Lady Russell said nothing, but gave her so eloquent a look that Betty broke down.
“Forgive me!” she cried, “oh, forgive me! How selfish grief makes us; I forgot—”
“I lived,” said the widow quietly.
Betty fell to weeping silently.
“’Twould be worse to live!” she moaned.
“It is worse,” retorted Lady Russell; “grief eats into the heart like a canker; but I lived for his son!”
Betty’s head went lower down; sobs shook her from head to foot. The older woman put her arm around her.
“I know,” she said, “I know, but we are going to a great man—a great king. Dear child, let us hope. You do not know King William. Melancholy and personal misfortunes seem to be wrapped in the birthright of the Stuarts, but, ah, my dear, this man is descended also from the house of that great prince who set Holland free. Mercy belongs, of right, to mighty princes.”
“I love a great man,” said Betty, drying her tears.
“So do all women,” replied Lady Russell; “it is born in us; we do not love littleness or weakness. This is a very solemn matter and we may not judge the king, or judge for him.”