A Maid of Many Moods

  CHAPTER VIII

  VIII

  Debora went to her own room swiftly that third evening, and, turningthe key, stood with her two hands pressed tight above her heart. "'Tisover," she said--"'tis over, an' well over. Now to tell Darby. I'faith, I know not rightly who I am. Nay, then, I am just DebThornbury, not Darby, nor Juliet, for evermore. Oh! what said he atthe steps? 'I know thee, I have known thee from the first. See, thouart mine, thou art mine, I tell thee, Juliet, Juliet!'"

  Then the girl laughed, a happy little laugh. "Was ever man soimperative? Nay, was ever such a one in the wide, wide world?"

  Remembering her dress, she unfastened it with haste and put on thekirtle of white taffeta.

  The thought of Sherwood possessed her; his face, the wonderful goldenvoice of him. The words he had said to her--to her only--in the play.

  Of the theatre crowded to the doors, of the stage where the LordChamberlain's Company made their exits and entrances, of herself--chiefamongst them--she thought nothing. Those things had gone like a dream.She saw only a man standing bareheaded before the little house of DameBlossom. "I know thee," he had said, looking into her eyes. "Thou artmine."

  "Verily, yes--or will be no other's," she had answered him; "and as forFate, it hath been over-kind." So, with her mind on these thoughts,she went to Darby's room.

  He was standing idly by the window, and wheeled about as the girlknocked and entered.

  "How look I now, Deb?" he cried. "Come to the light. Nay, 'tis hardlyenough to see by, but dost think I will pass muster on the morrow? Iam weary o' being mewed up like a cat in a bag."

  Debora fixed her eyes on him soberly, not speaking.

  "What is't now?" he said, impatiently. "What art staring at? Thineeyes be like saucers."

  "I be wondering what thou wilt say an' I tell thee somewhat," sheanswered, softly.

  "Out with it then. Thou hast seen Berwick, I wager. I heard he was tobe in town; he hath followed thee, Deb, an'--well, pretty one--thingsare settled between thee at last?"

  "Verily, no!" she cried, her face colouring, "an' thou canst not betterthat guessing, thou hadst best not try again."

  "No? Then what's to do, little sister?"

  "Dost remember I told thee they had found one to take thy part atBlackfriars?"

  "Egad, yes, that thought has been i' my head ever since. 'Fore Heaven,I would some one sent me word who 'twas. I ache for news. Hast heardwho 'twas, Deb?"

  "'Twas I," she answered, the pink going from her face. "'Twas I,Debora!"

  The young fellow caught at the window ledge and looked at her steadilywithout a word. Then he broke into a strange laugh. Taking the girlby the shoulder he swung her to the fading light.

  "What dost mean?" he said, hoarsely. "Tell me the truth."

  "I' faith, that is the truth," she answered, quietly. "The only truth.There was no other way I could think of--and I had the lines by heart.None knew me. All thought 'twas thee, Darby. See, see! when I wasfair encased in that Kendal green suit o' thine, why even Dad could nothave told 'twas not thy very self! We must be strangely alike o' face,dear heart--though mayhap our souls be different."

  "Nay!" he exclaimed, "'tis past belief that thou should'st take mypart! My brain whirls to think on't. I saw thee yesternight--the daybefore--this noon-day--an' thou wert as unruffled as a fresh-blownrose. Naught was wrong with thy colour, and neither by word or signdid'st give me an inkling of such mad doings! 'Gad!--if 'tis true itgoes far to prove that a woman can seem most simple when she is mostsubtle. An' yet--though I like it not, Deb--I know not what to say tothee. 'Twas a venturous, mettlesome thing to do--an' worse--'twasvastly risky. We be not so alike--I cannot see it."

  "Nor I, _always_," she said, with a shrug, "but others do. Have nofear of discovery, one only knows beside Dame Blossom, and they willkeep faith. Neither fear for thy reputation. The people gave me muchapplause, though I played not for that."

  Darby threw himself into a chair and dropped his face in his hands.

  "Who is't that knows?" he asked, half-roughly, after a pause. "Whois't, Deb?"

  "He who played Romeo," she said, in low tone.

  "Sherwood?" exclaimed Darby. "Don Sherwood! I might have guessed."

  "Ay!" replied the girl. "He only, I have reason to believe." Asilence fell between them, while the young fellow restlessly crossed tothe window again. Debora went to him and laid her hand upon hisshoulder, as was her way.

  "Thou wilt not go thy own road again, Darby?" she said, coaxingly."Perchance 'tis hard to live straightly here in London--still promiseme thou wilt not let the ways o' the city warp thy true heart. See,then, what I did was done for thee; mayhap 'twas wrong--thou know'st'twas fearsome, an' can ne'er be done again."

  "'Twill not be needed again, Deb," he answered, and his voice trembled."Nay, I will go no more my own way, but thy way, and Dad's. Dostbelieve me?"

  "Ay!" she said, smiling, though her lashes were wet, "Dad's way, for'tis a good way, a far better one than any thy wilful, wayward littlesister could show thee."

  Out of doors the velvety darkness deepened. Somewhere, up above, anight-hawk called now and again its harsh, yet plaintive, note. Alight wind, bearing the smell of coming rain and fresh breaking earth,blew in, spring-like and sweet, yet sharp.

  Presently Debora spoke, half hesitatingly.

  "I would thou wert minded to tell me somewhat," she started, "somewhato' Sherwood, the player. Hath he--hath he the good opinion o' MasterWill Shakespeare--now?"

  "In truth, yes," returned the actor. "And of the whole profession. Itseems," smiling a little, "it seems thou dost take Master Shakespeare'sword o' a man as final. He stand'th in thy good graces or fall'th outo' them by that, eh!"

  "Well, peradventure, 'tis so," she admitted, pursing up her lips. "ButMaster Don Sherwood--tell me----"

  "Oh! as for him," broke in Darby, welcoming any subject that turnedthought from himself, "he is a rare good fellow, is Sherwood, thoughthat be not his real name, sweet. 'Tis not often a man makes change ofhis name on the handbills, but 'tis done now and again."

  "It doth seem an over-strange fashion," said Debora, "an' one that mustsurely have a reason back o' it. What, then, is Master Sherwood calledwhen he be rightly named?"

  "Now let me think," returned Darby, frowning, "the sound of it hathslipped me. Nay, I have it--Don--Don, ah! Dorien North. There 'tis,and the fore part is the same as the little lad's at home, an uncommontitle, yet smooth to the tongue. Don Sherwood is probably one DorienSherwood North, an' that too sounds well. He hath a rare voice. Itplay'th upon a man strangely, and there be tones in it that bring tearswhen one would not have them. Thou should'st hear him sing BenJonson's song! 'Rare Ben Jonson,' as some fellow hath written himbelow a verse o' his, carved over the blackwood mantel at the Devil'stavern. Thou should'st hear Sherwood sing, 'Drink to me only withthine eyes.' I' faith! he carries one's soul away! Ah! Deb," heended, "I am having a struggle to keep my mind free from that escapadeo' thine. Jove! an' I thought any other recognised thee!"

  "None other did, I'll gainsay," Debora answered, in a strangely quietway; "an' he only because he found me that day i' the Royal Box--solong ago. What was't thou did'st call him, Darby? Don Sherwood? Nay,Dorien North. Dorien North!"

  Her hand, which had been holding Darby's sleeve, slipped away from it,and with a little cry she fell against the window ledge and so to thefloor.

  Darby hardly realised for a moment that she had fainted. When she didnot move he stooped and lifted her quickly, his heart beating fast withfear.

  "Why, Deb!" he cried. "What is't? Heaven's mercy! She hath swooned.Nay, then, not quite; there, then, open thine eyes again. Thou hastbeen forewearied, an' with reason. Art thyself now?" as his sisterlooked up and strove to rise.

  "Whatever came over thee, sweet? Try not to walk. I will lift thee tothe bed an' call Dame Blossom. Marry! what queer things women be."

  "Ay! truly," she
answered, faintly, steadying herself against him."Ay! vastly queer. Nay, I will not go to the bed, but will sit in yourchair."

  "Thou art white as linen," anxiously. "May I leave thee to call theDame? I fear me lest thou go off again."

  "Fear naught o' that," said Deb, with a little curl of her lips. "An'call Mistress Blossom an' thou wilt, but 'tis nothing; there--dearheart, I will be well anon. Hast not some jaunt for to-night? I wouldnot keep thee, Darby."

  "'Tis naught but the players' meeting-night at The Mermaid. It hath nogreat charm for me, and I will cry it off on thy account."

  "That thou wilt not," she said, with spirit, a bit of pink coming toher face with the effort. "I can trust thee, an' thou must go. 'Twillne'er do to have one an' another say,--'Now, where be Darby Thornbury?'There might be some suspicions fly about an' they met thee not."

  "Thou hast a wise head. 'Twould not do,--and I have a game o' bluff tocarry on that thou hast started. Thou little heroine!" kissing herhand. "What pluck thou did'st have! What cool pluck. Egad!"ruefully, "I almost wish thou had'st not had so much. 'Twas adesperate game, and I pray the saints make me equal to the finish."

  "'Twas desperate need to play it," she answered, wearily. "Go, then, Iwould see Mistress Blossom."

  Thornbury stood, half hesitating, turned, and went out.

  "'Twill ever be so with him," said the girl. "He lov'th me--but helov'th Darby Thornbury better."

  Then she hid her face. "Oh! heart o' me! I cannot bear it, I cannotbear it--'tis too much. I will go away to Shottery to-morrow. I mindme what Dad said, an' 't has come to be truth. 'Thou wilt never bidein peace at One Tree Inn again.' Peace!" she said, with bitter accent."Peace! I think there be no peace in the world; or else 't hath passedme by."

  Resting her chin on her hand, she sat thinking in the shadowy room.Darby had lit a candle on the high mantel, and her sombre eyes restedon the yellow circle of light.

  "Who was't I saw 'n the road as I came out o' Blackfriars? Whowas't--now let me think. I paid no more heed than though I had seenhim in a dream, yet 'twas some one from home--Now I mind me! 'TwasNicholas Berwick. His eyes burned in his white face. He staredstraightway at me an' made no sign. An' so he was in the theatre also.Then he _knew_! Poor Nick! poor Nick!" she said, with a heavy sigh."He loved me, or he hath belied himself many times; an' I! I thoughtlittle on't."

  "Oh! Mistress Blossom," as the door opened. "Is't thou? Come overbeside me." As the good Dame came close, the girl threw her arms abouther neck.

  "Why, sweet lamb!" exclaimed the woman. "What hath happened thee?Whatever hath happened thee?"

  "What is one to do when the whole world go'th wrong?" cried Debora."Oh! gaze not so at me, I be not dazed or distraught. Oh! dearMistress Blossom, I care not to live to be as old as thou art. I amforewearied o' life."

  "Weary o' life! an' at thy time! My faith, thou hast not turnedone-and-twenty! Why, then, Mistress Debora, I be eight-an'-forty, yetcount that not old by many a year."

  Deb gave a tired little gesture. "Every one to their fancy--to me theworld and all in it is a twice-told tale. I would not have more o'it--by choice." She rose and turned her face down toward the goodDame. "An' one come to ask for me--a--a player, one Master Sherwood ofthe Lord Chamberlain's Company--could'st thou--would'st thou bid himwait below i' the small parlour till I come?"

  "Ay, truly," answered the woman, brightening. "Thou art heartilywelcome to receive him there, Mistress Debora."

  "Thank thee kindly. He hath business with me, but will not tarry long."

  "I warrant many a grand gentleman would envy him that business," saidthe Dame, smiling.

  Debora gave a little laugh--short and hard. Her eyes, of a blue thatwas almost black, shone like stars.

  "Dost think so?" she said. "Nay, then, thou art a flatterer. I willto my room. My hair is roughened, is't not?"

  "Thou art rarely beautiful as thou art; there be little rings o' curlsabout thy ears. I would not do aught to them. Thy face hath nocolour, yet ne'er saw I thee more comely."

  "Now, that is well," she answered. "That giveth my faint heartcourage, an' marry! 'tis what I need. I would not look woe-begone, orof a cast-down countenance, not I! but would bear me bravely, an' therebe cause. Go thou now, good Mistress Blossom; the faintness hath quitepassed."

  It seemed but a moment before Debora heard the Dame's voice again atthe door.

  "He hath come," she said, in far-reaching whisper fraught with burdenof unrelieved curiosity.

  "He doth wait below, Mistress Deb. Beshrew me! but he is as goodly agentleman as any i' London! His doublet is brocaded an' o'er bravewith silver lacings, an' he wear'th a fluted ruff like the quality atCourt. Moreover, he hold'th himself like a very Prince."

  "Doth he now?" said Debora, going down the hallway. "Why, then he hathfair captivated thee. Thou, at thy age! Well-a-day! What think'st o'his voice," she asked, pausing at the head of the stairs. "Whatthink'st o' his voice, Mistress Blossom?"

  "Why, that 'twould be fine an' easy for him to persuade one to his wayo' thinking with it--even against their will," answered the woman,smiling.

  "Ah! good Dame, I agree not with thee in that," said Debora. "I thinkhe hath bewitched thee, i' faith." So saying, she went below, openedthe little parlour door, and entered.

  Sherwood was standing in the centre of the room, which was but dimlylit by the high candles. Deb did not speak till she had gone to awindow facing the deserted common-land, pulled back the curtains andcaught them fast. A flood of white moonlight washed through the placeand made it bright.

  The player seemed to realise there was something strange about thegirl, for he stood quite still, watching her quick yet deliberatemovement anxiously.

  As she came toward him from the window he held out his hands."Sweetheart!" he said, unsteadily. "Sweetheart!"

  "Nay," she answered, with a little shake of her head and clasping herhands behind. "Not thine."

  "Ay!" he cried, passionately, "thou art--all mine. Thine eyes, sotruthful, so wondrous; the gold-flecked waves of thine hair; the whiteo' thy throat that doth dazzle me; the sweetness of thy lips; thelittle hands behind thee."

  "So," said the girl, with a catch of the breath, "so thou dost say, but'tis not true. As for my body, such as it is, it is my own."

  Sherwood leaned toward her, his eyes dark and luminous. "'Fore Heaven,thou art wrong," he said. "Thou dost belong to me."

  "What o' my soul?" she asked, softly. "What o' my soul, Sir Romeo? Isthat thine, too?"

  "Nay," he answered, looking into her face, white from some inwardrebellion. "Nay, then, sweetheart, for I think that is God's."

  "Then, thou hast left me nothing," she cried, moving away."Oh!"--throwing out her hands--"hark thee, Master Sherwood. 'Tis a farcry since thou did'st leave me by the steps at sundown. A far, farcry. The world hath had time to change. I did not know thee then.Now I do."

  "Why, I love thee," he answered, not understanding. "I love thee, thoudost know that surely. Come, tell me. What else dost know,sweetheart? See! I am but what thou would'st have--bid me by whatthou wilt. I will serve thee in any way thou dost desire. I havegiven my life to thee--and by it I swear again thou art mine."

  "That I am not," she said, standing before him still and unyielding."Look at me--look well!"

  The man bent down and looked steadfastly into the girl's tragic face.It was coldly inflexible, and wore the faint shadow of a smile--a smilesuch as the lips of the dead sometimes wear, as though they knew allthings, having unriddled life's problem.

  "Debora!" he cried. "Debora! What is it? What hath come to thee?"

  She laughed, a little rippling laugh that broke and ended. "Nay, thoutraitor--that I will not tell thee--but go--go!"

  The player stood a moment irresolute, then caught her wrists and heldthem. His face had turned hard and coldly grave as her own. Some lookin his eyes frightened her.

  "'Tis a coil," he said,
"and Fate doth work against me. Yet verily'tis a coil I will unravel. I am not easily worsted, but in the endbend things to my will. An' thou wilt not tell me what stands i' myroad, I will discover it for myself. As for the Judas name thou hastcalled me--it fits me not. Should'st thou desire to tell me so thyselfat any time--to take it back--send me but a word. So I go."

  The long, swift steps sounded down the hall; there was the opening andshutting of a door, and afterward silence.