Beautiful Stories from Shakespeare [55]
"Then you are my friend once more," said the generous Valentine. "If Silvia, that is lost to me, will look on you with favor, I promise that I will stand aside and bless you both."
These words were terrible to Julia, and she swooned. Valentine revived her, and said, "What was the matter, boy?"
"I remembered," fibbed Julia, "that I was charged to give a ring to the Lady Silvia, and that I did not."
"Well, give it to me," said Proteus.
She handed him a ring, but it was the ring that Proteus gave to Julia before he left Verona.
Proteus looked at her hand, and crimsoned to the roots of his hair.
"I changed my shape when you changed your mind," said she.
"But I love you again," said he.
Just then outlaws entered, bringing two prizes--the Duke and Sir Thurio.
"Forbear!" cried Valentine, sternly. "The Duke is sacred."
Sir Thurio exclaimed, "There's Silvia; she's mine!"
"Touch her, and you die!" said Valentine.
"I should be a fool to risk anything for her," said Sir Thurio.
"Then you are base," said the Duke. "Valentine, you are a brave man. Your banishment is over. I recall you. You may marry Silvia. You deserve her."
"I thank your Grace," said Valentine, deeply moved, "and yet must ask you one more boon."
"I grant it," said the Duke.
"Pardon these men, your Grace, and give them employment. They are better than their calling."
"I pardon them and you," said the Duke. "Their work henceforth shall be for wages."
"What think you of this page, your Grace?" asked Valentine, indicating Julia.
The Duke glanced at her, and said, "I think the boy has grace in him."
"More grace than boy, say I," laughed Valentine, and the only punishment which Proteus had to bear for his treacheries against love and friendship was the recital in his presence of the adventures of Julia-Sebastian of Verona.
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL
In the year thirteen hundred and something, the Countess of Rousillon was unhappy in her palace near the Pyrenees. She had lost her husband, and the King of France had summoned her son Bertram to Paris, hundreds of miles away.
Bertram was a pretty youth with curling hair, finely arched eyebrows, and eyes as keen as a hawk's. He was as proud as ignorance could make him, and would lie with a face like truth itself to gain a selfish end. But a pretty youth is a pretty youth, and Helena was in love with him.
Helena was the daughter of a great doctor who had died in the service of the Count of Rousillon. Her sole fortune consisted in a few of her father's prescriptions.
When Bertram had gone, Helena's forlorn look was noticed by the Countess, who told her that she was exactly the same to her as her own child. Tears then gathered in Helena's eyes, for she felt that the Countess made Bertram seem like a brother whom she could never marry. The Countess guessed her secret forthwith, and Helena confessed that Bertram was to her as the sun is to the day.
She hoped, however, to win this sun by earning the gratitude of the King of France, who suffered from a lingering illness, which made him lame. The great doctors attached to the Court despaired of curing him, but Helena had confidence in a prescription which her father had used with success.
Taking an affectionate leave of the Countess, she went to Paris, and was allowed to see the King.
He was very polite, but it was plain he thought her a quack. "It would not become me," he said, "to apply to a simple maiden for the relief which all the learned doctors cannot give me."
"Heaven uses weak instruments sometimes," said Helena, and she declared that she would forfeit her life if she failed to make him well.
"And if you succeed?" questioned the King.
"Then I will ask your Majesty to give me for a husband the man whom I choose!"
So earnest a young lady could not be resisted forever by a suffering king. Helena, therefore, became the King's doctor, and in two days the royal cripple could skip.
He summoned his courtiers, and they made a glittering throng in the throne room