by Virna Sheard
CHAPTER IX
IX
The night wore on and the moonlight faded. The stars shone large andbright; the sound of people passing on the street grew less and less.Now and then a party of belated students or merry-makers came by,singing a round or madrigal. A melancholy night-jar called incessantlyover the house-tops. As the clocks tolled one, there was a sound ofrapid wheels along the road and a coach stopped before goodmanBlossom's.
Young Thornbury leaped from it, and with his heavy knocking roused theman, who came stumbling sleepily down the hallway.
"Oh! pray thee, make haste, Blossom," called the young fellow; "keep menot waiting." Then, as the door flew open, "My sister!" he said,pushing by, "is she still up?"
"Gra'mercy! Thou dost worrit sober folk till they be like to losetheir wits! Thy sister should be long abed--an' thou too. Thou artbecome a pranked-out coxcomb with all thy foppery--a coxcomb an' adevil-may-care roysterer with thy blackened eyes--thy dice-playing an'thy coming in o' midnight i' coaches!"
Darby strode past, unheeding; at the stairs Debora met him.
"Thou art dressed," he said, hoarsely. "Well, fetch thy furred cloak;the night turns cold. Lose no moment--but hasten!"
"Where?" she cried. "Oh! what now hath gone amiss?"
"I will tell thee i' the road; tarry not to question me."
It was scarcely a moment before the coach rolled away again. Nothingwas said till they came to London Bridge. The flickering links flashedby them as they passed. A sea-scented wind blew freshly over the riverand the tide was rising fast.
"I have no heart for more trouble," said the girl, tremulously. "Oh!tell me, Darby, an' keep me not waiting. Where go'th the coach? Whathath happened? Whatever hath happened?"
"Just this," he said, shortly. "Nicholas Berwick hath been stabbed byone he differed with at 'The Mermaid.' He is at the point o' death,an' would not die easy till he saw thee."
"Nick Berwick? Say'th thou so--at the point o' death? Nay, dearheart, it cannot be. I will not believe it--he will not die,--he istoo great and strong--'tis not so grievous as that," cried Deb.
"'Tis worse, we think. He will be gone by daybreak. He may be gonenow. See! the horses have turned into Cheapside. We will soon bethere."
"What was the cause?" the girl asked, faintly. "Tell me how he came bythe blow."
There was no sound for a while but the whirling of wheels and theringing of the horses' feet over cobble-stones.
"I will tell thee, though 'tis not easy for either thou nor I.
"'Twas the players' night at 'The Mermaid,' and there was a lot of usgathered. Marry! Ben Jonson and Master Shakespeare, Beaumont andKeene. I need not give thee names, for there were men from 'The Rose'playhouse and 'The Swan.' 'Twas a gay company and a rare. Ay!Sherwood was there for half an hour, though he was overgrave anddistraught, it seemed to me. They would have him sing 'Drink to meonly with thine eyes.' 'Fore Heaven, I will remember it till I die."
"Nick Berwick," she said. "Oh! what of him?"
"Ay! he was there; he came in with Master Will Shakespeare, and he sataside--not speaking to any, watching and listening. He was there whenthe party had thinned out, still silent. I mind his face, 'twas whiteas death at a feast. Not half an hour ago--an' there were but ten ofus left--a man--one from 'The Rose,' they told me--I knew him not bysight--leaped to a chair and, with a goblet filled and held high,called out to the rest--
"'Come,' he cried above the noise of our voices. 'Come, another toast!Come, merry gentlemen, each a foot on the table! I drink to a newbeauty. For as I live 'twas no man, but a maid, who was on the boardsat Blackfriars i' the new play, and the name o' her----'"
The girl caught her breath--"Darby!--Darby!"
"Nay, he said no more, sweet; for Nick Berwick caught him and swung himto the floor."
"'Thou dost lie!' he cried. 'Take back thy words before I make thee.'While he spoke he shook the fellow violently, then on a sudden loosenedhis hold. As he did so, the player drew a poniard from its sheath athis hip, sprang forward, and struck Berwick full i' the throat. Thatis all," Thornbury said, his voice dropping, "save that he askedincessantly for thee, Deb, ere he fainted."
The coach stopped before a house where the lights burned brightly.Opening the door they entered a low, long room with rafters andwainscoting of dark wood. In the centre of it was a huge table, indisorder of flagons and dishes. The place was blue with smoke, andoverheated, for a fire yet burned in the great fireplace. On a settlelay a man, his throat heavily bound with linen, and by him was aphysician of much fame in London, and one who had notable skill insurgery.
Debora went swiftly toward them with outstretched hands.
"Oh! Nick! Nick!" she said, with a little half-stifled cry. "Oh!Nick, is't thou?"
"Why, 'twas like thee to come," he answered, eagerly, raising up on hiselbow. "'Twill make it easier for me, Deb--an' I go. Come nearer,come close."
The physician lowered him gently back and spoke with soft sternness.
"Have a care, good gentleman," he said. "We have stopped the bleeding,and would not have it break out afresh. Thy life depends upon thystillness." So saying, he withdrew a little.
"Oh! move not, Nick," said the girl, slipping to the floor beside himand leaning against the oaken seat; "neither move nor speak. I willkeep watch beside thee. But why did'st deny it or say aught? 'Twouldhave been better that the whole o' London knew than this! Nay, answerme not," she continued, fearfully; "thou may not speak or lift afinger."
Berwick smiled faintly, "Ah! sweet," he said, pausing between thewords, "I would not have thy name on every tongue--but would silencethem all--an' I had lives enough. Yet thou wert in truth upon thestage at Blackfriars--in Will Shakespeare's play--though I denied it!"
"Yes," said Deb, softly, "but 'twas of necessity. We will think nomore of it. It breaks my heart to see thee here, Nick," she ended,with quivering lips, her eyes wide and pitiful.
"It breaks my heart to see thee here, Nick"]
"Now that need not trouble thee," answered the man, a light breakingover his gray, drawn face. "'Fore Heaven, I mind it not."
"Thou wilt be better soon," said the girl. "I will have it so, Nick.I will not have thee die for this."
"Dost remember what I asked thee last Christmas, Deb?"
"Yes," she said, not meeting his eyes.
"Wilt kiss me now, Deb?"
For answer she stooped down and laid her lips to his, then rose andstood beside him.
"Ah! Deb," he said, looking up at her adoringly. "'Twill be somethingto remember--should I live--an' if not, well--'tis not every man whodies with a kiss on his lips."
"Thou must not talk," she said.
"No," he answered, faintly, "nor keep thee. Yet promise me one thing."
"What would'st have me promise?"
"That thou wilt return on the morrow to Shottery. London is no placefor thee now."
"I will go," answered the girl; "though I would fain take care of theehere, Nick."
"That thou must not think of," he replied. "I will fare--as God wills.Go thou home to Shottery."
The physician crossed over to them and laid his white fingers onBerwick's wrist.
"Thou dost seem set upon undoing my work," he said. "Art so over-readyto die, Master Berwick? One more swoon like the last and thou would'stsleep on."
"He will talk no more, good Doctor," said Debora, hastily. "Ah! thouwilt be kind to him, I pray thee? And now I will away, as 'tis best,but my brother will stay, and carry out thy orders. Nay, Nick, thoumust not even say good-bye or move thy lips. I will go back to DameBlossom quite safely in the coach."
"An' to Shottery on the morrow?" he whispered.
"Ay!" she said, looking at him with tear-blinded eyes, "as thou wilthave it so."
