III
The house in London where Darby Thornbury lodged was on the southern
side of the Thames in the neighbourhood of the theatres, a part of the
city known as Bankside. The mistress of the house was one Dame
Blossom, a wholesome-looking woman who had passed her girlhood at
Shottery, and remembered Darby and Debora when they were but babies.
It was on this account, probably, that she gave to the young actor an
amount of consideration and comfort he could not have found elsewhere
in the whole of Southwark. When he returned from his holiday, bringing
his sister with him, she welcomed them with a heartiness that lacked no
tone of absolute sincerity.
The winter had broken when the two reached London; there was even a
hint of Spring in the air, though it was but February, and the whole
world seemed to be waking after a sleep. At least that was the way it
felt to Debora Thornbury. For then began a life so rich in enjoyment,
so varied and full of new delights that she sometimes, when brushing
that heavy hair of hers before the little copper mirror in the high
room that looked away to the river, paused as in a half dream, vaguely
wondering if she were in reality the very maid who had lived so long
and quietly at the old Inn away there in the pleasant Warwickshire
country.
Her impulsive nature responded eagerly to the rapid flow of life in the
city, and she received each fresh impression with vivid interest and
pleasure. There was a new sparkle in her changeful blue eyes, and the
colour drifted in and out of her face with every passing emotion.
Darby also, it struck the girl, was quite different here in London.
There was an undefined something about him, a certain assurance both of
himself and the situation that she had never noticed before. Truly
they had not seen anything of each other for the past two years, but he
appeared unchanged when he came home at Christmas. A trifle more manly
looking perchance, and with a somewhat greater elegance of manner and
speech, yet in verity the same Darby as of old; here in the city it was
not so, there was a dashing way about him now, a foppishness, an
elaborate attention to every detail of fashion and custom that he had
not burdened himself with at the little half-way house. The hours he
kept moreover were very late and uncertain, and this sorely troubled
his sister. Still each morning he spoke so freely of the many
gentlemen he had been with the evening before--at the Tabard--or the
Falcon--or even the Devil's Tavern near Temple Bar--where Debora had
gazed open-eyed at the flaunting sign of St. Dunstan tweaking the devil
by the nose--indeed, all these places he mentioned so entirely as a
matter of course, that she soon ceased to worry over the hour he
returned. The names of Marlowe and Richard Burbage, Beaumont,
Fletcher, Lodge, Greene and even Dick Tarleton, became very familiar to
her, beside those of many a lesser light who was wont to shine upon the
boards. It seemed reasonable and fair that Darby should wish to pass
as much time with reputable players as possible, and moreover he was
often, he said, with Ned Shakespeare--who was playing at
Blackfriars--and the girl knew that where _he_ was, the master himself
was most likely to be for shorter or longer time, for he ever shadowed
his brother's life with loving care.
Through the day, when he was not at the theatre, Darby took his sister
abroad to see the sights. The young actor was proud to be seen with
her, and though he loved her for her own sweet sake, perhaps there was
more than a trifle of vanity mixed with the pleasure he obtained from
showing the city to one so easily charmed and entertained.
The whispered words of admiration that caught his ear as Debora stood
beside him here and there in the public gardens and places of
amusement, were as honey to his taste. And it may be because they were
acknowledged to be so strikingly alike that it pleased his fancy to
have my lord this--and the French Count of that--the beaus and young
bloods of the town who haunted the playhouses and therefore knew the
actors well--plead with him, after having seen Debora once, to be
allowed to pay her at least some slight attention and courtesy.
But Darby Thornbury knew his time and the men of it, and where his
little sister was concerned his actions were cool and calculating to a
degree.
He was careful to keep her away from those places where she would
chance to meet and become acquainted with any of the players whom she
knew so well by name, and this the girl thought passing strange.
Further, he would not take her to the theatres, though in truth she
pleaded, argued, and finally lost her temper over it.
"Nay, Deb," said her brother loftily, "let me be the best judge of
where I take thee and whom thou dost meet. I have not lived in London
more than twice twelve months for naught. Thou, sweeting, art as fresh
and dew-washed as the lilac bushes under Dad's window--and as green.
Therefore, I pray thee allow me to decide these matters. Did I not
take thee to Greenwich but yesterday to view the Queen's Plaisance, as
the place is rightly named?--Methinks I can smell yet that faint scent
of roses that so pervaded the place. Egad! 'tis not every lass hath
luck enow to see the very rooms Her Majesty hath graced. Marry no!
Such tapestries and draperies laced with Spanish gold-thread! Such
ancient portraits and miniatures set on ivory! Such chairs and tables
inlaid thick with mother o' pearl and beaten silver! That feast of the
eye should last thee awhile and save thy temper from going off at a
tangent."
Debora lifted her straight brows by way of answer, and her red curved
mouth set itself in a dangerously firm line; but Darby appeared not to
notice these warning signals and continued in more masterful tone:--
"Moreover, I took thee to the Paris Gardens on a day when there was a
passable show, and one 'twas possible for a maid to view, yet even then
much against my will and better judgment. I have taken thee to the
notable churches and famous tombs. Thou hast seen the pike ponds and
the park and palace of the Lord Bishop of Winchester! And further,
thou hast walked with me again and again through Pimlico Garden when
the very fashion of the city was abroad. Ah! and Nonsuch House! Hast
forgotten Nonsuch House on London Bridge, and how we climbed the gilded
stairway and went up into the cupola for a fair outlook at the river?
'Tis a place to be remembered. Why, they brought it over from France
piecemeal, so 'tis said, and put it together with great wooden pegs
instead of nails. The city was sorely taxed for it all, doubtless."
He waited half a moment, apparently for some response, but as none
came, went on again:
"As for the shops and streets, thou know'st them by heart, for there
has not been a day o' fog since we came to keep us in. Art not
satisfied, sweet?"
"Nay then I am not!" she answered, with an impatient gesture. "Thou
dost know mightily well 'tis the playhouses, the playhouses I would
see!"
"'Fore Heaven now! Did a man ever listen to such childishness!" cried
Darby. "And hast not seen them then?"
"Marry, no!" she exclaimed, her lovely face reddening.
"Now, by St. George! Then 'twas for naught I let thee gaze so long on
'The Swan,' and I would thou could'st just have seen thine eyes when
they ran up the red flag with the swan broidered upon it. Ay! and also
when their trumpeter blew that ear-splitting blast which is their
barbarous unmannerly fashion of calling the masses in and announcing
the play hath opened."
The girl made no reply, but beat a soft, quick tattoo with her little
foot on the sanded floor.
After watching her in amused silence Darby again returned to his
tantalising recital.
"And I pointed out, as we passed it, the 'Rose Theatre' where the Lord
High Admiral's men have the boards. Fine gentlemen all, and
hail-fellow-well-met with the Earl of Pembroke's players, though they
care little for our Company. Since we have been giving Will
Shakespeare's comedies, the run of luck hath been too much with us to
make us vastly popular. Anon, I showed thee 'The Hope,' dost not
remember the red-tiled roof of it? 'Tis a private theatre, an'
marvellous comfortable, they tell me. An' thou has forgotten all
those; thou surely canst bring to mind the morning we were in
Shoreditch, how I stopped before 'The Fortune' and 'The Curtain' with
thee? 'Tis an antiquated place 'The Curtain,' but the playhouse where
Master Shakespeare first appeared, and even now well patronised, for
Ben Jonson's new comedy 'Every Man in his Humour' is running there to
full houses, an' Dick Burbage himself hath the leading part."
He paused again, a merry light in his eyes and his lips twitching a
little.
"Thou didst see 'The Globe' an' my memory fails me not, Deb? 'Tis our
summer theatre--where I fain we could play all year round--but that is
so far impossible as 'tis open to the sky, and a shower o' cold rain or
an impromptu sprinkling of sleet on one, in critical moments of the
play, hath disastrous effect. Come, thou surely hast not forgotten
'The Globe,' where we of the Lord High Chamberlain's Company have so
oft disported ourselves. Above the entrance there is the huge sign of
Atlas carrying his load and beneath, the words in Latin, '_All the
world acts a play_.'"
Debora tossed her head and caught her breath quickly. "My patience is
gone with thee, since thou art minded to take me for a very fool, Darby
Thornbury," she said with short cutting inflection. "Hearts mercy!
'Tis not the outside o' the playhouses I desire to see, as thou dost
understand--'tis the inside--where Master Shakespeare is and the great
Burbage, an' Kemp, an' all o' them. Be not so unkind to thy little
sister. I would go in an' see the play--Marry an' amen! I am beside
myself to go in with thee, Darby!"
The young actor frowned. "Nay then, Deb," he answered, "those ladies
(an' I strain a point to call them so) who enter, are usually masked.
I would not have thee of _them_. The play is but for men, like the
bear-baiting and bull-baiting places."
"How can'st thou tell me such things," she cried, "an' so belittle the
stage? Listen now! this did I hear thee saying over and over last
night. So wonderful it was--and rarely, strangely beautiful--yet
fearful--it chilled the blood o' my heart! Still I remembered."
Rising the girl walked to the far end of the room with slow, pretty
movement, then lifted her face, so like Darby's own--pausing as though
she listened.
Her brother could only gaze at her as she stood thus, her plain grey
gown lying in folds about her, the sun burnishing the red-gold of her
hair; but when she began to speak he forgot all else and only for the
moment heard Juliet--the very Juliet the world's poet must have dreamed
of.
On and on she spoke with thrilling intensity. Her voice, in its full
sweetness, never once failed or lost the words. It was the long
soliloquy of the maid of Capulet in the potion scene. After she
finished she stood quite still for a moment, then swayed a little and
covered her face with her hands.
"It taketh my very life to speak the words so," she said slowly, "yet
the wonder of them doth carry me away from myself. But," going over to
Darby, "but, dear heart, how dost come thou art studying such a part?
'Tis just for the love of it surely!"
The player rose and walked to the small window. He stood there quite
still and answered nothing.
Debora laid one firm, soft hand upon his and spoke, half coaxingly,
half diffidently, altogether as though touching some difficult question.
"Dost take the part o' Juliet, dear heart?"
"Ay!" he answered, with a short, hard laugh. "They have cast me for
it, without my consent. At first I was given the lines of Mercutio,
then, after all my labour over the character--an' I did not spare
myself--was called on to give it up. There has been difficulty in
finding a Juliet, for Cecil Davenant, who hath the sweetest voice for a
girl's part of any o' us, fell suddenly ill. In an evil moment 'twas
decided I might make shift to take the character, for none other in the
Company com'th so near it in voice, they say, though Ned Shakespeare
hath a pink and white face, comely enow for any girl. Beshrew me,
sweetheart--but I loathe the taking of such parts. To succeed doth
certainly bespeak some womanish beauty in one--to fail doth mar the
play. At best I must be as the Master says, 'too young to be a man,
too old to be a boy.' 'Tis but the third time I have essayed such a
role, an 't shall be the last, I swear."
"I would I could take the part o' Juliet for thee, Darby," said the
girl, softly patting the sleeve of his velvet tabard.
"Thou art a pretty comforter," he answered, pinching her ear lightly
and trying to recover himself.
"'Twould suit thee bravely, Deb, yet I'd rather see thee busy over a
love affair of thine own at home in Shottery. Ah, well! I'd best
whistle 'Begone dull care,' for 'twill be a good week before we give
the people the new play, though they clamour for it now. We are but
rehearsing as yet, and 'Two Gentlemen of Verona' hath the boards."
"I would I could see the play if but for once," said Debora, clasping
her hands about his arm. "Indeed," coaxingly, "thou could'st manage to
take me an' thou did'st have the will."
Darby knit his brows and answered nothing, yet the girl fancied he was
turning something in his mind. With a fair measure of wisdom for one
so eager she forebore questioning him further, but glanced up in his
face, which was grave and unreadable.
Perchance when she had given up all hope of any favourable answer, he
spoke.
"There is a way--though it pleases me not, Deb--whereby thou might be
able to see the rehearsals at least. The Company assembles at eight of
the morning, thou dost know; now I could take thee in earlier by an
entrance I wot of, at Blackfriars, a little half-hidden doorway but
seldom used--thence through my tiring-room--and so--and so--where dost
think?"
"Nay! I know not," she exclaimed. "Where then, Darby?"
"To the Royal Box!" he answered. "'Tis fair above the stage, yet a
little to the right. The curtains are always drawn closely there to
save the tinselled velvet and cloth o' gold hangings with which 't hath
lately been fitted. Now I will part these drapings ever so little, yet
enough to give thee a full sweeping view o' the stage, an' if thou
keep'st well to the back o' the box, Deb, thou wilt be as invisible to
us as though Queen Mab had cast her charmed cloak about thee. Egad!
there be men amongst the High Chamberlain's Players I would not have
discover thee for many reasons, my little sister," he ended, watching
her face.
For half a moment the girl's lips quivered, then her eyes gathered two
great tears which rolled heavily down and lay glittering on her grey
kirtle.
"'Tis ever like this with me!" she exclaimed, dashing her hand across
her eyes, "whenever I get what I have longed and longed for. First
com'th a ball i' my throat, then a queer trembling, an' I all but cry.
'Tis vastly silly is't not, but 'tis just by reason o' being a girl one
doth act so." Then eagerly, "Thou would'st not fool me, Darby, or
change thy mind? Thou art in earnest? Swear it! Cross thy heart!"
"Ay! I am in earnest," he replied, smiling; "in very truth thou shalt
see thy brother turn love-sick maid and mince giddily about in
petticoats. I warrant thou'lt be poppy-red, though thou art hidden
behind the gold curtains, just to hear the noble Romeo vow me such
desperate lover's vows."
"By St. George, Deb! we have a Romeo who might turn any maid's heart
and head. He is a handsome, admirable fellow, Sherwood, and hath a way
with him most fascinating. He doth act even at rehearsals as though
'twere all most deadly passionate reality, and this with only me for
inspiration. I oft' fancy what 'twould be--his love-making--an' he had
a proper Juliet--one such as thou would'st make, for instance."
"I will have eyes only for thee, Darby," answered Debora, softly, "but
for thee, an', yes, for Master Will Shakespeare, should he be by."
"He is often about the theatre, sweet, but hath no part in this new
play. No sooner hath he one written, than another is under his pen;
and I am told that even now he hath been reading lines from a wonderful
strange history concerning a Jew of Venice, to a party of his
friends--Ben Jonson and Dick Burbage, and more than likely Lord
Brooke--who gather nightly at 'The Mermaid,' where, thou dost remember,
Master Shakespeare usually stays."
"I forget nothing thou dost tell me of him," said the girl, as she
turned to leave the room. "O wilt take me with thee on the morrow,
Darby? Wilt really take me?----"
"On the morrow," he answered, watching her away.