PART II.

CHAPTER THE SECOND.

The next day came the lads Kingston and Charlie Fleming. Kingston was still 'reading,' and sowing his wild oats broadcast and winning honours, all in one. Charlie just started on his career, Sir Vincent best knew how.

It happened that King Fleming found his cousin Deborah alone; she was reading in her own room, where he sought her. She turned on him with a sudden rush of colour and defiant eyes: 'You are not invited here!'

Kingston approached as if he trod on eggs, cap in hand. 'Nay, sweet lady, yet I venture. Deb, you blush! You are reading evil; or is it o' love? O love, love, thou pleasure pain and torment! That same little unruly god with his bow and arrows, hath "shot and hit me sore!"' He sat down opposite Deborah, and gazed at her in his quaint droll way, that had in it a touch of pathos too.

Deborah's lips curled: 'I understand you not.'

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.'

Sir Vincent laughed. 'Time will change that tune, sweet Deb.'

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.

CHAPTER THE THIRD.

'And father,' said Deborah, 'I would like May Warriston to come here and stay with me for a bit; for when you are long away, I am apt to grow lonesome, and Mistress Dinnage cannot always be here.'

'Have May then. You have only to express a wish, sweet Deb, and it is granted. If we had food to feed the guests, heaven knows you might fill the house!'

So May came. They had not met since they were children, and now they are sixteen. A gay greeting passed between them, which was witnessed by Mistress Dinnage, whose heart ached sorely. May Warriston was small and fair; she blushed with every emotion; she idolised and admired Deborah with all her soul; while Deborah loved and petted May for her sweetness and fragile grace. The Warristons and Flemings had always been staunch friends and allies; a Fleming and a Warriston had fought, brothers-in-arms, in the Crusades, and lay beneath their long-drawn effigies side by side.

May was charmed with Enderby; its grandeur, its gloom, its decay, impressed her romantic imagination, and excited her greatly. The funereal shadow of the oaks, the picturesque girl who stood at the gates beneath them, the great stone archway with its carved armorial bearings, the strange gaunt woman who met her at the door, the hall with its quaint stained windows, and the tall pillars ranged across, and the beautiful Deborah Fleming who rushed through the hall to meet her.

After they had dined together, they went all over the house, and explored the damp mouldering passages where the rats fled before them, and the great untenanted chambers; and studied the ancient tapestry with much laughter, and climbed up with a lantern to the garret. Then the girls scrambled out on to the roof, and ran about round the stone coping, the favourite haunt of Deborah and Charlie, and looked over the far-spreading woods, the shining waters, and the flat but fair and emerald land. Then mists and darkness descended over all. And then came a bright and firelit tea in Deborah's pretty room, with the curtained alcove shutting out the bed—and then a long talk over the fire.

'Yes, King Fleming has done for himself,' said May, resting her chin within her pretty hand, as she leaned upon the arm of the lounging-chair. 'I thought not that he would be caught so easily. Did you?'

'I thought not about it at all. Or if I did—well, I thought it might be Mistress Blancheflower. You have seen them often together, May?—does she love him truly?'

'Not what I call truly, faith; but then Beatrix has a cold nature at the best of times.'

'How did she win him then, who has such fire?'

'Well, it is coldness that charms these fiery natures, Deb. Why, she treated him half with disdain; anon she would steal a glance, as Beatrix can, as if to lure him on; and when he wooed her, she frowned and was cold again. Take my word on't, Mistress Blancheflower is an arch-coquette. It matters not who it be. Why, she will play her airs on old Dandy Drummond!' And May burst into laughter, in which Deborah joined.

'Oh, I cannot do such things,' said Deborah, grave again, and sighing. 'Yet, 'tis no fault of mine. Were father rich, I would go to France, and get French polish and a maid to dress my hair. Money gets all things, May; and the accessories of money give confidence and power. Were I rich, I would outshine Mistress Blancheflower!'

'You!' cried May. 'Dost not know the moon even under a vapour outshines the stars? Dost know thy beauty, Deb?'

'Why, no. Sweet May, tell me! Am I beautiful? Father and Marjory tell me so; but they are blind, perchance.'

'Why, yes,' said May, laughing, 'you are; yet I like not to tell you so, for fear it should make you vain. You are beautiful as times go. Would that I were half as fair!'

How the maiden blushed. Her heart beat fast at May's simple praise, for Deborah had never believed herself to be beautiful before.

'O say not so, sweet May,' she answered; 'I would fain have your blue eyes and waxen skin and fairy-like figure. Father admires you greatly. Charlie, you have not seen. He is a man now, eighteen, and entered at Granta University.'

'Is he like you? Is he handsome, Deb?'

'Some folks say he is. My heart says there is no one like my bonnie Charlie! Yet he is somewhat of a bear. In Charlie, May, you must look for no courtly cavalier.'

'I like them not!' quoth May; 'of courtly phrases I am sick. But what like is he, this brother o' thine? Describe him.'

'Well, he is giant-tall—almost as tall as King, and may be taller.'

'I love tall men!'

'He cares not for his clothes, and dresses very rough; he has bonnie big eyes, dark and full of fire, that seem to scan you through; a brown face, a noble shapely head, and teeth as white as ivory. This be Master Fleming.'

'I like your portrait. But of Kingston I am afraid; his tongue is sharp as whip-cord. He is no great friend of yours, Deb, your cousin King?'

'And no great foe,' said Deborah, supremely careless. 'Nay—"blood is thicker than water;" I like him well enow; I have nought to say against King.'

Thus they talked, and much about tall men and short, dark men and fair—a deal of nonsense, as girls did then as now.

The next day there was a hunt, and great baying of hounds about Enderby. May would have Deborah go, and bring Kingston and Charlie home. So Lady Deb rode away, with old Jordan Dinnage behind her; and much ado had Jordan on such days to keep Deborah in sight, for hearing the horn and the hounds, she would grow wild, having come of a hard-riding race.

'Bless thee!' muttered Jordan Dinnage, 'thou wilt lead me a-moon-lightin' to-day. I see it in thee, lass! An' if thou doesn't break Bayard's knees or thine own neck, one day, my name's not Jordan Dinnage.—There they be! Hoicks, hoicks! Lady Deb! Gone away!!' And behold the old bailiff (muttering gloomily a moment ago, between twinges of rheumatic pain) would give the view-hollo with a voice like a clarion. But Deborah Fleming was already off like a whirlwind, with a cry of joy, her hair flying. And she led Jordan a dance that day....

'You must come home, Charlie,' said Deborah. She looked happier than any queen. The brush was swinging at her saddle, and Bayard and his little mistress appeared fresh and spirited as the dawn. All the huntsmen gathered about, and stared at Deborah, for the dawning beauty of Mistress Fleming began to be noised abroad, and the young lads from far and near would come to see the 'Rose of Enderby.' 'Who is she?' was whispered round. 'Why, Sir Vincent Fleming's daughter. They call her the Rose of Enderby.' The best of it was, Deborah was unconscious of it all. The spirit of the hunt was in her; her large gray eyes were luminous with light and life, her hair was afloat in amber clouds. She cared not even for Kingston, in moments such as those.

'You must come,' she urged pleadingly. 'It is early yet, and Marjory has a hunter's dinner ready—a banquet. And besides—I have a fair lady to greet ye, Charlie.'

'Then good-bye!' Charlie turned back his horse. 'Nay, Deb. Who is it? I want no "fair ladies."—But come away from these gaping loons,' he added, his boyish heart swelling with a sullen pride at the attention his sister was exciting; and they rode away together.

'It is May Warriston. Such a little angel! Quite harmless and full of fun, as much fun as Mistress Dinnage.' And then Deborah blushed, and gave a slight imperial bow, for Kingston, splendidly mounted, was now at her other side.

He bowed, with some mock-pleading in his eyes. 'What is this, fair cousin—May Warriston? Nay, Charlie, boy, I must go and see sweet May; she has always a sweet word for me, and sometimes something sweeter and kinder far!' And Kingston, glancing upbraidingly at Deborah's averted face, saw that it was crimsoned with haughty shame, at which sight he was somewhat confused.

'Well, come,' said Charlie, 'and make short work of it, for I am gated at seven; thanks be to old Shand.' So they rode fast home to Enderby; Jordan groaning behind, now that the hunt was over.

Mistress Dinnage stood gravely in the lodge door in the twilight; Kingston smiled and kissed his hand; Charlie Fleming looked not up at all. May Warriston ran out with smiles and blushes, which were not lost on Kingston, who greeted her even tenderly; but May glanced up at the tall dark lad on the bay horse, and felt her foolish little heart flutter, because he bowed without a smile? or because his dark eyes scanned her through? And Deborah looked pleased, seeing May's emotion, and the girls ran gaily in together. Deborah's 'banquet' was spread in the great hall, and great noise and mirth there was over it.

CHAPTER THE FOURTH.

The day came but too soon for May to quit Enderby; the grandmother with whom she lived was ailing, and sent for her. But somehow May could not go that day, and must wait one day more; her trunks were packed, an old and trusty maid had arrived for her; but little May was sick at heart at the thought of leaving Enderby.

Was it love? Maidens did love early and long in those days; love was then a deep abiding passion, not a graceful sentiment to change with every change of raiment. At all events May loved Deborah, and clung to her.

They had been alone all that last long day, though Deborah had run many times to the door. On one of these runs she encountered Mistress Dinnage. 'What art seekin' so anxiously?' asked the latter curtly, even fiercely.

'I will not answer you, Margaret,' said Deborah with calm dignity; 'for the last five weeks you have spoken to me thus, and avoided me in every way. I have not deserved this of thee. A friend has ne'er proved a friend who cannot speak out what rankles in the heart.'

'Speak out!' exclaimed Mistress Dinnage. 'She—she—has all your heart! While I—a poor man's daughter, you care for no more. What matters it, Mistress Deborah! It must be so. Mistress Warriston is a lady, like to you, an' worthy o' you; while I, poor, unscholarly'—— And Mistress Dinnage, her pride forgotten, burst into a very passion of sobs. Then the anger and scorn that had flashed from Deborah's eyes at her friend's accusation vanished in a moment at sight of her tears—'Mistress Dinnage!' whom Deborah had never known to shed a tear since their childhood.

'Nay,' cried Deborah, with her hands on the quivering shoulders; 'you know this is not so. You know that neither rank nor wealth nor great lady-friends will ever step between us. Must I tell thee, silly Mistress Dinnage, that thou art dearer to my heart than any woman in the world? If you will not believe it, if you cannot see it, go your ways. I am proud as well as you. And if so paltry a matter as difference of station can ever separate, in thought or word or deed, two great good friends, then thou'rt not worthy of me, Mistress, or I of thee!' With that, they fell into each other's arms, and each wept a little, and then laughed. Then Deborah returned to May, not seeing Charlie, for whom she had been vainly watching. Charlie might surely have come to do her guest that honour, believing as he did that she was going away that day. But the youth came not.

On the next day, Charlie rode over alone to see to some of his business concerns, and by mere chance Deborah espied him going to the stables. She rushed forth: 'Charlie, May is going away in ten minutes' time; and I have been looking for you so to come and say good-bye. Come in with me, dear boy.'

Charles Fleming stamped his foot and frowned darkly. 'Why, I thought the girl had left you yesterday! Fool that I am to be caught. Deb, you know how I hate maidens, fine ladies. Why can't you let me be?'

'Because Charlie, May has sighed to say you one good-bye. Your roughness wins her heart; and you have been very kind, and seemed so fond of May.'

'Finely you read me!' muttered Charlie; but he followed Deborah into the house, to speed the parting guest. May was standing by the hall window in her soft furs, and her small face was very sad and pale and pleading; there were even tears in her eyes, which she tried in vain to keep back.

'Good-bye, Mistress Warriston,' said Charlie, looking down with his dark eyes, and then away, because of her tears. 'You must come back soon, for Deb loves to have you here;' and he gave a grasp of his hard brown hand.

'I will come; oh, I will gladly come!' faltered May, and then ran to Deborah, and hid her face on her breast. The carriage-wheels were heard; May was half borne out by Deborah, and Charlie stalked behind, looking gloomy, because he knew not how to look. May Warriston gazed from the carriage-window, and through a maze of tears saw the brother and sister standing under the porch, Deborah kissing her two hands vehemently. Pain was uppermost in that farewell of Enderby; the little orphan May lay back on the cushions, and sobbed as if her heart would break.