CHAPTER VII
VII
By Monday noon Darby Thornbury was unable to lift his head from thepillow by reason of its aching. He remembered nothing about receivingthe blow over his eye, and talked little. Dame Blossom and Deboratended him faithfully, keeping Master Blossom away from a trueknowledge of affairs. Debora would have had a physician, but Darbywould not listen to it.
"I will have no leeching, blood-letting nor evil-smelling draughts," hecried, irritably; "no poultices nor plasters neither! I have miseryenough without adding to it, Egad!"
Being brought to this pass and having seen his face in the mirror, hebade Debora find the Master-player of the Company and make what excuseshe could for him.
"I be a thrice-dyed fool, Deb," he said with a groan. "Work is overfor me in London. I'll ship to the Indies, or America, an' make anending." Then starting up--"Oh! Deb, could naught be done with me sothat I could play this evening?"
"I know not, dear heart," she answered gently, "perchance thy looksmight not count an' thou wer't able to act. Art better?"
"Nay, worse!" he said, falling back. "My head maddens me! An' not aword o' the lines sticks i' my memory." So he raved on, fiercelyupbraiding himself and wearying Debora. After a time she slipped onher hooded cloak, bade him good-bye, and went out. Returning, she toldDarby that he could take courage, for a substitute had been found inhis place.
"Ask no questions, dear heart. Nay--an' trouble no more, but rest.Thou wilt be on the boards by Wednesday, an' thy luck is good."
"Dost think so, sweet?" he asked, weakly. "An' will the mark be gone?"
"Why, nearly," she answered; "an' if it still be a little blue, we willpaint it. In any case, thine eye will be open, which it is not now."
"Thou art a very angel, Deb, an' I am a brute. I know not where theygot one to take my part--an' Marry! I seem not to care. Never will Idrink aught but water. Nay, then, thou shalt not go. Stay by me tillI sleep, for there be queer lights before my eyes, an' I see theethrough them. Thou art so beautiful, Deb, so beautiful."
She waited till he slept, sometimes smiling to herself in a wise way.What children men were when they were ill, she thought. Even Dad wouldnot let her out of his sight when the rheumatism crippled him all lastwinter. Why, once Nick Berwick came in with a sprained wrist, andnaught would be but Deb must bathe and bind it. Nick Berwick! he wasso strong and tall and straight. A sigh broke over her lips as sherose and went away to her room.
Half an hour later Debora came down the stairs dressed in the suit ofKendal green. Dame Blossom met her in the hallway.
"Dost keep to thy mad plan, Mistress Deb?"
"Truly," answered the girl. "See, I will be back by sundown. Have nofear for me, the tiring-room hath a latch, an' none know me for myself.Keep thy counsel an' take care o' Darby."
* * * * *
Blackfriars was filled that March afternoon. The narrow windows in theupper gallery had all been darkened, and the house was lit by athousand lights that twinkled down on eager faces turned towards thestage. Even then at the edge of the rush-strewn boards was a line ofstools, which had been taken at a rose-noble apiece by some score ofyoung gallants.
Those who watched the passing of the Master's new romance remembered itwhile life was in them. Many told their children's children of themarvel of it in the years that followed.
"There was a maid i' the play that day," said a man, long after, "whomthey told me was no maid, but a lad. The name was written so on thegreat coloured bill i' the play-house entrance. 'Marry! an' he be nota maid,' said I, ''tis little matter.' He played the part o' Juliet,not as play-acting, but reality. After the curtain was rung down thepeople stole away in quiet, but their tongues loosened when they gotbeyond the theatre, for by night the lad was the talk o' London.
"So it went the next day, an' the next, I being there to see, an' fairfascinated by it. Master Will Shakespeare was noticed i' the house thethird evening for the first time, though peradventure he had been withthe Company behind the scenes, or overhead in the musicians' balcony.Howbeit, when he was discovered there was such a thunder o' voicescalling his name that the walls o' the play-house fairly rocked.
"So he came out before the curtain and bowed in the courtly way he hathever had. His dress was all of black, the doublet o' black satinshining with silver thread, an' the little cloak from his shoulders o'black velvet. He wore, moreover, a mighty ruff fastened with a greatpearl, which, I heard whispered, was one the Queen herself had senthim. Report doth says he wears black always, black or sober grays, inmemory o' a little lad of his--who died. Well-a-day; I know not if 'tbe true, but I do know that as he stood there alone upon the stage aquiet fell over the theatre till one could hear one's own heart beat.He spoke with a voice not over-steady, yet far-reaching and sweet andclear, an', if my memory hath not played me false, 'twas this he said:--
"'Good citizens, you who are friendly to all true players of whateverCompany they be, I give you thanks, and as a full heart hath ever fewwords, perchance 'tis left me but to say again and again, I give youthanks. Yet to the gentlemen of my Lord Chamberlain's Company I owemuch, for they have played so rarely well, the story hath indeed sogained at their hands, I have dared to hope it will live on.
"''Tis but a beautiful dream crystallised, but may it not,peradventure, be seen again by other people of other times, when we,the players of this little hour, have long grown weary and gone torest; and when England is kindlier to her actors and reads better thelessons of the stage than now. When England--friends of mine--is olderand wiser, for older and wiser she will surely grow, though nodearer--no dearer, God wots--than to-day.'
"Ay!" said he who told of this, "in such manner--though perchance Ihave garbled the words--he spoke--Will Shakespeare--in the old theatreof Blackfriars, and for us who listened 'twas enough to see him andknow he was of ourselves."
Behind the scenes there was much wonderment over the strangely cleveracting of Darby Thornbury. Two players guessed the truth; another knewalso. This was a man, one Nicholas Berwick.
He stood down by the leathern screenings of the entrance, and threeafternoons he was there, his face white as the face of the dead, hiseyes burning with an inward fire. He watched the stage with mask-likeface, and his great form gave no way though the throng pressed andjostled him. Now and again it would be whispered that he was a littlemad. If he heard, he heeded nothing. To him it was as though the endof all things had been reached.
He saw Debora, only Debora. She was there for all those curious eyesto gaze upon, an' this in absolute defiance of every manner and customof the times. Slowly it came to Berwick's mind, distraught andtortured, that she was playing in Darby's stead, and with some goodreason. "That matters not," he thought. "If it be discovered therewill be no stilling o' wicked tongues, nor quieting o' Shotterygossip." As for himself, he had no doubt of her. She was hissovereign lady, who could do no wrong, even masquerading thus. But avery terror for her possessed him. Seeming not to listen, he yet heardwhat the people said in intervals of the play. They were quick todiscover the genius of the young actor they called Thornbury, andcommented freely upon his wonderful interpretation of lines; but, wellas he was known by sight, not a word--a hint, nor an innuendo wasspoken to throw a doubt on his identity. Debora's resemblance to himwas too perfect, the flowing, heavy garments too completely hid thegirlish figure. Further, her accent was Darby's own, even the trick ofgesture and smile were his; only the marvel of genius was in one andnot in the other.
What the girl's reasons could be for such desperate violation of customBerwick could not divine, yet while groping blindly for them, withstifled pain in his heart and wild longing to take her away from itall, he gave her his good faith.
Just after sundown, when the play was ended, the man would watch thesmall side door the actors alone used. Well he knew the figure in theKendal green suit. Debora must have changed her costume swiftly, forshe was among the
first to leave the theatre, and twice escaped withoutbeing detained by any. On the third evening Berwick saw her followedby two actors.
"Well met, Thornbury!" they called. "Thou hast given us the slip oftenenough, and further, Master Shakespeare himself was looking for thee aswe came out. Hold up, we be going by the ferry also and are bound tohave thee for company. 'Fore Heaven, thou art a man o' parts!"
Debora halted, swinging half round toward them with a little laugh.
"Hasten, then," she said. "I have an appointment. Your lines belighter than mine, in good sooth, or your voices would need resting."
"Thou hast been a very wonder, Thornbury," cried the first. "Talkingof voices, what syrup doth use, lad? Never heard I tones more smooththan thine. Thou an' Sherwood together! Egad! 'Twas most singularan' beautiful in effect. Thy modulation was perfect, no wretchedcracking nor breaking i' the pathetic portions as we be trained toexpect. My voice, now! it hath a fashion of splitting into a thousandfragments an' I try to bridle it."
"'Tis all i' the training," responded Debora, shortly.
"Beshrew me!" said the other; "if 'tis not pity to turn thee back intothese clothes, Thornbury. By Saint George! yes--thou dost make toofine a woman."
Berwick clenched his hands as he followed hard behind. The playersdecided to cross by London Bridge, as the ferries were over-crowded,and still the man kept his watch. Reaching Southwark, the threeseparated, Debora going on alone. As she came toward Master Blossom'shouse a man passed Berwick, whom he knew at a glance to be the actorSherwood. He was not one to be easily forgotten, and upon NicholasBerwick's memory his features were fixed indelibly; the remembrance ofhis voice was a torture. Fragments of the passionate, immortal lines,as this man had spoken them at Blackfriars, went through his mindendlessly.
Now Sherwood caught up to the boyish figure as it ran up the steps ofthe house.
Berwick waited in shadow near by, but they gave him no heed. He sawthe girl turn with a smile that illumined her face. The actor liftedhis hat and stood bareheaded looking upward. He spoke with eagerintensity. Berwick caught the expression of his eyes, and in fancyheard the very words.
Debora shook her head in a wilful fashion of her own, but, bendingdown, held out her hand. Sherwood raised it to his lips--and--but thelonely watcher saw no more, for he turned away through the twilight.
"The play is ended for thee, Nick Berwick," he said, half aloud. "Theplay is ended; the curtain dropped. Ay--an' the lights be out." Hepaced toward the heart of the city, and in the eastern sky, that was ofthat rare colour that is neither blue nor green, but both blended, agolden star swung, while in the west a line of rose touched the grayabove. A benediction seemed to have fallen over the world at the endof the turbulent day. But to Nicholas Berwick there was peace neitherin the heavens nor the earth.