CHAPTER II
“In frame of which nature hath showed more skill
Than when she gave eternal chaos form.”
—Marlowe, in Tamburlaine.
Although on the second night there came but little wind, the Admiral’s master found it necessary to strike both topsails in order that the less speedy fly-boat might come up for his orders, as the rule demanded. But even with this decrease of canvas the sun had set and darkness fallen before the two ships lay side by side. At last, however, being lashed together with hawsers, so that men might pass from one to the other without difficulty, they drifted beam to beam—two waifs of the sea, seeking each other’s companionship on the bed of the dark ocean, like children afraid of the night. But that night, at least, was kind to them, though only the lightest breeze favored their progress. The sea lay smooth as a mountain-guarded lake, save where the two slow-moving stems disturbed its surface, awakening ripples that rose, mingled, and dispersed, to seek their sleep again astern. And the ripples played with the waiting beams of stars, played and slumbered and played again, but beyond the circle of this night-time dalliance all was rest. Here the ripples were as smiles on the face of the waters, and the gleams were the gleams of laughing eyes; but there, far out, the sea slept, with none of this frivolous elfinry to break its peace.
Yet even now, up over the ocean, as a woman who rises from her bed and seeks her mirror to see if sleep has enhanced her beauty, the moon rose from behind a long, low hill of clouds, rose flushed as from a passionate hour, and paled slowly among the stars.
From the Admiral’s deck a young man watched her. “It is Elizabeth,” he said, “leaving Leicester for her people’s sake. Roseate love gives place to silver sovereignty. The woman is sacrificed that we may gain a queen. ’Tis well that Mistress Dare owes no such costly relinquishment to the state. Few compel the love of men like Vytal—and yet—and yet I would have—”
But a laugh at the poet’s side interrupted him, and a girl of comely figure thrust her arm through his own. “Moper,” said she. “Come now; Roger Prat hath brought his bear to show us, and there will be no end of merrymaking. We have I know not what aboard—two morris-dancers, hobby-horses, and the like conceits of May-time.”
“By Heaven, Gyll!” exclaimed Christopher, “one might think our governor was Lord of Misrule and the whole voyage but a Whitsun jollification. Wherefore these absurdities?”
“To entertain the savage people,”[3] quoth Gyll, leading him off tyrannically. “On my word, Kyt, ’tis so! We would win them by fair means, you see.”
“And you me by the same pleasantries,” returned Marlowe, more lightly, as her mood captured him. “Mistress Croyden, thou’rt a savage thyself, a sweet savage, Gyll, and they’re all for winning thee, I suppose.”
She smiled complacently, with a full consciousness of the charm that made her popular, and Marlowe laughed at the expression of childlike vanity.
Then for an instant his brow clouded, his flattery became more lavish and exaggerated.
A tall, unmistakable figure had passed them in the darkness, like the person of a dream, and Vytal, having gone to the fly-boat, was even now in eager search.
The vessel, a small but cumbrous thing of the Dutch galliot type, with mountainous stern and stolid bow, offered little encouragement to the seeker. For its lights only revealed vague faces, while its masts and shadows, decks and turnings, seemed to form an agglomeration of dark hiding-places in which any one might all-unwittingly stand concealed. But for the moon, now sailing high, recognition would have been impossible.
The soldier, moreover, customarily so direct of method, felt a certain embarrassment and helplessness in this unprecedented adventure. Having until now avoided women with a real indifference, his present want of practice gave him the awkward feeling of a raw recruit. He was momentarily at a loss as to the best manner of procedure. Since he knew none aboard the vessel of whom he could inquire concerning Eleanor Dare, the chance of his meeting her, without special purpose, seemed slight. He considered the expedience of accosting at random some stranger, who might perhaps at least know the girl by sight. Weighing this plan in his mind, he approached a company of the voyagers, who, gathered in a circle about the main-mast, were kneeling devoutly, while an Oxford preacher read the evening prayer. It was in harmony with the tranquil evening—the picture of those forty or fifty men and women beneath a dim lanthorn, that, deepening the shadows beyond its scope, lit up here and there a face reverent with supplication. And to the earnest piety in the pastor’s voice, the restless water from stem to stern added a mystical whisper of unknown things.
At length, as a prayer for the general welfare of the colony drew to a close, Vytal, who had been standing on the outskirts of the circle, his head bowed and bared, raised his eyes to the preacher. Then, from the minister’s uplifted gaze and hands outstretched in benediction, his glance wandered to the background of suppliant figures, whose faces, as they rose at the conclusion of the service, were distinctly visible. Soldiers were there, and gentlemen, mariners, planters, and cooks, musicians, carpenters, masons, and traders, and, in the foremost line of the circle, a little knot of women and children. Toward these Vytal turned his gaze. They seemed workers of a spell—co-workers with the murmurous sea, and the vague shadows, in subduing and softening the picture.
Vytal started and instinctively stepped forward. The whole scene had dissolved now, save for one predominant figure. Seemingly as though merely to form a background for her, these men and women knelt there; as though to shine upon her alone, the lanthorn had been hung above her head; as though the shadows, daring not to cross her, were there to obscure all other faces that hers might be the better seen; as though to her the sea whispered, for she alone could understand.
Vytal stood motionless, watching her with hunger in his eyes.
Her beauty, of that rare kind which disarms criticism even while suggesting it, was not a flash to startle fleetingly the observer, but a subtle charm, with all those deeply suggestive qualities of form and feature which weave themselves into the very heart of memory. Hers was no brilliant contrast of color in hair and brows and cheeks, but rather a perfect harmony. The light brown of her hair blent with her hazel eyes and with the fine straight lines above them. Her color came and went with each change of expression, like the transitory flush of earliest morning; but generally her face was of a clear cream tint, which died away softly in the russet hair.
The worshippers were now separating, and she, by the side of a thin, weak-looking man, who, from Marlowe’s description, was probably her brother, came near to Vytal.
He stepped back into a dense shadow, turning half away.
“Nay,” he heard her say, coldly, “you know I would be alone oftentimes at evening. Solitude and reverie are indispensable to some natures, and mine is one of these. I shall be safe, and if need be you can find me when you will up there in the stern.” With that she left her companion. But at first Vytal could not bring himself to follow her. She had expressed a wish: it was his law. Yet, as the minutes went by, seeming hours, he began to grow fearful lest some harm should befall the girl, and so set out in quest of her.
There, on the top deck, that she might have no roof above her head, but only the sky, she stood leaning against the bulwark and gazing down into the water far below. This bulwark, although much lower and narrower than those of the Spanish type, which on galleys were sometimes three or four feet thick, walling in the lofty sterns like castle ramparts, was, as may be imagined, no unstable support for so light a burden. Nevertheless, Vytal, considering the possibility of a sudden wave causing the ship to lurch violently, and wanting this or any other excuse, no matter how preposterous, to render justifiable his intrusion on her desired solitude, stepped to the girl’s side.
She turned slowly toward him, and, stroking back a lock of hair from her forehead, looked up into his face. “And so you are truly here in flesh and fell,” she said, with a certain wonder, yet no surprise, as though her thoughts had not been interrupted, but rather realized, by the actual appearance of their subject. It was as if she had known, with no need of ordinary information to give her knowledge. And strangely enough her lack of surprise brought Vytal no astonishment, but only a slight perplexity and gladness. He had dimly surmised that she would know, but could not explain the reason of her intuition. And yet, while wanting words, he only gazed at her, a look of regret crossed his face.
“You seem not overjoyed, Mistress Dare.”
To this she made no answer, but withdrew her eyes, and he saw their long lashes almost touch her cheeks as she looked down once more into the water. “I implore your pardon,” he said, a low note of pain in his never-faltering voice. “But I had not deemed your reverie so sacred. ’Twas a man’s rough error,” and he turned away.
“Stay. In going you are guilty of the only error. I would not have you leave me with the word ‘ingrate’ on your lips. Nay, make no denial. I must, in truth, have seemed ungrateful.” She fully believed—and perhaps there was vanity in the supposition—that he had followed her, that even the ocean’s breadth had not deterred him, and the belief deprived her somewhat of her perfect self-command. She was looking up at him now, her hazel eyes wide open, helpless in expression and for the moment like a child’s. “I have not yet said ‘I thank you.’” He made a deprecatory gesture. “No,” she persisted, with a glance more free. “Oh, why are brave men ever thus, turning away when we would offer them our feeble words of gratitude, while they who merit not a smile of recompense bow low, and wait, and wait, for unearned thanks? Yet what can I say? That you are a knight worthy of the name? That I have never seen a nobler play of arms? That you saved my—honor? And then, after all this, am I to repeat ‘I thank you, I thank you,’ as I would to some fop stooping for my fan.”
“Faith,” he returned, “’tis the duty of some to pick up fans; ’tis but the duty of others to—”
“Defend a fashionable ruff,” she concluded, smiling, “against lawful shears. Yes, I suppose you would put it that way. ’Twas such a little thing—so trivial—a rapier against scissors! Oh, perhaps I am wrong”—her tone grew bantering to cover her recognition of a certain grim power in the man. “It may be you boast by the mere belittlement of your action. The most arrant braggadocio lies often in a mock-modest ‘It was naught,’ a self-depreciative silence. Thank you, then, sir, for the timely preservation of my ruff.” And she laughed, as the ripples under the bow were laughing, with a fairy music. Yet a tone of sadness, deep as the sea, underlay the feigned amusement in her voice.
“The ruff was a flower’s calyx,” he said.
“Nay, now, that ill-fits you, sir. I had not thought to find flattery from such an one.” She raised her eyebrows with unaccustomed archness, as though by look to maintain her usually perfect dignity, which her words, whether she would or no, seemed bent on frittering away. “Why, ’twas far better put by the villain who insulted me: ‘A bud’s outer petals fallen,’ or some such pretty speech. And you but steal his—”
“Nay, madam, you know well it was—”
“Oh, original, then—’tis little better. So readily conceived a metaphor has doubtless been made a hundred times concerning ruffs. You pay the best compliments with your sword. No, no; be not so crestfallen. We are but newly met, that’s all. You do not understand—forgive me, Master—how now, have I not yet learned your name?”
“’Tis John Vytal.”
“John Vytal,” she repeated, slowly. “It were easy to play on the name and show its meaning, but to them who’ve seen you I doubt not it needs no interpretation.” He would have questioned her then, but she hastened back to the first subject. “One thing piques my curiosity—the manner of your escape. Were the retainers of Sir Walter Raleigh so speedy to bring you succor?”
“No, I saw them not. Once you had gone I stayed no longer.”
“Stayed no longer?” She opened her large eyes very wide in surprise.
“Nay.”
“You speak as though you could have left at will.”
“The will was there, madam.”
“But the way—the way?” she demanded, impatiently.
“And the way, too.”
“Your brevity is badinage,” she declared, with an imperious toss of her head.
“Your badinage cruelty,” he returned.
“Oh, you are not all silence and swordsmanship,” she laughed, with a trace of the persistent raillery in her voice. “But I have asked you concerning your way of escape.”
“From the cruelty?”
“No.” The word came impatiently, as though she were wholly unaccustomed to resistance. “I see you parry in more ways than one.” And her fingers played about the hood-clasp beneath her chin.
“Less hopefully in one way than another, Mistress Dare.”
At this her manner, curiously changing, became graver, the assumed archness and petulance for the moment leaving her. “You speak of cruelty,” she said, in a very low voice, again turning to gaze down at the sea, “and of hope. Sometimes, Captain Vytal, they are synonymous;” and then, before he could make rejoinder, she added, quickly, “I pray you tell me of the escape?”
“’Twas through a window overlooking the Thames,” he answered, in bewilderment. “And I swam ashore.”
“Ah, I see. I thought perhaps you had followed us through the porter’s lodge.”
“No; the way was blocked.”
“Tell me,” she asked, “was it your plan, our reaching safety as we did, or Master Marlowe’s?”
“Neither his nor mine.”
“Neither! Whose, then?”
“At least, in a way, neither. You see, I remembered the story of the porter’s lodge. In 1554 Wyatt gained that building by mounting to the leads of an adjoining house, and thus made his way onto the bridge. Hence I knew there must be passageway to the Bankside.”
“And you remembered even while your sword demanded so much attention?”
“It came to my mind.”
She smiled with a kind of wonder in her eyes, and then a hint of irony. “Of course the plan was not yours—it was clearly Wyatt’s.”
“Another rebel’s,” observed Vytal, for the first time looking off across the water with a trace of abstraction in his face.
“Rebel? How mean you rebel?”
“Naught, but that it seems my fate to be at odds with the world.”
“For instance, to rebel against bear-baiting,” she suggested, glancing at him sideways. “I heard of that, and recognized the rebel from description.”
“Readily, madam, I doubt not. They called me a long, lean wolf, a grizzled terror, with the usual flattery.”
“Yes,” she said, nodding her hooded head and pursing her lips, “they did.”
“And very truly,” he averred.
“Oh, fie, sir! You seek a contradictory opinion.”
“You know I do not.”
“Nay, then perhaps you are not sure of it.” His simplicity and directness vexed her. She seemed strangely distraught by nervousness, and her manner was unnatural.
“You wound me, Mistress Dare.”
“Hast so much vanity?” she queried.
“And the wound,” he went on, disregarding her uncontrollable banter, “is not from your words, but manner more. Somehow the mere being with you brings me pain.”
“Our interview is of your own seeking, Master Vytal.”
“I had not thought,” he declared, in a tone almost angry, “that one with such a face, such a voice, could be so unkind,” and once more he started as if to go.
But she put out her hand with a detaining gesture. Her manner again grew serious, more like the deep, far-reaching, silent sea than its near-by surface, flurried by the ship.
“Oh, forgive me again! It seems as though I must ever ask forgiveness from you—from you to whom I owe so much. Believe me, there is a woman’s heart beneath all this—I have not said that to any man—’tis my reward to you—and the woman’s heart knows pity—that, too, is a reward—make what you can of it.” She was speaking tremulously now. “Only—remember—that hope is cruel—that a little pain may avert a deeper suffering—this was my intention—believe me, I pray thee believe, John Vytal—I am deeply grateful underneath the mask. Fate brought us together in a moment. And then you followed—followed, I suppose—” she hesitated, her breast heaving and tears gathering in her eyes.
“No,” declared Vytal, anxious in his bewilderment to console her as best he might, and looking down at her for the first time as at a child. “No, I knew not you were coming. I believed that I was saying farewell.”
The tears lingered on her lashes without falling. An unreadable expression came into her face, whether entirely of relief, as Vytal thought, or with a slight trace of regret and shame, deep-hidden, she herself could not have told.
“I thought you had found out,” she almost whispered at last.
“Nay, I had no chance to seek you. I was pledged to come. Otherwise I would have sought till—”
“Stay,” she exclaimed, imperatively, “you must not speak so!”—and then, in lower tones—“but if of my coming you had no knowledge, is it not yet more the work of Fate?”
“Or of God.”
“Nay, God is good.” There was naught in her voice now save sadness blent with doubt. “Perhaps I misread a face—perhaps a name is but a name, and stands for nothing—perhaps—Oh, sir, is it wrong to speak only in riddles? What have we said? What has led us to so strange a conversation in so short a time? Come, let us talk of the voyage, the sea, the all-pervading night. The night conceals so much, being merciful, but when the day comes all this mercy and mystery will go—these ocean whispers, this unutterable darkness, the stars, the moon, even the scent of the salt will be understood. We shall say ’tis healthful, invigorating, and no more; but to-night it is the subtle odor of some sea-forest in a world below, or of flowers in a coral glade. To-morrow the ship will be of wood and iron, whereas to-night—who comprehends this long, slow-moving shadow and those silver, moonlit wings above that bear it forward to some far haven of dreams? To-night we are spellbound; in the morning, if the wind still sleeps, we shall call the spell a calm.” She paused, and, leaning back against the bulwark, still looked up into the mist of shrouds. The moonlight, ensilvering each listless sail, fell full upon her face, giving the unshed tears an Orient lustre, and the cheeks a pallor of unreality. Under the edge of her hood the moonbeams strove to make their way, but could not, and so the gentle but less timid breeze brought down a strand of her hair to turn it paler and more ethereal, till it, too, was no more than a moon-spun thread. Her little hands were clasped together and her lips just parted, as though she were about to answer some voice that she alone could hear.
“You are a spirit,” said Vytal.
And then—then she laughed, and the laugh, although fraught with sadness, transformed her instantly. She became a child with it, a sweet, lovable, beautiful child—all reality, innocence, and health. The laughter in her lips converted these fastnesses of expression to its playground, and, romping, chased away all visionary looks. Her cheeks, dimpling, lost their pallor in a blush. One hand smoothed back the straying lock, the other drew her hood yet lower, while her hazel eyes looking up from under it seemed to possess the magic brown of a russet-bedded brook with sunlight playing beneath its surface—and the sunlight was this wonderful transforming laughter.
“You are a child,” he declared, with more of passion in his voice and less of silent wonder. The tone startled her; the grave look came back into her face, and she stepped from the moonlight into the shadow of a sail.
“Nay,” he said, with an incomprehensible sadness in his voice. “Now you are a woman. The sky and the sea are no more changeable.”
“A woman,” she whispered, compressing her lips and turning white, as though nerving herself for a strenuous effort of will—“a woman, and—and—but no, wait, sleep, dream, and dreams will bring you happiness—look you, the sky seems clear—the sea is tranquil. Yet come!”
With a hand on his arm she drew him across the deck into the dense shadow of the rigging. “See, it is but a step from light to darkness, and then—look—the sky!”
He followed the direction of her gaze, and saw again the long ridge of cloud, from behind which the moon had risen. The hill was a mountain now, and black with storm.
“It comes all too quickly,” she said, shivering, and gave him her hand. It was very cold. Bending low he kissed the fingers, and then, holding them in his firm grasp, looked down into her eyes as though to read their meaning if he could. But still making no answer in any way, she trembled. His mute bewilderment and uncomprehending pain were becoming unendurable to her.
“Oh, mayhap it were kinder,” she whispered, finally, half to herself, “and yet I cannot see that deep face show greater pain. Nay, let us not hasten the storm ourselves; it comes whate’er we do, then perchance”—she was forcing a show of cheerfulness into her manner—“perchance, after all, you may not mind so much. Good-night, oh, good-night—” and before he could realize it her hand was withdrawn from his and her hooded figure had gone away into the shadows.