“And why, child?”
“Because I hear it said that Sir Mark is going to marry her.”
“Tchch! nonsense! What put that silly notion in thine head?”
“It is true. It came from Janet.”
“Oh, pay no heed to her, my dearie. Only trust to me and all will come right in the end.”
“But, mother,” began Anne, impatiently.
“Nay, nay, child, all you have to do is to wait and see. I promise thee again that thy gallant shall never wed Jeremiah Cobbe’s child; and it will be well for her if she does not perish at the stake.”
Anne Beckley looked curiously at the old woman, who met her eyes with a malicious leer.
“Ay, ay,” she said, laughing; “you’re thinking some one else might perish there, but we keep our own secrets, child, and we shall not denounce one another. Besides, our little spells are only innocent love affairs, and we keep our own counsel, dearie, only too well. Ah, I shall be glad to see thee happily wedded to the man of thy choice, and then the present you make me will keep me to the end of my days.”
It was with a strange sense of uneasiness that the two women parted; Anne biting one of her fingers as she told herself that she was an idiot to listen to the drivellings of that old woman, and yet feeling a curious superstitious dread of her, and belief that she could exercise some influence on her destiny.