Part 6 (2/2)

”Why then, nothing to speak of,” Mistress Blossom replied, bustling about the table, with eyes averted. ”See then, Miss Debora, take some o' the Devons.h.i.+re cream an' one o' the little Banbury cakes with it--there be caraways through them. No? Marry, where be thy appet.i.te?

Thou hast no fancy for aught. Try a taste of the conserved cherries, they be white hearts from a Shottery orchard. Trouble not thy pretty self. Men be all alike, sweet, an' not worth a salt tear. Even Blossom cometh home now an' again in a manner not to be spoken of! Ods pitikins! I be thankful to have him make the house in any form, an'

not fall i' the clutch o' the watch! They be right glad of the chance to clap a man i' the stocks where he can make a finish o' the day as a target for all the stale jests an' unsavoury missiles of every scurvy rascal o' the streets. But, Heaven be praised!--'tis not often Blossom breaks out--just once in a blue moon--after a bit of rare good or bad luck.”

Debora took no heed but stared ahead with wide, unhappy eyes. The old blue plates on the table, the pewter jugs and platters grew strangely indistinct. Then 'twas true! So had she fancied it might be. He had been drinking--drinking. Carousing with the fast, unmannerly youths who haunted the club-houses and inns. Dicing, without doubt, and gambling at cards also peradventure, when she thought he was pa.s.sing the time in good fellows.h.i.+p with the worthy players from the Lord Chamberlain's Company.

”He hath never come home _so_ by day, surely, good Mistress Blossom?

Not by day?” she asked desperately.

”Well--truly--not many times, dearie. But hark'e. Master Darby is one who cannot touch a gla.s.s o' any liquor but it flies straightway to his brains; oft hath he told me so, ay! often and over often; 'I am not to blame for this, Blossom,' hath he said to my goodman when he worked over him--cold water and rubbing, Mistress Debora--no more, no less.

'Nay, verily--'tis just my luck, one draught an' I be under the table, leaving the other men bolt upright till they've swallowed full three bottles apiece!”

Debora dropped her face in her hands and rocked a little back an'

forth. ”'Tis worse than I thought!” she cried, looking up drawn and white. ”Oh! I have a fear that 'tis worse--far, far worse. I have little doubt half his money comes from play an' betting, ay! an' at stakes on the bear-baiting, an'--an'--anything else o' wickedness there be left in London--while we at home have thought 'twas earned honestly.” As she spoke a heavy rapping sounded down the hall, loud, uneven, yet prolonged.

Mistress Blossom went to answer it quickly, and Debora followed, her limbs trembling and all strength seeming to slip away from her.

Lifting the latch the woman flung the outer door open and Darby Thornbury lurched in, falling clumsily against his sister, who straightened her slight figure and hardly wavered with the shock, for her strength had come swiftly back with the sight of him.

The man who lay in the hall in such a miserable heap, had scarce any reminder in him of Darby Thornbury, the dainty young gallant whose laces were always the freshest, and whose ruffs and doublets never bore a mark of wear. Now his long cordovan boots were mud-stained and crumpled about the ankles. His broidered cuffs and collar were wrenched out of all shape. But worse and far more terrible was his face, for its beauty was gone as though a blight had pa.s.sed across it.

He was flushed a purplish red, and his eyes were bloodshot, while above one was a bruised swelling that fairly closed the lid. He tried to get on his feet, and in a manner succeeded.

”By St. George, Deb!” he exclaimed in wrath, ”I swear thou 'r a fine sister to take f' outing. I was a double-dyed fool e'er to bring thee t' London. Why couldn't y' wait f' fellow? When I go f' y'--y' not there.”

Then he smiled in maudlin fas.h.i.+on and altered his tone. ”Egad! I'm proud o' thee, Deb, thou art a very beauty. All the bloods i' town ar'

mad to meet thee--th' give me no peace.”

”Oh! Mistress Blossom,” cried Debora, clasping her hands, ”can we not take him above stairs and so to bed? Dear, dear Mistress Blossom, silence him, I pray thee, or my heart will break.”

”Be thee quiet, Master Darby, lad,” said the woman, persuasively.

”Wait, then, an' talk no more. I'll fetch Blossom; he'll fix thee into proper shape, I warrant. 'Tis more thy misfortune than thy fault.

Yes, yes, I know thou be sore upset--but why did'st not steer clear o'

temptation?”

”Temp-ation, Odso! 'tis a marvellous good word,” put in Thornbury.

”Any man'd walk a chalk--line--if he could steer clear o' temptation.”

So, in a state of verbose contrition, was he borne away to his chamber by the sympathetic Blossom, who had a fellow-feeling for the lad that made him wondrous kind.

CHAPTER V

V

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