“He is a traitor, though, my dear,” he remarked, “and quite a notorious one. My dear Betty, don’t make a scene—you know nothing about the man.”
“He is my husband,” she cried with passionate grief, “is that no tie?”
“I’ve known several fine ladies who did not consider it one,” replied the earl, with a titter, “notably my Lady Shrewsbury the elder.”
“An infamous creature, and you know it!” cried Betty, with something of her old spirit, and then she threw herself on her knees beside him; “father, father,” she pleaded, “you were ever kind to me—oh, pity me, help me to save him!”
Sunderland tried to raise her; he even caressed her bowed head. He detested a scene, and he did not know how to manage this beautiful young creature.
“My child,” he said, “this will pass; you do not know him well enough to feel his loss. The marriage was my folly; your release—though doubtless painful and cruel—will be a blessing in disguise.”
Betty recoiled from his touch, her face white.
“I love him,” she declared simply, “his death upon the block would kill me.”
“Tut, tut!” replied her father heartlessly; “we young people always die so easily.”
“I would rather die than find those of my own blood so indifferent to my wretchedness,” cried Betty.