had not been consulted, and although she had coaxed her brother out of
other marriage projects, Henry had gone about this as if he were in
earnest, and it was thought throughout the court that Mary's coaxings
would be all in vain--a fear which she herself had begun to share,
notwithstanding her usual self-confidence.

She hated the thought of the marriage, and dreaded it as she would
death itself, though she said nothing to any one but Jane, and was
holding her forces in reserve for the grand attack. She was preparing
the way by being very sweet and kind to Henry.

Now, all of this, coming upon the heels of her trouble with Brandon,
made her most wretched indeed. For the first time in her life she
began to feel suffering; that great broadener, in fact, maker, of
human character.

Above all, there was an alarming sense of uncertainty in everything.
She could hardly bring herself to believe that Brandon would really go
to New Spain, and that she would actually lose him, although she did
not want him, as yet; that is, as a prospective husband. Flashes of
all sorts of wild schemes had begun to shoot through her anger and
grief when she stared in the face the prospect of her double
separation from him--her marriage to another, and the countless miles
of fathomless sea that would be between them. She could endure
anything better than uncertainty. A menacing future is the keenest of
all tortures for any of us to bear, but especially for a girl like
Mary. Death itself is not so terrible as the fear of it.

Now about this time there lived over in Billingsgate Ward--the worst
part of London--a Jewish soothsayer named Grouche. He was also an