“Nay,” he replied, “I am rich in having you!”
But her tears fell. She could not leave him so, she cried, clinging to him; the thought of that poor place would break her heart! And it took all his persuasion and caresses to win a smile from her again.
“And I must go,” she said at last, showing an April face, smiles and tears together, “I must go, or else they will miss me, and if Spencer found you here, I know not what he would do; he hates a Jacobite! But, oh, my darling, ’twill not be long ere I shall send some token to you, or have some message from you.”
“Not long,” he said, his eyes sparkling, “not long, dear Betty! As soon as I can walk—a plague upon this wound—as soon as I can move I will come to you! I can’t die now!”
“Oh, the risk of it!” she cried, but her face shone, and then suddenly, “Donough,” she said, “why had you to fight my Lord Savile? and after all I did to prevent it!”
“He insulted me, my love,” Clancarty replied, “and—and, well, dear heart, after that night I thought you might care for him and not for me, and it drove me mad.”
Betty smiled enchantingly.
“You were jealous,” she said, “jealous of me!”
“I was mad with it, Betty,” he declared passionately; “and here I lie, curse this wound, like a log, and other men are near you, bask in your smiles, kiss your hand! It drives me to destruction!”
And she looking down at him in his weakness, thin and fever flushed,—she fell upon her knees again beside him, holding her soft cheek against his, and saying only two words—softly, sweetly, with adorable tenderness—“My husband!”