CHAPTER SEVEN.
A SPOKE IN THE WHEEL.
"All the foolish work Of fancy, and the bitter close of all."
_Tennyson_.
A few weeks after that conversation, Lucrece Enville sat alone in thebedroom which she shared with her sister Margaret. She was not sheddingtears--it was not her way to weep: but her mortification was bitterenough for any amount of weeping.
Lucrece was as selfish as her step-mother, or rather a shade more so.Lady Enville's selfishness was pure love of ease; there was nodeliberate malice in it. Any person who stood in her way might beruthlessly swept out of it; but those who did not interfere with herpleasure, were free to pursue their own.
The selfishness of Lucrece lay deeper. She not only sought her ownenjoyment and aggrandisement; but she could not bear to see anything--even if she did not want it--in the possession of some one else. Thatwas 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 knowwhat to do with it when she got it.
But in this particular instance she had wanted the article: and she hadmissed it. True, the value which she set upon it was rather for itsadjuncts than for itself; but whatever its value, one thought wasuppermost, and was bitterest--she had missed it.
The article was Don Juan. His charm was twofold: first, he would oneday 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 toattach 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 hadbeen going on. Don Juan himself had very quickly perceived thecounterplot, and had found it a most amusing episode in the little dramawith which he was beguiling the time during his forced stay in England.
But nobody else saw either plot or counterplot, until one morning, whena low soft voice arrested Sir Thomas as he was passing out of the gardendoor.
"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 anew chain, or leave to go to a merry-making? Thou art welcome toeither, my lass."
"I thank you, Father," said Lucrece gravely, as they paced slowly downone of the straight, trim garden walks: "but not so,--my words are ofsadder import."
Sir Thomas turned and looked at her. Never until this moment, in allher four-and-twenty years, had his second daughter given him an iota ofher confidence.
"Nay, what now?" he said, in a perplexed tone.
"I pray you, Father, be not wroth with me, for my reasons be strong, ifI am so bold as to ask at you if you have yet received any order fromthe 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 aline."
"Might I take on me, saving your presence, Father, to say so much as--Iwould you would yet again desire the same?"
"Why, my lass, hath Don John offenced thee, that thou wouldst fain berid of him? I would like him to tarry a while longer. What aileththee?"
"Would you like him to marry Blanche, Father?"
"Blanche!--marry Blanche! What is come over thee, child? MarryBlanche!"
Sir Thomas's tone was totally incredulous. He almost laughed in hiscontemptuous 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 thoushouldst 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 across 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 youin a certain place that I wot of, behind the tapestry, you shall erelong know it too."
Lucrece's triumphant malice had carried her a step too far. Herfather's open, upright, honest mind was shocked at this suggestion.
"God forbid, girl!" he replied, hastily. "I will not play theeavesdropper on my own child. Hast thou done this, Lucrece?"
Lucrece saw that she must make her retreat from that position, and shedid 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 awindow-seat in the hall, they came in a-talking, and saw me not. Icould 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 heresumed the conversation.
"Beads, and a cross!" He spoke to himself.
"I could tell you of other gear, Father," said the low voice of theavenger. "As, a little image of Mary and John, which she keepeth in herjewel-closet; and a book wherein be prayers unto the angels and thesaints. These he hath given her."
Lucrece was making the worst of a matter in which Don Juan wasundoubtedly to blame, but Blanche was much more innocent than her sisterchose to represent her. On the rosary Blanche looked as a longnecklace, such as were in fashion at the time; and while the elaborateenamelled pendant certainly was a cross, it had never appeared to herotherwise 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 studiousLucrece was a proficient, whilst idle Blanche could not have declined asingle noun. The giver had informed her that he bestowed this breviaryon her, his best beloved, because he held it dearest of all histreasures; and Blanche valued it on that account. Lucrece knew allthis: for she had come upon Blanche in an unguarded moment, with thebook in her hand and the rosary round her neck, and had to some extentforced her confidence--the more readily given, since Blanche neversuspected treachery.
"I can ensure you, Father," pursued the traitress, with an assumption ofthe utmost meekness, "it hath cost me much sorrow ere I set me to speakunto you."
"Hast spoken to Blanche aforetime?"
"Not much, Father," replied Lucrece, in a voice of apparent trouble. "Icounted it fitter to refer the same unto your better wisdom; nor, Ithink, was she like to list me."
"God have mercy!" moaned the distressed father, thoroughly awake now tothe gravity of the case.
"Maybe, Father, you shall think I have left it pass too far," pursuedLucrece, with well-simulated grief: "yet can you guess that I would notby my goodwill seem to carry complaint of Blanche."
"Thou hast well done, dear heart, and I thank thee," answered herdeceived father. "But leave me now, my lass; I must think all this gearover. My poor darling!"
Lucrece glided away as softly as the serpent which she resembled in herheart.
In half-an-hour Sir Thomas came back into the house, and sent Jennet totell his sister that he wished to speak with her in the library. It wascharacteristic, not of himself, but of his wife, that in his sorrows andperplexities he turned instinctively to Rachel, not to her. WhenLucrece's intelligence was laid before Rachel, though perhaps shegrieved less, she was even more shocked than her brother. That Blancheshould think of quitting the happy and honourable estate of maidenhood,for the slavery of marriage, was in itself a misdemeanour of the firstmagnitude: but that she should have made her own choice, have receivedsecret gifts, and held clandestine interviews--this was an awfulinstance of what human depravity could reach.
"Now, what is to be done?" asked Sir Thomas wearily. "First with DonJohn, and next with Blanche."
"Him?--the vipe
r! Pack him out of the house, bag and baggage!" criedthe wrathful spinster. "The crocodile, to conspire against the peace ofthe house which hath received him in his need! Yet what better mightyou look for in a man and a Papist?"
"Nay, Rachel; I cannot pack him out: he is my prisoner, think thou. Iam 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 goodsooth, 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 herown way," said Rachel oracularly. "Hand her o'er to me--I will set hera-work. She shall not have an idle hour. 'Tis the only means to keepsilly heads in order."
"Maybe, Rachel,--maybe," said Sir Thomas with a sigh. "Yet I fearsorely that we must have Blanche hence. It were constant temptation,were she and Don John left in the same house; and though she might notbreak charge--would not, I trust--yet he might. I can rest no faith onhim 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, smilingsadly. "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 nosofter 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 knowwhere to seek it. Well, come with me to Orige; she must be told, Ireckon: and then we will send for Blanche."
Rachel opened her lips, but suddenly shut them without speaking, andkept them drawn close. Perhaps, had she not thought better of it, whatmight 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; andplenty of soft thick cushions were a very necessary part of thefurniture of a good house. Her Ladyship was dressed in the pink of thefashion, so far as it had reached her tailor at Kirkham; and she wasturning over the leaves of a new play, entitled "The Comedie ofErrour"--one of the earliest productions of the young Warwickshireactor, William Shakspere by name. She put her book down with a yawnwhen 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--andwhen Jennet had come and gone with the fuel, he glanced into the littlechamber to see if it were vacant. Finding no one there, he drew thebolt and sat down.
"Gramercy, Sir Thomas! be we all prisoners?" demanded his wife with alittle 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 hathgreat store of goods and money. I never looked for such luck. Have youstruck hands with him, Sir Thomas?"
Sir Thomas pressed his lips together, and glanced at his sister with anair of helpless vexation. Had it just occurred to him that the prettydoll whom he had chosen to be the partner of his life was a littlewanting 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 littlelaugh. "We have all made a friend of him."
"Ay--and have been fools, perchance, to do it. 'Tis ill toying with asnake. 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 yourfingers, 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 verydeed, Sir Thomas, I do think it were ill done to let such a chance go byus. 'Tis like throwing back the gifts of Providence. Do but see, howmarvellously this young man was brought hither! And now, if he hathmade suit for Blanche, I pray you, never say him nay! I would call itwicked to do the same. Really wicked, Sir Thomas!"
Lady Enville pinched the top cushion into a different position, withwhat was energy for her. There was silence for a minute. Rachel satlooking grimly into the fire, the personification of determinedimmobility. Sir Thomas was shading his eyes with his hand. He wasdrinking just then a very bitter cup: and it was none the sweeter forthe recollection that he had mixed it himself. His favourite child--forBlanche was that--seemed to be going headlong to her ruin: and hermother not only refused to aid in saving her, but was incapable ofseeing 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 surelywere the fittest to do the same. But since this is so, I see no helpbut that we have her here, before us three. It shall be harder for thechild, and I would fain have spared her. But if it must be,--why, itmust."
"She demeriteth [merits] no sparing," said Rachel sternly.
"Truly, Sir Thomas," responded his wife, "if I am to speak my mind, Ishall 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 werebetter to see her without me."
"Nay, Orige! Shall I tell the child to her face that her father and hermother 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 itcome. She stood out against Meg her trothing. But for you, SirThomas,--I am verily astonied that you would deny Blanche such goodfortune."
"I would deny the maid nought that were for her good, Orige," said thefather, sadly.
"`Good,' in sweet sooth!--as though it should be ill for her to wear acoronet on her head, and carry her pocket brimful of ducats! Where beyour eyes, Sir Thomas?"
"Thine be dazed, methinks, with the ducats and the coronet, Sister," putin Rachel.
"Well, have your way," said Lady Enville, spreading out her hands, as ifshe 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 poorchild be not heart-broken. Howbeit, _I_ had better loved her than to dothus."
Sir Thomas was silent, not because he did not feel the taunt, butbecause he did feel it too bitterly to trust himself with speech. ButRachel rose from her chair, deeply stung, and spoke very plain wordsindeed.
"Orige Enville," she said, "thou art a born fool!"
"Gramercy, Rachel!" ejaculated her sister-in-law, as much moved out ofher 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. "Iwill 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 andopened it.
"Blanche!" he said, in that hard, constrained tone which denotes notwant of feeling, but the endeavour to hide it.
"Blan
che is in the garden, Father," said Margaret, coming out of thehall. "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 unusualtone; but he gave her no explanation, and she went to call Blanche.
That young lady was engaged at the moment in a deeply interestingconversation with Don Juan upon the terrace. They had been exchanginglocks of hair, and vows of eternal fidelity. Margaret's approachingstep was heard just in time to resume an appearance of courteouscomposure; 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 rainere it be long."
"How now, Meg?--whither away?" asked Blanche, with as much calmness asshe could assume; but she was by no means so clever an actor as hercompanion.
"Father calleth thee, Blanche, from Mother's bower."
"How provoking!" said Blanche to herself. Aloud she answered, "Good; Ithank thee, Meg."
Blanche sauntered slowly into the boudoir. Lady Enville reclined in herchair, engaged again with her comedy, as though she had said all thatcould be said on the subject under discussion. Sir Thomas stood leaningagainst 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 vagueanticipation of coming evil. He set a chair for her, with a courtesywhich 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 hadjust sense enough not to speak.
"Blanche, look me in the face, and answer truly:--Hath there been anypassage of love betwixt Don John and thee?"
Blanche's heart gave a great leap into her throat,--not perhapsanatomically, but so far as her sensations were concerned. She playedfor a minute with her gold chain in silence. But the way in which thequestion was put roused all her better feelings; and when the firstunpleasant 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 murmuredsomething 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 topersuade thee to accordance with his religion? Hath he given thee anygifts, such as a cross, or a relic-case, or the like?"
Blanche would have given a good deal to run away. But there was nochance of it. She must stand her ground; and not only that, but shemust reply to this exceedingly awkward question.
Don Juan had given her one or two little things, she faltered, leavingthe more important points untouched. Was her father annoyed at heraccepting them? She had no intention of vexing him.
"Thou hast not vexed me, my child," he said kindly. "But I amtroubled--grievously troubled and sorrowful. And the heavier part of myquestion, 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!" hemurmured 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 thouwert 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 comingout in entirely a new character. At this juncture Lady Enville laiddown 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 avery low voice.
"And thou lovest him?"
With a good many knots and twists of the gold chain, Blanche confessedthis also.
"Now really, Sir Thomas, what would you?" suggested his wife, re-openingthe discussion. "Could there be a better establishing for the maidenthan so? 'Twere easy to lay down rule, and win his promise, that heshould not seek to disturb her faith in no wise. Many have done thelike--"
"And suffered bitterly by reason thereof."
"Nay, now!--why so? You see the child's heart is set thereon. Be ruledby me, I pray you, and leave your fantastical objections, and go seekDon John. Make him to grant you oath, on the honour of a Spanishgentleman, that Blanche shall be allowed the free using of her ownfaith--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, musicallaugh--the first thing which had originally attracted her husband'sfancy to her, eighteen years before.
"I marvel wherefore!" she said, laying down the play, and taking up herpomander--a ball of scented drugs, enclosed in a golden network, whichhung from her girdle by a gold chain.
"Wherefore?" repeated Sir Thomas more warmly. "For plucking my fairestflower, when I had granted unto him but shelter in my garden-house!"
"He has not plucked it yet," said Lady Enville, handling the pomanderdelicately, 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 seriousthan itself were on her mind. Blanche sat still, playing with herchain, but looking troubled and afraid, and casting furtive glances ather 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 shecould 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 gownfit to show."
"She must go, nathless, Orige. And it shall be to the parsonage. Theywill do it, I know. And Clare must go with her."
"The parsonage!" said Lady Enville contemptuously. "Oh ay, she can gothere any hour. They should scantly know whether she wear satin orgrogram. Call for Clare, if you so desire it--she must see to thegear."
"Canst not thou, Orige?"
"I, Sir Thomas!--with my feeble health!"
And Lady Enville looked doubly languid as she let her head sink backamong the cushions. Sir Thomas looked at her for a minute, sighedagain, 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 boudoirdoor. Blanche, she saw, was in trouble of some kind; Lady Envillelooked annoyed, after her languid fashion; and the grave, sad look ofSir Thomas was an expression as new to Clare as it had been to theothers.
"Clare," said her step-father, "I am about to entrust thee with aweighty matter. Are thy shoulders strong enough t
o bear such burden?"
"I will do my best, Father," answered Clare, whose eyes bespoke bothsympathy and readiness for service.
"I think thou wilt, my good lass. Go to, then:--choose thou, out ofthine own and Blanche's gear, such matter as ye may need for a month orso. Have Barbara to aid thee. I would fain ye were hence eresupper-time, so haste all thou canst. I will go and speak with MasterTremayne, but I am well assured he shall receive you."
A month at the parsonage! How delightful!--thought Clare. Yetsomething 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 inrags, even yonder; and that brown woolsey shall not be well for anothermonth. And,--Blanche, child, go thou with Clare; see thou have ruffsenow; and take thy pearl chain withal."
Blanche was relieved by being told to accompany her sister. She hadbeen afraid that she was about to be put in the dark closet like anaughty child, with no permission to exercise her own will aboutanything. And just now, the parsonage looked to her a dark closetindeed.
But Sir Thomas turned quickly on hearing this, with--"Orige, I desireBlanche to abide here. If there be aught she would have withal, she cantell Clare of it."
And, closing the door, he left the three together.
"Oh!--very well," said Lady Enville, rather crossly. Blanche sat downagain.
"What shall I put for thee, Blanche?" asked Clare gently.
"What thou wilt," muttered Blanche sulkily.
"I will lay out what I think shall like thee best," was her sister'skind reply.
"I would like my green sleeves, [Note 1] and my tawny kirtle," saidBlanche in a slightly mollified tone.
"Very well," replied Clare, and hastened away to execute her commission,calling Barbara as she went.
"What ado doth Sir Thomas make of this matter!" said Lady Enville,applying again to the pomander. "If he would have been ruled by me--Blanche, child, hast any other edge of pearl?" [Note 2.]
"Ay, Mother," said Blanche absently.
"Metrusteth 'tis not so narrow as that thou wearest. It becometh theenot. And the guarding of that gown is ill done--who set it on?"
Blanche did not remember--and, just then, she did not care.
"Whoso it were, she hath need be ashamed thereof. Come hither, child."
Blanche obeyed, and while her mother gave a pull here, and smoothed downa fold there, she stood patiently enough in show, but most unquietly inheart.
"Nought would amend it, save to pick it off and set it on again," saidLady Enville, resigning her endeavours. "Now, Blanche, if thou art toabide at the parsonage, where I cannot have an eye upon thee, I praythee remember thyself, who thou art, and take no fantasies in thine headtouching Arthur Tremayne."
Arthur Tremayne! What did Blanche care for Arthur Tremayne?
"I am sore afeard, Blanche, lest thou shouldst forget thee. It will notmatter for Clare. If he be a parson's son, yet is he a Tremayne ofTremayne,--quite good enough for Clare, if no better hap should chanceunto her. But thou art of better degree by thy father's side, and welook to have thee well matched, according thereto. Thy father will nothear of Don John, because he is a Papist, and a Spaniard to boot:elsewise I had seen no reason to gainsay thee, poor child! But ofcourse he must have his way. Only have a care, Blanche, and take not upwith none too mean for thy degree,--specially now, while thou art out ofour wardship."
There was no answer from Blanche.
"Mistress Tremayne will have a care of thee, maybe," pursued her mother,unfurling her fan--merely as a plaything, for the weather did not by anymeans require it. "Yet 'tis but nature she should work to have Arthurwell matched, and she wot, of course, that thou shouldst be a rare catchfor him. So do thou have a care, Blanche."
And Lady Enville, leaning back among her cushions, furled and unfurledher handsome fan, alike unconscious and uncaring that she had beenguilty of the greatest injustice to poor Thekla Tremayne.
There was a rap at the door, and enter Rachel, looking as if she hadimbibed an additional pound of starch since leaving the room.
"Sister, would you have Blanche's tartaryn gown withal, or no?"
"The crimson? Let me see," said Lady Enville reflectively. "Ay,Rachel,--she may as well have it. I would not have thee wear it but forSundays and holy days, Blanche. For common days, _there_, thy bluekersey is full good enough."
Without any answer, and deliberately ignoring the presence of Blanche,Rachel stalked away.
It was a weary interval until Sir Thomas, returned. Now and then Clareflitted in and out, to ask her mother's wishes concerning differentthings: Jennet came in with fresh wood for the fire; Lady Envillecontinued to give cautions and charges, as they occurred to her, nowregarding conduct and now costume: but a miserable time Blanche foundit. She felt herself, and she fancied every one else considered her, indire disgrace. Yet beneath all the mortification, the humiliation, andthe grief over which she was brooding, there was a conviction in thedepth of Blanche's heart, resist it as she might, that the father whowas crossing her will was a wiser and truer friend to her than themother who would have granted it.
Sir Thomas came at last. He wore a very tired look, and seemed as if hehad grown several years older in that day.
"Well, all is at a point, Orige," he said. "Master Tremayne hath rightkindly given consent to receive both the maids into his house, for solong a time as we may desire it; but Mistress Tremayne would haveBarbara come withal, if it may stand with thy conveniency. She hath butone serving-maid, as thou wist; and it should be more comfortable to thechildre to have her, beside the saving of some pain [trouble, labour]unto Mistress Tremayne."
"They can have her well enough, trow," answered Lady Enville. "I seldommake use of her. Jennet doth all my matters."
"But how for Meg and Lucrece?"
Barbara's position in the household was what we should term the youngladies' maid; but maids in those days were on very familiar andconfidential terms with their ladies.
"Oh, they will serve them some other way," said Lady Enville carelessly.
The convenience of other people was of very slight account in herLadyship's eyes, so long as there was no interference with her own.
"Cannot Kate or Doll serve?" asked Sir Thomas--referring to the twochambermaids.
"Of course they can, if they must," returned their nominal mistress."Good lack, Sir Thomas!--ask Rachel; I wis nought about the house gear."
Sir Thomas walked off, and said no more.
With great difficulty and much hurrying, the two girls contrived toleave the house just before supper. Sir Thomas was determined thatthere should be no further interview between Blanche and Don Juan. Norwould he have one himself, until he had time to consider his course morefully. He supped in his own chamber. Lady Enville presented herself inthe hall, and was particularly gracious; Rachel uncommonly stiff;Margaret still and meditative; Lucrece outwardly demure, secretlytriumphant.
Supper at the parsonage was deferred for an hour that evening, until theguests should arrive. Mrs Tremayne received both with a motherly kiss.Foolish as she thought Blanche, she looked upon her as being almost asmuch a victim of others' folly as a sufferer for her own: and TheklaTremayne knew well that the knowledge that we have ourselves to thankfor our suffering does not lessen the pain, but increases it.
The kindness with which Blanche was received--rather as an honouredguest than as a naughty child sent to Coventry--was soothing to herruffled feelings. Still she had a great deal to, bear. She was deeplygrieved to be suddenly and completely parted from Don Juan; and sheimagined that he would be as much distressed as herself. But the ideaof rebelling against her father's decree never entered her head; neitherdid the least suspicion of Lucrece's share in the matter.
Blanche was rather curious to ascertain how much Clare knew of herproceedings, and what she thought of them. Now it so happened that inthe haste of t
he departure, Clare had been told next to nothing. Thereason of this hasty flight to the parsonage was all darkness to her,except for the impression which she gathered from various items that thestep thus taken had reference not to herself, but to Blanche. What hersister had done, was doing, or was expected to do, which required suchsummary stoppage, Clare could not even guess. Barbara was quite asignorant. The interviews between Blanche and Don Juan had been sosecret, and so little suspected, that the idea of connecting him withthe affair did not occur to either.
One precious relic Blanche had brought with her--the lock of hairreceived from Don Juan on that afternoon which was so short a time back,and felt so terribly long--past and gone, part of another epochaltogether. Indeed, she had not had any opportunity of parting with it,except by yielding it to her father; and for this she saw no necessity,since he had laid no orders on her concerning Don Juan's gifts. WhileClare knelt at her prayers, and Barbara was out of the room, Blanchetook the opportunity to indulge in another look at her treasure. It wassilky black, smooth and glossy; tied with a fragment of blue ribbon,which Don Juan had assured her was the colour of truth.
"Is he looking at the ringlet of fair hair which I gave him?" thoughtshe fondly. "He will be true to me. Whate'er betide, I know he will betrue!"
Poor little Blanche!
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Note 1. Sleeves were then separate from the dress, and were fastenedinto it when put on, according to the fancy of the wearer.
Note 2. Apparently the plaited border worn under the French cap.
Clare Avery: A Story of the Spanish Armada Page 7
