“We saw Henry the Eighth and his six wives,” went on Vera. “Jane Seymour looked the nicest.”
“How dare you talk gibberish, at a moment like this?” raved Sir Dace. “As to that man, I have cursed him. And you will learn to thank me for it.”
Verena turned whiter than a sheet. Her answering words seemed brave enough, but her voice shook as she spoke them.
“Papa, you have no right to interfere with my destiny in life; no, though you are the author of my being. I have promised to be the wife of my cousin Edward, and no earthly authority shall stay me. You may be able to control my movements now by dint of force, for you are stronger than I am; but my turn will come.”
“Edward Pym—hang him!—is bad to the backbone.”
“I will have him whether he is bad or good,” was Verena’s mental answer: but she did not say it aloud.
“And I will lock you in your room from this hour, if you dare defy me,” hissed Sir Dace.
“I do not defy you, papa. It is your turn, I say; and you have strength and power on your side.”
“Take care you do not. It would be the worse for you.”
“Very well, papa,” sighed Verena. “I cannot help myself now; but in a twelvemonth’s time I shall be my own mistress. We shall see then.”