Part 6 (1/2)
So she held her lovely head high and went along with feverish haste.
When they came to the house, which was home now out of all the others in London, she gave a sweeping glance at the high windows lest at one might be discovered the round, good-tempered, yet curious face of Dame Blossom. But the tiny panes winked down quite blankly and her return seemed to be unnoticed.
Running up the steps she lifted her hand to the quaint knocker of the door, turned, and looked down at the man standing on the walk.
”I give thee many thanks, Sir Romeo,” said the girl; ”thou hast in verity been a most chivalrous knight to a maiden in distress. I give thee thanks, an' if thou art ever minded to travel to Shottery my father will be glad to have thee stop at One Tree Inn.” Then she raised the knocker, a rap of which would bring the bustling Dame.
Quickly the man sprang up the steps and laid his hand beneath it, so that, though it fell, there should be no sound.
”Nay, wait,” he said, in a low, intense voice. ”London is wide and the times are busy; therefore I have no will to leave it to chance when I shall see thee again. Fate has been marvellous kind to-day, but 'tis not always so with fate, as peradventure thou hast some time discovered.”
”Ay!” she answered, gently, ”Ay! Sir Romeo. Thou art right, fate is not always kind. Yet 'tis best to leave most things to its disposal--at least so it doth seem to me.”
”Egad!” said Sherwood, with a short laugh, ”'tis a way that may serve well enow for maids but not for men. Tell me, when may I see thee?
To-night?”
”A thousand times no!” Debora cried, quickly. ”To-night,” with a little nod of her head, ”to-night I have somewhat to settle with Darby.”
”He hath my sympathy,” said Sherwood. ”Then on the morrow?----”
”Nay, nay, I know not. That is the Sabbath; players be but for week-days.”
”Then Monday? I beseech thee, make it no later than Monday, and thou dost wish to keep me in fairly reasonable mind.”
”Well, Monday, an' it please the fate thou has maligned,” she answered, smiling. Noticing that the firm, brown hand was withdrawn a few inches from the place it had held on the panelling of the door, the girl gave a mischievous little smile and let the knocker fall. It made a loud echoing through the empty hall, and the player raised his laced black-velvet cap, gave Debora so low a bow that the silver-gray plume in it swept the ground, and, before the heavy-footed Mistress Blossom made her appearance, was on his way swiftly towards London Bridge.
Debora went up the narrow stairs with eyes as.h.i.+ne, and a smile curving her lips. For the moment Darby was forgotten. When she closed the chamber door she remembered.
It was past high noon, and Dame Blossom had been waiting in impatience since eleven to serve dinner. Yet the girl would not now dine alone, but stood by the gabled window which looked down on the road, watching, watching, and thinking, till it almost seemed that another morning had pa.s.sed.
Along Southwark thoroughfare through the day went people from all cla.s.ses, groups of richly-dressed gentlemen, beruffled and befeathered; their laces and their hair perfuming the wind. Officers of the Queen booted and spurred; sober Puritans, long-jowled and over-sallow, living protests against frivolity and light-heartedness. Portly aldermen, jealous of their dignity. Swarthy foreigners with silver rings swinging in their ears. Sun-browned sailors. Tankard-bearers carrying along with their supply of fresh drinking water the cream of the hour's gossip. Keepers of the watch with lanterns trimmed for the night's burning adangle from oaken poles braced across their shoulders. Little maidens whose long gowns cut after the fas.h.i.+on of their mothers, fretted their dancing feet. Ruddy-hued little lads, turning Catherine wheels for the very joy of being alive, and because the winter time was over and the wine of spring had gone to the young heads.
Debora stood and watched the pa.s.sing of the people till she wearied of them, and her ears ached with sounds of the street.
Something had gone away from the girl, some carelessness, some content of the heart, and in its place had come a restlessness, as deep, as impossible to quiet, as the restlessness of the sea.
After a time Mistress Blossom knocked at the door, and coaxed her to go below.
”There is no sight o' the young Master, Mistress Debora. Marry, but he be over late, an' the jugged hare I made ready for his pleasuring is fair wasted. Dost think he'll return here to dine or hast gone to the Tabard?”
”I know not,” answered Debora, shortly, following the woman down stairs. ”He gave me no hint of his intentions, good Mistress Blossom.”
”Ods fis.h.!.+” returned the other, ”but that be not mannerly. Still thou need'st not spoil a sweet appet.i.te by tarrying for him. Take thee a taste o' the cowslip cordial, an' a bit o' devilled ham. 'Tis a toothsome dish, an' piping hot.”
”I give thee thanks,” said Debora, absently. Some question turned itself over in her mind and gave her no peace. Looking up at the busy Dame she spoke in a sudden impulsive fas.h.i.+on.
”Hath my brother--hath my brother been oft so late? Hath he always kept such uncertain hours by night--and day also--I mean?” she ended falteringly.
”Why, sometimes. Now and again as 'twere--but not often. There be gay young gentlemen about London-town, and Master Darby hath with him a ready wit an' a charm o' manner that maketh him rare good company. I doubt his friends be not overwilling to let him away home early,” said the woman in troubled tones.
”Hath----he ever come in not--not--quite himself, Mistress Blossom?
'Tis but a pa.s.sing fancy an' I hate to question thee, yet I must know,”
said the girl, her face whitening.