“Yea, wench,” he said, “a trouble I had not looked for; albeit I might have known Thomas well enough for that.”
“You mean my father?” she said in a low tone; “then it doth concern me.”
“It doth concern thee, truly,” retorted Carew, gravely; “nor do I see the end on it. Did I not love thee, wench, it would not so disturb me.”
“I pray thee, uncle, tell me all,” Betty exclaimed, the trouble deepening on her face.
“There is but little to tell, my girl,” he answered, with a glance at her in which admiration and pity were mingled. “I find you are troth plight to Sir Barton Henge.”
Betty sprang from her seat, her face aflame.
“’Tis a lie of his!” she cried, “a miserable and cowardly lie!”
Sir William shook his head. “Nay, fair niece,” he said, “it is no lie. I saw the papers; duly signed they are, too. ’Twas done when thy father had wealth and estate; and there it stands, and would have stood, I take it, had it not been for thy face.”
“It does not matter, sir,” Betty cried, “I will none of him. From the moment that I saw him in the inn, I dreaded him, and there is something in his face I cannot endure.”
“Belike there is, Betty,” Carew returned gravely; “yet Henge is handsome, and esteemed a brave man, albeit I never liked him, nor he me. He drinks hard and lives better than his purse allows; yet I do think that many women would believe themselves happy and he chose them. He loves thee, wench, madly too, I think, as such men do sometimes; and it is sure that he will never quit his claim, but cry ‘precontract’ if you dream of wedding elsewhere.”