“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.” “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!” “Nay, offend him not, fair niece,” Carew said gravely; “he is an evil-tempered man and may yet work much evil for you. I will tell him that your mind is set against this union, and that I will in no wise permit you to be enforced. But let the man alone; your tongue is sharp and will not mend your case, and remember that he was in no way one whit worse than your father--nay, less culpable than he.”