“Am I interrupting?” he asked pleasantly, looking from one to the other. “Nettie told me Deborah was here.” He held out his hand, and she put hers into it mechanically. “When you’ve finished, will you lend her to me for a little while? Callander and I have been hammering away at that boundary dispute, and Deb is sure to know the rights of the case.”
“Deborah is here to show you the rights of some other question,” his mother replied curtly, rising. “I will leave you to discuss it.” She moved to the door, but Christian put out his arm.
“Please explain!” he said gently. “What have you been saying to Deborah? Anything that concerns her concerns me—now.”
“She is here to undeceive you on that point. I am aware that you have foolishly allowed yourself to be entrapped into an engagement, much as your brother was caught before you, but that, too, is at an end. You have me to thank for your liberty. Deborah has given me her word to set you free.”
Christian, his mind in a whirl, looked across at Deb, standing motionless by the window, gazing down into the yard. Something had happened, though he could not even begin to guess what it was, except that in some mysterious way his mother had come to know of the contract on the hill. But at least she should not interfere. She had taken something from him once already in this very room, but she should never take from him the man’s right to choose his own mate. His colour rose as he still barred her exit.
“I don’t understand how you know anything about it,” he said quickly. “Not that it matters. Of course we should have told you very soon. I should have liked you to have been glad, but I want Deborah for my wife in any case, and if she is willing to come to me, I will not let anything else stand in the way.”
“You will find more than enough in the way,” Mrs. Lyndesay answered strangely. “You will find—Deborah herself!” And at her imperious gesture he lowered his arm and watched her pass from the room. Deb’s heart followed her in a faint thrill of feeling towards a personality she had always hated. At least she had not betrayed her, even by a hint. For the first and last time in her life, she was grateful to her.
She stood by the window, thinking hard. It was plain that Christian was not ready to let her go. His liberty would have to be forced upon him, for she had passed her word and she meant to keep it. She might have risked her soul for Crump, but she would not throw her new-born love into the scale.
He came to her quickly, demanding—“What does it mean?” puzzled and impatient. “Who can have said anything to my mother? Not you, of course. But who can possibly have told?”
“That infinitesimal Sherlock—a stable-boy!” she answered lightly, looking at the wide quadrangle of buildings below. “One of your small fry saw us up on Linacre, and Mrs. Lyndesay overheard the result of his observations.”