The Merchant of Vengeance (Shakespeare & Smythe 4)

"Coney-catching!" said his father. "Now, see here—"

"Nay, sir, you see here," Smythe interrupted him with a fierce intensity. It was only through great force of will that he was able to refrain from shouting. "I shall not do it. Can you understand that, sir? 'Tis important to me that I make my meaning very clear to you. I shall not have anything to do with this at all. What you plan to do is wrong, sir. 'Tis immoral and outrageous, unlawful in the eyes of God and man, and I cannot believe that you would think, even for one moment, that I could ever go along with it. 'Tis a vile scheme that you propose, and knowing what I know of you, I can only think that there is but one purpose to it. You seek to enrich yourself through this marriage so that you might regain all the money you have squandered, and, in the process of so doing, you shall ruin and bring shame upon some poor and blameless woman and her family who have never done aught to you save given you their trust. I am appalled, sir, that you would even consider such a shameful course, much less come to me with this request."

"Do you mean to say that you would refuse your own father?"

Smythe stood up so quickly and so forcefully that the bench he sat upon went crashing to the floor. "My God, sir, have you heard nothing that I said?"

An irritated and rather put-upon expression came over his father's face. He gave one of his characteristic disdainful sniffs, a gesture that he presumed made him appear aristocratic. "Well, I see that you are determined to be quite unreasonable about this," he replied, as if what he was asking were a perfectly reasonable thing. "I would have thought that a son would see it as his duty to support his father in seeking some solace and companionship in his old age and embarking upon a new course in life, but 'twould seem that you do not care about such things. So be it, then. I shall trouble you no longer."

"Would that I could have that surety in writing," Smythe replied.

His father stood and drew himself up stiffly, throwing one side of his cloak back over his shoulder in a cavalier manner. "I will have you know tint this marriage should set me up

quite well, quite well, indeed. You might do well to consider that, Symington. You might do well to consider that, indeed. I am still a gentleman, whatever you may think of me, and despite having suffered some misfortune of late, a knighthood is not yet beyond my grasp."

"Oh, Father, you are dreaming," Smythe replied, shaking his head. "You could have been satisfied with what you had. Methinks most men would have gladly traded places with you. You had a small yet very comfortable estate, a goodly amount of money, a young and pretty wife— who married you for that money, although you did not seem to mind that very much—and you had finally managed to obtain your precious escutcheon and become a proper gentleman."

He paused for a moment, thinking he could also have added that he had a son who had once wanted very much to love him, but whose love was never deemed important. However, he decided not to say that, because he knew that it would serve no purpose.

Instead, he said, "One would think. that all these things would have been enough to satisfy most any man. But not you. And in truth, Father, I have never understood why not. Uncle Thomas had ever so much less than you, and yet he always thought he had a great deal more. In time, I came to understand that he did have a great deal more, indeed, because he knew how to be grateful for all the things he had, rather than lust for all the things he lacked." He shook his head. "Nay, I will not help you in this, Father. You were wise… or perhaps 'crafty' would be more appropriate, methinks to be careful not to tell me the name of this unfortunate woman upon whose estate you have designs, for if I knew her name, then rest assured that I would seek her out and warn her about you. And I would entreat her family most urgently to bar their doors against you, for you are a scoundrel, sir, and I am ashamed to call myself your son."

His father gazed at him with scorn, his lips compressed into a tight and angry grimace. For a moment, they simply stared at one another, and then Smythe had to look away, for he could not bear to face that smug, superior, and unrepentant gaze. It was too painful. Finally, his father spoke.

“I see how matters stand between us, then," he said in a tone of affronted dignity. "Apparently, it does not shame you to associate with scalawags and strumpets, but it shames you to be my son. Very well, then, I shall free you of that noisome burden." He lifted his chin and uttered his next words as a pronouncement of the utmost gravity. "You may consider yourself disowned."

Smythe sighed wearily. "You have already disowned me once before, Father, when I left home for London. Yet you conveniently managed to forget that when you came to me last time to ask for money and I gave you all I had. And I suppose, when all is said and done, that compasses it all between us. I gave you all I had, and I have naught else left."

"I shall remember that," his father said stiffly, "on the day you come to me with hat in hand, as I know one day you shall."

"If you knew me at all, Father, then you would know that I do not wear hats," said Smythe.

With a contemptuous sniff, his father turned on his heel and stalked out of the tavern without another word or backward glance. As Smythe turned to watch him go, he saw the other players all looking at him, their expressions ranging from curious to puzzled to, on at least one face, concern. The furrow was still present on Shakespeare's brow as Tuck returned to their table.

"It did not go well?" he asked.

"Aye, Will, it did not go well," said Smythe as he sat back down. "Thomas, pass that pitcher, will you? I have a mind to get good and drunk this night."

"Suits me," said Pope, passing him the pitcher.

"And me," echoed Bobby Speed. "Stackpole, you old reprobate, more beer!"

And for a time, as other spirits flowed, Smythe's sunken spirits were somewhat uplifted. For a time.

Henry Mayhew was very much displeased with his daughter. He had done her—and himself, he felt—a very great service by saving her from a marriage that would have brought disgrace upon her—and himself, of course— and in return, she was not only ungrateful, she was angry. It simply passed all understanding. Instead of thanking him profusely for preventing what would have been a truly horrible mistake, she had cried and sobbed and carried on and blamed him for ruining her happiness and then had fled the house, against his wishes. Now here it was, growing quite late, and Portia still had not come home. He was torn between feeling angry and concerned.

"I tell you, Winifred, I simply do not know what has become of young people these days," he complained to his intended, the widow of a prosperous ironmonger who had left her quite well off when he had obligingly dropped dead the previous year. "Apprentices roaming the streets in unruly gangs and rioting, young women gallivanting about town unescorted and having assignations in Paul's Walk… I tell you, Winifred, that sort of thing simply did not happen in my day!"

"I am certain it did not," Winifred Fitzwalter replied, glancing up at him calmly from her embroidery, "as I am equally certain that grieving widows did not go unescorted to the homes of widowers at night and sleep under the same roof with them."

For a moment Mayhew looked shocked, perhaps not so much at what she said as at the fact that she had said it. However, he recovered quickly. "'Tis hardly the same thing, Winifred," he said, somewhat huffily. "'Tis nigh on a year now since your husband died, and there has been quite sufficient allowance for the customary period of mourning." He grunted and nodded and patted his ample stomach with both hands, as if to reassure himself. "Aye, more than sufficient time to satisfy propriety. And as for your presence in my home, dear Winifred, 'tis perfectly proper, perfectly proper, indeed! We are betrothed, and our betrothal has been formally announced. What is more, on the occasions when you visit here and spend the night, you are duly attended in your own room by a maidservant, so there can be no question of propriety at all, nay, none at all."

"Nevertheless, that does not mean that people will not talk, you know," said Winifred with a slight smile.

"Well, people can say what they will," said Mayhew with a grimace. "The fact remains that propriety has been observed in all respects, in all respects, indeed. What is more, you are a mature woman, Winifred, not a young girl like Portia."

"Why, thank you, Henry. 'Tis always a comfort for a woman to be reminded of her advancing age," she replied.

"Oh, for Heaven's sake! You know what I mean! Odd's blood!