“What has the foolish wife to object now?” said the Countess.  “I tell you I marked them both last eve, and though I seldom turn my mind to such follies, I saw the plain tokens of love in every look and gesture of the young springald.  Nay, ’twas his countenance that put it into my mind, for I am even too good-natured—­over good-natured, Susan Talbot.  How now,” at some sound below, springing to the little window and flinging it back, “you lazy idle wenches—­what are you doing there?  Is my work to stand still while you are toying with yon vile whelp?  He is tangling the yarn, don’t you see, thou purblind Jane Dacre, with no eyes but for ogling.  There! there!  Round the leg of the chair, don’t you see!” and down flew a shoe, which made the poor dog howl, and his mistress catch him up.  “Put him down! put him down this instant!  Thomas!  Davy!  Here, hang him up, I say,” cried this over good-natured lady, interspersing her commands with a volley of sixteenth century Billingsgate, and ending by declaring that nothing fared well without her, and hurrying off to pounce down on the luckless damsels who had let their dog play with the embroidery yarn destined to emblazon the tapestry of Chatsworth with the achievements of Juno.  The good nature was so far veritable that when she found little harm done, and had vented her wrath in strong language and boxes on the ear, she would forget her sentence upon the poor little greyhound, which Mrs. Jane Dacre had hastily conveyed out of sight during her transit downstairs.  Susan was thus, to her great relief, released for the present, for guests came in before my Lady had fully completed her objurgations on her ladies, the hour of noon was nigh at hand, sounds in the court betokened the return of the huntsmen, and Susan effected her escape to her own sober old palfrey—­glad that she would at least be able to take counsel with her husband on this most inconvenient proposition.

He came out to meet her at the court door, having just dismounted, and she knew by his face that she had not to give him the first intelligence of the difficulty in which they stood.

My Lord had himself spoken to him, like my Lady expecting him to be enchanted at the prospect of so good a match for his slenderly-portioned daughter, for Dethick was a fair estate, and the Babington family, though not ennobled, fully equal to a younger branch of the Talbots.  However, Richard had had a less uncomfortable task than his wife, since the Earl was many degrees more reasonable than the Countess.  He had shown himself somewhat offended at not meeting more alacrity in the acceptance of his proposal, when Richard had objected on account of the young gentleman’s Popish proclivities; but boldly declared that he was quite certain that the stripling had been entirely cured.

This point of the narrative had just been reached when it was interrupted by a scream, and Cicely came flying into the hall, crying, “O father, father, stop them!  Humfrey and Mr. Babington!  They are killing one another.”