to Stratford when the play at the palace was 
 safely over. Suppose I had not discovered thy sex, 
 and that I had carried out my idea. What wouldst 
 thou have done, Cesario?" His eyes twinkled as he 
 used my assumed name. 
 
 266
 
 "I know not," I answered, laughing, "but I would 
 have found a way to deceive thee still, had I chosen. 
 Trust woman's wit for that! No doubt the letters thou 
 hast sent to Stratford since my departure are still un- 
 opened, since my grandam can neither read nor write. 
 Poor grandam! Ah, Will, why is it? I am sorry now 
 for the grief and anxiety she must have suffered; yet 
 during all these months in London I have never 
 thought of her. And the child I love her dearly ; and 
 yet, when I made up my mind to come to thee, she 
 seemed as naught, and I cared not what became of 
 her. Why, Will, why?" 
 
 He shook his head, his calm and level gaze rest- 
 ing upon me, yet looking also beyond. 
 
 "Who knows?" he said. "Who knows? It was 
 to be. Tis all we understand. And it was well that 
 thou didst so. Let us thank God." 
 
 A moment later he spoke of the Countess. 
 
 "She has left London," he said. "She went while 
 we were at the palace. I heard it this morning from 
 Count William, who came to bid me farewell. He hath 
 followed her, and will go to the ends of the earth to 
 comfort and to succor her." 
 
 I thought of her with pity and with sorrow, and
 
 breathed a prayer for her and for the Count. Then 
 I looked once more on my dear love, and suddenly a 
 great wave of remorse rushed over me for my past 
 lack of faith in him, so noble and so true. I stretched 
 my hands towards him beseechingly. 
 
 "Forgive," I whispered. "Forgive " 
 
 He gave me one great, tender glance of love and 
 comprehension; then took both my hands in his, and 
 bent and kissed them with gentle reverence. 
 "Sweetheart!" he said. "Sweetheart!" 
 When at last we arrived in Shottery, tired and 
 travel-stained, we found a hearty welcome. How my 
 babe laughed and lisped childish words of joy at sight 
 of me, and smiled at her father, as if she had known 
 him all her life! How my grandam wept with delight 
 to see us both together again, and in happiness! How 
 we jested over my disguise, and what trouble I had 
 to remove the dye from my hair, the stain from my 
 face and hands ! At length it was agreed that I should 
 not appear in public for a few days, so that both might 
 have time to wear off. Meanwhile my grandam was 
 to announce among the gossips that I had returned, 
 quite recovered, from the place whither she had sent 
 me to heal my wandering wits. 
 
 268
 
 we et he 
 
 Ay, that was a happy journey, a blessed home- 
 coming. And, thank God, it was but the beginning 
 of many happy and blessed years. 
 
 The rest of oar love-story is so peaceful and joyous 
 that it can be told in a short space. Tis well that this 
 is so; for I fear me my chronicle hath already spread 
 beyond the limits that Master Jonson planned. 
 
 I am an old woman now, and I can look back and 
 say that the bliss that God hath granted me hath far 
 outweighed the bitterness that He saw fit also to send. 
 My shadowed girlhood, and those weary months when 
 I deemed Will false to me, were difficult, indeed, to 
 bear; but against them are set many happy years of 
 srnishire, and prosperity, and loyal love. The joy that 
 entered my life when Will first came into it was eclipsed 
 for a time, but it returned, a brighter light than ever, 
 to shine steadily, beneficently, unto the end. 
 
 We had our sorrows. Will's family never ap- 
 proved of me, and his mother refused always to look 
 upon me as a daughter. Will was a dutiful son, but 
 after that night at Charlcote he was scarce a loving 
 one. When at length she died, he attended her funeral 
 as an outsider. To his father he brought a renewal of 
 fortune, as his fame grew in London. 
 
 269
 
 In the course of time my grandam died, also; a 
 woman with whom life had dealt hardly, but who re- 
 ceived, I dare to hope, some compensation from my 
 perfect happiness. Will wept at her grave, as he had 
 not at his mother's. 
 
 Other children besides Susannah came to us ; twins, 
 Hamnet and Judith. Hamnet lived a few brief, bright, 
 boyish years, then passed to the Beyond. He was such 
 a child as his father must have been; and had he lived, 
 perhaps perhaps but I will not awaken an old sor- 
 row. In his innocence he went home to God. What 
 more dare I desire? Sometimes, during these latter 
 days, since Will has left me, I have thought what joy 
 it would be had I a son to lean upon a son with his 
 father's eyes, as Hamnet had. But God knows best. 
 If my checkered life has taught me nothing else, it has 
 taught me this. 'Tis an old lesson, but passing difficult 
 to learn. 
 
 There was much lamentation when Will first went 
 back to London without Cesario, and many inquiries 
 as to why and wherefore he had left me. Will replied, 
 with truth, that Cesario had been so well pleased to 
 reach home again that he had no desire to return to 
 London, and, moreover, that he was married. At the 
 
 270
 
 SI ftak^s PcareFl 
 
 last news the playct's raised a great shout of laughter, 
 remembering my boyish appearance, and they sent 
 their congratulations to me by Will when next he came 
 to Stratford. 
 
 The Queen kept her promise and gave Will's com- 
 pany her patronage. He became steadily more pros- 
 perous. I am glad to think that his genius alone would 
 have brought him fame in time; but the Queen's 
 gracious favor made his pathway smooth. 
 
 Several tunes her Majesty summoned him to a 
 secret ^"ijyf"*^ an(| mquiied after my well-being. Once 
 or twice die lent me a message, royal and gracious. 
 No hint of my diflguiae ever reached either London 
 or Stratford. Strangely, almost unexpectedly, the 
 secret was well kept. 
 
 But once in all those years we heard of the Count 
 and Countess. I know not now whether they still live; 
 or, if they are dead, what was their fate. A letter 
 came once to Will, several years after my return to 
 Stratford; a letter written from some sunny, retired 
 spot in Italy. It ran as follows, without heading or 
 signature : 
 
 **I am with her. *Tis enough. She is changed, 
 gentler and more tender; also, alas! more frail. I fear
 
 me she is not long for the earth. She bids me give 
 you both her blessing and farewell. 
 
 " 'That blessing comes from wicked lips,' she 
 added; 'but but the lips of St. Mary the Magdalen 
 were they not sacred after they had touched the feet 
 of our Lord? And I, weak and sinful, lie in the dust 
 before Him. Therefore, perhaps, e'en my benedic- 
 tion ' and with that she sighed, and would say no 
 
 more. 
 
 "We are not wedded. She would not have it so. 
 As a brother am I to her, ministering to her wants. 
 I come to see her each day, and each day she seems 
 nearer death. Thou, Will, who seest not as other men, 
 and thy sweetheart wife, who is above all women, save 
 one, in my thought you will understand that there is 
 no sin in our relations now, nor ever was between us 
 two. Pray for us, and farewell." 
 
 So abruptly the letter ended, and we never received 
 another. When those two, one scarlet-robed and 
 crowned with dusky tresses, the other golden-haired 
 and clad in blue the color of the sky when they 
 passed from our sight that day before Paul's, they also 
 went out of our lives forever. 
 
 As the years went on and Will's prosperity grew, 
 272
 
 however, I again saw other faces which had grown 
 
 dear to me in London. Will bought New Place and 
 established his family therein. Thus I came, an hon- 
 ored and wealthy matron, into the town where, as a 
 nameless child, I had been glanced at askance, and 
 served in menial wise. Mistress Quickly rejoiced over 
 my rise in the world, and fussed over the children to 
 her heart's content. Good, homely friend, God bless 
 her! 
 
 Many of Will's comrades, after he had a home of 
 his own, were invited to enjoy his hospitality, and so 
 I met again stately Burbadge, and comical Kempe, 
 kindly Jonson, and reckless Marlowe, young Greene 
 and all the rest. Not one of them, however, ever 
 recognized Cesario, the page, in Anne Shakespeare, 
 the matron. The first time any came I trembled lest 
 they should do so; but my fears were groundless. Sev- 
 eral years had passed. My hair was once more golden 
 and my skin fair. Moreover, none suspected the truth. 
 Once or twice some of them asked Will if he ever 
 saw Cesario, and he always replied, solemnly, that he 
 thought the lad must have moved to another part of 
 the country, since he had disappeared so entirely; and 
 this ended the matter.
 
 My daughters grew up and were wedded; first 
 Susannah, then Judith. The latter, Will's favorite, 
 was married shortly before his death, and he took 
 much pleasure in arranging the details of the cere- 
 mony. She was a saucy wench, with yellow hair and 
 sparkling blue eyes; and he delighted in teasing her 
 and listening to her apt replies. Ah, well, both she 
 and Sue are good girls and made happy marriages. 
 Their joy in their husbands and their households glad- 
 dens me whenever I visit them. 
 
 Although I still live in the body, my true life ended 
 five years ago, or, rather, waits for me in Paradise. 
 For, as I said in the beginning, it is five years since 
 he left us and the world that loves and mourns him 
 still. His end was untimely, for he was in vigorous 
 health, apparently, and it seemed as if he would live 
 many years. One day he was laughing and jesting 
 with some of his London friends as they supped to- 
 gether in the garden. The next he lay in mortal ill- 
 ness. 
 
 The disease, whatever it may have been, was 
 speedy in its course. He soon sank into a stupor 
 whence naught could rouse him save my voice. He 
 knew me and responded to my call until the end 
 
 274
 
 which came all too rapidly, a few days after he was 
 stricken. 
 
 It was midnight and I was alone with him. The 
 house was very still. I felt that death was near. My 
 eyes were fixed on his face in passionate entreaty, my 
 hand was clasped in his. Suddenly he awoke, and 
 knew me, for he smiled. Then his gaze left my face 
 and rested on the starlit world without. 
 
 'Twas a perfect spring night. The full moon rode 
 glorious in the heavens. The stars were a vast multi- 
 tude about her. The murmur of the Avon sounded full 
 and clear. So he lay an instant, drinking in with his 
 dying senses the beauty of the world that he had loved 
 so well. Then, quite clearly and distinctly, ere his 
 eyes closed for the last time, he spoke 
 
 "Forever!" he said; and then again, more faintly, 
 "Forever! Forever!" 
 
 But whether he spoke of our undying love, or of 
 the immortal beauty of the world, or of that strange 
 new Life and Love that he was fast approaching 
 who shall say? 
 
 His London comrades and his Stratford friends 
 came to the funeral, and he was buried with much 
 honor in the chancel of our little church. There was 
 
 275
 
 sore weeping and heartfelt grief ; for all who knew him 
 loved him right well. As I stood beside his burial 
 place I realized that all my heart was there; and that, 
 although my body might live on many years, my soul 
 was in communion with his eternally henceforth in 
 the Beyond. 
 
 So there, in the quiet Stratford church by the river, 
 he lies, and there he will rest forever. No rude, un- 
 hallowed hand will seek to disturb his helpless dust, 
 and so invoke the curse he has called down in his 
 epitaph on any who dares remove his bones from that 
 quiet resting-place. As some saint's relic, that hal- 
 lowed dust makes Stratford sacred; and many pilgrims 
 will travel hither to do him honor in the years to 
 come. 
 
 And for me I am not and cannot be altogether 
 desolate. My daughters are married and away, but 
 they come often and are dutiful girls. Yet it is not 
 their presence that keeps me from loneliness. 'Tis 
 rather the voices of the wind and the river, which 
 speak of him constantly to me. It is the glory of the 
 moon and the stars in midnight majesty which makes 
 live for me once more that mysterious last hour of his 
 upon earth. It is the tranquil twilight when, sitting 
 
 276
 
 alone, I were not surprised to see him rise from among 
 the shadows. Ah, no, I am not lonely! He is always 
 very near. Loving me in life, he could not, even in 
 death, desert me. Such is my Credo and my comfort. 
 
 My chronicle is ended. There are many things 
 in it that will greatly surprise Master Jonson. Per- 
 haps, when he has finished it, he will think best that it 
 be not published. That is as he pleases. It matters 
 not to me. I have finished the task he set me, and 
 now I may rest. 
 
 Rest grows very sweet as life draws near its close. 
 Ah, eternal rest, when wilt thou come to me? Empty 
 world, when shall I leave thee? Will's last words have 
 been echoing often in my mind of late. Oh, hasten, 
 blessed time, when I shall have my heart's desire and 
 see his face again; when love and life both shall be 
 mine forever !
 
 Mistress Shakespeare's 
 revelation is a great sur- 
 prise to me, as she antici- 
 pated. None of us ever 
 dreamed that Cesario was 
 aught else than he appeared. 
 
 We regretted his untimely departure, and often said 
 that he had played his part as if he were indeed a 
 woman. We meant it for idle compliment. Behold, 
 it was true! 
 
 Methought Mistress Shakespeare's chronicle would 
 be a few brief pages ; and see its bulk ! Verily, women's 
 ways are strange. She hath poured out her very heart 
 in this volume, careless who shall behold it. Shall I, 
 for Will's sake, for her sake, make it public? 
 
 I cannot, alas! consult with her about it, nor ad- 
 vise alterations and omissions. A week or two ago, 
 shortly after she had finished this history, she died, 
 quite suddenly and painlessly, Will's name upon her 
 lips. She had had many trials, yet she was a happy 
 woman. Will Shakespeare's wife could not be other- 
 wise. I shall not soon forget the smile of perfect joy 
 
 281
 
 and peace that rested on her dead face when her body 
 lay prepared for burial. 
 
 None knows of the existence of this manuscript 
 save myself. Shall I destroy it, or 
 
 Soothly, I will leave it for time to decide. The 
 problem is too great for me to solve. In the cellar of 
 the Mermaid there is a secret underground vault. Few 
 know of its existence. In an obscure corner there, in 
 an air-tight box, I will deposit this chronicle. Then, 
 if it ever be discovered, well. If not, let it moulder in 
 obscurity. Time shall decide. 
 
 They are together again. None can wish them 
 greater happiness, not even I, who loved them right 
 well. Rest peacefully, thou Star of Poets, and thou 
 Star of Women. The world will never know your like. 
 Some day, perhaps, I shall meet ye both again. 
 Towards that hope my spirit yearns. Meanwhile the 
 world is dark without you. Until we meet again, fare- 
 well, Will, dear comrade and poet; farewell, Anne 
 Hathaway, Shakespeare's Sweetheart.
 
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