They sat down by the hall-fire, where Marjory had spread a frugal
repast. It passed in silence, for Sir Vincent fell to thinking deeply,
and Deborah did not eat or speak at all. After supper, she lighted her
father's pipe, then sat down at his feet and laid her fair head on his
knees. The fire-blaze flickered over the wide lofty hall; the stag's
antlers, the rusty armour, it shone whimsically on all; but Sir Vincent
and his fair daughter and the old shaggy deerhound basked in warmth and
steady light.
'Dost think Beatrix Blancheflower very pretty, father?'
'Well, yes; but not so pretty as thou.'
'Other folk think not so. She has blue eyes and golden hair. She is not
shy nor awkward. She is older by two years than I. O yes, she has the
power of always speaking what it pleases her to say; a rare art. But
for me, father, my words ever belie my heart; and for what I say one
minute, I would fain pluck out my tongue the next.'
'Silly little wench! I have not noticed it in thee. Thou art thy mother
all over, Deb.'
'Oh, I am glad! But not so good as she?'
'Well, no. Yet thy mother was not over-fond of prayer, Deb, till she
began to ail. She was a madcap, she was a madcap I tell thee, like thou
art; and too fond of me, Deb, to care much for her soul. But at the
last God came between us two. Ah me!' Tears dimmed those bold stern
eyes, or the look akin to tears.
Deborah said no more. Soon she went up to her little room, slowly, and
with dragging steps. 'What has paled my Rose of Enderby?' were words
that had been uttered by her father; and they haunted her. She looked
in her glass. True, she was pale, but great fires burned in her eyes.
What was this mighty sorrow, that weighed like a mountain on the gay
careless heart? The girl was afraid. She liked it not. She shrank and
trembled like a child, and lay down on her bed in a little coiled
heap, and moaned in helpless agony. It was like a young wild deer; and
behold, in its swift flight of joy, an arrow quivered in the bounding
heart, and it fell stricken, and writhed, and raised its innocent
pleading eyes, as if asking what was that grievous pain that drew the
life-blood from its heart! Thus through the long, long night Deborah
Fleming lay and moaned. She did not pray, she did not weep; but in the
morning she was the true Deborah Fleming again; at least the world
never knew her aught else; for in one long night Deb tired of sorrow,
and her poor little soul longed for sunshine and joy again, and sought
them wildly.