II
During the days following Christmas, One Tree Inn was given over to
festivity. It had always been a favoured spot with the young people
from Stratford and Shottery. In spring they came trooping to Master
Thornbury's meadow, bringing their flower-crowned queen and
ribbon-decked May-pole. It was there they had their games of
barley-break, blindman's buff and the merry cushion dance during the
long summer evenings; and when dusk fell they would stroll homeward
through the lanes sweet with flowering hedges, each one of them all
carrying a posy from Deb Thornbury's garden--for where else grew such
wondrous clove-pinks, ragged lady, lad's love, sweet-william and Queen
Anne's lace, as there? So now these old playmates of Darby's came one
by one to welcome him home and gaze at him in unembarrassed admiration.
Judith Shakespeare, who was a friend and gossip of Debora's, spent many
evenings with them, and those who knew the little maid best alone could
say what that meant, for never was there a gayer lass, or one who had a
prettier wit. To hear Judith enlarging upon her daily experiences with
people and things, was to listen to thrilling tales, garnished and
gilded in fanciful manner, till the commonplace became delightful, and
life in Stratford town a thing to be desired above the simple passing
of days in other places.
No trivial occurrence went by this little daughter of the great poet
without making some vivid impression upon her mind, for she viewed the
every-day world lying beside the peaceful Avon through the wonderful
rose-coloured glasses of youth, and an imagination bequeathed to her
direct from her father.
It was on an evening when Judith Shakespeare was with them and Deb was
roasting chestnuts by the hearth, that they fell to talking of London,
and the marvellous way people had of living there.
A sudden storm had blown up, flakes of frozen snow came whirling
against the windows, beating a fairy rataplan on the frosted glass,
while the heavy boughs of the old oak creaked and groaned in the wind.
Darby and the two girls listened to the sounds without and drew their
chairs nearer the fire with a sense of the warm comfort of the long
cheery room. They chatted about the city and the pleasures and
pastimes that held sway there, doings that seemed so extravagant to
country-bred folk, and that often turned night into day--a day moreover
not akin to any spent elsewhere on top of the earth.
"Dost sometimes act in the same play with my father, Darby, at the
Globe Theatre?" asked Judith, after a pause in the conversation, and at
a moment when the innkeeper had just left the room.
The girl was sitting in a chair whose oaken frame was black with age.
Now she grasped the arms of it tightly, and Darby noted the beautiful
form of her hands and the tapering delicate fingers; he saw also a
nervous tremor go through them as she spoke.
"Oh! I would know somewhat of my father's life in London," continued
Judith, "and of the people he meets there. He hath acquaintance with
many gentlemen of the Queen's Court and Parliament, for he hath twice
been bidden to play in Her Majesty's theatre in the palace at
Greenwich. Yet of all those doings of his and of the nobles who make
much of him he doth say so little, Darby."
Debora, who was standing by the high mantel, turned towards her brother
expectantly. She said nothing, but her eyes--shadowy eyes of a blue
that was not all blue, but had a glint of green about it--her eyes
burned as though they held imprisoned a bit of living light, like the
fire in an opal.
The young player smiled; he was looking intently into the glowing coals
and for the instant his thoughts seemed far away from the tranquil home
scene.
There was no pose of Darby's figure which was not graceful; he was
always a picture even to those who knew him best, and it was to this
unconscious grace probably more than actual talent that his measure of
success upon the stage was due. Now as he leant forward, his elbow on
his knee, his chin on his white, almost girlish hand, the burnished
auburn love-locks shading his oval face, and matching in colour the
outward sweeping lashes of his eyes, Judith could not look away from
him the while she waited his tardy answer.
After a moment he came out of his brown study with a little start, and
glanced over at her.
"Ah, Judith, an' the master will give you but scant information on
those points, why should I give more? As for the playhouses where he
is constantly, now peradventure he is fore-wearied of them when once at
home, or," with a slight uplifting of his brows, "or else he think'th
them no topics for a young maid," he ended somewhat priggishly.
"'Tis ever so!" Judith answered with impatience. "Thou wilt give a
body no satisfaction either. Soul o' me! but men be all alike. If
ever I have a husband--which heaven forbid!--I shall fare to London
_four_ times o' the year an' see for myself what it be like."
"I am going to London with Darby when he doth go back again," said
Debora, speaking with quiet deliberation. Thornbury entered the room
at the moment and heard what his daughter said. The man caught at the
edge of the heavy table by which he stood, as though needing to hold by
it. He waited there, unheeded by the three around the hearth.
"Thou art joking, Deb," answered her brother after an astonished pause.
"Egad! how could'st thou fare to London?"
"I' faith, how could I fare to London?" she said with spirit, mimicking
his tone. "An' are there no maids in London then? An' there be not,
my faith, t'were time they saw what one is like! Prithee, I have
reason to believe I could pass a marvellous pleasant month there if all
I hear be true. What say'th thou, Judith, to coming with me?"
"Why, sweetheart," answered the girl, rising, "for all I have
protested, I would not go save my father took me. His word is my will
always, know'st thou not so? An' if it be his pleasure that I go not
to London--well then, I have no mind to go. That is just my thought of
it. But," sighing a little, "thou art wiser than I, for thou can'st
read books, an' did'st keep pace with Darby page for page, when he went
to Stratford grammar school. Furthermore, thou art given thy own way
more than I, and art so different--so vastly different--Deb."
"Truly, yes," Debora answered. Then, flinging out her arms, and
tossing her head up with a quick, petulant gesture, "Oh, I wish, I wish
ten thousand-fold that I were a man and could be with thee, Darby.
'Tis so tame and tantalizing to be but a maid with this one to say
'Gra'mercy! Thou can'st not go _there_,' an' that one to add 'Alack!
an' alack! however cam'st thou to fancy thou could'st do so? Art void
o' wit? Beshrew me but ladies never deport themselves in such
unmannerly fashion--no, nor even think on't. There is thy little
beaten track all bordered with box--'tis precise, yet pleasant--walk
thou in it thankfully. Marry, an' thou must not gaze over the hedges
neither!'"
A deep, sweet laugh followed her words as an echo, and a man tall and
finely built came striding over from the door where he had been
standing in shadow, an amused listener. He put his two hands on the
girl's shoulders and looked down into the beautiful, rebellious face.
"Heigho, and heigho!" he said. "Just listen to this mutinous one, good
Master Thornbury! Here is a whirlwind in petticoats equal to my pretty
shrew who was so well tamed at the last. Marry, an' I could show them
such a brilliant bit of acting at the new Globe--such tone! such
intensity! 'twould surely inspire the Company and so lighten my work by
a hundred-fold. But, alas! while we have but lads to play the parts
that maidens should take, acting is oft a very weariness and giveth one
an ache o' the heart!"
"Thou would'st not have me upon the stage, father?" said Judith,
looking at him.
The man smiled down at her, then his face grew suddenly grave and his
hazel eyes narrowed.
"By all the gods--No!--not _thee_ sweetheart. But," his voice
changing, "but there are those I would. We must away, neighbour
Thornbury. I am due in London shortly, and need the night's rest."
They pressed him to stay longer, but he would not tarry. So Judith
tied on her hooded cloak, and many a warm good-bye was spoken.
The innkeeper, with Darby and Debora, stood on the threshold and
watched the two take the road to Stratford; and the sky was pranked out
with many a golden star, for the storm had blown over, and the night
winds were at peace.
After they entered the house a silence settled over the little group.
The child Dorian slept on the cushioned settle, for he was sorely
spoilt by Debora, who would not have him go above stairs till she
carried him up herself. The girl sat down beside him now and watched
Darby, who was carving a strange head upon a stout bit of wood cut from
the tree before the door.
"What art so busy over, lad?" asked Thornbury. His voice trembled, and
there was an unusual pallor on his face.
"'Tis but a bit of home I will take away with me, Dad. In an act of
'Romeo and Juliet,' the new play we are but rehearsing, I carry a
little cane. I am a dashing fellow, one Mercutio. I would thou
could'st see me. Well-a-day! I have just an odd fancy for this bit o'
the old tree."
Debora rose and went over to her father. She laid one hand on his arm
and patted it gently.
"I would go to London, Dad," she said coaxingly. "Nay, I must go to
London, Dad. I pray thee put no stumbling blocks in the way o' it--but
be kind as thou art always. See! an' thou dost let me away I will stay
but a month, a short month--but four weeks--it doth seem shorter to say
it so--an' then I'll fare home again swiftly an' bide in content. Oh!
think of it, Dad! to go to London! It is to go where one can hear the
heart of the whole world beat!"
The old man shook his head in feeble remonstrance.
"Thou wilt fare there an' thou hast the mind, Deb, but thou wilt never
come back an' bide in peace at One Tree Inn."
The girl suddenly wound her arms about his neck and laid her cool sweet
face against his. When she raised it, it glistened with tears.
"I will, Dad! I will, I will," she cried softly, then bent and caught
little Dorian up and went swiftly out of the room.