there was a ball that night at newmarket, but lady clancarty did not go, in spite of the commands and entreaties of lady sunderland. the elder countess was particularly anxious to display her handsome daughter at the assembly, and nothing could exceed her anger and chagrin at the younger woman’s obstinacy. by afternoon the quarrel waxed so hot that betty pleaded illness and went to bed, as a last resort, and stayed there, too, in spite of her mother’s rage. lady sunderland, who in a passion could forget herself and use such language as only a fish-wife or a woman of fashion could command, heaped recriminations on her daughter, and screamed and chattered and swore a little, too, for my lady was a pupil—and an apt one—of the court of charles the second. but lady betty was more than her match in wit and strength of will, and she won the victory.[pg 148] when the hour for the ball arrived, her mother had to go with lord spencer and leave her daughter calmly ensconced in bed, defiant and triumphant. the countess of sunderland’s chair was brought to the inn door, preceded by the link-boys with their lanthorns, and the lady was helped into it by her son, her very headdress quivering with rage and the color of the paint upon her cheeks enhanced by the flush of anger.
“the minx!” she exclaimed to spencer, “i don’t believe she’s ill at all; it’s nothing but her obstinacy and some fancy she has about that scapegrace, clancarty. the saucy little baggage defied me, and looked as lovely as any nymph all the time! your father must see to it—there must be a divorce from that creature, or next thing, she’ll run away to france with him; she’s equal to it, the little wretch!”
“never, madam,” said spencer solemnly, “i’d see her dead first—before she disgraced the family!”
if the truth be told, this was too much for the countess; she gasped and stared uneasily at this self-righteous young man, who certainly resembled her as little as he did the versatile and unprincipled sunderland.
meanwhile, the invalid at the lion’s head[pg 149] had miraculously recovered and dressed herself with the assistance of alice, who viewed the whole proceeding with amazement and distinct disapproval. she knew that lady clancarty had not been ill and she looked upon the stratagem as an unworthy deceit. her mistress, reading her as easily as an open book, understood the girl’s mood and said nothing to her. instead, she set her the task of lighting the candles in the room where she received her guests, and seeing that the servant replenished the wood fire and drew the curtains. finally she came in herself, a charming figure in pink, with a single rose in her hair. finding everything arranged to her satisfaction, she dismissed her attendant and waited quite alone, standing before the hearth and gazing pensively at the fire. though she was outwardly calm, a storm was raging in her bosom. he had asked for this interview and he was coming, and now she shrank from the thought of this meeting with sudden trepidation. she bit her lip and stared into the fire, but her hands quivered and her heart beat almost to suffocation. she had thought of this moment many, many times—girlish day-dreams of her lover and husband coming to claim her—but she had never pictured anything like this. a proscribed rebel,[pg 150] who was forced to see her secretly, and the man himself—ah, that was it! here was a powerful personality that she had never imagined; there was something in his eyes, his voice that drew her to him with so strange a fascination that it frightened her. she knew just how he would look, just the flash in his gray eyes, the deep tones of his voice, before she saw him enter. she struggled with herself when she heard his tread in the hall and knew it—and she was listening with strained ears, when the door was opened for him. but lady betty was not one to show the white feather; she drew her breath hard and straightened herself, and then she opened that fan of hers—a beautiful affair from one of the india houses in london—and she swayed it to and fro shading her face.
lord clancarty came into the room with a springing step, his face flushed and his eyes shining; he wore, indeed, the air of a conquering hero. but, almost at the threshold, he halted and stood gazing at betty in amazement. she was still standing before the fire, slowly wielding the fan, her face averted, pale, cold, her chin up. nothing could have been more frozen than her attitude; it chilled even his ardor, and he stood, with his hat in his[pg 151] hand, and for a few moments there was silence. then lady betty broke it.
“i received your note, my lord,” she said, in an icy tone.
“the devil you did, madam,” he said, “i should think that i had sent you a cartel—from your manner of receiving me! faith, my lady, you seem marvellous glad to see your husband.”
a shadow of a smile flickered in betty’s eyes.
“a welcome kept too long grows cold, sir,” she replied.
he took a step toward her, tossing his hat upon the table, and something in his face made her back closer to the fire; he saw it and stopped, smiling.
“you do not believe in me,” he said reproachfully; “i would have wooed you and won you, dear, but for the cruelty of fate. i am your husband,” he added softly; “does not that plead a little?”
“a childish contract, a mere formal mockery,” replied lady betty, cool as ice, looking at him across the candles, “i should not dream of being bound by it—no generous man would base any claim upon it, sir;” she told this falsehood glibly, though her very soul shook under his glance.
[pg 152]the blood rushed up to his forehead.
“have i based any claim upon it, madam?” he asked proudly.
this blow went home; her ladyship turned crimson and bit her lips in silence.
“nay, you do not know me,” he said, and his rich irish voice deepened and softened with restrained emotion; “i would scorn to base any claim upon a tie not freely made—for you were a child—but i thought,” he paused, searching her face keenly, “i thought your husband might win your heart, my lady.”
she gave him a quick look, and then her eyes avoided his and she struggled hard for self-mastery. if he had known it then—one word more, one step farther—but he waited for her reply, and the wayward mood came back upon her.
“fourteen years, my lord,” she said, shrugging her shoulders, “and then, you plead your title to my—my affections!”
“fourteen years,” he repeated slowly, “fourteen years less of paradise, betty, is not that enough punishment for me?”
she averted her face and did not reply. he came a step nearer and she felt his hand closing over hers.
“would you have come but for the peace[pg 153] of ryswick?” she asked, looking up into his eyes.
he smiled. “if we had won before,” he replied, “if we had only won—i would have come, a victor, to claim you. betty, i did not know you, i had never pictured you as you are! i went to althorpe like a thief in disguise, to see you, and from that moment in the greenwood, i loved you—i love you madly now!” he whispered, and she felt his breath warm on her cheek.
she did not dare to look at him now.
“i love you,” he said softly, “and—does my wife care nothing for me?”
before she realized it he had his arm around her, his lips almost touched hers. then she broke away from him, her eyes flashing, her face on fire.
“you go too far, sir,” she cried angrily, “you say you base no claim upon our relation, and then—and then—” she stopped, her breast heaving, tears in her eyes.
he smiled. “and then? i would have kissed you,” he said, “by saint patrick, i would give a kingdom—if it were mine—to kiss you, but i will not force you to it, lady clancarty!”
“you dare not!” she flashed at him angrily.
[pg 154]his eyes blazed. “i dare not?” he repeated, “forsooth, madam, that is an ill word to use to donough macarthy; i dare—anything! but i want no woman against her will. i wouldn’t give that, madam,” he snapped his fingers, “not that—for you without your heart!”
she was silent for a moment, but the expression of his face, his masterful manner, stung her pride and angered her.
“you are a proscribed traitor, my lord,” she said angrily, “how can you ask me to share your life?”
his look withered her.
“madam,” he said, “i ask for your love. no loving woman ever thought of valuing her husband by his misfortunes. i am a beggar and an exile, my lady, and i have done wrong to sue for your heart. i see that—like your father—you value men by their positions in the world!”
her face was crimson. “you insult me, my lord!” she cried passionately.
“did you not insult me?” he asked bitterly; “do you not infer that i only ask you because i am broken in fortune and name—a bankrupt? but look you, my lady, i cringe at no rich man’s door for his daughter!” he[pg 155] paused, and his red-hot anger suddenly turned to ashes; his eyes dwelt on her with an affection that moved her deeply; “i love you,” he said, “i would have sued for your heart on my knees—but, madam, i will take scorn from no one—not even from you. in exile, in illness, in suffering, i have often thought of you—your face shone like a star upon me, your pictured face, betty, and when i saw you, ah,” he paused, looking into the fire, “i love you still—but you are lord sunderland’s daughter. he has scorned the ruined irishman, and you—you scorn me too, it seems. farewell, my lady, you are my wife—but henceforth i seek you no more. if you love me, ’twill be for you to tell the exile, the proscribed traitor, so.”
betty threw out her hands wildly.
“you wrong me, sir,” she protested faintly; “i did not mean to reproach you with poverty; i—i spoke in anger.”
but he stood like a statue.
“you do not love me,” he said, his deep voice quivering, “and mark you, lady clancarty, i will have nothing but your love—your love; i shall take no less! i love you, you are my very own, my wife,” his tone was masterful, “but i, who love you, i will not[pg 156] sue for your heart. i am too poor, madam, i will not ask you to share an exile’s lot, you are too great a lady,” he took his hat from the table and bowed profoundly.
he longed to catch her in his arms and kiss her, but he was too proud; he bowed and she courtesied low, and in the dim light of the candles he could not see the pallor of her face, he could not hear her heart beat. pride met pride.
“i bid you farewell, my lady,” he said, and bowed himself out of the room.
and betty fell upon her knees beside the table and laid her proud head down upon it and wept as though her heart would break.
“oh,” she sobbed to herself, “i am a beast, a heartless little beast,” and then she wept again, this being the manner of women.
and she did not see the door of lady sunderland’s room open noiselessly, upon a tiny crack, stay so a moment, and then close again as silently. she neither saw nor heard it in the passion of her grief.
