“You are the best-natured, kindest creature in the world, Deborah.--But you have never seen the ring I bought for you at Paris. Nay, I will put it on your finger myself;--what! your foster-son, whom you loved so well, and took such care of?” He easily succeeded in putting a pretty ring of gold, with a humorous affectation of gallantry, on the fat finger of Mistress Deborah Debbitch. Hers was a soul of a kind often to be met with, both among the lower and higher vulgar, who, without being, on a broad scale, accessible to bribes or corruption, are nevertheless much attached to perquisites, and considerably biassed in their line of duty, though perhaps insensibly, by the love of petty observances, petty presents, and trivial compliments. Mistress Debbitch turned the ring round, and round, and round, and at length said, in a whisper, “Well, Master Julian Peveril, it signifies nothing denying anything to such a young gentleman as you, for young gentlemen are always so obstinate! and so I may as well tell you, that Mistress Alice walked back from the Kirk-Truagh along with me, just now, and entered the house at the same time with myself.” “Why did you not tell me so before?” said Julian, starting up; “where--where is she?” “You had better ask why I tell you so _now_, Master Julian,” said Dame Deborah; “for, I promise you, it is against her express commands; and I would not have told you, had you not looked so pitiful;--but as for seeing you, that she will not--and she is in her own bedroom, with a good oak door shut and bolted upon her--that is one comfort.--And so, as for any breach of trust on my part--I promise you the little saucy minx gives it no less name--it is quite impossible.” “Do not say so, Deborah--only go--only try--tell her to hear me--tell her I have a hundred excuses for disobeying her commands--tell her I have no doubt to get over all obstacles at Martindale Castle.” “Nay, I tell you it is all in vain,” replied the Dame. “When I saw your cap and rod lying in the hall, I did but say, ‘There he is again,’ and she ran up the stairs like a young deer; and I heard key turned, and bolt shot, ere I could say a single word to stop her--I marvel you heard her not.” “It was because I am, as I ever was, an owl--a dreaming fool, who let all those golden minutes pass, which my luckless life holds out to me so rarely.--Well--tell her I go--go for ever--go where she will hear no more of me--where no one shall hear more of me!”