DEBBY TAKES HER OWN WAY.
“Deborah?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Hast thou aired thy bed and prayed in private, earnestly seeking
forgiveness for thy sins of yesterday?” Mrs. Lane came down the long
hall and eyed with disapproval the girl sitting idly on the top step of
the porch.
A sullen look passed over Debby’s face. “I’ve aired my bed,” answered
she.
“And humbly besought pardon for thy sins?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Why not, Deborah?”
“Because I haven’t been sinning.”
“Child, thy soul is in danger of eternal punishment!”
“I don’t care.” Debby had suffered so much in various forms during her
short life, that the subject had ceased to interest her.
She never trembled as did the well cared for little Puritans, over Elder
Morris’ prayers. His lurid descriptions rather charmed her. There seemed
no doubt in Plymouth but that Bill Mason was doomed, and where her
father went, Debby wanted to go too, consequently no threat could touch
her.
At the hard words Mrs. Lane grew more rigid. “For thy mother’s sake I
have sought to save thee,” she said, “I have even tried to trace her
family for I believe they were of better stock than thy vagabond father,
but I fear me, lass, that thou art an evil hearted wench. Neither hell
fire or earthly love can move thee. Mistress Knowles hath told me that
over and again thou art seen with Jack Martin; thou art a shameless
one!”
“Jack was my only friend when all the other boys and girls turned on me,
’tis not like I’d forget Jack.” There was a dangerous flash in Debby’s
eyes.
“I forbid thee ever speaking to the rascal again. Dost hear?”
“Yes.”
“Wilt thou obey?”
“No.” A cruel blow almost threw Debby from the porch. She gathered
herself up and turned a set, white face to her mistress.
“Now go to thy room, Deborah, for the love of thy soul have I chastised
thee. After evening prayers to-night I will come to thy room. If thou
art repentant, I will overlook thy insolence, but mark my words, dost
thou repeat the offence, girl, I will lay the rod across thy shoulders,
until I have conquered thy spirit. During the day,” she added, “think of
thy mother, and of how she would have grieved o’er thee.”
Debby had had a hasty answer ready for Mrs. Lane, but the last words
quieted her. Silently she shuffled to her room on the second floor far
to the back of the house. Closing the door she sank down near the window
and began to think in real earnest. The day wore wearily away. Strong,
energetic Debby chafed under the enforced idleness. She thought of her
mother, and hot stinging tears filled her eyes.
Here was her chance to be decent and respectable slipping from her,
while she was growing worse and worse. She thought of her father away
somewhere—where, she knew not, though she had pleaded with Jack Martin
to try and find out. What was the poor, weak father doing?
Perhaps he was dead, and she would never see him again! That thought
always made her strong young body quiver. Bits of strange talk, always
hushed when she drew near, came to her now in those long hours of
imprisonment. Rumors of a battle at Lexington where the farmers had
dared face the King’s men. It had never occurred to Debby before, but
perhaps her father was among those brave men. Or, perhaps, he had been
at the later battle of Bunker Hill, and had fallen fighting in the
unequal struggle, as so many other rebels had who dared to resist King
George.
Debby hated the King for no better reason than because Mrs. Lane
worshipped him. If she had only been a boy she would have fought against
him simply to spite her mistress.
The tall clock on the stairs, after plodding through the weary day, at
last struck seven, and the early gloaming began to settle o’er the
little town of Plymouth.
From below the droning voice of Mrs. Lane arose, leading the evening
devotions. How Debby loathed that service. In half an hour Mrs. Lane
would mount the stair, rod in hand, to settle her account with the
imprisoned sinner, and in half an hour, at a certain woods of which
Debby knew, that rascal Jack Martin would be in waiting with any
possible knowledge he might have gleaned of her father, and in return be
given a lesson on the drum. Jack had warlike aspirations and Debby was
fitting him to take his place, with _her_ drum, to serve where her sex
prohibited her going. Poor limited Debby; no one ever knew what the
sacrifice meant to her.
As the hour struck she rose restlessly. Of course she must meet Jack,
but she did not care to encounter the eyes of Mistress Knowles, who, if
she ever sought forgiveness for her own sins, did so when all Plymouth
slept.
Suddenly the girl started up, her strong rosy face full of fun. Why had
she not thought of it before?
She ran to the closet and mounted a short ladder; from the space between
the ceiling and the roof she dragged down a bundle and flung it upon the
bedroom floor. Then she worked rapidly.
The bundle consisted of a suit of boy’s clothes made of rough fustian.
It represented all the money earned and given since she had lived with
Mrs. Lane.
Jack Martin had procured the outfit, never asking a question about the
strange purchase, though at the time he was consumed with curiosity.
For a month it had lain in its hiding place, having been brought forth
once or twice at midnight, and donned in silence, that Debby might know
the unholy joy of making believe she was a boy.
She now dropped her trim gown and skirts upon the floor, and drew on the
rough suit. Up went the curly brown hair under a three cornered hat, and
lo! in the soft gloaming stood as sturdy and brave a lad as one need
wish to see.
“And now!” laughed Miss Debby doubling her fists at an unseen foe, “come
on you old cat of a Mistress Knowles, there is another rascal in town
to-night who would like nothing better than to close your eyes for a
week or so!”