



Produced by Al Haines









[Illustration: Cover art]





[Frontispiece: "Debora!  What is it?  What hath come to thee?"]





[Illustration: title page art]





A MAID

OF

MANY

MOODS



_By_ VIRNA SHEARD




Toronto, THE COPP, CLARK
  COMPANY, Ltd.  MCMII




Copyright, 1902, By James Pott & Co.

Entered at Stationers' Hall, London


_First Impression, September, 1902_




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


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

"Thou'lt light no more"

She followed the tragedy intensely

"I liked thee as a girl, Deb; but I love thee as a lad"

"It breaks my heart to see thee here, Nick"

Darby went lightly from one London topic to another




CHAPTER I

[Illustration: 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 brass 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,"
blustered 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!"

[Illustration: "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 clusters 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 lass, 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, shifting his chair.  "Any news o'
the coach?"

"None that I've heard," replied the man, going to the hearth and
turning his broad back to the fire.  "'Tis a still night, still and
frosty, but no sound of the horn or wheels reached me though I stood
a-listening at the cross-roads.  Then I turned down here an' saw how
grandly thou had'st lit the house up to welcome Darby.  My faith!  I'll
be glad to see him, for 'tis an age since he was home, Master
Thornbury, an' he comes now in high feather.  Not every lad hath wit
and good looks enough to turn the head o' London after him.  The stage
is a great place for bringing a man out.  Egad!  I'm half minded to try
it myself."

"I doubt not thou wilt, Nick, sooner or later; thou art a
jack-o'-all-trades," answered Thornbury, in surly tones.

Nicholas Berwick laughed and shrugged his well-set shoulders, as he
bent over and touched the child sleeping sweetly in old Sevenoakes'
arms.

"What was't I heard thee saying o' the baby as I came in; he is not
ailing, surely?"

"Not he!" answered Sevenoakes, stroking the moist yellow curls.  "He's
lusty as a year-old robin, an' as chirpy when he's awake; but he's in
the land o' nod now, though his will was good to wait up for Darby like
the rest of us."

"He's a rarely beautiful little lad," said Berwick.  "I've asked Deb
about him often, but she will tell me naught."

"I warrant she will na," piped up old Ned Saddler, in his reedy voice.
"I warrant she will na; 'tis no tale for a young maid's repeating.
Beshrew me! but the coach be late," he wound up irrelevantly.

"How came the child here?" persisted the young fellow, knocking back a
red log with his foot.  "An' it be such a tale as you hint, Saddler, I
doubt not it's hard to keep it from slipping off thy tongue."

"'Tis a tale that slips off some tongue whenever this time o' year
comes," answered Thornbury.  "I desire no more Christmas Eves like that
one four years back--please God!  We were around the hearth as it might
be now, and a grand yule log we had burning, I mind me; the room was
trimmed gay an' fine with holly an' mistletoe as 'tis to-night.
Saddler was there, Sevenoakes just where he be now, an' Deb sitting
a-dreaming on the black oak settle yonder, the way she often sits, her
chin on her hand--you mind, Nick!"

"Ay!" said the man, smiling.

"She wore her hair down then," went on Thornbury, "an' a sight it were
to see."

"'Twere red as fox-fire," interrupted Saddler, aggrieved that the
tale-telling had been taken from him.  "When thou start'st off on Deb,
Thornbury, thou know'st not where to bring up."

"An' Deb was sitting yonder on the oak settle," continued the innkeeper
calmly.

"An' she had not lit the house up scandalously that year as 'tis
now--for Darby was home," put in Saddler again.

"Ay!  Darby was home--an' thou away, Nick--but the lad was worriting to
try his luck on the stage in London, an' all on account o' a play
little Judith Shakespeare lent him.  I mind me 'twas rightly named,
'The Pleasant History o' the Taming o' a Shrew,' for most of it he read
aloud to us.  Ay, Darby was home, an' we were sitting here as it might
be now, when the door burst open an' in come my lad carrying a bit of a
baby muffled top an' toe in a shepherd's plaid.  'Twas crying pitiful
and hoarse, as it had been long in the night wind."

"'Quick, Dad!' called Darby, 'Quick,' handing the bundle to Deb, 'there
be a woman perished of cold not thirty yards from the house.'

"I tramped out after him saying naught.  'Twas a bitter night an' the
road rang like metal under our feet.  The country was silver-white with
snow, an' the sky was sown thick with stars.  Darby'd hastened on ahead
an' lifted the w