Deborah flushed scarlet, and then the color fled, leaving her deathly white. There was a necessary silence between them, owing to the dance. When they came together again her partner went on:
"Would you fear, Debby, to walk from here to Mistress Vawse's house alone at midnight?"
Deborah looked at him quickly: "Why must I do that?"
"Listen." Again the courtesy and bow, and he continued: "After the seventh dance—you are engaged to me for the eighth and ninth—you must go up-stairs, put on your cloak and hood, and leave the dressing-room by the door that leads into the hall at the back. There I will meet you and conduct you down the servants' stairs, and you can escape the house by the little door into the yard. You know your way round the garden and out upon Church Street. From there 'tis easy to Miriam's."
"Ah!"
Fairfield went on, without heeding the faint exclamation: "Mistress Vawse expects you. I have seen her. She will make you comfortable till I come. I will give your excuses to Vincent, telling him that Carroll's black has taken you home since you have—a headache, or a torn ruffle, or a megrim—anything. I fancy he'll not follow you. As soon as I can, I will go after you with Rockwell. At the tavern he will marry us by book, Debby, and after—after I'll take you to the doctor's, and all will be well. 'Tis not difficult, Debby. Come—you will make me live among the gods to-night?"
He pressed to her side for the answer; but the dance presently separated them and she had not given it. Deborah's blood was running fast; her head was hot, her eyes brilliant, her cheeks flushed, none of which things would have been had she had no thought of considering this wild proposition. Nevertheless, she hesitated. Become Lady Fairfield, and, some day, something higher? She had dreamed of it, it must be confessed, before she ever suspected that such a thing could actually be. She had even fancied, long ago, that she wanted nothing more than Sir Charles; for, as men went, he was, to her, perfection. But this idea had undergone a change, some time since. How long since? Did she care to reckon the days? Perhaps they needed no reckoning. Perhaps Deborah knew very well that since the hour when her eyes had first met those of Claude de Mailly, Charles Fairfield had changed for her forever. But Deborah had been hurt by Claude. She would think of him no more, after that day when, in the midst of the thunder-storm, they had sat alone in Miriam's tavern, and he had laid bare before her his life at the Court of France. Claude de Mailly belonged, heart and soul, to another life. Here was Sir Charles, who could give one to her. Lady Fairfield—Deborah Fairfield—the name pleased her.
"Debby, will you not answer?" came a tremulous whisper from beside her. Sir Charles was becoming anxious.
All at once she flung debate, prudence, the conventions, and—the other man, alike away from her in a jumbled heap, and made reply, clear, firm, unhesitating, to his question:
"Yes, Sir Charles. I grant your wish. Shall we walk a little?"