Roisia stood behind, with blank face and clasped hands. There might be further pain in store, but pleasure for her there could now be none. The Countess quite understood the dumb show, but she made no sign.
“Clarice La Theyn.”
The girl stood out, listening for the next words as though her life hung on them.
“I shall also give thee thy gear, and thy squire will be knighted on the wedding-day.”
The Countess was turning away as though she had said all. Clarice had heard enough to make her feel as if life were not worth having. A squire who still required knighthood was not Piers Ingham. Did it matter who else it was? But she found, the next moment, that it might.
“Would my Lady suffer me to let Clarice know whom she is to wed?” gently suggested Mistress Underdone.
“Oh, did I not mention it?” carelessly responded the Countess, turning back to Clarice. “Vivian Barkeworth.”
She paused an instant for the courtesy and thanks which she expected. But she got a good deal more than she expected. With a passionate sob that came from her very heart, Clarice fell at the feet of the Lady Margaret.
“What is all this fuss about?” exclaimed her displeased mistress. “I never heard such ado about nothing.”
Her displeasure, usually feared above all things, was nothing to Clarice in that terrible instant. She sobbed forth that she loved elsewhere—she was already troth-plight.