VIII
Debora went to her own room swiftly that third evening, and, turning
the key, stood with her two hands pressed tight above her heart. "'Tis
over," she said--"'tis over, an' well over. Now to tell Darby. I'
faith, I know not rightly who I am. Nay, then, I am just Deb
Thornbury, not Darby, nor Juliet, for evermore. Oh! what said he at
the steps? 'I know thee, I have known thee from the first. See, thou
art mine, thou art mine, I tell thee, Juliet, Juliet!'"
Then the girl laughed, a happy little laugh. "Was ever man so
imperative? Nay, was ever such a one in the wide, wide world?"
Remembering her dress, she unfastened it with haste and put on the
kirtle of white taffeta.
The thought of Sherwood possessed her; his face, the wonderful golden
voice of him. The words he had said to her--to her only--in the play.
Of the theatre crowded to the doors, of the stage where the Lord
Chamberlain's Company made their exits and entrances, of herself--chief
amongst them--she thought nothing. Those things had gone like a dream.
She saw only a man standing bareheaded before the little house of Dame
Blossom. "I know thee," he had said, looking into her eyes. "Thou art
mine."
"Verily, yes--or will be no other's," she had answered him; "and as for
Fate, it hath been over-kind." So, with her mind on these thoughts,
she went to Darby's room.
He was standing idly by the window, and wheeled about as the girl
knocked and entered.
"How look I now, Deb?" he cried. "Come to the light. Nay, 'tis hardly
enough to see by, but dost think I will pass muster on the morrow? I
am weary o' being mewed up like a cat in a bag."
Debora fixed her eyes on him soberly, not speaking.
"What is't now?" he said, impatiently. "What art staring at? Thine
eyes be like saucers."
"I be wondering what thou wilt say an' I tell thee somewhat," she
answered, softly.
"Out with it then. Thou hast seen Berwick, I wager. I heard he was to
be in town; he hath followed thee, Deb, an'--well, pretty one--things
are settled between thee at last?"
"Verily, no!" she cried, her face colouring, "an' thou canst not better
that guessing, thou hadst best not try again."
"No? Then what's to do, little sister?"
"Dost remember I told thee they had found one to take thy part at
Blackfriars?"
"Egad, yes, that thought has been i' my head ever since. 'Fore Heaven,
I would some one sent me word who 'twas. I ache for news. Hast heard
who 'twas, Deb?"
"'Twas I," she answered, the pink going from her face. "'Twas I,
Debora!"
The young fellow caught at the window ledge and looked at her steadily
without a word. Then he broke into a strange laugh. Taking the girl
by the shoulder he swung her to the fading light.
"What dost mean?" he said, hoarsely. "Tell me the truth."
"I' faith, that is the truth," she answered, quietly. "The only truth.
There was no other way I could think of--and I had the lines by heart.
None knew me. All thought 'twas thee, Darby. See, see! when I was
fair encased in that Kendal green suit o' thine, why even Dad could not
have told 'twas not thy very self! We must be strangely alike o' face,
dear heart--though mayhap our souls be different."
"Nay!" he exclaimed, "'tis past belief that thou should'st take my
part! My brain whirls to think on't. I saw thee yesternight--the day
before--this noon-day--an' thou wert as unruffled as a fresh-blown
rose. Naught was wrong with thy colour, and neither by word or sign
did'st give me an inkling of such mad doings! 'Gad!--if 'tis true it
goes far to prove that a woman can seem most simple when she is most
subtle. An' yet--though I like it not, Deb--I know not what to say to
thee. 'Twas a venturous, mettlesome thing to do--an' worse--'twas
vastly risky. We be not so alike--I cannot see it."
"Nor I, _always_," she said, with a shrug, "but others do. Have no
fear of discovery, one only knows beside Dame Blossom, and they will
keep faith. Neither fear for thy reputation. The people gave me much
applause, though I played not for that."
Darby threw himself into a chair and dropped his face in his hands.
"Who is't that knows?" he asked, half-roughly, after a pause. "Who
is't, Deb?"
"He who played Romeo," she said, in low tone.
"Sherwood?" exclaimed Darby. "Don Sherwood! I might have guessed."
"Ay!" replied the girl. "He only, I have reason to believe." A
silence fell between them, while the young fellow restlessly crossed to
the window again. Debora went to him and laid her hand upon his
shoulder, as was her way.
"Thou wilt not go thy own road again, Darby?" she said, coaxingly.
"Perchance 'tis hard to live straightly here in London--still promise
me thou wilt not let the ways o' the city warp thy true heart. See,
then, what I did was done for thee; mayhap 'twas wrong--thou know'st
'twas fearsome, an' can ne'er be done again."
"'Twill not be needed again, Deb," he answered, and his voice trembled.
"Nay, I will go no more my own way, but thy way, and Dad's. Dost
believe me?"
"Ay!" she said, smiling, though her lashes were wet, "Dad's way, for
'tis a good way, a far better one than any thy wilful, wayward little
sister could show thee."
Out of doors the velvety darkness deepened. Somewhere, up above, a
night-hawk called now and again its harsh, yet plaintive, note. A
light wind, bearing the smell of coming rain and fresh breaking earth,
blew in, spring-like and sweet, yet sharp.
Presently Debora spoke, half hesitatingly.
"I would thou wert minded to tell me somewhat," she started, "somewhat
o' Sherwood, the player. Hath he--hath he the good opinion o' Master
Will Shakespeare--now?"
"In truth, yes," returned the actor. "And of the whole profession. It
seems," smiling a little, "it seems thou dost take Master Shakespeare's
word o' a man as final. He stand'th in thy good graces or fall'th out
o' them by that, eh!"
"Well, peradventure, 'tis so," she admitted, pursing up her lips. "But
Master Don Sherwood--tell me----"
"Oh! as for him," broke in Darby, welcoming any subject that turned
thought from himself, "he is a rare good fellow, is Sherwood, though
that be not his real name, sweet. 'Tis not often a man makes change of
his name on the handbills, but 'tis done now and again."
"It doth seem an over-strange fashion," said Debora, "an' one that must
surely have a reason back o' it. What, then, is Master Sherwood called
when he be rightly named?"
"Now let me think," returned Darby, frowning, "the sound of it hath
slipped me. Nay, I have it--Don--Don, ah! Dorien North. There 'tis,
and the fore part is the same as the little lad's at home, an uncommon
title, yet smooth to the tongue. Don Sherwood is probably one Dorien
Sherwood North, an' that too sounds well. He hath a rare voice. It
play'th upon a man strangely, and there be tones in it that bring tears
when one would not have them. Thou should'st hear him sing Ben
Jonson's song! 'Rare Ben Jonson,' as some fellow hath written him
below a verse o' his, carved over the blackwood mantel at the Devil's
tavern. Thou should'st hear Sherwood sing, 'Drink to me only with
thine eyes.' I' faith! he carries one's soul away! Ah! Deb," he
ended, "I am having a struggle to keep my mind free from that escapade
o' thine. Jove! an' I thought any other recognised thee!"
"None other did, I'll gainsay," Debora answered, in a strangely quiet
way; "an' he only because he found me that day i' the Royal Box--so
long ago. What was't thou did'st call him, Darby? Don Sherwood? Nay,
Dorien North. Dorien North!"
Her hand, which had been holding Darby's sleeve, slipped away from it,
and with a little cry she fell against the window ledge and so to the
floor.
Darby hardly realised for a moment that she had fainted. When she did
not move he stooped and lifted her quickly, his heart beating fast with
fear.
"Why, Deb!" he cried. "What is't? Heaven's mercy! She hath swooned.
Nay, then, not quite; there, then, open thine eyes again. Thou hast
been forewearied, an' with reason. Art thyself now?" as his sister
looked up and strove to rise.
"Whatever came over thee, sweet? Try not to walk. I will lift thee to
the bed an' call Dame Blossom. Marry! what queer things women be."
"Ay! truly," she answered, faintly, steadying herself against him.
"Ay! vastly queer. Nay, I will not go to the bed, but will sit in your
chair."
"Thou art white as linen," anxiously. "May I leave thee to call the
Dame? I fear me lest thou go off again."
"Fear naught o' that," said Deb, with a little curl of her lips. "An'
call Mistress Blossom an' thou wilt, but 'tis nothing; there--dear
heart, I will be well anon. Hast not some jaunt for to-night? I would
not keep thee, Darby."
"'Tis naught but the players' meeting-night at The Mermaid. It hath no
great charm for me, and I will cry it off on thy account."
"That thou wilt not," she said, with spirit, a bit of pink coming to
her face with the effort. "I can trust thee, an' thou must go. 'Twill
ne'er do to have one an' another say,--'Now, where be Darby Thornbury?'
There might be some suspicions fly about an' they met thee not."
"Thou hast a wise head. 'Twould not do,--and I have a game o' bluff to
carry on that thou hast started. Thou little heroine!" kissing her
hand. "What pluck thou did'st have! What cool pluck. Egad!"
ruefully, "I almost wish thou had'st not had so much. 'Twas a
desperate game, and I pray the saints make me equal to the finish."
"'Twas desperate need to play it," she answered, wearily. "Go, then, I
would see Mistress Blossom."
Thornbury stood, half hesitating, turned, and went out.
"'Twill ever be so with him," said the girl. "He lov'th me--but he
lov'th Darby Thornbury better."
Then she hid her face. "Oh! heart o' me! I cannot bear it, I cannot
bear it--'tis too much. I will go away to Shottery to-morrow. I mind
me what Dad said, an' 't has come to be truth. 'Thou wilt never bide
in peace at One Tree Inn again.' Peace!" she said, with bitter accent.
"Peace! I think there be no peace in the world; or else 't hath passed
me by."
Resting her chin on her hand, she sat thinking in the shadowy room.
Darby had lit a candle on the high mantel, and her sombre eyes rested
on the yellow circle of light.
"Who was't I saw 'n the road as I came out o' Blackfriars? Who
was't--now let me think. I paid no more heed than though I had seen
him in a dream, yet 'twas some one from home--Now I mind me! 'Twas
Nicholas Berwick. His eyes burned in his white face. He stared
straightway at me an' made no sign. An' so he was in the theatre also.
Then he _knew_! Poor Nick! poor Nick!" she said, with a heavy sigh.
"He loved me, or he hath belied himself many times; an' I! I thought
little on't."
"Oh! Mistress Blossom," as the door opened. "Is't thou? Come over
beside me." As the good Dame came close, the girl threw her arms about
her neck.
"Why, sweet lamb!" exclaimed the woman. "What hath happened thee?
Whatever hath happened thee?"
"What is one to do when the whole world go'th wrong?" cried Debora.
"Oh! gaze not so at me, I be not dazed or distraught. Oh! dear
Mistress Blossom, I care not to live to be as old as thou art. I am
forewearied o' life."
"Weary o' life! an' at thy time! My faith, thou hast not turned
one-and-twenty! Why, then, Mistress Debora, I be eight-an'-forty, yet
count that not old by many a year."
Deb gave a tired little gesture. "Every one to their fancy--to me the
world and all in it is a twice-told tale. I would not have more o'
it--by choice." She rose and turned her face down toward the good
Dame. "An' one come to ask for me--a--a player, one Master Sherwood of
the Lord Chamberlain's Company--could'st thou--would'st thou bid him
wait below i' the small parlour till I come?"
"Ay, truly," answered the woman, brightening. "Thou art heartily
welcome to receive him there, Mistress Debora."
"Thank thee kindly. He hath business with me, but will not tarry long."
"I warrant many a grand gentleman would envy him that business," said
the Dame, smiling.
Debora gave a little laugh--short and hard. Her eyes, of a blue that
was almost black, shone like stars.
"Dost think so?" she said. "Nay, then, thou art a flatterer. I will
to my room. My hair is roughened, is't not?"
"Thou art rarely beautiful as thou art; there be little rings o' curls
about thy ears. I would not do aught to them. Thy face hath no
colour, yet ne'er saw I thee more comely."
"Now, that is well," she answered. "That giveth my faint heart
courage, an' marry! 'tis what I need. I would not look woe-begone, or
of a cast-down countenance, not I! but would bear me bravely, an' there
be cause. Go thou now, good Mistress Blossom; the faintness hath quite
passed."
It seemed but a moment before Debora heard the Dame's voice again at
the door.
"He hath come," she said, in far-reaching whisper fraught with burden
of unrelieved curiosity.
"He doth wait below, Mistress Deb. Beshrew me! but he is as goodly a
gentleman as any i' London! His doublet is brocaded an' o'er brave
with silver lacings, an' he wear'th a fluted ruff like the quality at
Court. Moreover, he hold'th himself like a very Prince."
"Doth he now?" said Debora, going down the hallway. "Why, then he hath
fair captivated thee. Thou, at thy age! Well-a-day! What think'st o'
his voice," she asked, pausing at the head of the stairs. "What
think'st o' his voice, Mistress Blossom?"
"Why, that 'twould be fine an' easy for him to persuade one to his way
o' thinking with it--even against their will," answered the woman,
smiling.
"Ah! good Dame, I agree not with thee in that," said Debora. "I think
he hath bewitched thee, i' faith." So saying, she went below, opened
the little parlour door, and entered.
Sherwood was standing in the centre of the room, which was but dimly
lit by the high candles. Deb did not speak till she had gone to a
window facing the deserted common-land, pulled back the curtains and
caught them fast. A flood of white moonlight washed through the place
and made it bright.
The player seemed to realise there was something strange about the
girl, for he stood quite still, watching her quick yet deliberate
movement anxiously.
As she came toward him from the window he held out his hands.
"Sweetheart!" he said, unsteadily. "Sweetheart!"
"Nay," she answered, with a little shake of her head and clasping her
hands behind. "Not thine."
"Ay!" he cried, passionately, "thou art--all mine. Thine eyes, so
truthful, so wondrous; the gold-flecked waves of thine hair; the white
o' thy throat that doth dazzle me; the sweetness of thy lips; the
little hands behind thee."
"So," said the girl, with a catch of the breath, "so thou dost say, but
'tis not true. As for my body, such as it is, it is my own."
Sherwood leaned toward her, his eyes dark and luminous. "'Fore Heaven,
thou art wrong," he said. "Thou dost belong to me."
"What o' my soul?" she asked, softly. "What o' my soul, Sir Romeo? Is
that thine, too?"
"Nay," he answered, looking into her face, white from some inward
rebellion. "Nay, then, sweetheart, for I think that is God's."
"Then, thou hast left me nothing," she cried, moving away.
"Oh!"--throwing out her hands--"hark thee, Master Sherwood. 'Tis a far
cry since thou did'st leave me by the steps at sundown. A far, far
cry. The world hath had time to change. I did not know thee then.
Now I do."
"Why, I love thee," he answered, not understanding. "I love thee, thou
dost know that surely. Come, tell me. What else dost know,
sweetheart? See! I am but what thou would'st have--bid me by what
thou wilt. I will serve thee in any way thou dost desire. I have
given my life to thee--and by it I swear again thou art mine."
"That I am not," she said, standing before him still and unyielding.
"Look at me--look well!"
The man bent down and looked steadfastly into the girl's tragic face.
It was coldly inflexible, and wore the faint shadow of a smile--a smile
such as the lips of the dead sometimes wear, as though they knew all
things, having unriddled life's problem.
"Debora!" he cried. "Debora! What is it? What hath come to thee?"
She laughed, a little rippling laugh that broke and ended. "Nay, thou
traitor--that I will not tell thee--but go--go!"
The player stood a moment irresolute, then caught her wrists and held
them. His face had turned hard and coldly grave as her own. Some look
in his eyes frightened her.
"'Tis a coil," he said, "and Fate doth work against me. Yet verily
'tis a coil I will unravel. I am not easily worsted, but in the end
bend things to my will. An' thou wilt not tell me what stands i' my
road, I will discover it for myself. As for the Judas name thou hast
called me--it fits me not. Should'st thou desire to tell me so thyself
at any time--to take it back--send me but a word. So I go."
The long, swift steps sounded down the hall; there was the opening and
shutting of a door, and afterward silence.