The Merchant of Vengeance (Shakespeare & Smythe 4)

"What do you mean?" asked Thomas. "How could it be otherwise?"

"If you truly cannot bear to lose her, and if she is, indeed, your world, your life, your breath, then methinks that you must take the measure of her love," said Smythe.

"Speak then, and tell me how," said Thomas, looking up at him intently.

"You must find a way to see her so that you can ask her how she truly feels," said Smythe. "If she truly loves you as you believe she does, as you say you love her, and if your love for one another is truly as great and all-encompassing as you believe, why then, you could elope and make your way to some place where you could live your lives together, as you wish, without hindrance from her father."

"You are right!" said Thomas, banging his fist upon the table. "You give sound counsel, friend! That is just what I shall do!"

"Well now, wait, Thomas," Dickens said, glancing at Smythe and taking Thomas by the arm as he got quickly to his feet. "Stay a moment and do not act too rashly. Before your passion drives you to take a course you may regret, consider that you have now nearly completed your apprenticeship. And what is more, your work has begun to attract favourable notice here in London. One year more and you shall become a journeyman, and you shall

be well on your way to making a good life for yourself."

"But what good would any of that be without the woman that I love?" asked Thomas.

"What good would having the woman that you love be without having the means to properly provide for her?" Dickens countered. "And that is something that Portia should consider, also. 'Tis always best to think with your head and not your heart."

"That is a simple enough thing for you to say, Ben," said Thomas, "for you have married the woman that you loved. Your happiness is now assured, and you may think of other things. But I can think. of nothing else but Portia and how I cannot bear to go another day without her!" He turned to Smythe. "Thank you, my friend, for your good counsel and your understanding. I shall do as you advise. And if her love for me is true, as I believe her love to be, then we together shall determine what our course must be!"

He clapped Smythe on the shoulders and hurried out the door. Shakespeare sighed. "The course of true love never did run smooth," he muttered, "for love is blind and lovers cannot see."

"What?" said Smythe. "Why do you look upon me so, Ben, with such a February face, so full of frost and storm and cloudiness?"

"I shall wager that he thinks what I am thinking, Tuck," said Shakespeare, with a disapproving grimace, "that you have just done poor Thomas a profound disservice. If that wench is as besotted with him as he is with her, then they shall doubtless follow your advice and run away together, and thus they will ruin both their lives."

"But why?" asked Smythe. "Why should their lives be ruined if they are both together and in lover I should think they would be happy!"

"They would, indeed, be together and in love and happy at the very first," said Shakespeare wryly, "but at the same time, they would be together and in love and poor. For a time, a short time, they could live on love, but ere long, there would doubtless be children from that love, and then they would be together and in love and poor and hungry and with children, and not long after that, they would be together and poor and hungry and with children and unhappy. And soon thereafter, they would be together and poor and hungry and with children and miserable with one another, a state commonly known to one and all as a settled marriage."

"I am well familiar with your thoughts on marriage, Will," said Smythe defensively, "but they are not shared by one and all. There are people who find happiness in being together, even if they are poor and hungry and struggling to survive, for being together in such circumstances is a far better thing than being alone."

"And what of all the years that he has spent in labouring at his apprenticeship?" asked Dickens. "If he runs off with Portia, he shall be throwing all of that away. Why, within a year, his term as an apprentice will have been completed and he would then be free to open his own shop. Already, his work has gained favour with a number of wealthy customers who would have helped his business grow and prosper. In a few years, he would have been successful on his own, perhaps even a wealthy man. And if this Portia was not deemed good enough for him right now, why, in a few years' time, there would have been a plentiful supply of eager, marriageable young wenches all vying for his favour, without regard to questions of his lineage."

"And if his heart were broken from losing the one woman that he loved!" Smythe asked. "Then what good would all those eager wenches be?"

"Forgive the lad," said Shakespeare, "he knows not whereof he speaks."

"If you believe that I was wrong in what I said to Thomas."

Smythe said, "then why do you not go after him and tell him so?"

"Because I know Thomas well enough to know that once he sets his mind on something, he cannot be dissuaded," Dickens replied. "And because, Tuck, I know all too well how foolish a young man in love can be. 'Twas only a few years ago that I was that young man, and I had set my mind upon a course that took me off to foreign wars in the mistaken notion that I would return wealthy from the spoils. As it happened, I was fortunate to have returned at all, and in one piece. Yet back then, I turned deaf ears to all the prudent counsel I received, as now Thomas turns deaf ears to mine."

"Then why does my counsel bear more weight with him than yours, a man who knows him better?" Smythe replied.

"Because you have shown him a way that he may achieve his heart's desire," Dickens said.

"Mayhap not so much his heart, methinks, as some vital organ lower down," said Shakespeare wryly.

"Oh, that was base," said Smythe. "Anyone can see that Thomas is very much in love."

"Is it Thomas that you are truly thinking of or is it not yourself?" asked Shakespeare, raising his eyebrows.

"What? What do you mean?" asked Smythe.

"Methinks that Thomas finds himself in a situation not all that much unlike your own," Shakespeare replied. "You are hopelessly moonstruck over Elizabeth Darcie, whose father, while he does not forbid your friendship, would never grant consent to proper courtship. She is much too valuable a piece of goods to waste upon the likes of you, when she might still attract and wed a wealthy gentleman or, better still, a nobleman. And because he knows that you are an honourable young man, and also because he is indebted to you, Henry Darcie permits you to see his pretty daughter, whom he trusts not to do anything foolish. Thus, you two have a friendship made piquant by the pain of exquisite frustration, where you both yearn for what you both know you cannot have. Now here comes young Thomas, plagued with another Henry, less tolerant than yours, and for that, perhaps, less cruel. You hear his story, and you are moved to counsel him to do that which you wish that you could do yourself, but know that you cannot. You counselled Thomas not for his sake, but for yours. He heard your counsel; and not Ben's, because when one is in love, one hears only that which one wishes to hear. Now he has gone to do that which he wishes to do."

"For that you lay the blame with me!" asked Smythe, glancing from Will to Ben and back again.