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 EnvilleCourt was gay with spring flowers, and fresh rushes were strewn over thefloor. Sir Thomas and Dick had gone so far as Kirkham to meet thevisitors. Lady Enville, attired in her new kersey, which had cost theextravagant price of five shillings per yard, [Note 1] sat by the hallfire. Rachel, in the objectionable camlet, which had been declared tooshabby to sweep the house in, stood near the door; while Clare andBlanche, 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 thehand. Jack came lounging behind, his hands in his pockets, after hisusual fashion.
"Our new daughter,--the Lady Gertrude Enville." [A fictitious person.]
One glance, and Lady Enville almost fainted from pique. Lady Gertrude'stravelling costume was grander than her own very best new velvet.Violet velvet, of the finest quality, slashed in all directions, and theslashes filled with puffings of rich pale buff satin; yards upon yardsof the costliest white lace, literally strewn upon the dress: richembroidery upon the most delicate lawn, edged with deep lace, formingthe ruff; a hood of black velvet, decorated with pearls and goldpassementerie; white leather shoes, wrought with gold; long workedgloves of thick white kid,--muff, fan, mask--all complete. As the bridecame 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 oneof those which are proverbially "an excellent thing in woman."
"These be your waiting gentlewomen?"
"These are my daughters," said Lady Enville--stiffly, for her; themistake had decidedly annoyed her.
"Ah!" And the bride kissed them. Then turning to Rachel,--"This, Iaccount, 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 inher dry way.
The bride answered by an affected little laugh, a kiss, and adeclaration that travelling ruined everything, and that she was not fitto be seen. At a glance from Lady Enville, Clare offered to showGertrude to her chamber, and they went up-stairs together. Jackstrolled out towards the stable.
"Not fit to be seen!" gasped poor Lady Enville. "Sir Thomas, what canwe do? In the stead of eighty pound, I should have laid out eighthundred, to match her!"
"Bear it, I reckon, my dear," said he quietly.
"Make thy mind easy, Orige," scornfully answered Rachel. "I will lay mynew hood that her father made his fortune in some manner of craft, andhath not been an Earl above these two years. Very ladies should notdeal as she doth."
Meanwhile, above their heads, the bride was putting Clare through hercatechism.
"One of you maidens is not in very deed Sir John's sister. Which isit?"
"_Sir_ John?" repeated Clare in surprise.
"Of course. Think you I would have wedded a plain Master? I caused myfather 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 untocommon country folk that had never been in good company."
Though Clare might be a common country girl, yet she was shocked byGertrude's rudeness. She had been brought up by Rachel to believe thatthe quality of her dress was of less consequence than that of hermanners. Clare thought that if Gertrude were a fair sample of "goodcompany," she did not wish to mix in it.
"I have been alway bred up in the Court," Gertrude went on, removing herhood. "I never was away thence afore. Of course I do conceive that Iam descended to a lower point than heretofore--you have no coach, I darewager? yet I looked not to find my new kin donned in sorry camlet andmean 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. Thevulgar, purse-proud tone of Gertrude's remarks disgusted herexceedingly. She did not enter into all of them. Simple Clare couldnot see what keeping a carriage had to do with gentlemanliness.
Jennet came in, and dropped a "lout" to the bride, whom she was disposedto regard with great reverence as a real lady. At that time, "lady" wasrestricted to women of title, the general designation being"gentlewoman."
"Here, woman!" was Gertrude's peremptory order. "Untwist my hair, anddress it o'er again."
Jennet quickly untwisted the hair, which was elaborately curled andfrizzed; 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 apassion, and one or two when they were not; but that a woman shoulddeliberately preface her words with oaths was something new and shockingto her. Lady Enville's strongest adjurations were mild littleasseverations "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 mighthave come to Barbary! Are you well assured?"
"Be there any manner of irons, Jennet, for crisping or curling thehair?"
"Nay, Mistress Clare, we're Christians here," said Jennet in her coolestmanner, which was very cool indeed. "We known nought about French ways,nor foreigners nother. [In Lancashire, strangers to the locality, ifonly from the next county, are termed foreigners.] There's been no suchgear 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 jadeAudrey 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, thatwist 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 todress thy hure again, thou may ask me o' thy bended knees--nor I'll nonedo'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 forthinto a torrent of mingled wrath and profanity. She averred that if oneof her fathers servants had thus spoken, she would have had herhorsewhipped within an inch of her life. Clare let her run on until shecooled down a little, and then quietly answered that in that part of theworld 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 beof no use to ask Jennet again, Clare well knew; and she shrank fromexposing 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 toClare's inexperienced handling. For a first attempt, however, theresult was tolerably satisfactory, though Clare had never before dressedany hair but her own; and Gertrude showed her gratitude by merelyasserting, without anger or swearing, that she was right thankful noladies nor gentlemen should behold her thus disfigured, as she would notfor all the treasures of the Indies that they should. With thisdelicate compliment to her new relatives, she rustled down into thehall, Clare following meekly. Gertrude had not changed her dress;perhaps she did not think it worth while to honour people who dressed insay and camlet. Sir Thomas received her with scrupulous deference, sether on his right hand, and paid all kindly attention to her comfort.For some time, however, it appeared doubtful whether anything on thesupper-table was good enough for the exacting young lady. Those aroundher came at last to the conclusion that Gertrude's protestationsrequired considerable discount; since, after declaring that she "had nostomach," and "could not pick a lark's bones," she finished by eatingmore than Clare and Blanche put together. Jack, meanwhile, wasattending to his own personal wants, and took no notice of his bride,beyond a cynical remark now and then, to which Gertrude returned a sharpanswer. It was evident that no love was lost between them.
As soon as supper was over, the bride went up to her own room, declaringas she went that "if yon savage creature had the handling of hergowns"--by which epithet Clare guessed that she meant Jennet--"therewould not be a rag left meet to put on"--and commanding, rather thanrequesting, that Clare and Blanche would come and help her. Sir Thomaslooked 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 feetof her daughter-in-law, because she was _Lady_ Gertrude. "So commandingis she!--as a very queen, I do protest. She hath no doubt been used togreat store of serving-maidens."
"That maketh not our daughters serving-maids," said Sir Thomas in anannoyed tone.
"I would have thought her mother should have kept her in order," saidRachel with acerbity. "If that woman were my daughter, she had needlook out."
Rachel did not know that Gertrude had no mother, and had been allowed todo just as she pleased ever since she was ten years old.
Meanwhile, up-stairs, from trunk after trunk, under Gertrude'sdirections--she did not help personally--Clare and Blanche were liftingdresses in such quantities that Blanche wondered what they could havecost, and innocent Clare imagined that their owner must have brought allshe expected to want for the term of her natural life.
"There!" said Gertrude, when the last trunk which held dresses wasemptied. "How many be they? Count. Seventeen--only seventeen? Whathath yon lither hilding [wicked girl] Audrey been about? There shouldbe nineteen; twenty, counting that I bear. I would I might be hanged ifshe hath not left out, my cramoisie! [crimson velvet!] the fairest gownI 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, youwit not what lacketh for decency in apparel," returned Gertrudeirreverently, greatly scandalising both her sisters-in-law by herdisrespect to Aunt Rachel. "How should I make seventeen gowns serve fora month?"
"If you don a new every second day," said Rachel, "there shall be twoleft over at the end thereof."
Gertrude stared at her for a moment, then broke into loud laughter.
"Good heart, if she think not they be all of a sort! Why, look youhere--this is a riding gown, and this a junketing gown, and this anight-gown [evening dress]. Two left over, quotha!"
"I would fain, Niece," said Rachel gravely, "you had paid as much noteunto the adorning of your soul as you have to that of your body. Youknow 'tis writ--but may be 'tis not the fashion to read God's Word nowo' days?"
"In church, of course," replied Gertrude. "Only Puritans read it out ofchurch."
"You be no Puritan, trow?"
"Gramercy! God defend me therefrom!"
"Good lack! 'tis the first time I heard ever a woman--without she were ablack Papist--pray God defend her from reading of His Word. Well,Niece, may be He will hear you. Howbeit, 'tis writ yonder that a meekspirit and a quiet is of much worth in His sight. I count you left thatbehind at Chester, with Audrey and the two gowns that lack?" [That arewanting.]
"I would you did not call me Niece!" responded Gertrude in a queruloustone. "'Tis too-too [exceedingly] ancient. No parties of any sort donow call as of old [Note 2],--`Sister,' or `Daughter,' or `Niece'."
"Dear heart! Pray you, what would your Ladyship by your good-will becalled?"
"Oh, Gertrude, for sure. 'Tis a decent name--not an ugsome [ugly]old-fashioned, such as be Margaret, or Cicely, or Anne."
"'Tis not old-fashioned, in good sooth," said Rachel satirically; "Ine'er heard it afore, nor know I from what tongue it cometh. Then--as Ipick out of your talk--decent things be new-fangled?"
"I want no mouldy old stuff!--There! Put the yellow silk on the lowestshelf."
"'Tis old-fashioned, I warrant you, to say to your sister, `An' itplease you'?"
"And the murrey right above.--Oh, stuff!"
The first half of the sentence was for Clare; the second for Rachel.
"'Tis not ill stuff, Niece," said the latter coolly, as she left theroom.
"And what thinkest of Gertrude?" inquired Sir Thomas of his sister, whenshe rejoined him and Lady Enville.
"Marry!" said Rachel in her dryest manner, "I think the goods be mightydear at the price."
"I count," returned her brother, "that when Gertrude's gowns be paidfor, there shall not be much left over for Jack's debts."
"Dear heart! you should have thought so, had you been above but now. Tosee her Grace (for she carrieth her like a queen) a-counting of hergowns, and a-cursing of her poor maid Audrey that two were left behind,when seventeen be yet in her coffers!"
"Seventeen!" repeated the Squire, in whose eyes that number was enoughto stock any reasonable woman for at least half her life.
"Go to--seventeen!" echoed Rachel.
"Well-a-day! What can the lass do with them all?" wondered Sir Thomas.
"Dear hearts! Ye would not see an earl's daughter low and mean?"interposed Lady Enville.
"If this Gertrude be not so, Orige,--at the least in her heart,--then isJennet a false speaker, and mine ears have bewrayed me, belike.Methinks a woman of good breeding might leave swearing and foul talk tothe men, and be none the worse for the same: nor see I good causewherefore she should order her sisters like so many Barbary slaves."
"Ay so!--that marketh her high degree," said Lady Enville.
"I wis not, Orige, how Gertrude gat her degree, nor her father aforeher," answered Rachel: "but this I will tell thee--that if one of the`beggarly craftsmen' that Jack loveth to snort at, should allow him,before me, in such talk as I have heard of her, I would call on Sim toput him forth with no more ado. Take my word for it, she cometh of noold nor honourable stock, but is of low degree in very truth, if thetruth were known."
Rachel's instinct was right. Lady Gertrude's father was a _parvenu_, ofvery mean extraction. Her great-uncle had made the family fortune,partly in trade, but mostly by petty peculations; and her father, whohad attracted the Queen's eye when a young lawyer, had been rapidlypromoted through the minor grades of nobility, until he had reached hispresent standing. Gertrude was not noble in respect of anything but hertitle.
Lady Enville, with a smile which was half amusement and half contempt,rose
and retired to her boudoir. Sir Thomas and Rachel sat still by thehall fire, both deeply meditating: the former with his head thrown back,gazing--without seeing them--at the shields painted on the ceiling;while the latter leaned forward towards the fire, resting her chin onboth hands.
"What saidst, Tom?" asked Rachel in a dreamy voice.
"I spake not to know it, good Sister: but have what I said, an' thou sowilt. I was thinking on that word of Paul--`Not many noble are called.'I thought, Rachel, how far it were better to be amongst the called ofGod, than to be of the noble."
"'Tis not the first, time that I have thanked the Lord I am not noble,"said Rachel without changing her attitude. "'Tis some comfort to knowme not so high up that any shall be like to take thought to cut my headoff. And if Gertrude be noble--not to say"--Rachel's voice died away."Tom," she said in a moment later, "we have made some blunders in ourlives, thou and I."
"I have, dear Rachel," said Sir Thomas sighing: "what thine may be I wisnot."
"God knoweth!" she replied in a low voice. "And I know of one--thegrandest of all blunders. Thou settedst out for Heaven these few monthsgone, Tom. May be thou shalt find more company on the road than thouwert looking for."
"Dear Rachel!"
"Clare must be metely well on by this time," she continued in the drytone with which she often veiled her deepest feelings, "and Blanche istripping in at the gate, or I mistake. I would not by my goodwill havethee lonely in the road, Tom: and I suppose--there shall be room formore than two a-breast, no' will?" [Will there not?]
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During all this time, the once close intercourse between the Court andthe parsonage had been somewhat broken off. Arthur had never been inthe Squire's house since the day when Lucrece jilted him; and Clare wasshy of showing herself in his vicinity. Blanche visited Mrs Tremayneoccasionally, and sometimes Lysken paid a return visit; but very muchless was seen of all than in old times. When, therefore, it becameknown at Enville Court that Arthur had received holy orders at theBishop's last ordination, the whole family as it were woke with a startto the recollection that Arthur had almost passed out of their sphere.He was to be his father's curate for the present--the future wasdoubtful; but in an age when there were more livings than clergy to fillthem, no difficulty need be expected in the way of obtaining promotion.
Just after Jack and Gertrude had returned to London (to the great reliefof every one, themselves not excepted), in his usual unannounced style,Mr John Feversham made his appearance at Enville Court. Blanchegreeted him with a deep blush, for she felt ashamed of her formerunworthy estimate of his character. John brought one interesting pieceof news--that his uncle and aunt were well, and Lucrece was now themother of a little boy.
Lady Enville looked up quickly. Then John was no longer the heir ofFeversham Hall. It might therefore be necessary--if he yet had anyfoolish hopes--to put an extinguisher upon him. She rapidly decidedthat she must issue private instructions to Sir Thomas. That gentleman,she said to herself, really was so foolish--particularly of late, sincehe had fallen into the pit of Puritanism--that if she did not looksharply after him, he might actually dream of resigning his last andfairest daughter to a penniless and prospectless suitor. If any suchidea existed in the mind of Sir Thomas, of John Feversham, or ofBlanche,--and since John had saved Blanche's life, it was not at allunlikely,--it must be nipped in the bud.
Accordingly, on the first opportunity, Lady Enville began.
"Of course you see now, Sir Thomas, how ill a match Master JohnFeversham should have been for Blanche."
"Wherefore?" was the short answer.
"Sith he is no longer the heir." [Sith and since are both contractionsof sithence.]
"Oh!--ah!" said Sir Thomas, as unpromisingly as before.
"Why, surely you would ne'er dream of so monstrous a thing?"
Sir Thomas, who had been looking out of the window, came across to thefire, and took up the master's position before it--standing just in themiddle of the hearth with his back to the fire.
"Better wait, Orige, and see whereof John and Blanche be dreaming," saidhe calmly.
"What reckoneth he to do now, meet for livelihood?"
It would be difficult to estimate the number of degrees by which poorJohn had fallen in her Ladyship's thermometer, since he had ceased to bethe expected heir of Feversham Hall.
"He looketh," said Sir Thomas absently, as if he were thinking ofsomething else, "to receive--if God's good pleasure be--holy orders."
"A parson!" shrieked Lady Enville, in her languid style.
"A parson, Orige. Hast aught against the same?"
"Oh no!--so he come not anear Blanche."
"Wilt hold him off with the fire-fork?"
"Sir Thomas, I do beseech you, consider this matter in sober sadness.Only think, if Blanche were to take in hand any fantasy for him, afterhis saving of her!"
"Well, Orige--what if so?"
"I cannot bring you to a right mind, Sir Thomas!" said his wifepettishly. "Blanche,--our fairest bud and last!--to be cast away on apoor parson--she who might wed with a prince, and do him no disgrace!It were horrible!"
"Were it?" was the dry response.
"I tell you," said Lady Enville, sitting up in her chair--always withher a mark of agitation--"I would as soon see the child in her coffin!"
"Hush, Orige, hush thee!" replied her husband, very seriously now.
"It were as little grief, Sir Thomas! I would not for the world--nay,not for the whole world--that Blanche should be thus lost. Why, shemight as well wed a fisherman at once!"
"Well, the first Christian parsons were fishermen; and I dare be boundthey made not ill husbands. Yet methinks, Orige, if thou keptest thygrief until the matter came to pass, it were less waste of power thanso."
"`Forewarned is forearmed,' Sir Thomas. And I am marvellous afearedlest you should be a fool."
"Marry guep!" [probably a corruption of _go up_] ejaculated Rachel,coming in. "`Satan rebuketh sin,' I have heard say, but I ne'er listedhim do it afore."
After all, Lady Enville proved a true prophet. Mr John Feversham wasso obtuse, so unreasonable, so unpardonably preposterous, as to imagineit possible that Blanche Enville might yet marry him, though he had theprospect of a curacy, and had not the prospect of Feversham Hall.
"I told you, Sir Thomas!" said the prophetess, in the tone with whichshe might have greeted an earthquake. "Oh that you had listed me, andgat him away hence ere more mischief were done!"
"I see no mischief done, Orige," replied her husband quietly. "We willcall the child, and see what she saith."
"I do beseech you, Sir Thomas, commit not this folly! Give your ownanswer, and let it be, Nay. Why, Blanche may be no wiser than to sayhim ay."
"She no may," [she may not] said Sir Thomas dryly.
But he was determined to tell her, despite the earnest protestations ofhis wife, who dimly suspected that Blanche's opinion of John was notwhat it had been, and was afraid that she would be so wanting in worldlywisdom as to accept his offer. Lady Enville took her usual resource--aninjured tone and a handkerchief--while Sir Thomas sent for Blanche.
Blanche, put on her trial, faltered--coloured--and, to her mother's deepdisgust, pleaded guilty of loving John Feversham at last. Lady Envilleshed some real tears over the demoralisation of her daughter's taste.
"There is no manner of likeness, Blanche, betwixt this creature and DonJohn," she urged.
"Ay, mother, there is _no_ likeness," said Blanche calmly.
"I thank Heaven for that mercy!" muttered Rachel.
"Likeness!" repeated Sir Thomas. "Jack Feversham is worth fifty DonJohns."
"Dear heart! how is the child changed for the worser!" sobbed herdisappointed mother, who saw the coronet and fortune, on which she hadlong set her heart for Blanche, fading away like a dissolving view.
"Orige, be not a fool!" growled Rachel suddenly. "But, dear heart! Iam a
fool to ask thee."
There was a family tempest. But at last the minority succumbed; andBlanche became the betrothed of John Feversham.
From the day of Jack's departure from Enville Court with Gertrude, SirThomas never heard another word of his debts. Whether Jack paid them,or compounded for them, or let them alone, or how the matter wassettled, remained unknown at Enville Court. They only heard the mostflourishing accounts of everything connected with Jack and Gertrude.They were always well; Jack was always prospering, and on the point ofpromotion to a higher step of the social ladder. Sir Thomas declareddrily, that his only wonder was that Jack was not a duke by this time,considering how many steps he must have advanced. But Lady Gertrudenever paid another visit to Enville Court; and nobody regretted itexcept Jack's step-mother. Jack's own visits were few, and made at longintervals. His language was always magniloquent and sanguine: but hegrew more and more reserved about his private affairs, he aged fast, andhis hair was grey at a time of life when his father's had been without asilver thread. Sir Thomas was by no means satisfied with his son'scareer: but Jack suavely evaded all inquiries, and he came to thesorrowful conclusion that nothing could be done except to pray for him.
It was late in the autumn, and the evening of Blanche's departure fromhome after her marriage. John Feversham's clerical labours were to liein the north of Cheshire, so Blanche would not be far away, and might beexpected to visit at the Court more frequently than Lucrece or Jack. Bythe bride's especial request, the whole family from the parsonage werepresent at the ceremony, and Lysken was one of the bridesmaids.
The guests had been dancing in the hall; they were now resting, standingor sitting in small groups, and conversing,--when Clare stole out of thegarden-door, and made her way to the arbour.
She could not exactly tell why she felt so sad. Of course, she wassorry to lose Blanche. Such an occasion did not seem to Clare at allproper for mirth and feasting: on the contrary, it felt the thing nextsaddest to a funeral. They would see Blanche now and then, no doubt;but she was lost to them on the whole: she would never again be, whatshe had always been till now, one of themselves, an integral part of thehome. And they were growing fewer; only four left now, where there hadonce been a household of eight. And Clare felt a little of thesadness--felt much more deeply by some than others--of being, thoughloved by several, yet first with none. Well, God had fixed her lot: andit was a good one, she whispered to herself, as if to repel the sadnessgathering at her heart--it was a good one. She would always live athome; she would grow old, ministering to father and mother and aunt--wanted and looked for by all three; not useless--far from it. And thatwas a great deal. What if the Lord had not thought her meet for work inHis outer vineyard?--was not this little home-corner in His vineyardstill?--She was not a foundation-stone, not a cornice, not a pillar, inthe Church of God. Nay, she thought herself not even one of the stonesin the wall: only a bit of mortar, filling up a crevice. But the bit ofmortar was wanted, and was in its right place, because the Builder hadput it there. That was a great deal--oh yes, it was everything.
"And yet," said Clare's heart,--"and yet!--"
For this was not an unlabelled sorrow. Arthur Tremayne's name waswritten all over it. And Clare had to keep her heart stayed on twopassages of Scripture, which she took as specially for her and those inher position. It is true, they were written of men: but did not thegrammar say that the masculine included the feminine? If so, what righthad any one to suppose (as Lady Enville had once said flippantly) that"there were no promises in the Bible to old maids?"
Were there not these glorious two?--the one promise of the Old Covenant,the one promise of the New.
"Even unto them will I give in Mine house and within My walls a placeand a name better than of sons and of daughters; I will give them aneverlasting name, that shall not be cut off." [Isaiah sixteen verse 5.]
"These are they which follow the Lamb whithersoever He goeth. Thesewere redeemed from among men, being the first-fruits unto God and to theLamb. And in their mouth was found no guile; for they are without faultbefore the throne of God." [Revelations fourteen verses 4, 5.]
So Clare was content. Yet it was a sorrowful sort of content, afterall--for Clare was human, too.
She was absently pulling off some dead leaves from the arbour, and thesudden jump which she gave showed how much she was startled.
"May I come in, Clare?" asked a voice at the entrance.
"Oh, ay--come in," said Clare, in a flutter, and trembling all over.
"I did not mean to fright you," said Arthur, with a smile, as he cameinside and sat down. "I desired speech of you, on a matter whereof Icould not well touch save in private. Clare,--may I speak,--dearClare?"
But of course, dear reader, you know all about it.
So Clare was first with somebody, after all.
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Note 1. A price which, about sixty years before, a vice-queen hadthought sufficient in presenting a new year's gift to Queen Anne Boleyn.John Husee writes to his mistress, Honour Viscountess Lisle, in 1534,that he has obtained the kersey for her gift to the Queen, eleven and aquarter yards at 5 shillings the yard, "very fine and very white."(Lisle Papers, twelve 90.) A few weeks later he writes, "The Queen'sgrace liketh your kersey specially well." (Lisle Papers, eleven 112.)
Note 2. The disuse of this custom in England really dates from a ratherlater period. `Sister' has somewhat resumed its position, but`Daughter' and `Niece,' in the vocative, are never heard amongst us now.
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