“Laura is to be married,” returned Mark.
Tom Deering, in the tall clock, started.
“Married, eh?” said Clarage. “And when, pray?”
“On next Christmas eve.”
“And to whom?”
“To Lieutenant Cheyne, of Tarleton’s horse.”
Laura married! and to the inhuman monster who had tortured poor Cole! Tom could not, would not believe it!
“I did not fancy she’d consent to wed a king’s officer,” said one of the Tory band. “She was always a proud little thing—a very spitfire.”
“Oh, she’ll consent fast enough,” laughed Mark. “She refused Cheyne, point-blank, when my father proposed the match; but before Christmas day comes around, she’ll have changed her mind, I’ll promise you that. My father is not a man to be balked in his purpose by a slip of a girl.”
“Why did he select Cheyne as her husband?” asked Clarage, with interest. “Come, tell us that; I’ll warrant there’s some good reason for it.”