Sunderland had recovered himself now, however, and smiled calmly at her.
“You are too headstrong, my love,” he said smoothly, “too easily suspicious. If Clancarty wrote, why should I conceal it? As you remark, he is your husband in the eyes of the law, but your husband in fact he is not, and trust me, Betty, he is too great a Jacobite to risk himself in England.”
“But, father, the Peace of Ryswick has brought many back,” she said, “and we all know—it is notorious how easy King William is—and you, you could get Clancarty’s pardon a thousand times over, if you would!”
“Hear the child!” said Sunderland, with a gesture of mock despair. “Why, Betty, ’twas marvellous hard to get my own, and the politicians hate me so that not even Spencer’s devotion to the Whigs appeases that party. Clancarty’s pardon!—’twould cost me my liberty and, perhaps, my head.”
“Nonsense!” pouted Lady Betty; “you are the king’s friend; I will not believe you. And you might, at least, take thought of me; I am his wife.”
“O child, child!” laughed Lord Sunderland, “as little his wife as my Lady Devonshire or the Princess Anne. Married to him, through your father’s folly, when you were eleven and parted from him on the instant. What virtue is there in such a contract? Be sure, my love, he has in no wise respected it—nor will he while I have my daughter safe with me. Think not of him, Betty! ’Twas my folly, but then he possessed large estates in Munster and it promised to be a great match; for, believe me, I had no thought of tying you to a proscribed and penniless scapegrace.”
“Ay,” said Lady Betty, with spirit, “he was rich and now he is poor; therefore, my lord, I will not desert him!”
Lord Sunderland laughed, but his eyes did not laugh with him.
“There is no question of desertion, my child,” he said smoothly, “you are not his wife, and you never shall be.”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” retorted the incorrigible countess, “I am his wife, and I will be no other man’s.”