The ball at Lord Bridgewater’s was forgotten, Spencer was forgotten, all the world, in fact, while Betty—lovely with happiness, glowing and smiling in her splendid gown—thought of no one but her husband, and desired no admiration but his.
“Ah, my darling,” he whispered, looking down at her as her face lay against his breast, “can you give up all this?” he touched her lace and jewels, “and this?” he pointed at the luxurious room, “and all you have and are—to follow a poor exile into poverty and obscurity?”
She smiled divinely.
“To follow my beloved even to the ends of the earth,” she said, “‘for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, until death do us part,’” she murmured tenderly.
“Amen!” he said, and laid his face against her soft hair, moved—how deeply she could not know; her utter trust, her fondness touched him to the heart. This splendid woman, with every gift of nature and of fortune, willing to renounce all for him—he held her close and his eyes dimmed.
“Ah,” he said, “’tis worth living, dear heart, for your sake! When I thought you scorned my poverty and would rather be the wife of Savile than mine, I cared not if I died—but now! Ah, Betty, you could make a dungeon paradise.”
“Nay,” she replied, “it shall not be a dungeon, but a home, my husband, somewhere—even where these quarrelling kings cannot disturb our paradise. Faith, my politics grow strangely mixed,” she added, with a smile.
“Love knows no politics,” he answered, smiling too, “you and I shall not quarrel over our principles, sweetheart.”
As he spoke, the door was thrown open and Alice ran into the room with a ghastly face.
“Oh, my lady,” she cried, “there’s something wrong—I hear strange voices below, there are men upon the stairs! My lord must hide.”