coming. "I am wellnigh spent."
Sir Thomas was really angry with his son. A few words of withering
scorn made that young gentleman--afraid of his father for the first
time--assist with his own courtly hands in pushing the plank across the
ice.
The relief reached those endangered just in time.
Blanche was carried home in her father's arms, and delivered to Rachel
to be nursed; while Feversham, the moment that he recognised himself to
be no longer responsible for her safety, fainted where he lay. He was
borne to the house by Sim and Dick--Master Jack following in a leisurely
manner, with his gentlemanly hands in his pockets.
When all was safely over, Sir Thomas put his hand on Jack's shoulder.
For the first time that the father could remember, the son looked
slightly abashed.
"Jack, which was the coward?"
And Jack failed to answer.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
John Feversham joined the party again at supper. He looked very pale,
but otherwise maintained his usual imperturbable demeanour, though
scarcely seeming to like the expressions of admiration which were
showered upon him.
"Metrusteth, Jack," said Rachel cuttingly to her nephew, "next time thou
wilt do thy best not to mistake a hero for a coward. I should not
marvel, trow, if the child's going on yon ice were some mischievous work
of thine."
"'Twas a gallant deed, in very sooth, Master Feversham,--without you can
swim," said Lady Enville faintly. She had gone into hysterics on
hearing of the accident, and considered herself deserving of the deepest
commiseration for her sufferings. "I am thankful Blanche wear but her
camlet."
"Canst thou swim, lad?" asked Sir Thomas of John.
"No," he answered quietly.
"Were you not afeared, Master Feversham?" said Rachel.
"Ay, a little--lest I should be full spent ere help could come. But for
that I trusted God. For aught else--nay: it was no time to think
thereof."
"Methinks, Jack Feversham," said Sir Thomas affectionately, "none shall
call thee a coward any more."
Feversham smiled back in answer.
"Sir Thomas," he said, "I fear God, and I love her. This was God's
work, and her great peril. How could I have held back?"
Sir Thomas glanced at his son; but Jack was twirling his moustache, and
intently contemplating one of the stags' heads which decorated the hall.
After that day, there was a great change in Blanche Enville. She had
come so near death, and that so suddenly, that she was sobered and
softened. God in His mercy opened her eyes, and she began to ask
herself,--What is the world worth? What, after all, is anything worth,
except to please God, and win His blessing, and inherit His glory?
Her opinion was changed, too, as it respected John Feversham. There was
no possibility of mistaking him for a coward any longer. And whatever
he had been, she could scarcely have failed to cherish some kindly
feeling towards the man who had risked his life for hers.
The two Johns left Enville Court together on the following Tuesday. And
after reaching London, Jack began to write letters home pretty
regularly, for that time,--always gay, airy, and sanguine.
Jack's first letter conveyed the information that he was absolutely
certain of obtaining the monopoly. Sir Christopher Hatton and Sir
Walter Raleigh had both promised their interest, and any thought of
failure after that was quite out of the question.
The second letter brought the news that Sir Christopher was very
ill--(in fact, he was dying)--and that, by some unfortunate mistake
(with Jack, any want of capacity to see his immense value, was always a
mistake), the monopoly had been granted to young Philip Hoby. But there
was no reason for disappointment. Jack had had an unusual run of good
luck that week at the gaming-table. It was quite Providential. For
Jack, like some other gentlemen of his day, dealt largely in religious
phrases, and did not trouble himself about religion in any other way.
The third letter stated that Jack had not been able to obtain the grant
of a wardship. That was another unfortunate mistake. But his good luck
as a gamester still kept up, and my Lord of 'Bergavenny was his very
good lord. These items, also, were most Providential.
The fourth letter informed his father that all his difficulties were at
last surmounted. Providence had rewarded his merits as they deserved.
He was on the eve of marriage.
"To whom?" asked Lady Enville, with languid curiosity.
"To seven thousand pounds," said Sir Thomas dryly; "that is as much as I
can make out of the lad's letter."
The fifth epistle condescended to rather mere detail. Jack's _fiancee_
was the daughter of an Earl, and the niece by marriage of a Viscount.
She had a fortune of seven thousand pounds--that was the cream and
chorus of the whole. But still it did not apparently occur to Jack that
his friends at home might be interested to know the name of his beloved.
"What must we call her?" asked Blanche. "We know not her name."
"And we cannot say `Mistress Jack,' sith she hath a title," added Sir
Thomas.
"`My Lady Jack,'" laughingly suggested Rachel.
And "Lady Jack" the bride was dubbed from that day forth.
The sixth letter was longer in coming. But when it came it was short
and sweet. Jack's nuptials were to be solemnised on the following day,
and he and his bride would start three days later for Enville Court.
There was a general flutter through the family.
"Dear heart! how was Jack donned? I would give a broad shilling to
know!" said Rachel satirically. "In white satin, trow, at the very
least, with a mighty great F on his back, wrought in rubies."
"F, Aunt Rachel!" repeated Blanche innocently. "You mean E, surely.
What should F spell?"
"Thou canst spell aught thou wilt therewith, child," said Rachel coolly,
as she left the room.
"Sir Thomas, I pray you of money," said Lady Enville, rousing up. "We
have nought fit to show."
Sir Thomas glanced at his wife's flowing satin dress, trimmed with
costly lace, and, like an unreasonable man, opined that it was quite
good enough for anything; "This!" exclaimed Lady Enville. "Surely you
cannot mean it, Sir Thomas. This gown is all rags, and hath been made
these four years."
Sir Thomas contemplated the dress again, with a rather puzzled face.
"I see not a patch thereon, Orige. Prithee, be all thy gowns rags?--and
be Clare and Blanche in rags likewise?"
"Of course--not fit to show," said the lady.
"It seemeth me, Orige, thou shouldst have had money aforetime. Yet I
cannot wholly conceive it,--we went not to church in rags this last
Sunday, without somewhat ail mine eyes. If we be going thus the next,
prithee lay out in time to avoid the same."
"Gramercy, Sir Thomas!--how do you talk!"
"Rachel," said her brother, as she entered, "how many new gowns dost
thou need to show my Lady Jack?"
"I lack no new gowns, I thank thee, Tom. I set a new dowlas lining in
my camlet but this last week. I would be glad of an hood, 'tis true,
for mine is well worn; but that is all I need, and a mark [13 shillings
and 4 pence] shall serve me."
"Then thy charges be less than Orige, for she ensureth me that all her
gowns be but rags, and so be Clare's, and the like by Blanche."
"Lack-a-daisy!" cried Rachel. "Call me an Anabaptist, if she hath not
in her coffers two velvet gowns, and a satin, and a kersey, and three
camlets--to say nought of velvet kirtles and other habiliments!"
"My dear Rachel!--not one made this year!"
"My satin gown was made six years gone, Orige; and this that I bear
seven; and my camlet--well-a-day!--it may be ten."
"They be not fit to sweep the house in."
"Marry come up!--Prithee, Tom, set Orige up in tinsel. But for Clare
and Blanche, leave me see to them. Clare hath one gown was made this
year--"
"A beggarly say!" [a coarse kind of silk, often used for curtains and
covering furniture] put in Lady Enville.
"And Blanche hath one a-making."
"A sorry kersey of twenty pence the yard!"
"Orige, prithee talk no liker a fool than thou canst help. Our gowns be
right and--decent, according to our degree. We be but common folks,
woman! For me, I go not about to prink [make smart and showy] me in
cloth of gold,--not though Jack should wed all the countesses in
England. If she love not me by reason of my gowns, she may hold me off
with the andirons. I can do without her."
And away marched Rachel in high dudgeon. "It is too bad of Rachel!"
moaned Lady Enville, lifting her handkerchief to tearless eyes. "I
would have nought but to be decent and fit for our degree, and not to
shame us in the eyes of her that hath been in the Court. I was ne'er
one to cast money right and left. If I had but a new velvet gown, and a
fair kirtle of laced satin, and a good kersey for every day, and an
hood, and a partlet or twain of broidered work, and two or three other
small matters, I would ask no more. Rachel would fain don us all like
scullery-maids!"
Sir Thomas hated to see a woman weep; and above all, his wife--whom he
still loved, though he could no longer esteem her.
"Come, Orige,--dry thine eyes," he said pityingly.
He did not know, poor victim! that they required no drying.
"Thou shalt have what thou wouldst. Tell me the sum thou lackest, and I
will spare it, though I cut timber therefor."
Which was equivalent, in his eyes, to the very last and worst of all
honest resources for raising money.
Lady Enville made a rapid calculation (with her handkerchief still at
her eyes), which ran much in this fashion:--
+========================================+======+
ÝVelvet dress - at least 40; say Ý45 0 0Ý
+----------------------------------------+------+
ÝSatin kirtle - about Ý20 0 0Ý
+----------------------------------------+------+
ÝKersey dress Ý3 10 0Ý
+----------------------------------------+------+
ÝHood, best Ý 1 6 8Ý
+----------------------------------------+------+
ÝHood, second-rate Ý 13 4Ý
+----------------------------------------+------+
ÝFrontlet Ý 4 4Ý
+----------------------------------------+------+
ÝLawn for ruffs (embroidered at home) sayÝ 2 6Ý
+----------------------------------------+------+
ÝGloves, one dozen pairs, best quality Ý 2 6Ý
+----------------------------------------+------+
ÝRibbon, 40 yards, various colours Ý 13 4Ý
+----------------------------------------+------+
ÝMiscellaneous items, a good margin, say Ý 9 7 4Ý
+----------------------------------------+------+
ÝWhich makes a total of Ý80 0 0Ý
+========================================+======+
Without removing the signal of distress, her Ladyship announced that the
small sum of 80 pounds would satisfy her need: a sum equivalent to about
1200 pounds in our day. Sir Thomas held his breath. But he knew that
unless he had courage authoritatively to deny the fair petitioner,
argument and entreaty would alike be thrown away upon her. And that
courage he was conscious he had not.
"Very well, Orige," he said quietly; "thou shalt have it."
But he ordered four fine oaks to be felled that evening.
"Clare, what lackest thou in the matter of raiment?" he asked when he
met her alone.
"If it liked your goodness to bestow on me a crown-piece, Father, I
would be very thankful," said Clare, blushing as if she thought herself
extravagant. "I do lack gloves and kerchiefs."
"And what for thee, Blanche?" he asked in similar circumstances.
Before Blanche's eyes for a moment floated the vision of a new satin
dress and velvet hood. The old Blanche would have asked for them
without scruple. But the new Blanche glanced at her father's face, and
saw that he looked grave and worried.
"I thank you much, Father," she said. "There is nought I do really
lack, without it were three yards of blue ribbon for a girdle."
This would cost about a shilling. Sir Thomas smiled, blessed her, and
put a crown-piece in her hand; and Blanche danced down-stairs in her
delight,--evoked less by the crown-piece than by the little victory over
herself. It was to her that for which a despot is recorded to have
longed in vain--a new pleasure.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN.
AFTER ALL.
"For perhaps the dreaded future
Has less bitter than I think;
The Lord may sweeten the waters
Before I stoop to drink;
Or if Marah must be Marah,
He will stand beside the brink."
All was ready for the reception of the newcomers. The hall at Enville
Court was gay with spring flowers, and fresh rushes were strewn over the
floor. Sir Thomas and Dick had gone so far as Kirkham to meet the
visitors. Lady Enville, attired in her new kersey, which had cost the
extravagant price of five shillings per yard, [Note 1] sat by the hall
fire. Rachel, in the objectionable camlet, which had been declared too
shabby to sweep the house in, stood near the door; while Clare and
Blanche, dressed in their Sunday costume, were moving about the hall,
giving little finishing touches to things as they saw them needed.
"There be the horses!" said Blanche excitedly.
She was very curious to see her new sister.
In about ten minutes Sir Thomas entered, leading a masked lady by the
hand. Jack came lounging behind, his hands in his pockets, after his
usual fashion.
"Our new daughter,--the Lady Gertrude Enville." [A fictitious person.]
One glance, and Lady Enville almost fainted from pique. Lady Gertrude's
travelling costume was grander than her own very best new velvet.
Violet velvet, of the finest quality, slashed in all directions, and the
slashes filled with puffings of rich pale buff satin; yards upon yards
of the costliest white lace, literally strewn upon the dress: rich
embroidery upon the most delicate lawn, edged with deep lace, forming
the ruff; a hood of black velvet, decorated with pearls and gold
passementerie; white leather shoes, wrought with gold; long worked
gloves of thick white kid,--muff, fan, mask--all complete. As the bride
came up the hall, she removed her mask, and showed a long pale face,
with an unpleasant expression. Her apparent age was about thirty.
"Give you good even, Madam!" she said, in a high shrill voice--not one
of those which are proverbially "an excellent thing in woman."
"These be your waiting gentlewomen?"
"These are my daughters," said Lady Enville--stiffly, for her; the
mistake had decidedly annoyed her.
"Ah!" And the bride kissed them. Then turning to Rachel,--"This, I
account, is the lady mistress?"
("That camlet!" said Lady Enville to herself, deeply vexed.)
Sir Thomas introduced her gravely,--"My sister."
Lady Gertrude's bold dark eyes scanned Rachel with an air of contempt.
Rachel, on her part, quite reciprocated the feeling.
"You see, Niece, we keep our velvets for Sundays hereaway," she said in
her dry way.
The bride answered by an affected little laugh, a kiss, and a
declaration that travelling ruined everything, and that she was not fit
to be seen. At a glance from Lady Enville, Clare offered to show
Gertrude to her chamber, and they went up-stairs together. Jack
strolled out towards the stable.
"Not fit to be seen!" gasped poor Lady Enville. "Sir Thomas, what can
we do? In the stead of eighty pound, I should have laid out eight
hundred, to match her!"
"Bear it, I reckon, my dear," said he quietly.
"Make thy mind easy, Orige," scornfully answered Rachel. "I will lay my
new hood that her father made his fortune in some manner of craft, and
hath not been an Earl above these two years. Very ladies should not
deal as she doth."
Meanwhile, above their heads, the bride was putting Clare through her
catechism.
"One of you maidens is not in very deed Sir John's sister. Which is
it?"
"_Sir_ John?" repeated Clare in surprise.
"Of course. Think you I would have wedded a plain Master? I caused my
father to knight him first.--Which is it?"
"That am I," said Clare.
"Oh, you? Well, you be not o'er like him. But you look all like unto
common country folk that had never been in good company."
Though Clare might be a common country girl, yet she was shocked by
Gertrude's rudeness. She had been brought up by Rachel to believe that
the quality of her dress was of less consequence than that of her
manners. Clare thought that if Gertrude were a fair sample of "good
company," she did not wish to mix in it.
"I have been alway bred up in the Court," Gertrude went on, removing her
hood. "I never was away thence afore. Of course I do conceive that I
am descended to a lower point than heretofore--you have no coach, I dare
wager? yet I looked not to find my new kin donned in sorry camlet and
mean dowlas. Have you any waiting-maid?--or is that piece of civility
[civilisation] not yet crept up into this far corner of the world?"
Clare summoned Jennet, and took her own seat in the further window. The
vulgar, purse-proud tone of Gertrude's remarks disgusted her
exceedingly. She did not enter into all of them. Simple Clare could
not see what keeping a carriage had to do with gentlemanliness.
Jennet came in, and dropped a "lout" to the bride, whom she was disposed
to regard with great reverence as a real lady. At that time, "lady" was
restricted to women of title, the general designation being
"gentlewoman."
"Here, woman!" was Gertrude's peremptory order. "Untwist my hair, and
dress it o'er again."
Jennet quickly untwisted the hair, which was elaborately curled and
frizzed; and when it was reduced to smoothness, asked,--"What mun [must]
I do wi' 't?"
"Eh?" said Gertrude.
"I'm ill set [I find it difficult] to make thore twirls and twists,"
explained Jennet. "Mun I curl 't, or ye'll ha' 't bred?" [Braided,
plaited.]
"What means the jade?" demanded Gertrude with an oath.
Clare was horrified. She had heard men swear when they were in a
passion, and one or two when they were not; but that a woman should
deliberately preface her words with oaths was something new and shocking
to her. Lady Enville's strongest adjurations were mild little
asseverations "by this fair daylight," or words no nearer profanity.
However, startled as she was, Clare came out of her corner to mediate.
"How should it like you dressed?"
"Oh! with the crisping-pins. 'Twill take as short time as any way."
"Wi' whatten a thingcum?" [with what sort of a thing] stared Jennet.
"I am afeared, Sister, we have no crisping-pins," said Clare.
"No crisping-pins!" cried Gertrude, with another oath. "Verily, I might
have come to Barbary! Are you well assured?"
"Be there any manner of irons, Jennet, for crisping or curling the
hair?"
"Nay, Mistress Clare, we're Christians here," said Jennet in her coolest
manner, which was very cool indeed. "We known nought about French ways,
nor foreigners nother. [In Lancashire, strangers to the locality, if
only from the next county, are termed foreigners.] There's been no such
gear i' this house sin' I come--and that's eighteen year come Lady Day."
"Good sonties! [Little saints!] do't as thou wilt," sneered Gertrude.
"I would I had brought all my gear withal. Whate'er possessed yon jade
Audrey to fall sick, that I was like to leave her behind at Chester!--
Truly, I knew not what idiots I was coming amongst--very savages, that
wist not the usages of decent folk!"
"Bi' th' mass!" [not yet obsolete] cried Jennet in burning wrath,
resorting to her strongest language, "but I'm no more an idiot nor thee,
my well-spoken dame,--nay, nor a savage nother. And afore I set up to
dress thy hure again, thou may ask me o' thy bended knees--nor I'll none
do't then, I warrant thee!"
And setting down the brush with no light hand, away stalked Miss Jennet,
bristling with indignation. Gertrude called her back angrily in vain,
looked after her for a moment with parted lips, and then broke forth
into a torrent of mingled wrath and profanity. She averred that if one
of her fathers servants had thus spoken, she would have had her
horsewhipped within an inch of her life. Clare let her run on until she
cooled down a little, and then quietly answered that in that part of the
world the people were very independent; but if Gertrude would allow her,
she would try to dress her hair as well as she could. That it would be
of no use to ask Jennet again, Clare well knew; and she shrank from
exposing her dear old Barbara to the insolent vulgarity of Gertrude.
"You may as well," said Gertrude coolly, and without a word of thanks.
"You be meet for little else, I dare say."
And reseating herself before the mirror, she submitted her hair to
Clare's inexperienced handling. For a first attempt, however, the
result was tolerably satisfactory, though Clare had never before dressed
any hair but her own; and Gertrude showed her gratitude by merely
asserting, without anger or swearing, that she was right thankful no
ladies nor gentlemen should behold her thus disfigured, as she would not
for all the treasures of the Indies that they should. With this
delicate compliment to her new relatives, she rustled down into the
hall, Clare following meekly. Gertrude had not changed her dress;
perhaps she did not think it worth while to honour people who dressed in
say and camlet. Sir Thomas received her with scrupulous deference, set
her on his right hand, and paid all kindly attention to her comfort.
For some time, however, it appeared doubtful whether anything on the
supper-table was good enough for the exacting young lady. Those around
her came at last to the conclusion that Gertrude's protestations
required considerable discount; since, after declaring that she "had no
stomach," and "could not pick a lark's bones," she finished by eating
more than Clare and Blanche put together. Jack, meanwhile, was
attending to his own personal wants, and took no notice of his bride,
beyond a cynical remark now and then, to which Gertrude returned a sharp
answer. It was evident that no love was lost between them.
As soon as supper was over, the bride went up to her own room, declaring
as she went that "if yon savage creature had the handling of her
gowns"--by which epithet Clare guessed that she meant Jennet--"there
would not be a rag left meet to put on"--and commanding, rather than
requesting, that Clare and Blanche would come and help her. Sir Thomas
looked surprised.
"Be these the manners of the great?" said he, too low for Jack to hear.
"Oh ay!" responded his wife, who was prepared to fall down at the feet
of her daughter-in-law, because she was _Lady_ Gertrude. "So commanding
is she!--as a very queen, I do protest. She hath no doubt been used to
great store of serving-maidens."
"That maketh not our daughters serving-maids," said Sir Thomas in an
annoyed tone.
"I would have thought her mother should have kept her in order," said
Rachel with acerbity. "If that woman were my daughter, she had need
look out."
Rachel did not know that Gertrude had no mother, and had been allowed to
do just as she pleased ever since she was ten years old.
Meanwhile, up-stairs, from trunk after trunk, under Gertrude's
directions--she did not help personally--Clare and Blanche were lifting
dresses in such quantities that Blanche wondered what they could have
cost, and innocent Clare imagined that their owner must have brought all
she expected to want for the term of her natural life.
"There!" said Gertrude, when the last trunk which held dresses was
emptied. "How many be they? Count. Seventeen--only seventeen? What
hath yon lither hilding [wicked girl] Audrey been about? There should
be nineteen; twenty, counting that I bear. I would I might be hanged if
she hath not left out, my cramoisie! [crimson velvet!] the fairest gown
I have! And"--with an oath--"if she hath put in my blue taffata,
broidered with seed-pearl, I would I might serve as a kitchener!"
Rachel walked in while Gertrude was speaking.
"Surely you lack no more!" said Blanche. "Here be seven velvet gowns,
and four of satin!"
"Enow for you, belike!" answered Gertrude, with a sneer.
"Enow for any Christian woman, Niece, and at the least ten too many,"
said Rachel severely.
"Lack-a-daisy!--you have dwelt so long hereaway in this wilderness, you
wit not what lacketh for decency in apparel," returned Gertrude
irreverently, greatly scandalising both her sisters-in-law by her
disrespect to Aunt Rachel. "How should I make seventeen gowns serve for
a month?"
"If you don a new every second day," said Rachel, "there shall be two
left over at the end thereof."