CHAPTER XIX
MEANWHILE William Shakespeare had gone in quest of Richard Burbage, that fidus Achates whose counsel was often invoked by this eager, but, at times, irresolute spirit. Now, however, Shakespeare was fully determined to help these ill-starred fugitives to the utmost of his power.
To render aid that should be in any way effective was likely to prove a supremely difficult matter. The most obvious thing to be done was to give them money enough to enable them to fly the country. Such a course offered a strong temptation at the moment. But when Shakespeare came to consider all the consequences that would follow upon it he put it out of his mind. At the back of his thoughts was ever the distraught figure of the falconer, the unhappy man whom he had been compelled to deceive. If Heriot fled the country Sir John Feversham would lose his life. No, the hour was not yet for such an irrevocable step. “But, my friend,” whispered a sinister voice, too often heard in that overwrought brain, “you of all men have reason to know that delays are dangerous!”
Alas he was face to face once more with the old sore problem—the problem of how to make up his mind. Once more he began to see too much of this grievous matter, as he saw too much of all things. He owed it to himself that he should do all in his power to help this unlucky pair. But no hurt must be done to the falconer, or to the honorable man his master, who lay in the Tower in such tragic case.
The playwright, in the toils of an irresolution as great as he had ever known, went to seek the tragedian in his favorite place, which was the pleasant garden at the back of the inn. Fortune favored him, inasmuch that Richard Burbage was found to be seated on a bench in the ample shade of a yew tree.
The manager was alone, and with the aid of a pipeful of the new Indian weed which seldom failed to excite the wit of his peers, was diligently conning the acting parts of the new comedy to be given a fortnight hence in the Queen’s presence.
“William Shakespeare,” said Burbage, looking up as the shadow of the playwright was cast across the page, “let these young fools say what they please, but my belief is you have never written anything choicer.”
“I am glad to hear you say that, Dick,” said the playwright, who spoke, however, as if his thoughts were elsewhere. “If I could have taken another fortnight to it perhaps it might have been tolerable, but as it is I am afraid it is a poor thing.”
“The thing is good enough,” said Burbage robustly. “It is full of most excellent fantasy. The fact is, some of these fools have not wit enough for a thing of such delicacy.”
The playwright shook his head. “Yes, Dick,” he said, “but a man makes a great mistake when he gets above the crowd. There should be something for all the world and his wife in a comedy.”