'Why, a fellow has been here this morning asking ye of me—asking ye in marriage—no less than Master Adam Sinclair, of Lincoln Castle!'
What a flood of colour rushed into Deborah's face, dyeing her very brow! She was startled, she was shamed, she was half proud, she was disdainful. 'Does that old man want to wed me, father?'
'Ay; that old man, the greatest man in the county.'
'In riches, father.'
'And in land: he has a goodly home. He has done your father good service, Deb. And he is charmed with Mistress Fleming.'
'Well, let him be charmed. I find no charms in him. Nay; shake not your head, good father. Not only do I find nought to charm me, but my heart rebels against the smooth-tongued old man who calls himself my father's friend. Father, I love him not. Not for twenty castles, would I be Master Sinclair's wife!'
'Wrong, wrong, Deb; too rash by half. Think it over, child; ask yourself if ye are not hot-headed, blind, and prejudiced; and if it were not better to wait and know Master Sinclair better, before casting from ye the prize that has been for many years the vain desire of every maid and matron round. Wait, Deb, and let me have your sober answer to-morrow, or later still.'
Deborah grew very pale. 'Father,' she said, 'd'ye really, truly love and respect this Adam Sinclair in your heart? Is he so dear to you—and can ye trust him so well, that after a few hours' thought ye are ready and willing to give up your one daughter to him for life? For life, father—for life—and no love to bear me up.'
'He is an old man, Deb.'
'Yes; and he will die soon, you would say, and leave Lincoln Castle to me! But first, I would sell my soul, father, and drag on through days of unutterable horror, as Adam Sinclair's wife, before I could be released. And God might judge me, by taking me the first. O father, father! Say thou lovest me. Do not break my heart. Say thou hast some great and secret reason for liking this old man. Say thou'rt in a grievous strait, to need this help of me. Or only say, sweet father, that it wrings thine heart to ask me to part from thee. Anything, but that thou'rt willing to be rid of Deb! Ah me! Thou art cool, father—thou art indifferent, while my soul aches for sorrow at the very thought of parting from thee! Ah, but thou wilt have thy darling still—thy Charlie; while Deb, poor Deb would languish as Mistress Sinclair, with no more hope in life. I should have nought but memory, and memory would be like to drive me mad!'