A Maid of Many Moods

by Virna Sheard

  CHAPTER IV

  IV

  Thus it fell that each morning for one heavenly week Debora Thornburyfound herself safely hidden away in what was called by courtesy "TheRoyal Box." In truth her Majesty had never honoured it, but commandedthe players to journey down to Greenwich when it was her whim to seetheir performances. Now, in 1597, the Queen had grown too world-wearyto care much for such pastimes, and rarely had any London entertainmentat Court, save a concert by her choir boys from St. Paul's--for theselads with their ofttimes beautiful faces, and their fine voices, sheloved and indulged in many ways.

  At first Debora felt strangely alone after Darby left her in the littlecompartment above the stage at Blackfriars. Lingering about it was apassing sweet odour, for the silken cushions were stuffed with fragrantgrasses from the West Indies, and the hand-railings and footstools wereof carven sandalwood. Mingled with these heavy perfumes was the scentof tobacco, since the young nobles who usually filled the box indulgedmuch in the new weed.

  The girl would lean back against the seat in this dim, richly colouredplace, and give her mind up to a perfect enjoyment of the moment.

  From her tiny aperture in the curtains, skilfully arranged by Darby,she could easily see the stage--all but the east wing--and,furthermore, had a fair view of the two-story circular building.

  How gay it must be, she thought, when filled in gallery and pit with amerry company! How bright and glittering when all the great cressetsand clusters of candles were alight! How charming to feel free to comeand go here as one would, and not have to be conveyed in by privatedoorways like a bale of smuggled goods!

  Then she would dream of olden times, when the sable friars went in andout of the old Dominican friary that stood upon the very place wherethe theatre was now built.

  "'Twas marvellous strange," she thought, "that it should be a playhousethat was erected on this ground that used to be a place of prayer."

  So the time would pass till the actors assembled. They were a jovial,swaggering, happy-go-lucky lot, and it took all their Master-player'spatience to bring them into straight and steady work. But when theplay once began each one followed his part with keen enthusiasm, forthere was no half-hearted man amongst the number.

  Debora watched each actor, listened for each word and cue the promptergave them with an absorbed intensity she was scarcely conscious of.

  She soon discovered that play-goers were not greatly beguiled throughthe eye, for the stage-settings changed but little, and the details ofa scene were simplified by leaving them to the imagination. Neitherdid the music furnished by a few sad-looking musicians who appeared tohave been entrapped in a small balcony above the stage appeal to her,for it was a thing the least said about the soonest mended.

  The actors wore no especial dress or makeup during these rehearsals,save Darby, and he to grow better accustomed to such garments asbefitted the maid of Capulet, disported himself throughout in acumbersome flowing gown of white corduroy that at times clung about himas might a winding sheet, and again dragged behind like a melancholyflag of truce. Yet with the auburn love-locks shading his fair ovalface, now clean shaven and tinted like a girl's, and his clear-tonedvoice, even Debora admitted, he was not so far amiss in the role.

  What struck her most from the moment he came upon the stage was hiswonderful likeness to herself.

  "I' faith," she half whispered, "did I not know that Deb Thornbury werehere--an' I have to pinch my arm to make that real--I should have noshadow of a doubt but that Deb Thornbury were there, a player with therest, though I never could make so sad a tangle of any gown however badits cut--an' no woman e'er cut that one. Darby doth lose himself in itas if 'twere a maze, and yet withal doth, so far, the part fairjustice."

  When Don Sherwood came upon the boards the girl's eyes grew brilliantand dark. Darby had but spoken truth regarding this man's fascinatingpersonality. He was a strong, straight-limbed fellow, and his face wassuch as it pleased the people to watch, though it was not of perfectcast nor strictly beautiful; but he was happy in possessing a certainmagnetism which was the one thing needful.

  Yet it was not to manner or stage presence that Sherwood owed hissuccess, but rather to his voice, for there was no other could compareto it in the Lord Chamberlain's Company. Truly the gods had been goodto this player--for first of all their gifts is such a golden-tonedvoice as he had brought into this world of sorry discords. Never hadDebora listened to anything like it as it thrilled the stillness of theempty house with the passionate words of Romeo.

  She followed the tragedy intensely from one scene to another till theending that stirs all tender hearts to tears.

  She followed the tragedy intensely]

  The lines of the different characters seemed branded upon her brain,and she remembered them without effort and knew them quite by heart.Sometimes Darby, struggling with the distressing complications of hisdetested dress, would hesitate over some word or break a sentence,thereby marring the perfect beauty of it, and while Sherwood wouldsmile and shrug his shoulders lightly as though as to say, "Have I notenough to put up with, that thou art what thou art, but thou mustneed'st bungle the words!" Then would Debora clench her hands and tapher little foot against the soft rugs.

  "Oh! I would I had but the chance to speak his lines," she said toherself at such times. "Prithee 'twould be in different fashion! 'Tisnot his fault, in sooth, for no living man could quite understand orsay the words as they should be said, but none the less it doth sorelytry my patience."

  So the enchanted hours passed and none came to disturb the girl, ordiscover her till the last morning, which was Saturday. The rehearsalhad ended, and Debora was waiting for Darby. The theatre looked grayand deserted. At the back of the stage the great velvet traversesthrough which the actors made their exits and entrances, hung in darkfolds, sombre as the folds of a pall. A chill struck to her heart, forshe seemed to be the only living thing in the building, and Darby didnot come.

  She grew at last undecided whether to wait longer or risk going acrossthe river, and so home alone, when a quick step came echoing along thepassage that led to the box. In a moment a man had gathered back thehangings and entered. He started when he saw the slight figurestanding in the uncertain light, then took a step towards her.

  The girl did not move but looked up into his face with an expression ofquick, glad recognition, then she leaned a little towards him andsmiled. "Romeo!" she exclaimed softly. "Romeo!" and as thoughcompelled to it by some strange impulse, followed his name with thequestion that has so much of pathos, "Wherefore," she said, "Whereforeart thou Romeo?"

  The man laughed a little as he let the curtains drop behind him.

  "Why, an' I be Romeo," he answered in that rare voice of his, full andsweet as a golden bell, "then who art thou? Art not Juliet? Nay,pardon me, mademoiselle," his tone changing, "I know whom thou artbeyond question, by thy likeness to Thornbury. 'Fore Heaven! 'tis avery singular likeness, and thou must be, in truth, his sister. Iwould ask your grace for coming in with such scant announcement. Ithought the box empty. The young Duke of Nottingham lost a jewelledpin here yestere'en--or fancied so--and sent word to me to have theplace searched. Ah! there it is glittering above you in the tassel tothe right."

  "I have seen naught but the stage," she said, "and now await mybrother. Peradventure he did wrong to bring me here, but I so desiredto see the play that I persuaded and teased him withal till he could nolonger deny me. 'Twas not over-pleasant being hidden i' the box, but'twas the only way Darby would hear of. Moreover," with a little proudgesture, "I have the greater interest in this new tragedy that I bewell acquainted with Master William Shakespeare himself."

  "That is to be fortunate indeed," Sherwood answered, looking into hereyes, "and I fancy thou could'st have but little difficulty inpersuading a man to anything. I hold small blame for Thornbury."

  Debora laughed merrily. "'Tis a pretty speech," she said, "an' of afine London flavour." Then uneasily, "I would my brot
her came; 'tismarvellous unlike him to leave me so."

  "I will tell thee somewhat," said Sherwood, after a moment's thought."A party o' the players went off to 'The Castle Inn'--'tis hard by--an'I believe their intention was to drink success to the play. Possiblythey will make short work and drink it in one bumper, but I cannot besure--they may drink it in more."

  "'Tis not like my brother to tarry thus," the girl answered. "I wonderat him greatly."

  "Trouble nothing over it," said Sherwood; "indeed, he went against hiswill; they were an uproarious lot o' roisterers, and carried him offwilly-nilly, fairly by main force, now I think on't. Perchance thouwould'st rather I left thee alone, mademoiselle?" he ended, as byafterthought.

  "'Twould be more seemly," she answered, the colour rising in her face.

  "I do protest to that," said the man quickly. "And _I_ found theeout--here alone--why, marry, so might _another_."

  "An' why not another as well?" Debora replied, lifting her brows; "an'why not another full as well as thee, good Sir Romeo? There is no harmin a maid being here. But I would that Darby came," she added.

  "We will give him license of five minutes longer," he returned. "Cometell me, what dost think o' the play?"

  "'Tis a very wonder," said Debora; "more beautiful each time I see it."Then irrelevantly, "Dost really fancy in me so great a likeness to mybrother?"

  "Thou art like him truly, and yet no more like him than I amlike--well, say the apothecary, though 'tis not a good instance."

  "Oh! the poor apothecary!" she cried, laughing. "Prithee, hath he beenstarved to fit the part? Surely never before saw I one so altogethermade of bones."

  "Ay!" said Sherwood. "He is a very herring. I wot heaven forecastedwe should need such a man, an' made him so."

  "Think'st thou that?" she said absently. "O heart o' me! Why dothDarby tarry. Perchance some accident may have happened him or he hathfallen ill! Dost think so?"

  The player gave a short laugh, but looked as suddenly grave.

  "Do not vex thyself with such imaginings, sweet mistress Thornbury. Hehath not come to grief, I give thee my word for it. There is no youththat know'th London better than that same brother o' thine, an' I donot fear that he is ill."

  "Why, then, I will not wait here longer," she returned, starting. "Ican take care o' myself an' it be London ten times over. 'Tis a simplematter to cross in the ferry to Southwark on the one we so oft havetaken; the ferry-man knoweth me already, an' I fear nothing. Moreover,many maids go to and fro alone."

  "Thou shalt not," he said. "Wait till I see if the coast be clear. Bythe Saints! 'twill do Thornbury no harm to find thee gone. He dothneed a lesson," ended the man in a lower tone, striding down the narrowpassage-way that led to the green-room.

  "Come," he said, returning after a few moments, "we have the place toourselves, and there is not a soul between Blackfriars an' the riverhouse, I believe, save an old stage carpenter, a fellow short o' wit,but so over-fond of the theatre he scarce ever leaves it. Come!"

  As the girl stepped eagerly forward to join him, Sherwood entered thebox again.

  "Nay," on second thought--"wait. Before we go, I pray thee, tell methy name."

  "'Tis Debora," she said softly; "just Debora."

  "Ah!" he answered, in a tone she had heard him use in the play--passingtender and passionate. "Well, it suiteth me not; the rest may callthee Debora, an' they will--but I, I have a fancy to think of thee byanother title, one sweeter a thousand-fold!" So leaning towards herand looking into her face with compelling eyes that brought hers up tothem, "Dost not see, an' my name be Romeo, thine must be----?"

  "Nay then," she cried, "I will not hear, I will not hear; let me pass,I pray thee."

  "Pardon, mademoiselle," returned the player with grave, quick courtesy,and holding back the curtain, "I would not risk thy displeasure."

  They went out together down the little twisted hall into the green-roomwhere the dried rushes that strewed the floor crackled beneath theirfeet; through the empty tiring rooms, past the old half-mad stagecarpenter, who smiled and nodded at them, and so by the hidden door outinto the pale early spring sunshine. Then down the steep stairs toBlackfriars Landing where the ferryman took them over the river. Theydid not say a word to each other, and the girl watched withunfathomable eyes the little curling line of flashing water the boatleft behind, though it may be she did not see it. As for Sherwood, hewatched only her face with the crisp rings of gold-red hair blown aboutit from out the border of her fur-edged hood. He had forgottenaltogether a promise given to dine with some good fellows at DickTarleton's ordinary, and only knew that there was a velvety sea-scentedwind blowing up the river wild and free; that the sky was of such awondrous blue as he had never seen before; that across from him in theold weather-worn ferry was a maid whose face was the one thing worthlooking at in all the world.

  When the boat bumped against the slippery landing, the player sprangashore and gave Debora his hand that she might not miss the step.There was a little amused smile in his eyes at her long silence, but hewould not help her break it.

  Together they went up and through the park where buds on tree and bushwere showing creamy white through the brown, and underfoot the grasshinted of coming green. Then along the Southwark common past thetheatres. Upon all the road Sherwood was watchful lest they should runacross some of his company.

  To be seen alone and at mid-day with a new beauty was to court endlessquestions and much bantering.

  For some reason Thornbury had been silent regarding his sister, and theman felt no more willing to publish his chance meeting with Debora.

  He glanced often at her as though eager for some word or look, but shegave him neither. Her lips were pressed firmly together, for she wasstruggling with many feelings, one of which was anger against Darby.So she held her lovely head high and went along with feverish haste.

  When they came to the house, which was home now out of all the othersin London, she gave a sweeping glance at the high windows lest at onemight be discovered the round, good-tempered, yet curious face of DameBlossom. But the tiny panes winked down quite blankly and her returnseemed to be unnoticed.

  Running up the steps she lifted her hand to the quaint knocker of thedoor, turned, and looked down at the man standing on the walk.

  "I give thee many thanks, Sir Romeo," said the girl; "thou hast inverity been a most chivalrous knight to a maiden in distress. I givethee thanks, an' if thou art ever minded to travel to Shottery myfather will be glad to have thee stop at One Tree Inn." Then sheraised the knocker, a rap of which would bring the bustling Dame.

  Quickly the man sprang up the steps and laid his hand beneath it, sothat, though it fell, there should be no sound.

  "Nay, wait," he said, in a low, intense voice. "London is wide and thetimes are busy; therefore I have no will to leave it to chance when Ishall see thee again. Fate has been marvellous kind to-day, but 'tisnot always so with fate, as peradventure thou hast some timediscovered."

  "Ay!" she answered, gently, "Ay! Sir Romeo. Thou art right, fate isnot always kind. Yet 'tis best to leave most things to itsdisposal--at least so it doth seem to me."

  "Egad!" said Sherwood, with a short laugh, "'tis a way that may servewell enow for maids but not for men. Tell me, when may I see thee?To-night?"

  "A thousand times no!" Debora cried, quickly. "To-night," with alittle nod of her head, "to-night I have somewhat to settle with Darby."

  "He hath my sympathy," said Sherwood. "Then on the morrow?----"

  "Nay, nay, I know not. That is the Sabbath; players be but forweek-days."

  "Then Monday? I beseech thee, make it no later than Monday, and thoudost wish to keep me in fairly reasonable mind."

  "Well, Monday, an' it please the fate thou has maligned," she answered,smiling. Noticing that the firm, brown hand was withdrawn a few inchesfrom the place it had held on the panelling of the door, the girl gavea mischievous little smile and let the knocker fall. It
made a loudechoing through the empty hall, and the player raised his lacedblack-velvet cap, gave Debora so low a bow that the silver-gray plumein it swept the ground, and, before the heavy-footed Mistress Blossommade her appearance, was on his way swiftly towards London Bridge.

  Debora went up the narrow stairs with eyes ashine, and a smile curvingher lips. For the moment Darby was forgotten. When she closed thechamber door she remembered.

  It was past high noon, and Dame Blossom had been waiting in impatiencesince eleven to serve dinner. Yet the girl would not now dine alone,but stood by the gabled window which looked down on the road, watching,watching, and thinking, till it almost seemed that another morning hadpassed.

  Along Southwark thoroughfare through the day went people from allclasses, groups of richly-dressed gentlemen, beruffled and befeathered;their laces and their hair perfuming the wind. Officers of the Queenbooted and spurred; sober Puritans, long-jowled and over-sallow, livingprotests against frivolity and light-heartedness. Portly aldermen,jealous of their dignity. Swarthy foreigners with silver ringsswinging in their ears. Sun-browned sailors. Tankard-bearers carryingalong with their supply of fresh drinking water the cream of the hour'sgossip. Keepers of the watch with lanterns trimmed for the night'sburning adangle from oaken poles braced across their shoulders. Littlemaidens whose long gowns cut after the fashion of their mothers,fretted their dancing feet. Ruddy-hued little lads, turning Catherinewheels for the very joy of being alive, and because the winter time wasover and the wine of spring had gone to the young heads.

  Debora stood and watched the passing of the people till she wearied ofthem, and her ears ached with sounds of the street.

  Something had gone away from the girl, some carelessness, some contentof the heart, and in its place had come a restlessness, as deep, asimpossible to quiet, as the restlessness of the sea.

  After a time Mistress Blossom knocked at the door, and coaxed her to gobelow.

  "There is no sight o' the young Master, Mistress Debora. Marry, but hebe over late, an' the jugged hare I made ready for his pleasuring isfair wasted. Dost think he'll return here to dine or hast gone to theTabard?"

  "I know not," answered Debora, shortly, following the woman downstairs. "He gave me no hint of his intentions, good Mistress Blossom."

  "Ods fish!" returned the other, "but that be not mannerly. Still thouneed'st not spoil a sweet appetite by tarrying for him. Take thee ataste o' the cowslip cordial, an' a bit o' devilled ham. 'Tis atoothsome dish, an' piping hot."

  "I give thee thanks," said Debora, absently. Some question turneditself over in her mind and gave her no peace. Looking up at the busyDame she spoke in a sudden impulsive fashion.

  "Hath my brother--hath my brother been oft so late? Hath he alwayskept such uncertain hours by night--and day also--I mean?" she endedfalteringly.

  "Why, sometimes. Now and again as 'twere--but not often. There be gayyoung gentlemen about London-town, and Master Darby hath with him aready wit an' a charm o' manner that maketh him rare good company. Idoubt his friends be not overwilling to let him away home early," saidthe woman in troubled tones.

  "Hath----he ever come in not--not--quite himself, Mistress Blossom?'Tis but a passing fancy an' I hate to question thee, yet I must know,"said the girl, her face whitening.

  "Why then, nothing to speak of," Mistress Blossom replied, bustlingabout the table, with eyes averted. "See then, Miss Debora, take someo' the Devonshire cream an' one o' the little Banbury cakes withit--there be caraways through them. No? Marry, where be thy appetite?Thou hast no fancy for aught. Try a taste of the conserved cherries,they be white hearts from a Shottery orchard. Trouble not thy prettyself. Men be all alike, sweet, an' not worth a salt tear. EvenBlossom cometh home now an' again in a manner not to be spoken of! Odspitikins! I be thankful to have him make the house in any form, an'not fall i' the clutch o' the watch! They be right glad of the chanceto clap a man i' the stocks where he can make a finish o' the day as atarget for all the stale jests an' unsavoury missiles of every scurvyrascal o' the streets. But, Heaven be praised!--'tis not often Blossombreaks out--just once in a blue moon--after a bit of rare good or badluck."

  Debora took no heed but stared ahead with wide, unhappy eyes. The oldblue plates on the table, the pewter jugs and platters grew strangelyindistinct. Then 'twas true! So had she fancied it might be. He hadbeen drinking--drinking. Carousing with the fast, unmannerly youthswho haunted the club-houses and inns. Dicing, without doubt, andgambling at cards also peradventure, when she thought he was passingthe time in good fellowship with the worthy players from the LordChamberlain's Company.

  "He hath never come home _so_ by day, surely, good Mistress Blossom?Not by day?" she asked desperately.

  "Well--truly--not many times, dearie. But hark'e. Master Darby is onewho cannot touch a glass o' any liquor but it flies straightway to hisbrains; oft hath he told me so, ay! often and over often; 'I am not toblame for this, Blossom,' hath he said to my goodman when he workedover him--cold water and rubbing, Mistress Debora--no more, no less.'Nay, verily--'tis just my luck, one draught an' I be under the table,leaving the other men bolt upright till they've swallowed full threebottles apiece!"

  Debora dropped her face in her hands and rocked a little back an'forth. "'Tis worse than I thought!" she cried, looking up drawn andwhite. "Oh! I have a fear that 'tis worse--far, far worse. I havelittle doubt half his money comes from play an' betting, ay! an' atstakes on the bear-baiting, an'--an'--anything else o' wickedness therebe left in London--while we at home have thought 'twas earnedhonestly." As she spoke a heavy rapping sounded down the hall, loud,uneven, yet prolonged.

  Mistress Blossom went to answer it quickly, and Debora followed, herlimbs trembling and all strength seeming to slip away from her.Lifting the latch the woman flung the outer door open and DarbyThornbury lurched in, falling clumsily against his sister, whostraightened her slight figure and hardly wavered with the shock, forher strength had come swiftly back with the sight of him.

  The man who lay in the hall in such a miserable heap, had scarce anyreminder in him of Darby Thornbury, the dainty young gallant whoselaces were always the freshest, and whose ruffs and doublets never borea mark of wear. Now his long cordovan boots were mud-stained andcrumpled about the ankles. His broidered cuffs and collar werewrenched out of all shape. But worse and far more terrible was hisface, for its beauty was gone as though a blight had passed across it.He was flushed a purplish red, and his eyes were bloodshot, while aboveone was a bruised swelling that fairly closed the lid. He tried to geton his feet, and in a manner succeeded.

  "By St. George, Deb!" he exclaimed in wrath, "I swear thou 'r a finesister to take f' outing. I was a double-dyed fool e'er to bring theet' London. Why couldn't y' wait f' fellow? When I go f' y'--y' notthere."

  Then he smiled in maudlin fashion and altered his tone. "Egad! I'mproud o' thee, Deb, thou art a very beauty. All the bloods i' town ar'mad to meet thee--th' give me no peace."

  "Oh! Mistress Blossom," cried Debora, clasping her hands, "can we nottake him above stairs and so to bed? Dear, dear Mistress Blossom,silence him, I pray thee, or my heart will break."

  "Be thee quiet, Master Darby, lad," said the woman, persuasively."Wait, then, an' talk no more. I'll fetch Blossom; he'll fix thee intoproper shape, I warrant. 'Tis more thy misfortune than thy fault.Yes, yes, I know thou be sore upset--but why did'st not steer clear o'temptation?"

  "Temp-ation, Odso! 'tis a marvellous good word," put in Thornbury."Any man'd walk a chalk--line--if he could steer clear o' temptation."So, in a state of verbose contrition, was he borne away to his chamberby the sympathetic Blossom, who had a fellow-feeling for the lad thatmade him wondrous kind.