“I cannot tell you all yet, but I will tell you something which may perhaps incline you to feel merciful. Did your ladyship ever think what could make me so much attached to your father?”
“No indeed. I never saw anything peculiar in it. Even now-a-days there are servants to be found who love their masters. It seems to me natural enough. Besides he was very kind to you.”
“It was natural indeed, my lady—more natural than you think. Kind to me he was, and that was natural too.”
“Natural to him, no doubt, for he was kind to everybody.”
“My grandfather told you something of my early history—did he not, my lady?”
“Yes—at least I think I remember his doing so.”
“Will you recall it, and see whether it suggests nothing?”
But Florimel could remember nothing in particular, she said. She had in truth, for as much as she was interested at the time, forgotten almost everything of the story.
“I really cannot think what you mean,” she added. “If you are going to be mysterious, I shall resume my place by the tiller. Travers is deaf, and Davy is dumb: I prefer either.”
“My lady,” said Malcolm, “your father knew my mother, and persuaded her that he loved her.”