“Perhaps you are indifferent, too,” rejoined the earl; “your mother lies ill now at Windsor.”
“I am sorry,” Betty said, “but I must try to save my husband. Father, father!” she clung to his hand weeping, “if you ever loved me—as an infant, as a child, as a young girl,—do not abandon me now. Oh, help me to save him! Do you not remember when you used to carry me in your arms—your little girl? Oh, you were kind to me, father, kinder than any one else! You will not break my heart now? My mother never cared for me as you did—never caressed me so, never brought me toys. I loved you then, sir, and I love you now. Have you no place in your heart for me—your daughter, your little girl, Elizabeth? Go to the king—you have but to ask; they say he is merciful, and he trusts you. Oh, save Donough!”
Lord Sunderland sighed. “My dear,” he said, “I would gladly help you, but you ask the impossible. I have no power to save a traitor. You know as well as I that even the Habeas Corpus Act is suspended on account of that rogue Bernardi and his accomplices; you know the story of the Fenwick attainder. How can you ask me to risk my head and my family reputation for this Irishman? You fancy you love him, Betty, but ’tis only your fancy. There are other men as brave,” he added, with a smile; “you need not be a widow long.”
Betty sprang to her feet.
“You, too, insult me—and you are my father. Oh, I have no father, then, any more—the old, dear memories are but dreams—the hand that caressed my childish head can deal me such a blow as this! Ah, it breaks my heart! Alas, there is no earthly hope!”
Lord Sunderland poured out another cup of chocolate.
“No,” he replied calmly, “not for Clancarty. Really, my dear, I must be firm, I cannot and I will not risk my reputation, perhaps my life, for—” he shrugged his shoulders, “a Jacobite rogue.”
She said nothing, but she gave him a look so eloquent that he shrank a little, with all his effrontery, as she turned to leave the room. At the door she paused and waved her hand to him with a gesture of infinite sadness.
“Farewell, father,” she said softly, “farewell! I loved you—I love you still—and I forgive you—as I pray to be forgiven. I go, your daughter no longer—since you disown Clancarty’s wife. I have no home, no father—only my husband! Farewell, farewell!”
He heard the low sound of her weeping as she went out, her head bowed and her whole beautiful young figure full of dejection. She felt herself an outcast.