“Aurelia is not aware of it, I am sure,” said Betty, to whom Hargrave had brought another packet of cheerful innocent despatches, of which, as usual, the unseen friend in the dark was the hero.

“Certainly not, and I hope she never may be.  I declared the notion was not to be entertained for a moment; but Urania never, in her life, would take no for an answer, and she talked me nearly out of my senses, then bade me go home, think it over, and discuss it with my excellent and prudent daughter; as if all the thinking and talking in the world could make it anything but more intolerable.”

His prudent daughter understood in the adjective applied to her a hint which the wily lady would not have dared to make direct to the high-spirited old soldier, namely, that the continuance of his livelihood might depend on his consent.  Betty knew likewise enough of the terrible world of the early eighteenth century to be aware that even such wedlock as this was not the worst to which a woman like Lady Belamour might compel the poor girl, who was entirely in her power, and out of reach of all protection; unless—­ An idea broke in on her—­“If we could but go to Bowstead, sir,” she said, “then we could judge whether the notion be as repugnant to Aurelia as it is to us, and whether Mr. Belamour be truly rational and fit to be trusted with her.”

“I tell you, Betty, it is a mere absurdity to think of it.  I believe the child is fond of, and grateful to, the poor man, but if she supposed she loved him, it would be mere playing on her ignorance.”

“Then we could take her safely home and bear the consequences together, without leaving her alone exposed to any fresh machination of my Lady.”

“You are right, Betty.  You have all your sainted mother’s good sense.  I will tell my cousin that this is not a matter to be done blindly, and that I withhold my reply till I have seen and spoken with her and this most preposterous of suitors.”

“Yes, it is the only way,” said Betty.  “We can then judge whether it be a cruel sacrifice, or whether the child have affection and confidence enough in him to be reasonably happy with him.  What is his age, father?”

“Let me see.  Poor Sir Jovian was much older than Urania, but he died at forty years old.  His brother was some three years his junior.  He cannot be above forty-six or seven.  That is not the objection, but the moody melancholy—­Think of our gay sprightly child!”

“We will see, sir.”

“We!  Mistress Betty?  The cost will be severe without you!”

“Nay, sir, I cannot rest without going too; you might be taken ill.”

“You cannot trust a couple of old campaigners like Palmer and me?  What did we do without you?”

“Got lamed for life,” said Betty, saucily.  “No, I go on a pillion behind Palmer, and my grandfather’s diamond ring shall pay expenses.”

“Sir Archibald’s ring that he put on two baby fingers of yours when he went off to Scotland.”