“And so do I,” exclaimed Lady Crabtree; and then aside to Betty, “Mistress Wyatt is a fool, my girl; yonder beauty, Jane Seymour, is like to be a queen, and I mistake not. Mercy on us! can you look for such faithfulness in the king’s grace when other men be weather-cocks?”
As she spoke, there was a movement in the group near by; it separated, and the stranger of the inn came up to where Betty and her strange chaperon were standing. He bowed low over Lady Crabtree’s hand, speaking a few words to her in an undertone.
“’Tis my cousin’s niece,” the old woman replied in her outspoken way. “Mistress Betty Carew, here is a gentleman who craves to be presented to you: Sir Barton Henge.”
Although the tall stranger turned to her with a smile upon his handsome dark face, Betty felt an instinctive repulsion. As she made him a curtsy in response to his profound bow, she looked up, and saw behind him Simon Raby. In an instant relief and welcome leaped into her eyes, and Henge seeing it, turned sharply to confront the other man, and both looked defiance at each other.
“Sir, you jostled me,” Henge said haughtily.
“You crowded in my way,” replied Raby, with disdain; “give place, I am a friend of this lady’s!”
“Find room as you may,” retorted Henge, sharply; “I will not budge an inch.”
“Until I make you,” said Raby, coldly. “You choose a strange place for a brawl, sir, but ’tis worthy of you.”
“Upon my word, this is fine talk in the king’s presence!” exclaimed old Lady Crabtree, laughing bitterly; “have done, I will have none of this! ’Tis too soon to quarrel for a child’s pretty face. Master Raby, conduct my ward out of this crowded spot; and you, Sir Barton, stay with me; I would speak with you.”
Passing Henge with a cold look of contempt, Simon Raby took Betty away across the room, and then the strange old woman turned upon her companion, who stood scowling.