PART II.

CHAPTER THE FIFTH.

Two winters shed their snows, two summers spread their blooms round Enderby; and old Time, who gives and takes so much, turned his hour-glass, and the sands ran on. Beauty, hoar hairs, the feeble tired heart of age, the fresh and throbbing heart of youth, all bend to the death-sweep of his sickle. But his loans to the living are rich and rare; though he scaths and saddens, he seldom fails to beautify and bless. Each life, in early dawn, wins from the old graybeard's hands hope and love and joy in very showers; youth is so beautiful, youth is so hopeful, youth is so bright! Old Time gives more than he ever takes away, for he gives days replete with life and strength and gemmed with golden hours; but when he asks them back, they are shrunken and worthless, mere empty shells, from which man has extracted the sweetness and the goodness to his own vitality or destruction. Old Time is merciful; if he wounds with that keen scythe of his, he as often cures with healing balm. More often he spares from cruel hurts the aged and the young. The young spring joyously over his scythe, and he pelts them with flowers, and loves them for their daring and content; they fear him not. Strong manhood rushes at him, wrestles with him, strives to wrest from him more than he will ever give; so perchance he throws that strong man, or pitilessly severs a limb. But the aged he loves, because they are like to him; their bleeding wounds he numbs, their failing hands he takes within his own, and leads them gently on the way; then filling their poor hearts with blessed memories of youth and spring, draws his scythe around them, and lays them gently down to rest.

The Rose of Enderby was favoured by old Time, who called Dame Nature to him, and bade her paint her darling with colours rich and rare; to filch somewhat from the red beauty of the bud; to subdue it to a fainter softer hue; to darken the gold tints in the amber hair; to deepen the lustre in the laughing eyes; to whisper to the heart of the rose, so that the sweet voice of Nature might flutter that maiden heart, and raise the maiden blush, that fairest gem in maiden's dower.

Deborah Fleming was a very proud maiden. She heard those whispers; she felt those fairy knockings at her heart, but she barred the door against them. She had grown so beautiful in her flush of dawn and grace of womanhood, that if all eyes had not told her she was beautiful, she must still have known it; and a proud happy consciousness took possession of her and made her fairer. Yet these were dark days for Enderby. You might not have thought it, to hear Deborah's songs and laughter, and to see the father and daughter together; but how often it is so—ruin is laid away like an ugly dream, not to be realised, not to be believed in, till the inevitable end. Then there was hope, hope that never dies out but with life, and Deborah threw hope round her two darlings; but she did suffer for them as much as her wild buoyant spirit and hopeful heart would let her. She did pray for them sometimes, not often. Deborah had well-nigh forgotten her mother's prayers, and learned no new ones. Heaven help her! But in those days Deborah's noble heart kept her true to God and man, so that she did not stray far away in her wild and wilful youth. She did strive to lead her darlings right, the old man and the young. She was their one link to good. Her woman's eloquence and woman's love had sometimes saved them. She knew their danger; she saw the dark cloud that gathered and ever deepened over Enderby. With her feeble hands she strove to avert it, and yet looked and laughed with undaunted brow, feeling the joy and gladness in her heart, that outshone all else, and broke out in uncontrollable sunshine over all. 'Oh, Charlie was young; he must sow his "wild oats" like other men.'—'Oh, that rich old uncle who had gone to America, and made fabulous wealth, and been no more heard of, would come home and die, and leave father all his fortune, to build up the fortunes of Enderby.'—'There were joyful days to come!'

Meantime Kingston Fleming was travelling abroad as a tutor, having carried off high honours from Granta. Deborah had not seen him for more than two years. Betrothed, folks said, to Beatrix Blancheflower, and they would marry soon. Charlie had left Granta, nor was he very often seen at Enderby. May's grandmother was dead, and May was an heiress, living in Italy with a stern old guardian, and sometimes dreaming of going again to Enderby, and sometimes writing a long, long letter to Deborah. 'Mistress Dinnage' lived at home, and kept her father's house, and dismissed all rustic lovers. Deborah now used the grand saloon at Enderby, long uninhabited. You approached it by the picture-gallery, which was lighted on one side at regular intervals by high windows; while on the opposite wall hung faded portraits of Flemings innumerable, knight and lady. The guests (what guests there were) were ushered along this gallery by grim old Marjory, and so into the presence of the beautiful Deborah Fleming; or if Deborah were not there, her spirit would seem to pervade the place. The roses blooming about in careless gay luxuriance; the curtains thrown back; the sun streaming in brightness through the great semicircular window, lighting up even the gloomy walls, and bringing out in curious distinctness the grotesque figures woven in the ancient tapestry; the work and flowers scattered about; the little white fluffs of kitlings disporting on the rug; the flowery perfumed atmosphere—all breathed of Deborah Fleming and summer-time.

We don't know if the stately old guest whom Dame Marjory ushered in that morning was insensible to the charm or no. He walked to the window and sniffed at scent of the roses, looking, as he did so, blind and grim. He was an old man, but still a straight and stately one; his features were strongly marked, and intersected by deep lines of passion and craft; but he looked a thorough-bred old gentleman, so clean, so calm, so placid—and all evil passions seemed to be at rest. There was something even pathetic in the dim gray eyes and expression of gloomy weariness. He had not the appearance of a formidable foe, or of being full of cruel passions either, as he stood in the morning sun. It might be that the dark tales and rumours of old Adam Sinclair were all false; it might be envy, it might be jealousy, that made men talk thus of the wifeless and childless master of Lincoln Castle, who was the owner of lands so broad and brave. At all events he proved a friend in need to Sir Vincent Fleming, and therefore Sir Vincent gave no credit to those tales.

Now Adam Sinclair had thrice seen Deborah Fleming—once as a laughing mischievous child, grimacing at him unheeded from behind her father's chair. Again, riding with a gay cavalcade in the streets of Granta, when a young fop whispered Deborah, and she laughed (was it at him?); and he did not forget the girl on the black horse. Again he met her in the hall late one night at Enderby—he met her face to face, and Sir Vincent introduced him, under circumstances which we shall here relate.

Sir Vincent and his boon companions had been drinking deeply that night. From a far-away chamber Deborah heard the sounds of song and laughter and loud voices. She knew too that there was something more than drinking going on, that fortunes perhaps were being lost and won. She sat on and listened, looking stern and grave for her, and the great clock struck the hours two, three, four! Deborah had got it into her head that those men were all pitted against her father, and were laughing at his ruin. She walked restlessly to and fro; her cheeks began to fire and her wild eyes to flash. Suddenly her father, looking pale and unsteady, and leaning on the arm of a tall angular old man, entered the hall. Both started as if they saw a ghost; Sir Vincent grasped Adam Sinclair's arm, and so Deborah Fleming faced them in all her beauty.

'Child,' muttered Sir Vincent huskily, 'my old friend. Shake Master Sinclair by the hand. He's your father's good friend.'

Adam Sinclair smiled suavely, and bowed well-nigh to his knees; he was quite sober, and now beheld the superb figure he had seen on horseback at Granta, and a face of exquisite loveliness and disdain. But when he extended his long lean palm, Deborah put her right hand behind her back, laid the other on her father's arm, and knitted her dark brows at Sinclair with the glance of a tigress. So passed that formal introduction.

Merriment, disdain, angry passion—he remembered all, and still Deborah Fleming stood before him as she had stood on the night of his repulse. He must see her again and talk with her. Twice he called in vain at Enderby, and still those falcon eyes pursued him. Day and night, he pictured some man, young and handsome, kneeling at Deborah Fleming's feet, and then he shook with the maddening thought. Then he bethought him of his own broad lands and his grand old castle, and he had hopes of he knew not what. But trembling, he rode again to Enderby. Sir Vincent was not at home; 'Mistress Fleming' was. Thus he stood, waiting for Mistress Fleming's step: he was not deaf, when it came; he counted each light reluctant footfall, and his heart beat violently, like a boy's. So the courtier and the country maiden met for the first time, alone. Master Sinclair apologised again, as he had done by Marjory, for the intrusion, but begged the favour of a few moments' interview with Mistress Fleming. Mistress Fleming bowed in proud silence, and a faint colour tinged her cheeks, at the thought of her former reception of this grave old man; she thought in her heart she had been rude and unmaidenly, perhaps unjust to him; still an unconquerable dislike and shrinking made her sit as far away from him as might be. He staid a long half hour, and he paid her delicate and courtly compliments; he shewed by his looks and conversation that he thought her not only a beautiful girl but a thoughtful intellectual woman. Deborah was half charmed against her own heart; and he found her so sweet and gentle, that the next day he rode over again, trembling with eagerness, wild hopes, and sore anxiety, and had asked to see Sir Vincent Fleming. Deborah was out. She returned from a ride in one of her mad fits of joy and animal spirits, and with loosened hair and flying step, entered the hall where Sir Vincent was alone. It was a fair spring evening; the old baronet was smoking his pipe, and striding thoughtfully to and fro, but somehow Deborah stopped on her way to his arms; she knew by his face that something unusual had happened.

'Come hither, Rose of Enderby,' said Sir Vincent, and threw down his pipe, and gathered his little daughter in his arms. 'Let me congratulate thee on thy first conquest.'

'What do you mean, father?' asked Deborah, blushing as red as any rose.

'Why, a fellow has been here this morning asking ye of me—asking ye in marriage—no less than Master Adam Sinclair, of Lincoln Castle!'

What a flood of colour rushed into Deborah's face, dyeing her very brow! She was startled, she was shamed, she was half proud, she was disdainful. 'Does that old man want to wed me, father?'

'Ay; that old man, the greatest man in the county.'

'In riches, father.'

'And in land: he has a goodly home. He has done your father good service, Deb. And he is charmed with Mistress Fleming.'

'Well, let him be charmed. I find no charms in him. Nay; shake not your head, good father. Not only do I find nought to charm me, but my heart rebels against the smooth-tongued old man who calls himself my father's friend. Father, I love him not. Not for twenty castles, would I be Master Sinclair's wife!'

'Wrong, wrong, Deb; too rash by half. Think it over, child; ask yourself if ye are not hot-headed, blind, and prejudiced; and if it were not better to wait and know Master Sinclair better, before casting from ye the prize that has been for many years the vain desire of every maid and matron round. Wait, Deb, and let me have your sober answer to-morrow, or later still.'

Deborah grew very pale. 'Father,' she said, 'd'ye really, truly love and respect this Adam Sinclair in your heart? Is he so dear to you—and can ye trust him so well, that after a few hours' thought ye are ready and willing to give up your one daughter to him for life? For life, father—for life—and no love to bear me up.'

'He is an old man, Deb.'

'Yes; and he will die soon, you would say, and leave Lincoln Castle to me! But first, I would sell my soul, father, and drag on through days of unutterable horror, as Adam Sinclair's wife, before I could be released. And God might judge me, by taking me the first. O father, father! Say thou lovest me. Do not break my heart. Say thou hast some great and secret reason for liking this old man. Say thou'rt in a grievous strait, to need this help of me. Or only say, sweet father, that it wrings thine heart to ask me to part from thee. Anything, but that thou'rt willing to be rid of Deb! Ah me! Thou art cool, father—thou art indifferent, while my soul aches for sorrow at the very thought of parting from thee! Ah, but thou wilt have thy darling still—thy Charlie; while Deb, poor Deb would languish as Mistress Sinclair, with no more hope in life. I should have nought but memory, and memory would be like to drive me mad!'

Sir Vincent was fairly taken by storm, by Deborah's burst of fiery feeling; he grew pale as herself, he folded her to his breast; for indeed under his exterior coolness, he had been sore pressed, and feeling deeply; his heart had been loudly crying out on him, for this temptation to give away his young and only daughter to a man more than double her years, and such a man as Adam Sinclair. 'Deb, Deb,' he faltered, 'thou hast vanquished me! Love thee, child—love thee, little sweet blossom! Thy mother's living image, my hope, my stay! Nay; keep in my heart, and shelter here! It is all I have to offer thee. Don't unman me, love, by these tears. 'Twas sore temptation tempted me to give thee up—to have thee the greatest lady in the county, instead of nought but the daughter of a beggared and a ruined man.'

Deborah dashed aside her tears; all her heart spoke in her brave bright upward smile upon his breast: 'Nay, father, nay—not beggared, not ruined. These are strong words. And thy love is greater treasure to me than all the wealth of Master Sinclair. Put thine arms round me. There; I am as happy and hopeful as a queen; so thou wilt be happy too. And who knows but Deborah Fleming may do great things yet? Why, if Master Sinclair finds something in this poor Deborah Fleming to love, a greater and grander may. I am not so modest but that I know my worth either.'

'Ah, thou'lt make many a heart ache, Deb, before thy day is done. Meantime, be kind and friendly to Adam Sinclair, for my sake, if he will be friends. I tell ye he will not give up hope. I know Adam. Repulse him not, Deb; let him hope on; it will sun Adam's declining days.'

'I will give him no false hopes, father. Tell him from me that I can never be his wife; thus he may be looking elsewhere. Then if it pleases him to come to Enderby for my friendship's sake, he can. But father, does he not darken Enderby?'

Sir Vincent frowned. 'How mean ye, child?'

'Why, father, he professes too great love for you; I doubt a little these mighty professions. My love makes my eyes like lynx's eyes, to see through all who work thee harm.'

'Then they have proved too keen. Adam Sinclair would cut off his right hand for me. I say not for love; he comes not of a loving kind, and men o' the world deal not in such stuff one towards another; but because in former years I saved him from a worse trouble than ever I have known. There; it is gratitude that binds this man to me, and he has shewn it.'

'Ah! Then I will thrust away this distrust that is not worthy of me. I never knew the heart that was not grateful for great service done. And what is more, I'll ne'er believe in ingratitude. Dear Adam Sinclair! Good old man! Grateful, grim, old, true friend of my father, I will strive to forget that you have ever wished to wed me; so I may grow to like you as a friend.'

Sir Vincent laughed. 'And this is hard? What dost like? Whom dost like, Deb? Of all the brave fellows thou seest in the hunting-field, whom couldst thou choose?'

'Faith, father, I can see no "brave fellow" there but the poor gallant one streaming along in the bushy-tailed red-brown coat!'

'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.'

'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.

Deborah caught his arm. 'You are not going to fight him?'

'Fight him? No; we are friends, bosom friends, like as thyself to Mistress Dinnage.'

'Well, be not rash and hot-headed. I know your fiery temper, and am ever in fear and trembling, with such a man as Master Sinclair too, that you should quarrel and hurt him sorely. Quarrel not about me, Charlie; he is always courteous to me.'

'I hope so. Good-bye, sweet Deb, good-bye.' The brother and sister kissed, and Charlie sped to the court-yard.

Old Jordan held Bayard for him, ready saddled. 'Thanks, good Jordan. Where is my father?'

'I ain't seen him these three days, Master Charlie. An' now thou'rt goin' away agen, these be dull days for Enderby an' Mistress Deborah.'

'Where's Mistress Dinnage?' asked Charlie, dropping his keen glance to the old man's face.

'In the manor here; she well-nigh lives with Mistress Deborah, an' well she may.'

'I never see her about.'

'She's there though, Master Charlie.'

'Good-bye, Jordan. Take care of them.' And Charlie Fleming, striking spurs to his horse, rode away; not so fast but that one pair of dark eyes, full of proud reluctant tears and lingering passion, looked from a window overhead, and watched him as he sped away.

'Poor little Deb!' muttered Charlie, as his good horse bore him far away. 'I will not forget thee, dear. Poor little maid! It has eased her heart. A drop, a drop in the ocean of my troubles, is Deb's gold to me. Poor child! Now, if you fail, Adam Sinclair, flight is my only chance.'