It was not, however, the worldly advantages of a player’s calling that were making their appeal to Gervase. No doubt they were considerable, for both of these men had prosperity written upon them. It was not for these things that he cared, however, nor overmuch for his own ease and security. But for Anne, poor brave Anne who was already beginning to fail from sheer fatigue, it would mean a far gentler way of life.
When, however, Gervase came to consider the alternative that was offered he could not be blind to its perils. It was bound to mean a life of publicity, in places moreover in which he was likely to be known. No; the more thought he gave to the matter, the clearer his conviction grew that it would add tenfold to their dangers if they threw in their lot with the Lord Chamberlain’s men.
Gervase liked so well these honest, genial and courteous fellows and the gay, free and pleasant life they offered that it went to his heart that he could not answer in the way he would have chosen. What a boon such a life would have been, what a relief from the hard road and the open sky! Day by day their case was growing worse. But they must not yield to these beguilements so long as they set any value on their lives.
It was with much reluctance that in the end Gervase informed the players that he and his companion could not throw in their lot with the Lord Chamberlain’s servants. They were sensible of the liberal offer that had been made to them; they expressed all proper gratitude for it, but their business lay otherwhere.
The playwright in particular was much disappointed. Already he had begun to count upon a couple of most promising recruits. The shy grace, the light-flanked slenderness of the younger gypsy had especially intrigued that perceiving eye. But it was in vain that Shakespeare pointed out the advantages such a mode of life afforded over their present one. It was in vain that he assembled all the glowing colors of his fancy to depict it.
“I would, sir, that we might do as you wish,” said Gervase, with a deep sigh.
The keen-witted player was quick to notice the wistful tone of the voice, the look of pain in the eyes. All at once it came into his mind that this young man was not what he appeared to be.
Surely he had seen this young man before. For the life of him he could not then say when it was or where, but he had not the least doubt that he had met him in very different circumstances. Yet his delicacy of mind was such that the knowledge that he had come to the threshold of a mystery made him less insistent than he would have been otherwise.
Presently with many sincere expressions of gratitude Anne and Gervase took the road again. As Shakespeare watched them depart his professional feelings got the better of him. “Dick,” he said to his faithful henchman, “I am sore to see them go. No two such springalds as those, so fair, sweet and likely, have I seen for a month o’ Sundays.”
“It may be so,” said Richard Burbage sagely.