“Remember, wench, that you are like to die unwed, a poor dependent in the house of some relative, picking up the crumbs that fall from another’s table.”
“Sir,” she answered proudly, “I would rather starve than eat my bread as the wife of this man Henge.”
Sir William smiled. “My girl,” he said, “I rejoice to see the spirit of your blood, and I cannot blame you; yet this contract exists—made by your father—”
Betty interrupted him with a passionate gesture.
“Uncle, I would know the truth!” she cried; “they told me—the old servants whispered it in my childish ears, and it ran through my veins like poison. They said my father wagered my mother at the gaming-table the night that I was born—and lost. Is it so?”
Her face was white now, and her great eyes were set upon her uncle’s with a look that made him wince. A deep red color stole over his bronzed cheeks, and he bent his head, shamefaced.
“’Tis true,” he said harshly; “and it was to this man Henge, then a roystering young gamester, and he held the debt. Thy father made this contract for thee in its room.”
“And he would claim it?” Mistress Betty spoke in a low voice, but her face was like the face of a corpse.
Sir William bowed his head without a word.
“By heaven!” she cried, “I would sooner be torn in pieces! Let him never dare to come to me, or I shall insult him—I cannot bear this agony of shame!”