“I pray you both to forbear,” she said, looking from one face to the other imploringly; “surely there is some terrible mistake, and do not make it worse by a quarrel.”
Raby, seeing her distress, pressed her hand affectionately.
“Dear heart,” he said, “I would not quarrel with thy uncle, but no man can endure such insinuations with patience. I am innocent, and I have no such meek spirit that I love to be suspected by my friends.”
“I am an old man, my lord,” said Carew, impatiently, “and I am not over-smooth-tongued; I have no wish to offend your nice feelings, but I see a plain matter and you give me a foolish excuse. My packet! Why, Lord Raby, I would have sent this child Betty with it and taken no thought.”
“Sir, I never accused you of malice,” Simon replied more calmly, “but I had the packet of you, I gave it to Cromwell, and I am here.”
“Tush!” exclaimed Sir William, testily, “am I a fool? Do I look a dullard? Can you think to pass this dream off on a sane man? Raby, it was not my packet!”
“Sir!” exclaimed the younger man, springing to his feet, “do you accuse me of falsehood?”
Mistress Betty rose and ran to her uncle, who was standing, his strong face working with anger.
“Uncle,” she said, pushing him toward the door, her rosy palms pressed against his broad breast, and using all her young strength, “go—go to the door and wait for me. I would speak with him. You will only quarrel. Hush! hush!” she added, as she saw the angry words trembling on Sir William’s lips; “he is a prisoner; ’tis unworthy of you.”
Sir William looked at the beautiful young face so close to his, and his heart relented.