In amazement, Rockwell obeyed the huskily whispered command. It was from Deborah, and Deborah now, her cheeks feverishly flushed, eyes brilliant, lips parted, and breath quickened, moved, as if drawn by magnetism, from Fairfield's side to the stairs. After a moment of confused silence, Fairfield said, with unnatural calm:
"What is it, Deborah? Come back."
"No."
"Come back."
"No."
"Don't you understand? What is the matter? What are you doing?"
"I—I'll not marry you."
"Deborah!"
After that cry from Fairfield there was silence. The rector, Sir Charles, and Miriam Vawse stood as if petrified, staring at the girl, who faced them with quiet, dogged resolution written in her face. Claude, from the stairs, looked down upon her, scarcely surprised, perhaps, but with a very gentle light in his eyes. His deliberate descent into the room was the first move made by any one. Going over to Rockwell's side, he laid a finger on the clergyman's arm:
"This wedding—it is—what you call—legal?"