“In frame of which nature hath showed more skill
Than when she gave eternal chaos form.”
—MARLOWE, in _Tamburlaine_.
Although on the second night there came but little wind, the _Admiral’s_
master found it necessary to strike both topsails in order that the less
speedy fly-boat might come up for his orders, as the rule demanded. But
even with this decrease of canvas the sun had set and darkness fallen
before the two ships lay side by side. At last, however, being lashed
together with hawsers, so that men might pass from one to the other
without difficulty, they drifted beam to beam—two waifs of the sea,
seeking each other’s companionship on the bed of the dark ocean, like
children afraid of the night. But that night, at least, was kind to
them, though only the lightest breeze favored their progress. The sea
lay smooth as a mountain-guarded lake, save where the two slow-moving
stems disturbed its surface, awakening ripples that rose, mingled, and
dispersed, to seek their sleep again astern. And the ripples played with
the waiting beams of stars, played and slumbered and played again, but
beyond the circle of this night-time dalliance all was rest. Here the
ripples were as smiles on the face of the waters, and the gleams were the
gleams of laughing eyes; but there, far out, the sea slept, with none of
this frivolous elfinry to break its peace.
Yet even now, up over the ocean, as a woman who rises from her bed and
seeks her mirror to see if sleep has enhanced her beauty, the moon rose
from behind a long, low hill of clouds, rose flushed as from a passionate
hour, and paled slowly among the stars.
From the _Admiral’s_ deck a young man watched her. “It is Elizabeth,” he
said, “leaving Leicester for her people’s sake. Roseate love gives place
to silver sovereignty. The woman is sacrificed that we may gain a queen.
’Tis well that Mistress Dare owes no such costly relinquishment to the
state. Few compel the love of men like Vytal—and yet—and yet I would
have—”
But a laugh at the poet’s side interrupted him, and a girl of comely
figure thrust her arm through his own. “Moper,” said she. “Come now;
Roger Prat hath brought his bear to show us, and there will be no end
of merrymaking. We have I know not what aboard—two morris-dancers,
hobby-horses, and the like conceits of May-time.”
“By Heaven, Gyll!” exclaimed Christopher, “one might think our governor
was Lord of Misrule and the whole voyage but a Whitsun jollification.
Wherefore these absurdities?”
“To entertain the savage people,”[3] quoth Gyll, leading him off
tyrannically. “On my word, Kyt, ’tis so! We would win them by fair means,
you see.”
“And you me by the same pleasantries,” returned Marlowe, more lightly,
as her mood captured him. “Mistress Croyden, thou’rt a savage thyself, a
sweet savage, Gyll, and they’re all for winning thee, I suppose.”
She smiled complacently, with a full consciousness of the charm that
made her popular, and Marlowe laughed at the expression of childlike
vanity.
Then for an instant his brow clouded, his flattery became more lavish and
exaggerated.
A tall, unmistakable figure had passed them in the darkness, like the
person of a dream, and Vytal, having gone to the fly-boat, was even now
in eager search.
The vessel, a small but cumbrous thing of the Dutch galliot type, with
mountainous stern and stolid bow, offered little encouragement to the
seeker. For its lights only revealed vague faces, while its masts and
shadows, decks and turnings, seemed to form an agglomeration of dark
hiding-places in which any one might all-unwittingly stand concealed. But
for the moon, now sailing high, recognition would have been impossible.
The soldier, moreover, customarily so direct of method, felt a certain
embarrassment and helplessness in this unprecedented adventure. Having
until now avoided women with a real indifference, his present want
of practice gave him the awkward feeling of a raw recruit. He was
momentarily at a loss as to the best manner of procedure. Since he knew
none aboard the vessel of whom he could inquire concerning Eleanor Dare,
the chance of his meeting her, without special purpose, seemed slight.
He considered the expedience of accosting at random some stranger, who
might perhaps at least know the girl by sight. Weighing this plan in his
mind, he approached a company of the voyagers, who, gathered in a circle
about the main-mast, were kneeling devoutly, while an Oxford preacher
read the evening prayer. It was in harmony with the tranquil evening—the
picture of those forty or fifty men and women beneath a dim lanthorn,
that, deepening the shadows beyond its scope, lit up here and there a
face reverent with supplication. And to the earnest piety in the pastor’s
voice, the restless water from stem to stern added a mystical whisper of
unknown things.
At length, as a prayer for the general welfare of the colony drew to
a close, Vytal, who had been standing on the outskirts of the circle,
his head bowed and bared, raised his eyes to the preacher. Then, from
the minister’s uplifted gaze and hands outstretched in benediction, his
glance wandered to the background of suppliant figures, whose faces, as
they rose at the conclusion of the service, were distinctly visible.
Soldiers were there, and gentlemen, mariners, planters, and cooks,
musicians, carpenters, masons, and traders, and, in the foremost line
of the circle, a little knot of women and children. Toward these Vytal
turned his gaze. They seemed workers of a spell—co-workers with the
murmurous sea, and the vague shadows, in subduing and softening the
picture.
Vytal started and instinctively stepped forward. The whole scene had
dissolved now, save for one predominant figure. Seemingly as though
merely to form a background for her, these men and women knelt there;
as though to shine upon her alone, the lanthorn had been hung above her
head; as though the shadows, daring not to cross her, were there to
obscure all other faces that hers might be the better seen; as though to
her the sea whispered, for she alone could understand.
Vytal stood motionless, watching her with hunger in his eyes.
Her beauty, of that rare kind which disarms criticism even while
suggesting it, was not a flash to startle fleetingly the observer, but
a subtle charm, with all those deeply suggestive qualities of form and
feature which weave themselves into the very heart of memory. Hers was
no brilliant contrast of color in hair and brows and cheeks, but rather
a perfect harmony. The light brown of her hair blent with her hazel eyes
and with the fine straight lines above them. Her color came and went with
each change of expression, like the transitory flush of earliest morning;
but generally her face was of a clear cream tint, which died away softly
in the russet hair.
The worshippers were now separating, and she, by the side of a thin,
weak-looking man, who, from Marlowe’s description, was probably her
brother, came near to Vytal.
He stepped back into a dense shadow, turning half away.
“Nay,” he heard her say, coldly, “you know I would be alone oftentimes at
evening. Solitude and reverie are indispensable to some natures, and mine
is one of these. I shall be safe, and if need be you can find me when
you will up there in the stern.” With that she left her companion. But
at first Vytal could not bring himself to follow her. She had expressed
a wish: it was his law. Yet, as the minutes went by, seeming hours, he
began to grow fearful lest some harm should befall the girl, and so set
out in quest of her.
There, on the top deck, that she might have no roof above her head, but
only the sky, she stood leaning against the bulwark and gazing down into
the water far below. This bulwark, although much lower and narrower than
those of the Spanish type, which on galleys were sometimes three or four
feet thick, walling in the lofty sterns like castle ramparts, was, as may
be imagined, no unstable support for so light a burden. Nevertheless,
Vytal, considering the possibility of a sudden wave causing the ship
to lurch violently, and wanting this or any other excuse, no matter
how preposterous, to render justifiable his intrusion on her desired
solitude, stepped to the girl’s side.
She turned slowly toward him, and, stroking back a lock of hair from her
forehead, looked up into his face. “And so you are truly here in flesh
and fell,” she said, with a certain wonder, yet no surprise, as though
her thoughts had not been interrupted, but rather realized, by the actual
appearance of their subject. It was as if she had known, with no need of
ordinary information to give her knowledge. And strangely enough her lack
of surprise brought Vytal no astonishment, but only a slight perplexity
and gladness. He had dimly surmised that she would know, but could not
explain the reason of her intuition. And yet, while wanting words, he
only gazed at her, a look of regret crossed his face.
“You seem not overjoyed, Mistress Dare.”
To this she made no answer, but withdrew her eyes, and he saw their
long lashes almost touch her cheeks as she looked down once more into
the water. “I implore your pardon,” he said, a low note of pain in his
never-faltering voice. “But I had not deemed your reverie so sacred.
’Twas a man’s rough error,” and he turned away.
“Stay. In going you are guilty of the only error. I would not have you
leave me with the word ‘ingrate’ on your lips. Nay, make no denial. I
must, in truth, have seemed ungrateful.” She fully believed—and perhaps
there was vanity in the supposition—that he had followed her, that even
the ocean’s breadth had not deterred him, and the belief deprived her
somewhat of her perfect self-command. She was looking up at him now,
her hazel eyes wide open, helpless in expression and for the moment like
a child’s. “I have not yet said ‘I thank you.’” He made a deprecatory
gesture. “No,” she persisted, with a glance more free. “Oh, why are brave
men ever thus, turning away when we would offer them our feeble words of
gratitude, while they who merit not a smile of recompense bow low, and
wait, and wait, for unearned thanks? Yet what can I say? That you are a
knight worthy of the name? That I have never seen a nobler play of arms?
That you saved my—honor? And then, after all this, am I to repeat ‘I
thank you, I thank you,’ as I would to some fop stooping for my fan.”
“Faith,” he returned, “’tis the duty of some to pick up fans; ’tis but
the duty of others to—”
“Defend a fashionable ruff,” she concluded, smiling, “against lawful
shears. Yes, I suppose you would put it that way. ’Twas such a little
thing—so trivial—a rapier against scissors! Oh, perhaps I am wrong”—her
tone grew bantering to cover her recognition of a certain grim power in
the man. “It may be you boast by the mere belittlement of your action.
The most arrant braggadocio lies often in a mock-modest ‘It was naught,’
a self-depreciative silence. Thank you, then, sir, for the timely
preservation of my ruff.” And she laughed, as the ripples under the bow
were laughing, with a fairy music. Yet a tone of sadness, deep as the
sea, underlay the feigned amusement in her voice.
“The ruff was a flower’s calyx,” he said.
“Nay, now, that ill-fits you, sir. I had not thought to find flattery
from such an one.” She raised her eyebrows with unaccustomed archness, as
though by look to maintain her usually perfect dignity, which her words,
whether she would or no, seemed bent on frittering away. “Why, ’twas far
better put by the villain who insulted me: ‘A bud’s outer petals fallen,’
or some such pretty speech. And you but steal his—”
“Nay, madam, you know well it was—”
“Oh, original, then—’tis little better. So readily conceived a metaphor
has doubtless been made a hundred times concerning ruffs. You pay the
best compliments with your sword. No, no; be not so crestfallen. We are
but newly met, that’s all. You do not understand—forgive me, Master—how
now, have I not yet learned your name?”
“’Tis John Vytal.”
“John Vytal,” she repeated, slowly. “It were easy to play on the name and
show its meaning, but to them who’ve seen you I doubt not it needs no
interpretation.” He would have questioned her then, but she hastened back
to the first subject. “One thing piques my curiosity—the manner of your
escape. Were the retainers of Sir Walter Raleigh so speedy to bring you
succor?”
“No, I saw them not. Once you had gone I stayed no longer.”
“Stayed no longer?” She opened her large eyes very wide in surprise.
“Nay.”
“You speak as though you could have left at will.”
“The will was there, madam.”
“But the way—the way?” she demanded, impatiently.
“And the way, too.”
“Your brevity is badinage,” she declared, with an imperious toss of her
head.
“Your badinage cruelty,” he returned.
“Oh, you are not all silence and swordsmanship,” she laughed, with a
trace of the persistent raillery in her voice. “But I have asked you
concerning your way of escape.”
“From the cruelty?”
“No.” The word came impatiently, as though she were wholly unaccustomed
to resistance. “I see you parry in more ways than one.” And her fingers
played about the hood-clasp beneath her chin.
“Less hopefully in one way than another, Mistress Dare.”
At this her manner, curiously changing, became graver, the assumed
archness and petulance for the moment leaving her. “You speak of
cruelty,” she said, in a very low voice, again turning to gaze down at
the sea, “and of hope. Sometimes, Captain Vytal, they are synonymous;”
and then, before he could make rejoinder, she added, quickly, “I pray you
tell me of the escape?”
“’Twas through a window overlooking the Thames,” he answered, in
bewilderment. “And I swam ashore.”
“Ah, I see. I thought perhaps you had followed us through the porter’s
lodge.”
“No; the way was blocked.”
“Tell me,” she asked, “was it your plan, our reaching safety as we did,
or Master Marlowe’s?”
“Neither his nor mine.”
“Neither! Whose, then?”
“At least, in a way, neither. You see, I remembered the story of the
porter’s lodge. In 1554 Wyatt gained that building by mounting to the
leads of an adjoining house, and thus made his way onto the bridge. Hence
I knew there must be passageway to the Bankside.”
“And you remembered even while your sword demanded so much attention?”
“It came to my mind.”
She smiled with a kind of wonder in her eyes, and then a hint of irony.
“Of course the plan was not yours—it was clearly Wyatt’s.”
“Another rebel’s,” observed Vytal, for the first time looking off across
the water with a trace of abstraction in his face.
“Rebel? How mean you rebel?”
“Naught, but that it seems my fate to be at odds with the world.”
“For instance, to rebel against bear-baiting,” she suggested, glancing
at him sideways. “I heard of that, and recognized the rebel from
description.”
“Readily, madam, I doubt not. They called me a long, lean wolf, a
grizzled terror, with the usual flattery.”
“Yes,” she said, nodding her hooded head and pursing her lips, “they did.”
“And very truly,” he averred.
“Oh, fie, sir! You seek a contradictory opinion.”
“You know I do not.”
“Nay, then perhaps you are not sure of it.” His simplicity and directness
vexed her. She seemed strangely distraught by nervousness, and her manner
was unnatural.
“You wound me, Mistress Dare.”
“Hast so much vanity?” she queried.
“And the wound,” he went on, disregarding her uncontrollable banter, “is
not from your words, but manner more. Somehow the mere being with you
brings me pain.”
“Our interview is of your own seeking, Master Vytal.”
“I had not thought,” he declared, in a tone almost angry, “that one with
such a face, such a voice, could be so unkind,” and once more he started
as if to go.
But she put out her hand with a detaining gesture. Her manner again grew
serious, more like the deep, far-reaching, silent sea than its near-by
surface, flurried by the ship.
“Oh, forgive me again! It seems as though I must ever ask forgiveness
from you—from you to whom I owe so much. Believe me, there is a woman’s
heart beneath all this—I have not said that to any man—’tis my reward to
you—and the woman’s heart knows pity—that, too, is a reward—make what
you can of it.” She was speaking tremulously now. “Only—remember—that
hope is cruel—that a little pain may avert a deeper suffering—this was
my intention—believe me, I pray thee believe, John Vytal—I am deeply
grateful underneath the mask. Fate brought us together in a moment. And
then you followed—followed, I suppose—” she hesitated, her breast heaving
and tears gathering in her eyes.
“No,” declared Vytal, anxious in his bewilderment to console her as best
he might, and looking down at her for the first time as at a child. “No,
I knew not you were coming. I believed that I was saying farewell.”
The tears lingered on her lashes without falling. An unreadable
expression came into her face, whether entirely of relief, as Vytal
thought, or with a slight trace of regret and shame, deep-hidden, she
herself could not have told.
“I thought you had found out,” she almost whispered at last.
“Nay, I had no chance to seek you. I was pledged to come. Otherwise I
would have sought till—”
“Stay,” she exclaimed, imperatively, “you must not speak so!”—and then,
in lower tones—“but if of my coming you had no knowledge, is it not yet
more the work of Fate?”
“Or of God.”
“Nay, God is good.” There was naught in her voice now save sadness blent
with doubt. “Perhaps I misread a face—perhaps a name is but a name, and
stands for nothing—perhaps—Oh, sir, is it wrong to speak only in riddles?
What have we said? What has led us to so strange a conversation in so
short a time? Come, let us talk of the voyage, the sea, the all-pervading
night. The night conceals so much, being merciful, but when the day
comes all this mercy and mystery will go—these ocean whispers, this
unutterable darkness, the stars, the moon, even the scent of the salt
will be understood. We shall say ’tis healthful, invigorating, and no
more; but to-night it is the subtle odor of some sea-forest in a world
below, or of flowers in a coral glade. To-morrow the ship will be of wood
and iron, whereas to-night—who comprehends this long, slow-moving shadow
and those silver, moonlit wings above that bear it forward to some far
haven of dreams? To-night we are spellbound; in the morning, if the wind
still sleeps, we shall call the spell a calm.” She paused, and, leaning
back against the bulwark, still looked up into the mist of shrouds. The
moonlight, ensilvering each listless sail, fell full upon her face,
giving the unshed tears an Orient lustre, and the cheeks a pallor of
unreality. Under the edge of her hood the moonbeams strove to make their
way, but could not, and so the gentle but less timid breeze brought
down a strand of her hair to turn it paler and more ethereal, till it,
too, was no more than a moon-spun thread. Her little hands were clasped
together and her lips just parted, as though she were about to answer
some voice that she alone could hear.
“You are a spirit,” said Vytal.
And then—then she laughed, and the laugh, although fraught with sadness,
transformed her instantly. She became a child with it, a sweet, lovable,
beautiful child—all reality, innocence, and health. The laughter in her
lips converted these fastnesses of expression to its playground, and,
romping, chased away all visionary looks. Her cheeks, dimpling, lost
their pallor in a blush. One hand smoothed back the straying lock, the
other drew her hood yet lower, while her hazel eyes looking up from
under it seemed to possess the magic brown of a russet-bedded brook with
sunlight playing beneath its surface—and the sunlight was this wonderful
transforming laughter.
“You are a child,” he declared, with more of passion in his voice and
less of silent wonder. The tone startled her; the grave look came back
into her face, and she stepped from the moonlight into the shadow of a
sail.
“Nay,” he said, with an incomprehensible sadness in his voice. “Now you
are a woman. The sky and the sea are no more changeable.”
“A woman,” she whispered, compressing her lips and turning white,
as though nerving herself for a strenuous effort of will—“a woman,
and—and—but no, wait, sleep, dream, and dreams will bring you
happiness—look you, the sky seems clear—the sea is tranquil. Yet come!”
With a hand on his arm she drew him across the deck into the dense shadow
of the rigging. “See, it is but a step from light to darkness, and
then—look—the sky!”
He followed the direction of her gaze, and saw again the long ridge of
cloud, from behind which the moon had risen. The hill was a mountain now,
and black with storm.
“It comes all too quickly,” she said, shivering, and gave him her hand.
It was very cold. Bending low he kissed the fingers, and then, holding
them in his firm grasp, looked down into her eyes as though to read their
meaning if he could. But still making no answer in any way, she trembled.
His mute bewilderment and uncomprehending pain were becoming unendurable
to her.
“Oh, mayhap it were kinder,” she whispered, finally, half to herself,
“and yet I cannot see that deep face show greater pain. Nay, let us not
hasten the storm ourselves; it comes whate’er we do, then perchance”—she
was forcing a show of cheerfulness into her manner—“perchance, after all,
you may not mind so much. Good-night, oh, good-night—” and before he
could realize it her hand was withdrawn from his and her hooded figure
had gone away into the shadows.