Part 1 (1/2)
A Maid of Many Moods.
by Virna Sheard.
CHAPTER I
[Ill.u.s.tration: Chapter I headpiece]
I
It was Christmas Eve, and all the small diamond window panes of One Tree Inn, the half-way house upon the road from Stratford to Shottery, were aglitter with light from the great fire in the front room chimney-place and from the many candles Mistress Debora had set in their bra.s.s candlesticks and started a-burning herself. The place, usually so dark and quiet at this time of night, seemed to have gone off in a whirligig of gaiety to celebrate the Noel-tide.
In vain had old Marjorie, the housekeeper, scolded. In vain had Master Thornbury, who was of a thrifty and saving nature, followed his daughter about and expostulated. She only laughed and waved the lighted end of the long spill around his broad red face and bright flowered jerkin.
”Nay, Dad!” she had cried, teasing him thus, ”I'll help thee save thy pennies to-morrow, but to-night I'm of another mind, and will have such a lighting up in One Tree Inn the rustics will come running from Coventry to see if it be really ablaze. There'll not be a candle in any room whatever without its own little feather of fire, not a dip in the 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,”
bl.u.s.tered the old fellow, trying to reach the spill which the girl held high above her head. ”Give over thy foolishness; thou'lt light no more!”
[Ill.u.s.tration: ”Thou'lt light no more”]
”Ay, but I will, then,” said she wilfully, ”an' 'tis but just to welcome 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 cl.u.s.ters in the long room not yet lit. Hinder me no more, but go enjoy thyself with old Saddler and John Sevenoakes. I warrant the posset is o'erdone, though I cautioned thee not to leave it.”
”Thou art a wench to break a man's heart,” said Thornbury, backing away and shaking a finger at the pretty figure winding fiery ribbons and criss-crosses with her bright-tipped wand. ”Thou art a provoking wench, who doth need locking up and feeding on bread and water. Marry, there'll be naught for thee on Christmas, and thou canst whistle for the ruff and silver buckles I meant to have given thee. Aye, an' for the 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!” she called after him. And well he knew she would. Therefore, it was with a disturbed mind that he entered the sitting-room and went towards the hearth to stir the simmering contents of the copper pot on the crane.
John Sevenoakes and old Ned Saddler, his nearest neighbours and friends, sat one each side of the fire in their deep rush-bottomed chairs, as they sat at least five nights out of the week, come what weather would. Sevenoakes held a small child, whose yellow, curly head nodded with sleep. The hot wine bubbled up as the inn-keeper stirred it and the little spiced apples, brown with cloves, bobbed madly on top.
”It hath a savoury smell, Thornbury,” remarked Saddler. ”Methinks 'tis most 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 it comes at ten, Cousin John. Just when Darby will be jumping from the coach an' running in. Oh! I can't wait for the hour to come!' she says.”
”She's a headstrong, contrary wench as ever heaven sent a man,” put in Thornbury, straightening himself. ”'Twere trouble saved an' I'd broken her in long ago.”
”'Twas she broke thee in long ago,” said Saddler, rubbing his knotty hands. ”She hath led thee by the ear since she was three years old.
An' I had married now, an' had such a la.s.s, I'd a brought her up different, I warrant. Zounds! 'tis a show to see. She coaxes thee, she bullies thee, she comes it over thee with cajolery and blandishments an' leads thee a pretty dance.”
”Thou art an old fool,” returned Thornbury, mopping his face, which was sorely scorched, ”What should thou know of the bringing up of wenches?
Thou--a crabbed bachelor o' three score an' odd. Thou hast no way with children;--i' truth I've heard Will Shakespeare say the tartness of that face o' thine would sour ripe grapes.”
Sevenoakes trotted the baby gently up and down, a look of troubled apprehension disturbing his usually placid features. His was ever the office of peace-maker between these two ancient cronies, and he knew to a 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, stamping the snow off his long boots. ”Marry, Nick! thou dost bring a lot o'
cold in with thee,” he ended briskly, s.h.i.+fting his chair. ”Any news o'
the coach?”