Meanwhile, unconscious of the thoughts running through Carew’s brain, Mistress Betty and her escort walked a little in advance, engaged in conversation. Half-way to the palace gates, some acquaintances stayed Sir William’s progress, and the two, coming alone to the entrance, stood waiting for him. They were undisturbed; the king was at Whitehall, and but few loungers showed themselves about the palace. In spite of his pleasant greeting, there was some constraint in Raby’s manner, and now that the opportunity presented itself, he turned abruptly to his companion, a flush mounting to his face as he addressed her.
“Mistress Carew,” he said, with some hesitation, “’tis said that you are plighted to Sir Barton Henge.”
Betty started, her face flushing more deeply than his.
“Who tells these tales?” she exclaimed.
“They are but idle tales, then?” he asked quickly. “I could scarce credit them, knowing that you knew him not that night at the inn.”
She looked at him with perplexity in her eyes. What could she do, she thought, and how defend herself against her enemy? Truth alone could help her, even while it wounded her, and she was brave enough to see it.
“Master Raby,” she said, with a soft falter in her voice that her uncle would not have recognized, “there is a contract, made when I was a baby; not even my uncle knew of it. Upon the strength of that, Sir Barton must have set these rumors afloat; there is naught else.”
Her companion’s face fell at her words.
“A contract?” he said slowly; “and Sir William wishes it fulfilled, doubtless, and you, Mistress Carew?”
“Sir, I will never wed him,” she said firmly, holding her head proudly.