A year or two have passed and there was joy in the bells of Enderby,
and joy in the sun and flowers. Winter and summer, storm and sun,
how sweetly the days fled by--the wild sweet days of childhood. The
streams; the dark green woods; the blue and cloud-swept skies; the
clear lagoons; the carol of birds in the gay early morning, from wood
and field and holt; the father's call beneath the window, and then the
long, long sun-bright day; the games; the 'make-believes;' tracking the
wild Indians in the forest, hunting the chamois on the mountains--happy
days, these!
Time passed on; Charlie was alternately sent to a public school and to
a private tutor; he was expelled from the former, and ran away from
the latter. The tender, but proud and stubborn heart was never reached;
so the dogged will and headstrong passions remained uncurbed and
uncontrolled, and Charlie Fleming too surely went from bad to worse.
Three distracted governesses in succession gave up Lady Deb; their
reigns were short and eventful.
Upon a certain day stood Deborah Fleming, watching for Charlie's
coming. For a week past Charlie had daily ridden over to the
neighbouring university town to 'read' with his cousin Kingston
Fleming, who had just entered there, and being somewhat of the same
stamp as himself, imagine how much 'reading' was accomplished! The
lads came and went at all hours; sometimes at Enderby, sometimes away.
To-day they were late. Deborah was weary. She wandered into the garden,
between the high sunny walls, and threw herself on the warm grass
amongst the daisies; she plucked a daisy idly, and grew intent over
it, filliping away the leaves: 'He loves me, he loves not me!' and so
forth. While thus musing, a tall fair youth, with a face browned by sun
and wind, stole behind her, his whole countenance brimming over with
merriment. Deborah instinctively turned her head. All her heart's blood
rushed over her face, and her gray eyes flamed and dilated like a stag
at bay; for one moment she glared at the youth, and then, before he
could speak, was up and away. A peal of laughter followed her as she
fled.
'Hi! what's the matter, King?' cried Charlie Fleming, swaggering up in
his riding-gear. 'What is the cause of this immoderate laughter? Deb
has flamed by me like a whirlwind; I tried to catch her.'
Still, for some moments, Kingston Fleming shouted with uncontrollable
mirth, rolling on the grass. When he could speak, he said: 'You will
never guess, Charlie! Yet it is a shame to tell you. And yet it is too
rare a joke to keep! _Little Deb hath got a lover!_' And with that,
Kingston went off again.
'I came up unawares,' said he, 'an' my Lady Deb sat on the grass. "He
loves me, he loves not me!" she said; not like Deb proud and haughty,
but quite tender and subdued over it. She turned and saw me. Egad! how
she blushed, and what a glare! Poor little Deb, she was distraught for
shame and anger. I was a brute to laugh!'
'I will roast her,' said Charlie. 'Deb a _lover_? Ha, ha, ha!'
'No; you shall not speak of it,' said Kingston, laying a heavy hand on
Charlie's shoulder. 'On peril of your life, you shall not.'
Charlie laughed. 'Under that threat I must succumb. Perchance Deb has a
sneaking liking for you, old King!'
'For _me_?' And Kingston had a fresh fit of laughter. 'Nay; Deb hates
me like poison, and I think her the maddest little fury that ever
stepped. Deb and I shall ne'er run together.'
But as for the maiden, she fled to her room like a little tempest, and
lay along the floor half dead for shame. She could scarcely think,
for when she thought, the blood rushed in eddying torrents to her
head, and made her mad for anger and for shame; for more than aught on
earth, was Deb shy of the dawn of love and Kingston's raillery. All day
she kept her room. She watched from behind the curtains Kingston and
Charlie ride away; she had not kissed Charlie that day or spoken to
him; she heard him call out 'Good-bye, Deb.' Then he would not return
that night. O Charlie, Charlie! And then she peered out, and heard
Kingston's laugh, and saw his fair hair blown by the wind. The girl
leaned out and watched them through the gateway. 'I love him,' she said
to herself with mingled fire and softness; 'I love Kingston. But he
will love _me_ never--never!'
Kingston laughed no more about Deborah's daisy: he was generous. The
next day he was teasing, laughing, tormenting about a hundred things;
and the child Deborah was chaffering and defying him in the wildest
animal spirits. Dame Marjory shook her head; there was such a flying,
scurrying, shouting, and such peals of laughter, not only from those
three, but from the usually demure Mistress Dinnage who joined them,
that the Dame could make nothing of them; they got worse and worse.
Kingston Fleming was a wild youth, not one indeed calculated to steady
his kinsman Charlie. Yet Kingston had good, and even noble impulses
in those days: he was ambitious too; and at odd hours and by fits and
starts, he worked hard, with the idea of fulfilling those ambitious
dreams. But Charlie never worked at all; _his_ dreams, if he had any,
were not known. Himself caring little for any man, who cared for
Charlie? Why, all who knew him loved him; they could scarce tell why.
Old Jordan Dinnage, who had given him many a rough hiding, idolised
the boy; young Margaret Dinnage, who had received many a rough word
from him--well, young 'Mistress Dinnage' did deign to open the gates to
Charlie Fleming's horse, though she would do so with a toss of her head
and an assumed air of disdain. The maiden resented even then, though
still a child in years, the full-blown compliments of the lad Kingston;
but would redden, and her dark eyes would glow, when the boys passed
by, if she only met the swift, shamed, furtive glance from two full
red-brown eyes--the eyes of Charles Fleming.
* * * * *
On sunny mornings, when the lads rode unexpectedly into the courtyard
of Enderby, there would be a whir-r-r-r of pigeons, lighting on the
gabled roof; a blaze of sunshine on the great wych-elms; a murmur of
bees; a smell of fruit and flowers; white-haired Sir Vincent standing
in a stable-door; over the garden wall, Deborah and Margaret flying
along the garden walk with arms linked in the 'maddest merriest dance,'
set to the music of boisterous laughter. Those were happy days.