“Poor wench, poor Mistress Betty, my heart doth ache for her,” a kinder woman said, shaking her head.
Strangely enough, at that same moment Mistress Betty Carew was spoken of within the house by Sir William and his wife. He turned from his brother’s corpse, a certain stern relenting in his face, and said to Lady Carew, “There is the child.”
“Ay, we must have her here, William,” his wife replied at once; “you may not leave your own blood in so poor a strait as he is like to have left the maid.”
Sir William mused. “How old is she?” he asked.
“Seventeen, come Michaelmas,” Lady Carew replied, watchful of her husband’s face, her own heart full of compassion for the orphan.
“I know not how she may be bred up,” he said doubtfully; “she was a plain wench when last I saw her, but that is five years since. Well, well, she must even come and follow this wretched man’s funeral, and then you and she will doubtless find a way to settle it to your own liking.”
So it was that Mistress Betty came to Mohun’s Ottery; a tall, slim girl in a black gown and with a calm look on her young face that startled her uncle, so unlike was it to anything in youth. Sir Thomas was carried from the home of his ancestors with all due state and ceremony, but there was no pretence of mourning, and the well-born rogue was laid in his narrow house without a tear. After it was over, the affairs of the orphan were soon disposed of by Sir William. Finding that she was dowerless, save for a beauty of which her childhood had given no promise, he kept her under his own roof, and she lived there until other events took her to far other scenes. She was then in her girlhood, growing every day in beauty of a strong and striking type, and carrying her head like a queen rather than a penniless maid living in dependence at her uncle’s house. Her form, though slender, gave the promise of a richer outline, and as she grew happier in her new home, a color came into her cheeks, a sparkle to her eyes that made her lovely in the sight of many who marvelled that so plain a child should grow so beautiful. Lady Carew fretted much, however, at the will that Mistress Betty showed, which brooked no crossing, and the tongue that could, in anger, cut like a whip, for this beauty was no saint. There was, however, that in her lordly nature which scorned all meanness and baseness, a nobility that shone through the imperfections of her temper like a star, and looked out through the windows of her great eyes,—eyes that were clear brown, heavily fringed with black lashes, and set beneath two straight, black brows. Her mouth closed, perhaps, a trifle too firmly for so young a woman, and her chin was clear cut as a man’s, but her voice was sweet and low, and there was witchery in her smile.
CHAPTER II
A MESSENGER FROM MY LORD PRIVY SEAL
Michaelmas had come and gone, and it was past the middle of October when a messenger came down post-haste from London. It was after supper, and there was revelry among the retainers and visitors at Mohun’s Ottery. In the great hall, however, there were but few; Sir William had only his favored guest, Master Raleigh, and besides these two were Lady Carew, her daughter, Mistress Cicely, and her niece. There were three sons, but none were home. Peter, who ran away to France, was even then with Sir John Wallop; that same Sir Peter who made the barns of Crediton smoke for the Lord Protector in after years. That evening the little company sat about the fire, the women working with their needles in a group at the left, and at the right sat Raleigh watching his host brew a posset. It was a matter of grave import to Carew, and he let no other hand mix the rare composition, but stood over it; a noble figure, a man in middle life, having a fine head and grizzled hair, with the keen, bright eye and strong jaw of a resourceful and stubborn nature. His rich dress of Flemish velvet, dark as the dregs of wine, his great lace ruff and heavy chain of gold, set off his person and made it the more striking in contrast to the darker, plainer garb of Raleigh. The guest watched his friend stir the beverage and smiled at his ardor.
“What secret lurks in it,” he said, “that you let no man brew it for you, Carew? I should scarce be willing to take the pains that you have this night, though I do heartily acknowledge you the king of posset makers.”