“Ah, I felt it from the first, Alice,” Lady Betty said; “there was something in his bearing toward me—his tone—I knew he was my husband, I felt it!”
“And yet—and yet—my lady, you sent him away!” the girl murmured, in a tone of wonder.
Betty’s head dropped. “Yes, he has gone!” she said, “gone—my own true love—and desperately wounded, too!”
“Yes, gone,” said Alice, venturing on a tearful remonstrance; “I can’t understand you, my lady, I can’t indeed! One moment, you are all tenderness for the poor gentleman, the next, you are driving him into exile with your coldness.”
“Exile? Oh, no, no!” cried Lady Betty passionately, “he shall not go without me. I love him, my girl, I love him—can’t you understand? ’Twas that which made me feel so—feel that he only claimed me, did not woo me. You are as dull as any man, Alice,” she walked to and fro, beating her hands together, “my love, my poor love!” she sighed and then suddenly her mood changed, she raised her head resolutely.
“My hood and cloak, Alice,” she said quickly, “and my vizard.”
“Madam, ’tis very late,” remonstrated the girl.
Betty stamped her foot. “I am your mistress,” she said, “obey me—you forget your place.”
“Nay, my lady,” said Alice sadly, “I do not forget—but I love you!”