FROM DAWN TO SUNSET.

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,