IX
The night wore on and the moonlight faded. The stars shone large and
bright; 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 incessantly
over the house-tops. As the clocks tolled one, there was a sound of
rapid wheels along the road and a coach stopped before goodman
Blossom's.
Young Thornbury leaped from it, and with his heavy knocking roused the
man, who came stumbling sleepily down the hallway.
"Oh! pray thee, make haste, Blossom," called the young fellow; "keep me
not 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 lose
their wits! Thy sister should be long abed--an' thou too. Thou art
become a pranked-out coxcomb with all thy foppery--a coxcomb an' a
devil-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. Nothing
was said till they came to London Bridge. The flickering links flashed
by them as they passed. A sea-scented wind blew freshly over the river
and 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? What
hath happened? Whatever hath happened?"
"Just this," he said, shortly. "Nicholas Berwick hath been stabbed by
one 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, dear
heart, it cannot be. I will not believe it--he will not die,--he is
too great and strong--'tis not so grievous as that," cried Deb.
"'Tis worse, we think. He will be gone by daybreak. He may be gone
now. See! the horses have turned into Cheapside. We will soon be
there."
"What was the cause?" the girl asked, faintly. "Tell me how he came by
the blow."
There was no sound for a while but the whirling of wheels and the
ringing 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 us
gathered. Marry! Ben Jonson and Master Shakespeare, Beaumont and
Keene. 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 and
distraught, it seemed to me. They would have him sing 'Drink to me
only 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 sat
aside--not speaking to any, watching and listening. He was there when
the party had thinned out, still silent. I mind his face, 'twas white
as death at a feast. Not half an hour ago--an' there were but ten of
us left--a man--one from 'The Rose,' they told me--I knew him not by
sight--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 new
beauty. For as I live 'twas no man, but a maid, who was on the boards
at 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 him
to 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 loosened
his hold. As he did so, the player drew a poniard from its sheath at
his hip, sprang forward, and struck Berwick full i' the throat. That
is all," Thornbury said, his voice dropping, "save that he asked
incessantly 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 and
wainscoting of dark wood. In the centre of it was a huge table, in
disorder of flagons and dishes. The place was blue with smoke, and
overheated, for a fire yet burned in the great fireplace. On a settle
lay a man, his throat heavily bound with linen, and by him was a
physician of much fame in London, and one who had notable skill in
surgery.
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 his
elbow. "'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 thy
stillness." So saying, he withdrew a little.
"Oh! move not, Nick," said the girl, slipping to the floor beside him
and leaning against the oaken seat; "neither move nor speak. I will
keep watch beside thee. But why did'st deny it or say aught? 'Twould
have been better that the whole o' London knew than this! Nay, answer
me not," she continued, fearfully; "thou may not speak or lift a
finger."
Berwick smiled faintly, "Ah! sweet," he said, pausing between the
words, "I would not have thy name on every tongue--but would silence
them all--an' I had lives enough. Yet thou wert in truth upon the
stage at Blackfriars--in Will Shakespeare's play--though I denied it!"
"Yes," said Deb, softly, "but 'twas of necessity. We will think no
more of it. It breaks my heart to see thee here, Nick," she ended,
with quivering lips, her eyes wide and pitiful.
[Illustration: "It breaks my heart to see thee here, Nick"]
"Now that need not trouble thee," answered the man, a light breaking
over 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 and
stood beside him.
"Ah! Deb," he said, looking up at her adoringly. "'Twill be something
to remember--should I live--an' if not, well--'tis not every man who
dies 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 place
for thee now."
"I will go," answered the girl; "though I would fain take care of thee
here, 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 on
Berwick's wrist.
"Thou dost seem set upon undoing my work," he said. "Art so over-ready
to die, Master Berwick? One more swoon like the last and thou would'st
sleep on."
"He will talk no more, good Doctor," said Debora, hastily. "Ah! thou
wilt 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, thou
must not even say good-bye or move thy lips. I will go back to Dame
Blossom 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 wilt
have it so."