'Ah, I know not.'
Charlie smiled somewhat grimly over his gun, but said nothing. Soon Deborah went over to Mistress Dinnage, where she sat glowering with her dark curly head crowned on one side by coquettish scarlet ribbons. They presented a curious contrast, the bailiff's daughter and the baronet's daughter—one sitting with her hands clasped round her knee, in attire bright and gay, gazing up with a frown beneath her jaunty curls, her dark eyes lowering, and her little red-heeled shoe tapping on the ground; the other pale, subdued, and wistful, her long lorn hair falling about her unheeded and unribboned, and her dress dull in colour and in texture coarse, standing before her gaily attired inferior. As Mistress Dinnage gazed, her manner changed; irritability gave way before Deborah's plaintive eyes.
'You have been crying,' said Mistress Dinnage, in her marvellously brusque independent way.
'You know nought about it.'
'Ay, don't tell me! You have a heartache. I know when you are sorrowing, Lady Deb, an' when you are full of joy. Once, you never knew what sorrow was. Has he been worrying thee?' she asked, with a nod of the head towards Charlie.
'He? No! "The heart knoweth its own bitterness." You will do well not to question me, Meg. Come and play.'
That same evening, Sir Vincent Fleming came home late under cover of the darkness, as he always did, and on a swift horse. Deborah flew to meet him; he took her in his arms and kissed her. 'Good-even, Deb. Sweet Deb, has Enderby had visitors?' he whispered.
'Ay, father, the usual ones, whom it is sweet to blind for thy sake, for I had rare promises for Finton. And indeed you tell me, father, that brighter days are in store?'
'Ay, ay, lass; I have found a friend in need.'
'A friend, father?' They were walking through the great hall together, and Deborah hung upon her father's arm and raised her beautiful eyes to his. His own eyes sank. 'Not one o' those false, false friends,' she continued, 'who have oftentimes proved your strongest foes?'