"Deuce take it, man, marry whom you please—except Deborah. Why should I care?"
"You'll promise to take my part to-morrow against that Puritan, John Whitney?"
"Whatever you like, man. Come!"
And so the two men, one still muttering Lucy Trevor's name, the other feverishly anxious for the coming scene, passed up-stairs, and down again presently at the back, where they left the Governor's palace and the ball behind them, to follow in the footsteps of Deborah Travis, towards the ordinary of Miriam Vawse.
CHAPTER IX
The Rector, the Count, and Sir Charles
The day of the Governor's ball had been a dismal one for Claude. The few people whom he knew in the town were all agog over the prospect of the evening; and, since Governor Bladen had not heard of the residence of the Count de Mailly within his territory, the Count had very naturally received no invitation to the festivities. The hot day did not tempt Claude from his lodging. He stayed alone in his room, and in the evening, after a solitary walk, returned to it again, turning over an idea which had been growing on him for a week—that of leaving Annapolis. After all, its people were nothing to him. He would move on, as he should have done long before; and the girl, Deborah Travis, should occupy his thoughts no more. So thinking, with half his mind across the world, and his heart, did he but know it, all here, Claude sat, watching the hours, dreaming, as Fate had him do, from dusk into midnight with her moon and stars.
Down-stairs, in the common room of the peaceful ordinary, Miriam Vawse also kept a troubled watch, for the part that she was to play in the approaching scene began to appear to her as very doubtful in wisdom. As she sat alone in the warm night, beside her flickering candles, with the hours running relentlessly along, fear began to take possession of her. Half-past eleven struck from the steeple of St. Anne's. The moon was making the whole night luminous. Up Charles Street, presently, a flying shadow came, a dark, wavering thing, in round hood, flapping cape, and long, light, ruffled petticoats held up for running about two slender ankles. To the threshold of the tavern door the shadow passed, and there it halted. Claude, in his window above, saw and wondered, but did not stir.
There was a half inaudible tap upon her door. Miriam started and hearkened, half believing it her own nerves. Again the tap, more faintly than before; but now good Miriam ran to open the door.
"Good lack! Thou'rt come then, Debby!"