“What is it?” he cried, in a clumsy, faltering manner.
“What was that you said, father?”
“I said when thou art Sir Mark’s wife, and he takes thee to court.”
“I can never be Sir Mark Leslie’s wife.”
“Tut! nonsense,” cried the founder, working himself up into a passion; “why do you talk such rubbish as this? What do you know of wedlock? Sir Mark has asked for thy hand in honourable marriage. It is a great honour; and thou wilt be wed and praised at court, and become a great body. What could I wish better for my child?”
“Oh, father, what do you mean?” she cried, with his own angry spirit rising up within her.
“Mean?” he cried, rousing himself now, to finish the task that he had fought in vain for so long to begin. “I mean that Sir Mark is to be thy husband. He brings thee honour and me wealth. It is a great thing, child. Living here as thou hast, such a position as that thou wilt occupy is a thing almost undreamed of. Why, my darling,” he said, trying to smile, “thou wilt ride in thy grand carriage, and have lackeys to follow thee, and be admired of all the court. Zounds! but I shall be proud indeed!”
“Father,” cried Mace, piteously, “you do not mean all this!”
“But I do!” he cried. “There, go to, silly child; it seems a trouble, but it will be all a joy. There, there: we need talk of it no more, for perhaps it will not be for months. I have given Sir Mark my promise, and thou wilt be his wife.”
Mace stood gazing at him piteously. Then throwing her arms round his neck she burst into a fit of sobbing.