'And his mother's too, for they say our sweet mother was a mad, mad lass. Dame, who was she? What was my mother's name?'
The girl gazed straight at the old woman till Marjory's eyes fell, and the girl's fair face was flushed with crimson. 'I have never asked you,' she said, 'not since I was a child; but who was my mother, dame? Prithee, tell me. Ah, say not that there was shame! Poor and honest, I care not; but naught of _shame_.'
'No, my Lady Deb, no; naught o' shame. She was the child o' wedded parents, I promise thee; she was lawful wedded wife, thy mother; but if I was to tell thee who she was, Sir Vincent would strike me dead. I cannot tell thee; there's my faithful promise given, not.'
'I will not ask ye then. One day I will--must know. Does Charlie know?'
'Ne'er from me or his father. But no one knows what Master Charlie knows.'
'There's my father calling me; I must go. Good-bye, dame. Pray for me.'
Deborah went down into the hall. Sir Vincent got up and met her. He shut the door carefully, and led her to a chair; he sat down opposite her, and screening his face from the light with one great sinewy hand, gazed out from under its shadow, as if he would read his daughter's soul. For her part, she gazed at him with all her great and tender soul in her eyes, her own despair forgotten in her father's. There was a long silence between them, each gazing on the other, sorrow-stricken and speechless.
'Father,' said Deborah softly then, 'sweet father, have I not done thee some good? See! here's the letter from Lincoln; and in three weeks I shall be Master Sinclair's wife. It is my duty, father, my free choice. My heart is very strong. Sweet father, thou'rt sad still, ay, even heart-broken; I know thy face so well! I have saved Charlie. Listen! This Master Sinclair puts everything in my power, makes me absolute mistress of all he has. My first act will be to save us from ruin; Charlie from ruin too. But tell me what more there is? What serpent has wronged Charlie falsely? ay, _falsely_, for before heaven, father, I would _swear_ that Charlie has done no dishonour! Sooner would I doubt my own soul than his. He is incapable of double-dealing, incapable of all meanness and dishonesty. To doubt him, to believe for one moment that he could act dishonourably, is to believe that Charlie Fleming is no son of thine and mother's; that this Charlie Fleming is not the boy who has grown up under thine eyes and mine; graceless, truly, but the very soul of honour. Even the masters at his school, his tutors, his comrades who knew him best, have done him justice in calling him honourable and true. Then doubt him not for one moment!'
