IN THREE PARTS.—PART II.

CHAPTER THE NINTH.

The morning after Kingston's arrival and after their early breakfast, Deborah followed her father into his 'den;' he was already equipped for riding, and was drawing on his gloves.

'Late hours suit thee not, Deb; thou'rt looking pale, my Rose.'

'I am well enow. But father, I don't want you to take yourself away to-day; it seems unmannerly to Kingston. He will not care for my dull company alone. Do stay, my father!' She put her arms round his neck.

'Why, this is a new request! Thou'rt safe from all lovers while King is with thee. Pshaw! little one, I must go; I have pressing business. King will be proud to bear thee company. He raves about thee. Take him to the vicarage, or to ride.'

'No. Stay, father.'

'Sweet heart, I cannot. Ye look scared. I will send King away, and have Mistress Dinnage sent to ye. Ye're not well.'

'Indeed I am. Well, go, father; I will ask ye no more. Nay; I am all right; but it grieved me for Kingston.'

Sir Vincent laughed. 'Grieve not for him.'

And so Deborah and Kingston Fleming found themselves alone, for Mistress Dinnage, though urgently pressed by Deborah, was too proud to bear them company.

Deborah put a brave careless face on the matter. 'What will ye do, King?' she asked. 'I am going out for flowers. It is too hot to ride till evening. Will ye go your ways till dinner, or will ye be a carpet-knight, or what?' Truly, there was as much repulsion as invitation in Deborah's question, as she stood looking up, with her hat tied down and her basket on her arm; and though at that moment there was no vestige of coquetry in her manner, that upturned face could not look but lovely.

Kingston, half smiling, half mortified, answered: 'Well, I thought o' no other plan but to bide with you, Deb; but if ye are anxious to be rid o' me, I am off.'

'Nay!' Deborah laid her hand upon his arm, all penitent. 'Come with me. I will not deign to answer your insinuation. I will shew ye all the old haunts; the green paths where we played and romped, King, in the good old days.'

'Ye speak like a grandmother,' said Kingston, as they went down the long gallery together. 'The good old days! And what are these? You are a child as yet. I truly have cares and troubles.'

'You have not!' Deborah gazed up at him with her clear eyes, reproachful, yet laughing. 'Everything comes to your hand,' said she: 'work, travel, honours, a ladye-love. Ye have all that life can offer, and yet are not content.'

'Content? No; I am not.' Kingston stopped, and gazed at the 'Mistress Mary Flemyng' whose picture hung above them. 'Here is our ancestress, Deb, the "beautiful Mary Flemyng." She resembles you. The same eyes, the same trick o' the eyelids, the same mocking, witching smile. Here she is, but seventeen, unwed still, but her fate is hanging over her. At eighteen, she was married to an old rich rake. She went mad in time, and they tell us, "died young;" the best thing she could do. Why, she had better have kept her name of Fleming, for she had a sad life of it. But she had a soft, tame, yielding nature; there was excuse for her. The Fleming fortunes too were at a perilous low ebb; and it is needful ever and anon to sacrifice a bud off the parent stem to mend the fortunes of the house. That was arranged. What is the worth of beauty but to win gold? Thy beauty, poor Mary Fleming, won a fortune; thy sweetness and worth were sold to the highest bidder! It was for thy kindred's sake. Truly, it was a noble act!'

'Who told you this?' asked Deborah, gazing gravely up at her beautiful ancestress with a heightened colour and intense interest. 'I never heard the tale. O yes; surely I heard it long long ago, and thought it was a wicked act of hers. For had she not another lover—one that she really loved, young and noble?'

Kingston laughed cynically. 'O yes, but poor. What was that? A victim more or less never mattered. There were a dozen went to the dogs for her. She looks like it—doesn't she? That invincible spirit of coquetry could never have been quenched: it lurks in her eyes, on her lips. She deserved her fate.'

'Kingston, you are hard and cruel. Success has not sweetened you. I respect poor Mary Fleming!'

'Because you would have done likewise?' he asked, gazing down into her eyes fiercely and sardonically.

Half angered, she turned away, yet with a smile that was full of tender trouble, tenderness sweet and strange. Kingston brooded over that smile, and liked it not. That smile would seem to shew that Deborah had a lover. Who was Deborah's favoured lover? Kingston even remembered the daisy long ago. They had not another word to say till they reached the garden. There lay the quaint flower-borders, smelling of a thousand sweets, where bees and butterflies made up the jewels, and many a darting dragon-fly. And away in the background stretched cool and deep green woods, and a green path of tender shade, where stood a rustic seat. Oh, such a seat for lovers! And the tall bright foxglove reared its dappled bells about the gloom. Kingston's dreaming eyes took all in unconsciously, while Deborah cut and piled up a blooming heap of flowers.

'Now we have done,' she said. 'I must go and arrange them. Mistress Dinnage arranges beautifully.'

'Don't go in, Deb; the sun thaws me. I am cold. Feel my hand. I thought I was to be shewn the "old haunts?"'

Deborah blushed. 'O yes,' she answered hurriedly, avoiding his eyes again. 'The flowers must die, then, King.'

'Let them! A thousand flowers have had their reign at Enderby in these two years, and millions more will bloom and die before I see Enderby again!' He spoke hurriedly, emphatically.

Deborah gazing up at him, turned pale. 'What! are you going to die, King?'

'Nay, Deb, sweet heart; I can come here no more. Ask me not why. I can tell you—nothing.'

'Oh, I like not to hear you talk like this, King. You had a bright gay spirit once. I live in an atmosphere where, it is true, all is bright and beautiful and home-like, and but too dear! Yet I feel it is volcanic land; and beneath our feet, King, I hear the thunder-mutterings; and above our heads, King, it seems to me there often rise clouds black as night; for ye know how it is with us. But to your coming I looked for comfort. In father's and Charlie's faces I often find paleness, apprehension, gloom, through all their looks of love for me; and a foreboding chills my heart. But you were never wont to be like this. Now it seems to me your looks portend just such gloom and mystery. Ye are sad; you are not yourself. What ails you? Is there no lasting sunshine in life?'

'Not in yours, Deb, unless matters take another turn with you. Things are dark with your father, my little one. He has told me much. For one thing, I thank God, Deborah, that you have refused the Lincoln bait they tempt you with. Listen to no one who may lure you to such utter ruin. I know that man now. You were better dead than Mistress Sinclair.'

'No fear of that.—But shall we indeed be ruined, Kingston?'

'Things look dark. Could ye bear to lose Enderby, Deb?'

'Lose Enderby!' Her paling lips shewed that the girl had never contemplated that. 'Nay; I know not how to bear it. Is it sure?'

'No; but I thought it best to prepare you for any emergency. Heaven grant you may have some one to take care of you in this uncertain future!'

'I have a father and brother,' exclaimed Deborah proudly.

Kingston laughed with some bitterness. 'Ay, you have.'

'Have ye aught to say against them?'

Kingston glanced with his old raillery at the flushed cheeks and flashing eyes. 'I dare not say it, if I had. Yet I wish I could get hold of that fellow Charlie; I might bring him to reason, if I could find him out.'

'He will come when he knows that you are here.'

Kingston doubted this in his own mind.

'Dear old Enderby!' muttered Kingston, as they strolled up the winding woodland path. 'With no home of my own, here I have always found one. It is our home, Deb. Can we leave it? Can we? I never thought it was so dear till now.'

Deborah did not answer. Her breast was heaving tumultuously. He saw that she was weeping silently and bitterly. She sat down on the shrubbery seat, and Kingston walked slowly on. He soon returned, guessing rightly that Mistress Fleming would be proudly herself again.

Deborah and Kingston saw not much more of each other that day till they rode together in the evening. It happened that Mistress Dinnage stood by her father's side and watched them.

'They make a pretty couple,' said old Jordan through his smoke. 'He's more her match than Master Sinclair. 'Twould be a sin and shame to give pretty Lady Deb to him. Why, Master Charlie would run him through first!'

'That he would; and so would she, father, bless ye! Ye don't yet know our Lady Deb, if you think such a thought. See him go out through this gate, father, times on time, the old sharp fox! his eyes glowering, as he could murder me. He has caught it then; and I have well-nigh laughed in his face. I hate the cunning bad old man, with his tall hectoring air. I wish Master Charlie would horsewhip him soundly.'

Old Jordan chuckled over his pipe, glorying in the spirit of Mistress Dinnage. 'Ay, ay; I wish he would, Meg. Young giant! Many's the time I've hosswhipped he. He'd laugh in my face for my pains now.'

That night the two girls were in their favourite walk, while Sir Vincent and Kingston were indoors.

'I shall owe you a grudge, Mistress Dinnage.'

'Why?'

'For leaving me all day with my cousin Kingston.'

'I would have ye be together!'

'This is not like you. Can it end but in misery? Oh, the Fates send him soon away from Enderby! Meg, he likes me well—far better than he did formerly; but oh, man-like, he would fain get the better o' my heart by fair fair words.'

'And why?' cried Mistress Dinnage impetuously. 'To hold and cherish it! What is this Mistress Blancheflower? Can she compare with thee? Would he linger here'——

'Hush, hush! He is betrothed. When he weds, thou and I will run away and hide till it is all gone by. My heart will not break, sweet; do not think it. I am too proud.'

They wrung hands; and Mistress Dinnage sped away like a deer, for King Fleming's tall figure emerged from the garden-door in the wall.

'Plotting, plotting!' he said. 'My pretty conspirators! I wish I had caught you in it. That was Mistress Dinnage. I know her pace. How is it that the pretty lassie is not wedded out o' harm's way?'

'Because Mistress Dinnage only weds for love.'

'So she lives to do mischief. O Deb! look, there was the daisy-scene! There lay you, and there stood I. Deb, I would give up all the good o' my years of toil to be a boy again!'

The blush had not faded from Deborah's face when he looked at her. 'We all feel that,' she responded. 'How you did tease me, King!'

He smiled. 'I should love to tease thee now, if I had ease of mind. Give me your hand, Deb. Now climb, and gather that rose, and give it me with a gracious grace, as I saw you give to another.'

'I never climbed, though. Will this not content you, Master Fleming?'

'Nay, the highest, the highest! the "Rose of Enderby." I was blind, I was stone-blind! I never cared for roses; the taste comes too late. A student's life kills joy, and men grow blind in burrowing in books.'

'Well, there! Can your old blind eyes see that? I will fasten it in your coat.—Nay, you shall not, Kingston Fleming!' Deborah started back, with all her fiery soul blazing in her eyes, for Kingston would fain have drawn her to him and thanked her with a kiss. She plucked the rose to atoms and scattered it in the night air. 'Some maidens might think this cousinly of you; not I. I will not abide this familiarity.'

His face looked pale and changed in the moonlight. 'Have I offended you, Deborah? Can I not even be your brother—for love of the olden time? Nay, see me! Look on me, Deb; I have need of pity. Do ye not see I am in trouble?'

All the girl's passion vanished; she drew near and laid her hands in his; she felt those strong hands trembling like leaves in the wind.

'In trouble, King?' she asked tenderly and piteously, with her sweet face upturned. 'Ye are ever hinting this; yet never win the courage to tell me where this trouble lies. Trust Deborah Fleming! She is the receiver of troubles; she is used to them. Deborah Fleming can prove a truer sister to you, perchance, than by idle words and caresses.'

But the strangely sensitive and impassioned nature of Kingston Fleming was all stirred and tempest-tossed; the gay calm summer sea was swept by a great storm-wind, which stirred the depths beneath.

'Nay, child,' he whispered, with hurried agitated breath; 'I cannot tell. Thou'dst hate me, Deb—hate me. I cannot afford to lose thy friendship even. Deb, I have few true friends. But above all, I have been mine own worst enemy! Ah Deborah, I am most miserable.' His head sank: lorn, dejected, despairing, he stood before her, the wild, high-spirited, light-hearted Kingston Fleming!

'Thou shalt not be miserable,' said Deborah, trembling herself, and her great lovely eyes brimming over with tears, while she pressed to his side, and twined her arms round one of his. 'All will be right, King. But for hating, I cannot hate thee, dear, being constant to my kinsfolk and my friends. Yet I will not press thee to confide in me. Take comfort. These be dark days for us all, King; brighter will come yet.'

'Thou'rt an angel-comforter, Deb.' Kingston had regained some calmness, and resumed his walk, holding Deb's hand upon his arm. 'But of all human infirmities, ye would hate weakness most. Isn't it so?'

'Weakness? Well, yes. I like not weak men. You are not weak, King?'

He laughed aloud and bitterly. 'Weak as water! Ah, ye will know it some day, perchance!'

'Mistress Blancheflower does not think ye weak, I'll warrant.'

He laughed again. 'Mistress Blancheflower thinks not much about it.'

('They have quarrelled,' thought Deborah, 'and this makes him so reckless and unhappy. Well-a-day! I cannot interfere.') 'So it seems to you,' she answered aloud; 'but maids can be very proud, I tell ye; but because she does not shew her thoughts, you must not love her less.'

'Ah, this is sound advice, and easy to be followed! Some maids have no thoughts at all.'

'You would never have loved such, dear King! Nay, you are hard and bitter, and that makes you unjust.'

'Have I been so? Not one word have I uttered against Mistress Blancheflower. I am fond enough of Mistress Blancheflower, Deb.'

So they said no more, and Kingston Fleming received neither rose nor kiss. He did not sleep that night, he could not, for his 'trouble.' He stepped out on the leads to smoke, and saw all Enderby lying still and peaceful in the pale glory of the moon. He stood thinking, thinking. There is her lighted window in the turret. His whole soul ached and yearned. Why, O unhappy Kingston? He said not to his soul then: 'Deb, thou'rt too mad for me!' King Fleming, you are betrothed; you are about to wed a beautiful and 'honourable' lady; fly from all thoughts that would wrong her and your own honour; shut your eyes and steel your heart against the dangerous charm of Deborah Fleming; fly from Enderby! Deborah, are you witch or siren? With what subtle glamour are those eyes charged, that they haunt the captive soul, and will not let it be? Is it coldness, indifference, disdain, a sisterly tenderness—she gives him each in turn—that is madding him so? Why was she so beautiful? Why should the sun-tanned romp of two years ago turn to so perfect and delicate a beauty? Deborah has bewitched her cousin Kingston, and for that he knows not if he loves or hates her most, as he upbraids her bitterly. Yet, has she tried to lure him on? Has she not rather rebuffed him? No; it is the very essence of coquetry to woo and fly. He will allow her no grace, but that she is a 'graceless Fleming flirt.' And then he pictures her an angel in all but wings and crown. Anon the room is dark, the light is gone, the moon is clouded over, and Deborah Fleming lies sleeping—the noble, the beautiful, the guardian of a wild old father—the sweet adviser of a reckless brother—the angel and the Rose of Enderby—the lover of honour, purity, and good faith. Too late! too late! The bright and noble soul had been unsought, uncared for in its immaturity, darkened as it was in early days, and obscured by childish shames and sudden passions; but that fatal gift of beauty roused him now to a sense of all that he had lost. Beauty had ever been Kingston Fleming's lure. Then it was only her beauty that he loved? Again he voted her fiercely a universal and wild coquette. Well, she was fair game then. Indifference, and then and again a swift glance or tender sigh, should win her yet. No matter if the rose faded, if it could be no rose to him. Then, then he would wed the lovely and uncertain Beatrix Blancheflower. Still he lingered. 'Deborah! Deborah!' In all Enderby there is no light; and no light in Kingston's soul.

CHAPTER THE TENTH.

It was late in the morning before they met. Deborah was all sunshine and gaiety. Womanlike, she lived in the present, and realised no Enderby and no future without Kingston Fleming; the interchange of words and looks was enough for her. He turned his face aside, that she might not see how haggard it was, and was angry with her for her happiness.

Adam Sinclair came that day to Enderby, and Deborah played a dangerous part, but with infinite spirit, grace, and charm, so that it set the young man and the old man hating one another, as men can hate in jealousy. But Master Sinclair was the favoured one, and saw it. What was Master Fleming but a kinsman and a brother? So Master Sinclair rode off more madly possessed than ever, and darkly revolving plans; for Mistress Fleming he would wed, by fair means or by foul.

But the youthful beauty was not pleased. Kingston had seemed tenderer the day before; his eyes had looked admiration of her beauty; he had watched her, and given her his troubled confidence and affection. She loved him better then. Ah, he was content. He had heard from Mistress Blancheflower! and he cared not if she, Deborah, encouraged and even wedded old Adam Sinclair. So the rapid thoughts fled through Deborah's mind. No; she would not be treacherous to Mistress Blancheflower, she would not; but she could not bear this coldness! He was leaning from the window, and watching Mrs Dinnage, who sat below at her work in the sunny courtyard, while her sworn friend and foe, Dame Marjory, fed the pigeons. Deborah went and leaned beside the window.

'Wilt ride, King? We may not have steeds to offer long.'

'Nay; I will have none of your rides. I prefer watching Mistress Dinnage. She is pretty. All girls are pretty.'

'Ye are not gracious, Master Fleming. See if I ask ye again! Now there is one, Master Adam Sinclair, Lord of Lincoln, would ride to the world's end for me.'

'He can ask for favours in return; one day ye will pay him dearly.'

'How so, bird of ill omen?'

'With yourself.'

'Master Kingston Fleming, I do not need your auguries; once before I told you so.'

He looked up and flashed a smile—most mocking, or most tender?

She leaned from the window at his side. 'You are happier to-day, King: you can taunt.'

'O ay, I can always do that.—How pretty is Mistress Dinnage!'

'I am glad she pleases you.'

'Give me a rose, Deb, for peace.'

She gave him one. 'Throw it not to Mistress Dinnage now; she would only scorn your offering.'

Kingston touched the flower with his lips. Deborah blushed.

'If I may not kiss the Rose par excellence,' said he, 'I will kiss "the Rose's" rose.'

'Ye talk nonsense. Poetry does not suit you, King.'

'Ah, I have never written you verses.'

'I have not inspired you, mayhap.'

'Ye are too cold, Deb, save when Adam Sinclair is by. Once ye were all fire and fret; now ye are all snow and sorcery.'

'Strange blending! Have I witched you then?'

'Ay, the first day I came.'

'What worth is witchery?'

'To wear the heart away.'

'A pleasant vocation, truly, if I am working the like on you! But I thought not I was of so much dignity in your eyes as either to wear your heart or pleasure it.'

He looked in her eyes then as if his whole soul were in his own. 'Deb, art speaking truth?'

'Ay,' she answered with earnestness; 'as surely as that my name is Deborah.'

'"None so blind as those who will not see." Well, well, Lady Deb, think as ye will. Are you a coquette, Deb? I was wondering last night.'

'Oh, you do think o' me then? Well, I know not. If I lived in the great world, I might be; here, what can I do?'

'Enow; it seemeth me. It is well for ye, Deb, ye're not in the world; ye'd be a wild one! You're too beautiful by half.'

Deborah blushed, and with what covert joy Master King Fleming noted it!

'After that fine compliment,' said she, 'I will leave you to the contemplation of Mistress Dinnage. All girls are fair to you. I am going to ride. I may meet my wandering Charlie.'

'You will not ride alone?'

'Ay; not even Jordan with me. I may ride to Lincoln Castle.'

Kingston rose. 'Ye shall not have the chance. I am your cavalier, Deb.'

'As it please ye!' And away went Deborah, singing.