Lady Enville's selfishness was pure love of ease; there was no
deliberate malice in it. Any person who stood in her way might be
ruthlessly swept out of it; but those who did not interfere with her
pleasure, were free to pursue their own.
The selfishness of Lucrece lay deeper. She not only sought her own
enjoyment and aggrandisement; but she could not bear to see anything--
even if she did not want it--in the possession of some one else. That
was sufficient to make Lucrece long for it and plot to acquire it,
though she had no liking for the article in itself, and would not know
what to do with it when she got it.
But in this particular instance she had wanted the article: and she had
missed it. True, the value which she set upon it was rather for its
adjuncts than for itself; but whatever its value, one thought was
uppermost, and was bitterest--she had missed it.
The article was Don Juan. His charm was twofold: first, he would one
day be a rich man and a noble; and secondly, Blanche was in possession.
Lucrece tried her utmost efforts to detach him from her sister, and to
attach him to herself. And Don Juan proved himself to be her match,
both in perseverance and in strategy.
Blanche had not the faintest suspicion that anything of the sort had
been going on. Don Juan himself had very quickly perceived the
counterplot, and had found it a most amusing episode in the little drama
with which he was beguiling the time during his forced stay in England.
But nobody else saw either plot or counterplot, until one morning, when
a low soft voice arrested Sir Thomas as he was passing out of the garden
door.
"Father, may I have a minute's speech of you?"
"Ay so, Lucrece? I was about to take a turn or twain in the garden;
come with me, lass."
"So better, Father, for that I must say lacketh no other ears."
"What now?" demanded Sir Thomas, laughing. "Wouldst have money for a
new chain, or leave to go to a merry-making? Thou art welcome to
either, my lass."
"I thank you, Father," said Lucrece gravely, as they paced slowly down
one of the straight, trim garden walks: "but not so,--my words are of
sadder import."
Sir Thomas turned and looked at her. Never until this moment, in all
her four-and-twenty years, had his second daughter given him an iota of
her confidence.
"Nay, what now?" he said, in a perplexed tone.
"I pray you, Father, be not wroth with me, for my reasons be strong, if
I am so bold as to ask at you if you have yet received any order from
the Queen's Majesty's Council, touching the disposing of Don John?"
"Art thou turning states-woman, my lass? Nay, not I--not so much as a
line."
"Might I take on me, saving your presence, Father, to say so much as--I
would you would yet again desire the same?"
"Why, my lass, hath Don John offenced thee, that thou wouldst fain be
rid of him? I would like him to tarry a while longer. What aileth
thee?"
"Would you like him to marry Blanche, Father?"
"Blanche!--marry Blanche! What is come over thee, child? Marry
Blanche!"
Sir Thomas's tone was totally incredulous. He almost laughed in his
contemptuous unbelief.
"You crede it not, Father," said Lucrece's voice--always even, and soft,
and low. "Yet it may be true, for all that."
"In good sooth, my lass: so it may. But what cause hast, that thou
shouldst harbour such a thought?"
"Nought more than words overheard, Father,--and divers gifts seen--
and--"
"Gifts! The child showed us none."
"She would scantly show _you_, Father, a pair of beads of coral, with a
cross of enamel thereto--"
"Lucrece, dost thou _know_ this?"
Her father's tone was very grave and stern now.
"I do know it, of a surety. And if you suffer me, Father, to post you
in a certain place that I wot of, behind the tapestry, you shall ere
long know it too."
Lucrece's triumphant malice had carried her a step too far. Her
father's open, upright, honest mind was shocked at this suggestion.
"God forbid, girl!" he replied, hastily. "I will not play the
eavesdropper on my own child. Hast thou done this, Lucrece?"
Lucrece saw that she must make her retreat from that position, and she
did so "in excellent order."
"Oh no, Father! how could I so? One day, I sat in the arbour yonder,
and they two walked by, discoursing: and another day, when I sat in a
window-seat in the hall, they came in a-talking, and saw me not. I
could never do such a thing as listen unknown, Father!"
"Right, my lass: but it troubled me to hear thee name it."
Sir Thomas walked on, lost in deep thought. Lucrece was silent until he
resumed the conversation.
"Beads, and a cross!" He spoke to himself.
"I could tell you of other gear, Father," said the low voice of the
avenger. "As, a little image of Mary and John, which she keepeth in her
jewel-closet; and a book wherein be prayers unto the angels and the
saints. These he hath given her."
Lucrece was making the worst of a matter in which Don Juan was
undoubtedly to blame, but Blanche was much more innocent than her sister
chose to represent her. On the rosary Blanche looked as a long
necklace, such as were in fashion at the time; and while the elaborate
enamelled pendant certainly was a cross, it had never appeared to her
otherwise than a mere pendant. The little image was so extremely small,
that she kept it in her jewel-closet lest it should be lost. The book,
Don Juan's private breviary, was in Latin, in which language studious
Lucrece was a proficient, whilst idle Blanche could not have declined a
single noun. The giver had informed her that he bestowed this breviary
on her, his best beloved, because he held it dearest of all his
treasures; and Blanche valued it on that account. Lucrece knew all
this: for she had come upon Blanche in an unguarded moment, with the
book in her hand and the rosary round her neck, and had to some extent
forced her confidence--the more readily given, since Blanche never
suspected treachery.
"I can ensure you, Father," pursued the traitress, with an assumption of
the utmost meekness, "it hath cost me much sorrow ere I set me to speak
unto you."
"Hast spoken to Blanche aforetime?"
"Not much, Father," replied Lucrece, in a voice of apparent trouble. "I
counted it fitter to refer the same unto your better wisdom; nor, I
think, was she like to list me."
"God have mercy!" moaned the distressed father, thoroughly awake now to
the gravity of the case.
"Maybe, Father, you shall think I have left it pass too far," pursued
Lucrece, with well-simulated grief: "yet can you guess that I would not
by my goodwill seem to carry complaint of Blanche."
"Thou hast well done, dear heart, and I thank thee," answered her
deceived father. "But leave me now, my lass; I must think all this gear
over. My poor darling!"
Lucrece glided away as softly as the serpent which she resembled in her
heart.
In half-an-hour Sir Thomas came back into the house, and sent Jennet to
tell his sister that he wished to speak with her in the library. It was
characteristic, not of himself, but of his wife, that in his sorrows and
perplexities he turned instinctively to Rachel, not to her. When
Lucrece's intelligence was laid before Rachel, though perhaps she
grieved less, she was even more shocked than her brother. That Blanche
should think of quitting the happy and honourable estate of maidenhood,
for the slavery of marriage, was in itself a misdemeanour of the first
magnitude: but that she should have made her own choice, have received
secret gifts, and held clandestine interviews--this was an awful
instance of what human depravity could reach.
"Now, what is to be done?" asked Sir Thomas wearily. "First with Don
John, and next with Blanche."
"Him?--the viper! Pack him out of the house, bag and baggage!" cried
the wrathful spinster. "The crocodile, to conspire against the peace of
the house which hath received him in his need! Yet what better might
you look for in a man and a Papist?"
"Nay, Rachel; I cannot pack him out: he is my prisoner, think thou. I
am set in charge of him until released by the Queen's Majesty's mandate.
All the greater need is there to keep him and Blanche apart. In good
sooth, I wis not what to do for the best--with Blanche, most of all."
"Blanche hath had too much leisure time allowed her, and too much of her
own way," said Rachel oracularly. "Hand her o'er to me--I will set her
a-work. She shall not have an idle hour. 'Tis the only means to keep
silly heads in order."
"Maybe, Rachel,--maybe," said Sir Thomas with a sigh. "Yet I fear
sorely that we must have Blanche hence. It were constant temptation,
were she and Don John left in the same house; and though she might not
break charge--would not, I trust--yet he might. I can rest no faith on
him well! I must first speak to Blanche, methinks, and then--"
"Speak to her!--whip her well! By my troth, but I would mark her!"
cried Rachel, in a passion.
"Nay, Rachel, that wouldst thou not," answered her brother, smiling
sadly. "Did the child but whimper, thy fingers would leave go the rod.
Thy bark is right fearful, good Sister; but some men's sweet words be no
softer than thy bite."
"There is charity in all things, of course," said Rachel, cooling down.
"There is a deal in thee," returned Sir Thomas, "for them that know
where to seek it. Well, come with me to Orige; she must be told, I
reckon: and then we will send for Blanche."
Rachel opened her lips, but suddenly shut them without speaking, and
kept them drawn close. Perhaps, had she not thought better of it, what
might have been spoken was not altogether complimentary to Lady Enville.
That very comfortable dame sat in her cushioned chair in the boudoir--
there were no easy-chairs then, except as rendered so by cushions; and
plenty of soft thick cushions were a very necessary part of the
furniture of a good house. Her Ladyship was dressed in the pink of the
fashion, so far as it had reached her tailor at Kirkham; and she was
turning over the leaves of a new play, entitled "The Comedie of
Errour"--one of the earliest productions of the young Warwickshire
actor, William Shakspere by name. She put her book down with a yawn
when her husband and his sister came in.
"How much colder 'tis grown this last hour or twain!" said she.
"Prithee, Sir Thomas, call for more wood."
Sir Thomas shouted as desired--the quickest way of settling matters--and
when Jennet had come and gone with the fuel, he glanced into the little
chamber to see if it were vacant. Finding no one there, he drew the
bolt and sat down.
"Gramercy, Sir Thomas! be we all prisoners?" demanded his wife with a
little laugh.
"Orige," replied Sir Thomas, "Rachel and I have a thing to show thee."
"I thought you looked both mighty sad," remarked the lady calmly.
"Dost know where is Blanche?"
"Good lack, no! I never wis where Blanche is."
"Orige, wouldst like to have Blanche wed?"
"Blanche!--to whom?"
"To Don John de Las Rojas."
"Gramercy! Sir Thomas, you never mean it?"
"He and Blanche mean it, whate'er I may."
"Good lack, how fortunate! Why, he will be a Marquis one day--and hath
great store of goods and money. I never looked for such luck. Have you
struck hands with him, Sir Thomas?"
Sir Thomas pressed his lips together, and glanced at his sister with an
air of helpless vexation. Had it just occurred to him that the pretty
doll whom he had chosen to be the partner of his life was a little
wanting in the departments of head and heart?
"What, Orige--an enemy?" he said.
"Don John is not an enemy," returned Lady Enville, with a musical little
laugh. "We have all made a friend of him."
"Ay--and have been fools, perchance, to do it. 'Tis ill toying with a
snake. But yet once--a Papist?"
"Good lack! some Papists will get to Heaven, trow."
"May God grant it!" replied Sir Thomas seriously. "But surely, Orige,
surely thou wouldst never have our own child a Papist?"
"I trust Blanche has too much good sense for such foolery, Sir Thomas,"
said the lady. "But if no--well, 'tis an old religion, at the least,
and a splendrous. You would never let such a chance slip through your
fingers, for the sake of Papistry?"
"No, Sister--for the sake of the Gospel," said Rachel grimly.
"Thou wist my meaning, Rachel," pursued Lady Enville. "Well, in very
deed, Sir Thomas, I do think it were ill done to let such a chance go by
us. 'Tis like throwing back the gifts of Providence. Do but see, how
marvellously this young man was brought hither! And now, if he hath
made suit for Blanche, I pray you, never say him nay! I would call it
wicked to do the same. Really wicked, Sir Thomas!"
Lady Enville pinched the top cushion into a different position, with
what was energy for her. There was silence for a minute. Rachel sat
looking grimly into the fire, the personification of determined
immobility. Sir Thomas was shading his eyes with his hand. He was
drinking just then a very bitter cup: and it was none the sweeter for
the recollection that he had mixed it himself. His favourite child--for
Blanche was that--seemed to be going headlong to her ruin: and her
mother not only refused to aid in saving her, but was incapable of
seeing any need that she should be saved.
"Well, Orige," he said at last, "thou takest it other than I looked for.
I had meant for to bid thee speak with Blanche. Her own mother surely
were the fittest to do the same. But since this is so, I see no help
but that we have her here, before us three. It shall be harder for the
child, and I would fain have spared her. But if it must be,--why, it
must."
"She demeriteth [merits] no sparing," said Rachel sternly.
"Truly, Sir Thomas," responded his wife, "if I am to speak my mind, I
shall bid Blanche God speed therein. So, if you desire to let [hinder]
the same--but I think it pity a thousand-fold you should--you were
better to see her without me."
"Nay, Orige! Shall I tell the child to her face that her father and her
mother cannot agree touching her disposal?"
"She will see it if she come hither," was the answer.
"But cannot we persuade thee, Orige?"
"Certes, nay!" replied she, with the obstinacy of feeble minds. "Truly,
I blame not Rachel, for she alway opposeth her to marriage, howso it
come. She stood out against Meg her trothing. But for you, Sir
Thomas,--I am verily astonied that you would deny Blanche such good
fortune."
"I would deny the maid nought that were for her good, Orige," said the
father, sadly.
"`Good,' in sweet sooth!--as though it should be ill for her to wear a
coronet on her head, and carry her pocket brimful of ducats! Where be
your eyes, Sir Thomas?"
"Thine be dazed, methinks, with the ducats and the coronet, Sister," put
in Rachel.
"Well, have your way," said Lady Enville, spreading out her hands, as if
she were letting Blanche's good fortune drop from them: "have your way!
You will have it, I count, as whatso I may say. I pray God the poor
child be not heart-broken. Howbeit, _I_ had better loved her than to do
thus."
Sir Thomas was silent, not because he did not feel the taunt, but
because he did feel it too bitterly to trust himself with speech. But
Rachel rose from her chair, deeply stung, and spoke very plain words
indeed.
"Orige Enville," she said, "thou art a born fool!"
"Gramercy, Rachel!" ejaculated her sister-in-law, as much moved out of
her graceful ease of manner as it lay in her torpid nature to be.
"You can deal with the maid betwixt you two," pursued the spinster. "I
will not bear a hand in the child's undoing."
And she marched out of the room, and slammed the door behind her.
"Good lack!" was Lady Enville's comment.
Without resuming the subject, Sir Thomas walked to the other door and
opened it.
"Blanche!" he said, in that hard, constrained tone which denotes not
want of feeling, but the endeavour to hide it.
"Blanche is in the garden, Father," said Margaret, coming out of the
hall. "Shall I seek her for you?"
"Ay, bid her come, my lass," said he quietly.
Margaret looked up inquiringly, in consequence of her father's unusual
tone; but he gave her no explanation, and she went to call Blanche.
That young lady was engaged at the moment in a deeply interesting
conversation with Don Juan upon the terrace. They had been exchanging
locks of hair, and vows of eternal fidelity. Margaret's approaching
step was heard just in time to resume an appearance of courteous
composure; and Don Juan, who was possessed of remarkable versatility,
observed as she came up to them--
"The clouds be a-gathering, Dona Blanca. Methinks there shall be rain
ere it be long."
"How now, Meg?--whither away?" asked Blanche, with as much calmness as
she could assume; but she was by no means so clever an actor as her
companion.
"Father calleth thee, Blanche, from Mother's bower."
"How provoking!" said Blanche to herself. Aloud she answered, "Good; I
thank thee, Meg."
Blanche sauntered slowly into the boudoir. Lady Enville reclined in her
chair, engaged again with her comedy, as though she had said all that
could be said on the subject under discussion. Sir Thomas stood leaning
against the jamb of the chimney-piece, gazing sadly into the fire.
"Meg saith you seek me, Father."
"I do, my child."
His grave tone chilled Blanche's highly-wrought feelings with a vague
anticipation of coming evil. He set a chair for her, with a courtesy
which he always showed to a woman, not excluding his daughters.
"Sit, Blanche: we desire to know somewhat of thee."
The leaves of the play in Lady Enville's hand fluttered; but she had
just sense enough not to speak.
"Blanche, look me in the face, and answer truly:--Hath there been any
passage of love betwixt Don John and thee?"
Blanche's heart gave a great leap into her throat,--not perhaps
anatomically, but so far as her sensations were concerned. She played
for a minute with her gold chain in silence. But the way in which the
question was put roused all her better feelings; and when the first
unpleasant thrill was past, her eyes looked up honestly into his.
"I cannot say nay, Father, and tell truth."
"Well said, my lass, and bravely. How far hath it gone, Blanche?"
Blanche's chain came into requisition again. She was silent.
"Hath he spoken plainly of wedding thee?"
"I think so," said Blanche faintly.
"Didst give him any encouragement thereto?" was the next question--
gravely, but not angrily asked.
If Blanche had spoken the simple truth, she would have said "Plenty."
But she dared not. She looked intently at the floor, and murmured
something about "perhaps" and "a little."
Her father sighed. Her mother appeared engrossed with the play.
"And yet once tell me, Blanche--hath he at all endeavoured himself to
persuade thee to accordance with his religion? Hath he given thee any
gifts, such as a cross, or a relic-case, or the like?"
Blanche would have given a good deal to run away. But there was no
chance of it. She must stand her ground; and not only that, but she
must reply to this exceedingly awkward question.
Don Juan had given her one or two little things, she faltered, leaving
the more important points untouched. Was her father annoyed at her
accepting them? She had no intention of vexing him.
"Thou hast not vexed me, my child," he said kindly. "But I am
troubled--grievously troubled and sorrowful. And the heavier part of my
question, Blanche, thou hast not dealt withal."
"Which part, Father?"
She knew well enough. She only wanted to gain time.
"Hath this young man tampered with thy faith?"
"He hath once and again spoken thereof," she allowed.
"Spoken what, my maid?"
Blanche's words, it was evident, came very unwillingly.
"He hath shown me divers matters wherein the difference is but little,"
she contrived to say.
Sir Thomas groaned audibly.
"God help and pardon me, to have left my lamb thus unguarded!" he
murmured to himself. "O Blanche, Blanche!"
"What is it, Father?" she said, looking up in some trepidation.
"Tell me, my daughter,--should it give thee very great sorrow, if thou
wert never to see this young man again?"
"What, Father?--O Father!"
"My poor child!" he sighed. "My poor, straying, unguarded child!"
Blanche was almost frightened. Her father seemed to her to be coming
out in entirely a new character. At this juncture Lady Enville laid
down the comedy, and thought proper to interpose.
"Doth Don John love thee, Blanche?"
Blanche felt quite sure of that, and she intimated as much, but in a
very low voice.
"And thou lovest him?"
With a good many knots and twists of the gold chain, Blanche confessed
this also.
"Now really, Sir Thomas, what would you?" suggested his wife, re-opening
the discussion. "Could there be a better establishing for the maiden
than so? 'Twere easy to lay down rule, and win his promise, that he
should not seek to disturb her faith in no wise. Many have done the
like--"
"And suffered bitterly by reason thereof."
"Nay, now!--why so? You see the child's heart is set thereon. Be ruled
by me, I pray you, and leave your fantastical objections, and go seek
Don John. Make him to grant you oath, on the honour of a Spanish
gentleman, that Blanche shall be allowed the free using of her own
faith--and what more would you?"
"If thou send me to seek him, Orige, I shall measure swords with him."
Blanche uttered a little scream. Lady Enville laughed her soft, musical
laugh--the first thing which had originally attracted her husband's
fancy to her, eighteen years before.
"I marvel wherefore!" she said, laying down the play, and taking up her
pomander--a ball of scented drugs, enclosed in a golden network, which
hung from her girdle by a gold chain.
"Wherefore?" repeated Sir Thomas more warmly. "For plucking my fairest
flower, when I had granted unto him but shelter in my garden-house!"
"He has not plucked it yet," said Lady Enville, handling the pomander
delicately, so that too much scent should not escape at once.
"He hath done as ill," replied Sir Thomas shortly.
Lady Enville calmly inhaled the fragrance, as if nothing more serious
than itself were on her mind. Blanche sat still, playing with her
chain, but looking troubled and afraid, and casting furtive glances at
her father, who was pacing slowly up and down the room.
"Orige," he said suddenly, "can Blanche make her ready to leave home?--
and how soon?"
Blanche looked up fearfully.
"What wis I, Sir Thomas?" languidly answered the lady. "I reckon she
could be ready in a month or so. Where would you have her go?"
"A month! I mean to-night."
"To-night, Sir Thomas! 'Tis not possible. Why, she hath scantly a gown
fit to show."
"She must go, nathless, Orige. And it shall be to the parsonage. They
will do it, I know. And Clare must go with her."
"The parsonage!" said Lady Enville contemptuously. "Oh ay, she can go
there any hour. They should scantly know whether she wear satin or
grogram. Call for Clare, if you so desire it--she must see to the
gear."
"Canst not thou, Orige?"
"I, Sir Thomas!--with my feeble health!"
And Lady Enville looked doubly languid as she let her head sink back
among the cushions. Sir Thomas looked at her for a minute, sighed
again, and then, opening the door, called out two or three names.
Barbara answered, and he bade her "Send hither Mistress Clare."
Clare was rather startled when she presented herself at the boudoir
door. Blanche, she saw, was in trouble of some kind; Lady Enville
looked annoyed, after her languid fashion; and the grave, sad look of
Sir Thomas was an expression as new to Clare as it had been to the
others.
"Clare," said her step-father, "I am about to entrust thee with a
weighty matter. Are thy shoulders strong enough to bear such burden?"
"I will do my best, Father," answered Clare, whose eyes bespoke both
sympathy and readiness for service.
"I think thou wilt, my good lass. Go to, then:--choose thou, out of
thine own and Blanche's gear, such matter as ye may need for a month or
so. Have Barbara to aid thee. I would fain ye were hence ere
supper-time, so haste all thou canst. I will go and speak with Master
Tremayne, but I am well assured he shall receive you."
A month at the parsonage! How delightful!--thought Clare. Yet
something by no means delightful had evidently led to it.
"Clare!" her mother called to her as she was leaving the room,--"Clare!
have a care thou put up Blanche's blue kersey. I would not have her in
rags, even yonder; and that brown woolsey shall not be well for another
month. And,--Blanche, child, go thou with Clare; see thou have ruffs
enow; and take thy pearl chain withal."