Part 10 (1/2)

None knew me. All thought 'twas thee, Darby. See, see! when I was fair encased in that Kendal green suit o' thine, why even Dad could not have told 'twas not thy very self! We must be strangely alike o' face, dear heart--though mayhap our souls be different.”

”Nay!” he exclaimed, ”'tis past belief that thou should'st take my part! My brain whirls to think on't. I saw thee yesternight--the day before--this noon-day--an' thou wert as unruffled as a fresh-blown rose. Naught was wrong with thy colour, and neither by word or sign did'st give me an inkling of such mad doings! 'Gad!--if 'tis true it goes far to prove that a woman can seem most simple when she is most subtle. An' yet--though I like it not, Deb--I know not what to say to thee. 'Twas a venturous, mettlesome thing to do--an' worse--'twas vastly risky. We be not so alike--I cannot see it.”

”Nor I, _always_,” she said, with a shrug, ”but others do. Have no fear of discovery, one only knows beside Dame Blossom, and they will keep faith. Neither fear for thy reputation. The people gave me much applause, though I played not for that.”

Darby threw himself into a chair and dropped his face in his hands.

”Who is't that knows?” he asked, half-roughly, after a pause. ”Who is't, Deb?”

”He who played Romeo,” she said, in low tone.

”Sherwood?” exclaimed Darby. ”Don Sherwood! I might have guessed.”

”Ay!” replied the girl. ”He only, I have reason to believe.” A silence fell between them, while the young fellow restlessly crossed to the window again. Debora went to him and laid her hand upon his shoulder, as was her way.

”Thou wilt not go thy own road again, Darby?” she said, coaxingly.

”Perchance 'tis hard to live straightly here in London--still promise me thou wilt not let the ways o' the city warp thy true heart. See, then, what I did was done for thee; mayhap 'twas wrong--thou know'st 'twas fearsome, an' can ne'er be done again.”

”'Twill not be needed again, Deb,” he answered, and his voice trembled.

”Nay, I will go no more my own way, but thy way, and Dad's. Dost believe me?”

”Ay!” she said, smiling, though her lashes were wet, ”Dad's way, for 'tis a good way, a far better one than any thy wilful, wayward little sister could show thee.”

Out of doors the velvety darkness deepened. Somewhere, up above, a night-hawk called now and again its harsh, yet plaintive, note. A light wind, bearing the smell of coming rain and fresh breaking earth, blew in, spring-like and sweet, yet sharp.

Presently Debora spoke, half hesitatingly.

”I would thou wert minded to tell me somewhat,” she started, ”somewhat o' Sherwood, the player. Hath he--hath he the good opinion o' Master Will Shakespeare--now?”

”In truth, yes,” returned the actor. ”And of the whole profession. It seems,” smiling a little, ”it seems thou dost take Master Shakespeare's word o' a man as final. He stand'th in thy good graces or fall'th out o' them by that, eh!”

”Well, peradventure, 'tis so,” she admitted, pursing up her lips. ”But Master Don Sherwood--tell me----”

”Oh! as for him,” broke in Darby, welcoming any subject that turned thought from himself, ”he is a rare good fellow, is Sherwood, though that be not his real name, sweet. 'Tis not often a man makes change of his name on the handbills, but 'tis done now and again.”

”It doth seem an over-strange fas.h.i.+on,” said Debora, ”an' one that must surely have a reason back o' it. What, then, is Master Sherwood called when he be rightly named?”

”Now let me think,” returned Darby, frowning, ”the sound of it hath slipped me. Nay, I have it--Don--Don, ah! Dorien North. There 'tis, and the fore part is the same as the little lad's at home, an uncommon t.i.tle, yet smooth to the tongue. Don Sherwood is probably one Dorien Sherwood North, an' that too sounds well. He hath a rare voice. It play'th upon a man strangely, and there be tones in it that bring tears when one would not have them. Thou should'st hear him sing Ben Jonson's song! 'Rare Ben Jonson,' as some fellow hath written him below a verse o' his, carved over the blackwood mantel at the Devil's tavern. Thou should'st hear Sherwood sing, 'Drink to me only with thine eyes.' I' faith! he carries one's soul away! Ah! Deb,” he ended, ”I am having a struggle to keep my mind free from that escapade o' thine. Jove! an' I thought any other recognised thee!”

”None other did, I'll gainsay,” Debora answered, in a strangely quiet way; ”an' he only because he found me that day i' the Royal Box--so long ago. What was't thou did'st call him, Darby? Don Sherwood? Nay, Dorien North. Dorien North!”

Her hand, which had been holding Darby's sleeve, slipped away from it, and with a little cry she fell against the window ledge and so to the floor.

Darby hardly realised for a moment that she had fainted. When she did not move he stooped and lifted her quickly, his heart beating fast with fear.

”Why, Deb!” he cried. ”What is't? Heaven's mercy! She hath swooned.

Nay, then, not quite; there, then, open thine eyes again. Thou hast been forewearied, an' with reason. Art thyself now?” as his sister looked up and strove to rise.

”Whatever came over thee, sweet? Try not to walk. I will lift thee to the bed an' call Dame Blossom. Marry! what queer things women be.”

”Ay! truly,” she answered, faintly, steadying herself against him.

”Ay! vastly queer. Nay, I will not go to the bed, but will sit in your chair.”