Kingston shook his head in some ironical mockery. 'Nay, sweet Deb, that
thou dost not, for never was a tougher heart than thine! _Thou_, wilt
never love, Deb; never feel thy heart pitapat, and thy cheek flame, for
any mortal man; yet thou hast great promise of beauty and grace; thou
wilt doubtless make a great match--all the women o' the Flemings do;
an' if thou dost, I shall be proud o' thee.'
'I do not ask your applause,' retorted Deborah, with sudden fire and
disdain. 'But I will not argue with you,' she added, with disdain
alone. 'You have a weak head now, except for Greek and Latin. Just like
a lad, your head runs ever upon marriage, and your tongue can prate o'
nothing else.'
Kingston raised his eyebrows as a shade of colour crossed his brow.
'Just like a lad? Ay, and in _nature_, just like a lass also. But
Mistress Fleming must not be judged by nature's law; _her_ soul soars
above all sublunary matters. What dost _thou_ dream of, Deborah? Come!
Hast not _one_ idle dream, _one_ erring thought, one tender folly to
confess? The daisy!--the daisy, Deb--two years ago!'
Deborah sprang defiantly to her feet, her eyes like two orbs of fire.
'Master Fleming,' she said, 'either you or I must quit this room!
Kingston, I bear from you taunts and insults, but I will bear no more.
Under cover o' this, you _hate_ me!--and I hate you!' And with that she
was gone.
Kingston sat on his stool and stared before him: his odd brown
face--a face beautiful with the changeful lights of feeling and
intellect--assumed a hundred rapid expressions of wonder, regret, pity,
remorse, and amaze. His beautiful child-cousin was 'one too much for
him.' He never could comprehend her. He did not even admire her tanned
dishevelled beauty, and he certainly did not love her; but he stayed
himself to pity her, thinking that with such ungovernable passions she
must go mad at last. With that, his boyish face grew sad, and he looked
very forlorn, sitting in Deborah's sanctum with his lank yellow hair
straying across his brow. As for Deborah, after a storm of tears hidden
in the pantry, she dried her eyes on her apron like a poor passionate
child, and went to seek Charlie, with no malice in her heart--only
shame. Charlie was cleaning his gun in the saddle-room, watched at
a respectful distance by Mistress Dinnage, who was squatting on the
ground and looking low in spirits. Charlie was too busy to glance at
Deb's tear-stained face, and Deborah knew him too well to kiss him
when he was either intent on business or in sight of a girl. It was
happiness enough to Deborah, after a careless word between them, to
stand near him, to see the great strong boyish frame, at present even
in its strength so loosely knit and jointed, and the brown bony hands,
the dear familiar face, the unkempt locks, the wild sombre eyes, that
so strangely courted and yet repelled affection.
'Art going back to-night?' ventured Deborah at length, timidly for her.
'Ay, bad luck to it. I hunt to-morrow.'
'Ah, then you will need Bayard, and father has him.'
'King will mount me.'
'Then if father _does_ return, I will ride Bayard.'
'I can't squire girls. You must ride with King.'
'I will not.'
'Then I will not have you scampering alone.'
'I will ride with Jordan Dinnage. But you know, Charlie, I can keep up
with the best.'
'You can; I'll do you that justice.'
'I don't like to lose you, old Charlie; we miss you sore. I fear, dear
love, you are hard put to it for money. Are they _all_ better off than
you?'
'Oh, I know not and care not. I am well enough.'
Deborah sighed deeply: 'Not well enough for _thee_. But as yet, father
is hard pressed; it has been a bad time for the coaching, and father is
well-nigh sick of it. If he gets luck he will give up for a spell, and
perchance take to it again.'
'What _luck_ would you have for him, then?'
'Ah, I know not.'
Charlie smiled somewhat grimly over his gun, but said nothing. Soon
Deborah went over to Mistress Dinnage, where she sat glowering with
her dark curly head crowned on one side by coquettish scarlet ribbons.
They presented a curious contrast, the bailiff's daughter and the
baronet's daughter--one sitting with her hands clasped round her knee,
in attire bright and gay, gazing up with a frown beneath her jaunty
curls, her dark eyes lowering, and her little red-heeled shoe tapping
on the ground; the other pale, subdued, and wistful, her long lorn hair
falling about her unheeded and unribboned, and her dress dull in colour
and in texture coarse, standing before her gaily attired inferior.
As Mistress Dinnage gazed, her manner changed; irritability gave way
before Deborah's plaintive eyes.
'You have been crying,' said Mistress Dinnage, in her marvellously
brusque independent way.
'You know nought about it.'
'Ay, don't tell me! You have a heartache. I know when you are
sorrowing, Lady Deb, an' when you are full of joy. Once, you never knew
what sorrow was. Has _he_ been worrying thee?' she asked, with a nod of
the head towards Charlie.
'He? No! "The heart knoweth its own bitterness." You will do well not
to question me, Meg. Come and play.'
* * * * *
That same evening, Sir Vincent Fleming came home late under cover of
the darkness, as he always did, and on a swift horse. Deborah flew to
meet him; he took her in his arms and kissed her. 'Good-even, Deb.
Sweet Deb, has Enderby had visitors?' he whispered.
'Ay, father, the usual ones, whom it is sweet to blind for thy sake,
for I had rare promises for Finton. And indeed you tell me, father,
that brighter days are in store?'
'Ay, ay, lass; I have found a friend in need.'
'A _friend_, father?' They were walking through the great hall
together, and Deborah hung upon her father's arm and raised her
beautiful eyes to his. His own eyes sank. 'Not one o' those false,
false friends,' she continued, 'who have oftentimes proved your
strongest foes?'
'Nay; sweet Deb. But do not question me further;' and he turned his
head restlessly away. 'This is indeed a friend to me and mine.--Deb,'
he said, with a sudden bright altered change of tone, 'I have news for
thee.'
'What news?' asked Deborah, with eager curiosity.
'Ah, then, you have not heard? Have the lads been here to-day?'
'Yes, father.'
'Well, if they have not told you, you may guess.'
'I cannot, I cannot! Nay, sweet father, news are scarce at Enderby;
tell me quickly what has happed.'
Sir Vincent laughed. 'Little daughter of Eve, it relates to your cousin
Kingston!'
'What is it, father?' Somehow the music had died out of Deborah
Fleming's voice and the ripple from her lips.
'King is betrothed to Mistress Beatrix Blancheflower, the old baron's
daughter;' and Sir Vincent laughed heartily, with his head in the air.
'Is it so, father? Well--she is rich and she is pretty. Oh, she is
pretty, father!'
'Ay. But the boy is but twenty, and such a rattle-pate. Well, it
will pay his debts and be a rise for the family. See that thou dost
likewise, Deb,' said Sir Vincent, with playful tenderness.
As they walked, Deborah laid her head on her father's arm, which she
was clasping. 'Time enough for that, father. Dost want to be rid o'
me?'
He looked down and smiled; the smile softened the rugged countenance
wonderfully. 'Ay, I want to be rid o' thee do I not, my Rose of
Enderby? _Thou_ art not my right hand?'
'Then let me be thy left. Nay; I will never leave thee, father. I like
not marriage and sweet-hearting. Let Charlie wed; _I_ will love but
_thee_.'