“A wise man now, save with women,” replied old Madam dryly; “but carrying too great a load of flesh and with the disease settled in his legs, no longer like to be a great soldier, or to live long. Well, well, this is his third queen, and she will not be cool before the Council will prefer suit to his grace to take another.”
“It may be that another woman will not long for such an unlucky place,” remarked Betty, quietly; “there seems to be death in it.”
“Cromwell can send abroad then,” said Lady Crabtree; “he will even get Master Friskyball to help him find an Italian princess; but look you, my girl, the applicants here will be as thick as cherries. Do you know your sex so little as to think that they will lose the chance of a crown? If a man looks like a wild boar, he will yet find a woman to marry him; some fool who will imagine that his heart is not indicated by his snout. I tell you women are all fools once; more’s the pity!”
She was putting on her cloak as she spoke, and having muffled it about her, she gave some parting instructions to Sir William; and then taking Betty, went down the stairs to the door where her attendants waited her.
“You will go to my lodgings,” she said to her young companion; “but I have other business, and it may be late this night before I come. Content yourself, however, with the recollection that I will keep Sir William spurred up to the pitch.”
Reluctantly enough Mistress Betty resigned herself to the wishes of her elders, and was escorted to Lady Crabtree’s lodgings by one of her attendants. It was dusk when she passed through the gates, the porter closing them behind her. She crossed the little court, and entering the house, dismissed her follower and went alone up the stairs to the rooms where they were lodging. One of old Madam’s women was there and had made the place cheerful. A fire burned on the hearth, the tapers were lighted, and a supper was laid for two upon the table in the center. It was a fast day, and there were some salted eels, a gurnet and a chet loaf set out, with a tankard of ale; for my Lady Crabtree always did good trencher duty even when fasting, which she did after her own fashion.
Betty Carew could not eat, she was far too anxious for the fate of the man she loved, and she walked to and fro, wrapped in her own thoughts and alone, having dismissed the woman. Lord Raby had been before the Council, but doubtless, by this time, was back in the Tower. How had it fared with him? she wondered. Had his innocence shone out clear as noonday, or had he been entrapped by the skilful cross-questioning and false accusations of his enemies? Believing in him with all her heart, she was yet fully conscious of the pitfalls in these secret proceedings, and she trembled for him. It was in her nature to love him more dearly in the hour of his evil fortune; she possessed that loyalty which is unshaken by the sharpest trials, and her greatest sorrow now was her own inability to fight his battles for him. Her persistence had won the king’s attention to his case, had roused even her uncle from his angry apathy, had stirred old Madam to energetic action; but now, at the supreme moment, being a woman, she was powerless to help him. She longed for Sir William’s summons, which would mean that something material had been accomplished, and in her eagerness, she ran twenty times to the window and looked down into the street; a light burned in the court, and this showed her that there was no one at the door. The time dragged wearily; Lady Crabtree came not, and there seemed little hope of any decisive action that night. Weary of her restless walk, she sat down by the fire, which was beginning to burn low, and waited. Every sound in the house, every step in the hall made her start with impatience; yet she scarcely knew what she expected. Nature has strong claims upon the young and healthy; no matter how great the anxiety, sleep comes at last, stealing over the senses, pressing down the lids, stilling the eager heart-beats. Betty had been under an almost continuous strain, and the warmth of the fire relaxed her nerves, comforted her physical weariness; her head drooped on her hand, her eyes closed, her breathing became soft and regular, in a few moments she would have drifted into unconsciousness. But suddenly there was a stir below, the sound of feet on the stairs, and Lady Crabtree’s woman came hurrying in. Betty started up at once, alert and eager.
“’Tis a message from my uncle!” she exclaimed; “from Sir William Carew?”
“Two men with a litter below, mistress,” the woman replied, “and a message from Sir William that you come at once to his lodgings.”
Betty’s fingers trembled with eagerness as she fastened her cloak with the attendant’s aid. Something had happened, something was known; she could not brook a moment’s delay.