PART II.

CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH.

When Deborah awaked, old Marjory was sitting watching over her; the sun was still glorious on the woods outside, but the chamber was left in grateful gloom. She could not even distinguish her father's picture; but soon, clear and distinct through the gloom, laughed out the boyish face of Charlie. Charlie? What had Charlie done? Mute and still, Deborah looked up at her old nurse, while the darkness of reality dawned on her wakening mind.

'Thou'rt ill, child,' said old Marjory abruptly.

'What makes you think so, dame?' asked Deborah faintly.

'Why, thy face betrays thee; it is white as my apron, and thine was a sleep o' sorrow. I know it. Thou'lt eat summat now, an' no more o' these airs.'

'Have ye no letter or message for me, Marjory? What are you hiding there?' and Deborah raised herself in feverish excitement.

'Why, it's a letter that'll keep, I warrant me, my Lady Deb. It's from the old man at Lincoln.'

'Give it me, Marjory, and leave me, dear old dame. I wish to be alone.'

So Marjory left her; but soon the old woman was knocking at the door again with food and wine for Deborah. She found her sitting on the floor white as a ghost. 'O child, thou'rt faintin' for good victuals! There! eat and drink like a Christian. Why, bless thee, Lady Deb, dear, I know the master's in his old quandaries. But don't take on, my Rose.'

'Dame, come and comfort me. Pray, take that food away! Let me lay my head on thy kind old breast. Thou'rt a mother to me, Marjory—always wert. Dame, I've no dear mother!'

The dame took her darling in her arms, and rocked her gently to and fro, with the toil-hardened old hand stroking the girl's silken hair, and her grave old face laid against it.

'No; thou hast no mother, poor lamb; worse for thee.'

'It's hard to know right from wrong, Marjory; but I am quick to decide, and once decided, never falter. I try to do all for the best.'

'I know it, I know it. But child, my Lady Deb, have no dealin's with that old man Master Sinclair. He's a demon.'

'Hush! or give the demon his due, Marjory. He has been kind to my brother Charlie.'

'For what? We all know it; all Enderby knows what he's after.'

'That is no concern of Enderby's. I hate this gossip. Look you, dame, if I choose to wed fifty such, it is no concern of Enderby's. If I did wed Master Sinclair, it would be of mine own free will: let all the world know that!'

'But thou'lt never wed him, dearie!' cried the old nurse, in tremulous breathless haste.

'I do not answer you Yes or No; but I am my own mistress.'

'Too much so—ever too much so,' muttered Marjory below her breath.

'What say'st thou, Marjory?'

'That thou wantest a strong kind hand over thee, bein' too headstrong by half. I wish Master King was here; he'd advise thee!'

'Best not,' said Deborah, with a quick breath of pain. 'Let "Master King" attend to his own affairs. Each one has his troubles. Nurse, love me! I have need of it. O that I were a little tiny child again, when, in affright or in distress, I wrapped these arms o' thine about me; and they would seem to shelter me from all the world! O that thou wert magician, fairy, to give me my childhood back! I was happy then.'

'An' not now? What ails my bright bird? Is it Master Charlie?'

'O Marjory, don't speak of that. Look you at his picture; look there! Could those fearless eyes ever turn aside in shame or dread? Would Charlie, with all his faults, ever bring dishonour on us? Tell me that?'

'No, never.' The old face turned white, but did not flinch; Marjory believed in the honour of her wild boy, as in her own soul.

'Ah, Marjory, nurse, my darling! How I do love thee! No; never believe that any but a black liar would ever accuse Charlie Fleming of a mean low act. Wild, reckless he may be, but dishonourable, never! Ah, my love, my comfort, our true and faithful friend, we believe in Charlie Fleming!'

'Where is my boy?' asked the old woman, with troubled tears in her eyes. 'Why don't he come to Enderby? They will say strange things o' him if he don't come home. Oh, he'll break his father's heart by bein' so wild; but it's his father's blood that's in him.'

'And his mother's too, for they say our sweet mother was a mad, mad lass. Dame, who was she? What was my mother's name?'

The girl gazed straight at the old woman till Marjory's eyes fell, and the girl's fair face was flushed with crimson. 'I have never asked you,' she said, 'not since I was a child; but who was my mother, dame? Prithee, tell me. Ah, say not that there was shame! Poor and honest, I care not; but naught of shame.'

'No, my Lady Deb, no; naught o' shame. She was the child o' wedded parents, I promise thee; she was lawful wedded wife, thy mother; but if I was to tell thee who she was, Sir Vincent would strike me dead. I cannot tell thee; there's my faithful promise given, not.'

'I will not ask ye then. One day I will—must know. Does Charlie know?'

'Ne'er from me or his father. But no one knows what Master Charlie knows.'

'There's my father calling me; I must go. Good-bye, dame. Pray for me.'

Deborah went down into the hall. Sir Vincent got up and met her. He shut the door carefully, and led her to a chair; he sat down opposite her, and screening his face from the light with one great sinewy hand, gazed out from under its shadow, as if he would read his daughter's soul. For her part, she gazed at him with all her great and tender soul in her eyes, her own despair forgotten in her father's. There was a long silence between them, each gazing on the other, sorrow-stricken and speechless.

'Father,' said Deborah softly then, 'sweet father, have I not done thee some good? See! here's the letter from Lincoln; and in three weeks I shall be Master Sinclair's wife. It is my duty, father, my free choice. My heart is very strong. Sweet father, thou'rt sad still, ay, even heart-broken; I know thy face so well! I have saved Charlie. Listen! This Master Sinclair puts everything in my power, makes me absolute mistress of all he has. My first act will be to save us from ruin; Charlie from ruin too. But tell me what more there is? What serpent has wronged Charlie falsely? ay, falsely, for before heaven, father, I would swear that Charlie has done no dishonour! Sooner would I doubt my own soul than his. He is incapable of double-dealing, incapable of all meanness and dishonesty. To doubt him, to believe for one moment that he could act dishonourably, is to believe that Charlie Fleming is no son of thine and mother's; that this Charlie Fleming is not the boy who has grown up under thine eyes and mine; graceless, truly, but the very soul of honour. Even the masters at his school, his tutors, his comrades who knew him best, have done him justice in calling him honourable and true. Then doubt him not for one moment!'

Under the fire and sweetness of her faith in her brother, Sir Vincent waxed wan, and his fierce eyes grew dim with sadness.

Laying one hand upon her hands, and shading his own face still, he whispered brokenly: 'Believe on—hope on. Sweet child, sweet Deb, my brave best one, I must confide in thee, or my old heart will break. This boy—this son, in whom I trusted—Ah me!' and with his clenched hand on his brow and his eyes raised to heaven, the father gave a deep and bitter sob—'has betrayed me—his father!' With a strange hoarse eager whisper, and eyes that gleamed like a madman's, Sir Vincent leaned forward and uttered those words to Deborah. She, white, still, waited without a word for more. 'I have seen the papers—Adam Sinclair holds them—by which that boy of mine has anticipated my death, and raised money upon Enderby; his writing—his name—Charles Stuart Fleming. Adam Sinclair has got those papers out of Parry's hands; and by marrying thee, my fairest and my best, he buys those papers of Parry and destroys their shameful purport. But Deb—does that wipe out the stain? Does that blot out the fact that that boy of mine, deceiving and betraying me—ay, cursing my lengthened life, and hungering for the old man's death—has got a hound to raise this money? Ay, that hound has in turn betrayed him into Sinclair's hands; and Charles Fleming's black-heartedness is laid bare to him and me.'

'Have ye seen those papers, father, with your very eyes? And Charlie's writing?'

'Ay, ay.'

Deborah panted, terribly white and wild she looked, with her hands pressed on her side. Sir Vincent kneeled down beside her and laid his head upon her shoulder. Bitter, bitter was that hour.

CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH.

Some days after that—it might have been centuries to Deborah Fleming—she heard a peal at the great hall bell; and Kingston Fleming, pale, disordered in dress, and haggard-eyed, entered the library. Deborah was looking idly over the books, not reading; she was stunned, and could neither read nor write; she scarcely had the power of thought. One look at King, and she knew that he knew her fate. 'Deborah!' he said, roughly and hoarsely, 'you have played me false! By words strong and binding as an oath, you told your brother you would not wed Adam Sinclair—that no ruin, no misery, should lead you to so ignoble a sacrifice. Is it then under the mask of doing good, ye do this grievous evil? Soiling your soul, sacrificing your life, not to save your father and your brother, for Charles Fleming would rather see you dead than accept your bounty then, but to win rank and money—to shuffle off this miserable coil of poverty, that wearies you; and to sell yourself for gold and tinsel to this hoary reprobate! No good intention, no amount of self-sacrifice, could justify so detestable a deed.'

Palely beautiful, but full of calm scorn, Deborah Fleming faced her fiery and impetuous kinsman; before she spoke, her haughty eyes flashed fire and disdain.

'Kingston Fleming, are you my brother? Are you my guardian, my master, or the master of this house, that you dare to insult me thus? What earthly right have you to question or to jeer at me? Were I a man, I would strike you on the face for this. Coward! Because I am alone and a woman, you dare to insult me by these words! What if I choose to be wed to Adam Sinclair, and to love his "gold and tinsel;" what is that to you? What if I choose to "sell" my precious self for his name and fortune; what is that to you? I have my father's consent; I am under my father's protection; you have no earthly claim on me. Fair and friendly have you ever been to me. Courteous has been your kindly interest in me from childhood upwards; but scarcely enough so, to justify your interference now. I thank you, Master Kingston Fleming, for your anxiety on my account; but I'll thank you also to leave me and mine alone.'

Even in that wild moment, Kingston saw that she was trembling with fierce passion—ay, she could have struck him; in that moment, she hated him. But Kingston too, goaded by his wild unavailing remorse and love, mad with the knowledge of how cruelly his taunt had wronged her, desperate at her beauty and her sacrifice, cared for nothing. Dashing down his hat and whip, he caught her hands in his: 'Beautiful, cruel, heartless, reckless Deborah! Child, I have loved thee—too late, too late. I am free! I am free to woo thee; I am a free man now! But when I come in mad haste to ask thy love and pity, I find thee betrothed, and cast away, and sold! Listen! I would have made thee love me. No woman on earth have I loved but Deborah Fleming! I would have made thee love me!'

Then, with a sharp bitter cry, Deborah wrenched away her hands. Conscious of her brother's dishonour, sublime in the greatness of her sacrifice, and her terrible secret and her suffering, she looked back on Kingston only with passion and scorn, to hide the love that would still master her, and hurled him back taunt for taunt. 'Ah! you are a good one to preach honour and good faith to me! throwing over one woman to woo another who is betrothed! I feel dishonoured even to have heard your words of love, when I have plighted troth to Adam Sinclair. But don't think to win or move me by thy treachery. Deborah Fleming doesn't change her troth-plight every hour. Her vows once made, are binding, binding till death!'

'Then good-bye, Deborah.' He took up his hat and whip and strode to the door. His looks were turned back on her, a smile was in his haggard eyes—intense passion, love, and suffering; his face was pale as death. His last sight of her was the proud erectness of her figure, and the bright watchfulness of her beautiful haughty eyes, following him, and burning on him. But when he was gone from her sight, the bells of Enderby, as all through their interview, came clanging wildly out, clashing on heart and brain.

'I know not if I love or hate him most!' cried the girl, half mad with her despair. 'I love him, and I hate him too!'

Then rang out the bells of Enderby, loud and clear, the refrain, 'I love him, and I hate him too!' Low in the lull, loud and clear on the gale, 'I love him, and I hate him too!'

Mistress Dinnage in those days was well-nigh desperate. After hearing that Deborah Fleming was betrothed to Adam Sinclair and was to be wedded to him in three weeks' time, she knew no rest. It was all for Charlie, it was on his account; Charlie therefore must know of this, and there would be an end of it. For two evenings Mistress Dinnage watched for her lover in vain. She had talked herself hoarse to Deborah; she had exhausted threats and entreaties: she might as well have talked to the idle wind—and so she knew—as to Deborah once resolved. On the third evening-watch, however, Margaret saw the well-known form. She was out in a moment under the gloom of the trees and the twilight.

'I have somewhat to tell you, Charlie. Let me speak quickly and clearly, love. Your sister Deborah is betrothed to Master Sinclair; they are to be wedded in two weeks and four days. There have been sad doings at Enderby. Your father! Ah! I dare not tell ye what I fear. But oh! grievous trouble has he been in through tidings from Master Sinclair about you! So Mistress Deborah promised then and there to be Master Sinclair's wife. Oh, I tell you she is desperate since! She loves another; I know it; but she gives up all for you and Enderby.'

'Can this be true! Meg, I will kill him first. Has he betrayed me then? What tidings has he sent?'

'I know not; but of terrible losses, be sure. Ah, dear, are ye not in terrible trouble, and waiting about for love of me? Stay no longer, Charlie! Think not o' me; I will follow; I've got good courage. Release sweet Mistress Deborah.'

'How, quotha? Death only will release that mad reckless girl. Ah! I might have known her.'

'Neither prayers nor commands, Charlie, would she listen to; no, not if you were rolling in riches now, she says she would not break her oath. Charlie! O love, what do I urge you to! You must fight that old man, and we must fly. Not to kill him, Charlie, hark ye!—not to kill him; but to disable him for what life he has left! Think me merciless, unwomanly; I care not, so that it saves her. Or stay, stay, Charlie! Will ye use all your influence first to turn him? O ye can talk to tenderness a heart o' stone! Talk to Adam Sinclair then till he melts to pity; but set sweet Deborah free!'

'Talk to him!' said Charlie Fleming, with a short laugh; 'ay, I will talk. But we have old accounts to settle first, old debts to square. We have a little affair to settle between ourselves, Adam Sinclair and I. Hark ye, Meg! He has accused me of foul play—not to my face, not he! but behind my back. He has accused me of cheating at cards—a dirty trick to brand on a man; and as ye know, love, whatever Charlie Fleming's faults, he would scorn so foul an act. I don't mind telling ye now, Meg, that I must wipe off this slander with blood. All my comrades are up in arms at it; and even now I am on my way to Lincoln, to meet Adam Sinclair face to face; and in case I fall, Meg—to bid thee now farewell.' He took her in his arms; he folded back the long dark hair from the passionate face. In bitter wrath and passion had she trembled at hearing of the foul slander put on his fair fame; and her fiery spirit, following the spirit of his words, had made her grasp his hands, and pant and frown in eagerness for revenge. But when she pictured him dead—lying perchance beneath the old man's deadly shot, stiffening in his blood, in the perished glory of his youth and strength—then her woman's heart began to shudder and to faint: she leaned on his broad breast and moaned.

'What! sick?' he whispered. 'Faint? A little poltroon! The wife of a Fleming must be brave. Thou wouldst hate and despise Charles Fleming if he could for one moment brook such an insult as this. Come; I meant to bid thee good-bye, and hide this from thee; but now I have told thee all, thou must face death with me, and take it as it comes.'

'I know it! I know it! Not for one moment would I say aught but "Go!" Yet, pity my woman's fears; think how long I have loved but thee! Ay, I have kissed the stones where thy shadow passed! and to lose thee now, now—my husband of but a week, my darling husband! Nay; I will not grieve before 'tis time!' she cried with sudden fire, gazing up at him. 'See! I am so brave that I would fain be thy second, and see thy true shot speed to that old coward heart! Oh, thou'lt kill him, Charlie, thou'lt kill him, or hurt him sorely. A dead-shot he may be; but men say thine is deadlier. Nay; do not laugh; I have listened, till I know better than thou canst know thyself, all Charles Fleming's brave gifts. They say thou'rt a deadly shot.'

He stooped and kissed her. 'A deadly shot! Yes; I will shoot him for love of thee. Better not mangle the old traitor; I will kill him clean, or not at all. Thank heaven, if he kills me it will be clean! Love, if I fall, don't weep; I leave a hope with thee.' These words were whispered; she did not answer, she did not speak.

A few more happy stolen hours, and he was gone. She went with him to the gate in the woods, where he was wont to come and go, through the mossed entrance and the tangled clambering ivy. There they stood, her hand upon the gate; her dark head, that reached no higher than his heart, laid there. The mute clinging hand did not escape him; every motion, every gesture of his young love, was marked by his keen hawk eyes, as if it were her last. He pulled open the stubborn gate; still the two clung as if they would never part.

'Sweet love, good-bye.' He listened for her answer, but only heard a sob; kisses were Margaret's good-bye—kisses, and the deathless love within them. Then her arms fell asunder, and leaning against the gate, she let him go. With the iron grasped within her little hands, she stood gazing through the bars and saw him wave adieu; still stood, while the quick hoofs bore him far away; still stood, gazing for him through the night, though Mistress Margaret Fleming (for Mistress Fleming indeed she was) saw him no more!