It was with this strangely assorted company that Lady Clancarty returned at daybreak to her father’s house. Not to remain, as she told young Mackie, for never again would she dwell under the same roof with the man who had betrayed her husband.
The events of the night, quite as exciting at home as abroad, had made the Earl of Sunderland wakeful, so it happened that he was out of bed when his daughter sought him in his own room. She found him, clad in a great shag gown, sitting in an armchair by the fire, calmly sipping a cup of chocolate, his bland countenance showing no sign of perturbation, no matter what his emotions might have been. Nor did he express any surprise at his daughter’s appearance in her strange guise at that unusual hour. He smiled upon her quite benignly and waved her toward a chair.
“A cup of chocolate, my love,” he said, “you look fatigued.”
Betty looked at him sadly. She knew only too well how hard it was to touch his heart under that polished exterior, if heart he had at all, and she had often doubted it.
“You will not sit down?” he asked with apparent surprise; “you must be tired.”
“I do not wish to rest here,” she replied sadly, “I cannot under the same roof with Spencer,”—she would not call him her brother; “I know you have heard all, sir,” she added, watching him keenly—hoping, fearing; “I have come here to pray your good offices with the king—to ask you to help your own daughter to save her husband from death!”
Lord Sunderland held up his hand deprecatingly.
“My love,” he said, “I feared as much! Pray do not ask the impossible! You know how they hate me in Parliament because I am supposed to have the king’s ear. If I meddle in this they will bring in a bill of attainder,—it is a favorite scheme of theirs,” he added bitterly.
“But, father, they will kill my husband,” cried Betty, “they will behead him for high treason, and he only came here to see me!”
Lord Sunderland smiled and sipped his chocolate, quite unmoved.