VI
When Debora awoke, the sunlight was flooding the chilly room, and on
the frosty air sounded a chiming of church bells. A confusion of
thoughts stormed her mind as she sprang up and found herself dressed
and by the window. Her eyes ached as eyes will that have wept
overnight, and her heart was heavy. Still it was not her way to think
long; so she bathed in fair water till her face got back its shell-pink
tints. She put on the white taffeta kirtle and farthingale that was
always kept for Sunday, and fastened a fluted ruff about her throat.
When all was finished, her hair coiled freshly and puffed at the sides
as Darby would have it dressed to follow the new fashion; when her
shoes, with their great silver buckles and red heels, were laced and
tied, and when the frills at her wrist were settled, she looked in the
mirror and felt better. It was not possible to view such a vision,
knowing that it was one's self, without taking comfort.
"Things be past their worst surely," she said. "An' I have no heart in
me this morning to give Darby a harsh word. Marry! men take not kindly
to upbraiding, and hate a shrew at best o' times. So will I talk to
him in sweeter fashion, but in a tone that will be harder to endure
than any scolding."
She went down the hall and stopped at her brother's door. No faintest
sound came from the room, so she entered and looked about. On the huge
four-post bed, from which the funereal-looking curtains were drawn
back, lay Darby, in a slumber deep and unrefreshing. Now and again a
heavy sigh broke from his lips. His bright locks were tossed and
ruffled about his face, and that was dead white, save for the violet
rings beneath the eyes and the unabated swelling on his forehead.
"He is a doleful sight," said Debora, gazing down at him, her spirits
sinking, "a woful, doleful sight! Ods pitikins! 'tis worse than I
thought. What a pass 't has come to that this should be Darby
Thornbury. Heart o' me!" a flickering sarcastic little smile going
over her face, "Heart o' me, but here be a pretty Juliet!" Then she
grew grave.
"Juliet!" verily it would not be possible! That part was out of the
question for Darby, at least on the morrow. The bruise on his brow
settled it, for the eye beneath was fairly closed.
Alack! alack! she thought, how ever would things fall out at
Blackfriars? What of the new play that had already been put off some
months and had cost the Company heavily in new dresses, new scenery,
even new actors? Oh! was ever such a coil? 'Twould be the lad's
undoing upon the London stage. No Master-player would e'er trust him
with part or place again.
Debora stood by the bed foot, still and sad, a thousand wild thoughts
and questions tangling themselves in her brain. Should she away to
Master Shakespeare, who had but just returned to London for the opening
day? He was at the Mermaid Inn, and peradventure 'twas best to tell
him all. She grew faint at the thought. Had not Judith told her what
a very fever of unrest possessed her father before one of these new
plays was shown! Debora fancied she could see his sensitive face, with
the eyes so wise and kindly, change and grow cold and forbidding as the
tale was unfolded.
"Then what is left to do?" she said, desperately. "What is left to do?
The play must be saved, Darby must be saved, his reputation, his
standing among the players cannot be lost thus." Oh! for some one to
turn to--to advise. Oh! for Nick Berwick and his fair cool judgment.
Should she report at the theatre that her brother was ill? No, for he
had been seen with a merry party drinking at the Castle Tavern on
Saturday. If this outbreak could be tided over 'twould be his last,
she thought, passionately, her woman's faith coming to the rescue.
Some way she must find to save him.
Slowly an idea took possession of the girl and it faded the colour from
her cheeks, and set a light in her eyes.
"Debora Thornbury! Ay! there was one could play the part of Juliet."
The very life seemed to go out of her at the thought, and she slipped
down to the floor and buried her face in the coverlet. Slowly the cold
room, the great four-poster, the uneasy sleeper all faded away, and she
was alone upon a high balcony in the stillness of a moonlit garden.
The tree tops were silver-frosted by the light, and the night was sweet
with a perfume from the roses below. She was not Debora Thornbury, but
Juliet, the little daughter of the Capulets. The name of her lover was
on her lips and a strange happiness filled her soul.
Suddenly rising she went to a heavy press that stood against the wall,
swung back the door, and sought out a suit of her brother's. It was of
Kendal green cloth, faced about the doublet with tan-coloured leather.
The long, soft boots were of the same, and the wide-brimmed hat bore a
cluster of white plumes and a buckle of brilliants, while a small lace
handkerchief was tucked into the band, after a fashion followed by
gentlemen of the court. Opening the door beneath the press the girl
selected cuffs and collar wrought in pointed lace.
"In very truth," she said, with a little bitter smile. "Darby
Thornbury hath a pretty taste, an' must have coined many rose-nobles in
London--or won them. He hath certainly spent them, for never saw I
such store o' finery! Here be two velvet tabards slashed and puffed
with satin; and a short cloak o' russet silk laid upon with Flemish
lace fit for a prince! 'Truth what with his clocked hose, an' scented
gloves with stitchery o' silver thread on the backs methinks he hath
turned to a very dandy."
Gathering the garments she desired together across her arm, she went
again to the bed, and looked down, her eyes growing tender. "I fear me
'tis an unmaidenly thing to even dream o' doing, but if 'tis done, 'tis
done for thee, dear heart, albeit without thy consent or Dad's. There
will be scant risk o' discovery--we be too much alike. People have
wearied us both prating of the likeness. Now 'twill serve; just two or
three nights' masquerade for me an' thou wilt be thyself again."
Stooping, she kissed the bruised face and went away.
In her own room Debora made quick work of changing her dress. It was
an awkward business, for the doublet and green tabard seemed fairly
possessed to go contrariwise; the hose were unmanageable, and the
cordovan long boots needed stuffing at the toes. Here and there upon
the suit was broidered the Lord Chamberlain's coat of arms in gold
thread, and when all was finished Deb looked at herself and felt she
was a gorgeous and satisfying sight. "Marry! but men be fond o' fine
feathers," she thought, studying her reflection.
Then, letting down the coils of auburn hair, she drew the glittering
strands through her fingers. "I would it might just be tucked up--it
pleasures one little to cut it off. Beshrew me! If I so resemble
Darby with such a cloud o' hair about me, what will I be like when 'tis
trimmed to match his?" Taking the shears she deliberately severed it
to the very length of her brother's. The love-locks curled around her
oval face in the self-same charming way.
"My heart! 'tis all most vastly becoming," she exclaimed, fastening the
pointed collar. "I liked thee as a girl, Deb, but I love thee, nay, I
dote on thee as a lad! Now must I stride an' speak in mannish fashion
('tis well there go'th a long cloak with the suit, for on that I rely
to hearten my courage); also I bethink me 'twould be wise to use some
strong flavoursome words to garnish my plain speech. By Saint George!
now, or Gad Zooks! Heart's mercy! stay'th the hat so? or so? Alack!
my courage seem'th to ooze from my boot-heels. Steady, true heart,
steady! Nay then, I cannot do it. I will not do it--it look'th a very
horror to me. Oh! my poor, pretty hair; my poor, pretty hair!"
[Illustration: "I like thee as a girl, Deb; but I love thee as a lad"]
On a sudden the girl was down on the floor, and the long locks were
caught together and passionately held against her lips. But it was
only for a moment. When the storm was over she rose and dashed the
mist of it from her eyes.
"What must be, must be! I cannot think on any other plan. I would
there were an understudy, but there be none. So must I take the part
for Darby--and for Master William Shakespeare."
So saying, Debora went below to the room where the table was laid for
breakfast, walking along the hall with a firm step, for her mind was
made up and she was never one to do things by halves.
Taking her brother's place she knocked briskly on the little gong and
waited. Master Blossom started to answer the summons in a slow-footed,
ponderous way peculiar to him, yawning audibly at intervals upon the
way.
The Sabbath morn was one whereon good folk should sleep long, and not
look to be waited on early, according to him. Dame Blossom herself was
but just astir, and lodgers were at best but an inconsiderate lot.
Cogitating on these things he entered the room, then stood stock still
as though petrified, his light blue eyes vacant with astonishment.
The dainty figure at the table swinging one arm idly over its chair
back made no sign, unless the impatient tapping of a fashionable
boot-toe upon the sanded floor might be taken for one.
"Ods fish!" exclaimed Blossom, moving heavily a few steps nearer. "I'
fecks! but thee art a very dai-asy, young Maister! Dost mind how 'A
put 'e to bed? Thou'st pulled tha' self together marvellous, all
things considered!
"Marry, where be tha' black eye? 'twere swelled big as a ribstone
pippin!"
"Beefsteak," answered Deb, laconically. "Beefsteak, my lively Blossom.
Tie a piece on tight next time thou hast an eye like mine--an' see what
thou shalt see."
"But where gottest thou the beefsteak?"
"Egad! where does any one get it? Don't stand there chattering like a
magpie, but bring me my breakfast. This head I have doth not feel like
the head o' Darby Thornbury. 'Tis nigh to breaking. Fetch me my
breakfast and give over staring at a man. See'st aught odd enough
about me to make thee go daft?"
"I' fecks! 'tis the first time 'A ever heard thee call so loud for
breakfast after such a bout as thine o' yestere'en! I wonder thou hast
stomach for 't. Howbeit, 'tis thine own affair."
The girl bit her lip. "Nay," she said with cool accent, "I may have
small appetite for it--but, as thou say'st, 'tis mine own affair."
"Thou need'st good advice more than breakfast, young Maister," said
Blossom, solemnly. "Thy sister was in a way, 'A tell thee. Thou art
become a roisterer, a drinker an' a gambler that lives but to hear the
clink o' gold against the table. Ay! Such a devil-may-care gambler,
an' thou had'st a beard an' no money thou would'st stake that o'er the
dice. Being these things, an' a player o' plays, marry! 'A see no
fair end ahead o' thee."
"Oh! get thee away an' send thy good wife--thou dost make my nerves
spin with thy prating. Get thee away," said Deb, petulantly.
"Zounds! but thou art full like thyself in speech. Too much wine i'
thy stomach one day makes a monstrous uncivil tongue i' thy head next."
"Nay then! I ask thy pardon, Blossom," cried the girl, laughing, and
holding out a crown piece she had discovered in a pocket of the
doublet, "thou art a friend I have no will to offend. Now send thy
good Dame."
Shortly Mistress Blossom came bustling in, rosy in the face from
bending over an open fire. She carried high in one hand a platter from
which drifted a savoury smell, and a steaming flagon was in the other.
Setting these down she smoothed her voluminous skirt and stood waiting,
an expression of severe displeasure hardening her face.
"A goodly day to you, and a fresh morning, mistress," Deb said
shortly--"I pray thee shut the door--an' see it be latched."
The woman did so without speaking.
"Now look at me well. Come"--smiling--"did'st ever see me more like
myself?"
"Nay," replied the Dame, after a slow scrutiny of the charming figure.
"In looks thou art well enow. An' thy manners matched, 'twere cause
for rejoicing. Thou wer't a disgrace yestere'en to thy sister, ay! an'
to the hamlet o' Shottery that saw thee raised."
"Make a finish, good Dame," answered Deb, mockingly; "say a disgrace to
myself an' the company o' players I have the honour of belonging to."
"Hoity-toity! Play actors!" quoth the other. "Little care I for what
disgrace thou be'st to them! But what o' thy broken head, lad? Hath
it sore pained thee? Why, my faith, the swelling be quite gone!"
The girl gave way to a short peal of laughter.
"Marry! I laugh," she said, struggling for composure, "yet feel little
like it. Look well again, Mistress Blossom. Look well. Surely there
be small triumph in befooling thee, for thou art too easy hoodwinked
withal. Gaze steady now. Dost still say 'tis Darby Thornbury?"
The woman stared while her complexion went from peony red to pale pink.
"Thou giv'st me a turn, an' I be like to swoon," she gasped. "What
prank has't afoot, lad?"
"Thou wilt go a bit farther before thou dost faint. Hark then, an'
prythee hold by the table an' thou turn'st giddy. Now doth it come.
See then, this handsome, well-favoured youth thou art breakfasting,"
rising and making a pretty bow, "is--is none other than _Deb
Thornbury_!"
"Ods pitikins!" cried the woman.
"Sit down," answered Deb, growing sober. "I would talk with thee, for
I need thy good-will and, peradventure, thy help. Things with my
brother are in a very coil. He will not be able to take his part i'
the new play on the morrow. His face is too sorely marred. Beshrew
me, he looks not one half as much like himself as I look like him. Now
there be no understudy i' the cast for the character Darby hath
taken--further, 'tis an all important one. To have him away would mean
confusion and trouble to Blackfriars and I gainsay nothing rejoicing to
the Admiral's Company and Lord Pembroke's men. 'Tis not to be
contemplated. By the Saints! I would not have trouble come to Master
Will Shakespeare through my brother, no, not for the crown jewels!
Dost follow me?"
"Nay, that I do not nor what thou'rt coming at," was the dazed response.
Debora shrugged her shoulders. "I hoped 't would have dawned on thee.
Why, 'tis just this, I will play the part myself."
"Thou?" cried Dame Blossom, agape. "Thou, Mistress Debora?"
"Yes! yes! Nay, ply me not with questions. My mind is set. There be
not one in London who will discover me, an' thou dost not break faith,
or let thy good man scent aught on the wind. But I wanted to tell
thee, dear Mistress Blossom, and have thy good word. Pray thee say I
am not doing wrong, or making any error. I have been so bewildered."
"I will not say thou art i' the right, for I know not. Has't asked
Master Darby's consent?"
The girl turned impatiently. "Heart o' me! but thou art able to
provoke one. His consent!" with a short laugh. "Nay then--but I will
show him his face i' the mirror, an' on sight of it he will leave
things for me to settle."
"Ay!" the dame returned, blankly, "I warrant he will. But art not
afeared o' the people? What if they should discover thou art a
_woman_!"
"I'll say they are of quicker wit than one I could name," returned
Debora. "As for the play--well, I know the play by heart. Now one
thing more. I would have thee go with me to Blackfriars. The theatre
opens at four o'clock. Say thou wilt bear me company dear, dear
Mistress Blossom. Say thou wilt."
"Nay then, I will _not_. Ods fish! Thou hast gotten thyself in this
an' thou can'st get out alone. I will keep a quiet tongue, but ask me
to do naught beside."
"Well-a-day! 'Tis as I thought. Now I will go and dress in maidenly
clothes. These fearsome things be not needed till the morrow."