'Sir Reynard? Ha, ha! Thou'rt thy father's true daughter. But not one beside Master Fox?'
'Not one.'
'I am glad on't. They are all rattle-pates or penniless. I wish to give thee to better folk.'
'Hark to him! Thou ambitious old dear! Well-a-day, I am in no haste to wed. As Deborah Fleming, I am happy. Oh, that I might never change that name!'
'Pshaw! Thou'lt not say this always; but unless with thy full and free consent, Deborah Fleming thou shalt remain.'
'This is the gipsy prophecy,' said Deborah, as she went up the great oak stairs. 'The grand old man who would meet me at the gates of my own home.' Then in her own room, musing: 'But "love and greatness should come hand in hand." God forbid that I ever love ye, Adam Sinclair! Unless some false witch should blind my eyes with "love in idleness," I never will. Oh, keep me from it, kind Providence! If ever so deluded and deceived, I would wake up to misery! If I saw father starving, would I? No; for in so doing, I would kill both my body and soul. I wonder, will King Fleming ever return? I had well nigh forgot him. And he will be for wedding Mistress Blancheflower. Why she must be getting old. Ah, well-a-day, we all grow old.'
CHAPTER THE SIXTH.
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.'