'O Deb, Deb! Don't persuade me. I mustn't stay with you. Ill tongues will be talking of you and me.'
'What! of brother and sister? Of kinsfolk? It cannot, cannot be. But let the world talk! What matters it? Will you, for paltry slander, forsake me at this strait?'
'Not forsake you, but consider you. Let go my hand, Deb! I am easily unmanned nowadays. I must go.'
'Well, go, go!'—and she pushed him from her. 'And indeed I would have you seek my father, King, for I am very sad at heart. Cheer him up; comfort him; wean him from his temptation if you can. It is that terrible gambling that is the ruin of the Flemings. Oh, tell him so! But above all things, send him home, for I have a dark, dark foreboding on me; and this night alone at Enderby would drive me mad.'
'He shall come.'
'Then go, King, quickly.'
'You are in a hurry to be rid o' me, now. Good-bye, sweet Deb; good-bye. You will not come and see me off?'
'Nay; I cannot.'
'Well, good-bye, Enderby.' Kingston Fleming bared his head and gazed round, strangely moved, at the old familiar scene. His keen blue eyes grew dim. It did not shame his manhood that tears were drawn like life-blood from his heart, as he nobly renounced a sore temptation. 'Good-bye, Enderby; good-bye.'
He was gone. But still Deborah Fleming, amid her gay and dazzling flowers, seemed to see him standing there, a tall graceful figure, a face full of sadness and regret, a bared head that reverently bowed its adieus; and the words still rang in her ears: 'Good-bye, Enderby; good-bye.' Ten short minutes and all life had changed for her; only when he was gone, she waked to her despair. The sun had ceased to shine, the birds had ceased to sing, the flowers to bloom. She left her gathered flowers to die, and went home like one stunned.