"Elope!" Locke gave out a barking laugh. "What nonsense! What earthly reason would he have to do such a damned fool thing?"
"Because the father of the prospective bride has now withdrawn his consent to the marriage and forbidden Thomas ever to see or speak with her again," Smythe replied.
"And we have heard this from your son's own lips this day." added Shakespeare.
Locke frowned and lowered his staff. "Indeed? And did he tell you why Mayhew has done this?"
Smythe hesitated slightly, then replied, "He said 'twas because his mother is a Jew."
For a moment, Locke simply stood there, saying nothing. His already stormy countenance betrayed little more response. Then he finally replied. "If you are lying about this because you are bent upon some sort of mischief, then so help me Almighty God, I shall have your hearts cut out."
Shakespeare swallowed nervously and turned a shade paler. Smythe merely returned Locke's steely, level gaze. "Sir, I know full well just who you are, and that you are fully capable of making good upon your threat. Given that knowledge, then, consider how foolish we would have to be to play at making mischief for a man such as yourself."
Locke's gaze never wavered. He merely nodded once, then curtly said, "Why do you come to me with this? What concern is it of yours? Did you hope to gain some favour or ask for something in return for imparting this most unfortunate news?"
"Indeed, sir," Shakespeare began, "the truth of the matter is that we had thought the doing of a favour for a man in your particular position could be of some considerable benefit to struggling players such as ourselves, and —"
Smythe interrupted him before he could continue. "Nay, the truth, sir, is that 'twas all my fault and, as such, my conscience did bid me cry to make amends."
"Oh, Good Lord…" muttered Shakespeare, rolling his eyes. "Explain yourself," said Locke curtly.
In as few words as possible, because he could clearly see that Locke would not have any patience for long-winded explanations, Smythe described how it happened that he advised Thomas to dope with Portia if he truly believed that he could not bear to live without her. Locke listened impassively. When Smythe was finished, he took a deep breath and exhaled heavily. He looked down at the ground for a moment, as if digesting everything that he had heard and considering it carefully, then he looked up once again, fixing Smythe with a very direct, unsettling gaze. The wind from the river had picked up, and as it blew the old man's hair back, away from his face, and plucked at his dark, coarse woollen cloak, Smythe thought he looked for all the world like some biblical prophet, an angry Moses about to cast his staff down before the pharaoh.
"Methinks you are a man who does not shy from the consequences of his actions," he said to Smythe. "I respect that. But there is one thing that you have not yet told me, and that is why you saw fit to offer your opinion on this matter to my son, who was essentially a stranger to you."
"I suppose 'twas meddlesome of me," said Smythe, with a self-conscious grimace. "But in truth, at the time we spoke, I did not truly realize why I had done so. My friend here helped me to comprehend my motives, which I myself had not considered. Like your son, I also am in love, but sadly, with one who is much above my station. And whilst my own situation is not quite the same as that of your son, in that this woman's father, owing me a debt of gratitude, does not forbid our friendship, yet that friendship is the only sort of bond he can permit.
In hearing your son's anguish over being forbidden to wed or even see the girl he loved so deeply, I took it much to my own heart and counselled him to do that which, perhaps under different circumstances, I wished that I could do myself."
Locke nodded. "I see," he said. "Well… I can understand that, perhaps better than you know." He looked off into the distance for a moment, in reflection, and then continued. "I must ask your pardon, gentlemen. I would invite you both to come inside, but I do not wish to distress my dear wife with this most untimely and unfortunate news."
"We understand completely, sir," said Smythe. "Would there be anything more that we… or that I could do to be of service to you in this matter?"
"I am tempted to say that you have already done more than enough," said Locke dryly, "and yet, young Master Smythe, I shall not hold you entirely to blame, for I know my own son. He is possessed of a passionate temper, much like his mother, and what he feels, he feels most deeply. I believe that had you not mentioned elopement as a possible course for him to take, then he would doubtless have come to it on his own. And knowing what my reaction would have been, to say naught of how his mother would respond, he never would have told us. Nor would Mayhew have sent any word to us concerning his decision, so I would have continued on in ignorance of how things stood until 'twas much too late." He nodded to himself. "There is one thing you can do for me, and I would be indebted to you for that favour."
"You have but to name it, sir, and if 'tis within my power, then it shall be done," said Smythe.
"Find my son," said Locke. "I do not wish to see him throw away everything that he has worked for all these years. In time, I believe, he would regret doing so himself: although now, impassioned as he is, doubtless he cannot think so clearly. There are certain things that I can do to prevent him from making such a costly error if he should choose to continue on this course regardless of my wishes, but I shall need some time to make arrangements. In the meantime, find him for me, and communicate to him my feelings on this matter. Remind him also of my love for him, and in particular that of his mother, and bid him consider the effect that this would have upon her."
"I should be glad to do so," Smythe replied.
"I shall tell you of some places where he may be found," said
Locke. "He is most regular in his habits, and with luck you shall not take long in finding him. The first place you must seek him is the tailor shop of Master Leffingwell…"
"Well, here is another fine mess you have got us into," Shakespeare grumbled, folding his arms across his chest and huddling in his cloak as the small boat bobbed up and down in the choppy current of the Thames. "Pray tell, why is it that you always have to go sticking your nose into other people's business?"
Smythe sighed. "I am sorry, Will. You are quite right, of course. The entire matter was really none of my concern. Thomas is Ben's friend, not ours, and I should, indeed, have kept my foolish mouth shut. I apologise. I truly do."
"Well… we still have some time before our next performance," Shakespeare said, although he sounded a bit dubious. "With any luck, we shall find Thomas at his master's shop, pass on his father's message, and then make it back across the river to the theatre by the first trumpet call."
"I hope so, but I am not so certain," Smythe replied. "We may be cutting it a bit too close. For certain, we shall miss rehearsal."
"Never fear," said the grizzled wherry-man, in a gruff and raspy voice, without missing a stroke as he rowed them across. "'Twill rain cats 'n' dogs within the hour. Ye won't be havin' any show this night, ye can be sure O' that."
Smythe glanced up at the sky. "'Tis a bit gray, indeed," he said,
"but how can you be so certain?"