Part 2 (1/2)
The man let go his hold of her, his handsome face darkening.
”Dost hate me?” he asked.
”Nay, then, I hate thee not,” with a little toss of her head. ”Neither do I love thee.”
”Dost love any other? Come, tell me for love's sake, sweetheart. An'
I thought so!”
”Marry, no!” she said. Then with a short, half-checked laugh, ”Well--Prithee but one!”
”Ah!” cried Berwick, ”is't so?”
”Verily,” she answered mockingly. ”It is so in truth, an' 'tis just Dad. As for Darby, I cannot tell what I feel for _him_. 'Twould be full as easy to say were I to put it to myself, 'Dost love Debora Thornbury?' 'Yea' or 'Nay,' for, Heaven knows, sometimes I love her mightily--and sometimes I don't; an' then 'tis a fearsome '_don't_,'
Nick. But come thee in.”
”No!” answered Berwick, bitterly. ”I am not one of you.” Catching her little hands he held them a moment against his coat, and the girl felt the heavy beating of his heart before he let them fall, and strode away.
She stood on the step looking after the solitary figure. Her cheeks burned, and she tapped her foot impatiently on the threshold.
”Ever it doth end thus,” she said. ”I am not one of you,” echoing his tone. ”In good sooth no. Neither is old Ned Saddler or dear John Sevenoakes. We be but three; just Dad, an' Darby, an' Deb.” Then, another thought coming to her. ”Nay _four_ when I count little Dorian.
Little Dorian, sweet lamb,--an' so I will count him till I find his father.”
A shade went over her face but vanished as she entered the room.
”I have given thee time to take a long look at Darby, Dad,” she cried.
”Is't not good to have him at home?” slipping one arm around her brother's throat and leaning her head against him.
”Where be the coach, truant?” asked Saddler.
”It went round by the Bidford road--there was no other traveller for us. Marry, I care not for coaches nor travellers now I have Darby safe here! See, Dad, he hath become a fine gentleman. Did'st note how grand he is in his manner, an' what a rare tone his voice hath taken?”
The handsome boy flushed a little and gave a half embarra.s.sed laugh.
”Nay, Debora, I have not changed; 'tis thy fancy. My doublet hath a less rustical cut and is of different stuff from any seen hereabout, and my hose and boots fit--which could not be said of them in olden times. This fas.h.i.+on of ruff moreover,” touching it with dainty complacency, ”this fas.h.i.+on of ruff is such as the Queen's Players themselves wear.”
Old Thornbury's brows contracted darkly and the girl turned to him with a laugh.
”Oh--Dad! Dad! thou must e'en learn to hear of the playhouses, an'
actors with a better grace than that. Note the wry face he doth make, Darby!”
”I have little stomach for their follies and buffooneries--albeit my son be one of them,” the innkeeper answered, in sharp tone. Then struggling with some intense inward feeling, ”Still I am not a man to go half-way, Darby. Thou hast chosen for thyself, an' the blame will not be mine if thy road be the wrong one. Thou canst walk upright on any highway, lad.”
”Ay!” put in old Saddler, ”Ay, neighbour, but a wilful lad must have his way.”
Soon old Marjorie came in and clattered about the supper table, after having made a great to-do over the young master.