"No," he replied, "nor have I found the task an easy one. Much have I written, but 'tis all too slight. Can you complete these lines, think you?"

"My life upon it!" she cried, eagerly.

He shook his head, smiling incredulously.

"You scarce know what you promise," he said. "Can one so young--a damsel, too--sound to its bitter deeps the soul of Hamlet!"

"Think you so?" Phoebe replied, her eyes sparkling. "Then what say you to a bargain, Master Shakespeare? You know where Sir Guy Fenton may be found?"

"Ay, right well! 'Tis a matter of one hour's ride."

"So I thought," she said. "Hear, then, mine offer. I must perforce convey a message straight that touches the life and honor of Sir Guy. To send my servant were over-dangerous, for there may be watchers on my going and coming. Will you go, sir, without delay, if that I speak for you the missing lines completing young Hamlet's soliloquy?"

Shakespeare looked into her face for a few moments in silence.

"Why, truly," he said at last, "I have here present business with my fellow-player Burbidge." He paused, and then, yielding to the pleading in her eyes: "Yet call it a bargain, mistress," he said. "Speak me the lines I lack and straightway will I take your word to Sir Guy."

"Now blessings on thee!" cried Phoebe. "Give me straight the line you last have written."

At once the poet began:

"When he himself might his quietus make----"

"With a bare bodkin"--broke in the excited girl. "Who would fardels bear, to grunt and sweat beneath a weary life, but that the thought of something after death--the undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveller returns--puzzles the will, and makes us rather bear the ills we have than fly to others that we know not of. Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, and so the native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, and enterprises of great pith and moment by this regard their currents turn awry and lose the name of action."

"No more--no more!" cried Shakespeare, in an ecstasy. "More than completely hast thou made thy bargain good, damsel unmatchable! What!

Can it be! Why here have we the very impress of young Hamlet's soul--'To grunt and sweat beneath a weary life'--feel you not there compunction and disgust, seeing in life no cleanly burden, but a 'fardel' truly, borne on the greasy shoulders of filthy slaves!"

He turned and paced back and forth upon the gravel, repeating without mistake and with gestures and accents inimitable the lines which Phoebe had dictated. She watched him, listening attentively, conscious that what she saw and heard, though given in a moment, were to be carried with her forever; convinced as well that she was for something in this, and thankful while half afraid.

Reaching the end of the soliloquy, Shakespeare turned to the maiden, who was still standing, backed by the warm color of a group of peonies.

"Nay, but tell me, damsel," he cried, appealingly. "Explain this power!

Art thou, indeed, no other than Mary Burton?"

How refuse this request? And yet--what explanation would be believed?

Perhaps, if she had time, she thought, some intelligible account of the truth would occur to her.

"And have you forgot your bargain so soon?" she said, reproachfully shaking her head. "Away, friend, away! Indeed, the matter is urgent and grave. If, when you return, you will ask for Mary Burton, knowing your task fulfilled, she may make clear for you what now must rest in mystery."

"You say well," he replied. "Give me your message, and count fully on Will Shakespeare to carry it with all despatch and secrecy."

Phoebe's face grew grave as she thought of all that depended on her messenger. She stepped closer to her companion and glanced to right and left to make sure they were still alone. Then, drawing from her finger a plain gold ring, she offered it to her companion, who took it as she spoke.

"If you will show this to Sir Guy," she said, "he will know that the case is serious. It beareth writing within the circle--'Sois fidele'--do you see?"

"Be faithful--ay."

"'Twill be an admonition for you both," said Phoebe, with a faint smile. "Tell him to be in the lane behind the Peac.o.c.k garden at sunset to-morrow even with two good horses, one for himself and one for me.

Tell him to come alone and to travel by back ways. Bid him in my name--in G.o.d's name--close till then, trusting in me that there is need.

Tell him to obey now, that later he may have the right to command."

"Good!" said Shakespeare. "And now good-by until we meet again."

A parting pressure of the hand, and he turned to go to the stables. She stood by the fountain musing, her eyes fixed on the entrance gate of the garden until at length a horseman galloped past. He rose in his stirrups and waved his hand. She ran forward, swept by a sudden dread of his loss, waving her hands in a pa.s.sionate adieu.

When she reached the gate no one was in sight.

CHAPTER XIII

HOW THE FAT KNIGHT DID HOMAGE

On Rebecca's arrival with the royal attendants at Greenwich Palace, the Queen had ordered that she be given a splendid suite of apartments for her own use, and that she be constantly attended by a number of young gentlewomen a.s.signed to her establishment. The news soon spread through the palace that an American princess or empress had arrived, and she was treated in every way on the footing of a sort of inferior royalty.

Elizabeth invited her to share every meal with her, and took delight in her accounts of the manners and customs of the American aborigines.

As for Rebecca, she finally yielded to the conviction that Elizabeth was not Victoria, and found it expedient to study her companions with a view to avoiding gross breaches of etiquette. Of these, the first which she corrected was addressing Elizabeth as "Mrs. Tudor."

In twenty-four hours the shrewd and resourceful New England woman was able to learn many things, and she rapidly found her bearings among the strange people and stranger inst.i.tutions by which she was surrounded.

Seated in her own "presence chamber," as she called it, surrounded by her civil and a.s.siduous attendants, she discovered a charm in being constantly taken care of which was heightened by the contrast which it presented with her usually independent habits of life. The pleasing effect of novelty had never more strongly impressed her.

Her anxiety in Phoebe's behalf had been dispelled when she learned that Isaac Burton was expected at the palace, and was to bring his family with him. With diplomatic shrewdness, she resolved to improve every opportunity to win the Queen's favor, in order that when the time came she might have the benefit of her authority in removing her younger sister from her pretended relatives.

It was about five in the afternoon of the day succeeding her adventure on the Thames, and Rebecca sat near a window overlooking the entrance court. She was completing the knitting upon which she had been engaged when Droop made his first memorable call on her in Peltonville.

On either side of Rebecca, but on stools set somewhat lower than her chair, were her two favorites, the Lady Clarissa Bray, daughter of Walter Bray, Lord Hunsforth, and the Honorable Lady Margaret Welsh, daughter of the Earl of March.

Clarissa was employed in embroidering a stomacher whose green, gold, and russet set off her dark curls very agreeably. The Lady Margaret was playing a soft Italian air upon the cithern, which she managed with excellent taste, to the entertainment of her temporary mistress and her half dozen attendants.

Rebecca's needles moved in time with the graceful measure of the music, while her head nodded in unison, and she smiled now and then.

As the air was concluded she let her hands sink for a moment into her lap, turning to bend an approving look upon the fair young musician.

"There, now!" she said. "I declare, Miss Margaret, that's real sweet music. I'm much obliged to ye, I'm sure."

Margaret arose and courtesied, blushing.

"Would your Highness that I play again?" she asked.

"No, thank ye," said Rebecca, resuming her knitting. "The's no sort o'

use in drivin' folks to death as are kind to ye. Sit right down an' rest now, an' I'll tell ye all a story thet hez a bearin' right on that point."

She turned to the four maids of honor seated behind her.