"And you ain't wanting me to be found out then—you don't want to give me up to the police?"
"Father, how can you think of such a thing?"
"Some women-folks would think of it, my girl. But you—you're fond of your father still, Cynthy?"
She answered by taking his rough hand in her own and kissing it tenderly.
"And you don't believe I killed Mr. Vane down at Beechfield—eh, Cynthy? Because if you believe it, you know, you and me had better part without more words about it. Least said, soonest mended."
"I do not believe it—I never did!" said Cynthia proudly.
"On your word and honor and Bible-oath, Cynthia?"
"On my word and honor and on my Bible-oath, father," she said, repeating the words, because she saw that he attached especial importance to the formula. "I never believed and never will believe that you were guilty of Sydney Vane's murder! My father"—she said it as proudly as if he had been a Royal Prince—"was never capable of a base and wicked deed!"
"It's her mother's voice," murmured the man, raising his hand to his eyes, as if to shut out the sight of the young girl's face, and to abstract himself from everything but the sound, "and it's her mother's trust in me! Cynthia, my dear, what do you know o' your father to make you so ready to stand by him?" There was a great and an unaccustomed tenderness in his tone. "I'm a common man, and I've spent years of my life in gaol, and I was a tramp and a poacher—I won't deny it—in the olden days; and before that—well, before that, I was a gamekeeper on a big estate—turned away in disgrace, my dear, because my master's daughter fell in love with me. You never heard that before, did you?—though any one would guess that you didn't come of a common stock! Wetheral was her name—Cynthia Wetheral of Bingley Park, in Gloucestershire. There are relatives of hers living there still; but they don't acknowledge us—they won't have anything to do with you, Cynthia, my girl. I married her and took her away wi' me; and for twelve blessed months we were as happy as the day was long; and then she died." He paused a little, and caressed Cynthia's head with his hand.
"You're like her, my dear. But I'm only a low common sort o' man that sunk lower and lower since the day she died; and you've no call to trust me unless you feel inclined—no call in the very least. If you say you don't quite believe my word, my pretty, I'll not cut up rough—I'll just go away quiet, and never trouble you any more."