"That is what Bridget says," she answered (Bridget Ireton was Bridget Fleetwood now, the wife of one of her father's most honoured generals. Mary and Frances were still to wed, and great matches were foretold for them); "but you must not think so much of me—I shall soon be well enough."
Her father gazed at her, yearning over that lost brightness which he had condemned once as evidence of a carnal mind; her grey gown, her modest laces, her smooth ringlets—all were plain enough now; though her father had put on great state and lived almost with the ceremonial of a king, the Lady Elisabeth had no longer any heart for pretty vanities.
"Methinks," said Cromwell bluntly, "thou art not happy when thou art at Whitehall."
"I love Hampton better," she replied evasively.
It was not difficult for him to divine what her thoughts were—what they always had been.
"Thou dost think thy father liveth in another man's house by living in the King's palace," he said, with whimsical tenderness.
"No, no," she answered, with an effort; "but it remindeth me of old, unhappy times—of all the blood that was shed—of the King himself (poor, wretched King)——"
Cromwell interrupted vehemently.
"He did not die for nothing, neither he nor the others—that judgment on the tyrant was the fruit and crown of all our efforts and prepared the way for such of Christ's work as we have been able to do since. Betty"—he turned to his daughter with the same half-anxious, half-proud air of defence with which he had turned to his Council a little before—"is not this country better at home and abroad than it was under the late King?"