Strange and terrible tidings reached Enderby the day after that. As
Deborah Fleming was standing in the red sunset, she saw old Jordan, in
his scarlet waistcoat and shirt sleeves, running bare-headed towards
her under the archway. Deborah went quietly forward to meet him,
dreading and yet hoping, she knew not what.
'Master Sinclair's shot!' gasped the old man. 'Killed a-duelling!'
'Who shot him?' asked Deborah, with the blood coursing in a fierce wild
tide of joy through her veins, and yet a sure foreboding of the truth.
'Who? Who?'
'Need ye ask, Mistress Deborah?' asked Jordan, shaking his gray head,
and regarding her with a wild reproachful gaze. 'Why, Master Charlie.
Who else?'
'But he killed him in fair fight, Jordan?' panted Deborah, with her
hands pressed over her beating heart, and a loud ringing in her ears.
'No one can blame him or touch him for that! O Charlie, O my brother!'
and she fell in a dead-faint at old Jordan's feet. He caught her up,
and bore her in to Marjory; with anxious earnest tenderness they cared
for her. But Deborah was soon herself. Rousing, she saw the two old
sorrowful faces; and with a hand on a shoulder of each ancient lover,
burst into a wild laugh of joy. 'Free! free!' she cried. 'Free to act
and think, and laugh and weep! Charlie has set me free! The old man is
_dead_! Oh, poor sad old man, _whither has fled his soul?_--Jordan,
is Charlie hurt? Tell me truly; is my poor, sweet, gallant, faithful
Charlie hurt?' And she sat up, erect and resolute.
'No, no, my lamb; he ain't hurt; he's safe enow; only he must be off
for a time out o' this. Master Charlie has done for the "old fox,"
Mistress Deborah!' and Jordan began to chuckle triumphantly. Deborah
laughed too, aloud. Marjory looked on scared and scandalised.
'Oh, am I mad?' quoth Deborah, as she started up and began to pace
the stone hall like a wild creature. 'Am I mad, that I care not for
bloodshed, or that old man's hereafter, or anything, so long as I get
freedom? Free! free!' she cried aloud in ecstasy, as she ran from one
window to another laughing wildly; and then, while the two old servants
stood half-aghast, she sped away into the open air, into the sun--and
liberty! There, alone, on the green turf, under the waving trees,
under the blue and boundless sky; where chased the little white clouds
like winged spirits; while through all the beautiful demesne, where
the birds were singing melodiously, and all nature was glad, Deborah
Fleming wept her wild heart calm.
But Mistress Fleming? Young Mistress Margaret Fleming? She shed
not a tear that day. With a heart relieved of a mighty weight, yet
overcharged with anxiety, love, and fear, she watched till darkness
fell, ever thinking of Deborah's wild and radiant face, till, late on
in the night, or rather early morning, tidings were sent her of her
love.
And where was Charlie Fleming then? Far, far away--hunted by the dogs
of vengeance and the law. Mounted on his good bay horse, he passed
through Enderby that night, in his wild flight; and as he fled, looked
back, with hand uplifted to the high dim lights of Enderby, and bade
it--a long adieu. Turrets, towers, and trees passed from him, like
shadows in a dream....
Deborah's trials were not ended. Where was her poor unhappy father?
Gone, gone again, ere she knew of it; and she was terribly anxious
about him--as to how he would take this news; terribly anxious too,
now that reason and calmness had returned to her, about her exiled
brother, though Mistress Margaret had told her that he was safe out of
England. Thoughts, wild and vague too, of her lover and kinsman haunted
her. Where was he? She had enough to drive her distraught; but Deborah
possessed a bold heart and iron will, and would not be subdued; and
ever the glorious sense of recovered freedom made her heart throb with
ecstasy of joy.
Some days after the duel at Lincoln, while Deborah was restlessly
pacing the great lonely saloon, the outer bell rang. What now? Tidings
good or evil? She felt prepared for anything that might befall. Old
Marjory came to the door.
'Master Parry, Mistress Deborah;' and a small thin wizened man entered,
with a bag in his hand. Deborah Fleming, from her stately height,
looked down on the sly crafty face and shrinking figure, and with a
woman's swift instinctive judgment, disliked and distrusted him. She
bowed, ever so slightly. He, the cunning man of law and of the world,
was half abashed and wholly uneasy at the full gaze bent upon him, and
at the girl's bold and easy bearing. She waited for him to speak.
'Mistress Fleming,' he said with a low bow, 'at this sad time I must
humbly apologise for this intrusion. I would have spoken with Sir
Vincent; but he is away, I find. May I venture then to address his
daughter in his stead? For my business, Mistress Fleming, is with you.'
'Certainly. Sit down, Master Parry, and say what you have to say.'
With another low bow he drew up a chair, and placing his hat on the
table, and glancing first at the closed door, said in a mysterious
tone: 'I come to you, Mistress Fleming, as the bearer of two great good
pieces of intelligence; one, I am sure will afford Mistress Fleming's
generous heart great joy, and that I will reserve till last.'