Produced by Al Haines
Cover art]
[Frontispiece: "Debora! What is it? What hath come to thee?"]
title page art]
A MAID
OF
MANY
MOODS
_By_ VIRNA SHEARD
Toronto, THE COPP, CLARK COMPANY, Ltd. MCMII
Copyright, 1902, By James Pott & Co.
Entered at Stationers' Hall, London
_First Impression, September, 1902_
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"Debora! What is it? What hath come to thee?" . . . _Frontispiece_
"Thou'lt light no more"
She followed the tragedy intensely
"I liked thee as a girl, Deb; but I love thee as a lad"
"It breaks my heart to see thee here, Nick"
Darby went lightly from one London topic to another
CHAPTER I
Chapter I headpiece]
I
It was Christmas Eve, and all the small diamond window panes of OneTree Inn, the half-way house upon the road from Stratford to Shottery,were aglitter with light from the great fire in the front roomchimney-place and from the many candles Mistress Debora had set intheir brass candlesticks and started a-burning herself. The place,usually so dark and quiet at this time of night, seemed to have goneoff in a whirligig of gaiety to celebrate the Noel-tide.
In vain had old Marjorie, the housekeeper, scolded. In vain had MasterThornbury, who was of a thrifty and saving nature, followed hisdaughter about and expostulated. She only laughed and waved thelighted end of the long spill around his broad red face and brightflowered jerkin.
"Nay, Dad!" she had cried, teasing him thus, "I'll help thee save thypennies to-morrow, but to-night I'm of another mind, and will have sucha lighting up in One Tree Inn the rustics will come running fromCoventry to see if it be really ablaze. There'll not be a candle inany room whatever without its own little feather of fire, not a dip inthe kitchen left dark! So just save thy breath to blow them out later."
"Come, mend thy saucy speech, thou'lt light no more, I tell thee,"blustered the old fellow, trying to reach the spill which the girl heldhigh above her head. "Give over thy foolishness; thou'lt light nomore!"
"Thou'lt light no more"]
"Ay, but I will, then," said she wilfully, "an' 'tis but just towelcome Darby, Dad dear. Nay, then," waving the light and laughing,"don't thou dare catch it. An' I touch thy fringe o' pretty hair,dad--thy only ornament, remember--'twould be a fearsome calamity! I'faith! it must be most time for the coach, an' the clusters in the longroom not yet lit. Hinder me no more, but go enjoy thyself with oldSaddler and John Sevenoakes. I warrant the posset is o'erdone, thoughI cautioned thee not to leave it."
"Thou art a wench to break a man's heart," said Thornbury, backing awayand shaking a finger at the pretty figure winding fiery ribbons andcriss-crosses with her bright-tipped wand. "Thou art a provokingwench, who doth need locking up and feeding on bread and water. Marry,there'll be naught for thee on Christmas, and thou canst whistle forthe ruff and silver buckles I meant to have given thee. Aye, an' forthe shoes with red heels." Then with dignity, "I'll snuff out some o'the candles soon as I go below."
"An' thou do, dad, I'll make thee a day o' trouble on the morrow!" shecalled after him. And well he knew she would. Therefore, it was witha disturbed mind that he entered the sitting-room and went towards thehearth to stir the simmering contents of the copper pot on the crane.
John Sevenoakes and old Ned Saddler, his nearest neighbours andfriends, sat one each side of the fire in their deep rush-bottomedchairs, as they sat at least five nights out of the week, come whatweather would. Sevenoakes held a small child, whose yellow, curly headnodded with sleep. The hot wine bubbled up as the inn-keeper stirredit and the little spiced apples, brown with cloves, bobbed madly on top.
"It hath a savoury smell, Thornbury," remarked Saddler. "Methinks 'tismost ready to be lifted."
"'Twill not be lifted till Deb hears the coach," answered Sevenoakes."'Twas so she timed it. 'On it goes at nine,' quoth she, 'an' off itcomes at ten, Cousin John. Just when Darby will be jumping from thecoach an' running in. Oh! I can't wait for the hour to come!' shesays."
"She's a headstrong, contrary wench as ever heaven sent a man," put inThornbury, straightening himself. "'Twere trouble saved an' I'd brokenher in long ago."
"'Twas she broke thee in long ago," said Saddler, rubbing his knottyhands. "She hath led thee by the ear since she was three years old.An' I had married now, an' had such a lass, I'd a brought her updifferent, I warrant. Zounds! 'tis a show to see. She coaxes thee,she bullies thee, she comes it over thee with cajolery andblandishments an' leads thee a pretty dance."
"Thou art an old fool," returned Thornbury, mopping his face, which wassorely scorched, "What should thou know of the bringing up of wenches?Thou--a crabbed bachelor o' three score an' odd. Thou hast no way withchildren;--i' truth I've heard Will Shakespeare say the tartness ofthat face o' thine would sour ripe grapes."
Sevenoakes trotted the baby gently up and down, a look of troubledapprehension disturbing his usually placid features. His was ever theoffice of peace-maker between these two ancient cronies, and he knew toa nicety the moment when it was wisest to try and adjust matters.
"'Tis well I mind the night this baby came," he began retrospectively,looking up as the door opened and a tall young fellow entered, stampingthe snow off his long boots. "Marry, Nick! thou dost bring a lot o'cold in with thee," he ended briskly, shifting his chair. "Any news o'the coach?"
"None that I've heard," replied the man, going to the hearth andturning his broad back to the fire. "'Tis a still night, still andfrosty, but no sound of the horn or wheels reached me though I stooda-listening at the cross-roads. Then I turned down here an' saw howgrandly thou had'st lit the house up to welcome Darby. My faith! I'llbe glad to see him, for 'tis an age since he was home, MasterThornbury, an' he comes now in high feather. Not every lad hath witand good looks enough to turn the head o' London after him. The stageis a great place for bringing a man out. Egad! I'm half minded to tryit myself."
"I doubt not thou wilt, Nick, sooner or later; thou art ajack-o'-all-trades," answered Thornbury, in surly tones.
Nicholas Berwick laughed and shrugged his well-set shoulders, as hebent over and touched the child sleeping sweetly in old Sevenoakes'arms.
"What was't I heard thee saying o' the baby as I came in; he is notailing, surely?"
"Not he!" answered Sevenoakes, stroking the moist yellow curls. "He'slusty as a year-old robin, an' as chirpy when he's awake; but he's inthe land o' nod now, though his will was good to wait up for Darby likethe rest of us."
"He's a rarely beautiful little lad," said Berwick. "I've asked Debabout him often, but she will tell me naught."
"I warrant she will na," piped up old Ned Saddler, in his reedy voice."I warrant she will na; 'tis no tale for a young maid's repeating.Beshrew me! but the coach be late," he wound up irrelevantly.
"How came the child here?" persisted the young fellow, knocking back ared log with his foot. "An' it be such a tale as you hint, Saddler, Idoubt not it's hard to keep it from slipping off thy tongue."
"'Tis a tale that slips off some tongue whenever this time o' yearcomes," answered Thornbury. "I desire no more Christmas Eves like thatone four years back--please God! We were around the hearth as it mightbe now, and a grand yule log we had burning, I mind me; the room wastrimmed gay an' fine with holly an' mistletoe as 'tis to-night.Saddler was there, Sevenoakes just where he be now, an' Deb sittinga-dreaming on the black oak settle yonder, the way she often sits, herchin on her hand--you mind, Nick!"
"Ay!" said the man, smiling.
br /> "She wore her hair down then," went on Thornbury, "an' a sight it wereto see."
"'Twere red as fox-fire," interrupted Saddler, aggrieved that thetale-telling had been taken from him. "When thou start'st off on Deb,Thornbury, thou know'st not where to bring up."
"An' Deb was sitting yonder on the oak settle," continued the innkeepercalmly.
"An' she had not lit the house up scandalously that year as 'tisnow--for Darby was home," put in Saddler again.
"Ay! Darby was home--an' thou away, Nick--but the lad was worriting totry his luck on the stage in London, an' all on account o' a playlittle Judith Shakespeare lent him. I mind me 'twas rightly named,'The Pleasant History o' the Taming o' a Shrew,' for most of it he readaloud to us. Ay, Darby was home, an' we were sitting here as it mightbe now, when the door burst open an' in come my lad carrying a bit of ababy muffled top an' toe in a shepherd's plaid. 'Twas crying pitifuland hoarse, as it had been long in the night wind."
"'Quick, Dad!' called Darby, 'Quick,' handing the bundle to Deb, 'therebe a woman perished of cold not thirty yards from the house.'
"I tramped out after him saying naught. 'Twas a bitter night an' theroad rang like metal under our feet. The country was silver-white withsnow, an' the sky was sown thick with stars. Darby'd hastened on aheadan' lifted the wench in his arms, but I just took her from him an'carried her in myself. Marry! she were not much more weight than achild.
"We laid her near the fire and forced her to drink some hot sherrysack. Then she opened her eyes wild, raised herself and looked aroundin a sort o' terror, while she cried out for the baby. Deb brought it,an' the lass seemed content, for she smiled an' fell back on the pillowholding a bit of the shepherd's plaid tight in her small fingers.
"She was dressed in fashion of the Puritans, with kirtle ofsad-coloured homespun. The only bright thing about her was her hair,and that curled out of the white coif she wore, golden as ripe corn.
"Well-a-day! I sent quickly for Mother Durley, she who only comes to ahouse when there be a birth or a death. I knew how 'twould end, forthere was a look on the little wench's face that comes but once. Shelived till break o' day and part o' the time she raved, an' then 'twasall o' London an' one she would go to find there; but, again she justlay quiet, staring open-eyed. At the last she came to herself, so saidMother Durley, an' there was the light of reason on her face. 'Twasthen she beckoned Deb, who was sitting by, to bend down close, and shewhispered something to her, though what 'twas we never knew, for mygirl said naught--and even as she spoke the end came.
"Soul o' me! but we were at our wits' end to know what to do. Whereshe came from and who she was there was no telling, an' Deb raised sucha storm when I spoke o' her being buried by the parish, that 'twas notto be thought of. One an' another came in to gaze at the littlecreature till the inn was nigh full. I bethought me 'twould mayhapserve to discover whom she might be. And so it fell. A lumberingyeoman passing through to Oxford stood looking at her a moment as shelay dressed the way we found her in the sad-coloured gown an' whitecoif.
"'Why! Od's pitikins!' he cried. 'Marry an' Amen! This be none butNell Quinten! Old Makepeace Quinten's daughter from near Kenilworth.I'd a known her anywhere!'
"Then I bid Darby ride out to bring the Puritan in all haste, but hehad the devil's work to get the man to come. He said the lass hadshamed him, and he had turned her out months before. She was nodaughter o' his he swore--with much quoting o' Scripture to prove hewas justified in disowning her.
"Darby argued with him gently to no purpose; so my lad let his temperhave way an' told the fellow he'd come to take him to One Tree Inn, an'would take him there dead or alive. The upshot was, they came intogether before nightfall. The wench was in truth the old Puritan'sdaughter, and he took her home an' buried her. But for the child, he'dnot touch it.
"''Tis a living lie!' he cried. ''Tis branded by Satan as his own!Give it to the Parish or to them that wants it, or marry, let it bidehere! 'Tis a proper place for it in good sooth, for this be a publichouse where sinful drinking goeth on an' all worldly conversation.Moreover I saw one Master William Shakespeare pass out the door butnow--a play actor, an' the maker o' ungodly plays. 'Twas such a onewho wrought my Nell's ruin!'
"So he went on an' moore o' the sort. Gra'mercy! I had the will tohorsewhip him, an' but for the little dead maid I would. I clenched myhands hard and watched him away; he sitting stiff atop o' Stratfordhearse by the driver. Thus he took his leave, calling back at me bitso' Holy Writ," finished Thornbury grimly.
"And Debora told naught of what the girl said at the last?" askedNicholas Berwick. "That doth seem strange."
"Never a word, lad, beyond this much--she prayed her to care for thechild till his father be found."
"By St. George! but that was no modest request. What had'st thou tosay in the matter? Did'st take the heaven-sent Christmas box in goodpart, Master Thornbury?"
"Nay, Nick! thou should know him some better than to ask that," saidSaddler. "Gadzooks, there were scenes! 'Twas like Thornbury tograndfather a stray infant now, was't not?" rubbing his knees andchuckling. "Marry! I think I see the face he wore for a full month.''Twill go to the Parish!' he would cry, stamping around and speakingwords 'twould pass me to repeat. 'A plague on't! Here be a kettle offish! Why should the wench fall at my door in heaven's name? Egad! Iam a much-put-upon man.' Ay, Nick, 'twas a marvellous rare treat tohear him."
"How came you to keep the child, sir?" asked Berwick, gravely.
The innkeeper shrugged his shoulders. "'Twas Deb would have it so," heanswered. "She was fair bewitched by the little one. Thou knowest herway, Nick, when her heart is set on anything. Peradventure, I havehumoured the lass too much, as Saddler maintains. But she coaxed andshe cried, an' never did I see her cry so before, such a storm o'tears--save for rage," reflectively.
"Well put!" said Saddler. "Well put, Thornbury!"
"Ever had she wished for just such a one to pet, she pleaded, an' wellI knew no small child came in sight o' the inn but Deb was after it fora plaything. Nay, there never was a stray beast about the place, thatit did not find her and follow her close, knowing 'twould be best offso.
"Well do I mind her cuffing a big lad she found drowning some day-oldkittens in the stable--and he minds it yet I'll gainsay! She fishedout the blind wet things, an' gathering them in her quilted petticoatbrought them in here a-dripping. I' fecks! she made such a moan overthem as never was."
"Ay, Deb always has a following o' ugly, ill-begotten beasts thatnobody wants but she," said Sevenoakes. "There be old Tramp for onenow--did'st ever see such an ill-favoured beast? An' nowhere will hesit but fair on the edge o' her gown."
"He is a dog of rare discernment--and a lucky dog to boot," saidBerwick.
"So, the outcome of it, Master Thornbury, was that the little lad ishere."
"What could a man do?" answered Thornbury, ruefully. "Hark!" startingup as the old housekeeper entered the room, "Where be the lass,Marjorie? An' the candles--are they burning safe?"
"Safe, but growing to the half length," she answered, peering out ofthe window. "The coach must a-got overtipped, Maister."
"Where be Deb--I asked thee?"
"Soul o' me! then if thou must know, Mistress Debora hath just takenthe great stable lantern and gone along the road to meet the coach.'An' thou dost tell my father I'll pinch thee, Marjorie!' she criedback to me. 'When I love thee--I love thee; an' when I pinch--I pinch!So tell him not.' But 'tis over late an' I would have it off my mind,Maister."
"Did Tramp go with her?" asked Berwick, buttoning on his great cape andstarting for the door.
"Odso! yes! an' she be safe enow. Thou'lt see the lantern bobbing longbefore thou com'st up with her."
"'Tis a wench to break a man's heart!" Thornbury muttered, standing atthe door and watching the tall figure of Berwick swing along the road.
The innkeeper waited there though a light snow was powdering his scantyfringe of hair--w
hite already--and lying in sparkles on his bald pateand holiday jerkin. He was a hardy old Englishman and a little coldwas nought to him.
The night was frosty, and the "star-bitten" sky of a fathomless purple.About the inn the snow was tinted rosily from the many twinkling lightswithin.
The great oak, standing opposite the open door and stretching out itskindly arms on either side as far as the house reached, made a networkof shadows that carpeted the ground like fine lace.
Thornbury bent his head to listen. Far off sounded the ripple of agirl's laugh. A little wind caught it up and itechoed--fainter--fainter. Then did his old heart take to thumpinghard, and his breath came quick.
"Ay! they be coming!" he said half aloud. "My lad--an' lass. Mylad--an' lass." He strained his eyes to see afar down the road if alight might not be swaying from side to side. Presently he spied it, amerry will-o'-the-wisp, and the sound of voices came to him.
So he waited tremblingly.
Darby it was who saw him first.
"'Tis Dad at the door!" he called, breaking away from Debora andBerwick.
The girl took a step to follow, then stopped and glanced up at the manbeside her. "Let him go on alone, Nick," she said. "He hath not seenDad close onto two years, an' this play-acting of his hath been abitter dose for my father to swallow. In good sooth I have smallpatience with Dad, yet more am I sorry for him. I' faith! I wouldthat maidens might also be in the play. Judith Shakespeare says someday they may be--but 'twill serve me little. One of us at thatbusiness is all Dad could bear with--an' my work is at home."
"Ay, Deb!" he answered; "thy work is at home, for now."
"For always," she answered, quickly; then, her tone changing, "think'stthou not, Nick, that my Darby is taller? An' did'st note how handsome?"
"He is a handsome fellow," answered Berwick. "Still, I cannot see thathe hath grown. He will not be of large pattern."
"Marry!" cried the girl, "Darby is a good head taller than I. Wheredost thou keep thine eyes, Nick?"
"Nay, verily, then, he is not," answered the other; "thou art almostshoulder to shoulder, an' still as much alike--I saw by the lantern--asof old, when save for thy dress 'twas a puzzle to say which was which.'Tis a reasonable likeness, as thou art twins."
Debora pursed up her lips. "He is much taller than I," she said,determinedly. "Thou art no friend o' mine, Nicholas Berwick, an' thoudost cut three full inches off my brother's height. He is a headtaller, an' mayhap more--so."
They were drawing up to the inn now, and through the window saw thelittle group about the fire, Darby with the baby, who was fully awake,perched high on his shoulder.
Berwick caught Deb gently, swinging her close to him, as they stood inthe shadow of the oak.
"Ah, Deb!" he said, bending his face to hers, "thou could'st make meswear that black was white. As for Darby, the lad is as tall as thoudost desire. Thou hast my word for't."
"'Tis well thou dost own it," she said, frowning; "though I like notthe manner o' it. Let me go, Nick."
"Nay, I will not," he said, passionately. "Be kind; give me one kissfor Christmas. I know thou hast no love for me; thou hast told me sooften enough. I will not tarry here, Sweet; 'twould madden me--butgive me one kiss to remember when I be gone."
She turned away and shook her head.
"Thou know'st me better than to ask it," she said, softly. "Kisses arenot things to give because 'tis Christmas."
The man let go his hold of her, his handsome face darkening.
"Dost hate me?" he asked.
"Nay, then, I hate thee not," with a little toss of her head. "Neitherdo I love thee."
"Dost love any other? Come, tell me for love's sake, sweetheart. An'I thought so!"
"Marry, no!" she said. Then with a short, half-checked laugh,"Well--Prithee but one!"
"Ah!" cried Berwick, "is't so?"
"Verily," she answered mockingly. "It is so in truth, an' 'tis justDad. As for Darby, I cannot tell what I feel for _him_. 'Twould befull as easy to say were I to put it to myself, 'Dost love DeboraThornbury?' 'Yea' or 'Nay,' for, Heaven knows, sometimes I love hermightily--and sometimes I don't; an' then 'tis a fearsome '_don't_,'Nick. But come thee in."
"No!" answered Berwick, bitterly. "I am not one of you." Catching herlittle hands he held them a moment against his coat, and the girl feltthe heavy beating of his heart before he let them fall, and strode away.
She stood on the step looking after the solitary figure. Her cheeksburned, and she tapped her foot impatiently on the threshold.
"Ever it doth end thus," she said. "I am not one of you," echoing histone. "In good sooth no. Neither is old Ned Saddler or dear JohnSevenoakes. We be but three; just Dad, an' Darby, an' Deb." Then,another thought coming to her. "Nay _four_ when I count little Dorian.Little Dorian, sweet lamb,--an' so I will count him till I find hisfather."
A shade went over her face but vanished as she entered the room.
"I have given thee time to take a long look at Darby, Dad," she cried."Is't not good to have him at home?" slipping one arm around herbrother's throat and leaning her head against him.
"Where be the coach, truant?" asked Saddler.
"It went round by the Bidford road--there was no other traveller forus. Marry, I care not for coaches nor travellers now I have Darby safehere! See, Dad, he hath become a fine gentleman. Did'st note howgrand he is in his manner, an' what a rare tone his voice hath taken?"
The handsome boy flushed a little and gave a half embarrassed laugh.
"Nay, Debora, I have not changed; 'tis thy fancy. My doublet hath aless rustical cut and is of different stuff from any seen hereabout,and my hose and boots fit--which could not be said of them in oldentimes. This fashion of ruff moreover," touching it with daintycomplacency, "this fashion of ruff is such as the Queen's Playersthemselves wear."
Old Thornbury's brows contracted darkly and the girl turned to him witha laugh.
"Oh--Dad! Dad! thou must e'en learn to hear of the playhouses, an'actors with a better grace than that. Note the wry face he doth make,Darby!"
"I have little stomach for their follies and buffooneries--albeit myson be one of them," the innkeeper answered, in sharp tone. Thenstruggling with some intense inward feeling, "Still I am not a man togo half-way, Darby. Thou hast chosen for thyself, an' the blame willnot be mine if thy road be the wrong one. Thou canst walk upright onany highway, lad."
"Ay!" put in old Saddler, "Ay, neighbour, but a wilful lad must havehis way."
Soon old Marjorie came in and clattered about the supper table, afterhaving made a great to-do over the young master.
Thornbury poured the hot spiced wine into an ancient punch-bowl, andset it in the centre of the simple feast, and they all drew theirchairs up to the table as the bells in Stratford rang Christmas in.
Never had the inn echoed to more joyous laughing and talking, forThornbury and his two old friends mellowed in temper as they refilledtheir flagons, and they even added to the occasion by each rendering asong. Saddler bringing one forth from the dim recesses of his memorythat related, in seventeen verses and much monotonous chorus, the loveaffairs of a certain Dinah Linn.
The child slumbered again on the oak settle in the inglenook. Thefirelight danced over his yellow hair and pretty dimpled hands. Thecandles burned low. Then Darby sang in flute-like voice a carol, thatwas, as he told them, "the rage in London," and, afterwards, just toplease Deb, the old song that will never wear out its welcome atChristmas-tide, "When shepherds watched their flocks."
The girl would have joined him, but there came a tightness in herthroat, and the hot stinging of tears to her eyes, and when the lastnote of it went into silence she said good night, lifted the sleepingchild and carried him away.
"Deb grows more beautiful, Dad," said the young fellow, looking afterher. "Egad! what a carriage she hath! She steps like a very princessof the blood. Hark! then," going to the latticed window and throwingit open. "Here come
the waits, Dad, as motley a crowd as ever."
The innkeeper was trimming the lantern and seeing his neighbours to thedoor.
"Keep well hold of each other," called Darby after them. "I trow 'tisa timely proverb--'United we stand, divided we fall.'"
Saddler turned with a chuckle and shook his fist at the lad, butlurched dangerously in the operation.
"The apples were too highly spiced for such as thee," said Thornbury,laughing. "Thou had'st best stick to caudles an' small beer."
"Nay, then, neighbour," called back Sevenoakes, with much solemnity,"Christmas comes but once a year, when it comes it brings goodcheer--'tis no time for caudles, or small beer!"
At this Darby went into such a peal of laughter--in which the waits whowere discordantly tuning up joined him--that the sound of it must haveawakened the very echoes in Stratford town.