It was about this time that a distant kinswoman of Deborah's died,
leaving her a legacy of twenty guineas a year. It seemed a fortune to
Mistress Fleming. With the twenty golden pieces in her hand, she sat
revolving in her mind what she would buy with them, happy as the blue
fly that buzzed about her sunny room, she who had so often looked on
grim poverty face to face. Our heroine was full of joy. The bells of
Enderby were ringing out their glad gay peals. The air was radiant
with sunshine, and heavy with fragrance. Kingston Fleming was coming
home, and coming to Enderby. The murmur of the bees about the ivy,
the scent of clambering roses and honeysuckle, brought back the days
of childhood. There, were the great boughs in the wych-elm where they
swung; there, were the green woods where they played.
Deborah, with her arm leaning on the warm sill, was in a very dream
of bliss, and then her wandering thoughts came back. Yes, half must
be laid by in case of need, or as much as could possibly be spared;
she would say half. Then there must be a new cap for Marjory, a book
for Mistress Dinnage--a tale of love and romance; a hunting-knife for
Jordan. And what for dear old Charlie? She must think that over. It
was difficult to know what could be nice enough for one so fastidious
and so dear. And what for herself? A new cap to match the lace she
had; for she was no longer a hoyden with tangled locks, but 'Mistress
Fleming.' She would ride into Granta the next day, and buy that
little cap. Drawing the curtain which shut out the alcove, the maiden
threw her money on the bed, and there too was laid a soft and sheeny
dress, trimmed with costly cobweb lace, a dress of her grandmother's
modernised artfully by herself and Mistress Dinnage. Deborah's heart
beat and her colour rose. Girls are silly beings. She could think of
and pine for nought but that coquettish cap which would jauntily set
her love-locks.
While thus musing, the door opened abruptly, and in stalked a
travel-stained figure, a tall figure, with wild dishevelled hair.
It was Charlie Fleming, with the passions of his boyhood darkened
and deepened, in the sombre beauty of the face that had grown stern
and set. He was pale through his bronze; his long hair streamed back
from his heated brow, and his whole air betokened a reckless fugitive
spirit. Deborah had not seen him for weeks; she gave a cry of joy, and
sprang into his arms. The roughness of the boy had passed from Charlie
Fleming, but his rare demonstrations of affection were shewn to Deborah
only. 'I am only here for half an hour, Deb. I must saddle horse afresh
and off to Lincoln Castle. I am in rare trouble, Deb. Hush, child! I am
come to thank ye for refusing Adam Sinclair. Better poverty, Deb, than
that. Better starvation. I'd blow his brains out sooner than see you
his wife. See that ye are never talked into this. I know your generous
madness, child; let _no misery_ move ye to it.'
'Nay, Charlie; it never shall! But if you are so averse to him, do
not go to Lincoln. I hate him. I distrust him more and more. You are
pale and tired too, Charlie. Is it the _old_ trouble?' Deborah leaned
forward, where she sat opposite him; the sweet confidante of father and
brother was wont to forget all her own joys and sorrows in theirs.
Charlie raised his dark beautiful eyes to hers, then dropped them;
the furtive glance was enough. Deborah thought of her gold, and her
heart began to throb with tumultuous joy. 'Is it _much_, Charlie? More
than--twenty guineas?'
Charlie laughed a bitter laugh. 'Don't ask me, child,' he said; 'you
cannot help me, Deb. I am undone!'
'Not so undone but that I can help you a little,' whispered Deborah
softly, and ran towards the bed. Then she drew Charlie's hands down
from his moody face, and with her own all radiant, laid her treasure in
his hands. 'See, Charlie! This is _mine_, my very own. I have never had
such riches before. Just before you came in, dear boy, I was racking my
brains as to what I could buy you with these guineas, and now I give
them all to you in place of presents. Don't thank me; it is thanks
enough to let me stand thy friend. For what need have _I_ for money? To
me it would be worthless!'
'Who gave ye this, Deb?'
'A fairy--a true fairy, who knew your need.'
'Not May Warriston?'
'May Warriston? No! What ails you?'
'Deb, I cannot rob thee, dear. Thou needst a thousand little gewgaws
such as women love. Say no more o' this;' and Charlie gave her back the
gold.
But Deborah was on her knees, putting her soft face up to his.
'Charlie, it will break my heart if you disdain my poor gift. I tell
you again, I have no need for money--only as a temptation for finery
and trinkets which it would be sin for me to wear. Old Charlie, sweet
old Charlie, I _will_ be mistress here!' And Deborah poured her gold
into his pocket and closed it up. 'You will not go to Lincoln _now_?'
Charlie Fleming took her face between his hands; a melancholy smile
fluttered about his lips; and she, so radiantly happy: '_Will_ you go?'
she urged.
'Yes.'
'Oh, wilful, headstrong, obstinate! To this one time I give consent;
but after this, you shall go no more to Lincoln, to be the companion of
that bad old treacherous man. He would fain ruin us all; I know it!'
'Tush, tush! Deb. I know just how to take Adam Sinclair. And if he
wrongs mine by word or deed, let him look to it!' And the young giant
rose to his feet.