A Maid of Many Moods

by Virna Sheard

  CHAPTER III

  III

  The house in London where Darby Thornbury lodged was on the southernside of the Thames in the neighbourhood of the theatres, a part of thecity known as Bankside. The mistress of the house was one DameBlossom, a wholesome-looking woman who had passed her girlhood atShottery, and remembered Darby and Debora when they were but babies.It was on this account, probably, that she gave to the young actor anamount of consideration and comfort he could not have found elsewherein the whole of Southwark. When he returned from his holiday, bringinghis sister with him, she welcomed them with a heartiness that lacked notone of absolute sincerity.

  The winter had broken when the two reached London; there was even ahint of Spring in the air, though it was but February, and the wholeworld seemed to be waking after a sleep. At least that was the way itfelt to Debora Thornbury. For then began a life so rich in enjoyment,so varied and full of new delights that she sometimes, when brushingthat heavy hair of hers before the little copper mirror in the highroom that looked away to the river, paused as in a half dream, vaguelywondering if she were in reality the very maid who had lived so longand quietly at the old Inn away there in the pleasant Warwickshirecountry.

  Her impulsive nature responded eagerly to the rapid flow of life in thecity, and she received each fresh impression with vivid interest andpleasure. There was a new sparkle in her changeful blue eyes, and thecolour drifted in and out of her face with every passing emotion.

  Darby also, it struck the girl, was quite different here in London.There was an undefined something about him, a certain assurance both ofhimself and the situation that she had never noticed before. Trulythey had not seen anything of each other for the past two years, but heappeared unchanged when he came home at Christmas. A trifle more manlylooking perchance, and with a somewhat greater elegance of manner andspeech, yet in verity the same Darby as of old; here in the city it wasnot so, there was a dashing way about him now, a foppishness, anelaborate attention to every detail of fashion and custom that he hadnot burdened himself with at the little half-way house. The hours hekept moreover were very late and uncertain, and this sorely troubledhis sister. Still each morning he spoke so freely of the manygentlemen he had been with the evening before--at the Tabard--or theFalcon--or even the Devil's Tavern near Temple Bar--where Debora hadgazed open-eyed at the flaunting sign of St. Dunstan tweaking the devilby the nose--indeed, all these places he mentioned so entirely as amatter of course, that she soon ceased to worry over the hour hereturned. The names of Marlowe and Richard Burbage, Beaumont,Fletcher, Lodge, Greene and even Dick Tarleton, became very familiar toher, beside those of many a lesser light who was wont to shine upon theboards. It seemed reasonable and fair that Darby should wish to passas much time with reputable players as possible, and moreover he wasoften, he said, with Ned Shakespeare--who was playing atBlackfriars--and the girl knew that where _he_ was, the master himselfwas most likely to be for shorter or longer time, for he ever shadowedhis brother's life with loving care.

  Through the day, when he was not at the theatre, Darby took his sisterabroad to see the sights. The young actor was proud to be seen withher, and though he loved her for her own sweet sake, perhaps there wasmore than a trifle of vanity mixed with the pleasure he obtained fromshowing the city to one so easily charmed and entertained.

  The whispered words of admiration that caught his ear as Debora stoodbeside him here and there in the public gardens and places ofamusement, were as honey to his taste. And it may be because they wereacknowledged to be so strikingly alike that it pleased his fancy tohave my lord this--and the French Count of that--the beaus and youngbloods of the town who haunted the playhouses and therefore knew theactors well--plead with him, after having seen Debora once, to beallowed to pay her at least some slight attention and courtesy.

  But Darby Thornbury knew his time and the men of it, and where hislittle sister was concerned his actions were cool and calculating to adegree.

  He was careful to keep her away from those places where she wouldchance to meet and become acquainted with any of the players whom sheknew so well by name, and this the girl thought passing strange.Further, he would not take her to the theatres, though in truth shepleaded, argued, and finally lost her temper over it.

  "Nay, Deb," said her brother loftily, "let me be the best judge ofwhere I take thee and whom thou dost meet. I have not lived in Londonmore than twice twelve months for naught. Thou, sweeting, art as freshand dew-washed as the lilac bushes under Dad's window--and as green.Therefore, I pray thee allow me to decide these matters. Did I nottake thee to Greenwich but yesterday to view the Queen's Plaisance, asthe place is rightly named?--Methinks I can smell yet that faint scentof roses that so pervaded the place. Egad! 'tis not every lass hathluck enow to see the very rooms Her Majesty hath graced. Marry no!Such tapestries and draperies laced with Spanish gold-thread! Suchancient portraits and miniatures set on ivory! Such chairs and tablesinlaid thick with mother o' pearl and beaten silver! That feast of theeye should last thee awhile and save thy temper from going off at atangent."

  Debora lifted her straight brows by way of answer, and her red curvedmouth set itself in a dangerously firm line; but Darby appeared not tonotice these warning signals and continued in more masterful tone:--

  "Moreover, I took thee to the Paris Gardens on a day when there was apassable show, and one 'twas possible for a maid to view, yet even thenmuch against my will and better judgment. I have taken thee to thenotable churches and famous tombs. Thou hast seen the pike ponds andthe park and palace of the Lord Bishop of Winchester! And further,thou hast walked with me again and again through Pimlico Garden whenthe very fashion of the city was abroad. Ah! and Nonsuch House! Hastforgotten Nonsuch House on London Bridge, and how we climbed the gildedstairway and went up into the cupola for a fair outlook at the river?'Tis a place to be remembered. Why, they brought it over from Francepiecemeal, so 'tis said, and put it together with great wooden pegsinstead of nails. The city was sorely taxed for it all, doubtless."He waited half a moment, apparently for some response, but as nonecame, went on again:

  "As for the shops and streets, thou know'st them by heart, for therehas not been a day o' fog since we came to keep us in. Art notsatisfied, sweet?"

  "Nay then I am not!" she answered, with an impatient gesture. "Thoudost know mightily well 'tis the playhouses, the playhouses I wouldsee!"

  "'Fore Heaven now! Did a man ever listen to such childishness!" criedDarby. "And hast not seen them then?"

  "Marry, no!" she exclaimed, her lovely face reddening.

  "Now, by St. George! Then 'twas for naught I let thee gaze so long on'The Swan,' and I would thou could'st just have seen thine eyes whenthey ran up the red flag with the swan broidered upon it. Ay! and alsowhen their trumpeter blew that ear-splitting blast which is theirbarbarous unmannerly fashion of calling the masses in and announcingthe play hath opened."

  The girl made no reply, but beat a soft, quick tattoo with her littlefoot on the sanded floor.

  After watching her in amused silence Darby again returned to histantalising recital.

  "And I pointed out, as we passed it, the 'Rose Theatre' where the LordHigh Admiral's men have the boards. Fine gentlemen all, andhail-fellow-well-met with the Earl of Pembroke's players, though theycare little for our Company. Since we have been giving WillShakespeare's comedies, the run of luck hath been too much with us tomake us vastly popular. Anon, I showed thee 'The Hope,' dost notremember the red-tiled roof of it? 'Tis a private theatre, an'marvellous comfortable, they tell me. An' thou has forgotten allthose; thou surely canst bring to mind the morning we were inShoreditch, how I stopped before 'The Fortune' and 'The Curtain' withthee? 'Tis an antiquated place 'The Curtain,' but the playhouse whereMaster Shakespeare first appeared, and even now well patronised, forBen Jonson's new comedy 'Every Man in his Humour' is running there tofull houses, an' Dick Burbage himself hath the leading part."

  He paused again, a m
erry light in his eyes and his lips twitching alittle.

  "Thou didst see 'The Globe' an' my memory fails me not, Deb? 'Tis oursummer theatre--where I fain we could play all year round--but that isso far impossible as 'tis open to the sky, and a shower o' cold rain oran impromptu sprinkling of sleet on one, in critical moments of theplay, hath disastrous effect. Come, thou surely hast not forgotten'The Globe,' where we of the Lord High Chamberlain's Company have sooft disported ourselves. Above the entrance there is the huge sign ofAtlas carrying his load and beneath, the words in Latin, '_All theworld acts a play_.'"

  Debora tossed her head and caught her breath quickly. "My patience isgone with thee, since thou art minded to take me for a very fool, DarbyThornbury," she said with short cutting inflection. "Hearts mercy!'Tis not the outside o' the playhouses I desire to see, as thou dostunderstand--'tis the inside--where Master Shakespeare is and the greatBurbage, an' Kemp, an' all o' them. Be not so unkind to thy littlesister. I would go in an' see the play--Marry an' amen! I am besidemyself to go in with thee, Darby!"

  The young actor frowned. "Nay then, Deb," he answered, "those ladies(an' I strain a point to call them so) who enter, are usually masked.I would not have thee of _them_. The play is but for men, like thebear-baiting and bull-baiting places."

  "How can'st thou tell me such things," she cried, "an' so belittle thestage? Listen now! this did I hear thee saying over and over lastnight. So wonderful it was--and rarely, strangely beautiful--yetfearful--it chilled the blood o' my heart! Still I remembered."

  Rising the girl walked to the far end of the room with slow, prettymovement, then lifted her face, so like Darby's own--pausing as thoughshe listened.

  Her brother could only gaze at her as she stood thus, her plain greygown lying in folds about her, the sun burnishing the red-gold of herhair; but when she began to speak he forgot all else and only for themoment heard Juliet--the very Juliet the world's poet must have dreamedof.

  On and on she spoke with thrilling intensity. Her voice, in its fullsweetness, never once failed or lost the words. It was the longsoliloquy of the maid of Capulet in the potion scene. After shefinished she stood quite still for a moment, then swayed a little andcovered her face with her hands.

  "It taketh my very life to speak the words so," she said slowly, "yetthe wonder of them doth carry me away from myself. But," going over toDarby, "but, dear heart, how dost come thou art studying such a part?'Tis just for the love of it surely!"

  The player rose and walked to the small window. He stood there quitestill and answered nothing.

  Debora laid one firm, soft hand upon his and spoke, half coaxingly,half diffidently, altogether as though touching some difficult question.

  "Dost take the part o' Juliet, dear heart?"

  "Ay!" he answered, with a short, hard laugh. "They have cast me forit, without my consent. At first I was given the lines of Mercutio,then, after all my labour over the character--an' I did not sparemyself--was called on to give it up. There has been difficulty infinding a Juliet, for Cecil Davenant, who hath the sweetest voice for agirl's part of any o' us, fell suddenly ill. In an evil moment 'twasdecided I might make shift to take the character, for none other in theCompany com'th so near it in voice, they say, though Ned Shakespearehath a pink and white face, comely enow for any girl. Beshrew me,sweetheart--but I loathe the taking of such parts. To succeed dothcertainly bespeak some womanish beauty in one--to fail doth mar theplay. At best I must be as the Master says, 'too young to be a man,too old to be a boy.' 'Tis but the third time I have essayed such arole, an 't shall be the last, I swear."

  "I would I could take the part o' Juliet for thee, Darby," said thegirl, softly patting the sleeve of his velvet tabard.

  "Thou art a pretty comforter," he answered, pinching her ear lightlyand trying to recover himself.

  "'Twould suit thee bravely, Deb, yet I'd rather see thee busy over alove affair of thine own at home in Shottery. Ah, well! I'd bestwhistle 'Begone dull care,' for 'twill be a good week before we givethe people the new play, though they clamour for it now. We are butrehearsing as yet, and 'Two Gentlemen of Verona' hath the boards."

  "I would I could see the play if but for once," said Debora, claspingher hands about his arm. "Indeed," coaxingly, "thou could'st manage totake me an' thou did'st have the will."

  Darby knit his brows and answered nothing, yet the girl fancied he wasturning something in his mind. With a fair measure of wisdom for oneso eager she forebore questioning him further, but glanced up in hisface, which was grave and unreadable.

  Perchance when she had given up all hope of any favourable answer, hespoke.

  "There is a way--though it pleases me not, Deb--whereby thou might beable to see the rehearsals at least. The Company assembles at eight ofthe morning, thou dost know; now I could take thee in earlier by anentrance I wot of, at Blackfriars, a little half-hidden doorway butseldom used--thence through my tiring-room--and so--and so--where dostthink?"

  "Nay! I know not," she exclaimed. "Where then, Darby?"

  "To the Royal Box!" he answered. "'Tis fair above the stage, yet alittle to the right. The curtains are always drawn closely there tosave the tinselled velvet and cloth o' gold hangings with which 't hathlately been fitted. Now I will part these drapings ever so little, yetenough to give thee a full sweeping view o' the stage, an' if thoukeep'st well to the back o' the box, Deb, thou wilt be as invisible tous as though Queen Mab had cast her charmed cloak about thee. Egad!there be men amongst the High Chamberlain's Players I would not havediscover thee for many reasons, my little sister," he ended, watchingher face.

  For half a moment the girl's lips quivered, then her eyes gathered twogreat tears which rolled heavily down and lay glittering on her greykirtle.

  "'Tis ever like this with me!" she exclaimed, dashing her hand acrossher eyes, "whenever I get what I have longed and longed for. Firstcom'th a ball i' my throat, then a queer trembling, an' I all but cry.'Tis vastly silly is't not, but 'tis just by reason o' being a girl onedoth act so." Then eagerly, "Thou would'st not fool me, Darby, orchange thy mind? Thou art in earnest? Swear it! Cross thy heart!"

  "Ay! I am in earnest," he replied, smiling; "in very truth thou shaltsee thy brother turn love-sick maid and mince giddily about inpetticoats. I warrant thou'lt be poppy-red, though thou art hiddenbehind the gold curtains, just to hear the noble Romeo vow me suchdesperate lover's vows."

  "By St. George, Deb! we have a Romeo who might turn any maid's heartand head. He is a handsome, admirable fellow, Sherwood, and hath a waywith him most fascinating. He doth act even at rehearsals as though'twere all most deadly passionate reality, and this with only me forinspiration. I oft' fancy what 'twould be--his love-making--an' he hada proper Juliet--one such as thou would'st make, for instance."

  "I will have eyes only for thee, Darby," answered Debora, softly, "butfor thee, an', yes, for Master Will Shakespeare, should he be by."

  "He is often about the theatre, sweet, but hath no part in this newplay. No sooner hath he one written, than another is under his pen;and I am told that even now he hath been reading lines from a wonderfulstrange history concerning a Jew of Venice, to a party of hisfriends--Ben Jonson and Dick Burbage, and more than likely LordBrooke--who gather nightly at 'The Mermaid,' where, thou dost remember,Master Shakespeare usually stays."

  "I forget nothing thou dost tell me of him," said the girl, as sheturned to leave the room. "O wilt take me with thee on the morrow,Darby? Wilt really take me?----"

  "On the morrow," he answered, watching her away.