Deborah recovered from her afternoon over Sambo's sick-bed far less rapidly than the small negro did from the effects of his remarkable breakfast. In fact, three days after that upon which he had substituted the fly agaric for hoe-cake, he was running about the plantation as usual, only with a new and useful working knowledge concerning vermilion-colored fungi. With beautiful impartiality he sought the still-room on the afternoon of the first day that he left the cabin. He found its door locked, and presently discovered that Miss Deb was to be seen nowhere about the grounds. On making peremptory inquiries, he was informed, much to his disgust, that his play-fellow was ill in bed, withoutamanitafor cause, and that he might not dream of such a thing as seeing her. Thereupon, retiring to the still-house door-step, young Sambo lifted up his voice and wept, though he got no consolation from the process.
Strictly speaking, Deborah was not in bed. She was too restless to remain long in any one place, but she felt no desire to leave the house. What care she needed, and a little more, was lavished on her by Madam Trevor, her cousins, and the slaves. Nevertheless, she was very wretched. She could not understand her continual weariness and her impatience with the familiar scenes of everyday life. She suffered inexpressibly with the mid-day heat, and shivered with cold through the mild nights. "Nerves" were to her unnecessary and incomprehensible things, and her disgust with herself was none the less exasperating because it was unreasonable. Dr. Carroll, however, was wiser than she. A week after Sambo's affair he heard of her condition and went out to her at once. His prescription pleased the whole family, with the exception, perhaps, of Sir Charles. He proposed taking her back with him to Annapolis, to spend ten days under his own hospitable roof, with his two sisters to take care of her, and young Charles for company. Permission for the visit was granted on the asking, and, upon the next afternoon, Deborah set out in the family coach, with the doctor on horseback as outrider. The only regret that she felt on leaving was, oddly enough, the parting from Sir Charles. His attentions to her during the past week had been remarkably delicate. Madam Trevor herself could hardly have objected to them. Through long hours he had sat near her while she lay upon a sofa, generally with Lucy or Virginia, or both, beside her, recounting little stories of his own or his comrades' adventures; describing London and London life; stopping when he saw that his voice tired her; fanning her, perhaps, in silence; arranging the tray that held her meals on the stand beside her; and only once in a long, long time looking into her wandering eyes with an expression that would set her to thinking of grave and far-off things. Thus she left the plantation, feeling a new and not unpleasant regret at losing the companionship which had almost made her illness worth the having.
Dr. Carroll's sisters, Mistress Lettice and little Frances Appleby, awaited their guest with solicitation. The coach that held her arrived at their door just at tea-time, and Deborah was smiling with pleasure when the doctor lifted her out and carried her bodily up the walk and into the house, with St. Quentin on one side, his son on the other, and the little old maids smiling together in the doorway. The young lady then refused absolutely to retire, but sat up to tea, partook of some of Miriam Vawse's raspberry conserve, and afterwards lay upon the sofa in the parlor with an unexpressed hope in her heart that Claude might come.
Claude was to have come. Mistress Lettice, when she learned from her brother that their guest would arrive that afternoon, had sent down a polite request by young Charles that monsieur would honor them with his presence in the evening. As politely de Mailly returned thanks for the invitation, gave no definite reply, but intended to go. Upon that afternoon, however, theSea-Gullarrived, after a fair voyage, from Portsmouth; and in her came a long letter and a consignment of rents from Mailly-Nesle to his cousin. Many things were happening in France. In March, war with England and Maria Theresa had been declared, and the French armies prepared for a campaign. In May came the astounding intelligence that, through the influence of la Châteauroux, who loved the heroic, Louis would command his forces in person. A week later it was understood that the favorite was to follow in the royal train, together with the King's staff, his aides, his chefs, his valet, and the impedimenta. The letter was dated May 28th. As he read it, Claude's heart burned; and with the evening, in the bitterness of his memories of the old life, and in the wretched conjectures that he made as to what was the French news now, he forgot Deborah. Where was she, Marie Anne, his cousin? What battles had been fought over the water? Was the fifteenth Louis still reigning over France? Had not some chance shot struck him, and with him the third daughter of the de Maillys, down in all their clanging glory? Did la Châteauroux never now think of the cousin exiled for her, at her instance? Henri did not say. And Miriam Vawse of the Annapolis inn wondered that night what news her lodger had received, that he should sit, stoop-shouldered, over the empty fireplace, and forget that, only two blocks away, in Dr. Carroll's house, Debby Travis was vainly waiting for him to come to her.
Claude did remember her next morning, when the sunlight gave matters a different aspect, and the letter had been shut away in his trunk. So it was with only half his mind on French battle-fields and a vaguely dreamed-of Dettingen, that he ate his colonial breakfast; and afterwards, as he left the ordinary and bent his steps leisurely northward towards Dr. Carroll's house, his homesickness fled quite away.
The Carrolls' breakfast had ended some time ago (Claude's Versailles habits of late rising were not yet broken); and Deborah, already bettered by the change of scene and atmosphere, had come down to the morning meal. She was now in the doctor's study, leaning back in his great chair, while young Charles stood moodily facing the window, sulky because she was not yet well enough to bear a morning on the bay, so obtaining for him a vacation on plea of hospitality.
"Now I know why you won't mind about me any more. Here's your de Mailly coming up the walk. Faith, I'll not bear it! You've grown into a fine lady, Debby, and are no fun nowadays. I'd as soon have Lucy running with me."
"And you, Charles, are ungentlemanly. If you were anything but a child, I wouldn't speak to you this sennight."
"I'm as old as you, lacking a month."
"Little one would think it, then."
"Pardon, if I intrude. I come to inquire after Mistress Travis' health."
Claude stood smiling upon the threshold, for he had overheard the last words of the quarrel. Deborah, her white face flushing a little, held out her hand. As he bent over it she said, in a much gentler tone than that which she had been using: "I am really well, only I have nerves. Charles, however, is using me very ill. He says that nerves are nonsense. Do you think so?"
"In my country, mademoiselle, they are considered serious. A lady who has them retires to her bed and expects all her friends to come and amuse her till she is better. Charles, you are heartless."
Deborah looked a little shocked at his first statement and his matter-of-fact tone when making it; but she said nothing. Presently Father St. Quentin appeared at the door. After stopping to extend a hearty greeting to de Mailly, he flung a Latin imperative at poor Charles, who obeyed it with the poorest possible grace, leaving the room alone to Deborah and the Count. Claude seated himself near her, and looked at her for a few seconds in silence, noting a difference in her general expression. She was too languid to be embarrassed by the pause, but, not caring to return the scrutiny, slightly turned her head and looked toward the windows.
"I owe Miss Travis an apology, do I not?"
She glanced towards him now in some surprise. "An apology? For what?"
"Nay, then I will not make it. I will only tell you that, as the preserver of a child's life, I must reverence your talent, on which, I confess, I had looked with ill-timed disapproval."
Deborah gazed at him thoughtfully. "I recollect now. You were displeased to think that I would poison a cat. I assure you it was the cat saved Sambo's life. Neither of them died."
"So Dr. Carroll told me. I have heard all that you did on that afternoon; and I, like the doctor, have not words to express my admiration."
"You are very kind. Please—do not let us talk of that. I came here to forget. Come—would you entertain me, monsieur?"
"In whatever way lies in my power."
"Why, then, it is done. It would give me infinite entertainment, monsieur, to hear the life of the ladies of the French Court, where you lived. The doctor has told me what a great Court it is. How do the ladies dress, what do they eat, do they go every night to the assembly? Faith, that would be tiresome enough, I think!"
De Mailly laughed a little at her comment, but did not immediately comply with the request. Memory had once more come home to him again, but this time with a curious addition. Of a sudden he found that he could definitely imagine Deborah Travis as having a place in that French Court that she spoke of. It was a curious notion, and he regarded her for some time contemplatively, before he began to speak.
"If you were in Versailles, Mademoiselle Deborah, you would doubtless be madame."
"What! Are there no unmarried ladies there?"
"Yes—a few. Those who cannot find a husband. But we are supposing that you would not be there unless some grand seigneur had married you and carried you away."
Deborah laughed merrily, and Claude, with some satisfaction, perceived that she had entered into his own spirit. "Continue! continue!" she cried. "I am already perishing with interest."
"You would dwell in an apartment in—we will say the Rue des Rossignols—that is the name of a street. Let us see. You sleep in a charming room hung in white brocade. Your dressing-room will be in pink satin, with the chairs in tapestry which monsieur would have embroidered for you—"
"Monsieur—a man—embroider!"
"Oh yes. The King himself commanded de Gêvres to teach him stitches a year ago. He began foursiègesat once, I remember, and de Mouhy made an excellentbon-motabout it. No matter. Your tapestries in apple-green, your tables in mahogany, and your sets in ivory—or gold? Which?"
"Ivory, I think. Pink satin and ivory would be—oh, most beautiful!" she replied, cocking her head a little on one side.
He nodded, appreciative of her taste. "The salon—blue and gold; the dining-room in green; and, for monsieur's room, we will let it go. At nine in the morning you have your chocolate in bed. Half an hour later you rise, and your toiletteà la modebegins."
"Oh, what is a toiletteà la mode?"
The Count shrugged his shoulders. "You, in a delightfulnégligé, receive in the pink satin boudoir, while your hair is powdered. Yours would never need to be curled, mademoiselle.Eh bien! During the toilette you would have cakes and cordial, or more chocolate. At one o'clock you meet monsieur the husband, and dine with him either alone or at the palace. For the afternoon there are a thousand things. You attend a levée, the hunt, a salon, a teaà l'anglaise; you drive, promenade in the Orangerie or a Paris boulevard; you visit shops; you attend a sale; you receive at home; or, perhaps, if the night is to be fatiguing, you sleep. You never spin, you do not knit, nor do you—distil poisons and save lives, Mistress Deborah. At seven you sup—hardly this time with monsieur, who has his own engagements. Later you attend the Opéra or the Italiens, indulge in a little supper with a party later, and return to Versailles shortly after midnight. If you are in his Majesty's immediate circle you go to Choisy, perhaps. But—that, mademoiselle—I trust—you will never do. Now do you think the life pleasant?"
"I'm sure I cannot tell," was the demure response; but the girl's face belied her words. It was aglow with pleasure. "And what is it that you would do, monsieur? How—how could you have borne it to leave such a life? Did you really tire of it? Was—"
He rose sharply to his feet, and she broke off at once, astonished and half frightened at the change in his face. "There are many thorns among the roses, mademoiselle. Life is not happier there than here. And some day—some day, perhaps—I will tell you the other side of it; why"—he almost whispered now, for his throat was dry—"why I left it all."
"Oh, forgive me! I had not meant to pain you."
He looked down into the face that had lost all its glow of pleasure, took her slight hand, kissed it quietly, and left her alone to think over all that had been said, to wonder over the uncertain promise of more, and to hope that he would neither forget nor repent.
The little conversation had taken her mind away from herself and set it in a new and far-off channel. When Dr. Carroll came back from his walk to the wharves, he found his little guest with color in her face and animation in her air. She told him of de Mailly's visit, and Carroll, judging its effect, resolved that the tonic should be administered often while his patient remained with him. The result was that, in the following days, Claude de Mailly and Deborah were thrown constantly together. And during their lively conversations, or, perhaps, even more so in their desultory ones, there grew up between them an intimacy more of good-fellowship than anything else, the spirit of which deceived both Claude and the doctor, though how much prophecy Deborah might have made concerning it, would be more difficult to say.
One afternoon, a Friday, and two days before Deborah was to return to the plantation, while the doctor was at his counting-house near the wharves, and the two little sisters sat together spinning in the sitting-room, their guest, panting with the heat inside the house, and wishing also to escape young Charles, who would presently be relieved from hisHorace, sought out her largest hat and crept out of doors, passing down the street in the direction of the Vawse inn. She had not seen de Mailly for nearly twenty-four hours, and, as a consequence, her day was empty. She had small hopes of encountering him now, but was too restless to remain any longer in the room with the two old maids and their whirring wheels. She passed the quaintly gabled tavern, whose door, contrary to custom, was closed. Evidently Miriam was out. There was no sign of life about the windows. Claude himself was probably not there. Deborah walked on, disappointedly, as far as the court-house, and, still not wishing to admit to herself that she had come out simply with the hope of encountering de Mailly, turned down Green Street and followed it to the water's edge. The Stewart quay was deserted, and she halted there to look over the smooth, warm stretch of water. It was very still. The idle swash of the ripples against the pier was the only sound that reached her ears. The atmosphere was hazy with heat. It seemed as though it was the very weight and thickness of the air which gradually formed a solid arch of purple storm-clouds above the river to the west. Presently the sun was obscured. Still Deborah stood, heedlessly watching the bay, and breathing slowly in the stifling heat. Suddenly some one appeared beside her.
"Mademoiselle—mademoiselle—you will surely be wet."
Deborah turned her head towards him with a smile of pleasure which she would have repressed if she could. "Did you fall from the clouds, sir?"
"No. I have myself been wandering by the water this afternoon; and for the past quarter of an hour I have been watching the gathering storm—and you. Come, mademoiselle, we must seek shelter—and quickly."
"Let us try to reach Miriam's. We can run."
He took her arm as she spoke, and they started together down Hanover Street to Charles, which ran straight up for five blocks to Gloucester Street and the Vawse tavern. As they passed the Reynolds ordinary a deafening clap of thunder broke over them. Deborah shivered, and de Mailly put an arm about her to help her faster on their way. The street was empty. The heat had not yet broken, and beads of perspiration stood on their faces as they went. A long hiss of lightning glided like a snake through the storm-cloud. The town was almost dark. Deborah had begun to pant, and her companion could feel the beating of her heart shake her whole frame.
"C'est rien, mademoiselle. Nous sommes presque là. L'orage sera vraiment énorme!" he muttered rapidly.
A moment more and, as a new thunder-clap rattled down the sky, a sudden cold breath struck the city. With the wind, which blew like a hurricane down the river, came a pelting rain. The two reached their destination barely in time. Claude flung open the door of the tavern, and Deborah was blown over its threshold in a gush of water.
It was with some difficulty that Claude shut and bolted the door in the face of the wind. When he turned about his companion lay back on a wooden settle in a state of exhaustion. While the gale howled without and the thunder crashed down the heavens; he lit a candle with his tinder-box, brought a glass of strong waters for Deborah, and helped her gently to a more comfortable chair. He took the hat from her tumbled hair, chafed her hands till her nails grew pink again, and then stood back regarding her anxiously.
"Oh, I'm quite recovered. It was a long run. Where—where is Miriam?"
"Mistress Vawse? John Squire's boy broke a limb falling from a roof, and she has gone to attend the—what do you say?—setting of it."
"Then we are here quite alone?" asked the girl, nervously.
"Surely Miss Travis is not afraid with me?" Claude looked at her in hurt surprise. "I will retire at once to my room. When the rain ceases—"
Deborah laughed a little. "No, no. You misunderstand. I am afraid of storms. I should be frightened to death to be left here alone with—that."
Both listened as the long, low growl of thunder rolled down the sky and died away. It was growing darker again. A new storm was rising.
Claude, much relieved at the sincerity of Deborah's tone, drew a stool near her. "May I sit here by you, then?" he asked.
Deborah nodded and leaned back in her own chair. Then there fell a little silence on the room. The girl's unconscious eyes travelled over de Mailly's face as he sat regarding the rain-splashed windows; and they found a new expression, a new paleness, an unusual soberness, upon the clear-cut features. Unthinkingly, Deborah spoke:
"You are changed to-day, monsieur. I have not seen you so before. Why are you melancholy?"
He turned towards her quickly. "Yes, I have what we callles papillons noirsto-day. In some way, Mistress Deborah, 'tis your fault. In these last days I have said so much to you of my former life, jestingly perhaps, and yet feeling it, that to-day it has brought me homesickness."
Before his frank look Deborah's eyelids drooped, and presently, with a little hesitation, she said: "You once told me that some day you would relate to me why it was that you left your home. Could you not—now?"
"Ah, no!" The exclamation was impetuous. "It is not a story for you, mademoiselle. An older woman might hear—but to you—"
"Think of me as older," she suggested, so quietly that his resolve was shaken.
"It will be hard to forgive me, I think, afterwards," he deprecated.
"What shall I have to forgive? 'Tis I that ask the tale."
"It is a story of unfortunate love," he said, regarding her narrowly.
Her head drooped farther. "Tell me all now, monsieur."
And so, out of an impulse which he could not have traced to its source, but which proceeded from a spirit of honesty and true chivalry, Claude recounted, with the utmost gentleness and delicacy, some of the incidents which had led to his exile. He said just enough of his cousin to let his listener decide what his feeling for her had been. And Deborah, oddly enough, perhaps, shrank from no part of the recital. She forgot herself, and saw through the eyes of the narrator all that he was describing. In their recent, half-serious talks on French life, the girl had gained a remarkably clear idea of what that life must be; and now this story affected her very differently than it would have done had it been her first glimpse of another existence. It resembled one of her vague dreams, this sitting alone in the cloud-darkened room, the feeble candle mingling its beams with the gloomy daylight; the shadowy figure of the man before her, and his low voice carrying on its story, seeming to be things very far away. And the fresh rain pelted on the windows, while the deep monotone of the thunder made a fitful and fitting accompaniment to the narrative.
"So, mademoiselle, it was there in the chapel that M. de Maurepas delivered me the letter from the King. Henri, madame's brother, was with me. I read the letter just there. I have forgotten if I spoke after it, or if either of them addressed me. Henri, I think, led me out and away, into the town, to our apartment. But next morning it was all very clear. Henri seemed to feel more than I. Later on that day I went to bid madame good-bye. She was very gracious—yes, most gracious."
"How could you go to see her? I should not have done so."
"Ah, mademoiselle, I had to see her. I wished to take her with me as my wife. She did not come. Non. She gave me, instead, to bring away for memory of her—this." Claude put his hand inside his vest and brought out two things, the long white gauntlet, and a letter with the royal seal. As he handed the gage to Deborah, the paper dropped to the floor.
While the girl looked at the glove for the second time, de Mailly picked up his letter of exile, and sat smoothing it on his knee. Then he asked, unthinkingly: "This letter from the King—will you read it?"
She held out her hand and took the small, worn paper with its red-brown seal and the arms of France upon it. Regarding the fine, crabbed writing, she said, with a faint smile: "I do not easily read French, monsieur."
"Shall I read it to you, then, as well as I can—in English?"
She nodded once more, and he, taking the missive from her hand, cleared his throat and began, with a little effort:
"'Owing to certain circumstances which of late have had the misfortune greatly to displease S.M., the King desires to inform Count Claude Vincent Armand Victor de Nesle de Mailly that the absence of the Count from the château and city of Versailles after the noon of Friday, January 22d, in this year of 1744, will be desirable to S.M.; and that after the first day of the month of February, Monsieur the Count, if he has not already crossed the line of the French Kingdom, would of necessity be placed under the escort of one of his Majesty's officers. The King wishes monsieur a delightful journey, and—'"
Claude's eyes, running on before his tongue, suddenly realized the subject of the next few lines, and he suddenly stopped.
"Go on, monsieur," murmured Deborah, after an instant.
"'GO ON, MONSIEUR,' MURMURED DEBORAH""'GO ON, MONSIEUR,' MURMURED DEBORAH"
"Mademoiselle, I—cannot. There is nothing more."
"Go on, monsieur," she repeated, quietly.
Claude passed his hand over his brow. Then he lifted the letter again and continued: "'—and begs further to add that when monsieur shall desire to present Madame la Comtesse his wife to their Majesties at Versailles, his return to his present abode will be most pleasing to
"'LOUIS R.'
At the close of the last line Claude looked up, apprehensively. Deborah was very white, and there was an unusual brightness in her eyes. He could not catch her glance. Her head drooped, and presently she covered her face with her hands. He sprang up, impetuously.
"Deborah—Deborah—forget that last! I—didn't mean to read it."
He spoke rather incoherently. Perhaps the girl did not even understand him. At any rate, after a moment, she lifted her head with a dignity that Claude did not know. "I thank you, M. de Mailly, for telling me the story as I asked." There was a little, wretched pause, and then she added, more faintly: "See, the storm is nearly over. I must go back now—to the doctor's house."
Another week went by, and Deborah, quite recovered from her slight illness, bade Dr. Carroll and his sisters good-bye and returned, on a Sunday afternoon, to the Trevor place. It was then about the 1st of August, and certain rumors relative to the reception of the returning commissioners from Lancaster, rumors dearly exciting to the feminine heart, began to radiate from the gubernatorial palace and to spread throughout the country-side. For once in its long existence rumor spoke truth. Upon the 6th day of August were issued elaborate cards ("tickets," they called them then) of invitation for a Governor's ball to be given upon the evening of the 21st to the returning officials. With the delivery of these cards a thrill of excitement and anticipation pulsated through all Anne Arundel County, even running a little way over its irregular borders; and innumerable were the earnest conversations through town and country houses as to costumes suitable for such an occasion. Great hopes, that sank often to despair, were entertained of the arrival of theBaltimore, with her usual cargo of vain and delightful things. It was calculated with the nicest discrimination that she might reach port, provided the winds were amiable to an impossible degree, as early as the 15th. Then the weather of the West Atlantic was watched with supreme interest. It certainly was all that could be desired. Nevertheless, the 15th came and went without theBaltimore, and there was wailing on both sides of the Severn. In time the interest in the ship's arrival came to surpass its object; though, indeed, Betty Pritchard voiced many another's feeling when she one day cried out, wofully:
"If theBaltimoredoesn't come in, I'll have no pink taffeta for a petticoat to my satin overdress. If I don't have the petticoat, I won't go to the ball; and if I don't go to the ball, I shall die!"
One of the most anxious watchers for the arrival of the ship was, oddly enough, Madam Trevor. Her anxiety concerning it quite passed the comprehension of her daughters, who had not a suspicion of what was in their mother's mind. Vincent knew more, but had never seen fit to talk to his sister on the subject of the pearls which were to form Virginia Trevor's ornaments on the day that she married Sir Charles. It was tacitly understood between young Trevor and his mother that he should speak to his cousin on the arrival of the jewels, and it was madam's ambition to be able to spread the news of Virginia's engagement at the much-talked-of ball.
TheBaltimorewas a considerate ship, and her captain the favorite of all sea-going men in Annapolis. Neither lost a reputation this time, for, on the 20th of August, at ten o'clock in the morning, theBaltimorecast anchor in the lower piers, and Annapolis womanhood sighed with relief. It was but seven o'clock on the evening of the same day, and the Trevor family sat at supper in the glass room, watching the twilight deepen over the scented garden, when Pompey hastily entered to announce the unexpected arrival of young Charles Carroll.
"An' he sayBaltimo'e's heah, Mis' Trev'," he added, eagerly, glad to be the first with the news.
Madam Trevor rose with a light in her face as the doctor's son came merrily in. Having saluted each member of the party, he advanced to the mistress of the house, paused for an instant to take on an air of heavy responsibility, and finally produced, from the pockets of his new cloth coat, two packages, wrapped in paper and tied with cord, the one square and flat, the other five inches thick and also square.
"From Captain Croft," he observed, handing them to Madam Trevor, while all at the table looked on with interest. In a moment the strings were cut, and the paper wrappings thrown off. Two cases of dark green morocco appeared. With a deep-drawn breath her mother carried them round the table and set them before Virginia.
"They are to be yours," she said, gently. "Open them."
Virginia, surprised, but unmoved, lifted the covers from the cases. In one, upon a green satin lining, reposed a necklace of round, softly shining pearls, set in gold, with a pendant of pear-shaped pearls and sapphires. The other case contained a hair ornament, also of pearls, pink and black, in two even rows, surmounted by a delicate scroll-work of the smaller stones, that shone in the dusk with exquisite beauty.
Virginia drew a deep sigh of admiration. Lucy cried out with delight; and Madam Trevor and the gentlemen, looking on in high interest, did not notice Deborah, who sat silent, eager, with her great eyes fixed in unwinking fascination on the perfect gems.
"Put them on, Virginia," cried young Charles, and there was a murmur of approval.
Lilith, who had been standing by her husband at a little distance, lost in admiration, nudged old Adam.
"Fetch some can'les," she whispered, excitedly.
Virginia, with a little smile, took up the necklace, and her mother clasped it about her slender throat. Then the tiara was set and pinned upon her powdered curls, and Adam, coming forward with a candle in each hand, held the lights up before her.
"'Ginny, you must wear them to the ball!" cried Lucy, ecstatically.
Virginia had no time to reply, for her mother gently interposed: "They are not Virginia's yet, Lucy. She shall wear them on her wedding-day."
Charles Fairfield started slightly as his unfortunate eyes suddenly encountered those of Virginia, who, in her turn, flushed and bent her head.
"I shall never wear them, then," was on her tongue to say; but her brother interrupted.
"Charlie," he said, addressing his cousin, "come down to the river with me and see the moon rise. It's in the full to-night."
"Oh, may I come, too?" said Lucy, eagerly.
"No, Lucy; I need you here," interposed her mother, much annoyed with Vincent's want of tact.
Fairfield, grasping the whole situation, rose at once, without a word. Before leaving the room he stole an involuntary glance at Deborah. She was looking at him, for she herself guessed what she did not know. Her lips were curled into a little smile of amusement that set the man's heart on fire with anger at—Madam Trevor. He said nothing, however, but quietly followed Vincent into the still evening.
An hour later Madam Trevor sat alone in the great hall. Young Charles and the three girls, one by one, had gone to their various rooms, and the mother was waiting alone for the return of her son and her nephew. She was unaccountably anxious over the result of the interview, though indeed there was not one reason which her nephew could, in honor, conjure up, whereby he might refuse to marry Virginia Trevor. It was with the understanding of a some-time marriage that he had come to America with Vincent months before, and because the matter had been so long silently understood, it should not have been hard for him to hear it finally discussed. Thus, many times over, Virginia's mother argued in the candle-light, while she waited. And still, into the midst of her most unanswerable conclusion, would creep a doubt, a suspicion that she would not voice, the name of one whom she tried in vain to put from her mind. It was Deborah. Deborah Travis and Charles Fairfield? Absurd! And yet—madam could see the face of the girl as it had been that evening when Vincent and his cousin left the room. She could see the ironical light in the gray-blue eyes, the scornful curl of the red mouth, the unconscious insolence of the long, natural curl that fell, powderless, down her shoulder to the muslin ruffles at her elbow. Madam Trevor had a measure of justice in her, and she gave Deborah her due, admitting to herself that Virginia, in all her stateliness, with the pearls upon her, would never have tempted man to half the desperation that might be raised within him over this other silent creature, half child, half woman, of madam's own generation.
The clock on the wall ticked ten and went on again. At a quarter after, Trevor and Fairfield came in from the moonlight to the hall. Fairfield was very pale. Vincent's face was calm and unreadable. Sir Charles, seeing his aunt expectant, went over to her, lifted her passive hand to his lips, bowed, and left the room to retire to his own. When he was gone madam turned a puzzled and anxious face towards her son, who stood still, narrowly scrutinizing a portrait on the opposite wall.
"He has refused, then, Vincent?" she asked, finally.
"On the contrary, he will marry Virginia when you please."
"Then he asked too much dowry?"
"He said nothing at all of dowry."
"In Heaven's name, then—what is the matter?"
Vincent sighed, rather wearily. "Nothing is the matter. He does not love Virginia, of course, but—"
"Nonsense, my boy! He would not marry her if she were distasteful to him. Love will come. What girl loves her husband when she marries him? What else did he say, Vincent?"
Vincent shrugged his shoulders. "He said nothing at all. He informed me, when I spoke, that he did himself the honor formally to ask of me the hand of my elder sister. I accepted the offer. After that we walked about. I suppose you will make the engagement public at the ball on Wednesday. I'm deucedly tired to-night. Permit me to wish that you will sleep well."
"Good-night, my dear Vincent. Your scruples portray the height of your nature. I honor you for them—but do not worry. Everything will be well. And so good-night."
With great relief at her heart the mother gently kissed her son, and then, as he departed with his candle, she blew out all but one of those remaining in the hall, and with that lighted herself to her rooms in the eastern wing.
At the other end of the house, in the chamber corresponding to Madam Trevor's, on the ground floor, was that of Sir Charles. Outside his room, in the passage, were the stairs; and directly overhead were the long, narrow spinning-room, the hand-loom in its corner, and, incidentally, Deborah's diminutive chamber. Sir Charles had retired, for want of anything better to do, and now lay on his cool, flat bed, sleepless, restless, and a prey to unhappy thoughts. It had come to pass, that thing which he had dreaded all the summer through. He was engaged to marry Virginia Trevor. In a night or two all Maryland would be ringing with the affair. In as many months he and his bride would be leaving the colonies, Annapolis, the plantation—in short, Deborah—probably forever. And Sir Charles twisted and turned and tried to put the grayish eyes and the curling red lips out of his mind. They refused to go. Finally another thought came to bear them company—a thought generated by them, perhaps, and certainly bold enough and daring enough to smack of the Court of a Stuart, and to seem absolutely mad in this prim colonial bedroom of old George Guelph's staid American dependency. None the less the thought had found a congenial home, and it expanded, flourished, and gained body and limb till a merry, full-grown plot was playing havoc with young Fairfield's hope of sleep. He continued to lie there, restless and scheming, till all his own thoughts were banished by the sound of footsteps and a trailing of garments, and a curious liveliness of movement coming to his quickened senses from the room overhead.
Deborah also was awake. Rather, the moonlight, creeping along the pillow to her face, had roused her, by slow degrees, from a half waking dream. Alone, in the silent, enchanted night, with no disturbing day-thoughts to banish the lingering visions of sleep, the dream stayed and grew to be a fantasy of reality. She rose from her bed and moved slowly towards her open windows, through which the bluish silver moonlight flowed, changing the room into a misty-veiled fairy place. Below, outside the window, lay the dreaming rose-garden. The lazily floating odor of full-blown flowers came up to her, as incense on its way to a higher heaven. Beyond this lay the deep-shadowed wood, with here and there a high, feathery tree-top waving to the stars. The rippling plash of the river played a low accompaniment to the night hymns of the myriad creatures singing through the country-side. Far beyond the garden, rising like two cloud-shadows through the luminous night, were the great tobacco barns. Slave-cabins, still-house, kitchen, well-sweep, all were changed, by the mysterious power of night, to things of natural beauty. And Deborah was changed. Her dreams had been of courts and palaces, of dimly resplendent royal figures, among which she, and Charles Fairfield, and Claude de Mailly moved in inexplicable near-relationship. She, Deborah Travis, had just been crowned Queen of all Europe by the hand of Majesty, with her cousin Virginia's pearls. Now, in the waking dream, Deborah could not turn her thoughts from those same softly shining things that Virginia was to wear upon her wedding-day.
Presently, with this single image in her mind, Deborah found herself outside her room, and creeping, in her white garment, with naked feet, down, down the stairs, past Sir Charles's door, through the deserted, moonlit living-rooms, with their misplaced furniture and the scattered articles of a day waiting for dawn and Lilith to be put straight. She passed across the sitting-room, down the east passage, and, finally, in at the doorway of Madam Trevor's dressing-room. Once inside Deborah halted. Madam Trevor's garments lay, neatly folded, upon a chair. The door to the bedchamber beyond was half closed. From within came the light sound of regular breathing. Deborah smiled, and turned to the great black chest of drawers beside the window. Here also the moonlight illumined her way. She opened the top drawer noiselessly. Within, on a bed of lavender, lay the two morocco cases for which she had come. She took them up, left the drawer open, and glided quietly away again.
Once more in her own room the girl opened the cases and placed them on her dressing-table, their priceless contents all unveiled. Then she went to her own chest of drawers, and took from one of them the dress that she was to wear two nights later at the Governor's ball, a petticoat of stiff, white satin, and an overdress of China crepe, of the color of apple-blossoms, a thing that clung lovingly to her lithe figure, and vied in softness of tone with her neck and arms. These things she put on, with rapid, careless precision; and then, her fingers grown a little colder, she lifted the pearl necklace from its satin bed and clasped it about her warm throat. Afterwards she sat down on a low chair before the dressing-table, with its dim mirror, and took the tiara from the other box, placing it over her rebellious, silky curls.
"Ah, Claude, Claude, how was it, that thy cousin looked?" she murmured indistinctly, with a vague smile at her thought.
The dreamy, languorous eyes that knew not all they beheld, gazed at the reflected image of her face. How beautifully the young head in its coronet was poised upon the pearl-wreathed neck! Was it a new Deborah sprung to life here, in this August midnight? Was it only a momentary madness that should not be told, this carrying out of a dim vision? What was it that Deborah murmured to her mirror? What did she say to the shadowy throngs of courtiers that pressed about her chair? Was ever la Châteauroux more regal, more gracious? Were ever Comtesse de Mailly, and poor little Pauline Félicité, Marie Anne's predecessors, more gay, more delicately glowing, than this other, of alien race?
From the heap of her finery Deborah sought out a painted fan, and, with this finishing touch of coquetry, she began walking up and down her tiny room, pausing now and then at the window, for the night would not be disregarded, waving the fan with an air inimitable and unacquired, seeing herself thus in the Orangerie of Versailles, or on one of the Paris boulevards as crowded with fashion and gallantry upon a Sunday afternoon. After a little she grew tired, and her mind dropped its imaginings. She seated herself beside the window, and, unclasping the necklace, took it off and held the jewels up in the moonlight, pressing their soft smoothness to her cheek, where the pendant drops hung like falling tears.
Suddenly, upon the perfect stillness around her, broke a sound. Slow stealthy footsteps were crossing the floor of the spinning-room just outside. Deborah grew cold with instant terror. She heard a hand placed upon her door, and then came a voice, soft, well known, through the stillness: "Deborah—Deborah!"
It was the lightest of whispers, but every accent fell distinctly on the girl's terrified ears. Moving noiselessly in her bare feet, she carried the necklace to the bureau, took the ornament from her head, and laid each piece in its case. Then, running across the floor, she knelt in her ball-dress, at the door, grasping its handle firmly.
"Deborah—you are awake?" repeated Sir Charles, more delicately yet.
The girl breathed fast, but made not a sound. Only her hand tightened upon the handle, and her figure stiffened with determination.
"Let me come in," he said.
Then silence fell between the two, separated by three inches of board and Deborah's will, there in the August night. There was no one to know that he was there. Vincent, and Lucy, and young Charles Carroll, sound sleepers all of them, were in the body of the house; and Virginia was above her mother in the far eastern wing. The muscles in Deborah's body grew more rigid, and desperately she held herself against the door. But Fairfield was making no effort to enter. It should be only with her own consent that he would do that.
"Deborah—beloved—open to me! Deborah—hear me as I have heard you for an hour past. Let me in—Deborah—my dear!"
She shut her eyes and pressed her forehead against her arm. There was a silence, breathless, endless, terrifying to the girl in the room. Then her weight of fear was lifted. The footsteps slowly retreated from her door, out of the spinning-room, down the stairs, and entered into the room below her own. She sank weakly to her knees, and a breath like a sob shook her slight frame. She was intensely sleepy now. For very weariness, it was hard to realize the crisis through which she had passed. But there was a task still before her, and one at which she trembled. Rising unsteadily, too wise to give herself time to think, she took the jewel-cases from her toilet-table, opened her door, crept out, and down the stairs, and passed stealthily back to madam's dressing-room. The room, the drawer, were as she had left them. Replacing Virginia's pearls in their bed of lavender, she pushed the drawer to, inch by inch, till it was closed. Three minutes later she had once more crossed the threshold of her own room. And while the pale moon set and the day dawned in crimson and turquoise over the distant Chesapeake, Deborah slept dreamlessly—Claude, and the Versailles pageants, and Charles Fairfield's strange madness all lost to her for the moment under the spell of the great blessing of youth.
Matters were different with Sir Charles, below. No sleep had the dusky dawn, with its liquid bird-warblings and its fresh day-odor, for him. He was thinking of what he had done—and of what he should do. The impulse that had driven him to go to the room above was past now. He knew only that he had forfeited her very tolerance of him; and the thought quickened his half-generated love into a sudden, fervid life that swayed his senses and fired his brain to plots and plans of unwise daring. At six o'clock he was dressed, and sat him down to wait for Deborah's waking. It was an endless hour, and day had begun over the whole plantation before he heard her cross the floor over his head, and knew that his waiting was bounded at last.
Deborah was half dressed before the sudden memory of the past night flashed over her. Then her hands dropped to her sides, and she sat still for a little, thinking. How should she meet Charles Fairfield before them all—or, worse yet, if possible, alone? How could he meet her? Had she done anything wrong? No. What he had done was not her concern. And thereupon, with a lighter heart, but doubt still in her face, she finished dressing, set her room to rights—for she was immaculately neat—and started away without seeming reluctance. She was going downstairs, her thoughts centred on the breakfast-room as the place of ordeal. The door at the stair-foot opened; Sir Charles came out of his room and stood below her, barring the way.
She stopped stock-still, noting the pallor of his face and the dark circles below his blue eyes. Then suddenly she smiled, and said, brightly, "Good-morning, Sir Charles."
"Is it good-morning to me, Deborah? Deborah, I make you my humblest apologies. I crave your for—"
She came down the last three steps with a changed expression. "We'll not speak of that," she said, slowly, in a perfectly frigid tone.
Thereupon she would have passed him, but he caught her suddenly by the delicate wrists. "Yes, we will speak of it, Debby. I will have it so. You shall grant me pardon, Debby."
"And why, sir, pray? Is my pardon at your command?"
"You'll forgive me because—because I love you, Deborah. You'll forget when you are become my wife. You will pardon me when you know all."
Down the upper hall came the blithe, morning whistle of young Charles Carroll. He was approaching the stairs.
"Speak to me, Deborah," muttered Fairfield, with desperate earnestness.
Deborah gave him a long, strange look from her gray eyes. It was an inscrutable look, one that baffled him who caught it; but he did not know that the feeling which it called forth had baffled also the girl.
"Good-morning to you, Deborah!" cried young Charles. "Good-morning, Fairfield! Oh, but I'm hungry! Are we going to breakfast now?"
"Yes, I suppose so," responded Deborah, absently.
"Do you return to town this morning?" inquired Fairfield, as they all passed through the sitting-room.
"Yes. Though if I could help it, I would not."
"I'll ride with you, then. I am going to-day to call on Rockwell. Good-morning, Lucy. Ah, Vincent!"
"You ride to town to-day?" inquired Vincent, when the greetings were over. "You'll see Rockwell to-morrow, you know, at our famous ball."
"Um—yes, but I prefer to-day. I've a matter to arrange with him."
At this speech Deborah glanced at Fairfield, and, at the meaning in his look, a wave of color rolled swiftly over her face. It was as well that, at this moment, Madam Trevor, with Virginia close behind her, entered the breakfast-room, and the morning meal began.
Tuesday passed as rapidly or as slowly as one would have had the last day before a long-looked-for event. Sir Charles rode away in the early morning, but returned to the plantation in the afternoon, to find even Vincent busy over a package of finery sent out, at Madam Trevor's order, from theBaltimore. Sir Charles himself was not interested. His spotless full-dress uniform, his orders, his finest ruffles, his paste buckles and silk stockings were quite ready, and there were no further touches that he could add to the costume. During the afternoon and evening he paid no attention at all to Deborah, but was, on the contrary, so attentive to hisfiancéethat Madam Trevor softened and grew voluble with pleasure.
Wednesday dawned clear and hot, and from earliest morning every household in the county was in a moil of final preparation. Governor Bladen was to give a dinner to the commissioners and his own staff and officials before the ball. To this, of course, Sir Charles had been bidden, and he, therefore, was to leave the house at four in the afternoon, fully dressed for the evening, wrapped about in a long and voluminous cloak to protect him from the dust and the foam of his horse. As he passed through the sitting-room on his way out to the portico, where his animal waited, he found Deborah standing by a tableful of moss-roses which she was sorting. Passing close to her side he said, gallantly: "Faith, Debby, you'll be no fairer to-night in the satins than you are now in calico." And, while he stopped to take a bud from the heap, he added, in a rapid undertone: "If you'd not drive me mad, little girl, bring your courage with you to-night, and see that you trust to me truly, as I do to you."
Then he passed on, and Deborah, unconscious of what she did, followed him slowly out to the portico and stood gazing after him as he galloped away down the dusty drive. Strange words he had spoken—and the first that he had given her all day. Yet she was not surprised by them. Words were oftentimes superfluous with Deborah, for she had the power of knowing men's thoughts. Dreamily her eyes wandered down the road at the little cloud of dust that lingered after him. She was soon to follow on that way. And how—how was she to return? She could not answer the question, and it was as well that Lucy at that moment called her from the house:
"Come, Debby, come and pack your things for the doctor's to-night. And 'tis nearly time to dress; and oh, Deb! Think of the dancing, and the lights, and our dresses—and all, and all, and all!" And with sober John Whitney gone quite out of her mind for the moment, Lucy fluttered away to her room, leaving Deborah to follow as she would.
His excellency John Bladen, like most colonial governors, knew how to give a dinner to any one, and, most particularly, a dinner to men only. To-night twenty sat at his table: the seven returned commissioners, the gubernatorial staff, the speaker of the Burgesses, the under-secretary, Mr. Robert King, Dr. Charles Carroll (this last from friendship purely), and, for the sake of the Church, the Reverend George Rockwell. The select company ate mightily, but, later, drank more cautiously than usual out of respect to the forthcoming festivities; and finally they sat about the disordered table with some pipes of fine Virginia tobacco, presented by Governor Gooch in lieu of his own presence, some bottles of Madeira from the same patronizing source, and certain good stories, not quite invented for the ear of the Church, but apparently in no way distasteful to the eminent rector of St. Anne's, who, indeed, to be frank, told the best of them himself. It was a man's dinner, an official dinner, where, none the less, the weight of ordinary dignity was for once dropped off, and all went merry as a marriage bell. Sir Charles was seated opposite to Benedict Calvert, with a brother lieutenant on either side of him. His wit was poignant, his laughter ready, and his head cool, albeit there was enough work in his brain to have made a man less careless too anxious to eat. Rockwell being several seats away, it was impossible to speak with him on personal topics; but the moment it was announced that Lady Bladen waited in the drawing-room, Rockwell and Fairfield sought each other through the little throng, as if by mutual understanding.
"You're prepared to go through with it, George?" asked the young man, putting one hand on the rector's shoulder.
"Egad, if you can go it, I can, Sir Charles."
"You'll miss something of the festivity—but you'll be ten pounds heavier in pocket to-morrow, George."
"Ay. And so the lady's consented? Faith! She well may! It's such a chance as she never dreamed of."
"The lady does not know, yet. I'll take her to-night, in the heat of the evening, when her blood will be up. She's rare, George, she's rare! Odds my life that such another woman does not live! I—"
"Tut! Then you're still determined—that—"
"What?"
"It shall be legal?"
"Zounds, man, not another word! What do you take me for? She's a cousin, I tell you, George. And I'm already engaged to Miss Trevor."
"The devil you are!"
"Ay. I couldn't escape. 'Twill be all out to-night. But I'll have little Deborah if I have to fight Annapolis single-handed."
"Um. About the ceremony—Miriam Vawse will witness for one, but 'tis usual to have two—"
"There's the Frenchman. Faith, that would be a stroke! He's led me a jealous dance for months. We'll have him down from his room to sign the articles—or whatever you do. To think that I'll be a Benedict by morning! Lord! Lord! Congratulate me, George!"
"Come away, man. You've too much Jamaica in you, and the ladies are beginning to arrive. I hear Mistress Paca's voice on the stairs. Come and make your compliments to the Governor's lady."
Having performed this duty as punctiliously as only he was able, Sir Charles left Rockwell's side and strolled slowly up the big, candle-lit room, at one end of which a band of musicians were already tuning their instruments. After a moment or two of indecision he joined a little company of officers who sat together in a corner, talking lightly among themselves, and commenting on the guests who were beginning to arrive.
"Ouf! On my soul, there's Cradock with Rockwell. How do they stand it?"
"Oh, the chaplain's been off so long that he's forgotten how they once struggled for St. Anne's—"
"Or else he wants to hear the story that George wouldn't tell over the Madeira."
"Yes, I've listened to it fourteen times, but always with Jamaica to back it."
"There's Dorothy Mason and her mother."
"Egad, she's got on green again! 'Tis the only color that does not become her. Why—"
"Oh, doubtless young Thomas likes it."
"There he is—"
"With Caroline Harwood. Poor Dorry!"
"I'll go comfort her."
One of the young men left the group and joined the knot of ladies who stood talking at a little distance from the door.
"Oh, good-evening, Lieutenant Henry!" cried a piquant-looking damsel in a gown of rather brilliant green satin, with flounced petticoat of white.
"Your most obedient, Mistress Mason. I can see you will have small mercy on hearts to-night."
"Lord, Mr. Henry, you're the most open flatterer! I vow I never looked worse."
"Oh, I protest! I call the gods to witness! Are you engaged for the minuet?"
Dorothy wriggled her shoulders, colored, glanced swiftly towards Robin Thomas, who still lingered by Miss Harwood, saw that the case was hopeless for her, and so replied, in a provoked manner: "La! How should I be engaged when we've seen no one for a week? Our plantation's such a distance from the river."
"You'll honor me, then?"
"Oh, with thanks. Look, there are the Trevors. They were just in the dressing-room when I came down. You've heard the news?"
"No. Tell it me."
"Ginny Trevor's engaged at last."
"What! Not to—"
"Sir Charles Fairfield."
"Monstrous! Monstrous! Why, he's been eating with us for three hours and never told! Lord! If 'twere any but you had told me, I swear I'd discredit it. There he goes to them now."
Madam Trevor, her daughters, Vincent, and Deborah were just entering the room. They had arrived fifteen minutes before, and no time, certainly, had been wasted in the announcement of Virginia's engagement. The room was in a buzz of conversation, and not a little of it was relative to the two young people who now stood rather uncomfortably side by side, Virginia straight and cold, her companion cursing inwardly at women's tongues, and staring at the back of Deborah, who was laughing with Will Paca.
"You will give me the minuet, at least, Virginia?" he asked, with considerate nonchalance.
She shrugged slightly, as she rejoined: "Go and engage Debby for a country-dance, then, before she is all bespoken."
Fairfield glanced at her sharply, with surprise in his look. She was smiling at him in the most unconcerned manner possible. After an instant's hesitation he bowed deeply, and left her side, but made his way first to Lucy, who was manoeuvring to avoid Rockwell. From her he obtained two country-dances, for it was the fashion to change partners after the opening minuet and every two dances thereafter. Then he proceeded to Deborah, with whom Carleton Jennings was speaking.
"Ah, lieutenant!" cried that youth, merrily, at Charles's approach. "Miss Travis is just recounting your happiness. I'm in the same estate myself, you know, and—you have my congratulations. Miss Trevor cannot fail to grace whatever station in life she may attain to. I—"
"There now, that's quite enough, Jennings. Go and engage her for a dance, and pour a few of my graces into her ears. I've come to claim some attention of Miss Travis," cried Fairfield, with such unabashed good-nature that Jennings could not be angry. Thereupon, with a smile and an earnest injunction to Deborah not to forget the promised dances, he went off to Virginia.
The instant that he was alone with Deborah, Fairfield's artificial manner dropped from him, and he betrayed the extent to which he had keyed his nerves.
"You'll give me the fourth and fifth, and the eighth and ninth, Deborah?" he whispered, huskily, drawing her a little towards the wall.
The girl looked keenly into his pale face. "Two are enough. Why do you ask more of me?" she inquired.
"Because I have so much to explain to you. Because so much must happen to-night. You'll grant me the dances?"
"If you like. What is to happen to-night?"
He leaned over her and looked straight down into her steady eyes. "I am going to marry you to-night," he whispered, quietly.
Deborah did not change color. She scarcely realized what he had said.
"How? Where?" she asked, a faint smile curling her lips.
"No—I mean it. I will tell you when we dance."
Pausing a moment, undecidedly, after those words, he presently turned and left her there, staring at the opposite wall, not perceiving the little throng of officers who had set upon Charles with sudden elaborate congratulations, a good deal of chaff, and some expostulation, just across the room. Nor did she see Will Paca, her partner for the minuet, till she found him demanding the subject of her meditations.
The first strains of the opening minuet came from the orchestra up the room. The moving throng suddenly resolved into order, and various sets of sixteen were formed. The two Trevor girls were excellent dancers, both showing appreciation of natural harmony by the way in which they managed themselves: Lucy lightly, with an occasional added step; Virginia, with languorous grace, keeping perfect time, yet moving more leisurely than any other woman in the room. As to Deborah, her dancing was, ordinarily, the delight of her partner; for, no matter how lively her conversation, she had never been known to halt at a step. To-night it appeared as though she had forgotten the very rudiments of the accomplishment. She failed on all the returns, stumbled in her courtesies, walked upon the train of the lady in front of her, and, withal, maintained such unbreakable silence throughout the dance that her partner breathed with relief when the last chord was struck and the old people prepared to retire to cards. When Will Paca had left her and Robin Thomas approached for the first country-dance, Deborah shook herself vigorously, and vowed that for twenty minutes, at least, she would forget the existence of Sir Charles, in favor of her partner of the moment.
In the mean time Lucy had stumbled into a most unfortunate situation. The minuet over, she and her companion, talking and laughing together after the breaking up of the set, passed out of the large drawing-room into the hall, across which were the card-rooms. Towards these Madam Trevor, with Mrs. Harwood and Mr. King, was making her way, chatting volubly. As Lucy and her cavalier passed these three, the gentleman stopped her, smiling:
"Soho! This is the maid who had the impertinence to be engaged before her elder sister! Little minx! And how d'ye like Mistress Virginia's great match with your cousin? And will love keep the rectory warm for you while the windows of Castle Fairfield are blazing with lights in old England? Eh, small puss?"
Madam Trevor looked extremely ill at ease during this tasteless speech, especially as Mr. King did not drop Lucy's arm at the end of it, but seemed to hold her to reply. Lucy's face was flushed scarlet, and, to crown the affair, George Rockwell, with Vincent at his elbow, suddenly joined the group.
"I am not engaged, Mr. King," said Lucy, clearly.
"Not engaged, Lucy! Why, how now! We had all heard from thy mother, here, that Mr. Rockwell was the happiest of men," cried Mistress Harwood, noting madam's discomfort with a spice of malice.
"Faith, Mistress Harwood, my happiness is small enough to-night," remarked the portly George, coming forward. "The lady would not even grant me one Sir Roger."
Mistress Harwood raised her brows in amusement. "For an accepted husband, you are gentle not to command one," she said, laughing.
"Lucy, name Mr. Rockwell his dances at once, if he would still have them from any one so discourteous. I blush for you, indeed!" interposed her mother, sharply.
"Oh, coquetry—coquetry, madam! Youth is light o' heart. Come now, fair Lucy, and make this man happy," put in Mr. King, detaining her still.
Little Lucy raised her head, and caught Vincent's eyes upon her. His glance was not unkind. "I shall not grant Mr. Rockwell any dance to-night, and—and I am engaged, indeed, but not to him."
"What!"
"I am. I am engaged to Will Paca for the next dances." Lucy Lucy was stumbling now, fear at her daring sweeping suddenly over her.
Mr. King, in the midst of his laughter, found breath to say: "Will Paca for the dances, but who for the wedding, little Lucy—who's for that?"
Once more Lucy Trevor caught her brother's gaze, and she clung to it, unheeding Madam Trevor's angry face and Rockwell's mortified one.
"I shall wed John Whitney—the Puritan. Let me go, Mr. King! Mr. Chase is waiting!"
And Lucy, frightened, triumphant, proud of her faith in the man she loved, more proud of her certainty of his love for her, tore herself from Mr. King's loosened grasp, and, giving her hand to Jerry Chase, fairly ran away.
The group that she left behind was silent. Madam Trevor, utterly overcome, had not a word left at her command. Rockwell was in much the same state. Vincent, not a little astonished at his gentle sister's boldness, and deciding that the feeling which prompted it must be strong, was making a decision that was rather remarkable in, and exceedingly creditable to, a man of those narrow times. Mistress Harwood planned a morning's gossip on the morrow with a neighbor, at Antoinette Trevor's expense, and Mr. King decided that, were he a young blade again, it would be a girl of such spirit that he would have for his wife. And then, as the strains of the first reel sounded from the ballroom, the little group broke up.
Sir Charles, with cool forethought, had engaged no partner for these next two dances, but bent his steps upstairs through the house on an exploring expedition. He wandered through ladies' cloak-rooms, round halls and narrow corridors, finally discovering and descending a steep flight of stairs that took him down to the first floor, through a small passage, and out of the house into the yard at the back. This was what he had sought. The little door was open, for slaves and servants had been passing in and out of it through the whole evening; and so, satisfied in this direction, he returned to the front of the house at the close of the third dance.
Deborah, just finishing a round of laughter with Carleton Jennings, received Sir Charles with admirable self-possession, and they took their place silently in the set, which was a minuet. It was now that Fairfield had determined to set before the girl his arrangements for the evening's reckless finale. Under cover of the first slow strains of music and the first careful steps, he began:
"Have you any partners after the ninth dance?"
"No," said Deborah, steadily, understanding him at once.
"Do you—know of anything to come after the ninth dance?"
"No," she replied again, in a lower tone.
"Deborah—have you courage for an adventure?"
They saluted each other and gravely crossed over.
"I have courage, Sir Charles, if I have the will."
"Ah, Deborah—I entreat you to gain the will to-night!"
"For what?" she asked, softly.
"You know."
"Say it."
"To become—my wife."
Deborah flushed scarlet, and then the color fled, leaving her deathly white. There was a necessary silence between them, owing to the dance. When they came together again her partner went on:
"Would you fear, Debby, to walk from here to Mistress Vawse's house alone at midnight?"
Deborah looked at him quickly: "Why must I do that?"
"Listen." Again the courtesy and bow, and he continued: "After the seventh dance—you are engaged to me for the eighth and ninth—you must go up-stairs, put on your cloak and hood, and leave the dressing-room by the door that leads into the hall at the back. There I will meet you and conduct you down the servants' stairs, and you can escape the house by the little door into the yard. You know your way round the garden and out upon Church Street. From there 'tis easy to Miriam's."
"Ah!"
Fairfield went on, without heeding the faint exclamation: "Mistress Vawse expects you. I have seen her. She will make you comfortable till I come. I will give your excuses to Vincent, telling him that Carroll's black has taken you home since you have—a headache, or a torn ruffle, or a megrim—anything. I fancy he'll not follow you. As soon as I can, I will go after you with Rockwell. At the tavern he will marry us by book, Debby, and after—after I'll take you to the doctor's, and all will be well. 'Tis not difficult, Debby. Come—you will make me live among the gods to-night?"
He pressed to her side for the answer; but the dance presently separated them and she had not given it. Deborah's blood was running fast; her head was hot, her eyes brilliant, her cheeks flushed, none of which things would have been had she had no thought of considering this wild proposition. Nevertheless, she hesitated. Become Lady Fairfield, and, some day, something higher? She had dreamed of it, it must be confessed, before she ever suspected that such a thing could actually be. She had even fancied, long ago, that she wanted nothing more than Sir Charles; for, as men went, he was, to her, perfection. But this idea had undergone a change, some time since. How long since? Did she care to reckon the days? Perhaps they needed no reckoning. Perhaps Deborah knew very well that since the hour when her eyes had first met those of Claude de Mailly, Charles Fairfield had changed for her forever. But Deborah had been hurt by Claude. She would think of him no more, after that day when, in the midst of the thunder-storm, they had sat alone in Miriam's tavern, and he had laid bare before her his life at the Court of France. Claude de Mailly belonged, heart and soul, to another life. Here was Sir Charles, who could give one to her. Lady Fairfield—Deborah Fairfield—the name pleased her.
"Debby, will you not answer?" came a tremulous whisper from beside her. Sir Charles was becoming anxious.
All at once she flung debate, prudence, the conventions, and—the other man, alike away from her in a jumbled heap, and made reply, clear, firm, unhesitating, to his question:
"Yes, Sir Charles. I grant your wish. Shall we walk a little?"
A curious tone in which to decide one's destiny, and a curious choice of words to express such decision. But they were within possible hearing now, and, besides, Deborah was peculiar. The dance had ended before she spoke, and now they proceeded slowly down the room, side by side, silent, save when they stopped to answer some remark from others. Neither of them was ever after very clear as to how the ensuing hour passed. Both were with other partners, surrounded with other forms, moving, passing, talking, laughing, as though each present moment were supreme. Only when, out of the kaleidoscopic mass, one caught an instant's glimpse of the other's figure, distant or near at hand, a sudden heart-thrill would reclaim them from insensibility, and thrust them once more under the warm shadow of that near-approaching, veiled Future, that seemed to portend so much to both.
In the interval between the eighth and ninth dances Sir Charles again sought Deborah, and his manner banished a lingering partner from her side. She did not once look up as Fairfield led the way out into the hall by the open card-rooms, and then up the distant, deserted staircase.