'Ay, ay.'
Deborah panted, terribly white and wild she looked, with her hands pressed on her side. Sir Vincent kneeled down beside her and laid his head upon her shoulder. Bitter, bitter was that hour.
CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH.
Some days after that—it might have been centuries to Deborah Fleming—she heard a peal at the great hall bell; and Kingston Fleming, pale, disordered in dress, and haggard-eyed, entered the library. Deborah was looking idly over the books, not reading; she was stunned, and could neither read nor write; she scarcely had the power of thought. One look at King, and she knew that he knew her fate. 'Deborah!' he said, roughly and hoarsely, 'you have played me false! By words strong and binding as an oath, you told your brother you would not wed Adam Sinclair—that no ruin, no misery, should lead you to so ignoble a sacrifice. Is it then under the mask of doing good, ye do this grievous evil? Soiling your soul, sacrificing your life, not to save your father and your brother, for Charles Fleming would rather see you dead than accept your bounty then, but to win rank and money—to shuffle off this miserable coil of poverty, that wearies you; and to sell yourself for gold and tinsel to this hoary reprobate! No good intention, no amount of self-sacrifice, could justify so detestable a deed.'
Palely beautiful, but full of calm scorn, Deborah Fleming faced her fiery and impetuous kinsman; before she spoke, her haughty eyes flashed fire and disdain.
'Kingston Fleming, are you my brother? Are you my guardian, my master, or the master of this house, that you dare to insult me thus? What earthly right have you to question or to jeer at me? Were I a man, I would strike you on the face for this. Coward! Because I am alone and a woman, you dare to insult me by these words! What if I choose to be wed to Adam Sinclair, and to love his "gold and tinsel;" what is that to you? What if I choose to "sell" my precious self for his name and fortune; what is that to you? I have my father's consent; I am under my father's protection; you have no earthly claim on me. Fair and friendly have you ever been to me. Courteous has been your kindly interest in me from childhood upwards; but scarcely enough so, to justify your interference now. I thank you, Master Kingston Fleming, for your anxiety on my account; but I'll thank you also to leave me and mine alone.'
Even in that wild moment, Kingston saw that she was trembling with fierce passion—ay, she could have struck him; in that moment, she hated him. But Kingston too, goaded by his wild unavailing remorse and love, mad with the knowledge of how cruelly his taunt had wronged her, desperate at her beauty and her sacrifice, cared for nothing. Dashing down his hat and whip, he caught her hands in his: 'Beautiful, cruel, heartless, reckless Deborah! Child, I have loved thee—too late, too late. I am free! I am free to woo thee; I am a free man now! But when I come in mad haste to ask thy love and pity, I find thee betrothed, and cast away, and sold! Listen! I would have made thee love me. No woman on earth have I loved but Deborah Fleming! I would have made thee love me!'
Then, with a sharp bitter cry, Deborah wrenched away her hands. Conscious of her brother's dishonour, sublime in the greatness of her sacrifice, and her terrible secret and her suffering, she looked back on Kingston only with passion and scorn, to hide the love that would still master her, and hurled him back taunt for taunt. 'Ah! you are a good one to preach honour and good faith to me! throwing over one woman to woo another who is betrothed! I feel dishonoured even to have heard your words of love, when I have plighted troth to Adam Sinclair. But don't think to win or move me by thy treachery. Deborah Fleming doesn't change her troth-plight every hour. Her vows once made, are binding, binding till death!'
'Then good-bye, Deborah.' He took up his hat and whip and strode to the door. His looks were turned back on her, a smile was in his haggard eyes—intense passion, love, and suffering; his face was pale as death. His last sight of her was the proud erectness of her figure, and the bright watchfulness of her beautiful haughty eyes, following him, and burning on him. But when he was gone from her sight, the bells of Enderby, as all through their interview, came clanging wildly out, clashing on heart and brain.
'I know not if I love or hate him most!' cried the girl, half mad with her despair. 'I love him, and I hate him too!'