'I will roast her,' said Charlie. 'Deb a lover? Ha, ha, ha!'
'No; you shall not speak of it,' said Kingston, laying a heavy hand on Charlie's shoulder. 'On peril of your life, you shall not.'
Charlie laughed. 'Under that threat I must succumb. Perchance Deb has a sneaking liking for you, old King!'
'For me?' And Kingston had a fresh fit of laughter. 'Nay; Deb hates me like poison, and I think her the maddest little fury that ever stepped. Deb and I shall ne'er run together.'
But as for the maiden, she fled to her room like a little tempest, and lay along the floor half dead for shame. She could scarcely think, for when she thought, the blood rushed in eddying torrents to her head, and made her mad for anger and for shame; for more than aught on earth, was Deb shy of the dawn of love and Kingston's raillery. All day she kept her room. She watched from behind the curtains Kingston and Charlie ride away; she had not kissed Charlie that day or spoken to him; she heard him call out 'Good-bye, Deb.' Then he would not return that night. O Charlie, Charlie! And then she peered out, and heard Kingston's laugh, and saw his fair hair blown by the wind. The girl leaned out and watched them through the gateway. 'I love him,' she said to herself with mingled fire and softness; 'I love Kingston. But he will love me never—never!'
Kingston laughed no more about Deborah's daisy: he was generous. The next day he was teasing, laughing, tormenting about a hundred things; and the child Deborah was chaffering and defying him in the wildest animal spirits. Dame Marjory shook her head; there was such a flying, scurrying, shouting, and such peals of laughter, not only from those three, but from the usually demure Mistress Dinnage who joined them, that the Dame could make nothing of them; they got worse and worse. Kingston Fleming was a wild youth, not one indeed calculated to steady his kinsman Charlie. Yet Kingston had good, and even noble impulses in those days: he was ambitious too; and at odd hours and by fits and starts, he worked hard, with the idea of fulfilling those ambitious dreams. But Charlie never worked at all; his dreams, if he had any, were not known. Himself caring little for any man, who cared for Charlie? Why, all who knew him loved him; they could scarce tell why. Old Jordan Dinnage, who had given him many a rough hiding, idolised the boy; young Margaret Dinnage, who had received many a rough word from him—well, young 'Mistress Dinnage' did deign to open the gates to Charlie Fleming's horse, though she would do so with a toss of her head and an assumed air of disdain. The maiden resented even then, though still a child in years, the full-blown compliments of the lad Kingston; but would redden, and her dark eyes would glow, when the boys passed by, if she only met the swift, shamed, furtive glance from two full red-brown eyes—the eyes of Charles Fleming.
On sunny mornings, when the lads rode unexpectedly into the courtyard of Enderby, there would be a whir-r-r-r of pigeons, lighting on the gabled roof; a blaze of sunshine on the great wych-elms; a murmur of bees; a smell of fruit and flowers; white-haired Sir Vincent standing in a stable-door; over the garden wall, Deborah and Margaret flying along the garden walk with arms linked in the 'maddest merriest dance,' set to the music of boisterous laughter. Those were happy days.