V
All Saturday night Debora waited by her window--the one that looked
across the commonland to the Thames. The girl could not face what
might be ahead. Darby--her Darby--her father's delight. Their
handsome boy come to such a pass. "'Twas nothing more than being a
common drunkard. One whom the watch might have arrested in the Queen's
name for breaking the peace," she said to herself. "Oh! the horror of
it, the shame!" In the dark of her room her face burned.
Never had such a fear come to her for Darby till to-day. When was it?
Who raised the doubt of him in her mind? Yes, she remembered; 'twas a
look--a strange look--a half smile, satirical, pitying, that passed
over the player Sherwood's face when he spoke of Darby's being
persuaded to drink with the others. In a flash at that moment the fear
had come, though she would not give it room then. It was a dangerous
life, this life in the city, and she knew now what that expression in
the actor's eyes had meant; realised now the full import of it. So.
It was all summed up in what she had witnessed to-day. But if they
knew--if Master Shakespeare and James Burbage knew--these responsible
men of the Company--how did they come to trust Darby with such parts as
he had long played. What reliance could be placed upon him?
"Nay, then, 'twas a thing not known save by the few. He had not yet
become common gossip. Oh! he must be saved from himself--he must be
saved from himself," she said, wildly, and then fell to crying.
Resting her face, blanched and tear-washed, on the window ledge, she
gazed across the peaceful openland that was silvered by the late moon.
Truly such a landscape might one see in a dream. Away yonder over the
river was the city, its minarets and domes pointing to the purple,
shadowless sky, where a few scattered stars made golden twinkling. "In
London," she had said to her father, "one could hear the world's heart
beat." It seemed to come to her--that sound--far
off--muffled--mysterious--on the wings of the night wind. Away in
Stratford it would be dark and quiet now, save where the Avon dappled
with moonlight hurried high between its banks on its way to the
sea--and it would be dark and quiet in Shottery. The lights all out at
One Tree Inn, all but the great stable lantern, that swayed to and fro
till morning, as a beacon for belated travellers. How long--how very,
very long ago it seemed since she had unhooked it and gone off down the
snowy road to meet the coach. Ah! yes, Nicholas Berwick had caught up
with her, and they came home together. Nicholas Berwick! He was a
rarely good friend, Nick Berwick, and 'twas sweet and peaceful away
there in Shottery. She had not known this pain in her heart for Darby
when she was at home, no, nor this restless craving for the morrow,
this unhappy waiting that had stolen all joy away. Nay then, 'twas not
so. There in the little room a gladness came over the girl such as had
never touched her short, happy life before. A long, fluttering sigh
crossed her lips, and they smiled. The troubled thoughts for Darby
drifted away, and a voice came to her passing in sweetness all voices
that ever she had heard or dreamt of.
"To-morrow?" it said. "Nay, I will not leave it to Fate." And again
with steady insistence--"Then Monday?" The words sung themselves over
and over till her white eyelids drooped and she slept. And the gray
dawn came creeping up the world, while in the eastern sky it was as
though an angel of God had plucked a red rose of heaven and scattered
its leaves abroad.