'What news?' asked Deborah, with eager curiosity.
'Ah, then, you have not heard? Have the lads been here to-day?'
'Well, if they have not told you, you may guess.'
'I cannot, I cannot! Nay, sweet father, news are scarce at Enderby; tell me quickly what has happed.'
Sir Vincent laughed. 'Little daughter of Eve, it relates to your cousin Kingston!'
'What is it, father?' Somehow the music had died out of Deborah Fleming's voice and the ripple from her lips.
'King is betrothed to Mistress Beatrix Blancheflower, the old baron's daughter;' and Sir Vincent laughed heartily, with his head in the air.
'Is it so, father? Well--she is rich and she is pretty. Oh, she is pretty, father!'
'Ay. But the boy is but twenty, and such a rattle-pate. Well, it will pay his debts and be a rise for the family. See that thou dost likewise, Deb,' said Sir Vincent, with playful tenderness.
As they walked, Deborah laid her head on her father's arm, which she was clasping. 'Time enough for that, father. Dost want to be rid o' me?'
He looked down and smiled; the smile softened the rugged countenance wonderfully. 'Ay, I want to be rid o' thee do I not, my Rose of Enderby? _Thou_ art not my right hand?'
'Then let me be thy left. Nay; I will never leave thee, father. I like not marriage and sweet-hearting. Let Charlie wed; _I_ will love but _thee_.'
Sir Vincent laughed. 'Time will change that tune, sweet Deb.'
They sat down by the hall-fire, where Marjory had spread a frugal repast. It passed in silence, for Sir Vincent fell to thinking deeply, and Deborah did not eat or speak at all. After supper, she lighted her father's pipe, then sat down at his feet and laid her fair head on his knees. The fire-blaze flickered over the wide lofty hall; the stag's antlers, the rusty armour, it shone whimsically on all; but Sir Vincent and his fair daughter and the old shaggy deerhound basked in warmth and steady light.
'Dost think Beatrix Blancheflower very pretty, father?'
'Other folk think not so. She has blue eyes and golden hair. She is not shy nor awkward. She is older by two years than I. O yes, she has the power of always speaking what it pleases her to say; a rare art. But for me, father, my words ever belie my heart; and for what I say one minute, I would fain pluck out my tongue the next.'