XI
It is Christmas eve once more, and all the diamond window panes of One
Tree Inn--are aglitter with light from the Yule log fire in the front
room chimney-place and the many candles Mistress Debora placed in their
brass candlesticks.
Little Dorien had followed her joyously from room to room, and many
times she had lifted him in her strong, young arms and let him touch
the wick with the lighted spill and start the fairy flame. Then his
merry laugh rang through the house, and John Sevenoakes and Master
Thornbury, sitting by the hearth below, smiled as they listened, for it
is so good a thing to hear, the merry, whole-hearted, innocent laughter
of a child.
Even the leathery, grim old face of Ned Saddler relaxed into a pleasant
expression at the sound of it, though 'twas against his will to allow
himself to show anything of happiness he felt; for he was much like a
small, tart winter apple, wholesome and sound at heart, yet sour enough
to set one's teeth on edge.
And they talked together, these three ancient cronies, while now and
then Master Thornbury leaned over and stirred the contents of the big
copper pot on the crane, sorely scorching his kindly face in the
operation.
Presently Nick Berwick came in, stamping the snow off his long boots,
and he crossed to the hearth and turned his broad back to the fire,
even as he had done a year before on Christmas eve. His face was
graver than it had been, for his soul had had a wide outlook since
then, but his mouth smiled in the old-time sweet and friendly fashion,
and if he had any ache of the heart he made no sign.
"Hast come over from Stratford, lad?" asked Thornbury.
"Ay!" he answered, "an' I just met little Judith Shakespeare hastening
away from grand dame Hathaway's. She tells me her father is coming
home for Christmas. Never saw I one in a greater flutter of
excitement. 'Oh! Nick,' she cried out, ere I made sure who it was in
the dusk, 'Hast heard the news?' 'What news, gossip?' I answered.
'Why, that my father will be home to-night,' she called back. ''Tis
more than I dreamed or dared to hope, but 'tis true.' I could see the
shining of her eyes as she spoke, and she tripped onward as though the
road were covered with rose-leaves instead of snow."
"She is a giddy wench," said Saddler, "and doth lead Deb into half her
pranks. If I had a daughter now----"
Thornbury broke into a great laugh and clapped the old fellow soundly
on the shoulder.
"Hark to him!" he cried. "If he had a daughter! Marry and amen, I
would we could see what kind of maid she would be."
"I gainsay," put in Sevenoakes, thinking to shift the subject, "that
Will Shakespeare comes home as much for Deb's wedding as aught else."
A shade went over Berwick's face. "The church hath been pranked out
most gaily, Master Thornbury," he said.
"'Twill be gay enough," said Saddler, "but there'll be little comfort
in it and small rest for a man's hand or elbow anywhere for the holly
they've strung up. I have two lame thumbs with the prickles that have
run into them."
Thornbury smiled. "Then 'twas thou who helped the lads and lasses this
afternoon, Ned," he said; "and I doubt nothing 'twas no one else who
hung the great bunch of mistletoe in the chancel! I marvel at thee."
At this they all laughed so loudly that they did not hear Deb and
little Dorien enter the room and come over to the hearth, with Tramp
following.
"What art making so merry over, Dad?" she questioned, looking from one
to another.
"Nay, ask me not. Ask Saddler."
"He doth not like maids who are curious," she said, shaking her head.
"I am content to be in the dark."
Then she cried, listening, "There, dost not hear the coach? I surely
caught the rumble of the wheels, and she is on time for once! Come,
Dorien. Come, Dad, we will to the door to meet them."
Soon the lumbering coach swung up the road and the tired horses stopped
under the oak.
And it was a welcome worth having the two travellers got, for Darby
Thornbury and Don Sherwood had journeyed from London together, ay! and
Master Shakespeare had borne them company, though he left them half a
mile off. As the group drew their chairs about the fireplace, Darby
had many a jest and happy story to repeat that the master told them on
the homeward way, for he was ever the best company to make a long road
seem short.
Deb sat in her old seat in the inglenook and Master Sherwood stood
beside her, where he could best see the ruddy light play over her
wondrous hair and in the tender depths of her eyes. They seemed to
listen, these two, as Darby went lightly from one London topic to
another, for now and then Don Sherwood put in a word or so in that
mellow voice of his, and Deb smiled often--yet it may be they did not
follow him over closely, for they were dreaming a dream of their own
and the day after the morrow was their wedding day.
[Illustration: Darby went lightly from one London topic to another]
The child Dorien lay upon the sheepskin rug at Deb's feet and watched
Darby. His eager, beautiful little face lit up with joy, for were they
not all there together, those out of the whole world he loved the best,
and it would be Christmas in the morning. What more could any child
desire?
"When I look at the little lad, Don," said Debora, softly, "my thoughts
go back to his mother. 'Twas on such a night as this, as I have told
thee, that Darby found her in the snow."
"Think not of it, sweetheart," he answered; "the child, at least, has
missed naught that thou could'st give."
"I know, I know," she said, in a passionate, low tone, "but it troubles
me when I think of all that I have of care and life's blessings, and of
her woe and desolation, and through no sin, save that of loving too
well. I see not why it should be."
"Ah!" he said, bending towards her, "there are some 'Why's' that must
wait for their answer--for 'twill not come this side o' heaven." Then,
in lighter tone, "When I look at the little lad I see but that
scapegrace kinsman of mine; but although he is so marvellous like him,
thou wilt be his guide. I fear nothing for his future, for who could
be aught but good with thee, my heart's love, beside them."
And presently there was a stir as Nicholas Berwick rose and bid all
good-night, and this reminded John Sevenoakes and Ned Saddler that the
hour was late. It was then that Berwick went to Deb, at a moment when
she stood apart from the others. He held towards her a small
leather-covered box.
"'Tis my wedding gift to thee, Deb," he said, his grave eyes upon her
changeful face. "'Tis a pearl collar my mother wore on her wedding-day
when she was young and fair as thou art. I will not be here to see how
sweet thou dost look in it."
"Thou wilt in the church, Nick?"
"Nay, I will not. I have not told thee before, as I would not plant a
thorn in any of thy roses, but I ride to London on the morrow. I have
much work there, for later on I sail to America to the new Colonies, in
charge of certain stores for Sir Walter Raleigh."
She raised her eyes, tear-filled and tender, to his.
"I wish thee peace, Nick," she said, "wherever thou art--and I have no
fear but that gladness will follow. I will miss thee, for thou wert
ever my friend."
He lifted her hand to his lips and went away, and in the quiet that
followed, when Master Thornbury and Darby talked together, Don Sherwood
drew Debora into the shadow by the window-seat.
"I' faith," he said, "if I judge not wrongly by Master Nicholas
Berwick's face when he spoke with thee but now, he doth love thee also,
Deb."
"Ah!" she answered, "he hath indeed said so in the past and moreover
proven it."
"In very truth, yes. But thou," with a flash in his eyes, "dost care?
Hast aught of love for him? Nay, I need not ask thee."
She smiled a little, half sadly.
"I love but thee," she said.
He gave a short, light laugh, then looked grave.
"'Tis another of life's 'Why's,' sweetheart, that awaiteth an answer.
Why!--why, in heaven's name, should I have the good fortune to win
thee, when he, who I think is far the better gentleman, hath failed?"
As he spoke, the bells of Stratford rang out their joyous pealing, and
the sound came to them on the night wind. Then the child, who had been
asleep curled up on the soft rug, opened his wondering eyes.
Deb stooped and lifted him, and he laid his curly head against her
shoulder.
"Is it Christmas, Deb?" he asked, sleepily.
"Yes, my lamb," she answered; "for, hark! the bells are ringing it in,
and they say, 'Peace, Dorien--Peace and goodwill to men.'"
THE END
[Illustration: Chapter 11 tailpiece]