Sir William’s tone was matter of fact and calm, impressing his niece with a painful sense of helplessness. To him this seemed doubtless no uncommon affair, and a young girl’s preference was of small consequence. Mistress Betty stood looking at him with horror growing in her eyes.
“Alas!” she said sadly, “that evil wizard told me I should wed a man scarred as Henge is, on the brow.”
At this Carew pricked up his ears.
“What say you, niece?” he asked; “a wizard? To what wizard did you go?”
“To none,” she answered; “but one came to Kimbolton,—a little, bow-legged man, with a russet cloak.”
“Ah, Sanders,” said her uncle; “and he was at Kimbolton? A sure sign that some scheme was hatching. ’Tis well that the poor lady died.”
Betty told him briefly the story of the packet, and he nodded his head thoughtfully.
“You did well, my child,” he said; “I knew that I could trust you. As for Sanders’s prophecy, doubtless he knew something of this contract. It is the business of such men to pick up all the information that they can. But what will you say to Henge? Having heard the whole matter from him, I could but lay it before you. For my own part, I will not force you, my girl; but bear in mind that you are likely to have few suitors. You are portionless, and this man loves you; of that there is no doubt.”
He was watching the fair face closely as he spoke, but he made no sign of any relenting toward the penniless orphan. He did not divine the struggle in the proud young heart. She did not hesitate a moment in her answer.
“I thank you, uncle,” she said with spirit, “for sparing me your displeasure, for truly I could not obey you if you bade me wed this man. I would sooner have his hatred than his love, and both I hold as worthy only of my contempt.”