Heaven?"
"Nay, I'll e'en let it be," said Rachel, rising and opening the door.
"Only look thou, Jack,--there is another place than Heaven; and I don't
reckon there be separate chambers there. Do but think what it were, if
it _should_ chance to a gentleman to be shut up yonder along with the
poor sinners of the peasantry!"
And leaving this Parthian dart, Rachel went her way.
"I will talk with thee again, Jack: in the mean while, I will, keep
these," said his father, taking up the bills.
"As it like you, Sir," responded Jack airily. "I care not though I
never see them again."
"What ado is here!" said Lady Enville, as her husband departed. "I am
sore afeared thou wilt have some trouble hereabout, Jack. Both thy
father and aunt be of such ancient notions."
Jack bent low, with a courtier's grace, to kiss his step-mother's hand.
"Trouble, Madam," he said--and spoke truly--"trouble bideth no longer on
me than water on a duck's back."
"And now tell me, Tremayne, what shall I do with this lad?"
"I am afeared, Sir Thomas, you shall find it hard matter to deal with
him."
"Good lack, these lads and lasses!" groaned poor Sir Thomas. "They do
wear a man's purse--ay, and his heart. Marry, but I do trust I gave no
such thought and sorrow to my father! Yet in very deed my care for the
future passeth it for the past. If Jack go on thus, what shall the end
be?"
Mr Tremayne shook his head.
"Can you help me to any argument that shall touch the lad's heart?"
"Argument ne'er touched a man's heart yet," said the Rector. "That is
but for the head. There is but one thing that will touch the heart to
any lasting purpose; and that is, the quickening grace of God the Holy
Ghost."
"Nay, all they seem to drift further away from Him," sighed the father
sadly.
"My good friend, it may seem so to you, mainly because yourself are
coming nearer."
Sir Thomas shook his head sorrowfully.
"Nay, for I ne'er saw me to be such a sinner as of late I have. You
call not that coming nearer God?"
"Ay, but it is!" said Mr Tremayne. "Think you, friend; you _were_ such
a sinner all your life long, though it be only now that, thanks to God,
you see it. And I do in very deed hope and trust that you have this
true sight of yourself because the Lord hath touched your eyes with the
ointment of His grace. Maybe you are somewhat like as yet unto him
whose eyen Christ touched, that at first he could not tell betwixt men
and trees. The Lord is not like to leave His miracle but half wrought.
He will perfect that which He hath begun."
"God grant it!" said Sir Thomas feelingly. "But tell me, what can I do
for Jack? I would I had listed you and Rachel, and had not sent him to
London. Sir Piers, and Orige, and the lad himself, o'er-persuaded me.
I rue it bitterly; but howbeit, what is done is done. The matter is,
what to do now?"
"The better way, methinks, should be that you left him to smart for it
himself, an' you so could."
"Jack will ne'er smart for aught," said his father. "Were I to stay his
allowance, he should but run into further debt, ne'er doubting to pay
the same somewhen and somehow. The way and the time he should leave to
chance. I see nought but ruin before the lad. He hath learned over ill
lessons in the Court,--of honour which is clean contrary to common
honesty, and courtesy which standeth not with plain truth."
"Ay, the Devil can well glose," [flatter, deceive] said Mr Tremayne
sadly.
"The lad hath no conscience!" added Sir Thomas. "With all this, he
laugheth and singeth as though nought were on his mind. Good lack! but
if I had done as he, I had been miserable thereafter. I conceive not
such conditions."
"I conceive them, for I have seen them aforetime. But I would not have
such a conscience for the worth of the Queen's Mint."
Indeed, Jack did seem perfectly happy. His appetite, sleep, and
spirits, were totally unaffected by his circumstances. Clare, to whom
this anomaly seemed preposterous, one day asked him if he were happy.
"Happy?" repeated Jack. "For sure! Wherefore no?"
Clare did not tell him.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
One evening in the week of Jack's return, to the surprise of all, in
walked Mr John Feversham. He did not seem to have much to say, except
that Uncle Piers and Aunt Lucrece were well. In fact, he never had much
to say. Nor did he think it necessary to state what had brought him to
Lancashire. He was asked to remain, of course, to which he assented,
and slipped into his place with a quiet ponderosity which seemed to
belong to him.
"An oaken yule-log had as much sense, and were quicker!" [livelier]
said Jack aside to Blanche.
"Nay, he wanteth not for sense, I take it," returned his sister, "but of
a truth he is solid matter."
"I marvel if he ever gat into debt," observed Clare quietly from the
other side of Jack.
"He!" sneered that young gentleman. "He is the fashion of man that
should pay all his trade-debts and ne'er ask for a rebate."
"Well! methinks that were no very ill deed," said Clare.
"A deed whereof no gentleman of spirit should be guilty!"
"There be divers sorts of spirits, Jack."
"There is but one manner of spirit," returned Jack sharply, "and I ne'er
saw a spark thereof in yon bale of woollen goods labelled Jack
Feversham."
"May be thou wilt, some day," answered Clare.
"That will be when the Ribble runneth up instead of down. He is a
coward,--mine head to yon apple thereon."
"Be not so sure thereof."
"But I am sure thereof--as sure as a culverin shot."
Clare dropped the subject.
Rather late on the following evening, with his usual quiet,
business-like air, John Feversham asked for a few words with Sir Thomas.
Then--to the astonishment of that gentleman--the purport of his visit
came out. He wanted Blanche.
Sir Thomas was quite taken by surprise. It had never occurred to him
that silent John Feversham had the faintest design upon any one. And
what could this calm, undemonstrative man have seen in the butterfly
Blanche, which had captivated him, of all people? He promised an answer
the next day; and, feeling as if another straw had been added to his
burden, he went to consult the ladies.
Lady Enville disapproved of the proposal. So unlike Don Juan!--so
totally inferior, in every respect! And would it not be desirable to
wait and see whether John were really likely to succeed to his uncle's
inheritance within any reasonable time? she calmly urged. Sir Piers
might live twenty years yet, or he might have a family of his own, and
then where would John Feversham be? In present circumstances, concluded
her Ladyship, enjoying the scent of her pomander, she thought this a
most undesirable match for Blanche, who could not do much worse, and
might do much better.
Rachel, as might be expected, took the contrary view. Unlike Don
Juan!--yes, she hoped so, indeed! This was a sensible young man, who,
it might be trusted, would keep Blanche in order, which she was likely
enough to need as long as she lived. How should the girl do better? By
all means take advantage of the offer.
"Well, should Blanche know? That is, before acceptance."
"Oh, ay!" said Lady Enville.
"Oh, no!" said Rachel.
In Rachel's eyes, the new-fangled plan of giving the young lady a voice
in the question was fraught with danger. But Lady Enville prevailed.
Blanche was summoned, and asked what she thought of John Feversham.
It did not appear that Blanche had thought much about him at all. She
was rather inclined to laugh at and despise him.
Well, had she any disposition to marry him?
Blanche's shrinking--"Oh no, an' it liked you, Father!"--decided the
matter.
To all outward appearance, John Feversham took his rejection very
quietly. Sir Thomas couched it in language as kind as possible. John
said little in answer, and exhibited no sign of vexation. But Rachel,
who was still pursuing her career of amateur detective, thought that he
felt more distress than he showed.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note 1. The embroidery about the heel and ankle, which showed above the
low shoes then fashionable.
Note 2. Lest the reader should think this idea too preposterous to have
been seriously entertained, I refer him to words actually uttered (and
approved by the hearers) on the death of Philippe, Duke of Orleans,
brother of Louis the Fourteenth:--"I can assure you, God thinks twice
before He damns a person of the Prince's quality."--(_Memoires de
Dangeau_).
CHAPTER FOURTEEN.
WHICH WAS THE COWARD?
"Je crains Dieu, cher Abner, et n'ai point
d'autre crainte."
_Racine_.
"There shall be a bull baited to-morrow at Rosso Hall," [now Rossall]
said Jack one evening at rear-supper. "I shall be there, without fail;
who goeth withal?"
Lady Enville was doubtful of the weather, but she expressed no
compassion for the bull. Clare declined without giving her reason.
Blanche looked as if she did not know whether or not to ask permission
to accompany her brother. Sir Thomas said he had too much to think
about; and if not, it was an amusement for which he had no fancy.
"And thou, Feversham?"
"No! I thank you."
"No!--and wherefore?"
"Because I count it not right."
"Puritan!" cried Jack in accents of the deepest scorn. Feversham
continued his supper with great unconcern.
"Art thou no Puritan?"
"What is a Puritan?" calmly returned John.
"One that reckoneth a laugh sin."
"Then, if so be, I am no Puritan."
"Jack!" reproved his father.
"Sir, of all things in this world, there is nought I do loathe and
despise like to a Puritan!"
"There is a worse thing than reckoning a laugh to be sin, Jack," said
Sir Thomas gravely; "and that is, reckoning sin a thing to laugh at."
"And wherefore dost loathe a Puritan, quotha?" demanded Rachel. "Be
they so much better than thou?"
"There be no gentlemen amongst them, Aunt Rachel," suggested Blanche
mischievously.
"They set them up for having overmuch goodness," answered Jack in a
disgusted tone.
"Prithee, Jack, how much goodness is that?" his Aunt Rachel wished to
know.
"Over Jack's goodness," whispered Blanche.
"There is not one that is not a coward," resumed Jack, ignoring the
query. "As for Feversham yonder, I can tell why he would not go."
"Why?" said Feversham, looking up.
"Because," returned Jack with lofty scorn, "thou art afeared lest the
bull should break loose."
Blanche was curious to hear what John Feversham would say to this
accusation--one which to her mind was a most insulting one. Surely this
would rouse him, if anything could.
"That is not all I am afeared of," said John quietly.
"Art thou base enough to confess fear?" cried Jack, as if he could
hardly believe his ears.
John Feversham looked him steadily in the face.
"Ay, Jack Enville," he said, unmoved by the taunt. "I am afeared of
God."
"Well said, my brave lad!" muttered Sir Thomas.
Jack turned, and left the hall without answering. But after that
evening, his whole conduct towards Feversham evinced the uttermost
contempt. He rarely spoke to him, but was continually speaking at him,
in terms which classed him with "ancient wives" and "coward loons"--
insinuations so worded that it was impossible to reply, and yet no one
could doubt what was meant by them. Unless Feversham were extremely
careless of the opinion of his fellows, he must have found this very
galling; but he showed no indication of annoyance, beyond an occasional
flush and quiver of the lip. Sir Thomas had at once exhibited his
displeasure when he heard this, so that Jack restricted his
manifestations to times when his father was absent; but the amusement
sometimes visible in Blanche's face was not likely to be pleasant to the
man whom Blanche had refused to marry.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Well, Sir?" queried Jack one Saturday evening, as the family sat round
the hall fire after rear-supper. "My leave, an' I remember rightly,
shall end this week next but one. I must look shortly to be on my way
to London. What say you touching these little matters?"
"What little matters, Jack?" inquired his father.
"These bills, Sir."
"I cry thee mercy," said Sir Thomas dryly. "I counted those great
matters."
"Forsooth, no, Sir! There be few gentlemen in the Court that do owe so
little as I."
"The Court must be a rare ill place, belike."
"My good Sir!" said Jack condescendingly, "suffer me to say that you,
dwelling hereaway in the country, really can form no fantasy of the
manner of dwellers in the town. Of course, aught should serve here that
were decent and comely. But in the Court 'tis right needful that
fashion be observed. Go to!--these chairs we sit on, I dare say, have
been here these fifty years or more?"
"As long as I mind, Jack," said his father; "and that is somewhat over
fifty years."
"Truly, Sir. Now, no such a thing could not be done in the Court. A
chair that is ten years old is there fit for nought; a glass of five
years may not be set on board; and a gown you have worn one year must be
cast aside, whether it be done or no. The fashion choppeth and changeth
all one with the moon; nor can a gentleman wear aught that is not the
newest of his sort. Sir, the Queen's Highness carrieth ne'er a gown two
seasons, nor never rippeth--all hang by the walls."
It was the custom at that time to pull handsome dresses in pieces, and
use the materials for something else; but if a dress were not worth the
unpicking, it was hung up and left to its fate. Queen Elizabeth kept
all hers "by the walls;" she never gave a dress, and never took one in
pieces.
"Gentility, son--at least thy gentility--is costly matter," remarked Sir
Thomas.
"Good lack, Sir! You speak as though I had been an ill husband!" [an
extravagant man] cried Jack in an injured tone. "Look you, a gentleman
must have his raiment decent--"
"Three cloth suits, six shirts, and six pair of stockings should serve
for that, Jack, nor cost above twenty pound the year, and that free
reckoned," [a very handsome allowance] put in Aunt Rachel.
"Six shirts, my dear Aunt!--and six pair of stockings!" laughed Jack.
"Why, 'twere not one the day."
"Two a-week is enow for any man--without he be a chimney-sweep," said
Aunt Rachel oracularly.
This idea evidently amused Jack greatly.
"'Tis in very deed as I said but now: you have no fantasy hereaway of
the necessities of a man that is in the Court. He must needs have his
broidered shirts, his Italian ruff, well-set, broidered, and starched;
his long-breasted French doublet, well bombasted [padded]; his hose,--
either French, Gally, or Venetian; his corked Flemish shoes of white
leather; his paned [slashed and puffed with another colour or material]
velvet breeches, guarded with golden lace; his satin cloak, well
broidered and laced; his coats of fine cloth, some forty shillings the
yard; his long, furred gown of Lukes' [Lucca] velvet; his muff, Spanish
hat, Toledo rapier; his golden and jewelled ear-rings; his stays--"
A few ejaculations, such as "Good lack!" and "Well-a-day!" had been
audible from Aunt Rachel as the list proceeded; but Sir Thomas kept
silence until the mention of this last article, which was in his eyes a
purely feminine item of apparel.
"Nay, Jack, nay, now! Be the men turning women in the Court?"
"And the women turning men, belike," added Rachel. "The twain do
oft-times go together."
"My good Sir!" returned Jack, with amused condescension. "How shall a
gentleman go about a sorry figure, more than a gentlewoman?"
"Marry come up!" interposed Rachel. "If the gentleman thou hast scarce
finished busking be not a sorry figure, I ne'er did see the like."
"Stays, ear-rings, muffs!" repeated Sir Thomas under his breath.
"Belike a fan, too, Jack?--and a pomander?--and masks?--and gloves?"
"Gloves, without doubt, sir; and they of fair white Spanish leather,
wrought with silk. Masks, but rarely; nor neither fans nor pomanders."
"Not yet, I reckon. Dear heart! what will the idle young gallants be
a-running after the next? We shall have them twisting rats' tails in
their hair, or riding in coaches."
"I ensure you, Sir, many gentlemen do even now ride in coaches. 'Tis
said the Queen somewhat misliketh the same."
"Dear heart!" said Sir Thomas again.
"And now, Sir, you can well see all these must needs be had--"
"Beshrew me, Jack, if I see aught of the sort!"
"All I see," retorted Rachel, "is, if they be had, they must be paid
for."
"Nay, worry not the lad thus!" was softly breathed from Lady Enville's
corner. "If other gentlemen wear such gear, Jack must needs have the
same also. You would not have him mean and sorry?" [shabby.]
"Thou wouldst have him a scarlet and yellow popinjay!" said Rachel.
"I would not have him mean, Orige," replied Sir Thomas significantly.
"Well, Sir,--all said, we come to this," resumed Jack in his airy
manner. "If these bills must needs be paid--and so seem you to say--how
shall it be? Must I essay for the monopoly?--or for a wardship?--or for
an heir?--or shall I rather trust to my luck at the dice?"
"Buy aught but a living woman!" said Rachel, with much disgust.
"The woman is nought, Aunt. 'Tis her fortune."
"Very good. I reckon she will say, `The man is naught.' And she'll
speak truth."
Rachel was playing, as many did in her day, on the similarity of sound
between "nought," nothing, and "naught," good-for-nothing.
"Like enough," said Jack placidly.
"I will spare thee what money I can, Jack," said his father sighing.
"But I do thee to wit that 'twill not pay thy debt--no, or the half
thereof. For the rest, I must leave thee to find thine own means: but,
Jack!--let them be such means that an honest man and true need not be
'shamed thereof."
"Oh!--of course, sir," said Jack lightly.
"Jack Feversham!" asked Sir Thomas, turning suddenly to his young
visitor, "supposing this debt were thine, how shouldst thou pay it?"
"God forbid it were!" answered Feversham gravely. "But an' it were,
sir, I would pay the same."
"At the dice?" grimly inquired Rachel.
"I never game, my mistress."
"A monopoly?" pursued she.
"I am little like to win one," said Feversham laughingly.
"Or by wedding of an heir?"
"For the sake of her money? Nay, I would think I did her lesser ill of
the twain to put my hand in her pocket and steal it."
"Then, whereby?" asked Sir Thomas, anxious to draw John out.
"By honest work, Sir, whatso I might win: yea, though it were the
meanest that is, and should take my life to the work."
"Making of bricks?" sneered Jack.
"I would not choose that," replied Feversham quietly. "But if I could
earn money in no daintier fashion, I would do it."
"I despise mean-spirited loons!" muttered Jack, addressing himself to
the fire.
"So doth not God, my son," said his father quietly.
Blanche felt uncertain whether she did or not. In fact, the state of
Blanche's mind just then was chaos. She thought sometimes there must be
two of her, each intent upon pursuing a direction opposite to that of
the other. Blanche was in the state termed in the Hebrew Old Testament,
"an heart and an heart." She wished to serve God, but she also wanted
to please herself. She was under the impression--(how many share it
with her!)--that religion meant just two things--giving up everything
that one liked, and doing everything that one disliked. She did not
realise that what it really does mean is a change in the liking. But at
present she was ready to accept Christ's salvation from punishment, if
only she might dispense with the good works which God had prepared for
her to walk in.
And when the heart is thus divided between God and self, it will be
found as a rule that, in all perplexities which have to be decided, self
carries the day.
The only result of the struggle in Blanche's mind which was apparent to
those around her was that she was very cross and disagreeable. He who
is dissatisfied with himself can never be pleased with other people.
Ah, how little we all know--how little we can know, as regards one
another--of the working of that internal kingdom which is in every man's
breast! A woman's heart may be crushed to death within her, and those
who habitually talk and eat and dwell with her may only suppose that she
has a headache.
And those around Blanche entirely misunderstood her. Lady Enville
thought she was fretting over her crossed love, and lavished endless
pity and petting upon her. Clare only saw, in a vague kind of way, that
something was the matter with her sister which she could not understand,
and let her alone. Her Aunt Rachel treated her to divers acidulated
lectures upon the ingratitude of her behaviour, and the intensity with
which she ought to be ashamed of herself. None of these courses of
treatment was exactly what Blanche needed; but perhaps the nipping north
wind of Aunt Rachel was better than the dead calm of Clare, and far
superior to the soft summer breeze of Lady Enville.
It was a bright, crisp, winter day. The pond in the grounds at Enville
Court was frozen over, and Jack, declaring that no consideration should
baulk him of a slide, had gone down to it for that purpose. John
Feversham followed more deliberately; and a little later, Clare and
Blanche sauntered down in the same direction. They found the two Johns
sliding on the pond, and old Abel, the head gardener, earnestly adjuring
Master Jack to keep off the south end of it.
"Th' ice is good enough at this end; but 'tis a deal too thin o'er yon.
You'd best have a care, of you'll be in ere you know aught about it."
"Thou go learn thy gra'mmer!" [teach thy grandmother] said Jack
scornfully. "Hallo, maids! Come on the ice--'tis as jolly as a play."
Clare smilingly declined, but Blanche stepped on the ice, aided by
Jack's hand, and was soon sliding away as lithely and merrily as
himself.
"Ay me! yonder goeth the dinner bell," said Blanche at last. "Help me
back on the bank, Jack; I must away."
"Butter the dinner bell!" responded Jack. "Once more--one grand slide,
Snowdrop."
This had been Jack's pet name for his youngest sister in childhood, and
he used it now when he was in a particularly good temper.
"Master! Master! yo're comin' too near th' thin!" shouted old Abel.
Jack and Blanche, executing their final and most superb slide, heard or
cared not. They came flying along the pond,--when all at once there was
a shriek of horror, and Jack--who was not able to stop himself--finished
the slide alone. Blanche had disappeared. Near the south end of the
great pond was a round jagged hole in the ice, showing where she had
gone down.
"Hold her up, Master, quick!" cried old Abel. "Dunnot let her be sucked
under, as what happens! Creep along to th' edge, and lay you down; and
when hoo comes to th' top, catch her by her gown, or her hure [hair], or
aught as 'll hold. I'll get ye help as soon as I can;" and as fast as
his limbs would carry him, Abel hurried away.
Jack did not move.
"I shall be drowned! I can't swim!" he murmured, with white lips, "I
would sure go in likewise."
Neither he nor Clare saw in the first moment of shocked excitement that
somebody else had been quicker and braver than they.
"I have her!" said John Feversham's voice, just a little less calm than
usual. "I think I can keep her head above water till help cometh. Jack
Enville, fetch a rope or a plank--quick!"
They saw then that Feversham was lying on his face on the ice, and
holding firmly to Blanche by her fair hair, thus bringing her face above
the water.
"O Jack, Jack!" cried Clare in an agony. "Where is a rope or plank?"
Even in that moment, Jack was pre-eminently a gentleman--in his own
sense of the term.
"How should I know? I am no serving-man."
Clare dashed off towards the house without another word. She met Sir
Thomas at the garden gate, hastening out to ascertain the meaning of the
screams which had been heard.
"Father!--a rope--a plank!" she panted breathlessly. "Oh, help!
Blanche is drowning!"
Before Clare's sentence was gasped out, Sim and Dick ran past, the one
with a plank, the other with a coil of rope, sent by Abel to the rescue.
Sir Thomas followed them at his utmost speed.
The sight which met his eyes at the pond, had it been less serious,
would have been ludicrous. Feversham still lay on the ice, grasping
Blanche, who was white and motionless; while Jack, standing in perfect
safety on the bank, was favouring the hero with sundry scraps of cheap
advice.