Clare Avery, by Emily Sarah Holt. ________________________________________________________________________This book, one of Emily Holt's many historical novels, is set in thereign of Elizabeth, around the time of the Armada, which has a chapterto itself. The story revolves round a moderately well-off family, whoreally did exist, many details of the family being given in the lastchapter, or Appendix. In order to make the story realistic there are anumber of fictitious persons, but there is always a note to that effectwhen the person first appears. In general these fictitious persons areno more than minor characters. 

There is an interesting passage in which Jack, one of the youths of thefamily, obtains a place at Court, but finds he needs to spend enormousamounts on apparel to keep up with the other young men he meets. By nomeans does the family have the resources to pay his trade-debts, and itturns out that his gambling debts, known as "debts of honour" are evengreater. They had to tell him to go away and sort it out for himself. 

But it must be said that a great deal of the book is taken up withreligious discussions, mostly centring on the perceived imperfectionsof the Papist religion, as opposed to the Protestant. If you are notinterested in this it does tend to make the going a bit heavy at times. But if you are interested, well then, it makes good reading. 

As ever with this author there are many words and phrases used whichare now outdated. When they first appear a note of the current meaningis given, for instance "popinjay [parrot]". On the whole this is notconfusing except where a word has changed or even reversed its meaning. We do not recommend learning by heart from a sort of vocab list, thewords in use in Elizabethan times, unless you are studying thatperiod in depth. ________________________________________________________________________CLARE AVERY, BY EMILY SARAH HOLT. 

CHAPTER ONE. 

LITTLE CLARE'S FIRST HOME. 

 "The mossy marbles rest On the lips he hath pressed In their bloom, And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb. "

 _Oliver Wendell Holmes_. 

"Cold!" said the carrier, blowing on his fingers to keep them warm. 

"Cold, bully Penmore!" ejaculated Hal Dockett, --farrier, horse-leech, and cow-doctor in ordinary to the town of Bodmin and itsneighbourhood. . . "Lack-a-daisy! thou that hast been carrier thesethirty years, and thy father afore thee, and his father afore him, eversith `old Dick Boar' days, shouldst be as hard as a milestone by thistime. 'Tis the end of March, fellow!"

Be it known that "old Dick Boar" was Mr Dockett's extremely irreverentstyle of allusion to His Majesty King Richard the Third. 

"'Tis the end of as bitter a March as hath been in Cornwall thesehundred years, " said the carrier. "Whither away now, lad?"

"Truly, unto Bradmond, whither I am bidden to see unto the black cow. "

"Is it sooth, lad, that the master is failing yonder?"

"Folk saith so, " replied Hal, his jocund face clouding over. "It shallbe an evil day for Bodmin, _that_!"

"Ay so!" echoed the carrier. "Well! we must all be laid in earth oneday. God be wi' thee, lad!"

And with a crack of his whip, the waggon lumbered slowly forward uponthe Truro road, while Dockett went on his way towards a house standing alittle distance on the left, in a few acres of garden, with a paddockbehind. 

About the cold there was no question. The ground, which had been whitewith snow for many days, was now a mixture of black and white, under theinfluence of a thaw; while a bitterly cold wind, which made everybodyshiver, rose now and then to a wild whirl, slammed the doors, andgroaned through the wood-work. A fragment of cloud, rather less dim andgloomy than the rest of the heavy grey sky, was as much as could be seenof the sun. 

Nor was the political atmosphere much more cheerful than the physical. All over England, --and it might be said, all over Europe, --men's heartswere failing them for fear, --by no means for the first time in thatcentury. In Holland the Spaniards, vanquished not by men, but by windsand waves from God, had abandoned the siege of Leyden; and thesovereignty of the Netherlands had been offered to Elizabeth of England, but after some consideration was refused. In France, the Massacre ofSaint Bartholomew, nearly three years before, had been followed by thesiege of La Rochelle, the death of the miserable Charles the Ninth, andthe alliance in favour of Popery, which styled itself the Holy League. At home, gardeners were busy introducing the wallflower, the hollyhock, basil, and sweet marjoram; the first licence for public plays wasgranted to Burbage and his company, among whom was a young man fromWarwickshire, a butcher's son, with a turn for making verses, whose namewas William Shakspere; the Queen had issued a decree forbidding costlyapparel (not including her own); and the last trace of feudal serfdomhad just disappeared, by the abolition of "villenage" upon the Crownmanors. As concerned other countries, except when active hostilitieswere going on, Englishmen were not generally much interested, unless itwere in that far-off New World which Columbus had discovered not ahundred years before, --or in that unknown land, far away also, beyondthe white North Cape, whither adventurers every now and then set outwith the hope of discovering a north-west passage to China, --thenorth-west passage which, though sought now with a different object, noone has discovered yet. 

It may be as well to recall the state of knowledge in English society atthis period. The time had gone by when the burning of coal wasprohibited, as prejudicial to health; but the limits of London, beyondwhich building might not extend, were soon after this fixed at threemiles from the city gates; the introduction of private carriages waslong opposed, lest it should lead to luxury; [Note 1] and sumptuarylaws, regulating, according to rank, the materials for dress and thedetails of trimmings, were issued every few years. Needles weretreasures beyond reach of the poor; yeast, starch, glass bottles, wovenstockings, fans, muffs, tulips, marigolds, --had all been invented orintroduced within thirty years: the peach and the potato were alikeluxuries known to few: forks, sedan or Bath chairs, coffee, tea, gas, telescopes, newspapers, shawls, muslin, --not to include railways andtelegraphs, --were ideas that had not yet occurred to any one. Nobodyhad ever heard of the circulation of the blood. A doctor was a _raraavis_: medical advice was mainly given in the towns by apothecaries, andin the country by herbalists and "wise women. " There were noDissenters--except the few who remained Romanists; and perhaps therewere not likely to be many, when the fine for non-attendance at theparish church was twenty pounds per month. Parochial relief wasunknown, and any old woman obnoxious to her neighbours was likely to bedrowned as a witch. Lastly, by the Bull of excommunication of Pope Piusthe Fifth, issued in April, 1569, Queen Elizabeth had been solemnly "cutoff from the unity of Christ's Body, " and "deprived of her pretendedright to the Crown of England, " while all who obeyed or upheld her wereplaced under a terrible curse. [Note 2. ]

Nineteen years had passed since that triumphant 17th of November whichhad seen all England in a frenzy of joy on the accession of ElizabethTudor. They were at most very young men and women who could notremember the terrible days of Mary, and the glad welcome given to hersister. Still warm at the heart of England lay the memory of the Marianmartyrs; still deep and strong in her was hatred of every shadow ofPopery. The petition had not yet been erased from the Litany--whyshould it ever have been?--"From the Bishop of Rome and all hisenormities, good Lord, deliver us!"

On the particular afternoon whereon the story opens, one of thedreariest points of the landscape was the house towards which HalDockett's steps were bent. It was of moderate size, and might have beenvery comfortable if somebody had taken pains to make it so. But itlooked as if the pains had not been taken. Half the windows werecovered by shutters; the wainscot was sadly in want of a fresh coat ofpaint; the woodbine, which should have been trained up beside the porch, hung wearily down, as if it were tired of trying to climb when nobodyhelped it; the very ivy was ragged and dusty. The doors shut with thathollow sound peculiar to empty uncurtained rooms, and groaned, as theyopened, over the scarcity of oil. And if the spectator had passedinside, he would have seen that out of the whole house, only four roomswere inhabited beside the kitchen and its dependencies. In all therest, the dusty furniture was falling to pieces from long neglect, andthe spiders carried on their factories at their own pleasure. 

One of these four rooms, a long, narrow chamber, on the upper floor, gave signs of having been inhabited very recently. On the square tablelay a quantity of coarse needlework, which somebody seemed to havebundled together and left hastily; and on one of the hard, straight-backed chairs was a sorely-disabled wooden doll, of theearliest Dutch order, with mere rudiments, of arms and legs, anddeprived by accidents of a great portion of these. The needlework saidplainly that there must be a woman in the dreary house, and the doll, staring at the ceiling with black expressionless eyes, spoke asdistinctly for the existence of a child. 

Suddenly the door of this room opened with a plaintive creak, and alittle woman, on the elderly side of middle life, put in her head. 

A bright, energetic, active little woman she seemed, --not the sort ofperson who might be expected to put up meekly with dim windows and dustyfloors. 

"Marry La'kin!" [a corruption of "Mary, little Lady!"] she said aloud. "Of a truth, what a charge be these childre!"

The cause of this remark was hardly apparent, since no child was to beseen; but the little woman came further into the room, her gestures soonshowing that she was looking for a child who ought to have been visible. 

"Well! I've searched every chamber in this house save the Master'scloset. Where can yon little popinjay [parrot] have hid her? MarryLa'kin!"

This expletive was certainly not appreciated by her who used it. Nothing could much more have astonished or shocked Barbara Polwhele [afictitious person]--than whom no more uncompromising Protestant breathedbetween John o' Groat's and the Land's End--than to discover that sinceshe came into the room, she had twice invoked the assistance of SaintMary the Virgin. 

Barbara's search soon brought her to the conclusion that the child shesought was not in that quarter. She shut the door, and came out into anarrow gallery, from one side of which a wooden staircase ran down intothe hall. It was a wide hall of vaulted stone, hung with fadedtapestry, old and wanting repair, like everything else in its vicinity. Across the hall Barbara trotted with short, quick steps, and opening adoor at the further end, went into the one pleasant room in all thehouse. This was a very small turret-chamber, hexagonal in shape, threeof its six sides being filled with a large bay-window, in the middlecompartment of which were several coats of arms in stained glass. Atable, which groaned under a mass of books and papers, nearly filled theroom; and writing at it sat a venerable-looking, white-haired man, who, seeing Barbara, laid down his pen, wiped his spectacles, and placidlyinquired what she wanted. He will be an old friend to some readers: forhe was John Avery of Bradmond. 

"Master, an't like you, have you seen Mrs Clare of late?"

"How late, Barbara?"

"Marry, not the fourth part of an hour gone, I left the child in thenursery a-playing with her puppet, when I went down to let in HalDockett, and carry him to see what ailed the black cow; and now I beback, no sign of the child is any whither. I have been in everychamber, and looked in the nursery thrice. "

"Where should she be?" quietly demanded Mr Avery. 

"Marry, where but in the nursery, without you had fetched her away. "

"And where should she not be?"

"Why, any other whither but here and there, --more specially in thegarden. "

"Nay, then, reach me my staff, Barbara, and we will go look in thegarden. If that be whither our little maid should specially not be, 'tis there we be bound to find her. "

"Marry, but that is sooth!" said Barbara heartily, bringing thewalking-stick. "Never in all my life saw I child that gat into moremischievousness, nor gave more trouble to them that had her in charge. "

"Thy memory is something short, Barbara, " returned her master with a drysmile, "'Tis but little over a score of years sithence thou wert used tosay the very same of her father. "

"Eh, Master!--nay, not Master Walter!" said Barbara, deprecatingly. 

"Well, trouble and sorrow be ever biggest in the present tense, "answered he. "And I wot well thou hast a great charge on thine hands. "

"I reckon you should think so, an' you had the doing of it, " saidBarbara complacently. "Up ere the lark, and abed after the nightingale!What with scouring, and washing, and dressing meat, and making thebeds, and baking, and brewing, and sewing, and mending, and Mrs Clareand you atop of it all--"

"Nay, prithee, let me drop off the top, so thou lame me not, for therest is enough for one woman's shoulders. "

"In good sooth, Master, but you lack as much looking after, in your way, as Mrs Clare doth; for verily your head is so lapped in your books andyour learning, that I do think, an' I tended you not, you should breakyour fast toward eventide, and bethink you but to-morrow at noon thatyou had not supped overnight. "

"Very like, Barbara, --very like!" answered the old man with a meeksmile. "Thou hast been a right true maid unto me and mine, --as saithSolomon of the wise woman, thou hast done us good and not evil, all thedays of thy life. The Lord apay thee for it!--Now go thou forward, andsearch for our little maid, and I will abide hither until thou bringher. If I mistake not much, thou shalt find her within a stone's throwof the fishpond. "

"The fishpond?--eh, Master!"

And Barbara quickened her steps to a run, while John Avery sat downslowly upon a stone seat on the terrace, leaning both hands on hisstaff, as if he could go no farther. Was he very tired? No. He wasonly very, very near Home. 

Close to the fishpond, peering intently into it between the gaps of thestone balustrade, Barbara at length found what she sought, in the shapeof a little girl of six years old. The child was spoiling her frock tothe best of her ability, by lying on the snow-sprinkled grass; but shewas so intent upon something which she saw, or wanted to see, that hercaptor's approach was unheard, and Barbara pounced on her in triumphwithout any attempt at flight. 

"Now, Mrs Clare, [a fictitious character] come you hither with me!"said Barbara, seizing the culprit. "Is this to be a good child, thinkyou, when you were bidden abide in the nursery?"

"O Bab!" said the child, half sobbingly. "I wanted to see the fishes. "

"You have seen enough of the fishes for one morrow, " returned Barbararelentlessly; "and if the fishes could see you, they should cry shameupon you for ruinating of your raiment by the damp grass. "

"But the fishes be damp, Bab!" remonstrated Clare. Barbara professednot to hear the last remark, and lifting the small student of naturalhistory, bore her, pouting and reluctant, to her grandfather on theterrace. 

"So here comes my little maid, " said he, pleasantly. "Why didst notabide in the nursery, as thou wert bid, little Clare?"

"I wanted to see the fishes, " returned Clare, still pouting. 

"We cannot alway have what we want, " answered he. 

"You can!" objected Clare. 

"Nay, my child, I cannot, " gravely replied her grandfather. "An' Icould, I would have alway a good, obedient little grand-daughter. "

Clare played with Mr Avery's stick, and was silent. 

"Leave her with me, good Barbara, and go look after thy mighty charges, "said her master, smiling. "I will bring her within ere long. "

Barbara trotted off, and Clare, relieved from the fear of her duenna, went back to her previous subject. 

"Gaffer, what do the fishes?"

"What do they? Why, swim about in the water, and shake their tails, andcatch flies for their dinner. "

"What think they on, Gaffer?"

"Nay, thou art beyond me there. I never was a fish. How can I tellthee?"

"Would they bite me?" demanded Clare solemnly. 

"Nay, I reckon not. "

"What, not a wild fish?" said Clare, opening her dark blue eyes. 

Mr Avery laughed, and shook his head. 

"But I would fain know--And, O Gaffer!" exclaimed the child, suddenlyinterrupting herself, "do tell me, why did Tom kill the pig?"

"Kill the pig? Why, for that my Clare should have somewhat to eat ather dinner and her supper. "

"Killed him to eat him?" wonderingly asked Clare, who had neverassociated live pigs with roast pork. 

"For sure, " replied her grandfather. 

"Then he had not done somewhat naughty?"

"Nay, not he. "

"I would, Gaffer, " said Clare, very gravely, "that Tom had not smotheredthe pig ere he began to lay eggs. [The genuine speech of a child ofClare's age. ] I would so have liked a _little_ pig!"

The suggestion of pig's eggs was too much for Mr Avery's gravity. "Andwhat hadst done with a little pig, my maid. "

"I would have washed it, and donned it, and put it abed, " said Clare. 

"Methinks he should soon have marred his raiment. And maybe he shouldhave loved cold water not more dearly than a certain little maid that Icould put a name to. "

Clare adroitly turned from this perilous topic, with an unreasoningdread of being washed there and then; though in truth it was notcleanliness to which she objected, but wet chills and rough friction. 

"Gaffer, may I go with Bab to four-hours unto Mistress Pendexter?"

"An' thou wilt, my little floweret. "

Mr Avery rose slowly, and taking Clare by the hand, went back to thehouse. He returned to his turret-study, but Clare scampered upstairs, possessed herself of her doll, and ran in and out of the inhabited roomsuntil she discovered Barbara in the kitchen, beating up eggs for apudding. 

"Bab, I may go with thee!"

"Go with me?" repeated Barbara, looking up with some surprise. "Marry, Mrs Clare, I hope you may. "

"To Mistress Pendexter!" shouted Clare ecstatically. 

"Oh ay!" assented Barbara. "Saith the master so?"

Clare nodded. "And, Bab, shall I take Doll?"

This contraction for Dorothy must have been the favourite name with thelittle ladies of the time for the plaything on which it is nowinalienably fixed. 

"I will sew up yon hole in her gown, then, first, " said Barbara, takingthe doll by its head in what Clare thought a very disrespectful manner. "Mrs Clare, this little gown is cruel ragged; if I could but see time, I had need make you another. "

"Oh, do, Bab!" cried Clare in high delight. 

"Well, some day, " replied Barbara discreetly. 

A few hours later, Barbara and Clare were standing at the door of asmall, neat cottage in a country lane, where dwelt Barbara's sister, Marian Pendexter, [a fictitious person] widow of the villageschoolmaster. The door was opened by Marian herself, a woman some fiveyears the senior of her sister, to whom she bore a good deal oflikeness, but Marian was the quieter mannered and the more silent of thetwo. 

"Marry, little Mistress Clare!" was her smiling welcome. "Come in, prithee, little Mistress, and thou shalt have a buttered cake to thyfour-hours. Give thee good even, Bab. "

A snowy white cloth covered the little round table in the cottage, andon it were laid a loaf of bread a piece of butter, and a jug of milk. In honour of her guests, Marian went to her cupboard, and brought out amould of damson cheese, a bowl of syllabub, and a round tea-cake, whichshe set before the fire to toast. 

"And how fareth good Master Avery?" asked Marian, as she closed thecupboard door, and came back. 

Barbara shook her head ominously. 

"But ill, forsooth?" pursued her sister. 

"Marry, an' you ask at him, he is alway well; but--I carry mine eyes, Marian. "

Barbara's theory of educating children was to keep them entirelyignorant of the affairs of their elders. To secure this end, sheadopted a vague, misty style of language, of which she fondly imaginedthat Clare did not understand a word. The result was unfortunate, as itusually is. Clare understood detached bits of her nurse's conversation, over which she brooded silently in her own little mind, until sheevolved a whole story--a long way off the truth. It would have donemuch less harm to tell her the whole truth at once; for the fact of amystery being made provoked her curiosity, and her imaginations were farmore extreme than the facts. 

"Ah, he feeleth the lack of my mistress his wife, I reckon, " said Marianpityingly. "She must be soothly a sad miss every whither. "

"Thou mayest well say so, " assented Barbara. "Dear heart! 'tis nighupon five good years now, and I have not grown used to the lack of hereven yet. Thou seest, moreover, he hath had sorrow upon sorrow. 'Twasbut the year afore that Master Walter [a fictitious person] and MistressFrances did depart [die]; and then, two years gone, Mistress Kate, [afictitious person]. Ah, well-a-day! we be all mortal. "

"Thank we God therefore, good Bab, " said Marian quietly. "For we shallsee them again the sooner. But if so be, Bab, that aught befel theMaster, what should come of yonder rosebud?"

And Marian cast a significant look at Clare, who sat apparentlyengrossed with a mug full of syllabub. 

"Humph! an' I had the reins, I had driven my nag down another road, "returned Barbara. "Who but Master Robin [a fictitious person] andMistress Thekla [a fictitious person] were meetest, trow? But lo! you!what doth Mistress Walter but indite a letter unto the Master, to notethat whereas she hath never set eyes on the jewel--and whose fault wasthat, prithee?--so, an' it liked Him above to do the thing thou wottest, she must needs have the floweret sent thither. And a cruel deal of fairwords, how she loved and pined to see her, and more foolery belike. Marry La'kin! ere I had given her her will, I had seen her alongside ofKing Pharaoh at bottom o' the Red Sea. But the Master, what did he, butwrite back and say that it should be even as she would. Happy woman beher dole, say I!"

And Barbara set down the milk-jug with a rough determinate air that musthave hurt its feelings, had it possessed any. 

"Mistress Walter! that is, the Lady--" [Note 3. ]

"Ay--she, " said Barbara hastily, before the name could follow. 

"Well, Bab, after all, methinks 'tis but like she should ask it. And ifMaster Robin be parson of that very same parish wherein she dwelleth, ofa surety ye could never send the little one to him, away from her ownmother?"

"Poor little soul! she is well mothered!" said Barbara ironically. "Never to set eyes on the child for six long years; and then, whenMistress Avery, dear heart! writ unto her how sweet and _debonnaire_[pretty, pleasing] the lily-bud grew, to mewl forth that it was so greata way, and her health so pitiful, that she must needs endure to bereaveher of the happiness to come and see the same. Marry La'kin! call yon amother!"

"But it is a great way, Bab. "

"Wherefore went she so far off, then?" returned Barbara quickly enough. "And lo! you! she can journey thence all the way to York or Chester whenshe would get her the new fashions, --over land, too!--yet cannot shetake boat to Bideford, which were less travail by half. An' yonderjewel had been mine, Marian, I would not have left it lie in the casefor six years, trow!"

"Maybe not, Bab, " answered Marian in her quiet way. "Yet 'tis illjudging of our neighbour. And if the lady's health be in very deed sopitiful--"

"Neighbour! she is no neighbour of mine, dwelling up by Marton Moss!"interrupted Barbara, as satirically as before. "And in regard to herpitiful health--why, Marian, I have dwelt in the same house with her fora year and a half, and I never knew yet her evil health let [hinder] herfrom a junketing. Good lack! it stood alway in the road when somewhatwas in hand the which misliked her. Go to church in the rain, --nay, by'r Lady!--and 'twas too cold in the winter to help string the apples, and too hot in the summer to help conserve the fruits: to be sure! Butlet there be an even's revelling at Sir Christopher Marres his house, and she bidden, --why, it might rain enough to drench you, but her cloakwas thick then, and her boots were strong enough, and her cough was notto any hurt--bless her!"

The tone of Barbara's exclamation somewhat belied the words. 

"Have a care, Bab, lest--" and Marian's glance at Clare explained hermeaning. 

"Not she!" returned Barbara, looking in her turn at the child, whoseattention was apparently concentrated on one of Marian's kittens, whichshe was stroking on her lap, while the mother cat walked uneasily roundand round her chair. "I have alway a care to speak above yon head. "

"Is there not a little sister?" asked Marian in a low tone. 

"Ay, " said Barbara, dropping her voice. "Blanche, the babe's name is [afictitious character. ] Like Mrs Walter--never content with plain Nelland Nan. Her childre must have names like so many queens. And I daresay the maid shall be bred up like one. "

The conversation gradually passed to other topics, and the subject wasnot again touched upon by either sister. 

How much of it had Clare heard, and how much of that did she understand?

A good deal more of either than Barbara imagined. She knew that Walterhad been her father's name, and she was well aware that "MistressWalter" from Barbara's lips, indicated her mother. She knew that hermother had married again, and that she lived a long way off. She knewalso that this mother of hers was no favourite with Barbara. And fromthis conversation she gathered, that in the event of somethinghappening--but what that was she did not realise--she was to go and livewith her mother. Clare was an imaginative child, and the topic of allher dreams was this mysterious mother whom she had never seen. Many atime, when Barbara only saw that she was quietly dressing or hushing herdoll, Clare's mind was at work, puzzling over the incomprehensiblereason of Barbara's evident dislike to her absent mother. What shockingthing could she have done, thought Clare, to make Bab angry with her?Had she poisoned her sister, or drowned the cat, or stolen the big crownoff the Queen's head? For the romance of a little child is alwaysincongruous and sensational. 

In truth, there was nothing sensational, and little that was notcommonplace, about the character and history of little Clare's mother, whose maiden name was Orige Williams. She had been the spoilt child ofa wealthy old Cornish gentleman, --the pretty pet on whom he lavished allhis love and bounty, never crossing her will from the cradle. And sherepaid him, as children thus trained often do, by crossing his will inthe only matter concerning which he much cared. He had set his heart onher marrying a rich knight whose estate lay contiguous to his own: whileshe, entirely self-centred, chose to make a runaway match with youngLieutenant Avery, whose whole year's income was about equal to one weekof her father's rent-roll. Bitterly disappointed, Mr Williams declaredthat "As she had made her bed, so she should lie on it;" for not onepenny would he ever bestow on her while he lived, and he would bequeaththe bulk of his property to his nephew. In consequence of this threat, which reached, her ears, Orige, romantic and high-flown, fancied herselfat once a heroine and a martyr, when there was not in her the capacityfor either. In the sort of language in which she delighted, she spokeof herself as a friendless orphan, a sacrifice to love, truth, andhonour. It never seemed to occur to her that in deceiving her father--for she had led him to believe until the last moment that she intendedto conform to his wishes--she had acted both untruthfully anddishonourably; while as to love, she was callous to every shape of itexcept love of self. 

For about eighteen months Walter and Orige Avery lived at Bradmond, during which time Clare was born. She was only a few weeks old when thesummons came for her father to rejoin his ship. He had been gone twomonths, when news reached Bradmond of a naval skirmish with theSpaniards off the Scilly Isles, in which great havoc had been made amongthe Queen's forces, and in the list of the dead was Lieutenant WalterAvery. 

Now Orige's romance took a new turn. She pictured herself as a widowednightingale, love-lorn and desolate, leaning her bleeding breast upon athorn, and moaning forth her melancholy lay. As others have done since, she fancied herself poetical when she was only silly. And Barbara tookgrim notice that her handkerchief was perpetually going up to tearlesseyes, and that she was not a whit less particular than usual to knowwhat there was for supper. 

For six whole months this state of things lasted. Orige arrayed herselfin the deepest sables; she spoke of herself as a wretched widow whocould never taste hope again; and of her baby as a poor hapless orphan, as yet unwitting of its misery. She declined to see any visitors, andpersisted in being miserable and disconsolate, and in taking lonelywalks to brood over her wretchedness. And at the end of that time sheelectrified her husband's family--all but one--by the announcement thatshe was about to marry again. Not for love this time, of course; no, indeed!--but she thought it was her duty. Sir Thomas Enville--a widowerwith three children--had been very kind; and he would make such a goodfather for Clare. He had a beautiful estate in the North. It would bea thousand pities to let the opportunity slip. Once for all, shethought it her duty; and she begged that no one would worry her withopposition, as everything was already settled. 

Kate Avery, Walter's elder and only surviving sister, was exceedinglyindignant. Her gentle, unsuspicious mother was astonished and puzzled. But Mr Avery, after a momentary look of surprise, only smiled. 

"Nay, but this passeth!" [surpasses belief] cried Kate. 

"Even as I looked for it, " quietly said her father. "I did but think itshould maybe have been somewhat later of coming. "

"Her duty!" broke out indignant Kate. "Her duty to whom?"

"To herself, I take it, " said he. "To Clare, as she counteth. Methinksshe is one of those deceivers that do begin with deceiving ofthemselves. "

"To Clare!" repeated Kate. "But, Father, she riddeth her of Clare. Thebabe is to 'bide here until such time as it may please my good Lady tosend for her. "

"So much the better for Clare, " quietly returned Mr Avery. 

And thus it happened that Clare was six years old, and her mother wasstill an utter stranger to her. 

The family at Bradmond, however, were not without tidings of LadyEnville. It so happened that Mr Avery's adopted son, Robert Tremayne, was Rector of the very parish in which Sir Thomas Enville lived; and aclose correspondence--for Elizabethan days--was kept up between Bradmondand the Rectory. In this manner they came to know, as time went on, that Clare had a little sister, whose name was Blanche; that LadyEnville was apparently quite happy; that Sir Thomas was very kind toher, after his fashion, though that was not the devoted fashion ofWalter Avery. Sir Thomas liked to adorn his pretty plaything with finedresses and rich jewellery; he surrounded her with every comfort; heallowed her to go to every party within ten miles, and to spend as muchmoney as she pleased. And this was precisely Orige's beau ideal ofhappiness. Her small cup seemed full--but evidently Clare was nonecessary ingredient in the compound. 

If any one had taken the trouble to weigh, sort, and label theprejudices of Barbara Polwhele, it would have been found that theheaviest of all had for its object "Papistry, "--the second, dirt, --andthe third, "Mistress Walter. " Lieutenant Avery had been Barbara'sdarling from his cradle, and she considered that his widow had outragedhis memory, by marrying again so short a time after his death. Forthis, above all her other provocations, Barbara never heartily forgaveher. And a great struggle it was to her to keep her own feelings asmuch as possible in the background, from the conscientious motive thatshe ought not to instil into Clare's baby mind the faintest feeling ofaversion towards her mother. The idea of the child being permanentlysent to Enville Court was intensely distasteful to her. Yet whereverClare went, Barbara must go also. 

She had promised Mrs Avery, Clare's grandmother, on her dying bed, never to leave the child by her own free will so long as her childhoodlasted, and rather than break her word, she would have gone to Siberia--or to Enville Court. In Barbara's eyes, there would have been verylittle choice between the two places. Enville Court lay on thesea-coast, and Barbara abhorred the sea, on which her only brother andWalter Avery had died: it was in Lancashire, which she looked upon as aden of witches, and an arid desert bare of all the comforts of life; itwas a long way from any large town, and Barbara had been used to livewithin an easy walk of one; she felt, in short, as though she were beingsent into banishment. 

And there was no help for it. Within the last few weeks, a letter hadcome from Lady Enville, --not very considerately worded--requesting thatif what she had heard was true, that Mr Avery's health was feeble, andhe was not likely to live long--in the event of his death, Clare shouldbe sent to her. 

In fact, there was nowhere else to send her. Walter's two sisters, Kateand Frances, were both dead, --Kate unmarried, Frances van Barneveltleaving a daughter, but far away in Holland. The only other person whocould reasonably have claimed the child was Mr Tremayne; and with whatshow of justice could he do so, when his house lay only a stone's throwfrom the park gates of Enville Court? Fate seemed to determine thatClare should go to her mother. But while John Avery lived, there was tobe a respite. 

It was a respite shorter than any one anticipated--except, perhaps, theold man himself. There came an evening three weeks after these events, when Barbara noticed that her master, contrary to his usual custom, instead of returning to his turret-chamber after supper, sat still bythe hall fire, shading his eyes from the lamp, and almost entirelysilent. When Clare's bed-time came, and she lifted her little face fora good-night kiss, John Avery, after giving it, laid his hands upon herhead and blessed her. 

"The God that fed me all my life long, the Angel that redeemed me fromall evil, bless the maid! The peace of God, which passeth allunderstanding, keep thy heart and mind, through Jesus Christ our Lord;and the blessing of God Almighty, --the Father, the Son, and the HolyGhost--be upon thee, and remain with thee always!"

So he "let her depart with this blessing. " Let her depart--to walk thethorny path of which he had reached the end, to climb the painful steepsof which he stood at the summit, to labour along the weary road which hewould tread no more. Let her depart! The God who had fed him had mannain store for her, --the Angel who had redeemed him was strong, enough, and tender enough, to carry this lamb in His bosom. 

Barbara noted that his step was slower even than had been usual with himof late. It struck her, too, that his hair was whiter than she had evernoticed it before. 

"Be you aweary this even, Master?"

"Something, good maid, " he answered with a smile. "Even as a travellermay well be that hath but another furlong of his journey. "

Another furlong! Was it more than another step? Barbara went upstairswith him, to relieve him of the light burden of the candle. 

"Good night, Master! Metrusteth your sleep shall give you goodrefreshing. "

"Good night, my maid, " said he. "I wish thee the like. There shall begood rest up yonder. "

Her eyes filled with tears as she turned away. Was it selfish that herwish was half a prayer, --that he might be kept a little longer from_that_ rest?

She waited longer than usual before she tapped at his door the nextmorning. It was seven o'clock--a very late hour for rising in thesixteenth century--when, receiving no answer, Barbara went softly intothe room and unfastened the shutters as quietly as she could. No needfor the care and the silence! There was good rest up yonder. 

The shutters were drawn back, and the April sunlight streamed brightlyin upon a still, dead face. 

Deep indeed was the mourning: but it was for themselves, not for him. He was safe in the Golden Land, with his children and his Isoult--allgone before him to that good rest. What cause could there be for griefthat the battle was won, and that the tired soldier had laid aside hisarmour?

But there was need enough for grief as concerned the two survivors, --forBarbara and little Clare, left alone in the cold, wide world, withnothing before them but a mournful and wearisome journey, and EnvilleCourt the dreaded end of it. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. So lately as 1601, an Act of Parliament forbade men to ride incoaches, as an effeminate practice. 

Note 2. This was "His Holiness' sentence, " of which the Armada was "inexecution. " See note, p. 

Note 3. The names, and date of marriage, of Walter Avery and OrigeWilliams, are taken from the Bodmin Register. In every other respectthey are fictitious characters. 

CHAPTER TWO. 

ON THE BORDER OF MARTON MERE. 

 "Thou too must tread, as we trod, a way Thorny, and bitter, and cold, and grey. "

 _Miss Muloch_. 

It was drawing towards the dusk of a bright day early in May. Thelandscape was not attractive, at least to a tired traveller. It was adreary waste of sandhills, diversified by patches of rough grass, and afew stunted bushes, all leaning away from the sea, as though they wantedto get as far from it as their small opportunities allowed; on one sidefoamed the said grey-green expanse of sea; on the other lay a littlelakelet, shining in the setting sun: in front, at some distance, arivulet ran from the lake to the sea. On the nearer side of the brooklay a little village; while on the further bank was a large, well-keptpark, in which stood a grey quadrangular mansion. Beyond the park, nearly as far as the eye could reach, stretched a wide, dreary swamp, bounded only by the sea on the one hand and the lake on the other. Theonly pretty or pleasant features in the landscape were the village andpark; and little could be seen of those for intervening sandhills. 

The lake was Marton Mere; the swamp was Marton Moss; and the districtwas the Fylde of Lancashire. The County Palatine was renowned, at thattime, in the eyes of the Londoners, for its air, which was "subtile andpiercing, " without any "gross vapours nor foggie mists;" for theabundance and excellence of its cattle, which were sent even then to themetropolis; for the plentiful variety of its provisions; for itsmagnificent woods, "preserved by gentlemen for beauty, " to such anextent that no wood was used for fuel, and its place was supplied by"sea-coal" and turf; for its numerous churches, "in no part of the landmore in proportion to the inhabitants. " But the good qualities of theCounty Palatine were not likely to be appreciated by our wearytravellers. 

The travellers were three in number:--a short, thick-set man, in a coatof frieze as rough as his surroundings; a woman, and a child; lastlycame a pack-horse, bearing a quantity of luggage. 

"Eh me!" ejaculated Barbara Polwhele, with a weary sigh. "Master, dothany man live hereaway?"

"Eh?" queried the man, not looking back. 

Barbara repeated her question. 

"Ay, " said he in a rough voice. 

"By 'r Lady!" exclaimed Barbara, pityingly. "What manner of folk bethey, I marvel?"

"Me an' th' rest, " said the man. 

"Eh? what, you never--Be we anear Enville Court now?"

"O'er yon, " replied the man, pointing straight forward with his whip, and then giving it a sharp crack, as a reminder to the galloways. 

"What, in the midst of yonder marsh?" cried poor Barbara. 

Dick gave a hoarse chuckle, but made no other reply. Barbara'ssensations were coming very near despair. 

"What call men your name, Master?" she demanded, after some minutes'gloomy meditation. 

"Name?" echoed the stolid individual before her. 

"Ay, " said she. 

"Dick o' Will's o' Mally's o' Robin's o' Joan's o' owd Dick's, "responded he, in a breath. 

"Marry La'kin!" exclaimed Barbara, relieving her feelings by recourse toher favourite epithet. She took the whole pedigree to be a polysyllabicname. "Dear heart, to think of a country where the folk have names aslong as a cart-rope!"

"Bab, I am aweary!" said little Clare, rousing up from a nap which shehad taken leaning against Barbara. 

"And well thou mayest, poor chick!" returned Barbara compassionately;adding in an undertone, --"Could she ne'er have come so far as Kirkham!"

They toiled wearily on after this, until presently Dick o' Will's--Idrop the rest of the genealogy--drew bridle, and looking back, pointedwith his whip to the village which now lay close before them. 

"See thee!" said he. "Yon's th' fold. "

"Yon's what?" demanded Barbara. 

The word was unintelligible to her, as Dick pronounced it "fowd;" buthad she understood it, she would have been little wiser. Fold meant toher a place to pen sheep in, while it signified to Dick an enclosuresurrounded by houses. 

"What is 't?" responded Dick. "Why, it's th' fowd. "

"But what is `fowd'?" asked bewildered Barbara. 

"Open thy een, wilt thou?" answered Dick cynically. 

Barbara resigned the attempt to comprehend him, and, unwittinglyobeying, looked at the landscape. 

Just the village itself was pretty enough. It was surrounded withtrees, through which white houses peeped out, clustered together on thebank of the little brook. The spire of the village church towered upthrough the foliage, close to the narrow footbridge; and beside it stoodthe parsonage, --a long, low, stone house, embowered in ivy. 

"Is yonder Enville Court?" asked Barbara, referring to the house in thepark. 

"Ay, " said Dick. 

"And where dwelleth Master Tremayne?"

"Eh?"

"Master Tremayne--the parson--where dwelleth he?"

"Th' parson? Why, i' th' parsonage, for sure, " said Dick, conclusively. "Where else would thou have him?"

"Ay, in sooth, but which is the parsonage?"

"Close by th' church--where would thou have it?"

"What, yonder green house, all o'er ivy?"

"For sure. "

They slowly filed into the village, rode past the church andparsonage, --at which latter Barbara looked lovingly, as to a haven ofcomfort--forded the brook, and turned in at the gates of Enville Court. When they came up to the house, and saw it free of hindering foliage, she found that it was a stately quadrangle of grey stone, with a stoneterrace round three sides of it, a garden laid out in grim, Dutch squareorder, away from the sea; and two or three cottages, with farm-buildingsand stables, grouped behind. The horses drew up at a side door. 

"Now!" lethargically said Dick, lumbering off his horse. "Con ye getoff by yoursen?"

"I'll try, " grunted the rather indignant Barbara, who considered thather precious charge, Clare, was being very neglectfully received. Shesprang down more readily than Dick, and standing on the horse-block, lifted down little Clare. 

"Hallo!" said Dick, by way of ringing the bell. 

A slight stir was heard through the open door, and a young womanappeared, fresh-looking and smiling-faced. 

"Mistress Polwhele, I reckon?" she asked. "An' is this t' little lass?Eh, God bless thee, little lass! Come in--thou'rt bound to be aweary. "

Clare looked up into the girl's pleasant face, and sliding her handconfidingly into hers, said demurely, --"I'll come. "

"Dick 'll see to th' gear, Mistress, " said the girl. 

"Thou'd better call Sim, Dick. --I reckon you'd best come wi' me. "

"What is your name?" asked Barbara, following her guide. 

"Jennet, " said the smiling girl. 

"Well, Jennet, you are the best thing I have yet seen up hither, "announced Barbara cynically. 

"Eh, you've none seen nought yet!" said Jennet, laughing. "There'sbetter things here nor me, I'se warrant you. "

"Humph!" returned Barbara meditatively. She doubted it very much. 

Jennet paused at a door, and rapped. There was no answer; perhaps herappeal was not heard by those within. She pushed the door a littleopen, saying to Barbara, "There! you'd best go in, happen. "

So Barbara, putting little Clare before her, went in. 

It was a large, square, low room, sweet with the perfume of dried roses. There were four occupants, --two ladies, and two girls. One of theladies sat with her back to the door, trying to catch the last ray ofdaylight for her work; the other had dropped asleep. Evidently neitherhad heard Jennet's knock. 

It was rather an awkward state of things. Little Clare went a few feetinto the room, stopped, and looked up at Barbara for direction. At thesame moment the elder girl turned her head and saw them. 

"Madam!" said Barbara stiffly. 

"Aunt Rachel!" [Note 1] said the girl. 

The lady who sat by the window looked round, and rose. She was young--certainly under thirty; but rather stiff and prim, very upright, and notfree from angularity. She gave the impression that she must have beenborn just as she was, in her black satin skirt, dark blue serge kirtle, unbending buckram cap, whitest and most unruffled of starched frills, --and have been kept ever since under a glass case. 

"You are Barbara Polwhele?" she said. 

Barbara dropped a courtesy, and replied affirmatively. 

"Sister!" said Mistress Rachel, appealing to the sleeper. 

No greater difference between two young women could well be imagined, than that which existed in this instance. Lady Enville--for she was thetaker of the siesta--was as free from any appearance of angularity orprimness as possible. Everything about her was soft, delicate, andgraceful. She was fair in complexion, and very pretty. She had beenengaged in fancy-work, and it lay upon her lap, held lightly by onehand, just as it had dropped when she fell asleep. 

"Sister!" said Rachel again. 

Lady Enville stirred, sighed, and half opened her eyes. 

"Here is thy little maid, Sister. "

Lady Enville opened her blue eyes fully, dropped her work on the floor, and springing up, caught Clare to her bosom with the most exaltedexpressions of delight. 

"Fragrance of my heart! My rose of spring! My gem of beauty! Art thoucome to me at last, my soul's darling?"

Barbara looked on with a grim smile. Clare sat in perfect silence onher mother's knee, suffering her caresses, but making no response. 

"She is not like thee, Sister, " observed Rachel. 

"No, she is like her father, " replied Lady Enville, stroking the child'shair, and kissing her again. "Medoubteth if she will ever be aslovesome as I. I was much better favoured at her years. --Art thouaweary, sweeting?"

At last Clare spoke; but only in an affirmative monosyllable. Clare'sthoughts were mixed ones. It was rather nice to sit on that soft velvetlap, and be petted: but "Bab didn't like her. " And why did not Bab likeher?

"Thou hast not called me Mother, my floweret. "

Clare was too shy for that. The suggestion distressed her. To move thehouse seemed as near possibility as to frame her lips to say that shortword. Fortunately for her, Lady Enville's mind never dwelt on a subjectfor many seconds at once. She turned to Barbara. 

"And how goes it with thee, Barbara?"

"Well, and I thank you, Mistress--my Lady, I would say. "

"Ah!" said Lady Enville, laughing softly. "I shall alway be MistressWalter with thee, I am well assured. So my father Avery is dead, Icount, or ye had not come?"

The question was put in a tone as light and airy as possible. Clarelistened in surprised vexation. What did "she" mean by talking of"Gaffer, " in that strange way?--was she not sorry that he was gone away?Bab was--thought Clare. 

Barbara's answer was in a very constrained tone. 

"Ah, well, 'tis to no good fretting, " returned Lady Enville, gentlysmoothing Clare's hair. "I cannot abide doole [mourning] and gloomyfaces. I would have all about me fresh and bright while I am so. "

This was rather above Clare's comprehension; but looking up at Barbara, the child saw tears in her eyes. Her little heart revolted in a momentfrom the caressing lady in velvet. What did she mean by making Bab cry?

It was rather a misfortune that at this moment it pleased Lady Envilleto kiss Clare's forehead, and to say--

"Art thou ready to love us all, darling? Thou must know thy sisters, and ye can play you together, when their tasks be adone. --Margaret!"

"Ay, Madam. "

The elder girl laid down her work, and came to Lady Enville's side. 

"And thou too, Lucrece. --These be they, sweeting. Kiss them. Thoushalt see Blanche ere it be long. "

But then Clare's stored-up anger broke out. The limit of her endurancehad been reached, and shyness was extinguished by vexation. 

"Get away!" she said, as Margaret bent down to kiss her. "You are notmy sisters! I won't kiss you! I won't call you sisters. Blanche is mysister, but not you. Get away, both of you!"

Lady Enville's eyes opened--for her--extremely wide. 

"Why, what can the child mean?" she exclaimed. "I can never governchildre. Rachel, do--"

Barbara was astonished and terrified. She laid a correcting hand uponClare's shoulder. 

"Mrs Clare, I'm ashamed of you! Cruel 'shamed, I am! The ladies willaccount that I ne'er learned you behaviour. Kiss the young damselspresently [immediately], like a sweet little maid, as you use to be, andnot like a wild blackamoor that ne'er saw governance!"

But the matter was taken out of Barbara's hands, as Mistress Rachelresponded to the appeal made to her--not in words, but in solid deed. She quietly grasped Clare, lifted her from her mother's knee, and, carrying her to a large closet at one end of the room, shut her inside, and sat down again with judicial imperturbability. 

"There you 'bide, child, " announced Rachel, from her chair, "until suchtime as you shall be sorry for your fault, and desire pardon. --Meg andLucrece, come and fold your sewing. 'Tis too dark to make an endthereof this even. "

"Good Mistress, " entreated poor Barbara in deep dismay, "I beseech you, leave my little maid come out thence. She was never thus dealt withalin all her life afore!"

"No was she, [was she not], good wife?" returned Rachel unconcernedly. "Then the sooner she makes beginning thereof, the better for her. Easeyour mind; I will keep her in yonder no longer than shall stand with hergood. Is she oft-times thus trying?"

"Never afore knew I no such a thing!" said Barbara emphatically. 

"Only a little waywardness then, maybe, " answered Rachel. "So much thebetter. "

"Marry, sweet Mistress, the child is hungered and aweary. Pray you, forgive her this once!"

"Good lack!" plaintively exclaimed Lady Enville. "I hate discordsaround me. Call Jennet, and bid her take Barbara into the hall, for itmust be nigh rear-supper. "

Go and sit down comfortably to supper, with her darling shut in a darkcloset! Barbara would as soon have thought of flying. 

"Leave her come forth, Rachel, " said the child's mother. 

"I love peace as well as thou, Sister; but I love right better, "answered Rachel unmovedly. But she rose and went to the closet. "Child! art thou yet penitent?"

"Am I what?" demanded Clare from within, in a voice which was notpromising for much penitence. 

"Art thou sorry for thy fault?"

"No. "

"Wilt thou ask pardon?"

"No, " said Clare sturdily. 

"Thou seest, Sister, I cannot let her out, " decided Rachel, lookingback. 

In utter despair Barbara appealed to Lady Enville. 

"Mistress Walter, sure you have never the heart to keep the little maidshut up in yon hole? She is cruel weary, the sweeting!--and an-hungeredto boot. Cause her to come forth, I pray you of your gentleness!"

Ah, Barbara! Appearances were illusive. There was no heart under thesoft exterior of the one woman, and there was a very tender one, coveredby a crust of rule and propriety, latent in the breast of the other. 

"Gramercy, Barbara!" said Lady Enville pettishly, with a shrug of hershoulders. "I never can deal with childre. "

"Leave her come forth, and I will deal withal, " retorted Barbarabluntly. 

"Dear heart! Rachel, couldst thou not leave her come? Never mindwaiting till she is sorry. I shall have never any peace. "

Rachel laid her hand doubtfully on the latch of the closet door, andstood considering the matter. 

Just then another door was softly pushed open, and a little child ofthree years old came into the room:--a much prettier child than Clare, having sky-blue eyes, shining fair hair, a complexion of exquisitedelicacy, pretty regular features, and eyebrows of the surprised type. She ran up straight to Rachel, and grasped the blue serge kirtle in hersmall chubby hand. 

"Come see my sis'er, " was the abrupt announcement. 

That this little bit of prettiness was queen at Enville Court, might beseen in Rachel's complacent smile. She opened the closet door about aninch. 

"Art thou yet sorry?"

"No, " said Clare stubbornly. 

There was a little pull at the blue kirtle. 

"Want see my sis'er!" pleaded the baby voice, in tones of someimpatience. 

"Wilt be a good maid if thou come forth?" demanded Rachel of the culpritwithin. 

"That is as may be, " returned Clare insubordinately. 

"If I leave thee come forth, 'tis not for any thy goodness, but I wouldnot be hard on thee in the first minute of thy home-coming, and I makeallowance for thy coldness and weariness, that may cause thee to bepettish. "

Another little pull warned Rachel to cut short her lecture. 

"Now, be a good maid! Come forth, then. Here is Blanche awaitingthee. "

Out came Clare, looking very far from penitent. But when Blanchetoddled up, put her fat arms round her sister as far as they would go, and pouted up her little lips for a kiss, --to the astonishment of everyone, Clare burst into tears. Nobody quite knew why, and perhaps Clarecould hardly have said herself. Barbara interposed, by coming forwardand taking possession of her, with the apologetic remark--

"Fair cruel worn-out she is, poor heart!"

And Rachel condoned the affair, with--"Give her her supper, good wife, and put her abed. Jennet will show thee all needful. "

So Clare signalised her first entrance into her new home by rebellionand penalty. 

The next morning rose brightly. Barbara and Jennet came to dress thefour little girls, who all slept in one room; and took them out at onceinto the garden. Clare seemed to have forgotten the episode of theprevious evening, and no one cared to remind her of it. Margaret hadbrought a ball with her, and the children set to work at play, with anamount of activity and interest which they would scarcely have bestowedupon work. Barbara and Jennet sat down on a wooden seat which ran roundthe trunk of a large ash-tree, and Jennet, pulling from her pocket apair of knitting-needles and a ball of worsted, began to ply the formertoo quickly for the eye to follow. 

"Of a truth, I would I had some matter of work likewise, " observedBarbara; "I have been used to work hard, early and late, nor it likethme not to sit with mine hands idle. Needs must that I pray my Lady ofsome task belike. "

"Do but say the like unto Mistress Rachel, " said Jennet, laughing, "andI warrant thee thou'lt have work enough. "

"Mistress Rachel o'erseeth the maids work?"

"There's nought here but hoo [she] does o'ersee, " replied Jennet. 

"She keepeth house, marry, by my Lady's direction?"

"Hoo does not get much direction, I reckon, " said Jennet. 

"What, my Lady neither makes nor meddles?"

Jennet laughed. "I ne'er saw her make yet so much as an apple turno'er. As for tapestry work, and such, hoo makes belike. But I'll just tellthee:--Sir Thomas is our master, see thou. Well, his wife's hismistress. And Mistress Rachel's her mistress. And Mistress Blanche isMistress Rachel's mistress. Now then, thou knowest somewhat thou didn'tafore. "

"And who is Mistress Blanche's mistress or master belike?" demandedBarbara, laughing in her turn. 

"Nay, I've getten to th' top, " said Jennet. "I can go no fur'. "

"There'll be a master some of these days, I cast no doubt, " observedBarbara, drily. 

"Happen, " returned Jennet. "But 'tis a bit too soon yet, I reckon. --Mrs Meg, yon's the breakfast bell. "

Margaret caught the ball from Clare, and pocketed it, and the wholeparty went into the hall for breakfast. Here the entire familyassembled, down to the meanest scullion-lad. Jennet took Clare's hand, and led her up to the high table, at which Mistress Rachel had alreadytaken her seat, while Sir Thomas and Lady Enville were just enteringfrom the door behind it. 

"Ha! who cometh here?" asked Sir Thomas, cheerily. "My new daughter, Iwarrant. Come hither, little maid!"

Clare obeyed rather shyly. Her step-father set her on his knee, kissedher, stroked her hair with a rather heavy hand, and bade her "be a goodlass and serve God well, and he would be good father to her. " Clare wasnot sorry when the ordeal was over, and she found herself seated betweenMargaret and Barbara. Sir Thomas glanced round the table, where anempty place was left on the form, just opposite Clare. 

"Where is Jack?" he inquired. 

"Truly, I know not, " said Lady Enville languidly. 

"I bade him arise at four of the clock, " observed Rachel briskly. 

"And saw him do it?" asked Sir Thomas, with an amused expression. 

"Nay, in very deed, --I had other fish to fry. "

"Then, if Jack be not yet abed, I am no prophet. "

"Thou art no prophet, brother Tom, whether or no, " declared Rachel. "Ipray thee of some of that herring. "

While Rachel was being helped to the herring, a slight noise was audibleat the door behind, and the next minute, tumbling into his place with asomersault, a boy of eleven suddenly appeared in the hitherto vacantspace between Rachel and Lucrece. 

"Ah Jack, Jack!" reprimanded Sir Thomas. 

"Salt, Sir?" suggested Jack, demurely. 

"What hour of the clock did thine Aunt bid thee rise, Jack?"

"Well, Sir, " responded Jack, screwing up one eye, as if the effort ofmemory were painful, "as near as I may remember, 'twas about one hundredand eighty minutes to seven of the clock. "

"Thou wilt come to ill, Jack, as sure as sure, " denounced Aunt Rachel, solemnly. 

"I am come to breakfast, Aunt, and I shall come to dinner, " remarkedJack: "that is as sure as sure. "

Sir Thomas leaned back in his chair and laughed heartily, bidding Jackhelp himself; while Rachel shook her head ominously over Jack's future. Jack stood up, surveyed the table, and proceeded to make a wide gash inan enormous pie. Just as he was laying down knife and spoon, andretiring with his spoils, he caught a glimpse of Clare, who sat studyinghim in some trepidation and much curiosity. 

"Hallo! who are you?" was Jack's unceremonious greeting. 

"Wilt thou ne'er learn to behave thyself, lad?" corrected Rachel. 

"You see, Aunt, none never learned me yet, " returned Jack coolly;looking at Clare in a manner which said, "I await your answer. "

Sir Thomas good-naturedly replied for her. 

"'Tis thy new sister, my lad, --little Clare Avery. Play none of thytricks on her, Jack. "

"My tricks, Sir?" demanded Jack with an air of innocent astonishment. 

"I know thee, lad!" said Sir Thomas shortly, but good humouredly. 

Jack proceeded to make short work of the pie, but kept his eyes onClare. 

"Now, little maids, " said Rachel, when they rose from the table, "I willhear, you your tasks in an hour hence. Till the clock strike, ye may gointo the garden. "

"May we have some cakes with us, Aunt Rachel?" inquired Jack demurely. 

"Cake!" echoed Blanche, clapping her little fat hands. 

"Thou!" said Rachel. "Art thou a maid? I have nought to do with thytasks. Be they ready for Master Tremayne?"

Jack turned up the whites of his eyes, and turned down the corners ofhis mouth, in a style which exhibited a very emphatic No. 

"Go and study them, then, this minute, " said his Aunt. 

The party separated, Jack putting on a look which was the embodiment ofdespair; but Sir Thomas, calling Margaret back, put into her hands theplate of small cakes; bidding her take them to the garden and dividethem among the children. 

"Brother, Brother!" remonstrated Rachel. 

"Tut! the cakes will do them no harm, " said he carelessly. "There arebut a dozen or the like. "

Margaret went first towards the garden, carrying the plate, Clare andBlanche following. As they reached the terrace, Lucrece overtook them, going on about a yard in advance of Margaret. When the latter turnedher head to call Blanche to "come on, " Clare, to her utter amazement, saw Lucrece stop, and, as Margaret passed her, silently and deftly dipher hand into the plate, and transfer two of the little cakes to herpocket. The action was so promptly and delicately performed, leavingMargaret entirely unconscious of it, that in all probability it was notthe first of its kind. 

Clare was intensely shocked. Was Lucrece a thief?

Margaret sat down on a grassy bank, and counted out the cakes. Therewere eleven. 

"How is this?" she asked, looking perplexed. "There were thirteen ofthese, I am well assured, for I counted them o'er as I came out of hall. Who has taken two?"

"Not I, " said Clare shortly. 

Blanche shook her curly head; Lucrece, silently but calmly, held outempty hands. So, thought Clare, she is a liar as well, as a thief. 

"They must be some whither, " said Margaret, quietly; "and I know whereit is like: Lucrece, I do verily believe they are in thy pocket. "

"Dost thou count me a thief, Meg?" retorted Lucrece. 

"By no manner of means, without thou hast the chance, " answered Margaretsatirically, but still quietly. "Very well, --thou hast chosen thyshare, --take it. Three for each of us three, and two over. Shall wegive them to Jack? What say ye?"

"Jack!" cried Blanche, dancing about on the grass. 

Clare assented shyly, and she and Blanche received their three cakeseach. 

"Must I have none, Meg?" demanded Lucrece in an injured tone. 

"Oh ay! keep what thou hast, " said Margaret, calmly munching the firstof her own three cakes. 

"Who said I had any?"

"I said it. I know thee, as Father saith to Jack. Thou hast made thybed, --go lie thereon. "

Lucrece marched slowly away, looking highly indignant; but before shewas quite out of sight, the others saw her slip her hand into herpocket, bring out one of the little cakes, and bite it in two. Margaretlaughed when she saw Clare's look of shocked solemnity. 

"I said she had them, --the sly-boots!" was her only comment. 

Clare finished her cakes, and ran off to Barbara, who, seated under theash-tree, had witnessed the whole scene. 

"Bab, I will not play me with yonder Lucrece. She tells lies, and is athief. "

"Marry La'kin, my poor lamb!" sighed Barbara. "My mind sorely misgivethme that I have brought thee into a den of thieves. Eh me, if the goodMaster had but lived a while longer! Of a truth, the Lord's ways bepassing strange. "

Clare had run off again to Margaret, and the last sentence was notspoken to her. But it was answered by somebody. 

"Which of the Lord's ways, Barbara Polwhele?"

"Sir?" exclaimed Barbara, looking up surprisedly into the grave, thoughkindly face of a tall, dark-haired man in clerical garb. "I was but--eh, but yon eyes! 'Tis never Master Robin?"

Mr Tremayne's smile replied sufficiently that it was. 

"And is yonder little Clare Avery?" he asked, with a tender inflectionin his voice. "Walter's child, --my brother Walter!"

"Ay, Master Robin, yon is Mistress Clare; and you being shepherd of thisflock hereaway, I do adjure you, look well to this little lamb, for I amsore afeard she is here fallen amongst wolves. "

"I am not the Shepherd, good friend, --only one of the Shepherd'sherd-lads. But I will look to the lamb as He shall speed me. And whichof the Lord's ways is so strange unto thee, Barbara?"

"Why, to think that our dear, good Master should die but now, and leavethe little lamb to be cast in all this peril. "

"Then--`Some of the paths of the Lord are mercy and truth'--doth theverse run thus in thy Bible, Barbara?"

"Nay, not so: but can you understand the same Master Robin?"

"By no means. Wherefore should I?"

Barbara made no answer beyond an appealing look. 

"`He knoweth the way that I take. ' If I know not so much as one stepthereof, what matter? I shall have light to see the next step ere Imust set down my foot. That is enough, Barbara, for `such as keep Hiscovenant, ' and I have ever counted thee amongst them. "

"Eh, Master Robin, but 'twere easier done to walk in darkness one'sself, than to see yon little pet lamb--"

And Barbara's voice faltered. 

"Hath somewhat troubled thee specially at this time?"

In answer, she told him what she had just seen. 

"And I do trust, Master Robin, I have not ill done to say this unto you, but of a truth I am diseased [uneasy, anxious] touching my jewel, lestshe fall into the like evil courses, being to dwell here. "

"Thou hast not ill done, friend; nor will I neglect the warning, trustme. "

"I thank you much, Master. And how doth good Mistress Thekla? Verily Iam but evil-mannered to be thus long ere I ask it. "

"She is well, and desiring much to see thee. "

"And your childre, Master Robin, --have you not?"

"I have five childre, Barbara, two sons and three daughters; but of themChrist hath housen four in His garner, and hath left but one in mysight. And that seemed unto us a very strange way; yet was it mercy andtruth. "

"Eh, but I could ne'er repine at a babe's dying!" said Barbara, shakingher head. "Do but think what they 'scape of this weary world'stroubles, Master Robin. "

"Ah, Barbara, 'tis plain thou never hadst a child, " said Mr Tremayne, sighing. "I grant all thou hast said. And yet, when it cometh to thepass, the most I can do is to lift mine head and hold my peace, `becauseGod did it. ' God witteth best how to try us all. "

"Nay, if He would but not try yon little lambkin!"

"An unhappy prayer, Barbara; for, that granted, she should never comeforth as gold. --But I must be on my way to give Jack his Latin lesson. When thou canst find thy way to my dwelling, all we shall be full fainto see thee. Good morrow. "

When Clare was undergoing her ordeal in the schoolroom, an hour later, Barbara set out on her visit to the parsonage. But she missed her waythrough the park, and instead of coming out of the great gates, near thefoot-bridge, she found herself at a little gate, opening on the road, from which neither church nor village could be seen as landmarks. Therewas no cottage in sight at which to ask the road to the parsonage. While Barbara stood and looked round her, considering the matter, sheperceived a boy of about twelve years old slowly approaching her fromthe right hand, --evidently a gentleman's son, from his dress, which, though very simple, was of materials indicative of good birth. He hadlong dark brown hair, which curled over his shoulders, and almost hidhis face, bent down over a large book, for he was reading as he walked. Barbara waited until he came up to her. 

"Give you good morrow, Master! I be loth to come betwixt you and yourstudies, but my need presseth me to pray of you the way unto MasterTremayne's house the parson?"

The lad started on hearing a voice, hastily closed his book, and lifteda pair of large, dreamy brown eyes to Barbara's face. But he seemedquite at a loss to recall what he had been asked to do. 

"You would know?"--he said inquiringly. 

"I would know, young Master, " returned Barbara boldly, "if your name benot Tremayne?"

"Ay so, " assented the boy, with a rather surprised look. "My name isArthur Tremayne. " [A fictitious person. ]

"And you be son unto Master Tremayne the parson?"

"Truly. "

"Verily I guessed so much, for his eyes be in your head, " said Barbaraquaintly. "But your mouth and nose be Mrs Thekla's. Eh, dear heart, what changes life bringeth! Why, it seemeth me but yestre'en that yourfather was no bigger than you. And every whit as much given to hisbook, I warrant you. Pray you, is my mistress your mother at home?"

"Ay, you shall find her there now, " said the boy, as he tucked the bigbook under his arm, and began to walk on in Barbara's company. "I countyou be our old friend, Barbara Polwhele, that is come with littleMistress Clare? My mother will be fain to see you. "

Barbara was highly gratified to find that Arthur Tremayne had heard ofher already. The two trudged onwards together, and in a few minutesreached the ivy-covered parsonage, standing in its pretty flower-garden. Arthur preceded Barbara into the house, laid down his book on the hallwindow-seat, and opening a door which led to the back part of the house, appealed to an unseen person within. 

"Mother! here is Mistress Barbara Polwhele. "

"Barbara Polwhele!" said a voice in reply, --a voice which Barbara hadnot heard for nineteen years, yet which time had so little altered thatshe recognised at once the Thekla Rose of old. And in another momentMrs Tremayne stood before her. 

Her aspect was more changed than her voice. The five terrible years ofthe Marian persecution had swept over her head in early youth, and theirbitter anxieties and forebodings left her, at the age of nineteen, awhite, wan, slender, delicate girl. But now a like number of years, spent in calm, happy work, had left their traces also, and Mrs Tremaynelooked what she was, a gentle, contented woman of thirty-eight, withmore bloom on her cheek than she had ever worn in youth, and the piteousexpression of distressed suspense entirely gone from her eyes. 

"Eh, Mistress Thekla!" was Barbara's greeting. 

"I be cruel glad to see you. Methinks you be gone so many years youngeras you must needs be elder. "

"Nay, truly, for I were then but a babe in the cradle, " was the laughinganswer. "Thou art a losenger [flatterer], Barbara. "

"In very deed, " returned Barbara inconsistently, "I could have known youany whither. "

"And me also?" demanded another voice, as a little lively old ladytrotted out of the room which Mrs Tremayne had just left. "Shouldstthou have known me any whither, Barbara Polwhele?"

"Marry La'kin! if 'tis not Mistress Rose!" [Name fact, characterfictitious. ]

"Who but myself? I dwell with Thekla since I am widow. And I make thecakes, as Arthur knows, " added Mrs Rose, cheerily, patting hergrandson's head; "but if I should go hence, there should be a famine, _ma foi_!"

"A famine of _pain d'epices_" assented Mrs Tremayne, smiling. "Ah, Mother dear, thou spoilest the lad. "

"Who ever knew a grandame to do other?" observed Barbara. "Morespecially the only one. "

"The only one!" echoed his mother, softly, stroking his long hair. "There be four other, Barbara, --not lost, but waiting. "

"Now, Barbara, come in hither, " said Mrs Rose, bustling back into theroom, apparently desirous of checking any sad thoughts on the part ofher daughter; "sit thou down, and tell us all about the little Clare, and the dear Master Avery, and all. I listen and mix my cake, all one. "

Barbara followed her, and found herself in the kitchen. She had notdone wondering at the change--not in Mrs Tremayne, but in her mother. Nineteen years before, Barbara had known Marguerite Rose, a crushed, suffering woman, with no shadow of mirth about her. It seemed unnaturaland improper to hear her laugh. But Mrs Rose's nature was that of achild, --simple and versatile: she lived in the present, whether for joyor pain. 

Mrs Rose finished gathering her materials, and proceeded to mix her_pain d'epices_, or Flemish gingerbread, while Mrs Tremayne madeBarbara sit down in a large chair furnished with soft cushions. Arthurcame too, having picked up his big book, and seated himself in thewindow-seat with it, his long hair falling over his face as he bent downover it but whether he were reading or listening was known only tohimself. 

The full account of John Avery's end was given to these his dearestfriends, and there was a good deal of conversation about other membersof the family: and Barbara heard, to her surprise, that a cousin ofClare, a child rather older than herself, was shortly coming to live atthe parsonage. Lysken van Barnevelt [a fictitious person], like Clare, was an only child and an orphan; and Mr Tremayne purposed to pay hisdebt to the Averys by the adoption of Frances Avery's child. ButBarbara was rather dismayed when she heard that Lysken would not atfirst be able to talk to her cousin, since her English was of the mostfragmentary description. 

"She will soon learn, " said Mrs Tremayne. 

"And until she shall learn, I only can talk to her, " added Mrs Rose, laughing. "_Ay de mi_! I must pull up my Flemish out of my brains. Itis so deep down, I do wonder if it will come. It is--let me see!--forty, fifty--_ma foi_! 'tis nigh sixty years since I talk Flemish withmy father!"

"And now, tell us, what manner of child is Clare?" asked Mrs Tremayne. 

"The sweetest little maid in all the world, and of full good conditions[disposition], saving only that she lacketh breeding [education]somewhat. "

"The which Mistress Rachel shall well furnish her withal. She is athroughly good teacher. But I will go and see the sweeting, so soon asI may. "

"Now, Mrs Thekla, of your goodness, do me to wit what manner of folk bethese that we be fallen in withal? It were easier for me to govern bothMrs Clare and mine own self, if I might but, know somewhat thereofaforetime. "

"Truly, good friend, they be nowise ill folk, " said Mrs Tremayne, witha quiet smile. "Sir Thomas is like to be a good father unto the child, for he hath a kindly nature. Only, for godliness, I fear I may not sayover much. But he is an upright man, and a worthy, as men go in thisworld. And for my Lady his wife, you know her as well as I. "

"Marry La'kin, and if you do love her no better!--"

"She is but young, " said Mrs Tremayne, excusingly. 

"What heard I?" inquired Mrs Rose, looking up from her cookery. "I didthink thou hadst been a Christian woman, Barbara Polwhele. "

"Nay, verily, Mistress Rose!--what mean you?" demanded the astonishedBarbara. 

"_Bon_!--Is it not the second part of the duty of a Christian woman tolove her neighbour as herself?"

"Good lack! 'tis not in human nature, " said Barbara, bluntly. "If we beno Christians short of that, there be right few Christians in all theworld, Mistress mine. "

"So there be, " was the reply. "Is it not?"

"Truly, good friend, this is not in nature, " said Mrs Tremayne, gently. "It is only in grace. "

"Then in case it so be, is there no grace?" asked Barbara in a slightlyannoyed tone. 

"Who am I, that I should judge?" was the meek answer. "Yet methinksthere must be less grace than nature. "

"Well!--and of Mistress Rachel, what say you?"

"Have you a care that you judge her not too harshly. She is, I know, somewhat forbidding on the outside, yet she hath a soft heart, Barbara. "

"I am thankful to hear the same, for I had not so judged, " was Barbara'ssomewhat acrid answer. 

"Ah, she showeth the worst on the outside. "

"And for the childre? I love not yon Lucrece. --Now, Mistress Rose, havea care your cakes be well mingled, and snub not me. "

"Ah! there spake the conscience, " said Mrs Rose, laughing. 

"I never did rightly understand Lucrece, " answered her daughter. "ForMargaret, she is plain and open enough; a straightforward, truthfulmaiden, that men may trust. But for Lucrece--I never felt as though Iknew her. There is that in her--be it pride, be it shamefacedness, callit as you will--that is as a wall in the way. "

"I call it deceitfulness, Thekla, " said her mother decidedly. 

"I trust not so, Mother! yet I have feared--"

"Time will show, " said Mrs Rose, filling her moulds with the compoundwhich was to turn out _pain d'epices_. 

"Mistress Blanche, belike, showeth not what her conditions shall be, "remarked Barbara. 

"She is a lovesome little maid as yet, " said Mrs Tremayne. "Mefearethshe shall be spoiled as she groweth toward womanhood, both with praisingof her beauty and too much indulging of her fantasies. "

"And now, what say you to Master Jack?" demanded Barbara in sometrepidation. "Is he like to play ugsome [ugly, disagreeable] tricks onMrs Clare, think you?"

"Jack--ah, poor Jack!" replied Mrs Tremayne. 

Barbara looked up in some surprise. Jack seemed to her a most unlikelysubject for the compassionate ejaculation. 

"And dost thou marvel that I say, `Poor Jack'? It is because I haveknown men of his conditions aforetime, and I have ever noted that eitherthey do go fast to wrack, or else they be set in the hottest furnace ofGod's disciplining. I know not which shall be the way with Jack. Buthow so, --poor Jack!"

"But what deem you his conditions, in very deed?"

"Why, there is not a soul in all the village that loveth not Jack, and Imight well-nigh say, not one that hath not holpen him at some pinch, whereto his reckless ways have brought him. If the lacings of satinribbon be gone from Mistress Rachel's best gown, and the cat be foundwith them tied all delicately around her paws and neck, and her verytail, --'tis Jack hath done it. If Margaret go about with a paper pinnedto the tail of her gown, importing that she is a thief and a traitor tothe Queen's Highness, --'tis Jack hath pinned it on when she saw him not. If some rare book from Sir Thomas his library be found all open on thegarden walk, wet and ruinated, --'tis Jack. If Mistress Rachel beastepping into her bed, and find the sheets and blankets all awry, sothat she cannot compass it till all is pulled in pieces and turnedaright, she hath no doubt to say, 'tis Jack. And yet once I say, PoorJack! If he be to come unto good, mefeareth the furnace must needs beheated fiercely. Yet after all, what am I, that I should say it? Godhath a thousand ways to fetch His lost sheep home. "

"But is he verily ill-natured?"

"Nay, in no wise. He hath as tender a heart as any lad ever I saw. Ihave known him to weep bitterly over aught that hath touched his heart. Trust me, while I cast no doubt he shall play many a trick on littleClare, yet no sooner shall he see her truly sorrowful thereat, than Jackshall turn comforter, nor go not an inch further. "

Barbara was beginning another question, of which she had plenty more toask, when she saw that the clock pointed to a quarter to eleven, whichwas dinner-time at Enville Court. There was barely time to reach thehouse, and she took leave hastily, declining Mrs Tremayne's invitationto stay and dine at the parsonage. 

When she entered the hall, she found the household already assembled, and the sewers bringing in a smoking baron of beef. At the upper endLady Enville was delicately arranging the folds of her crimson satindress; the little girls were already seated; and Mistress Rachel, withbrown holland apron and cuffs, stood with a formidable carving-knife inher hand, ready to begin an attack upon the beef. The carving wasproperly Lady Enville's prerogative; but as with all things which gaveher trouble, she preferred to delegate it to her sister-in-law. 

Sir Thomas came in late, and said grace hastily. The Elizabethan gracewas not limited to half-a-dozen words. It took about as long as familyprayers usually do now. Jack, in his usual style, came scampering injust when grace was finished. 

"Good sooth! I have had such discourse with Master Tremayne, " said SirThomas. "He hath the strangest fantasies. Only look you--"

"A shive of beef, Sister?" interpolated Rachel, who had no notion ofallowing the theoretical to take precedence of the practical. 

Lady Enville languidly declined anything so gross as beef. She wouldtake a little--very little--of the venison pasty. 

"I'll have beef, Aunt!" put in unseasonable Jack. 

"Wilt thou have manners?" severely returned Rachel. 

"Where shall I find them, Aunt?" coolly inquired Jack, letting his eyesrove about among the dishes. "May I help you likewise?"

"Behave thyself, Jack!" said his father, laughing. 

The rebuke was neutralised by the laughter. Rachel went on carving indignified silence. 

"Would you think it?" resumed Sir Thomas, when everybody was helped, andconversation free to flow. "Master Tremayne doth conceive that weChristian folk be meant to learn somewhat from those ancient Jews thatdid wander about with Moses in the wilderness. Ne'er heard I no such afantasy. To conceive that we can win knowledge from the rotten oldobservances of those Jew rascals! Verily, this passeth!"

"Beats the Dutch, Sir!" said incorrigible Jack. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. All members of the Enville family and household are fictitiouspersons. 

CHAPTER THREE. 

BREAKERS AHEAD. 

 "Our treasures moth and rust corrupt: Or thieves break through and steal; or they Make themselves wings and fly away. One man made merry as he supped, Nor guessed how, when that night grew dim, His soul should be required of him. "

 _Ellen Alleyn_. 

Eleven years had passed away since the events of the previous chapters, and in the room where we first saw her, Rachel Enville sat with the fourgirls around her. Little girls no longer, --young ladies now; for theyoungest, Blanche, was not far from her fifteenth birthday. Margaret--now a young woman of four-and-twenty, and only not married because herbetrothed was serving with the army of occupation in the Netherlands--was very busily spinning; Lucrece--a graceful maiden of twenty-two, notstrictly handsome, but possessed of an indescribable fascination whichcharmed all who saw her--sat with her eyes bent down on her embroidery;Clare--seventeen, gentle, and unobtrusive--was engaged in plain sewing;and Blanche, --well, what was Blanche doing? She sat in the deepwindow-seat, her lap full of spring flowers, idly taking up now one, andnow another, --weaving a few together as if she meant to make a wreath, --then suddenly abandoning the idea and gathering them into a nosegay, --then throwing that aside and dreamily plunging both hands into thefragrant mass. Blanche had developed into a very pretty picture, --lovelier than Lady Enville, whom she resembled in feature. 

"Blanche!" said her aunt suddenly. 

Blanche looked up as if startled. Rachel had changed little. Time hadstiffened, not softened, both her grogram and her prejudices. 

"What dost thou?" she demanded. 

"Oh! I--well--I know not what I did, Aunt Rachel. I was thinking, Ireckon. "

"And where were thy thoughts?" was the next searching query. 

Blanche smelt at her flowers, coloured, laughed, and ended by sayinglightly, "I scantly know, Aunt. "

"Then the sooner thou callest them to order, the better. She must needsbe an idle jade that wits not whereof she thinketh. "

"Well, if you must needs know, Aunt Rachel, " said Blanche, laughingagain, and just a trifle saucily, "I thought about--being wed. "

"Fie for shame!" was the prompt comment on this confession. "What hastthou to do withal, till thy father and mother bid thee?"

"Why, that is even what I thought, Aunt Rachel, " said Blanche coolly, "and I would I had more to do withal. I would fain choose mine ownservant. " [Suitor. ]

"Thou!--Poor babe!" was the contemptuous rejoinder. 

"Well, Aunt Rachel, you wot a woman must be wed. "

"That's a man's notion!" said Rachel in her severest manner. "Blanche, I do marvel greatly that thou hast not more womanfulness than so. Awoman must be wed, quotha! Who saith it? Some selfish man, I warrant, that thought women were create into the world for none other cause butto be his serving-maids!"

"I am sure I know not wherefore we were create, " muttered Blanche, loudenough for her sisters to hear but not her Aunt. 

Rachel stopped her carding. She saw a first-rate opening for a lecture, and on her own special pet topic. 

"Maidens, I would fain have you all list me heedfully. Prithee, takenot up, none of you, with men's notions. To wit, that a woman mustneeds be wed, and that otherwise she is but half a woman, and the likefoolery. Nay, verily; for when she is wed she is no more at all awoman, but only the half of a man, and is shorn of all her glory. Witye all what marriage truly meaneth? It is to be a slave, and serve aman at his beck, all the days of thy life. A maid is her own queen, andmay do as it like her--"

"Would I might!" said Blanche under her breath. 

"But a wife must needs search out her lord's pleasure. "

"Or make him search out hers, " boldly interposed Blanche. 

"Child, lay thou down forthwith that foolish fantasy, " returned Rachelwith great solemnity. "So long time as that thing man is not sure ofthee, he is the meekest mannered beast under the sun. He will promisethee all thy desire whatsoever. But once give leave unto thy finger tobe rounded by that golden ring the which he holdeth out to thee, andwhere be all his promises? Marry, thou mayest whistle for them, --ay, and weep. "

Rachel surely had no intention of bringing her lecture to a close soearly; but at this point it was unfortunately--or, as Blanche thought, fortunately--interrupted. A girl of nineteen came noiselessly into theroom, carrying a small basket of early cherries. She made no attempt toannounce herself; she was too much at home at Enville Court to stand onceremony. Coming up to Rachel, she stooped down and kissed her, settingthe basket on a small table by her side. 

"Ah, Lysken Barnevelt! Thou art welcome. What hast brought yonder, child?"

"Only cherries, Mistress Rachel:--our early white-hearts, which my Ladyloveth, and Aunt Thekla sent me hither with the first ripe. "

"Wherefore many thanks and hearty, to her and thee. Sit thee down, Lysken: thou art in good time for four-hours. Hast brought thy work?"

Lysken pulled out of her pocket a little roll of brown holland, which, when unrolled, proved to be a child's pinafore, destined for the help ofsome poverty-stricken mother; and in another minute she was seated atwork like the rest. And while Lysken works, let us look at her. 

A calm, still-faced girl is this, with smooth brown hair, dark eyes, acomplexion nearly colourless, a voice low, clear, but seldom heard, andsmall delicate hands, at once quick and quiet. A girl that has nothingto say for herself, --is the verdict of most surface observers who seeher: a girl who has nothing in her, --say a few who consider themselvespenetrating judges of character. Nearly all think that the ReverendRobert Tremayne's partiality has outrun his judgment, for he says thathis adopted daughter thinks more than is physically good for her. Agirl who can never forget the siege of Leyden: never forget the deadmother, whose latest act was to push the last fragment of malt-caketowards her starving child; never forget the martyr-father burnt atGhent by the Regent Alva, who boasted to his master, Philip of Spain, that during his short regency he had executed eighteen thousandpersons, --of course, heretics. Quiet, thoughtful, silent, --how couldLysken Barnevelt be anything else?

A rap came at the door. 

"Mistress Rachel, here's old Lot's wife. You'll happen come and seeher?" inquired Jennet, putting only her head in at the door. 

"I will come to the hall, Jennet. "

Jennet's head nodded and retreated. Rachel followed her. 

"How doth Aunt Rachel snub us maids!" said Blanche lazily, clasping herhands behind her head. "She never had no man to make suit unto her, soshe accounteth we may pass us [do without] belike. "

"Who told thee so much?" asked Margaret bluntly. 

"I lacked no telling, " rejoined Blanche. "But I say, maids!--whom wereye all fainest to wed?--What manner of man, I mean. "

"I am bounden already, " said Margaret calmly. "An' mine husband leaveme but plenty of work to do, he may order him otherwise according to hisliking. "

"Work! thou art alway for work!" remonstrated ease-loving Blanche. 

"For sure. What were men and women made for, if not work?"

"Nay, that Aunt Rachel asked of me, and I have not yet solute [solved]the same. --Clare, what for thee?"

"I have no thought thereanent, Blanche. God will dispose of me. "

"Why, so might a nun say. --Lysken, and thou?"

Lysken showed rather surprised eyes when she lifted her head. "Whatquestions dost thou ask, Blanche! How wit I if I shall ever marry? Irather account nay. "

"Ye be a pair of nuns, both of you!" said Blanche, laughing, yet in aslightly annoyed tone. "Now, Lucrece, thou art of the world, I am wellassured. Answer me roundly, --not after the manner of these holysisters, --whom wert thou fainest to wed?"

"A gentleman of high degree, " returned Lucrece, readily. 

"Say a king, while thou goest about it, " suggested her eldest sister. 

"Well, so much the better, " was Lucrece's cool admission. 

"So much the worse, to my thinking, " said Margaret. "Would I by mygood-will be a queen, and sit all day with my hands in my lap, a-toyingwith the virginals, and fluttering of my fan, --and my heaviestconcernment whether I will wear on the morrow my white velvet gownguarded with sables, or my black satin furred with minever? By mytroth, nay!"

"Is that thy fantasy of a queen, Meg?" asked Clare, laughing. "Truly, Ihad thought the poor lady should have heavier concernments than so. "

"Well!" said Blanche, in a confidential whisper, "I am never like to bea queen; but I will show you one thing, --I would right dearly love to bepresented in the Queen's Majesty's Court. "

"Dear heart!--Presented, quotha!" exclaimed Margaret. "Prithee, takenot me withal. "

"Nay, I will take these holy sisters, " said Blanche, merrily. "What sayye, Clare and Lysken?"

"I have no care to be in the Court, I thank thee, " quietly repliedClare. 

"I shall be, some day, " observed Lysken, calmly, without lifting herhead. 

"Thou!--presented in the Court!" cried Blanche. 

For of all the five, girls, Lysken was much the most unlikely ever toattain that eminence. 

"Even so, " she said, unmoved. 

"Hast thou had promise thereof?"

"I have had promise thereof, " repeated Lysken, in a tone which was lostupon Blanche, but Clare thought she began to understand her. 

"Who hath promised thee?" asked Blanche, intensely interested. 

"The King!" replied Lysken, with deep feeling. "And I shall be theKing's daughter!"

"Lysken Barnevelt!" cried Blanche, dropping many of her flowers in herexcitement, "art thou gone clean wood [mad], or what meanest thou?"

Lysken looked up with a smile full of meaning. 

"`Now unto Him that is able to keep you from falling, and to present youfaultless before the presence of His glory with exceeding joy, --to theonly wise God our Saviour, be glory and majesty. '--Do but think, --faultless! and, before His glory!"

Lysken's eyes were alight in a manner very rare with her. She was lessshy with her friends at Enville Court than with most people. 

"So that is what thou wert thinking on!" said Blanche, in a mostdeprecatory manner. 

Lysken did not reply; but Clare whispered to her, "I would we might allbe presented there, Lysken. "

While the young ladies were thus engaged in debate, and Rachel waslistening to the complaints of old Lot's wife from the village, andgravely considering whether the said Lot's rheumatism would be thebetter for a basin of viper broth, --Sir Thomas Enville, who wasstrolling in the garden, perceived two riders coming up to the house. They were evidently a gentleman and his attendant serving-man, and assoon as they approached near enough for recognition, Sir Thomas hurriedquickly to meet them. The Lord Strange, heir of Lathom and Knowsley, must not be kept waiting. 

Only about thirty years had passed over the head of Ferdinand Stanley, Lord Strange, yet his handsome features wore an expression of thedeepest melancholy. People who were given to signs and auguries saidthat it presaged an early and violent death. And when, eight yearslater, after only one year's tenancy of the earldom of Derby, he died ofa rapid, terrible, and mysterious disease, strange to all the physicianswho saw him, the augurs, though a little disappointed that he was notbeheaded, found their consolation in the conviction that he had beenundoubtedly bewitched. His father, Earl Henry, seems to have been acool, crafty time-server, who had helped to do the Duke of Somerset todeath, more than thirty years before, and one of whose few good actionswas his intercession with Bishop Bonner in favour of his kinsman, themartyr Roger Holland. His mother was the great heiress MargaretClifford, who had inherited, before she was fifteen years of age, one-third of the estates of Duke Charles of Suffolk, the wealthiest manin England. 

"'Save you, my good Lord!" was Sir Thomas's greeting. "You be rightheartily welcome unto my poor house. "

"I have seen poorer, " replied Lord Strange with a smile. 

"Pray your Lordship, go within. "

After a few more amenities, in the rather ponderous style of thesixteenth century, Sir Thomas ceremoniously conducted his guest to LadyEnville's boudoir. She sat, resplendent in blue satin slashed withyellow, turning over some ribbons which Barbara Polwhele was displayingfor her inspection. The ribbons were at once dismissed when the noblevisitor appeared, and Barbara was desired to "do the thing she wot of inthe little chamber. "

The little chamber was a large, light closet, opening out of theboudoir, with a window looking on the garden; and the doorway betweenthe rooms was filled by a green curtain. Barbara's work was to make upinto shoulder-knots certain lengths of ribbon already put aside for thatpurpose. While the speakers, therefore, were to her invisible, theirconversation was as audible as if she had been in the boudoir. 

"And what news abroad, my good Lord?" asked Sir Thomas, when the usualformal civilities were over. 

"Very ill news, " said Lord Strange, sadly. 

"Pray your Lordship, what so? We hear none here, lying so far from theQueen's highway. "

"What heard you the last?"

"Well, methinks it were some strange matter touching the Scottish Queen, as though she should be set to trial on charge of some matter ofknowledge of Babington's treason. "

Sir Thomas's latest news, therefore, was about seven months old. Therewere no daily papers and Reuter's telegrams in his day. 

"Good Sir Thomas, you have much to hear, " replied his guest. "For theScottish Queen, she is dead and buried, --beheaden at Fotheringay Castle, in Yorkshire, these three months gone. "

"Gramercy!"

"'Tis very true, I do ensure you. And would God that were the worstnews I could tell you!"

"Pray your Lordship, speak quickly. "

"There be afloat strange things of private import:--to wit, of mykinsman the Earl of Arundel, who, as 'tis rumoured, shall this nextmonth be tried by the Star Chamber, and, as is thought, if he 'scapewith life, shall be heavily charged in goods [Note 1]: or the BlackAssize at Exeter this last year, whereby, through certain Portugals thatwere prisoners on trial, the ill smells did so infect the Court, [Note2] that many died thereof--of the common people very many, and diversmen of worship, --among other Sir John Chichester of Raleigh, that youand I were wont to know, and Sir Arthur Basset of Umberleigh--"

Barbara Polwhele heard no more for a while. The name that had been lastmentioned meant, to Lord Strange and Sir Thomas, the head of a countyfamily of Devonshire, a gentleman of first-class blood. But to her itmeant not only the great-grandson of Edward the Fourth, and the heir ofthe ruined House of Lisle, --but the bright-faced boy who, twenty-sevenyears before, used to flash in and out of John Avery's house in theMinories, --bringing "Aunt Philippa's loving commendations, " or news that"Aunt Bridget looketh this next week to be in the town, and will be rarefain to see Mistress Avery:"--the boy who had first seen the light atCalais, on the very threshold of the family woe--and who, to the Averys, and to Barbara, as their retainer, was the breathing representative ofall the dead Plantagenets. As to the Tudors, --the Queen's Grace, ofcourse, was all that was right and proper, a brave lady and trueProtestant; and long might God send her to rule over England!--but theTudors, apart from Elizabeth personally, were--Hush! in 1587 it wasperilous to say all one thought. So for some minutes Lord Strange'sfurther news was unheard in the little chamber. A pathetic visionfilled it, of a night in which there would be dole at Umberleigh, whenthe coffin of Sir Arthur Basset was borne to the sepulchre of hisfathers in Atherington Church. [Note 3. ] He was not yet forty-six. "God save and comfort Mistress Philippa!"

For, eldest-born and last-surviving of her generation, in a green oldage, Philippa Basset was living still. Time had swept away all thegallant brothers and fair sisters who had once been her companions atUmberleigh: the last to die, seven years before, being the eloquentorator, George. Yet Philippa lived on, --an old maiden lady, with heartas warm, and it must be confessed, with tongue as sharp, as in the daysof her girlhood. Time had mellowed her slightly, but had changednothing in her but one--for many years had passed now since Philippa washeard to sneer at Protestantism. She never confessed to any alterationin her views; perhaps she was hardly conscious of it, so gradually hadit grown upon her. Only those perceived it who saw her seldom: and thesigns were very minute. A passing admission that "may-be folk need notall be Catholics to get safe up yonder"--meaning, of course, to Heaven;an absence of the set lips and knitted brows which had formerly attendedthe reading of the English Scriptures in church; a courteous receptionof the Protestant Rector; a capability of praying morning and eveningwithout crucifix or rosary; a quiet dropping of crossings and holywater, oaths by our Lady's merits and Saint Peter's hosen: a generalcalm acquiescence in the new order of things. But how much did it mean?Only that her eyes were becoming accustomed to the light?--or that agehad weakened her prejudices?--or that God had touched her heart?

Some such thoughts were passing through Barbara's mind, when LordStrange's voice reached her understanding again. 

"I ensure you 'tis said in the Court that his grief for the beheading ofthe Scots Queen is but a blind, [Note 4] and that these two years goneand more hath King Philip been making ready his galleons for to invadethe Queen's Majesty's dominions. And now they say that we may look forhis setting forth this next year. Sir Francis Drake is gone by HerHighness' command to the Spanish main, there to keep watch and bringword; and he saith he will singe the Don's whiskers ere he turn again. Yet he may come, for all belike. "

The singeing of the Don's whiskers was effected soon after, by theburning of a hundred ships of war in the harbour of Cadiz. 

"Why, not a man in England but would turn out to defend the Queen andcountry!" exclaimed Sir Thomas. 

"Here is one that so will, Sir, by your leave, " said another voice. 

We may peep behind the green curtain, though Barbara did not. Thatelegant young man with such finished manners--surely he can never be ourold and irrepressible friend Jack? Ay, Jack and no other; more courtly, but as irrepressible as ever. 

"We'll be ready for him!" said Sir Thomas grimly. 

"Amen!" was Jack's contribution, precisely in the treble tones of theparish clerk. The imitation was so perfect that even the grave LordStrange could not suppress a smile. 

"Shall I get thee a company, Jack Enville?"

"Pray do so, my good Lord. I thank your Lordship heartily. "

"Arthur Tremayne is set on going, if it come to hot water--as seemethlike enough. "

"Arthur Tremayne is a milksop, my Lord! I marvel what he means to do. His brains are but addled eggs--all stuffed with Latin and Greek. "

Jack, of course, like the average country gentleman of his time, was aprofound ignoramus. What knowledge had been drilled into him inboyhood, he had since taken pains to forget. He was familiar with thepunctilio of duelling, the code of regulations for fencing, the rules ofathletic sports, and the intricacies of the gaming-table; but anythingwhich he dubbed contemptuously "book-learning, " he considered as farbeneath him as it really was above. 

"He will be as good for the Spaniards to shoot at as any other, "jocularly observed Sir Thomas. 

"Then pray you, let Lysken Barnevelt go!" said Jack soberly. "I warrantyou she'll stand fire, and never so much as ruffle her hair. "

"Well, I heard say Dame Mary Cholmondeley of Vale Royal, that an' themen beat not back the Spaniards, the women should fight them with theirbodkins; wherewith Her Highness was so well pleased that she dubbed thedame a knight then and there. My wife saith, an' it come to that, shewill be colonel of a company of archers of Lancashire. We will haveMistress Barnevelt a lieutenant in her company. "

"My sister Margaret would make a good lieutenant, my Lord, " suggestedJack. "We'll send Aunt Rachel to the front, with a major's commission, and Clare shall be her adjutant. As for Blanche, she may stand behindthe baggage and screech. She is good for nought else, but she'll dothat right well. "

"For shame, lad!" said Sir Thomas, laughing. 

"I heard her yesterday, Sir, --the occasion, a spider but half the sizeof a pin head. "

"What place hast thou for me?" inquired Lady Enville, delicatelyapplying a scented handkerchief to her fastidious hose. 

"My dear Madam!" said Jack, bowing low, "you shall be the trumpeter sentto give challenge unto the Spanish commandant. If he strike not hiscolours in hot haste upon sight of you, then is he no gentleman. "

Lady Enville sat fanning herself in smiling complacency, No flatterycould be too transparent to please her. 

"I pray your Lordship, is any news come touching Sir Richard Grenville, and the plantation which he strave to make in the Queen's Highness'country of Virginia?" asked Sir Thomas. 

Barbara listened again with interest. Sir Richard Grenville was aDevonshire knight, and a kinsman of Sir Arthur Basset. 

"Ay, --Roanoke, he called it, after the Indian name. Why, it did wellbut for a time, and then went to wrack. But I do hear that he purposethfor to go forth yet again, trusting this time to speed better. "

"What good in making plantations in Virginia?" demanded Jack, loftily. "A wild waste, undwelt in save by savages, and many weeks' voyage fromthis country, --what gentleman would ever go to dwell there?"

"May-be, " said Lord Strange thoughtfully, "when the husbandmen thatshall go first have made it somewhat less rough, gentlemen may be foundto go and dwell there. "

"Why, Jack, lad! This country is not all the world, " observed hisfather. 

"'Tis all of it worth anything, Sir, " returned insular Jack. 

"Thy broom sweepeth clean, Jack, " responded Lord Strange. "What, isnought worth in France, nor in Holland, --let be the Emperor's dominions, and Spain, and Italy?"

"They be all foreigners, my Lord. And what better are foreigners thansavages? They be all Papists, to boot. "

"Not in Almayne, Jack, --nor in Holland. "

"Well, they speak no English, " said prejudiced Jack. 

"That is a woeful lack, " gravely replied Lord Strange. "Specially whenyou do consider that English was the tongue that Noah spake afore theflood, and the confusion of tongues at Babel. "

Jack knew just enough to have a dim perception that Lord Strange waslaughing at him. He got out of the difficulty by turning theconversation. 

"Well, thus much say I: let the King of Spain come when he will, andwhere, at every point of the coast there shall be an Englishmanawaiting--and we will drive him home thrice faster than he came at thefirst. "

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. He was fined 10, 000 pounds for contempt of court. What hisreal offences were remains doubtful, beyond the fact that he was aPapist, and had married against the will of the Queen. 

Note 2. The state of the gaols at this time, and for long afterwards, until John Howard effected his reformation of them, was simply horrible. The Black Assize at Exeter was by no means the only instance of itsland. 

Note 3. I stated in _Robin Tremayne_ that I had not been able todiscover the burial-place of Honor Viscountess Lisle. Since that time, owing to the kindness of correspondents, personally unknown to me, Ihave ascertained that she was probably buried at Atherington, with herfirst husband, Sir John Basset. In that church his brass stillremains--a knight between two ladies--the coats of arms plainly showingthat the latter are Anne Dennis of Oxleigh and Honor Granville of Stow. But the Register contains no entry of burial previous to 1570. 

Note 4. In the custody of the (Popish) Bishop of Southwark is a quartovolume, containing, under date of Rome, April 28, 1588, --"An admonitionto the nobility and people of England and Ireland, concerning thepresent warres made _for the execution of His Holiness' sentence_, bythe highe and mightie King Catholicke of Spaine: by the Cardinal ofEngland. " [Cardinal Allen. ]--(Third Report of Royal Commission ofHistorical Manuscripts, page 233). 

CHAPTER FOUR. 

THE INVINCIBLE ARMADA. 

"His power secured thee, when presumptuous Spain Baptised her fleetInvincible in vain; Her gloomy monarch, doubtful and resigned To everypang that racks an anxious mind, Asked of the waves that broke upon hiscoast, `What tidings?'--and the surge replied, --`All lost!'"

_Cowper_. 

King Philip of Spain was coming at last. Every Englishman--ay, andevery woman and child in England--knew that now. 

When Drake returned home from "singeing the Don's whiskers, " he told hisroyal mistress that he believed the Spaniards would attempt seriousinvasion ere long. But Elizabeth then laughed the idea to scorn. 

"They are not so ill-advised. But if they do come"--and Her Majestyadded her favourite oath--"I and my people will send them packing!"

The Queen took measures to prepare her subjects accordingly, whether shethought the invasion likely or not. All the clergy in the kingdom wereordered to "manifest unto their congregations the furious purpose of theSpanish King. " There was abundant tinder ready for this match: for thecommonalty were wider awake to the danger than either Queen or Council. The danger is equal now, and more insidious--from Rome, though not fromSpain--but alas! the commonalty are sleeping. 

Lord Henry Seymour was sent off to guard the seas, and to interceptintercourse between Spain and her Flemish ports. The Earl of Leicesterwas appointed honorary commander-in-chief, with an army of 23, 000 footand 2352 horse, for the defence of the royal person: Lord Hunsdon, with11, 000 foot more, and 15, 000 horse, was sent to keep guard over themetropolis; and Charles Lord Howard of Effingham, Lord High Admiral ofEngland, was appointed to conduct the naval defence. 

It is the popular belief that Lord Howard was a Papist. He certainlywas a Protestant at a later period of his life; and though it isdoubtful whether positive evidence can be found to show his religiousviews at the time of the invasion, yet there is reason to believe thatthe popular idea is supported only by tradition. [See Appendix. ]

Tilbury, on the Thames, was chosen as the rendezvous for the landforces. The Queen removed to Havering, which lay midway between her twoarmies. It was almost, if not quite, the last time that an Englishsovereign ever inhabited the old Saxon palace of Havering-atte-Bower. 

The ground around Tilbury was surveyed, trenches cut, Gravesendfortified, and (taking pattern from Antwerp) a bridge of boats was laidacross the Thames, to stop the passage of the river. Calculations weremade as to the amount requisite to meet the Armada, and five thousandmen, with fifteen ships, were demanded from the city of London. TheLord Mayor asked two days for consideration, and then requested that theQueen would accept ten thousand men and thirty ships. The Dutch cameinto the Thames with sixty sail--generous friends, who forgot inEngland's hour of need that she had, only sixteen years before, refusedeven bread and shelter in her harbours to their "Beggars of the Sea. "Noblemen joined the army and navy as volunteers, and in the ranks therewere no pressed men. There was one heart in all the land, from Berwickto the Lizard. 

Lastly, a prayer was issued, to be used in all churches throughout thekingdom, every Wednesday and Friday. But ecclesiastical dignitarieswere not called upon to write it. The Defender of the Faith herselfdrew up the form, in a plain, decided style, which shows that she couldwrite lucidly when she liked it. This was Elizabeth's prayer. 

"We do instantly beseech Thee of Thy gracious goodness to be merciful tothe Church militant here upon earth, and at this time compassed aboutwith most strong and subtle adversaries. Oh let Thine enemies know thatThou hast received England, which they most of all for Thy Gospel's sakedo malign, into Thine own protection. Set a wall about it, O Lord, andevermore mightily defend it. Let it be a comfort to the afflicted, ahelp to the oppressed, and a defence to Thy Church and people, persecuted abroad. And forasmuch as this cause is new in hand, directand go before our armies both by sea and land. Bless them, and prosperthem, and grant unto them Thine honourable success and victory. Thouart our help and shield. Oh give good and prosperous success to allthose that fight this battle against the enemies of Thy Gospel. "[Strype. ]

So England was ready. 

But Philip was ready too. He also, in his fashion, had been preparinghis subjects for work. Still maintaining an outward appearance offriendship with Elizabeth, he quietly spread among his own people copiesof his pedigree, wherein he represented himself as the true heir to thecrown of England, by descent from his ancestresses Philippa andKatherine of Lancaster: ignoring the facts--that, though the heirgeneral of Katherine, he was not so of her elder sister Philippa; andthat if he had been, the law which would have made these two sistersheiresses presumptive had been altered while they were children. Beyondthis piece of subtlety, Philip allied himself with the Duke of Parma inItaly, and the Duke of Guise [Note 1] in France; the plot being that theDuke of Medina Sidonia, Commander-in-chief of the Armada, was to sailfirst for Flanders, and take his orders from Parma: Guise was to land inthe west of England: some other leader, with 12, 000 men, in Yorkshire:while Philip himself, under shelter of the Armada, was to effect hislanding in Kent or Essex. Ireland was looked upon as certain to revoltand assist. Parma harangued the troops destined to join the invadingforce from Flanders, informing them that the current coin in England wasgold, only the very poorest using silver; the houses were full of money, plate, jewellery, and wealth in all shapes. 

It is well to remember that England was no strange, unexplored land, atleast to the higher officers of the Armada. Philip himself had beenKing of England for four years: the courtiers in his suite had livedthere for months together. Their exclamation on first journeying fromthe coast to Winchester, twenty-three years before, had been that "thepoor of this land dwelt in hovels, and fared like princes!" They hadnot forgotten it now. 

Lord Howard took up his station at Plymouth, whence he purposed tointercept the Armada as it came; Sir Francis Drake was sent to the westwith sixty-five vessels. But time passed on, and no Armada came. TheEnglish grew secure and careless. Many ships left the fleet, somemaking for the Irish coast, some harbouring in Wales. The Queenherself, annoyed at the needless cost, sent word to Lord Howard todisband four of the largest vessels of the royal navy. The Admiraldisobeyed, and paid the expenses out of his own purse. England ought tobless the memory of Charles Howard of Effingham. 

It was almost a shock when--suddenly, at last--Philip's ultimatum came. Spain demanded three points from England: and if her demands were notcomplied with, there was no resource but war. 

1. The Queen must promise to withdraw all aid from the Protestants inthe Netherlands. 

2. She must give back the treasure seized, by Drake the year before. 

3. She must restore the Roman Catholic religion throughout England, asit had been before the Reformation. 

The first and second clauses would have been of little import inElizabeth's eye's, except as they implied her yielding to dictation; thereal sting lay in the last. And the last was the one which Philip wouldbe most loth to yield. With a touch of grim humour, His CatholicMajesty sent his ultimatum in Latin verse. 

The royal lioness of England rose from her throne to return her answer, with a fiery Plantagenet flash in her eyes. She could play at Latinverse quite as well as Philip; rather better, indeed, --for his questionrequired some dozen lines, and one was sufficient for her answer. 

"Ad Graecas, [Note 2] bone Rex, fient mandata kalendas!" was the promptreply of England's Elizabeth. 

Which may be rendered--preserving the fun--

 "Great King, thy command shall be done right soon, On the thirty-first day of the coming June. "

Some knowledge of the terrible magnitude of Philip's preparations isnecessary, in order to see what it was which England escaped in 1588. The Armada consisted of 134 ships, and, reckoning soldiers, sailors, andgalley-slaves, carried about 32, 000 men. [The exact figures are muchdisputed, hardly two accounts being alike. ] The cost of sustenance perday was thirty thousand ducats. The cannon and field-pieces wereunnumbered: the halberts were ten thousand, the muskets seven thousand. Bread, biscuits, and wine, were laid in for six months, with twelvethousand pipes of fresh water. The cargo--among many other items--consisted of whips and knives, for the conversion of the English; anddoubtless Don Martin Alorcon, Vicar-General of the Inquisition, with onehundred monks and Jesuits in his train may be classed under the samehead. Heresy was to be destroyed throughout England: Sir Francis Drakewas singled out for special vengeance. The Queen was to be taken alive, at all costs: she was to be sent prisoner over the Alps to Rome, thereto make her humble petition to the Pope, barefoot and prostrate, thatEngland might be re-admitted to communion with the Holy See. Did Philipimagine that any amount of humiliation or coercion would have wrung suchwords as these from the lips of Elizabeth Tudor?

On the 19th of May, the Invincible Armada, as the Spaniards proudlytermed it, sailed from Lisbon for Corufia. 

The English Fleet lay in the harbour at Plymouth. The Admiral's shipwas the "Ark Royal;" Drake commanded the "Revenge:" the other principalvessels were named the "Lion, " the "Bear, " the "Elizabeth Jonas, " the"Galleon Leicester, " and the "Victory. " They lay still in port waitingfor the first north wind, which did not come until the eighth of July. Then Lord Howard set sail and went southwards for some distance; but thewind changed to the south, the fleet was composed entirely of sailingvessels, and the Admiral was afraid to go too far, lest the Armadashould slip past him in the night, between England and her wooden walls. So he put back to Plymouth. 

If he had only known the state of affairs, he would not have done so. He had been almost within sight of the Armada, which was at that momentbroken and scattered, having met with a terrific storm in the Bay ofBiscay. Eight ships were driven to a distance, three galleys cast awayon the French coast; where the galley-slaves rebelled, headed by a Welshprisoner named David Gwyn. Medina regained Coruna with some difficulty, gathered his shattered vessels, repaired damages, and put to sea againon the eleventh of July. They made haste this time. Eight days' hardrowing brought them within sight of England. 

A blazing sun, and a strong south-west gale, inaugurated the morning ofthe nineteenth of July. The fleet lay peacefully moored in PlymouthSound, all unconscious and unprophetic of what the day was to bringforth: some of the officers engaged in calculating chances of futurebattle, some eagerly debating home politics, some idly playing cards orbackgammon. These last averred that they had nothing to do. They werenot destined to make that complaint much longer. 

At one end of the quarter-deck of Drake's ship, the "Revenge, " was agroup of three young officers, of whom two at least were not much moreprofitably employed than those who were playing cards in the "ArkRoyal. " They were all volunteers, and the eldest of the three was buttwo-and-twenty. One was seated on the deck, leaning back and apparentlydozing; the second stood, less sleepily, but quite as idly, beside him:the last, with folded arms, was gazing out to sea, yet discerningnothing, for his thoughts were evidently elsewhere. The second of thetrio appeared to be in a musical humour, for snatches of different songskept coming from his lips. 

 "`We be three poor mariners, Newly come fro' th' seas: We spend our lives in jeopardy, Whilst others live at ease. '"

"Be we?" laughed the youth who was seated on the deck, half-opening hiseyes. "How much of thy life hast spent in jeopardy, Jack Enville?"

"How much? Did not I once fall into the sea from a rock?--and waswell-nigh drowned ere I could be fished out. More of my life thanthine, Master Robert Basset. "

In something like the sense of Thekla Tremayne's "Poor Jack!" I pauseto say, Poor Robert Basset! He was the eldest son of the deceased SirArthur. He had inherited the impulsive, generous heart, and thesensitive, nervous temperament, of his ancestor Lord Lisle, unchecked bythe accompanying good sense and sober judgment which had balanced thosequalities in the latter. Hot-headed, warm-hearted, liberal toextravagance, fervent to fanaticism, unable to say No to any whom heloved, loving and detesting with passionate intensity, constantlybetrayed into rash acts which he regretted bitterly the next hour, possibly the next minute--this was Robert Basset. Not the samecharacter as Jack Enville, but one just as likely to go to wreckearly, --to dash itself wildly on the breakers, and be broken. 

"Thou art alive enough now, " said Basset. "But how knowest that I neverfell from a rock into the sea?"

Jack answered by a graceful flourish of his hands, and a stave ofanother song. 

 "`There's never a maid in all this town But she knows that malt's come down, - Malt's come down, --malt's come down, From an old angel to a French crown. '"

"I would it were, " said Basset, folding his arms beneath his head. "Iam as dry as a hornblower. "

"That is with blowing of thine own trumpet, " responded Jack. "I say, Tremayne! Give us thy thoughts for a silver penny. "

"Give me the penny first, " answered the meditative officer. 

"Haven't an obolus, " [halfpenny] confessed Jack. 

 "`The cramp is in my purse full sore, No money will bide therein--'"

"Another time, " observed Arthur Tremayne, "chaffer [deal in trade] nottill thou hast wherewith to pay for the goods. "

"I am a gentleman, not a chapman, " [a retail tradesman] said Jack, superciliously. 

"Could a man not be both?"

"'Tis not possible, " returned Jack, with an astonished look. "Howshould a chapman bear coat armour?"

"I reckon, though, he had fathers afore him, " said Basset, with his eyesshut. 

"Nought but common men, " said Jack, with sovereign contempt. 

"And ours were uncommon men--there is all the difference, " retortedBasset. 

"Yours were, in very deed, " said Jack obsequiously. 

This was, in truth, the entire cause of Jack's desire for Basset'sfriendship. The latter, poor fellow! imagined that he was influenced bypersonal regard. 

"Didst think I had forgot it?" replied Basset, smiling. 

"Ah! if I had but thy lineage!" answered Jack. 

"Thine own is good enough, I cast no doubt. And I dare say Tremayne'sis worth something, if we could but win him to open his mouth thereon. "

Jack's look was one of complete incredulity. 

Arthur neither moved nor spoke. 

"Hold thou thy peace, Jack Enville, " said Basset, answering the look, for Jack had not uttered a word. "What should a Lancashire lad know ofthe Tremaynes of Tremayne? I know somewhat thereanent. --Are you not ofthat line?" he asked, turning his head towards Arthur. 

"Ay, the last of the line, " said the latter quietly. 

"I thought so much. Then you must be somewhat akin unto Sir RichardGrenville of Stow?"

"Somewhat--not over near, " answered Arthur, modestly. 

"Forty-seventh cousin, " suggested Jack, not over civilly. 

"And to Courtenay of Powderham, --what?"

"Courtenay!" broke in Jack. "What! he that, but for the attainder, should be Earl of Devon?"

"He, " responded Basset, a little mischievously, "that cometh in a rightline from the Kings of France, and (through women) from the Emperors ofConstantinople. "

"What kin art thou to him?" demanded Jack, surveying his old playmatefrom head to foot, with a sensation of respect which he had never feltfor him before. 

"My father's mother and his mother were sisters, I take it, " saidArthur. 

"Arthur Tremayne, how cometh it I never heard this afore?"

"I cannot tell, Jack: thou didst never set me on recounting of mypedigree, as I remember. "

"But wherefore not tell the same?"

"What matter?" quietly responded Arthur. 

"`What matter'--whether I looked on thee as a mere parson's son, withnought in thine head better than Greek and Latin, or as near kinsman ofone with very purple blood in him, --one that should be well-nigh PremierEarl of England, but for an attainder?"

Arthur passed by the slight offered alike to his father's profession andto the classics, merely replying with a smile, --"I am glad if it givethee pleasure to know it. "

"But tell me, prithee, with such alliance, what on earth caused MasterTremayne to take to parsonry?"

The contempt in which the clergy were held, for more than a hundredyears after this date, was due in all probability to two causes. Thefirst was the natural reaction from the overweening reverence ancientlyfelt for the sacerdotal order: when the _sacerdos_ was found to be but apresbyter, his charm was gone. But the second was the disgrace whichhad been brought upon their profession at large, by the evil lives ofthe old priests. 

"I believe, " said Arthur, gravely, "it was because he accounted thehousehold service of God higher preferment than the nobility of men. "

"Yet surely he knew how men would account of him?"

"I misdoubt if he cared for that, any more than I do, Jack Enville. "

"Nor is thy mother any more than a parson's daughter. "

"My father, and my mother's father, " said Arthur, his eyes flashing, "were all but martyrs; for it was only the death of Queen Mary thatsaved either from the martyr's stake. That is my lineage, JackEnville, --higher than Courtenay of Powderham. "

"Thou must be clean wood, Arthur!" said Jack, laughing. "Why, therewere poor chapmen and sely [simple] serving-maids among them that wereburnt in Queen Mary's days; weavers, bricklayers, and all manner ofcommon folk. There were rare few of any sort. " [Of any consequence. ]

"They be kings now, whatso they were, " answered Arthur. 

"There was a bishop or twain, Jack, if I mistake not, " put in Basset, yawning; "and a Primate of all England, without I dreamed it. "

"Go to, Jack!" pursued Arthur. "I can tell thee of divers craftsmenthat were very common folk--one Peter, a fisherman, and one Paul, atent-maker, and an handful belike--whose names shall ring down all theages, long after men have forgotten that there ever were Courtenays orEnvilles. I set the matter on thine own ground to say this. "

"Stand and deliver, Jack Enville! That last word hath worsted thee, "said Basset. 

"I am not an orator, " returned Jack, loftily. "I am a gentleman. "

"Well, so am I, as I suppose, but I make not such ado thereof as thou, "answered Basset. 

The last word had only just escaped his lips, when Arthur Tremaynestepped suddenly to the side of the vessel. 

"The Don ahead?" inquired Basset, with sleepy sarcasm. 

"I cannot tell what is ahead yet, " said Arthur, concentrating his gazein an easterly direction. "But there is somewhat approaching us. "

"A sea-gull, " was the suggestion of Basset, with shut eyes. 

"Scantly, " said Arthur good-humouredly. 

Half idly, half curiously, jack brought his powers to bear on theapproaching object. Basset was not sufficiently interested to move. 

The object ere long revealed itself as a small vessel, rowing in allhaste, and evidently anxious to reach the fleet without losing an hour. The "Revenge" stood out furthest of all the ships to eastward, and wastherefore likely to receive the little vessel's news before any other. Almost before she came within speaking distance, at Arthur's request, Jack hailed her--that young gentleman being in possession of morestentorian lungs than his friend. 

The captain, who replied, was gifted with vocal powers of an equallyamazing order. He announced his vessel as the "Falcon, " [Note 3]himself as Thomas Fleming; and his news--enough to make every ear in thefleet tingle--that "the Spaniard" had been sighted that morning off theLizard. Arthur darted away that instant in search of Drake: Jack andBasset (both wide awake now) stayed to hear the details, --the latterexcited, the former sceptical. 

"'Tis all but deceiving!" sneered the incredulous Jack. "ThomasFleming! why, who wist not that Thomas Fleming is more pirate thansea-captain, and that the `Falcon' is well enough known for no honestcraft?"

"`Fair and soft go far in a day, '" returned Basset. "What if he be apirate? He is an Englishman. Even a known liar may speak truth. "

"As if the like of him should sight the Spaniard!" retorted Jackmagnificently, "when the whole fleet have scoured the seas in vain!"

"The whole fleet were not scouring the seas at three of the clock thismorrow!" cried Basset, impatiently. "Hold thine idle tongue, and leaveus hear the news. " And he shouted with all the power of hislungs, --"What strength is he of?"

"The strength of the very devil!" Fleming roared back. "Great woodencastles, the Lord wot how many, and coming as fast as a bird flieth. "

"Pish!" said Jack. 

Basset was on the point of shouting another question, when Sir FrancisDrake's voice came, clear and sonorous, from no great distance. 

"What time shall the Don be hither?"

"By to-morrow breaketh, as like as not, " was Fleming's answer. 

"Now, my lads, we have work afore us, " said Sir Francis, addressing hisyoung friends. "Lieutenant Enville, see that all hands know at once, --every man to his post! Tremayne, you shall have the honour to bear thenews to the Lord Admiral: and Basset, you shall fight by my side. Iwould fain promote you all, an' I have the chance; allgates, I give youthe means to win honour, an' you wot how to use them. "

All the young men expressed their acknowledgment--Jack rather fulsomely, Basset and Tremayne in a few quiet words. It was a decided advantage toJack and Arthur to have the chance of distinguishing themselves by "afair field and no favour. " But was it any special preferment for thegreat-grandson of Edward the Fourth? What glory would be added to hisname by "honourable mention" in Lord Howard's despatches, or maybe anadditional grade in naval rank?

Did Robert Basset fail to see that?

By no means. But he was biding his time. The chivalrous generosity, which was one of the legacies of his Plantagenet forefathers, imposedsilence on him for a season. 

Elizabeth Tudor had shown much kindness to her kinsman, Sir ArthurBasset, and while Elizabeth lived, no Basset of Umberleigh would lift ahand against her. But no such halo surrounded her successor--whoeverthat yet doubtful individual might prove to be. So Robert Bassetwaited, and bore his humiliation calmly--all the more calmly for thevery pride of blood that was in him: for no slight, no oppression, nolack of recognition, could make him other than the heir of thePlantagenets. He would be ready when the hour struck. But meanwhile hewas waiting. 

Fleming's news had taken everybody by surprise except one person. Butthat one was the Lord High Admiral. 

Lord Howard quickly gathered his fleet together, and inquired into itscondition. Many of the ships were poorly victualled; munition ran veryshort; not a vessel was to be compared for size with the "great woodencastles" which Fleming had described. The wind was south-west, andblowing hard; the very wind most favourable to the invaders. 

Sir Edward Hoby, brother-in-law of the Admiral, was sent off to theQueen with urgent letters, begging that she would send more aid to thefleet, and put her land forces in immediate readiness, for "theSpaniard" was coming at last, and as fast as the wind could bring him. 

Sir Edward reached Tilbury on the very day chosen by Elizabeth to reviewher land forces. He left the fleet making signals of distress; he foundthe army in triumphant excitement. 

The Queen rode in from Havering on a stately charger--tradition says awhite one--bearing a marshal's staff in her hand, and attired in acostume which was a singular mixture of warrior and woman, --a corslet ofpolished steel over an enormous farthingale. As she came near theoutskirts of her army, she commanded all her retinue to fall back, onlyexcepting Lord Ormonde, who bore the sword of state before her, and thesolitary page who carried her white-plumed helmet. Coming forward tothe front of Leicester's tent--the Earl himself leading her horse, bare-headed--the Queen took up her position, and, with a wave of herwhite-gloved hand for silence, she harangued her army. 

"My loving people, "--thus spoke England's Elizabeth, --"we have beenpersuaded, by some that are careful of our safety, to take heed how wecommit ourself to armed multitudes, for fear of treachery. But I doassure you, I do not desire to live to distrust my faithful and lovingpeople. Let tyrants fear. I have alway so behaved myself, that underGod I have placed my chiefest strength and safeguard in the loyal heartsand good-will of my subjects: and therefore I am come amongst you, asyou see, at this time, not for my recreation and disport, but beingresolved in the midst and heat of the battle to live or die amongst youall, --to lay down, for my God, and for my kingdoms, and for my people, mine honour and my blood even in the dust. I know I have the body of aweak, feeble woman; but I have the heart and stomach of a king, and of aKing of England too; and think foul scorn that Parma, or Spain, or anyprince of Europe, should dare to invade the borders of my realm: towhich, rather than any dishonour should grow by me, I myself will takeup arms, --I myself will be your general, judge, and rewarder of everyone of your virtues in the field. I know already for your forwardnessye have deserved rewards and crowns: and we do assure you, on the wordof a prince, they shall, be duly paid you. For the meantime, myLieutenant General [Leicester] shall be in my stead, than whom neverprince commanded a more noble nor worthy subject. Not doubting but, byyour obedience to my General, by your concord in the camp, and yourvalour in the field, we shall shortly have a famous victory over theseenemies of my God, and of my kingdoms, and of my people. "

We are told that the soldiers responded unanimously--

"Is it possible that any Englishman can abandon such a glorious cause, or refuse to lay down his life in defence of this heroic Princess?"

The sentiment may be authentic, but the expression of it is modern. 

The speech over, Leicester reverently held the gilt stirrup, andElizabeth alighted from her white charger, and went into his pavilion todinner. 

Before the repast was over, Sir Edward Hoby arrived from Lord Howard. He was taken at once to the tent, that the first freshness of his newsmight be for the Queen's own ears. It had taken him three weeks toreach Tilbury from Plymouth. Kneeling before the Queen, he reportedthat he had been sent in all haste to entreat for "more aid sent to thesea, " for Medina was known to be coming, and that quickly. 

"Let him come!" was the general cry of the troops outside. 

"_Buenas horas, Senor_!" said the royal lady within, wishing good speedto her adversary in his own tongue. 

And both meant the same thing, --"We are ready. "

It was England against the world. She had no ally, except the sixtyDutch ships. And except, too, One who was invisible, but whom the windsand the sea obeyed. 

The aid required by Lord Howard came: not from Elizabeth, but fromEngland. Volunteers poured in from every shire, --men in velvet gownsand gold chains, men in frieze jackets and leather jerkins. The"delicate-handed, dilettante" Earl of Oxford; the "Wizard" Earl ofNorthumberland, just come to his title; the eccentric Earl George ofCumberland; Sir Thomas Cecil, elder son of the Lord High TreasurerBurleigh, --weak-headed, but true-hearted; Sir Robert Cecil, his youngerbrother, --strong-headed and false-hearted; and lastly, a host inhimself, Sir Walter Raleigh, whose fine head and, great heart few of hiscontemporaries appreciated at their true value, --and perhaps least ofall the royal lady whom he served. These men came in one by one. 

But the leather jerkins flocked in by hundreds; the men who were of noaccount, whose names nobody cared to preserve, whose deeds nobodythought of recording; yet who, after all, were England, and without whomtheir betters would have made very poor head against the Armada. Theycame, leaving their farms untilled, their forges cold, their axes andhammers still. All that could wait till afterwards. Just now, Englandmust be saved. 

From all the coast around, provisions were sent in, both of food andmunition: here a stand of arms from the squire's armoury, there a batchof new bread from the yeoman's farm: those who could send but a chickenor a cabbage did not hold them back; there were some who had nothing togive but themselves--and that they gave. Every atom was accepted: theyall counted for something in the little isle's struggle to keep free. 

It is the little things, after all, of which great things are made. Notonly the men who lined the decks of the "Ark Royal, " but the womenashore who baked their bread, and the children who gathered wood in theforest for the ovens, were helping to save England. 

Even some Recusants--which meant Romanists--came in with offerings offood, arms, and service: men who, in being Romanists, had not forgottenthat they were Englishmen. 

About noon on the twentieth of July, the Armada was first sighted fromPlymouth. She was supposed at first to be making direct, for that town. But she passed it, and bore on eastward. It was evident now that shemeant to make for the Channel, --probably meant to use as a basis ofoperations, Calais--England's own Calais, for the loss of which herheart was sore yet. 

Lord Howard followed as closely as was consistent with policy. And nowappeared the disadvantage of the immense vessels which formed the bulkof the Armada. The English ships, being smaller, were quicker; theycould glide in and out with ease, where the "great wooden castles" foundbare standing-room. Before the Armada could reach Calais Roads, earlyon the 21st of July, Lord Howard was upon her. 

When she saw her pursuers, she spread forth in a crescent form, in whichshe was seven miles in length. Trumpets were sounded, drums beaten--everything was done to strike terror into the little English fleet. 

"_Santiago de Compostella_!" was the cry from the Armada. 

"God and Saint George for merry England!" came back from the "ArkRoyal. "

Both navies struggled hard to get to windward. But the Spanish shipswere too slow and heavy. The English won the coveted position. The"Revenge" was posted as light-bearer, for night was coming on, and the"Ark Royal, " followed by the rest of the fleet, dashed into the midst ofthe Armada. 

Sir Francis Drake made a terrible blunder. Instead of keeping to thesimple duty allotted to him, he went off after five large vessels, whichhe saw standing apart, and gave them chase for some distance. Findingthem innocent Easterlings, or merchantmen of the Hanse Towns, he ranhastily back, to discover that in his absence Lord Howard had mostnarrowly escaped capture, having mistaken the Spanish light for theEnglish. 

"'Tis beyond any living patience!" cried Robert Basset fierily to ArthurTremayne. "Here all we might have hit some good hard blows at theSpaniard, and to be set to chase a covey of miserable Easterlings!"

"'Twas a misfortunate blunder, " responded Arthur more quietly. 

After two hours' hard fighting, the Admiral, finding his vessels toomuch scattered, called them together, tacked, and lay at anchor untilmorning. It certainly was enough to disappoint men who were longing for"good hard blows, " when the "Revenge" rejoined the fleet only just intime to hear the order for retreat. Fresh reinforcements came in duringthe night. When day broke on the 22nd, Lord Howard divided his fleetinto four squadrons. He himself commanded the first, Drake the second, Hawkins the third, and Frobisher the fourth. The wind was now north. 

The Armada went slowly forward; and except for the capture of one largeVenetian ship, nothing was done until the 25th. Then came a calm, favourable to the Spaniards, who were rowing, while the English trustedto their sails. When the Armada came opposite the Isle of Wight, LordHoward again gave battle. 

This time the "Revenge" was engaged, and in the van. While the battlewent on, none knew who might be falling: but when the fleet was at lastcalled to anchor--after a terrible encounter--Basset and Tremayne metand clasped hands in congratulation. 

"Where is Enville?" asked the former. 

Arthur had seen nothing of him. Had he fallen?

The day passed on--account was taken of the officers and crew--butnothing was to be heard of Jack Enville. 

About half an hour later, Arthur, who had considerably distinguishedhimself in the engagement, was resting on deck, looking rather sadly outto sea, and thinking of Jack, when Basset came up to him, evidentlystruggling to suppress laughter. 

"Prithee, Tremayne, come below with me one minute. "

Arthur complied, and Basset led him to the little cabin which the threeyoung officers occupied together. 

"Behold!" said Basset grandiloquently, with a flourish of his handtowards the berths. "Behold, I beseech you, him that hath alone routedthe Spaniard, swept the seas, saved England, and covered him with glory!He it is whose name shall live in the chronicles of the time! He shallhave a statue--of gingerbread--in the court of Her Majesty's Palace ofWestminster, and his name shall be set up--wrought in white goosefeathers--on the forefront of Paul's! Hail to the valiant andunconquerable Jack Enville, the deliverer of England from Pope andSpaniard!"

To the great astonishment of Arthur, there lay the valiant Jack, rolledin a blanket, apparently very much at his ease: but when Basset'speroration was drawing to a close, he unrolled himself, looking ratherred in the face, and returned to ordinary life by standing on the floorin full uniform. 

"Hold thy blatant tongue for an ass as thou art!" was his civil reply toBasset's lyric on his valour. "If I did meet a wound in the first flushof the fray, and came down hither to tend the same, what blame lieththerein?"

"Wert thou wounded, Jack?" asked Arthur. 

"Too modest belike to show it, " observed Basset. "Where is it, trow?Is thy boot-toe abrased, or hast had five hairs o' thine head carriedaway?"

"'Tis in my left wrist, " said Jack, replying to Arthur, not Basset. 

"Prithee, allow us to feast our eyes on so glorious a sign of thyvaliantness!" said Basset. 

Jack was extremely reluctant to show his boasted wound; but beingpressed to do so by both his friends (from different motives) heexhibited something which looked like a severe scratch from a cat. 

"Why, 'tis not much!" said Arthur, who could have shown several worseindications of battle on himself, which he had not thought worth notice. 

"Oh, is it not?" muttered Jack morosely. "I can tell thee, 'tis assore--"

"Nay, now, wound not yet again the great soul of the hero!" put inBasset with grim irony. "If he lie abed i' th' day for a wound to hiswrist, what shall he do for a stab to his feelings? You shall drive himto drown him in salt water; and that were cruelty unheard-of, for itshould make his eyes smart. I tell thee what, Jack Enville--there is_one_ ass aboard the fleet, and his name is neither Arthur Tremaynenor--saving your presence--Robin Basset. Farewell! I go to win alaurel crown from Sir Francis by bearing news unto him of thy heroicaldeeds. "

And away marched Basset, much to the relief of Jack. 

The encounter of that day had been fearful. But when Lord Howard drewoff to recruit himself, the Armada gathered her forces together, wentforward, and cast anchor on the 27th in Calais Roads. 

Here fresh orders reached her from Parma. Instead of skirmishing in theChannel, she was to assume the offensive at once. Within three daysMedina must land in England. King Philip appears to have resigned hisoriginal intention of making the attack in person. 

The Armada prepared for the final struggle. The young gentlemen onboard meantime amused themselves by shouting sundry derisive songs, oneof which was specially chosen when the "Revenge" was sufficiently nearto be aggrieved by it: and Arthur, who had learned enough Spanish fromhis mother to act as translator, rendered the ditty into plain Englishprose for the benefit of Jack and Basset. The former received it withlofty scorn, --the latter with fiery vaticinations concerning hisintentions when the ships should meet: and looking at the figure-head ofthe nearest vessel whence the song was shouted, he singled out "LaDolorida" for his special vengeance. A translation of the lyric inquestion is appended. [Note 4. ] The speaker, it will be seen, issupposed to be a young Spanish lady. 

 "My brother Don John To England is gone, To kill the Drake, And the Queen to take, And the heretics all to destroy; And he has promised To bring to me A Lutheran boy With a chain round his neck: And Grandmamma From his share shall have A Lutheran maid To be her slave. "

The prospect was agreeable. One thing was plain--that "the Don" hadacquired a wholesome fear of "the Drake. "

Sunday was the 28th: and on that morning it became evident that Medinameant mischief. The seven-mile crescent was slowly, but surely, closingin round Dover. The Spaniard was about to land. Lord Howard called acouncil of war: and a hasty resolution was taken. Eight gunboats werecleared out; their holds filled with combustible matter; they were seton fire, and sent into the advancing Armada. The terror of theSpaniards was immense. They fancied it Greek fire, such as had wroughtfearful havoc among them at the siege of Antwerp. With shrieks of "Thefire of Antwerp!--The fire of Antwerp!"--the Armada fell into disorder, and the vessels dispersed on all sides in the wildest confusion. LordHoward followed in chase of Medina. 

Even yet the Armada might have rallied and renewed the attack. But nowthe wind began to blow violently from the south. The galleys could makeno head against it. Row as they would, they were hurried northward, theEnglish giving chase hotly. The Spanish ships were driven hither andthither, pursued alike by the winds and the foe. One of the largestgalleons ran ashore at Calais--from which the spoil taken was fiftythousand ducats--one at Ostend, several in different parts of Holland. Don Antonio de Matigues escaped from the one which ran aground atCalais, and carried back to Philip, like the messengers of Job, the newsthat he only had escaped to tell the total loss of the InvincibleArmada. But the loss was not quite so complete. Medina was stilldriving northward before the gale, with many of his vessels, chased bythe "Ark Royal" and her subordinates. He tried hard to cast anchor atGravelines; but Lord Howard forced him away. Past Dunquerque ran theshattered Armada, with her foe in hot pursuit. There was one dangerleft, and until that peril was past, Lord Howard would not turn back. If Medina had succeeded in landing in Scotland, --which the Admiral fullyexpected him to attempt--the numerous Romanists left in that country, and the "Queensmen, " the partisans of the beheaded Queen, would havereceived him with open arms. This would have rendered the young King's[James the Sixth, of Scotland] tenure of power very uncertain, and mightnot improbably have ended in an invasion of the border by aScoto-Spanish army. But Lord Howard did not know that no thought ofvictory now animated Medina. The one faint hope within him was to reachhome. 

Internal dissensions were now added to the outward troubles of theSpaniards. Seven hundred English prisoners banded themselves undercommand of Sir William Stanley, and turned upon their gaolers. TheArmada spread her sails, and let herself drive faster still. Northwards, ever northwards! It was the only way left open to Spain. 

For four days the "Ark Royal" kept chase of the miserable relics of thisonce-grand Armada. When the Orkneys were safely passed, Lord Howarddrew off, leaving scouts to follow Medina, and report where he went. Ifhe had gone on for two days longer, he would not have had a charge ofpowder left. 

Five thousand Spaniards had been killed; a much larger number laywounded or ill; twelve of the most important ships were lost; provisionsfailed them; the fresh water was nearly all spent. One of the galleonsran aground at Fair Isle, in the Shetlands, where relics are still kept, and the dark complexions of the natives show traces of Spanish blood. The "Florida" was wrecked on the coast of Morven--where her shatteredhulk lies yet. Medina made his way between the Faroe Isles and Iceland, fled out to the high seas, and toiled past Ireland home. The rest ofthe fleet tried to reach Cape Clear. Forty-one were lost off the coastof Ireland: many driven by the strong west wind into the EnglishChannel, where they were taken, some by the English, some by theRochellois: a few gained Neubourg in Normandy. Out of 134 ships, aboveeighty were total wrecks. 

So ended the Invincible Armada. 

England fought well. But it was not England who was the conqueror, [Note 5] but the south wind and the west wind of God. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. This was the same Duke of Guise who took an active part in theMassacre of Saint Bartholomew. He was assassinated at Blois, December23, 1588--less than six months after the invasion of the Armada. 

Note 2. The Greeks did not reckon by kalends. The Romans, who did, when they meant to refuse a request good-humouredly, said jokingly thatit should be granted "in the Greek kalends. "

Note 3. The name of Fleming's vessel does not appear. 

Note 4. I am not responsible for this translation, nor have I met withthe original. 

Note 5. No one was more thoroughly persuaded of this than Elizabethherself. Thirteen years afterwards, at the opening of her lastParliament, the Speaker thought proper to remark that England had beendefended from all dangers that had attacked her by "the mighty arm ofour dread and sacred Queen. " An unexpected voice from the thronerebuked him. "No, Mr Speaker: by the mighty hand of God. "

CHAPTER FIVE. 

THE WRECK OF THE "DOLORIDA. "

 "And therefore unto this poor child of Eve The thing forbidden was the one thing wanting, Without which all the rest were dust and ashes. "

"Heardst ever the like of the gale this night, Barbara?" asked Blanche, as she stood twisting up her hair before the mirror, one morning towardsthe close of August. 

"'Twas a cruel rough night, in sooth, " was the answer. "Yet the wind iswesterly. God help the poor souls that were on the sea this night!They must have lacked the same. "

"'Twas ill for the Spaniard, I reckon, " said Blanche lightly. 

"'Twas ill for life, Mistress Blanche, " returned Barbara, gravely. "There be English on the wild waters, beside Spaniards. The Lord avertevil from them!"

"Nay, I go not about to pray that ill be avoided from those companions, "retorted Blanche in scorn. "They may drown, every man of them, foraught I care. "

"They be some woman's childre, every man, " was Barbara's reply. 

"O Blanche!" interposed Clare, reproachfully. "Do but think of theirchildre at home: and the poor mothers that are watching in the villagesof Spain for their lads to come back to them! How canst thou wish themhurt?"

"How touching a picture!" said Blanche in the same tone. 

"In very deed, I would not by my good-will do them none ill, " respondedBarbara; "I would but pray and endeavour myself that they should do noneill to me. "

"How should they do thee ill, an' they were drowned?" laughed Blanche. 

The girl was not speaking her real sentiments. She was neither cruelnor flinty-hearted, but was arguing and opposing, as she often did, sheerly from a spirit of contradiction, and a desire to astonish herlittle world; Blanche's vanity was of the Erostratus character. Whileshe longed to be liked and admired, she would have preferred that peopleshould think her disagreeable, rather than not think of her at all. 

"But, Blanche, " deprecated Clare, who did not enter into thispeculiarity of her sister, "do but fancy, if one of these very men didseek thy gate, all wet and weary and hungered, and it might be maimed inthe storm, without so much as one penny in his pocket for to buy himfire and meat--thou wouldst not shut the door in his face?"

"Nay, truly, for I would take a stout cudgel and drive him thence. "

"O Blanche!"

"O Clare!" said Blanche mockingly. 

"I could never do no such a thing, " added Clare, in a low tone. 

"What, thou wouldst lodge and feed him?"

"Most surely. "

"Then shouldst thou harbour the Queen's enemy. "

"I should harbour mine own enemy, " said Clare. "And thou wist who badeus, `If thine enemy hunger, feed him. '"

"Our Lord said that to His disciples. "

"And are not we His disciples?"

"Gramercy, maiden! Peter, and John, and Andrew, and the like. 'Twasnever meant for folk in these days?"

"Marry La'kin! What say you, Mistress Blanche?--that God's Word was notmeant for folk now o' days?"

"Oh ay, --some portion thereof. "

"Well-a-day! what will this world come to? I was used to hear say, inQueen Mary's days, that the great Council to London were busy undoingwhat had been done in King Harry's and King Edward's time: but I ne'erheard that the Lord had ta'en His Word in pieces, and laid up an handfulthereof as done withal. "

"Barbara, thou hast the strangest sayings!"

"I cry you mercy, Mistress mine, --'tis you that speak strangely. "

"Come hither, and help me set this edge of pearl. Prithee, let suchgear a-be. We be no doctors of the schools, thou nor I. "

"We have souls to be saved, Mistress Blanche. "

"Very well: and we have heads to be dressed likewise. Tell me if thiscap sit well behind; I am but ill pleased withal. "

Heavy rapid steps came down the corridor, and with a hasty knock, Jennetput her head in at the door. 

"Mrs Blanche! Mrs Clare! If you 'll none miss th' biggest sight everyou saw, make haste and busk [dress] you, and come down to hall. There's th' biggest ship ever were i' these parts drove ashore o' PennyBank. Th' Master, and Dick, and Sim, and Abel 's all gone down to th'shore, long sin'. "

"What manner of ship, Jennet?" asked both the girls at once. 

"I'm none fur learnt i' ships, " said Jennet, shaking her head. "Simsaid 'twere a Spaniard, and Dick said 'twere an Englishman; and Abelbade 'em both hold their peace for a pair o' gaumless [stupid] noodles. "

"But what saith my father?" cried excited Blanche, who had forgotten allabout the fit of her cap. 

"Eh, bless you!--he's no noodle: Why, he said he'd see 't afore he toldanybody what 't were. "

"Barbara, be quick, dear heart, an' thou lovest me. Let the cap be;only set my ruff. --Jennet! can we see it hence?"

"You'll see 't off th' end o' th' terrace, right plain afore ye, " saidJennet, and summarily departed. 

There was no loitering after that. In a very few minutes the two girlswere dressed, Blanche's ruff being satisfactory in a shorter time thanBarbara could ever remember it before. Clare stayed for her prayers, but Blanche dashed off without them, and made her way to the end of theterrace, where her sister presently joined her. 

"She is a Spaniard!" cried Blanche, in high excitement. "Do but look onher build, Clare. She is not English-built, as sure as this is Veniceribbon. "

Clare disclaimed, with a clear conscience, all acquaintance withshipbuilding, and declined even to hazard a guess as to the nationalityof the ill-fated vessel. But Blanche was one of those who must be (orseem to be; either will do) conversant with every subject underdiscussion. So she chattered on, making as many blunders as assertions, until at last, just at the close of a particularly absurd mistake, sheheard a loud laugh behind her. 

"Well done, Blanche!" said her father's voice. "I will get thee a ship, my lass. Thou art as fit to be a sea-captain, and come through a stormin the Bay of Biscay, as--thy popinjay. " [Parrot. ]

"O Father, be there men aboard yonder ship?" said Clare, earnestly. 

"Ay, my lass, " he replied, more gravely. "An hundred and seventysouls--there were, last night, Clare. "

"And what?"--Clare's face finished the question. 

"There be nine come ashore, " he added in the same tone. 

"And the rest, Father?" asked Clare piteously. 

"Drowned, my lass, every soul, in last night's storm. "

"O Father, Father!" cried Clare's tender heart. 

"Good lack!" said Blanche. "Is she English, Father?"

"The Dolorida, of Cales, [Cadiz] my maid. "

"Spanish!" exclaimed Blanche, her excitement returning. "And what bethese nine men, Father?"

"There be two of them poor galley-slaves; two sailors; and foursoldiers, of the common sort. No officers; but one young gentleman, ofa good house in Spain, that was come abroad for his diversion, and tosee the sight. "

"Who is this gentleman, Father?--What manner of man is he?"

Sir Thomas was a little amused by the eagerness of his daughter'squestions. 

"His name is Don John de Las Rojas, [a fictitious person] MistressBlanche, --of a great house and ancient, as he saith, in Andalusia: andas to what manner of man, --why, he hath two ears, and two eyes, and onenose, and I wis not how many teeth--"

"Now prithee, Father, mock me not! Where is her--"

"What shouldest say, were I to answer, In a chamber of Enville Court?"

"Here, Father?--verily, here? Shall I see him?"

"That hangeth on whether thine eyes be shut or open. Thou must tarrytill he is at ease. "

"At ease!--what aileth him?"

Sir Thomas laughed. "Dost think coming through a storm at sea as smallmatter as coming through a gate on land? He hath 'scaped rarely well;there is little ails him save a broken arm, and a dozen or so of hardbruises; but I reckon a day or twain will pass ere it shall be to hisconveniency to appear in thy royal presence, my Lady Blanche. "

"But what chamber hath he?--and who is with him?--Do tell me allthereabout. "

"Verily, curiosity is great part of Eve's legacy to her daughters. Well, an' thou must needs know, he is in the blue chamber; and thineaunt and Jennet be with him; and I have sent Abel to Bispham after theleech. [Doctor. ] What more, an't like the Lady Blanche?"

"Oh, what like is he?--and how old?--and is he well-favoured?--and--"

"Nay, let me have them by threes at the most. He is like a young manwith black hair and a right wan face. --How old? Well, I would guess, an' he were English, something over twenty years; but being Spanish, belike he is younger than so. --Well-favoured? That a man should lookwell-favoured, my Lady Blanche, but now come off a shipwreck, and hisarm brake, and after fasting some forty hours, --methinks he should be arare goodly one. Maybe a week's dieting and good rest shall better hisbeauty. "

"Hath he any English?"

"But a little, and that somewhat droll: yet enough to make one conceivehis wants. His father and mother both, he told me, were of the Courtwhen King Philip dwelt here, and they have learned him some English forthis his journey. "

"Doth his father live?"

"Woe worth the day! I asked him not. I knew not your Grace shoulddesire to wit it. "

"And his mother? Hath he sisters?"

"Good lack! ask at him when thou seest him. Alack, poor lad!--his workis cut out, I see. "

"But you have not told me what shall come of them. "

"I told thee not! I have been answering thy questions thicker than anyblackberries. My tongue fair acheth; I spake not so much this weekpast. "

"How do you mock me, Father!"

"I will be sad as a dumpling, my lass. I reckon, Mistress, all theyshall be sent up to London unto the Council, without there come commandthat the justices shall deal with them. "

"And what shall be done to them?"

"Marry, an' I had my way, they should be well whipped all round, andpacked off to Spain. Only the galley-slaves, poor lads!--they could nothelp themselves. "

"Here 's the leech come, Master, " said Jennet, behind them. 

Sir Thomas hastened back into the house, and the two sisters followedmore slowly. 

"Oh, behold Aunt Rachel!" said Blanche. "She will tell us somewhat. "

Now, only on the previous evening, Rachel had been asserting, in herstrongest and sternest manner, that nothing, --no, nothing on earth!--should ever make her harbour a Spaniard. They were one and all "evilcompanions;" they were wicked Papists; they were perturbators of thepeace of our Sovereign Lady the Queen; hanging was a luxury beyond theirdeserts. It might therefore have been reasonably expected that Rachel, when called upon to serve one of these very obnoxious persons, wouldscornfully refuse assistance, and retire to her own chamber in thecapacity of an outraged Briton. But Rachel, when she spoke in this way, spoke in the abstract, with a want of realisation. When theobjectionable specimen of the obnoxious mass lifted a pair of sufferinghuman eyes to her face, the ice thawed in a surprisingly sudden mannerfrom the surface of her flinty heart, and the set lips relaxed into anastonishingly pitying expression. 

Blanche, outwardly decorous, but with her eyes full of mischief, walkedup to Rachel, and desired to know how it fared with the Spanishgentleman. 

"Poor lad! he is in woeful case!" answered the representative of theenraged British Lion. "What with soul and body, he must have bornewell-nigh the pangs of martyrdom this night. 'Tis enough to make one'sheart bleed but to look on him. And to hear him moan to himself of hismother, poor heart! when he thinks him alone--at least thus I take hiswords: I would, rather than forty shillings, she were nigh to tend him. "

From which speech it will be seen that when Rachel did "turn coat, " sheturned it inside out entirely. 

"Good lack, Aunt Rachel! what is he but an evil companion?" demandedirreverent Blanche, with her usual want of respect for the opinions ofher elders. 

"If he were the worsest companion on earth, child, yet the lad may lackhis wounds dressed, " said Rachel, indignantly. 

"And a Papist!"

"So much the rather should we show him the betterness of our Protestantfaith, by Christian-wise tending of him. "

"And an enemy!" pursued Blanche, proceeding with the list. 

"Hold thy peace, maid! Be we not bidden in God's Word to do good untoour enemies?"

"And a perturbator of the Queen's peace, Aunt Rachel!"

"This young lad hath not much perturbed the Queen's peace, I warrant, "said Rachel, uneasily, --a dim apprehension of her niece's intentionscrossing her mind at last. 

"Nay, but hanging is far too good for him!" argued Blanche, quoting thefinal item. 

"Thou idle prating hussy!" cried Rachel, turning hastily round to faceher, --vexed, and yet laughing. "And if I have said such things in mineheat, what call hast thou to throw them about mine ears? Go get theeabout thy business. "

"I have no business, at this present, Aunt Rachel. "

"Lack-a-daisy! that a cousin [then used in the general sense ofrelative] of mine should say such a word! No business, when a barrelfulof wool waiteth the carding, and there is many a yard of flax, to bespun, and cordial waters to distil, and a full set of shirts to make forthy father, and Jack's gown to guard [trim] anew with lace, and thymother's new stomacher--"

"Oh, mercy, Aunt Rachel!" cried lazy Blanche, putting her hands over herears. 

But Mistress Rachel was merciless--towards Blanche. 

"No business, quotha!" resumed that astonished lady. "And Margaret'swinter's gown should, have been cut down ere now into a kirtle, andLucrece lacketh both a hood and a napron, and thine own partlets havenot yet so much as the first stitch set in them. No business! Prithee, stand out of my way, Madam Idlesse, for I have no time to spend intwirling of my thumbs. And when thou find thy partlets rags, burden notme withal. No business, by my troth!"

Muttering which, Rachel stalked away, while Blanche, instead of fetchingneedle and thread, and setting to work on her new ruffs, fled into thegarden, and ensconcing herself at the foot of the ash-tree, gazed up atthe windows of the blue chamber, and erected magnificent castles in theair. Meanwhile, Clare, who had heard Rachel's list of things waiting tobe done, and had just finished setting the lace upon Jack's gown, quietly possessed herself of a piece of fine lawn, measured off theproper length, and was far advanced in one of Blanche's neglected ruffsbefore that young lady sauntered in, when summoned by thebreakfast-bell. 

The leech thought well of the young Spaniard's case. The broken arm wasnot a severe fracture--"right easy to heal, " said he in a ratherdisappointed manner; the bruises were nothing but what would disappearwith time and one of Rachel's herbal lotions. In a few weeks, the youngman might expect to be fully recovered. And until that happened, saidSir Thomas, he should remain at Enville Court. 

But the other survivors of the shipwreck did not come off so easily. Onthe day after it, one of the soldiers and one of the galley-slaves died. The remaining galley-slave, a Moorish prisoner, very grave and silent, and speaking little Spanish; the two sailors, of whom one was anItalian; and one of the soldiers, were quartered in the glebe barn--therest in one of Sir Thomas Enville's barns. Two of the soldiers werePyrenees men, and spoke French. All of them, except the Moor and theItalian, were possessed by abject terror, expecting to be immediatelykilled, if not eaten. The Italian, who was no stranger to Englishpeople, and into whose versatile mind nothing sank deep, was the onlyblithe and cheerful man in the group. The Moor kept his feelings andopinions to himself. But the others could utter nothing butlamentations, "_Ay de mi_!" [alas for me] and "_Soy muerto_!"[literally, "I am dead"--a common lamentation in Spain. ] with mournfulvaticinations that their last hour was at hand, and that they wouldnever see Spain again. Sir Thomas Enville could just manage to makehimself understood by the Italian, and Mr Tremayne by the twoPyreneans. No one else at Enville Court spoke any language but English. But Mrs Rose, a Spanish lady's daughter, who had been accustomed tospeak Spanish for the first twenty years of her life; and Mrs Tremayne, who had learned it from her; and Lysken Barnevelt, who had spoken it inher childhood, and had kept herself in practice with Mrs Rose's help--these three went in and out among the prisoners, interpreted for thedoctor, dressed the wounds, cheered the down-hearted men, and at lastpersuaded them that Englishmen were not cannibals, and that it was notcertain they would all be hung immediately. 

There was one person at Enville Court who would have given much to be afourth in the band of helpers. Clare was strongly disposed to envy herfriend Lysken, and to chafe against the bonds of conventionalism whichbound her own actions. She longed to be of some use in the world; totill some corner of the vineyard marked out specially for her; to findsome one for whom, or something for which she was really wanted. Ofcourse, making and mending, carding and spinning, distilling andpreserving, were all of use: somebody must do them. But somebody, inthis case, meant anybody. It was not Clare who was necessary. AndLysken, thought Clare, had deeper and higher work. She had to deal withhuman hearts, while Clare dealt only with woollen and linen. Was thereno possibility that some other person could see to the woollen andlinen, and that Clare might be permitted to work with Lysken, and helpthe human hearts as well?

But Clare forgot one essential point--that a special training is neededfor work of this kind. Cut a piece of cambric wrongly, and after allyou do but lose the cambric: but deal wrongly with a human heart, andterrible mischief may ensue. And this special training Lysken hadreceived, and Clare had never had. Early privation and sorrow had beenLysken's lesson-book. 

Clare found no sympathy in her aspirations. She had once timidlyventured a few words, and discovered quickly that she would meet with nohelp at home. Lady Enville was shocked at such notions; they were bothunmaidenly and communistic: had Clare no sense of what was becoming in aknight's step-daughter? Of course Lysken Barnevelt was nobody; it didnot matter what she did. Rachel bade her be thankful that she was sowell guarded from this evil world, which was full of men, and that wasanother term for wild beasts and venomous serpents. Margaret could notimagine what Clare wanted; was there not enough to do at home? Lucrecewas demurely thankful to Providence that she was content with herstation and circumstances. Blanche was half amused, and half disgusted, at the idea of having anything to do with those dirty stupid people. 

So Clare quietly locked up her little day-dream in her own heart, andwished vainly that she had been a clergyman's daughter. Before her eyesthere rose a sunny vision of imaginary life at the parsonage, with Mrand Mrs Tremayne for her parents, Arthur and Lysken for her brother andsister, and the whole village for her family. The story never got farenough for any of them to marry; in fact, that would have spoilt it. Beyond the one change of place, there were to be no further changes. Nogoing away; no growing old; "no cares to break the still repose, " exceptthose of the villagers, who were to be petted and soothed and helpedinto being all good and happy. Beyond that point, Clare's dream did notgo. 

Let her dream on a little longer, --poor Clare! She was destined to berudely awakened before long. 

CHAPTER SIX. 

COSITAS DE ESPANA. 

 "On earth no word is said, I ween, But's registered in Heaven: What's here a jest, is there a sin Which may never be forgiven. "

Blanche Enville sat on the terrace, on a warm September afternoon, witha half-finished square of wool-work in her hand, into which she wasputting a few stitches every now and then. She chose to imagine herselfhard at work; but it would have fatigued nobody to count the number ofrows which she had accomplished since she came upon the terrace. Thework which Blanche was really attending to was the staple occupation ofher life, --building castles in the air. At various times she had playedall manner of parts, from a captive queen, a persecuted princess, or aduchess in disguise, down to a fisherman's daughter saving a vessel indanger by the light in her cottage window. No one who knows how toerect the elegant edifices above referred to, will require to be toldthat whatever might be her temporary position, Blanche always acquittedherself to perfection: and that any of the airy _dramatis personae_ whofailed to detect her consummate superiority was either compassionatelyundeceived, or summarily crushed, at the close of the drama. 

Are not these fantasies one of the many indications that all alonglife's pathway, the old serpent is ever whispering to us his firstlie, --"Ye shall be as gods?"

At the close of a particularly sensational scene, when Blanche had justsucceeded in escaping from a convent prison wherein the wicked. Queenher sister had confined her, the idea suddenly flashed upon theoppressed Princess that Aunt Rachel would hardly be satisfied with thestate of the kettle-holder; and coming down in an instant from air toearth, she determinately and compunctiously set to work again. Thesecond row of stitches was growing under her hands when, by that subtlepsychological process which makes us aware of the presence of anotherperson, though we may have heard and seen nothing, Blanche becameconscious that she was no longer alone. She looked up quickly, into theface of a stranger; but no great penetration was needed to guess thatthe young man before her was the shipwrecked Spaniard. 

Blanche's first idea on seeing him, was a feeling of wonder that herfather should have thought him otherwise than "well-favoured. " He washandsome enough, she thought, to be the hero of any number of dramas. 

The worthy Knight's ideas as to beauty by no means coincided with thoseof his daughter. Sir Thomas thought that to look well, a man must notbe--to use his own phrase--"lass-like and finnicking. " It was all verywell for a woman to have a soft voice, a pretty face, or a gracefulmien: but let a man be tall, stout, well-developed, and tolerably rough. So that the finely arched eyebrows, the languishing liquid eyes, thesoft delicate features, and the black silky moustache, which were thecharacteristics of Don Juan's face, found no favour with Sir Thomas, butwere absolute perfection in the captivated eyes of Blanche. When thosedark eyes looked admiringly at her, she could see no fault in them; andwhen a voice addressed her in flattering terms, she could readily enoughoverlook wrong accents and foreign idioms. 

"Most beautiful lady!" said Don Juan, addressing himself to Blanche, andtranslating literally into English the usual style of his native land. 

The epithet gave Blanche a little thrill of delight. No one--except themythical inhabitants of the airy castles--had ever spoken to her in thismanner before. And undoubtedly there was a zest in the living voice ofanother human being, which was unfortunately lacking in the denizens ofFairy Land. Blanche had never sunk so low in her own opinion as she didwhen she tried to frame an answer. She was utterly at a loss for words. Instead of the exquisitely appropriate language which would have risento her lips at once if she had not addressed a human being, she couldonly manage to stammer out, in most prosaic fashion, a hope that he wasbetter. But her consciousness of inferiority deepened, when Don Juanreplied promptly, with a low bow, and the application of his left handto the place where his heart was supposed to be, that the sight of herface had effected a full and immediate cure of all his ills. 

Oh, for knowledge what to say to him, with due grace and effect! Whywas she not born a Spanish lady? And what would he think of her, withsuch plebeian work as this in her hand! "How he must despise me!"thought silly Blanche. "Why, I have not even a fan to flutter. "

Don Juan was quite at his ease. Shyness and timidity were evidently notin the list of his failings. 

"I think me fortunate, fair lady, " sighed he, with another bow, "thatthis the misfortune me has made acquainted with your Grace. In mycountry, we say to the ladies; Grant me the soles of your foots. Buthere the gentlemen humble not themselves so low. I beseech your Grace, therefore, the favour to kiss you the hand. "

Blanche wondered if all Spanish ladies were addressed as "your Grace. "[Note 1. ] How delightful! She held out her hand like a queen, and DonJuan paid his homage. 

"Your Grace see me much happinessed. When I am again in my Andalusia, Icount it the gloriousest hour of my life that I see your sweet countryand the beautifullest of his ladies. "

How far either Don Juan or Blanche might ultimately have gone in makingthemselves ridiculous cannot be stated, because at this momentMargaret--prosaic, literal Margaret--appeared on the terrace. 

"Blanche! Aunt Rachel seeketh thee. --Your servant, Master! I trust youare now well amended?"

Don Juan was a very quick reader of character. He instantly realisedthe difference between the sisters, and replied to Margaret's inquiry ina calm matter-of-fact style. Blanche moved slowly away. She felt as ifshe were leaving the sunshine behind her. 

"Well, of all the lazy jades!" was Rachel's deserved greeting. "Threerows and an half, betwixt twelve of the clock and four! Why, 'tis not afull row for the hour! Child, art thou 'shamed of thyself?"

"Well, just middling, Aunt Rachel, " said Blanche, pouting a little. 

"Blanche, " returned her Aunt very gravely, "I do sorely pity thinehusband--when such a silly thing may win one--without he spend anhundred pound by the day, and keep a pack of serving-maids a-louting atthy heels. "

"I hope he may, Aunt Rachel, " said Blanche coolly. 

"Eh, child, child!" And Rachel's head was ominously shaken. 

From that time Don Juan joined the family circle at meals. Of course hewas a prisoner, but a prisoner on parole, very generously treated, andwith little fear for the future. He was merely a spectator, havingtaken no part in the war; there were old friends of his parents amongthe English nobility: no great harm was likely to come to him. So hefelt free to divert himself; and here was a toy ready to his hand. 

The family circle were amused with the names which he gave them. SirThomas became "Don Tomas;" Lady Enville was "the grand Senora. "Margaret and Lucrece gave him some trouble; they were not Spanish names. He took refuge in "Dona Mariquita" (really a diminutive of Maria), and"Dona Lucia. " But there was no difficulty about "Dona Clara" and "DonaBlanca, " which dropped from his lips (thought Blanche) like music. Rachel's name, however, proved impracticable. He contented himself with"_Senora mia_" when he spoke to her, and, "Your Lady Aunt" when he spokeof her. 

He was ready enough to give some account of himself. His father, DonGonsalvo, Marquis de Las Rojas, was a grandee of the first class, and aLord in Waiting to King Philip; his mother, Dona Leonor de Torrejano, had been in attendance on Queen Mary. He had two sisters, whose nameswere Antonia and Florela; and a younger brother, Don Hernando. [Allfictitious persons. ]

It flattered Blanche all the more that in the presence of others he wasdistantly ceremonious; but whenever they were alone, he was continually, though very delicately, hinting his admiration of her, and pouring softspeeches into her entranced ears. So Blanche, poor silly child I playedthe part of the moth, and got her wings well singed in the candle. 

Whatever Blanche was, Don Juan himself was perfectly heart-whole. Ofcourse no grandee of Spain could ever descend so low as really tocontemplate marriage with a mere _caballero's_ daughter, and of aheretic country; that was out of the question. Moreover, there was afamily understanding that, a dispensation being obtained, he was tomarry his third cousin, Dona Lisarda de Villena, [A fictitious person] alady of moderate beauty and fabulous fortune. This arrangement had beenmade while both were little children, nor had Don Juan the leastintention of rendering it void. He was merely amusing himself. 

It often happens that such amusements destroy another's happiness. Andit sometimes happens that they lead to the destruction of another'ssoul. 

Don Juan won golden opinions from Sir Thomas and Lady Enville. He wasnot wanting in sense, said the former (to whom the sensible side of himhad been shown); and, he was right well-favoured, and so courtly! saidLady Enville--who had seen the courtly aspect. 

"Well-favoured!" laughed Sir Thomas. "Calleth a woman yonder ladwell-favoured? Why, his face is the worst part of him: 'tis all satinand simpers!"

Rachel had not the heart to speak ill of the invalid whom she hadnursed, while she admitted frankly that there were points about himwhich she did not like: but these, no doubt, arose mainly from his beinga foreigner and a Papist. Margaret said little, but in her heart shedespised him. And presently Jack came home, when the volunteers weredisbanded, and, after a passage of arms, became the sworn brother of theyoung prisoner. He was such a gentleman! said Master Jack. So therewas not much likelihood of Blanche's speedy disenchantment. 

"Marry, what think you of the lad, Mistress Thekla?" demanded Barbaraone day, when she was at "four-hours" at the parsonage. 

"He is very young, " answered Mrs Tremayne, who always excused everybodyas long as it was possible. "He will amend with time, we may wellhope. "

"Which is to say, I admire him not, " suggested Mrs Rose, now a very oldwoman, on whom time had brought few bodily infirmities, and no, mentalones. 

"Who doth admire him, Barbara, at the Court?" asked Mr Tremayne. 

"Marry La'kin! every soul, as methinks, save Mistress Meg, and Sim, andJennet. Mistress Meg--I misdoubt if she doth; and Sim says he is anincompoop; [silly fellow] and Jennet saith, he is as like as two peasto the old fox that they nailed up on the barn door when she was alittle maid. But Sir Thomas, and my Lady, and Master Jack, be mightytaken with him; and Mistress Rachel but little less: and as to MistressBlanche, she hath eyes for nought else. "

"Poor Blanche!" said Thekla. 

"Blanche shall be a mouse in a trap, if she have not a care, " said MrsRose, with a wise shake of her head. 

"Good lack, Mistress! she is in the trap already, but she wot it not. "

"When we wot us to be in a trap, we be near the outcoming, " remarked theRector. 

"Of a truth I cannot tell, " thoughtfully resumed Barbara, "whether thisyoung gentleman be rare deep, or rare shallow. He is well-nigh as illto fathom as Mistress Lucrece herself. Lo' you, o' Sunday morrow, SirThomas told him that the law of the land was for every man and woman inthe Queen's dominions to attend the parish church twice of the Sunday, under twenty pound charge by the month if they tarried at home, notbeing let by sickness: and I had heard him say himself that he lookedDon John should kick thereat. But what doth Don John but to take up hishat, and walk off to the church, handing of Mistress Rachel, as smilingas any man; and who as devote as he when he was there?--Spake the Amen, and sang in the Psalm, and all the rest belike. Good lack! I hadthought the Papists counted it sinful for to join in a Protestantservice. "

"Not alway, " said Mr Tremayne. "Maybe he hath the priest's licence inhis pocket. "

"I wis not what he hath, " responded Barbara, sturdily, "save and exceptmy good will; and that he hath not, nor is not like to have, --inespecial with Mistress Blanche, poor sely young maiden! that wot notwhat she doth. "

"He may have it, then, in regard to Clare?" suggested Mrs Rosemischievously. 

"Marry La'kin!" retorted Barbara in her fiercest manner. "But if Ithought yon fox was in any manner of fashion of way a-making up to myjewel, --I could find it in my heart to put rats-bane in his pottage!"

Sir Thomas transmitted to London the news of the wreck of the Dolorida, requesting orders concerning the seven survivors: at the same timekindly writing to two or three persons in high places, old acquaintancesof the young man's parents, to ask their intercession on behalf of DonJuan. But the weeks passed away, and as yet no answer came. The Queenand Council were too busy to give their attention to a small knot ofprisoners. 

On the fourth of September in the Armada year, 1588, died Robert Dudley, the famous Earl of Leicester, who had commanded the army of defence atTilbury. This one man--and there was only one such--Elizabeth had neverceased to honour. He retained her favour unimpaired for thirty years, through good report--of which there was very little; and evil report--ofwhich there was a great deal. He saw rival after rival rise andflourish and fall: but to the end of his life, he stood alone as the onewhose brilliant day was unmarred by storm, --the King of England, becausethe King of her Queen. What was the occult power of this man, the lastof the Dudleys of Northumberland, over the proud spirit of Elizabeth?It was not that she had any affection for him: she showed that plainlyenough at his death, when her whole demeanour was not that of mourning, but of release. He was a man of extremely bad character, --a fact patentto all the world: yet Elizabeth kept him at her side, and admitted himto her closest friendship, --though she knew well that the rumours whichblackened his name did not spare her own. He never cleared himself ofthe suspected murder of his first wife; he never tried to clear himselfof the attempted murder of the second, whom he alternately asserted anddenied to be his lawful wife, until no one knew which story to believe. But the third proved his match. There was strong cause for suspicionthat twelve years before, Robert Earl of Leicester had given a lesson inpoisoning to Lettice Countess of Essex: and now the same Lettice, Countess of Leicester, had not forgotten her lesson. Leicester wastired of her; perhaps, too, he was a little afraid of what she knew. The deft and practised poisoner administered a dose to his wife. ButLettice survived, and poisoned him in return. And so the last of theDudleys passed to his awful account. 

His death made no difference in the public rejoicing for the defeat ofthe Armada. Two days afterwards, the Spanish banners were exhibitedfrom Paul's Cross, and the next morning were hung on London Bridge. Thenineteenth of November was a holiday throughout the kingdom. On Sundaythe 24th, the Queen made her famous thanksgiving progress to SaintPaul's, seated in a chariot built in the form of a throne, with fourpillars, and a crowned canopy overhead. The Privy Council and the Houseof Lords attended her. Bishop Pierce of Salisbury preached the sermon, from the very appropriate text, afterwards engraved on the memorialmedals, --"He blew with His wind, and they were scattered. "

All this time no word came to decide the fate of Don Juan. It was notexpected now before spring. A winter journey from Lancashire to Londonwas then a very serious matter. 

"So you count it not ill to attend our Protestant churches, Master?"asked Blanche of Don Juan, as she sat in the window-seat, needlework inhand. It was a silk purse, not a kettle-holder, this time. 

"How could I think aught ill, Dona Blanca, which I see your Grace do?"was the courtly reply of Don Juan. 

"But what should your confessor say, did he hear thereof?" askedBlanche, provokingly. 

"Is a confessor a monster in your eyes, fair lady?" said Don Juan, withthat smile which Blanche held in deep though secret admiration. 

"I thought they were rarely severe, " she said, bending her eyes on herwork. 

"Ah, Senora, our faith differs from yours much less than you think. What is a confessor, but a priest--a minister? The Senor Tremayne is aconfessor, when one of his people shall wish his advice. Where lieththe difference?"

Blanche was too ignorant to know where it lay. 

"I accounted there to be mighty difference, " she said, hesitatingly. 

"_Valgame los santos_! [The saints defend me!]--but a shade or two ofcolour. Hold we not the same creeds as you? Your Book of CommonPrayer--what is it but the translation of ours? We worship the sameGod; we honour the same persons, as you. Where, then, is thedifference? Our priests wed not; yours may. We receive the HolyEucharist in one kind; you, in both. We are absolved in private, andmake confession thus; you, in public. Be these such mightydifferences?"

If Don Juan had thrown a little less dust in her eyes, perhaps Blanchemight have had sense enough to ask him where the Church of Rome hadfound her authority for her half of these differences, since itcertainly was not in Holy Scripture: and also, whether that communionheld such men as Cranmer, Latimer, Calvin, and Luther, in very highesteem? But the dust was much too thick to allow any stronger replyfrom Blanche than a feeble inquiry whether these really were all thepoints of difference. 

"What other matter offendeth your Grace? Doubtless I can expound thesame. "

"Why, I have heard, " said Blanche faintly, selecting one of the smallercharges first, "that the Papists do hold Mary, the blessed Virgin, tohave been without sin. "

"Some Catholics have that fantasy, " replied Don Juan lightly. "It isonly a few. The Church binds it not on the conscience of any. You takeit--you leave it--as you will. "

"Likewise you hold obedience due to the Bishop of Rome, instead of onlyunto your own Prince, as with us, " objected Blanche, growing a shadebolder. 

"That, again, is but in matters ecclesiastical. In secular matters, Ido assure your Grace, the Pope interfereth not. "

Blanche, who had no answers to these subtle explainings away of thefacts, felt as if all her outworks were being taken, one by one. 

"Yet, " she said, bringing her artillery to bear on a new point, "youhave images in your churches, Don John, and do worship unto them?"

The word worship has changed its meaning since the days of QueenElizabeth. To do worship, and to do honour, were then interchangeableterms. 

Don Juan smiled. "Have you no pictures in your books, Dona Blanca?These images are but as pictures for the teaching of the vulgar, thatcannot read. How else should we learn them? If some of the ignorantmake blunder, and bestow to these images better honour than the Churchdid mean them, the mistake is theirs. No man really doth worship untothese, only the vulgar. "

"But do not you pray unto the saints?"

"We entreat the saints to pray for us; that is all. "

"Then, in the Lord's Supper--the mass, you call it, "--said Blanche, bringing up at last her strongest battering-ram, "you do hold, as I havebeen taught, Don John, that the bread and wine be changed into the veryself body and blood of our Saviour Christ, that it is no more bread andwine at all. Now how can you believe a matter so plainly confuted byyour very senses?"

"Ah, if I had but your learning and wisdom, Senora!" sighed Don Juan, apparently from the bottom of his heart. 

Blanche felt flattered; but she was not thrown off the scent, as heradmirer intended her to be. She still looked up for the answer; and DonJuan saw that he must give it. 

"Sweetest lady! I am no doctor of the schools, nor have I studied forthe priesthood, that I should be able to expound all matters unto one ofyour Grace's marvellous judgment and learning. Yet, not to leave sofair a questioner without answer--suffer that I ask, your gracious leaveaccorded--did not our Lord say thus unto the holy Apostles, --`_Hoc estcorpus mens_, ' to wit, `This is My Body?'"

Blanche assented. 

"In what manner, then, was it thus?"

"Only as a memorial or representation thereof, we do hold, Don John. "

"Good: as the child doth present [represent] the father, being of thelike substance, no less than appearance, --as saith the blessed SaintAugustine, and also the blessed Jeronymo, and others of the holy Fathersof the Church, right from the time of our Lord and His Apostles. "

Don Juan had never read a line of the works of Jerome or Augustine. Fortunately for him, neither had Blanche, --a chance on which he safelycalculated. Blanche was completely puzzled. She sat looking out of thewindow, and thinking with little power, and to small purpose. She hadnot an idea when Augustine lived, nor whether he read the service in hisown tongue in a surplice, or celebrated the Latin mass in fullpontificals. And if it were true that all the Fathers, down from theApostles, had held the Roman view--for poor ignorant Blanche had not theleast idea whether it were true or false--it was a very awkward thing. Don Juan stood and watched her face for an instant. His diplomaticinstinct told him that the subject had better be dropped. All that wasneeded to effect this end was a few well-turned compliments, which hisingenuity readily suggested. In five minutes more the theologicaldiscussion was forgotten, at least by Blanche, as Don Juan was assuringher that in all Andalusia there were not eyes comparable to hers. 

Mr Tremayne and Arthur came in to supper that evening. The formerquietly watched the state of affairs without appearing to noticeanything. He saw that Don Juan, who sat by Lucrece, paid her the mostcourteous attention; that Lucrece received it with a thinly-veiled airof triumph; that Blanche's eyes constantly followed, the young Spaniard:and he came to the conclusion that the affair was more complicated thanhe had originally supposed. 

He waited, however, till Arthur and Lysken were both away, until he saidanything at home. When those young persons were safely despatched tobed, Mr and Mrs Tremayne and Mrs Rose drew together before the fire, and discussed the state of affairs at Enville Court. 

"Now, what thinkest, Robin?" inquired Mrs Rose. "Is Blanche, _lapauvrette_! as fully taken with Don Juan as Barbara did suppose?"

"I am afeared, fully. "

"And Don Juan?"

"If I mistake not, is likewise taken with Blanche: but I doubt somewhatif he be therein as wholehearted as she. "

"And what say the elders?" asked Mrs Tremayne. 

"Look on with _eyes_ which see nought. But, nathless, there be one pairof eyes that see; and Blanche's path is not like to run o'er smooth. "

"What, Mistress Rachel?"

"Nay, she is blind as the rest. I mean Lucrece. "

"Lucrece! Thinkest she will ope the eyes of the other?"

"I think she casteth about to turn Don Juan's her way. "

"Alack, poor Blanche!" said Mrs Tremayne. "Howso the matter shall go, mefeareth she shall not 'scape suffering. "

"She is no match for Lucrece, " observed Mrs Rose. 

"Truth: but I am in no wise assured Don Juan is not, " answered MrTremayne with a slightly amused look. "As for Blanche, she is like tosuffer; and I had well-nigh added, she demeriteth the same: but it willdo her good, Thekla. At the least, if the Lord bless it unto her--beassured I meant not to leave out that. "

"The furnace purifieth the gold, " said Mrs Tremayne sadly: "yet theheat is none the less fierce for that, Robin. "

"Dear heart, whether wouldst thou miss the suffering rather, and thepurifying, or take both together?"

"It is soon over, Thekla, " said her mother, quietly. 

During the fierce heat of the Marian persecution, those words had oncebeen said to Marguerite Rose. She had failed to realise them then. Thelesson was learned now--thirty-five years later. 

"Soon over, to look back, dear Mother, " replied Mrs Tremayne. "Yet itnever seems short to them that be in the furnace. "

Mrs Rose turned rather suddenly to her son-in-law. 

"Robin, tell me, if thou couldst have seen thy life laid out before theeon a map, and it had been put to thy choice to bear the Little Ease, orto leave go, --tell me what thou hadst chosen?"

For Mr Tremayne had spent several months in that horrible funnel-shapedprison, aptly termed Little Ease, and had but just escaped from it withlife. He paused a moment, and his face grew very thoughtful. 

"I think, Mother, " he said at length, "that I had chosen to go throughwith it. I learned lessons in Little Ease that, if I had lacked now, Ihad been sorely wanting to my people; and--speaking as a man--thatperchance I could have learned nowhere else. "

"Childre, " responded the aged mother, "it seemeth me, that of all matterwe have need to learn, the last and hardest is to give God leave tochoose for us. At least, thus it hath been with me; it may be I mistaketo say it is for all. Yet I am sure he is the happy man that learnethit soon. It hath taken me well-nigh eighty years. Thou art better, Robin, to have learned it in fifty. "

"I count, Mother, we learn not all lessons in the same order, " said theRector, smiling, "though there be many lessons we must all learn. 'Tisnot like to be my last, --without I should die to-morrow--if I havelearned it thoroughly now. And 'tis easier to leave in God's hands, some choices than other. "

Mrs Rose did not ask of what he was thinking, but she could guesspretty well. It would be harder to lose his Thekla now, than if he hadcome out of Little Ease and had found her dead: harder to lose Arthur inhis early manhood, than to have seen him coffined with his baby brotherand sisters, years ago. Mrs Tremayne drew a long sigh, as if she hadguessed it too. 

"It would be easier to leave all things to God's choice, " she said, "ifonly we dwelt nearer God. "

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. "Vuesa merced, " the epithet of ordinary courtesy, is literally"Your Grace. "

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 viper! 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. 

"Blanche 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 to 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 the 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!

------------------------------------------------------------------------

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. 

CHAPTER EIGHT. 

THEKLA COMES TO THE RESCUE. 

 "It were a well-spent journey, Though seven deaths lay between. "

 _A. R. Cousins_. 

"Lysken, didst thou ever love any one very much?"

Blanche spoke dreamily, as she stood leaning against the side of thewindow in the parsonage parlour, and with busy idleness tied knots inher gold chain, which at once untied themselves by their own weight. 

"Most truly, " said Lysken, looking up with an expression of surprise. "I love all here--very much. "

"Ah! but--not here?"

"Certes. I loved Mayken Floriszoon, who died at Leyden, the day afterhelp came. And I loved Aunt Jacobine; and Vrouw Van Vliet, who tookcare of me before I came hither. And I loved--O Blanche, how dearly!--my father and my mother. "

Blanche's ideas were running in one grove, and Lysken's in quite adifferent one. 

"Ay, but I mean, Lysken--another sort of love. "

"Another sort!" said Lysken, looking up again from the stocking whichshe was darning. "Is there any sort but one?"

"Oh ay!" responded Blanche, feeling her experience immeasurably pastthat of Lysken. 

"Thou art out of my depth, Blanche, methinks, " said Lysken, re-threadingher needle in a practical unromantic way. "Love is love, for me. Itdiffereth, of course, in degree; we love not all alike. But, methinks, even a man's love for God, though it be needs deeper and higher far, must yet be the same manner of love that he hath for his father, or hischildre, or his friends. I see not how it can be otherwise. "

Blanche was shocked at the business-like style in which Lysken darnedwhile she talked. Had such a question been asked of herself, thestocking would have stood still till it was settled. She doubtedwhether to pursue the subject. What was the use of talking uponthrilling topics to a girl who could darn stockings while she calmlyanalysed love? Still, she wanted somebody's opinion; and she had aninstinctive suspicion that Clare would be no improvement upon hercousin. 

"Well, but, " she said hesitatingly, "there is another fashion of love, Lysken. The sort that a woman hath toward her husband. "

"That is deeper, I guess, than she hath for her father and mother, elsewould she not leave them to go with him, " said Lysken quietly; "but Isee not wherein it should be another sort. "

"'Tis plain thou didst never feel the same, Lysken, " returned Blanchesentimentally. 

"How could I, when I never had an husband?" answered Lysken, darningaway tranquilly. 

"But didst thou never come across any that--that thou shouldst fain--"

"Shouldst fain--what?" said Lysken, as Blanche paused. 

"Shouldst have liked to wed, " said Blanche, plunging into the matter. 

"Gramercy, nay!" replied Lysken, turning the stocking to look at theother side. "And I should have thought shame if I had. "

Blanche felt this speech a reflection on herself. 

"Lysken!" she cried pettishly. 

Lysken put down the stocking, and looked at Blanche. 

"What meanest thou?" she inquired, in a plain matter-of-fact style whichwas extremely aggravating to that young lady. 

"Oh, 'tis to no good to tell thee, " returned Blanche loftily. "Thouwist nought at all thereabout. "

"_What_ about?" demanded Lysken, to whom Blanche was unintelligible. 

"About nought. Let be!"

"I cannot tell wherefore thou art vexed, Blanche, " said Lysken, resumingher darning, in that calm style which is eminently provoking to any onein a passion. 

"Thou seest not every matter in the world, " retorted Blanche, with anair of superiority. "And touching this matter, 'tis plain thou wistnothing. Verily, thou hast gain therein; for he that hath betteredknowledge--as saith Solomon--hath but increased sorrow. "

"Blanche, I do not know whereof thou art talking! Did I put thee out bysaying I had thought shame to have cared to wed with any, or what wasit? Why, wouldst not thou?"

This final affront was as the last straw to the camel. Deigning noanswer, which she felt would be an angry one, Blanche marched away likean offended queen, and sat down on a chair in the hall as if she wereenthroning herself upon a pedestal. Mrs Tremayne was in the hall, andthe door into the parlour being open, she had heard the conversation. She made no allusion to it at the time, but tried to turn the girl'sthoughts to another topic. Gathering from it, however, the tone ofBlanche's mind, she resolved to give her a lesson which should not ejecther roughly from her imaginary pedestal--but make her come down from itof her own accord. 

"Poor foolish child!" said Mrs Tremayne to herself. "She has mistakena rushlight for the sun, and she thinks her horizon wider than that ofany one else. She is despising Lysken, at this moment, as a shallow, prosaic character, who cannot enter into the depth of her feelings, andhas not attained the height of her experience. And there are heightsand depths in Lysken that Blanche will never reach. "

Mrs Tremayne found her opportunity the next evening. She was alonewith Blanche in the parlour; and knowing pretty well what every one wasdoing, she anticipated a quiet half-hour. 

Of all the persons to whom Blanche was known, there was not one so wellfitted to deal with her in this crisis as the friend in whose hands shehad been placed for safety. Thirty years before, Thekla Tremayne hadexperienced a very dark trial, --had become miserably familiar with theheart-sickness of hope deferred, --during four years when the bestbeloved of Robin Tremayne had known no certainty whether he was livingor dead, but had every reason rather to fear the latter. Compared witha deep, long-tried love like hers, this sentimental fancy over whichBlanche was making herself cross and unhappy was almost trivial. ButMrs Tremayne knew that trouble is trouble, if it be based on folly; shethought that she recognised in Blanche, silly though she was in somepoints, a nobler nature than that of the vain, selfish, indolent motherfrom whom the daughter derived many of the surface features of hercharacter: and she longed to see that nobler nature rouse itself towork, and sweep away the outward vanity and giddiness. It might be thateven this would show her the real hollowness of the gilded world; thatthis one hour's journey over the weary land would help to drive her forshelter to the shadow of the great Rock. 

Blanche sat on a low stool at Mrs Tremayne's feet, gazing earnestlyinto the fire. Neither had spoken for some time, during which the onlysounds were the slight movements of Mrs Tremayne as she sat at work, and now and then a heavy sigh from Blanche. When the fifth of these wasdrawn, the lady gently laid her hand on the girl's head. 

"Apothecaries say, Blanche, that sighing shorteneth life. "

Blanche looked up. "I reckon you count me but a fool, MistressTremayne, as do all other. "

"Blanche, " said her friend, "I will tell thee a story, and after thatthou shall judge for thyself what account I make of thee. "

Blanche looked interested, and altered her position so as to watch MrsTremayne's face while she was speaking. 

"Once upon a time, Blanche, --in the days of Queen Mary, --there was apriest that had a daughter of thine own age--sixteen years. In thosedays, as I cast no doubt thou hast heard, all wedded priests were laidunder ban, and at the last a day was set whereon all they must needspart from their wives. Though my story take root ere this, yet I praythee bear it in mind, for we shall come thereto anon. Well, thisdamsel, with assent of her father, was troth-plight unto a young manwhom she loved very dearly; but seeing her youth, their wedding was yetsome way off. In good sooth, her father had given assent under bondthat they should not wed for three years; and the three years should berun out in June, 1553. "

"Three years!" said Blanche, under her breath. 

"This young man was endeavouring himself for the priesthood. During thetime of King Edward, thou wist, there was no displeasure taken atmarried priests; and so far as all they might see when the three yearsbegan to run, all was like to go smooth enough. But when they were runout, all England was trembling with fear, and men took much thought[felt much anxiety] for the future. King Edward lay on his dying bed;and there was good reason--ah! more reason than any man then knew!--tofear that the fair estate of such as loved the Gospel should die withhim. For a maid then to wed a priest, or for a wedded man to receiveorders, was like to a man casting him among wild beasts: there was but achance that he might not be devoured. So it stood, that if this youngman would save his life, he must give up one of two things, --either theservice which for many months back he had in his own heart offered toGod, or the maiden whom, for a time well-nigh as long, he had hopedshould be his wife. What, thinkest thou, should he have done, Blanche?"

"I wis not, in very deed, Mistress Tremayne, " said Blanche, shaking herhead. "I guess he should have given up rather her, --but I know not. Methinks it had been sore hard to give up either. And they weretroth-plight. "

"Well, --I will tell thee what they did. They did appoint a set time, atthe end whereof, should he not then have received orders (it being notpossible, all the Protestant Bishops being prisoners), he should thenresign the hope thereof, and they twain be wed. The three years, thouwist, were then gone. They fixed the time two years more beyond, --torun out in August, 1555--which should make five years' waiting in all. "

"And were they wed then?" said Blanche, drawing a long breath. 

"When the two further years were run out, Blanche--"

Blanche was a little startled to hear how Mrs Tremayne's voicetrembled. She was evidently telling "an owre true tale. "

"The maid's father, and he that should have been her husband, were takenin one day. When those two years were run out, her father lay hiddenaway, having 'scaped from prison, until he might safely be holpen out ofthe country over seas: and the young man was a captive in Exeter Castle, and in daily expectation of death. "

"Good lack!"

"And two years thereafter, the young man was had away from Exeter untoWoburn, and there set in the dread prison called Little Ease, shapedlike to a funnel, wherein a man might neither stand, nor sit, nor lie, nor kneel. "

"O Mistress Tremayne! Heard any ever the like! And what came of themaiden, poor soul?"

The needlework in Mrs Tremayne's hand was still now; and if any one hadbeen present who had known her thirty years before, he would have saidthat a shadow of her old look at that terrible time had come back to herdeep sweet eyes. 

"My child, God allowed her to be brought very low. At the first, shewas upheld mightily by His consolations: and they that saw her said howwell she bare it. But 'tis not alway the first blush of a sorrow thattrieth the heart most sorely. And there came after this a time--when itwas an old tale to them that knew her, and their comforting was givenover, --a day came when all failed her. Nay, I should have said rather, all seemed to fail her. God failed her not; but her eyes were holden, and she saw Him not beside her. It was darkness, an horror of greatdarkness, that fell upon her. The Devil came close enough; he was verybusy with her. Was there any hope? quoth he. Nay, none, or but verylittle. Then of what worth were God's promises to hear and deliver? Hehad passed His word, and He kept it not. Was God able to help?--was Hetrue to His promise?--go to, was there any God in Heaven at all? Andso, Blanche, she was tossed to and fro on the swelling billows, now up, seeing a faint ray of light, now down, in the depth of the darkness:yet, through all, with an half-palsied grasp, so to speak, upon the hemof Christ's garment, a groping after Him with numb hands that scarcefelt whether they held or no. O Blanche, it was like the plague in theland of Egypt--it was darkness that might be felt!"

Blanche listened in awed interest. 

"Dear heart, the Lord hath passed word to help His people in their need;but He saith not any where that He will alway help them right as theywould have it. We be prone to think there is but one fashion of help, and that if we be not holpen after our own manner, we be not holpen atall. Yet, if thou take a penny from a poor beggar, and give him in thestead thereof an angel [half-sovereign], thou hast given him alms, though he have lost the penny. Alas, for us poor beggars! we fall toweeping o'er our penny till our eyes be too dim with tears to see thegold of God's alms. Dear Blanche, I would not have thee miss the gold. "

"I scantly conceive your meaning, dear Mistress. "

"We will come back to that anon. I will first tell thee what befel herof whom I spake. "

"Ay, I would fain hear the rest. "

"Well, there were nigh four years of that fearful darkness. Shewell-nigh forgat that God might have some better thing in store for her, to the which He was leading her all the time, along this weary road. She thought He dealt hardly with her. At times, when the darkness wasat the thickest, she fancied that all might be a delusion: that therewas no God at all, or none that had any compassion upon men. But it wasnot His meaning, to leave one of His own in that black pit of despair. He lifted one end of the dark veil. When the four years were over, --that is, when Queen Elizabeth, that now is, happily succeeded to herevil sister, --God gave the maiden back her father safe. "

Blanche uttered a glad "Oh!"

"And He gave her more than that, Blanche. He sent her therewith amessage direct from Himself. Thou lookest on me somewhat doubtfully, dear heart, as though thou shouldst say, Angels bring no wolds fromHeaven now o' days. Well, in very sooth, I wis not whether they do orno. We see them not: can we speak more boldly than to say this? Yetone thing I know, Blanche: God can send messages to His childre in theirhearts, howso they may come. And what was this word? say thine eyes. Well, sweeting, it was the softest of all the chidings that we hear Himto have laid on His disciples, --`O thou of little faith, wherefore didstthou doubt?' As though He should say, --`Thou mightest have doubted ofthe fulfilling of thy special hope; yet wherefore doubt _Me_? Would Ihave taken pleasure in bereaving thee of aught that was not hurtful?Could I not have given thee much more than this? Because I made thineheart void, that I might fill it with Myself, --child, did I love theeless, or more?'"

Mrs Tremayne paused so long, that Blanche asked timidly--"And did hecome again at last, or no?"

A slight, sudden movement of her friend's head showed that her thoughtswere far away, and that she came back to the present with something likean effort. 

"Methinks, dear heart, " Mrs Tremayne said lovingly, "there was aspecial point whereto God did desire to bring this maiden;--a pointwhereat He oft-times aimeth in the training of His childre. It is, tobe satisfied with His will. Not only to submit thereto. Thou mayestsubmit unto all outward seeming, and yet be sore dissatisfied. "

Was not this Blanche's position at that moment?

"But to be satisfied with His ordering--to receive it as the best thing, dearer unto thee than thine own will and way; as the one thing whichthou wouldst have done, at the cost, if need be, of all other:--ah, Blanche, 'tis no light nor easy thing, this! And unto this God led herof whom I have been telling thee. He led her, till she could look up toHim, and say, with a true, honest heart--`Father, lead where Thou wilt. If in the dark, well: so Thou hold me, I am content I am Thine, body, and soul, and spirit: it shall be well and blessed for me, if but Thywill be done. ' And then, Blanche, --when she could look up and say thisin sincerity--then He laid down His rod, and gave all back into herbosom. "

Blanche drew a deep sigh, --partly of relief, but not altogether. 

"You knew this maiden your own self, Mrs Tremayne?"

"Wouldst thou fain know whom the maid were, Blanche? Her name was--Thekla Rose. "

"Mistress Tremayne!--yourself?"

"Myself, dear heart. And I should not have gone back over this storynow, but that I thought it might serve thee to hear it. I love not tolook back to that time, though it were to mine own good. 'Tis like anill wound which is healed, and thou hast no further suffering thereof:yet the scar is there for evermore. And yet, dear Blanche, if it weregiven me to choose, now, whether I would have that dark and weary timepart of my life, or no--reckoning what I should have lost without it--Iwould say once again, Ay. They that know the sweetness of close walkingwith God will rather grope, step by step, at His side through thedarkness, than walk smoothly in the full glare of the sun without Him:and very street was my walk, when I had won back the felt holding of Hishand. "

"But is He not with them in the sunlight?" asked Blanche shyly. 

"He is alway with them, dear heart: but we see his light clearest whenother lights are out. And we be so prone to walk further off in thedaylight!--we see so many things beside Him. We would fain be runningoff after birds and butterflies; fain be filling our hands with brightflowers by the way: and we picture not rightly to ourselves that thesethings are but to cheer us on as we step bravely forward, for there willbe flowers enough when we reach Home. "

Blanche looked earnestly into the red embers, and was silent. 

"Seest thou now, Blanche, what I meant in saying, I would not have theemiss the gold?"

"I reckon you mean that God hath somewhat to give, better than what Hetaketh away. "

"Right, dear heart. Ah, how much better! Yet misconceive me not, mychild. We do not buy Heaven with afflictions; never think that, Blanche. There be many that have made that blunder. Nay! the beggarbuyeth not thy gold with his penny piece. Christ hath bought Heaven forHis chosen: it is the purchase of His blood; and nothing else in all theworld could have paid for it. But they that shall see His glory yonder, must be fitted for it here below; and oft-times God employeth sorrowsand cares to this end. --And now, Blanche, canst answer thine ownquestion, and tell me what I think of thee?"

Blanche blushed scarlet. 

"I am afeared, " she said, hanging down her head, "you must think me buta right silly child. "

Mrs Tremayne stroked Blanche's hair, with a little laugh. 

"I think nothing very ill of thee, dear child. But I do think thou hastmade a blunder or twain. "

"What be they?" Blanche wished to know, more humbly than she would havedone that morning. 

"Well, dear Blanche--firstly, I think thou hast mistaken fancy for love. There be many that so do. Many think they love another, when in truthall they do love is themselves and their own pleasures, or theflattering of their own vain conceits. Ask thine own heart what thoulovest in thy lover: is it him, or his liking for thyself? If it be butthe latter, that is not love, Blanche. 'Tis but fancy, which is to loveas the waxen image to the living man. Love would have him it lovethbettered at her own cost: it would fain see him higher and nobler--Imean not higher in men's eyes, but nearer Heaven and God--whatever werethe price to herself. True love will go with us into Heaven, Blanche:it can never die, nor be forgotten. Remember the word of John theApostle, that `he that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God, and God inhim. ' And wouldst thou dare to apply that holy and heavenly name untosome vain fancy that shall be as though it had never been six monthsthereafter? My child, we men and women be verily guilty concerning thismatter. We take the name of that which is the very essence of God, andset it lightly on a thing of earth and time, the which shall perish inthe using. Well, and there is another mistake, sweet, which I fear thoumayest have made. It may be thou art thinking wrongfully of thineearthly father, as I did of my heavenly One. He dealeth with theehardly, countest thou? Well, it may be so; yet it is to save thee fromthat which should be much harder. Think no ill of the father who loveththee and would fain save thee. And, O Blanche! howsoever He may dealwith thee, never, never do thou think hardly of that heavenly Father, who loveth thee far dearer than he, and would save thee from farbitterer woe. "

Blanche had looked very awe-struck when Mrs Tremayne spoke so solemnlyof the real nature of love; and now she raised tearful eyes to herfriend's face. 

"I thought none ill of my father, Mistress Tremayne. I wis well heloveth me. "

"That is well, dear heart. I am fain it should be so. "

And there the subject dropped rather abruptly, as first Clare, and thenArthur, came into the room. 

Don Juan did not appear to: miss Blanche, after the first day. When hefound that she and her father and sister were absent from thesupper-table, he looked round with some surprise and a littleperplexity; but he asked no question, and no one volunteered anexplanation. He very soon found a new diversion, in the shape ofLucrece, to whom he proceeded to address his flowery language with evenless sincerity than he had done to Blanche. But no sooner did SirThomas perceive this turn of affairs than he took the earliestopportunity of sternly demanding of his troublesome prisoner "what hemeant?"

Don Juan professed entire ignorance of the purport of this question. Sir Thomas angrily explained. 

"Nay, Senor, what would you?" inquired the young Spaniard, with an airof injured innocence. "An Andalusian gentleman, wheresoever he may be, and in what conditions, must always show respect to the ladies. "

"Respect!" cried the enraged squire. "Do Spanish gentlemen call suchmanner of talk showing respect? Thank Heaven that I was born inEngland! Sir, when an English gentleman carries himself toward a youngmaiden as you have done, he either designs to win her in honourablewedlock, or he is a villain. Which are you?"

"If we were in Spain, Senor, " answered Don Juan, fire flashing from hisdark eyes, "you would answer those words with your sword. But since Iam your prisoner, and have no such remedy, I must be content with areply in speech. The customs of your land are different from ours. Iwill even condescend to say that I am, and for divers years have sobeen, affianced to a lady of mine own country. Towards the _senoritas_your daughters, I have shown but common courtesy, as it is understood inSpain. "

In saying which, Don Juan stated what was delicately termed by Swift'sHouynhnms, "the thing which is not. " Of what consequence was it in hiseyes, when the Council of Constance had definitively decreed that "nofaith was to be kept with heretics"?

Sir Thomas Enville was less given to the use of profane language thanmost gentlemen of his day, but in answer to this speech he sworeroundly, and--though a staunch Protestant--thanked all the saints andangels that he never was in Spain, and, the Queen's Highness' commandsexcepted, never would be. As to his daughters, he would prefer turningthem all into Nebuchadnezzar's fiery furnace to allowing one of them toset foot on the soil of that highly objectionable country. Thesesentiments were couched in the most peppery language of which theSquire's lips were well capable; and having thus delivered himself, heturned on his heel and left Don Juan to his own meditations. 

That _caballero_ speedily discovered that he had addressed his lastcompliment to any of the young ladies at Enville Court. Henceforward heonly saw them at meals, and then he found himself, much to hisdiscomfiture, placed between Jack and Mistress Rachel. To pay delicateattentions to the latter was sheer waste of frankincense: yet it was somuch in his nature, when speaking to a woman, that he began to tell herthat she talked like an angel. Mistress Rachel looked him full in theface. 

"Don John, " said she, in the most unmoved manner, "if I believed youtrue, I should call on my brother to put you forth of the hall. As Ibelieve you false, I do it not. "

After that day, Don Juan directed all his conversation to Jack. 

He was not very sorry to leave Enville Court, which had become no longeran amusing, but an uncomfortable place. In his eyes, it was perfectlymonstrous that any man should object to his daughters being honoured bythe condescending notice of an Andalusian gentleman, who would one daybe a grandee of the first class; utterly preposterous! But since thisunreasonable man was so absurd as to object to the distinction, conferred upon his house, it was as well that an Andalusian gentlemanshould be out of his sphere. So Don Juan went willingly to London. Friends of his parents made suit for him, and Elizabeth herselfremembered his mother, as one who had done her several littlekindnesses, such as a Lady-in-Waiting on the Queen could do for aPrincess under a cloud; and Don Juan received a free pardon, and leaveto return home when and as he would. He only broke one more heart whilehe remained in England; and that was beneath any regret on his part, being only a poor, insignificant grocer's daughter. And then he sailedfor Spain; and then he married Dona Lisarda; and then he became aLord-in-Waiting; and then he lived a wealthy, gorgeous, prosperous life;and then all men spoke well of him, seeing how much good he had done tohimself; and then he grew old, --a highly respected, highlyself-satisfied man. 

And then his soul was required of him. Did God say to him, --"Thoufool"?

CHAPTER NINE. 

TOO ABSTRUSE FOR BLANCHE. 

 "Hear the just law, the judgment of the skies! He that hates truth shall be the dupe of lies; And he that _will_ be cheated to the last, Delusions strong as Hell shall bind him fast. "

 _Cowper_. 

"I did conceive, Mistress Blanche, " said Mr Tremayne one morning, asthe party rose from the breakfast-table, "that you would with a goodwill see the picture of Clare's grandsire, the which hangeth in mystudy-chamber?"

"Oh ay, an' it like you, " responded Blanche eagerly. 

Clare had seen the portrait, but not Blanche. Mr Tremayne led the wayto his study, allowed her to examine the likeness at her leisure, andanswered all her questions about John Avery. Entrapped Blanche did notrealise that he was catching her with the same sort of guile which SaintPaul used towards the Corinthians. [2 Corinthians 12, 16] Mrs Tremaynecame in, and sat down quietly with her work, before the inspection wasover. When her curiosity was at length satisfied, Blanche thanked MrTremayne, and would have left the room with a courtesy: but such was byno means the intention of her pastor. 

"I have heard, say, Mistress Blanche, " said he quietly, "that your mindhath been somewhat unsettled touching the difference, or the lack ofdifference, betwixt us and the Papists. If so be, pray you sit down, and give us leave to talk the same over. "

Blanche felt caught at last. It must be Sir Thomas, of course, who hadtold the Rector, for there was no one else who could have done it. Andit may be added, though Blanche did not know it, that her father hadspecially begged Mr Tremayne to examine into the matter, and to setBlanche right on any points whereon she might have gone wrong. 

Thus brought to a stand and forced to action, it was Blanche's nature tobehave after the manner of a mule in the same predicament, and to affectstronger contrary convictions than she really felt. It was true, shesaid rather bluntly: she did think there was very little, if any, difference between many doctrines held by the rival Churches. 

"There is all the difference that is betwixt Heaven and earth, " answeredMr Tremayne. "Nay, I had well-nigh said, betwixt Heaven and Hell: forI do believe the Devil to have been the perverter of truth with thosecorruptions that are in Papistry. But I pray you, of your gentleness, to tell me of one matter wherein, as you account, no difference lieth?"

With what power of intellect she had--which was not much--Blanchementally ran over the list, and selected the item on which she thoughtMr Tremayne would find least to say. 

"It seemeth me you be too rude [harsh, severe] to charge the Papistswith idolatry, " she said. "They be no more idolaters than we. "

"No be they? How so, I pray you?"

"Why, the images in their churches be but for the teaching of such ascannot read, nor do they any worship unto the image, but only unto himthat is signified thereby. Moreover, they pray not unto the saints, asyou would have it; they do but ask the saints' prayers for them. SurelyI may ask my father to pray for me, and you would not say that I prayedunto him!"

"I pray you, pull bridle there, Mistress Blanche, " said Mr Tremayne, smiling; "for you have raised already four weighty points, the which maynot be expounded in a moment. I take them, an' it like you, not justlyin your order, but rather in the order wherein they do affect eachother. And first, under your good pleasure, --what is prayer?"

Blanche was about to reply at once, when it struck her that the questioninvolved more than she supposed. She would have answered, --"Why, sayingmy prayers:" but the idea came to her, _Was_ that prayer? And she feltinstinctively that, necessarily, it was not. She thought a moment, andthen answered slowly;--

"I would say that it is to ask somewhat with full desire to obtain thesame. "

"Is that all?" replied Mr Tremayne. 

Blanche thought so. 

"Methinks there is more therein than so. For it implieth, beyond this, full belief that he whom you shall ask, --firstly, can hear you;secondly, is able to grant you; thirdly, is willing to grant you. "

"Surely the saints be willing to pray for us!"

"How know you they can hear us?"

Blanche thought, and thought, and could find no reason for supposing it. 

"Again, how know you they can grant us?"

"But they pray!"

"They praise, and they hold communion: I know not whether they offerpetitions or no. "

Blanche sat meditating. 

"You see, therefore, there is no certainty on the first and most weightyof all these points. We know not that any saint can hear us. But passthat--grant, for our talk's sake, that they have knowledge of whatpasseth on earth, and can hear when we do speak to them. How then?Here is Saint Mary, our Lord's mother, sitting in Heaven; and upon earththere be petitions a-coming up unto her, at one time, from Loretto inItaly, and from Nuremburg in Germany, and from Seville in Spain, andfrom Bruges in Flanders, and from Paris in France, and from Bideford inDevon, and from Kirkham in Lancashire. Mistress Blanche, if she canhear and make distinction betwixt all these at the self-same moment, then is she no woman like to you. Your brain should be mazed with thedin, and spent with the labour. Invocation declareth omnipotency. Andthere is none almighty save One, --that is, God. "

"But, " urged Blanche, "the body may be one whither, and the spiritanother. And Saint Mary is a spirit. "

"Truly so. Yet the spirit can scantly be in ten places at one time--howmuch less a thousand?"

Blanche was silent. 

"The next thing, I take it, is that they pray not unto the saints, butdo ask the saints only to pray for them. If the saints hear them not, the one is as futile as the other. But I deny that they do not prayunto the saints. "

Mr Tremayne went to his bookcase, and came back with a volume in hishand. 

"Listen here, I pray you--`Blessed Virgin, Mother of God, and after Himmine only hope, pray for me, and guard me during this night'--`Give mepower to fight against thine enemies'--`Great God, who by theresurrection of Thy Son Jesus Christ hast rejoiced the world, we prayThee, grant that by His blessed mother the Virgin Mary we may obtain thebliss of eternal life'--`Make mine heart to burn with love for JesusChrist, --make me to feel the death of Jesus Christ in mine heart, --causeto be given unto us the joys of Paradise--O Jesu! O Mary! cause me tobe truly troubled for my sins. ' These, Mistress Blanche, be from thebook that is the Common Prayer of the Papistical Church: and all thesewords be spoken unto Mary. As you well see, I cast no doubt, they doascribe unto her divinity. For none can effectually work upon man'sheart--save the Holy Ghost only. None other can cause his heart to be`truly troubled for sin;' none other can make his heart to burn. Nowwhat think you of this, Mistress Blanche? Is it praying unto thesaints, or no?"

What Blanche thought, she did not say; but if it could be guessed fromthe expression of her face, she was both shocked and astonished. 

"Now come we to the third point: to wit, that images be as pictures forthe teaching of such as have no learning. Methinks, Mistress Blanche, that God is like to be wiser than all men. There must needs have beenmany Israelites in the wilderness that had no learning: yet His commandunto them, as unto us, is, `Ye shall not make unto you _any_ gravenimage. ' I take it that the small good that might thereby be done(supposing any such to be) should be utterly overborne of the companyingevil. Moreover, when you do learn the vulgar, you would, I hope, learnthem that which is true. Is it true, I pray you, that Mary was borneinto Heaven of angels, like as Christ did Himself ascend?--or that beingthus carried thither, she was crowned of God, as a queen? Dear maid, wehave the Master's word touching all such, pourtrayments. `The gravenimages of _their_ gods shall ye burn with fire. --Thou shalt utterlydetest it, and thou shalt utterly abhor it; for it is a cursed thing. '"[Deuteronomy twelve, verses 25, 26. ]

"O Mr Tremayne!" said Blanche, with a horrified look. "You wouldsurely ne'er call a picture or an image of our Lord's own mother a thingaccursed?"

"But I would, my maid, " he answered very gravely, "that instant momentthat there should be given thereunto the honour and worship and glorythat be only due to Him. `My glory will I not give to another, neitherMy praise to graven images. ' Nay, I would call an image of ChristHimself a thing accursed, if it stood in His place in the hearts of men. Mark you, King Hezekiah utterly destroyed the serpent of brass that wasGod's own appointed likeness of Christ, that moment that the children ofIsrael did begin to burn incense unto it, thereby making it an idol. "

"But in the Papistical Church they be no idols, Master Tremayne!"interposed Blanche eagerly. "Therein lieth the difference betwixtPopery and Paganism. "

"What should you say, Mistress Blanche, if you wist that therein lieth_no_ difference betwixt Popery and Paganism? The old Pagans were wontto say the same thing. [Note 1. ] They should have laughed in your faceif you had charged them with worshipping wood and stone, and haveanswered that they worshipped only the thing signified. So much is itthus, that amongst some Pagan nations, they do hold that their godcometh down in his proper person into the image for a season (like asthe Papists into the wafer of the sacrament), and when they account himgone, they cast the image away as no more worth. Yet hark you how GodHimself accounteth of this their worship. `He maketh a god, even hisgraven image: he falleth down unto IT, and worshippeth IT, and prayethunto IT, and saith, Deliver me, for thou art my god. ' And list also howHe expoundeth the same:--`A deceived heart hath turned him aside, thathe cannot deliver his soul, nor say, Is there not a lie in my righthand?' [Isaiah 44, verses 17, 20. ] There should be little idolatry inthis world if there were no deceived hearts. "

Blanche twisted her handkerchief about, in the manner of a person who isdetermined not to be convinced, yet can find nothing to say in answer. 

"Tell me, Mistress Blanche, --for I think too well of your good sense todoubt the same, --you cannot believe that Christ Himself is in a piece ofbread?"

In her inmost heart she certainly believed no such thing. But it wouldnever do to retreat from her position. In Blanche's eyes, disgrace laynot in being mistaken, but in being shown the mistake. 

"Wherefore may it not be so?" she murmured. "'Tis matter of faith, inlike manner as is our Lord's resurrection. "

"In like manner? I cry you mercy. You believe the resurrection on thewitness of them that knew it--that saw the sepulchre void; that sawChrist, and spake with Him, and did eat and drink with Him, and knew Himto be the very same Jesus that had died. You can bear no witness eitherway, for you were not there. But in this matter of the bread, here areyou; and you see it for yourself not to be as you be told. Your eyestell you that they behold bread; your hands tell you that they handlebread; your tongue tells you that it tasteth bread. The witness of yoursenses is in question: and these three do agree that the matter is breadonly. "

"The senses may be deceived, I reckon?"

"The senses may be deceived; and, as meseemeth, after two fashions:firstly, when the senses themselves be not in full healthfulness andvigour. Thus, if a man have some malady in his eyes, that he knowhimself to see things mistakenly, from the relation of other around him, then may he doubt what his eyes see with regard to this matter. Secondly, a man must not lean on his senses touching matters that comenot within the discerning of sense. Now in regard to this bread, thePapists do overreach themselves. Did they but tell us that the changemade was mystical and of faith, --not within the discernment of sense--wemight then find it harder work to deal withal, and we must seek unto theWord of God only, and not unto our sense in any wise. But they gofarther: they tell us the change is such, that there is _no more thesubstance of bread left at all_. [Note 2. ] This therefore is matterwithin the discerning of sense. If it be thus, then this change isneeds one that I can see, can taste, can handle. I know, at my owntable, whether I eat flesh or bread; how then should I be unable to knowthe same at the table of the Lord? Make it matter of sense, and I mustneeds submit it to the judgment of my senses. But now to take the othermatter, --to wit, of faith. Christ said unto the Jews, `The bread whichI will give is My flesh, which I will give for the life of the world. 'They took Him right as the Papists do. They `strave among themselves, saying, How shall this man give us his flesh to eat?' Now mark you ourLord's answer. Doth He say, `Ye do ill to question this matter; 'tis amystery of the Church; try it not by sense, but believe?' Nay, Heopeneth the door somewhat wider, and letteth in another ray of lightupon the signification of His words. He saith to them, --`Except ye eatthe flesh of the Son of Man, and drink His blood, ye have _no life_ inyou. ' I pray you, what manner of life? Surely not the common life ofnature, for that may be sustained by other food. The life, then, is aspiritual life; and how shall spiritual life be sustained by naturalmeat? The meat must be spiritual, if the life be so. Again Hesaith, --`He that eateth My flesh, and drinketh My blood, dwelleth in Me, and I in him. ' Now, if the eating be after a literal manner, so alsomust be the dwelling. Our bodies, therefore, must be withinside thebody of Christ in Heaven, and His body must be withinside every one ofours on earth. That this is impossible and ridiculous alike, I need notto tell you. Mistress Blanche, faith is not to believe whatsoever anyshall tell you. It is less to believe a thing than to trust a man. AndI can only trust a man on due testimony that he is worthy trust. "

"But this is to trust Christ our Lord, " said Blanche. 

"Ay so, my maid? Or is it rather to trust our own fantasy of whatChrist would say?"

Blanche was silent for a moment; then she answered, --"But He did say, `This is My body. '"

"Will you go further, an' it like you?"

"How, Master Tremayne?"

"`This is My body, which is broken for you. ' Was the bread that He heldin His hand the body that was broken? Did that morsel of bread takeaway the sin of the world? Look you, right in so far as the bread wasthe body, in so far also was the breaking of that bread the death ofthat body, --and no further. Now, Mistress Blanche, was the breaking ofthe bread the death of the body? Think thereon, and answer me. "

"It was an emblem or representation thereof, no doubt, " she said slowly. 

"Good. Then, inasmuch as the breaking did set forth the death, in somuch did the bread set forth the body. If the one be an emblem, so mustbe the other. "

"That may be, perchance, " said Blanche, sheering off from the subject, as she found it passing beyond her, and requiring the troublesome effortof thought: "but, Master Tremayne, there is one other matter whereon thespeech of you Gospellers verily offendeth me no little. "

"Pray you, tell me what it is, Mistress Blanche. "

"It is the little honour, or I might well say the dishonour, that you doput upon Saint Mary the blessed Virgin. Surely, of all that He knew andloved on this earth, she must have been the dearest unto our Lord. Whythen thus scrimp and scant the reverence due unto her? Verily, in thismatter, the Papists do more meetly than you. "

"`More meetly'--wherewith, Mistress Blanche? With the truth of HolyScripture, or with the fantasies of human nature?"

"I would say, " repeated Blanche rather warmly, "that her honour must bevery dear to her blessed Son. "

"There is one honour ten thousand-fold dearer unto His heart, my maid, and that is the honour of God His eternal Father. All honour, thattoucheth not this, I am ready to pay to her. But tell me wherefore youthink she must be His dearest?"

"Because it must needs be thus, " replied illogical Blanche. 

"I would ask you to remember, Mistress Blanche, that He hath told us theclean contrary. "

Blanche looked up with an astonished expression. 

"`Whosoever shall do the will of My Father which is in Heaven, the sameis My brother, and sister, and mother. ' Equally honourable, equallydear, with that mother of His flesh whom you would fain upraise aboveall other women. And I am likewise disposed to think that word ofPaul, --`Yea, though we have known Christ after the flesh, yet nowhenceforth know we Him no more'--I say, I am disposed to think this mayhave his reverse side. Though He hath known us after the flesh, yetthus, now that He is exalted to the right hand of God, He knoweth us nomore. And if so, then Mary is now unto Him but one of a multitude ofsaved souls, all equally fair and dear and precious in the eyes of Himthat died for them. "

"O Master Tremayne!"

"What would you say, Mistress Blanche?"

"That is truly--it sounds so cold!" said Blanche, disparagingly. 

"Doth it so?" asked the Rector, smiling. "Cold, that all should bebeloved of His heart? Dear maid, 'tis not that He loveth her the less, but that He loveth the other more. "

As Blanche made no response, Mr Tremayne went on. 

"There is another side to this matter, Mistress Blanche, that I daresayyou have ne'er looked upon: and it toucheth at once the matter ofimages, and the reverence due unto Saint Mary. Know you that great partof the images held in worship for her by the Papists, be no images ofher at all? All the most ancient--and many be very ancient--were ne'ermade for Mary. The marvel-working black Virgins--our Lady ofEinsiedeln, our Lady of Loretto, and all such--be in very truth oldidols, of a certain Tuscan or Etruscan goddess, elder than the days ofthe Romans. [Note 3. ] Again, all they that are of fair complexion--suchas have grey eyes [blue eyes were then called grey] and yellow hair--these be not Mary the Jewess. We can cast no doubt she was dark. Whence then come all these fair-complexioned pictures? We might takeit, in all likelihood, from the fancy of the painters, that did accounta fair woman to be of better favour than a dark. But search you intopast history, and you shall find it not thus. These fair-favouredpictures be all of another than Mary; to wit, of that ancient goddess, in her original of the Babylonians, that was worshipped under diversnames all over the world, --in Egypt as Isis; in Greece, as Athene, Artemis, and Aphrodite; in Rome as Juno, Diana, and Venus: truly, everygoddess was but a diversity of this one. [Note 4. ] These, then, be nopictures of the Maid of Nazareth. And 'tis the like of other images, --they be christened idols. The famed Saint Peter, in his church at Romeis but a christened Jupiter. Wit you how Paganism was got rid of? Itwas by receiving of it into the very bosom of the Roman Church. Theceremonies of the Pagans were but turned, --from Ceres, Cybele, Isis, orAphrodite, unto Mary--from Apollo, Bacchus, Osiris, Tammuz, unto Christ. Thus, when these Pagans found that they did in very deed worship thesame god, and with the same observances, as of old--for the change wasin nothing save the name only--they became Christians by handfuls;--yea, by cityfuls. What marvel, I pray you? But how shall we call thisChurch of Rome, that thus bewrayed her trust, and sold her Lord againlike Judas? An idolatrous Christianity--nay, rather a baptisedidolatry! God hath writ her name, Mistress Blanche, on the last page ofHis Word; and it is, Babylon, Mother of all Abominations. "

"I do marvel, Master Tremayne, " said Blanche a little indignantly, though in a constrained voice, "how you dare bring such ill chargesagainst the Papistical Church. Do they not set great store by holiness, I pray you? Yea, have they not monks and nuns, and a celibatepriesthood, consecrate to greater holiness than other? How can youcharge them with wickedness and abomination?"

"Poor child!" murmured the Rector, as if to himself, --"she little wistwhat manner of life idolaters term holiness! Mistress Blanche, yondercloak of professed holiness hideth worser matter than you can so much asthink on. 'Tis not I that set that name on the Papistical Church. Itwas God Himself. Will you tell me, moreover, an' it like you, --What isholiness?"

"Goodness--right-doing. "

"Those be unclear words, methinks. They may mean well-nigh aught. Forme, I would say, Holiness is walking with God, and according to the willof God. "

"Well! Is not God pleased with the doing of good?"

"God is pleased with nothing but Christ. He is not pleased with youbecause of your deeds. He must first accept _you_, and that not for anyyour deserving, but for the sake of the alone merits of His Son; andthen He shall be pleased with your deeds, since they shall be such asHis Spirit shall work in you. But nothing can please God except thatwhich cometh from God. Your works, apart from Him, be dead works. Andyou cannot serve the living God with dead works. "

Blanche's half-unconscious shrug of the shoulders conveyed theinformation that this doctrine was not agreeable to her. 

"Surely God will be pleased with us if we do out best!" she muttered. 

"By no means, " said Mr Tremayne quietly. "Your best is not good enoughfor God. He likeneth that best of yours to filthy rags. What shouldyou say to one that brought you a present of filthy rags, so foul thatyou could not so much as touch them?"

Blanche, who was extremely dainty as to what she touched, quiteappreciated this simile. She found an answer, nevertheless. 

"God is merciful, Mr Tremayne. You picture Him as hard and unpitiful. "

"Verily, Mistress Blanche, God is merciful: more than you nor I mayconceive. But God hath no mercies outside of Christ. Come to Himbringing aught in your hand save Christ, and He hath nought to say toyou. And be you ware that you cannot come and bring nothing. If youbring not Christ, assuredly you shall bring somewhat else, --your ownworks, or your own sufferings, or in some manner your own deservings. And for him that cometh with his own demerits in hand, God hath noughtsaving the one thing he hath indeed demerited, --which is--Hell. "

Mr Tremayne spoke so solemnly that Blanche felt awed. But she did notrelish the doctrine which he preached any better on that account. 

"How have I demerited that?" she asked. 

"God Himself shall answer you. `He that hath not the Son of God hathnot life. ' `He that believeth not is condemned already. '"

"But I do believe--all Christians believe!" urged Blanche. 

"What believe you?"

"I believe unfeignedly all that the creed saith touching our Lord. "

"And I believe as unfeignedly all that the Commentaries of Caesar saytouching that same Julius Caesar. "

"What mean you, Master Tremayne?"

"What did Julius Caesar for me, Mistress Blanche?"

"Marry, nought at all, " said Blanche, laughing, "without his invading ofEngland should have procured unto us some civility which else we hadlacked. "

Civility, at that time, meant civilisation. When, according to thewondrous dreamer of Bedford Gaol, Mr Worldly Wiseman referredChristian, if he should not find Mr Legality at home, to the prettyyoung man called Civility, whom he had to his son, and who could takeoff a burden as well as the old gentleman himself, --he meant, not whatwe call civility, but what we call civilisation. That pretty young manis at present the most popular physician of the day; and he still goesto the town of Morality to church. The road to his house is crowdedmore than ever, though the warning has been standing for two hundredyears, that "notwithstanding his simpering looks, he is but ahypocrite, "--as well as another warning far older, --"Behold, the fear ofthe Lord, that is wisdom. " [Job twenty-eight verse 28. ]

"But now, " said the Rector, with an answering smile, "tell me, what didJesus Christ for me?"

"He is the Saviour, " she said in a low voice. 

"Of whom, dear maid?"

Blanche felt rather vague on that point, and the feeling was combinedwith a conviction that she ought not to be so. She tried to give ananswer which could not be contradicted. 

"Of them that believe. "

"Certes, " said Mr Tremayne, suppressing a smile, for he saw bothBlanche's difficulty and her attempt to evade it. "But that, look you, landeth us on the self place where we were at aforetime: who be theythat believe?"

Blanche wisely determined to commit herself no further. 

"Would it please you to tell me, Sir?"

"Dear child, if you heard me to say, touching some man that we both wereacquaint withal, --`I believe in John'--what should you conceive that Idid signify?"

"I would account, " said Blanche readily, thinking this question easy toanswer, "that you did mean, `I account of him as a true man; I trusthim; I hold him well worthy of affiance. '"

"Good. And if, after thus saying, you should see me loth to trust anhalf-angel into his hands to spend for me, --should you think that mineact did go with my words, or no?"

"Assuredly, nay. "

"Then look you, Mistress Blanche, that it is greater matter than youmaybe made account, when a man shall say, `I believe in Jesus Christ. 'For it signifieth not only that I believe He was born, and lived, andsuffered, and arose, and ascended. Nay, but it is, I account of Him asa true man; I trust Him, with body and soul, with friends and goods: Ihold Him worthy of all affiance, and I will hold back nothing, neithermyself nor my having, from His keeping and disposing. (Ah, my maid!which of us can say so much as this, at all times, and of all matters?)But above all, in the relation whereof we have spoken, it is to say, Itrust Christ with my soul. I lean it wholly upon Him. I have no hopein myself; He is mine hope. I have no righteousness of myself; He is myrighteousness. I have no standing before God, --I demerit nought buthell; but Christ standeth before God for me: His blood hath washed meclean from all sin, and His pleading with God availeth to hold me up inHis ways. And unless or until you can from your heart thus speak I prayyou say not again that you believe in Jesus Christ. "

"But, Master, every man cannot thus believe. "

"No man can thus believe until God have taught him. "

Blanche thought, but was not bold enough to say, that she did not seewhy anybody should believe such disagreeable things about himself. Shedid not feel this low opinion of her own merits. Hers was the naturalreligion of professing Christians--that she must do the best she could, and Christ would make up the remainder. Mr Tremayne knew what waspassing in her mind as well as if she had spoken it. 

"You think that is hard?" said he. 

"_I_ think it--Mr Tremayne, I could not thus account of myself. "

"You could not, dear maid. I am assured of that. "

"Then wherein lieth my fault?" demanded Blanche. 

"In that you will not. "

Blanche felt stung; and she spoke out now, with one of those bursts ofconfidence which came from her now and then. 

"That is sooth, Master. I will not. I have not committed such sins ashave many men and women. I ne'er stole, nor murdered, nor used profaneswearing, nor worshipped idols, nor did many another ill matter: and Icannot believe but that God shall be more merciful to such than to theevil fawtors [factors, doers] that be in the world. Where were Hisjustice, if no?"

"Mistress Blanche, you wit neither what is God, neither what is sin. The pure and holy law of God is like to a golden ring. You account, that because you have not broken it on this side, nor on that side, youhave not broken it at all. But if you break it on any side, it isbroken; and you it is that have broken it. "

"Wherein have I broken it?" she asked defiantly. 

"`All unrighteousness is sin. ' Have you alway done rightly, all yourlife long? If not, then you are a sinner. "

"Oh, of course, we be all sinners, " said Blanche, as if that were a veryslight admission. 

"Good. And a sinner is a condemned criminal. He is not come into thisworld to see if he may perchance do well, and stand: he is alreadyfallen; he is already under condemnation of law. "

"Then 'tis even as I said, --there is no fault in any of us, " maintainedBlanche, sturdily clinging to her point. 

"`This is the condemnation, that light is come into the world, and menloved darkness rather than light, because their deeds were evil. '"

"Nay, Master Tremayne, you be now too hard on me. I love not darknessrather than light. "

"God saith you so do, dear maid. And He knoweth--ay, better thanyourself. But look not only on that side of the matter. If a manbelieve that and no more, 'tis fit to drive him unto desperation. Lookup unto the writing which is over the gate into God's narrow way--thegate and the way likewise being His Son Jesus Christ--and read Hismessage of peace sent unto these sinners. `Whosoever will, let him takethe water of life freely. ' It is God's ordering, that whosoever _will_, he can. "

"You said but this last Sunday, Master Tremayne, that 'twas not possiblefor any man to come to Christ without God did draw him thereto. "

"_I_ said, my maid? My Master it was which said that. Well--what so?"

"Then we can have nought to answer for; for without God do draw us, wecannot come. "

"And without we be willing to be thus drawn, God will not do it. "

"Nay, but you said, moreover, that the very will must come from God. "

"Therein I spake truth. "

Blanche thought she had now driven her pastor into a corner. 

"Then you do allow, " she asked triumphantly, "that if I should not willthe same, I am clean of all fault, sith the very will must needs comefrom God?"

Mr Tremayne understood the drift of his catechumen. 

"An' it like you, Mistress Blanche, we will leave a moment to makeinquiry into that point, till we shall have settled another, of moreimport to you and me. "

"What is it, Master?"

"Are you willing?"

"Willing that I should be saved eternally? Most assuredly. "

"Then--willing that all the will of God shall be done, in you and byyou?"

"The one followeth not the other. "

"I cry you mercy. The King of kings, like other princes, dealeth withHis rebels on his own terms. "

Blanche was silent, and, very uncomfortable. 

"'Tis time for me to be about my duties. When you shall have fullysettled that point of your willingness, Mistress Blanche, and shall havedetermined that you are thus willing--which God grant!--then, an' itlike you, we will go into the other matter. "

And Mr Tremayne left the room with a bow, very well knowing that assoon as the first point was satisfactorily settled, the second would beleft quiescent. 

Mrs Tremayne had never opened her lips; and leaving her in the study, Blanche wandered into the parlour, where Clare and Lysken were seated atwork. 

"I marvel what Master Tremayne would have!" said Blanche, sitting downin the window, and idly pulling the dead leaves from the plant whichstood there. "He saith 'tis our own fault that we will not to be saved, and yet in the self breath he addeth that the will so to be must needsbe given us of God. "

Lysken looked up. 

"Methinks we are all willing enow to be saved from punishment, " shesaid. "What we be unwilling to be saved from is sin. "

"`Sin'--alway sin!" muttered Blanche. "Ye be both of a story. Sin iswickedness. I am not wicked. "

"Sin is the disobeying of God, " replied Lysken. "And saving thypresence, Blanche, thou art wicked. "

"Then so art thou!" retorted Blanche. 

"So I am, " said Lysken. "But I am willing to be saved therefrom. "

"Prithee, Mistress Elizabeth Barnevelt, from what sin am I not willingto be saved?"

"Dost truly wish to know?" asked Lysken in her coolest manner. 

"Certes!"

"Then--pride. "

"Pride is no sin!"

"I love not gainsaying, Blanche. But I dare in no wise gainsay theLord. And He saith of pride, that it is an abomination unto Him, and Hehateth it. " [Proverbs six, verse 16; and sixteen verse 5. ]

"But that is ill and sinful pride, " urged Blanche. "There is properpride. "

"It seemeth to my poor wits, " said Lysken, "that a thing which the Lordhateth must be all of it improper. "

"Why, Lysken! Thus saying, thou shouldst condemn all high spirit andnoble bearing!"

"`Blessed are the poor in spirit. ' There was no pride in Christ, Blanche. And thou wilt scarce say that He bare Him not nobly. "

"Why, then, we might as well all be peasants!"

"I suppose we might, if we were, " said Lysken. 

"Lysken, it should be a right strange world, where thou hadst thegovernance!"

"Very like, " was Lysken's calm rejoinder, as she set the pin a littlefurther in her seam. 

"What good is it, prithee, to set thee up against all men's opinion?[What are now termed `views' were then called `opinions. '] Thou shaltbut win scorn for thine. "

"Were it only mine, Blanche, it should be to no good. But when it isGod's command wherewith mine opinion runneth, --why then, the good shallbe to hear Christ say, `Well done, faithful servant. ' The scorn I barehere shall be light weight then. "

"But wherefore not go smoothly through the world?"

"Because it should cost too much. "

"Nay, what now?" remonstrated Blanche. 

"I have two lives, Blanche: and I cannot have my best things in both. The one is short and passing; the other is unchangeable, and shall standfor ever. Now then, I would like my treasures for the second of thesetwo lives: and if I miss any good thing in the first, it shall be nogreat matter. "

"Thou art a right Puritan!" said Blanche disgustedly. 

"Call not names, Blanche, " gently interposed Clare. 

"Dear Clare, it makes he difference, " said Lysken. "If any call me aPapist, 'twill not make me one. "

"Lysken Barnevelt, is there aught in this world would move thee?"

"`In this world?' Well, but little, methinks. But--there will be somethings in the other. "

"What things?" bluntly demanded Blanche. 

"To see His Face!" said Lysken, the light breaking over her own. "Andto hear Him say, `Come!' And to sit down at the marriage-supper of theLamb, --with the outer door closed for ever, and the woes, and thewolves, and the winter, all left on the outside. If none of theseearthly things move me, Blanche, it is because those heavenly thingswill. "

And after that, Blanche was silent. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. The Gentiles (saith Saint Augustine), which seem to be of thepurer religion, say, We worship not the images, but by the corporalimage we do behold the signs of the things which we ought to worship. And Lactantius saith, The Gentiles say, We fear not the images, but themafter whose likeness the images be made, and to whose names they beconsecrated. And Clemens saith, That serpent the Devil uttereth thesewords by the mouth of certain men: We, to the honour of the invisibleGod, worship visible images. --(Third Part of the Homily on Peril ofIdolatry: references in margin to Augustine Ps. 135; Lactantius l. 2. Inst. ; Clem. , L. S ad Jacob. ) Here are the "Fathers" condemning asPagan the reasoning of modern Papists. 

Note 2. "Credit et defendit que in eucharistia sive altaris sacramentoverum et naturalem Christi corpus ac verus et naturalis Christi sanguissub speciebus panis et vini vere non est; et quod _ibi est materialispanis et materiale vinum_ tantum absque veritati et presentia corporiset sanguinis Christi. "--Indictment of Reverend Lawrence Saunders, January 30, 1555; Harl. MS. 421, folio 44. 

"Tenes et defendes in prout quod in eucharistia sive sacramento altarisverum naturalem et realem Christi corpus ac verus naturalis et realisChristi sanguis sub speciebus panis et vini vere non est, sed _postconsecratione remanet substantia panis et vini_. "--Indictment ofReverend Thomas Rose, May 31, 1555; Harl. MS. 421, folio 188. 

Note 3. There is the initial M on the pedestal of one or more of theseblack Virgins, which of course the priests interpret as Mary. This iscertainly not the case. It has been suggested that it stands for Maia, a name of the Tuscan goddess. May it not be the initial of Mylitta, "the Mediatrix, " one of the favourite names of the great originalgoddess?

Note 4. See Hislop's _Two Babylons_, pages 22, 122, 491, et aliis; andShepheard's _Traditions of Eden_, page 117, note (where many referencesare given), and page 188. 

CHAPTER TEN. 

COUNSEL'S OPINION. 

 "A cross of gold, of silver, or of wood, Or of mean straw, hid in each shape of life; Some trial working for eternal good, Found in our outward state or inward strife. "

"Bab! Art thou yonder?"

"Is it Jennet?"

"Ay. There's a gentlewoman i' th' bower to see thee. "

"Nay, --a gentlewoman! Who can it be?"

"I've told thee all I know. Hoo [she] wanted Mistress Clare; and I saidhoo were down at th' parsonage; then hoo said, `Is Barbara Polwhelehere?' And I said, `Ay, hoo's come o'er to fot [fetch] somewhat for th'young mistresses. ' So hoo said, `Then I'll speak wi' her. ' So I tookher to my Lady, for I see hoo were a gentlewoman; and hoo's i' th'bower. "

"I wis nought of her, " said Barbara. "I never looked to see none herethat I know. "

"Well, thou'd best go to her, " decided Jennet Barbara hurried down, andfound an old silver-haired lady sitting with Lady Enville, and addressedby her with marked deference. 

"Well, Bab!" said the old lady, who was brisk enough for her years;"thou dost not seem no younger since I saw thee in Cornwall, and themirror yonder saith neither am I. "

"Marry La'kin! but if I thought it metely possible, I would say it weresurely Mistress Philippa Basset!"

"I will not confute thee, Bab, though it be but metely possible, " saidthe lively old lady, laughing. "I came to see the child Clare; buthearing she was hence, I then demanded thee. I will go down to theparsonage anon. I would like well to see Robin, and Thekla likewise. "

"Eh, Mistress Philippa! but there be great and sore changes sithence youwere used to come unto the Lamb to see Mistress Avery!"

"Go to, Barbara! Hast dwelt sixty years, more or less, in this world, and but now found out that all things therein be changeable? What bethy changes to mine? Child, there is not a soul that I loved in thosedays when Isoult dwelt in the Minories, that is not now with God inHeaven. Not a soul! Fifty years gone, brethren and sisters, there wereseven of us. All gone, save me!--a dry old bough, that sticketh yetupon the tree whence all the fair green shoots have been lopped away. And I the eldest of all! The ways of God's Providence be strange. "

"I said so much once unto Master Robin, " responded Barbara with a smile;"but he answered, 'twas no matter we apprehended not the same, for theLord knew all, and ordered the end from the beginning. "

"He hath ordered me a lonely journey, and a long, " said Philippa sadly. "Well! even a Devon lane hath its turning. "

"And what brought you thus far north, Mistress Philippa, an' I make nottoo bold?"

"Why, I came to see Bridget's childre. I have bidden these four monthsgone with Jack Carden. And being so nigh ye all, I thought I wouldnever turn home without seeing you. "

Lady Bridget Carden was the daughter of Philippa Basset's step-father. They were not really related; but they had been brought up as sistersfrom their girlhood. 

"Nigh, Mistress Philippa!" exclaimed Barbara in surprise. "What, fromCheshire hither!"

Philippa laughed merrily. "Marry come up, Bab! thou hast not dweltseven years in Calais, as I have, and every yard of lawn for thypartlets to be fetched from London, and every stone of thy meat to boot. Why, thou earnest thine own self as far as from Cornwall. "

"Eh, marry La'kin! Never came I that way but once, and if God beserved, [if it be His will] I never look to turn again. "

Philippa turned to Lady Enville, who had sat, or rather reclined, playing with a hand-screen, while she listened to the precedingconversation. "And how goeth it with the child, tell me, Orige? She isnot yet wed, trow?"

"Not yet, " replied Lady Enville, with her soft smile. "I shall ne'er beastonied if she wed with Arthur Tremayne. 'Twere a very fair match, andhe is good enough for Clare. "

"A good stock, and an old; and a good lad, I trust. Thou must have acare, Orige, not to cast the child away on one that will not deal welland truly by her. "

"Oh, Arthur would deal well, " said Lady Enville carelessly. "He is amighty sobersides, and so is Clare. They were cut out for one another. "

"Poor child!" said Philippa. 

"`Poor child'--and wherefore, Mrs Basset, say you so?"

"Because, Orige, it seemeth me she hath no mother. "

"Nay, Mistress Basset, what signify you?"

"No mother, Orige--or as good as none. An' Clare had been my child, Ihad never handed her o'er, to Arthur Tremayne nor any other, with nomore heed than a napron-full of sticks. "

"Well, in very deed, I do take the better care of the twain for Blancheto be well matched. Lo' you, Mistress Basset, Blanche is of goodlineage; and she is rare lovesome--well-nigh as fair as I was at heryears--so that I would not have her to cast herself away, in no wise:but for Clare--which hath small beauty, and is of little sort--it makethnot much matter whom she may wed. "

"Good lack, Orige Enville, is a maid's heart no matter?--is a maid'slife no matter? Why, woman! thou lackest stirring up with a poker! Imarvel if I were sent hither to do it. "

"Gramercy, Mistress Basset!" cried Lady Enville in horror. "Thatstirring up is it which I can in no wise abide. "

"The which shows how much thou lackest it. But I am afeard thou art toofar gone for any good. Well, I will look after the child; and I willset Thekla on to do it. And if I find Arthur to be a good man and true, and Clare reasonable well affected unto him, --trust me, I will notinterfere. But if not, --Orige, I will not see Walter's child cast away, if thou wilt. "

"Nay, good lack, Mrs Basset, what would you do?"

Lady Enville knew the energy and determination of the old lady'scharacter, and that if she set her mind upon a course of action, she waspretty sure to carry it through, and to make other people do as shewished. 

"I will do _that_" said Philippa decidedly. "I will judge whether thelot thou hast chalked out for Clare be fit for her. "

"But in case you judge it not so, what then?"

"Then I will have the child away. "

"I could ne'er allow that, Mistress Basset, " said Lady Enville withunusual decision. 

"I shall ne'er ask thee, Orige, " returned Philippa, with a slightlycontemptuous stress upon the pronoun. "I will talk with thine husband;I trust he will hear reason, though thou mayest not. And I could findgood places enow for Clare; I have many friends in the Court. My LadyDowager of Kent [Susan Bertie, the only daughter of Katherine Duchess ofSuffolk] would work, I know, for Isoult Barry's granddaughter; and sowould Beatrice Vivian [a fictitious person], Isoult's old comrade, thathath a daughter and a niece to boot in the Queen's chamber. And I daresay my Lady Scrope [Note 1] would do somewhat for me. Any way, I wouldassay it. "

"What, to have Clare in the Queen's Majesty's Court?" demanded LadyEnville, her eyes sparkling with interest and pleasure. "O MistressBasset, could you not compass the same for Blanche?"

"In the Court! By my troth, nay!" said Philippa heartily. "I wouldnever set maid that I cared a pin for in Queen Bess's Court. Soothly, there _be_ good women there, but--And as for Blanche, --I will see her, Orige, ere I say aught. Blanche hath stole all thine heart, methinks--so much as there was to steal. "

"But what meant you touching Clare, Mistress Basset?"

"What meant I? Why, to have her with some worthy and well-conditioneddame of good degree, that should see her well bestowed. I would trustmy Lady Dowager of Kent, forsooth, or my Lady Scrope--she is a goodwoman and a pleasant--or maybe--"

"And my Lady Scrope is herself in the Court, I take it, " said LadyEnville, pursuing her own train of thought, independent of that ofPhilippa. 

"Ay, and were therefore the less fitting, " said Philippa coolly. "Takeno thought thereabout, Orige; I will do nought till I have seen themaidens. "

"But, Mistress Basset! you would ne'er count that mine husband's word, that is not in very deed her father, should weigh against mine, that amher true and natural mother?" urged Lady Enville in an injured tone. 

"Thou art her natural mother, Orige, 'tis sooth, " was the uncompromisinganswer: "but whether true or no, that will I not say. I rather thinknay than yea. And if thine husband be better father unto the child thanthou mother, he is the fitter to say what shall come of the maid. And Ican alway reason with a man easilier than a woman. Women be geese, mostly!"

With which reasonably plain indication of her sentiments, the old ladyrose and took her leave. She would have no escort to the parsonage. She would come back and be introduced to Sir Thomas when she had seenthe girls. And away she trudged, leaving Lady Enville in theundesirable situation of one who feels that a stronger will than his ownis moulding his fate, and running counter to his inclinations. 

Open doors were kept at the parsonage, as was generally the case inElizabethan days. It was therefore no surprise to Mrs Tremayne, whowas occupied in the kitchen, with her one servant Alison acting underher orders, to hear a smart rap on the door which shut off the kitchenfrom the hall. 

"Come within!" she called in answer, expecting some parishioner in wantof advice or alms. 

But in marched an upright, brisk old lady, with silver hair, and a stoutstaff in her hand. 

"I am come to see Thekla Rose, " said she. 

Mrs Tremayne was surprised now. It was thirty years since that namehad belonged to her. 

"And Thekla Rose has forgot me, " added the visitor. 

"There is a difference betwixt forgetting and not knowing, " replied MrsTremayne with a smile. 

"There is so, " returned the old lady. "Therefore to make me known, which I see I am not, --my name is Philippa Basset. "

The exclamation of delighted recognition which broke from the Rector'swife must have shown Philippa that she was by no means forgotten. MrsTremayne took her visitor into the parlour, just then unoccupied, --seated her in a comfortable cushioned chair, and, leaving Alison to bakeor burn the cakes and pie in the oven as she found it convenient, hadthenceforward no eyes and ears but for Philippa Basset. Certainly thelatter had no cause to doubt herself welcome. 

"I spake truth, Thekla, child, when I said I was come to see thee. Yetit was but the half of truth, for I am come likewise to see Robin: and Iwould fain acquaint me with yonder childre. Be they now within doors?"

"They be not all forth, or I mistake, " said Mrs Tremayne; and she wentto the door and called them--all four in turn. Blanche answered fromthe head of the stairs, but avowed herself ignorant of the whereaboutsof any one else; and Mrs Tremayne begged her to look for and bring suchas she could find to the parlour, to see an old friend of Clare'sfamily. 

In a few minutes Blanche and Lysken presented themselves. Arthur andClare were not to be found. Philippa's keen, quick eyes surveyed thetwo girls as they entered, and mentally took stock of both. 

"A vain, giddy goose!" was her rapid estimate of Blanche; wherein, ifshe did Blanche a little injustice, there was some element of truth. "Calm and deep, like a river, " she said to herself of Lysken: and thereshe judged rightly enough. 

Before any conversation beyond the mere introductions could occur, introtted Mrs Rose. 

"Mistress Philippa, you be the fairest ointment for the eyen that I haveseen these many days!" said the lively little Flemish lady. "_Ma foi_!I do feel myself run back, the half of my life, but to look on you. Iam a young woman once again. "

"Old friend, we be both of us aged women, " said Philippa. 

"And it is true!" said Mrs Rose. "That will say, the joints be stiff, and the legs be weakened, and the fatigue is more and quicker: but Ifind not that thing within me, that men call my soul, to grow stiff norweak. I laugh, I weep, I am astonied, --just all same as fifty yearssince. See you?"

"Ah! you have kept much of the childly heart, " answered Philippasmiling. "But for me, the main thing with me that is not stiff nor weakin me is anger and grief. Men be such flat fools--and women worser, ifworse can be. "

Blanche opened her eyes in amazement Lysken looked amused. 

"Ah, good Mistress Philippa, I am one of the fools, " said Mrs Rose withgreat simplicity. "I alway have so been. "

"Nay, _flog_ me with a discipline if you are!" returned Philippaheartily. "I meant not you, old friend. You are not by one-tenth partso much as--" Her eye fell on Blanche. "Come, I name none. --And thouart Frank Avery's daughter?" she added, turning suddenly to Lysken. "Come hither, Frances, and leave me look on thee. "

"My name is not Frances, good Mistress, " replied Lysken, coming forwardwith a smile. 

"Isoult, then? It should be one or the other. "

"Nay--it is Elizabeth, " said Lysken, with a shake of her head. 

"More shame for thee, " retorted Philippa jokingly. "What business hadany to call thee Elizabeth?"

"My father's mother was Lysken Klaas. "

"Good. --Well, Thekla, I have looked this face o'er, and I can read noAvery therein. "

"'Tis all deep down in the heart, " said Mrs Tremayne. 

"The best place for it, " replied Philippa. "Thou wilt do, child, asmethinks. I would say it were easier to break thy heart than to beguilethy conscience. A right good thing--for the conscience. Is thisClare?" she asked, breaking off suddenly as Clare came in, with a tonewhich showed that she felt most interest in her of the three. She tookboth Clare's hands and studied her face intently. 

"Walter's eyes, " she said. "Isoult Barry's eyes! The maid could havenone better. And John Avery's mouth. Truth and love in the eyes;honour and good learning on the lips. Thou wilt do, child, and thatrarely well. "

"Mistress Philippa Basset is a right old friend of thy dear grandame, Clare, " said Mrs Tremayne in explanation. "Thou canst not rememberher, but this worthy gentlewoman doth well so, and can tell thee much ofher when they were young maids together, and thy grandmother wasgentlewoman unto Mistress Philippa her mother, my sometime LadyViscountess Lisle. "

Clare looked interested, but she did not say much. 

Mr Tremayne and Arthur came in together, only just in time forfour-hours. 

"God save thee, Robin dear!" was Philippa's greeting. "Art rested fromLittle Ease? I saw thee but slightly sithence, mind thou, and never hadno good talk with thee. "

Mr Tremayne laughed more merrily than was usual with him. 

"Good Mistress Philippa, if thirty years were not enough to rest a man, in very deed he were sore aweary. "

"Now, Arthur, " said Philippa, turning to him bluntly, "come and let melook thee o'er. "

Arthur obeyed, with grave lips, but amused eyes. 

"Robin's eyes--Thekla's mouth--Father Rose's brow--Custance Tremayne'schin, " she said, enumerating them rapidly. "If the inward answer theoutward, lad, thou shouldst be a rare good one. "

"Then I fear it doth not so, " said Arthur soberly, "Humbleness will dothee no hurt, lad. --Now, Thekla, let us have our four-hours. I couldeat a baken brick wall. Ay me! dost mind thee of the junkets, in olddays, at the Lamb?"

"Thekla, I told thee afore, and I do it yet again, --women be flat fools. The biggest I know is Orige Enville. And in good sooth, that is muchto say! She is past old Doll, at Crowe, that threw her kerchief overthe candle to put it out. Blanche may be a step the better; methinksshe is. But for all that, she is Orige Enville's daughter. I would assoon fetch my bodkin and pierce that child to the heart, as I would sendher to the Court, where her blind bat of a mother would fain have her. 'Twere the kindlier deed of the twain. Lack-a-daisy! she would makeshipwreck of life and soul in a month. Well, for Clare, then--I givethee to wit, Thekla, thou art that child's mother. Orige is not. Shenever was worth her salt. And she never will be. So the sooner thouwin the maid hither, the better for her. "

"She doth abide hither, Mistress Philippa, even now. "

"Tush, child! I mean the sooner she weds with Arthur. "

"Weds with Arthur!"

It was manifest that the idea had never entered Mrs Tremayne's headuntil Philippa put it there. 

"Prithee, wherefore no?" demanded the old lady coolly. "Orige means it. Mercy on us, Thekla Rose! art thou gone wood?"

"Mrs Philippa! Who e'er told you my Lady Enville meant any suchthing?"

"The goose told me herself, " said Philippa bluntly, with a short laugh. "'Twas not in a civil fashion, Thekla. She said Arthur was good enoughfor Clare; it recked not whom Clare wedded withal. Marry come up! if Ihad not let mine head govern mine hands, I had fetched her a good crackon the crown with my staff. It could ne'er have hurt her brain--she hasnone. What were such women born for, do all the saints wit?--without itwere to learn other folk patience. "

Thekla Tremayne was a woman, and a mother. She would have been morethan human if she had not felt hurt for this insult to her boy. WasClare, or anything else in the world, too good for her one darling?

"Come, --swallow it, Thekla, and have done, " said Philippa. "And by wayof a morsel of sugar at after the wormwood, I will tell thee I do notthink Clare hates him. I studied her face. "

"Mistress Philippa, you read faces so rarely, I would you could readLucrece Enville. Margaret, which is eldest of the three, is plainreading; I conceive her conditions [understand her disposition] well. But Lucrece hath posed me ever since I knew her. "

"I will lay thee a broad shilling, child, I read her off like thoushouldst a hornbook when I see her. Ay, I have some skill touchingfaces: I have been seventy years at the work. "

That evening, just before supper, the indefatigable old lady marchedinto the hall at Enville Court. Lady Enville introduced her to SirThomas and Mistress Rachel, and presented her step-daughters and Jack. Philippa made her private comments on each. 

"A worthy, honest man--not too sharp-sighted, " she said of Sir Thomas toherself. "And a good, sound-hearted woman"--of Mistress Rachel. "Thereis a pickie, or I mistake, " greeted Jack. "This is Margaret, is it?Clear as crystal: not deep, but clear. But this face"--as Lucrece camebefore her--"is deep enough. Not deep like a river, but like a snake. I could do well enough with your plain, honest sister; but I love younot, Mistress Lucrece. Enville. Your graceful ways do not captivateme. Ah! it takes a woman to know a woman. And the men, poor sillythings! fancy they know us better than we do each other. "

If Philippa had spoken that last sentiment audibly, she would have wonthe fee-simple of Rachel Enville's heart. 

"Sir Thomas, " said Philippa, when they rose from supper, "when it maystand with your conveniency, I would fain have an half-hour's talk withyou. "

Sir Thomas was ready enough to confer with the old lady, whom he liked, and he led her courteously to his wife's boudoir. Lady Enville sat downin her cushioned chair, and made a screen of her fan. 

"Sir Thomas, " began Philippa bluntly, "I would fain wit what you andOrige mean to do with Clare? Forgive my asking; I love the child forher grandame's sake. "

"Good Mistress, you be full welcome to ask the same. But for me, I knownot how to answer, for I never took any thought thereupon. Hadst thouthought thereon, Orige?"

"I counted her most like to wed with Arthur Tremayne, " said Lady Envillecarelessly. 

"I ne'er thought of him, " remarked Sir Thomas. 

"If it be so, good, " said Philippa. "I have looked the lad o'er, and Iam satisfied with him. And now, I pray you, take one more word from anold woman, of your gentleness. What do you with Blanche?"

In answer to this question--for Philippa was well known to Sir Thomas byrepute, and he was prepared to trust her thoroughly--the whole story ofDon Juan came out. Philippa sat for a minute, looking thoughtfully intothe fire. 

"Have a care of yonder maid, " she said. 

"But what fashion of care, Mistress Basset? An' you grant it me, Iwould value your thought thereupon. "

Philippa turned to Sir Thomas. 

"Have you not, " she said, "made somewhat too much of this matter? Notthat it was other than grave, in good sooth; yet methinks it had beenbetter had you not let Blanche see that you counted it of so muchimport. I fear she shall now go about to count herself of mightyimportance. Childre do, when you make much of their deeds; and Blancheis but a child yet, and will so be for another year or twain. Now thisyoung man is safe hence, I would say, Fetch her home. And let none evername the matter afore her again; let bygones be bygones. Only give herto see that you account of her as a silly child for the past, but yetthat you have hope she shall be wiser in the future. "

"Well, herein I see not with you, " said Lady Enville. "I had thought itrare good fortune for Blanche to wed with Don John. "

Sir Thomas moved uneasily, but did not answer. Philippa turned andlooked at the speaker. 

"That was like, " she said quietly. But neither of her hearers knew howmuch meaning lay beneath the words. 

"And what think you touching Lucrece?" asked Mrs Tremayne the next day, when Philippa was again at the parsonage. 

"I ne'er had a fancy for snakes, Thekla. "

"Then you count her deceitful? That is it which I have feared. "

"Have a care, " said Philippa. "But what is to fear? A care of what?"

"Nay, what feareth any from a snake? That he should sting, I take it. He may do it while you be looking. But he is far more like to do itwhen you be not. "

The evening before the two sisters were to return to Enville Court, MrsTremayne and Clare were sitting alone in the parlour. Clare hadmanoeuvred to this end, for she wanted to ask her friend a question; andshe knew there was a particular period of the evening when Mr Tremayneand Arthur were generally out, and Lysken was occupied elsewhere. MrsRose and Blanche remained to be disposed of; but the former relievedClare's mind by trotting away with a little basket of creature comfortsto see a sick woman in the village; and it was easy to ask Blanche toleave her private packing until that period. But now that Clare had gotMrs Tremayne to herself, she was rather shy in beginning her inquiries. She framed her first question in a dozen different ways, rejected allfor various reasons, and finally--feeling that her opportunity wassliding away--came out with that one which she had most frequently castaside. 

"Mistress Tremayne, account you it alway sinful to harbour discontent?"

"I could much better answer thee, dear maid, if I knew the fountainwhence thy question springeth. "

This was just the point which Clare was most shy of revealing. But shereally wanted Mrs Tremayne's opinion; and with an effort she conqueredher shyness. 

"Well, --suppose it had pleased God to cast my lot some whither, that thedaily work I had to do was mighty dislikeful to me; and some othermaiden that I knew, had that to do withal which I would have loveddearly:--were it ill for me to wish that my business had been likehers?"

"Whom enviest thou, my child?" asked Mrs Tremayne very gently. 

Clare blushed, and laughed. 

"Well, I had not meant to say the same; but in very deed I do envyLysken. "

"And wherefore, dear heart?"

"Because her work is so much higher and better than mine. "

Mrs Tremayne did not answer for a moment. Then she said, --"Tell me, Clare, --suppose thy father's serving-men and maids should begin todispute amongst themselves, --if Sim were to say, `I will no longer servein the hall, because 'tis nobler work to ride my master's horses:' orKate were to say, `I will no longer sweep the chambers, sith 'tis highermatter to dress my master's meat:' and Nell, --`I will no longer dressthe meat, sith it were a greater thing to wait upon my mistress in herchamber, '--tell me, should the work of the house be done better, orworser?"

"Worser, no doubt. "

"Well, dear heart, and if so, why should God's servants grudge to do thediffering works of their Master? If thou art of them, thy Master, hathset thee thy work. He saw what thou wert fit to do, and what was fit tobe done of thee; and the like of Lysken. He hath set thee where thouart; and such work as thou hast to do there is His work for thee. Alwayremembering, --if thou art His servant. "

Clare did not quite like that recurring conjunction. It sounded as ifMrs Tremayne doubted the fact. 

"You think me not so?" she asked in a low voice. 

"I hope thou art, dear Clare. But thou shouldst know, " was thesearching answer. 

There was silence after that, till Clare said, with a sigh, "Then youreckon I ought not to wish for different work?"

"I think not, my maid, that wishing and discontent be alway one and thesame. I may carry a burden right willingly and cheerfully, and yet feelit press hard, and be glad to lay it down. Surely there is no ill thatthou shouldest say to thy Father, `If it be Thy will, Father, I wouldfain have this or that. ' Only be content with His ordering, if Heshould answer, `Child, thou hast asked an evil thing. '"

There was another pause, during which Clare was thinking. 

"Am I the first to whom thou hast opened thine heart hereon, dearClare?"

"Well, I did let fall a word or twain at home, " said Clare smiling; "butI found no like feeling in response thereto. "

"Not even from Margaret?"

"Meg thought there was work enough at home, " replied Clare laughing, "and bade me go look in the mending-chest and see how much lackeddoing. "

"Nor Mistress Rachel?"

"Nay, Aunt Rachel said I might well be thankful that I was safe guardedat home, and had not need to go about this wicked world. "

"Well, there is reason in that. It is a wicked world. "

"Yet, surely, we need try to make it better, Mistress Tremayne: and--anywoman could stitch and cut as well as I. "

Clare spoke earnestly. Mrs Tremayne considered a little before sheanswered. 

"Well, dear heart, it may be the Lord doth design thee to be a worker inHis vineyard. I cannot say it is not thus. But if so, Clare, itseemeth me that in this very cutting and stitching, which thou so muchmislikest, He is setting thee to school to be made ready. Ere we be fitfor such work as thou wouldst have, we need learn much: and one lessonwe have to learn is patience. It may be that even now, if the Lord meanto use thee thus, He is giving thee thy lesson of patience. `Letpatience have her perfect work. ' 'Tis an ill messenger that is so eagerto be about his errand, that he will needs run ere he be sent. Thegreat Teacher will set thee the right lessons; see thou that they bewell learned: and leave it to Him to call thee to work when He seeththee ripe for it. "

"I thank you, " said Clare meekly; "maybe I am too impatient. "

"'Tis a rare grace, dear heart, --true patience: but mind thou, that isnot idleness nor backwardness. Some make that blunder, and think theybe patiently waiting for work when work waiteth for them, and they betoo lazy to put hand thereto. We need have a care on both sides. "

But though Mrs Tremayne gave this caution, in her own mind she thoughtit much more likely that Blanche would need it than Clare. 

"And why should I press back her eagerness, if the Lord hath need ofher? Truly"--and Thekla Tremayne sighed as she said this toherself--"`the labourers are few. '"

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. Philadelphia Carey, a kinswoman of Queen Elizabeth through hermother, Anne Boleyn. 

CHAPTER ELEVEN. 

CATCHING MOTHS. 

 "For my soul's sake, Maid Marjorie, And yet for my soul's sake, - I know no wrong I've done to thee, Nor why thy heart should break. "

Rather late on the same evening, Sir Thomas walked into the parsonage, and rapped with his silver-hilted staff at the parlour door. Clare hadgone up-stairs, and Mrs Tremayne was at that moment alone. She offeredto send for her young guests, but he declined; he wished first to speakwith her apart. He told her that Don Juan had gone to London; and thatbefore leaving him, that estimable young gentleman had franklycommunicated the interesting fact that he was bound by an engagement toa lady of his own country. 

"Now what think you? Were it better, or worser, that Blanche shouldknow the same?"

"Better far--by all manner of means, " said the Rector's wife decidedly. 

"I thought even so, " replied Sir Thomas. "I had come sooner, but mywife was contrary thereto. "

Mrs Tremayne could not feel astonished to hear of any amount ofunwisdom on the part of Lady Enville, but she merely repeated that shethought it much better that Blanche should know. 

"It should help to open her eyes. Though in sooth I do think they bescantly so close shut as at the first. "

"Then you will tell the child, good Mistress?"

"If you so desire, assuredly: but wherefore not give her to wityourself?"

Sir Thomas evidently shrank from the idea. 

"For Blanche's sake, I do think it should be better, Sir Thomas. Youspeak as he that hath heard this right from Don Juan himself; for me, Ihave but heard it from you. "

"Well, if needs must--for Blanche's sake, then, " said her father, sighing. "Pray you, send the child hither. "

In another minute Blanche came in, with a warm welcome for her father ineyes and voice. 

"So thou comest home to-morrow, my skylark!" he said. "Art thou glad, or sorry, Blanche?"

"Oh, glad, Father!"

"And all we be glad likewise. --Blanche, Don John is gone to London. "

"Yes, I guessed so much, " she answered, in a rather constrained tone. 

"And ere he went, my darling, he said somewhat unto me which I reckon itbest thou shouldst hear likewise. "

Blanche looked up, surprised and expectant, --perhaps with a shade offear. Sir Thomas passed his arm round her, and drew her close to him. He anticipated a burst of tears, and was ready to console her. 

"He told me, dear heart, that he is, and for divers years hath so been, troth-plight unto a maiden of his own land, with whom he shall wed whenhe is gone home. "

There was no light in the room but from the fire, and Blanche's head wasbent low, so that her father could not see her face. But no tearsanswered him. No answer came at all. Sir Thomas was astonished. 

"Doth it grieve thee, my Blanche?" he asked tenderly, when he had waiteda moment. 

He waited still another. Then the reply came. 

"I suppose it was better I should know it, " she said in a cold, hardvoice. 

"So thou seest, dear child, he meant not his fair words. "

"No, " she said, in the same tone. "He meant it not. "

Sir Thomas let her go. He thought she bore it uncommonly well. She didnot care much about it, thank Heaven! He was one of those numeroussurface observers who think that a woman cannot be startled if she doesnot scream, nor be unhappy if she does not weep. 

Blanche went quietly enough out of the room, saying that she would sendClare. Her father did not see that in the middle of the stairs shepaused, with a tight grasp on the banister, till the deadly faintnessshould pass off which seemed to make the staircase go spinning roundher. Clare noticed nothing peculiar when Blanche came into theirbedroom, and told her that Sir Thomas was below. But as soon as hersister was gone, Blanche knelt down by the bed, and buried her face inthe counterpane. 

This, then, was the end. The shrine was not only deserted--it wasdestroyed: the idol was not only dethroned--it was broken, and shown tobe nothing but stone. Don Juan was not true. Nay, worse--he never hadbeen true. His vow of eternal fidelity was empty breath; his reiteratedprotestations of single and unalterable love were worth just nothing. He had only been amusing himself. He had known all the while, that inexchange for the solid gold of her young heart, he was offering her theveriest pinchbeck. 

Blanche had been half awake before, and she was wide awake now. Yet theawakening, for all that, was very bitter. Naturally enough, her firstthought was that all men were of this stamp, and that there was no truthin any of them. Aunt Rachel was right:--they were a miserable, false, deceiving race, created for the delusion and suffering of woman: shewould never believe another of them as long as she lived. There mightbe here and there an exception to the rule, such as her father or MrTremayne; she could not believe such evil of them: but that was therule. And Blanche, being not quite seventeen, declared to herself thatafter this vast and varied experience of the world, she would never--notif she lived to be a hundred--_never_ trust man again. 

She slipped quietly down-stairs, and caught Sir Thomas just as he wasleaving the house. 

"Father!" she whispered, sliding into his hand the little packet of DonJuan's hair, "maybe I ought to have given you this aforetime. Allgatesnow take it; it is nought to me any more--sith he is hot. "

Sir Thomas transferred the little parcel to his pocket. 

"'Give thee good night, my jewel! We shall all be fain to have theehome again to-morrow. "

Blanche returned the greeting, but glided away again, and was seen verylittle that night. But Mrs Tremayne guessed the state of the girl'smind more truly than Sir Thomas had done. 

The next day they went home. 

"Bless thee, my precious Blanche!" was Lady Enville's greeting. "Andthee too, Clare. Good lack, how faded is yon camlet! 'Tis well ye werebut at the parsonage, for it should have shamed thee any other whither. "

"Well, child!" said Aunt Rachel. "I trust thou hast come home to worklike a decent lass, and not sit moaning with thine hands afore thee likea cushat dove. What man ever trod middle earth that was worth a moan?"

"I will essay to give you content, Aunt Rachel, " said Blanche quietly. 

"Clare, my good lass, I have lacked thee sorely. I scarce wis what todo without thee. "

Clare looked pleased. "Well, Aunt Rachel, I am come to work, and thatwith a will, " she answered cheerily. 

"I am thankful to hear it. Now, if Heaven's will it be, all thingsshall go on as usual once again. "

But nothing was to go on as usual any more. 

Not for Margaret, for Harry Travis had returned from the Netherlands, and her marriage was to be that day six weeks. Not for Lucrece, who waselated with what she considered her triumph over Blanche, and was on thelook-out for fresh laurels. Not for Blanche, as the reader knows: norfor Clare, as he soon will know: nor even for Rachel herself--

 "Though only the sorrow of others Threw its shadow over her. "

There was but one person to whom matters went on at all as usual, andthat was Lady Enville. As usual, to her, meant a handsome dress, acushioned chair, a good dinner, and an occasional junketing: and sincerecent events had not interfered with any of these, Lady Enville went onmuch as usual. Yet even she never ceased to regret Blanche's lostcoronet, which no revelation of Don Juan's duplicity would ever persuadeher had not been lying at her daughter's feet, ready to be taken up andworn. She was one of those persons who will not believe anything whichthey do not wish to be true; and on them vouchers and verifications arealways thrown away. 

The first point different from usual was that Arthur Tremayne began todrop in continually at Enville Court. Lady Enville was gratified, forshe thought her neat little arrangement was taking effect; and it wouldbe a comfort, she said to herself, to have Clare off her hands. Shesaid this one day to Rachel: but though, she knew that worthy spinster'sopinion of matrimony, yet she was hardly prepared for the diatribe whichshe received in answer. Rachel had lately, and with much annoyance, began to perceive--what she had never seen so clearly before--that LadyEnville cared very little for her elder daughter. And of all the fourgirls, Clare was Rachel's darling. She was prepared to do battle in hercause to a greater extent than she herself knew. So, having receivedthis hint, Rachel set herself to watch Arthur, and see that he behavedproperly. 

It was not easy to guess Arthur's motive in coming. He usually satbetween Clare and Blanche when he was present at supper; and just nowthat was pretty often. But either of the two might be the attraction. In other respects, his courtesies were evenly divided among the four, and were not pointed to any. 

Meanwhile, Clare was honestly trying to do the work set her well, and tobe contented with it. She often carried her troubles to Mrs Tremayne, and sought advice or cheering at her hands: nor was she ever sent awayunsatisfied. Rachel was delighted with Clare's steady and cheerfulhelp, and complacently thought that the parsonage had done her good. 

So the summer drew on, and Margaret was married to Harry Travis, andwent to live in another part of the county. 

On a late afternoon in autumn, Clare stood in the arbour, tying upbouquets. An old friend of Sir Thomas was expected on a visit, and waslikely to arrive that evening. This was Sir Piers Feversham, [fictitious person] a Norfolk knight, of Lancashire extraction on hismother's side, who had not seen Sir Thomas Enville since both had beenyoung squires together in the household of the Earl of Derby. Hisnephew and heir presumptive, John Feversham, [fictitious person] wascoming with him. There was little presumption, to all appearance, aboutthe heirship, for Sir Piers bore the character of a confirmed oldbachelor, and was now upwards of sixty. 

Clare's bouquets were nearly all tied up, and ready to be carried to thehall, which was to be decorated in honour of the guests. She was tyingthe last but one, when she heard slow footsteps and low voices passingon the outside of the arbour. Not too low, however, for two sentencesto be audible inside, --words which blanched Clare's cheek, and made hertrembling fingers loose their hold, till the gathered flowers slid awayone by one, and lay a fragrant mass on the ground at her feet. 

The remarks which she overheard were limited to a fervent appeal and alow reply. The appeal--which was a declaration of love--was uttered inthe familiar accents of Arthur Tremayne; and the answer--a vaguedisclaimer of merit which sounded like a shy affirmative--came in thelow, soft voice of Lucrece Enville. 

Clare was totally ignorant of the fate which her mother had designed forher; nor had she ever realised until that evening that she cared morefor Arthur than she did for Jack. They were both like brothers to her:but now she suddenly felt that if it had been Jack whose voice she hadheard uttering similar words, it would have mattered little or nothingto her. 

The hardest thought of all was that of resigning him to Lucrece. Fourteen years had elapsed since that day of their childhood on whichClare had witnessed the first instance of Lucrece's duplicity; but shehad never been able to forget it, and it had infused a sort of vaguediscomfort and constraint into all their intercourse. 

"Oh, if it had been Lysken!" said Clare to her own heart. "I could haveborne it better. "

And it had to be borne, and in utter silence. _This_ trouble could notbe carried to Mrs Tremayne; and the idea of betraying Lucrece, as thatyoung lady had herself betrayed Blanche, would have seemed blacktreachery to Clare. No, things must take their course: and let themtake it, so long as that would make Arthur happy, and would be for hisgood. In her inmost heart Clare was sorely doubtful about both items. Well, she could ask God to grant them. 

It was half an hour later than she had expected when Clare carried hernosegays into the hall. She went on mechanically putting them in order, and finding, when she had finished, that there was one more than wasneeded, she carried it to her mother's boudoir. 

"How late thou art, Clare!" said Lady Enville, looking up from SirPhilip Sidney's Arcadia, which she was lazily reading. "Sir Piers maycome now at any minute. Hast made an end in the hall?"

"Ay, Madam. "

"Hast one posy left o'er? Set it here, by my chair, child. Dost knowwhere is Blanche?"

"No, Madam. "

"And Lucrece?"

"No, Madam. "

Clare's conscience smote her as soon as she had given this answer. Certainly she did not know where Lucrece was; but she could very wellguess. 

"I would thou wert not fully thus bashful, Clare; hast nought but `Ay'and `No'?--I would fain have thee seek Lucrece: I desire speech of her. "

Clare did not reply at all this time. She had disposed of her flowers, and she left the room. 

Seek Lucrece! Clare had never had a harder task. If the same burdenhad been laid on them, Lucrece would have left the commissionunfulfilled, and Blanche would have sent somebody else. But suchalternatives did not even suggest themselves to Clare's conscientiousmind. She went through the hall towards the garden door in search ofLucrece. 

"Child, what aileth thee?" asked a voice suddenly, as Clare was openingthe garden door. 

"I?" said Clare absently. "Lucrece--my mother would have me seek her. "

"Sit thee down, and I will send her to thy mother, " said Rachel. 

Away she went; and Clare sat down by the fire, feeling just then as ifshe could do little else. Lucrece glided through the hall with hersmooth, silent step, but did not appear to see Clare; and Rachelfollowed in a minute. 

"I have sent Lucrece to thy mother, " she said. "Now, child, what aileththee?"

"Oh--nothing, Aunt Rachel. "

"When I was a small maid, Clare, my mother told me that 'twas not wellto lie. "

"I did not--Aunt Rachel, I cry you mercy--I meant not--"

"Thou meantest not to tell me what ailed thee. I know that. But I meanto hear it, Clare. "

"'Tis nought, in very deed, Aunt--of any moment. "

"Nought of any moment to thee?"

"Nay, to--Oh, pray you, ask me not, Aunt Rachel! It makes no matter. "

"Ha! When a maid saith that, --a maid of thy years, Clare, --I knowmetely well what she signifieth. Thou art a good child. Get theeup-stairs and pin on thy carnation knots. "

Clare went up the wide hall staircase with a slow, tired step, andwithout making any answer beyond a faint attempt at a smile. 

"Ha!" said Rachel again, to herself. "Providence doth provide allthings. Methinks, though, at times, 'tis by the means of men and women, the which He maketh into little providences. I could find it in mineheart to fall to yonder game but now. Only I will bide quiet, methinks, till to-morrow. Well-a-day! if yon grandmother Eve of ours had ne'erate yon apple! Yet Master Tremayne will have it that I did eat it mineown self. Had I so done, Adam might have whistled for a quarter. Theblind, stumbling moles men are! Set a pearl and a pebble afore them, and my new shoes to an old shoeing-horn, but they shall pick up thepebble, and courtesy unto you for your grace. And set your mind on alad that you do count to have more sense than the rest, and beshrew meif he show you not in fair colours ere the week be out that he is asgreat a dunce as any. I reckon Jack shall be the next. Well, well!--let the world wag. 'Twill all be o'er an hundred years hence. Theyshall be doing it o'er again by then. Howbeit, 'tis ill work to weepo'er spilt milk. "

Sir Piers Feversham and his nephew arrived late that evening. Theformer was a little older than Sir Thomas Enville, and had mixed more ingeneral society;--a talkative, good-natured man, full of anecdote; andBlanche at least found him very entertaining. 

John Feversham, the nephew, was almost the antipodes of his uncle. Hewas not handsome, but there was an open, honest look in his grey eyeswhich bore the impress of sincerity. All his movements were slow anddeliberate, his manners very quiet and calm, his speech grave andsedate. Nothing in the shape of repartee could be expected from him;and with him Blanche was fairly disgusted. 

"As sober as a judge, and as heavy as a leaden seal!" said that younglady, --who had been his next neighbour at the supper-table, --when shewas giving in her report to Clare while they were undressing. "He hathbut an owl's eye for beauty, of whatever fashion. Thou mindest how fairwas the sunset this even? Lo' thou, he could see nought but a deal ofwater in the sea, and divers coloured clouds in the sky. Stupid oldcompanion!"

"And prithee, Mistress Blanche, who ever did see aught in the sea savinga cruel great parcel of water?"

"Good lack, Bab!--thou art as ill as he. Clare, what seest thou in thesea?"

Clare tried to bring her thoughts down to the subject. 

"I scantly know, Blanche. 'Tis rarely beautiful, in some ways. Yet itsoundeth to me alway very sorrowful. "

"Ay so, Mistress Clare!" returned Barbara. "It may belike to thee, poorsweet heart, whose father was killed thereon, --and to me, that had abrother which died far away on the Spanish main. "

"I suppose, " answered Clare sighing, "matters sound unto us according aswe are disposed. "

"Marry, and if so, some folks' voices should sound mighty discordant, "retorted Barbara. 

Blanche was soon asleep; but there was little sleep for Clare thatnight. Nor was there much for Rachel. Since Margaret's marriage, Lucrece had shared her aunt's chamber; for it would have been thoughtpreposterous in the Elizabethan era to give a young girl a bedroom toherself. Rachel watched her niece narrowly; but Lucrece neither saidnor did anything from which the least information could be gleaned. Shewas neither elated nor depressed, but just as usual, --demure, slippery, and unaccountable. 

Rachel kept her eye also, like an amateur detective, upon Arthur. Hecame frequently, and generally managed to get a walk with Lucrece in thegarden. On two occasions the detective, seated at her own window, whichoverlooked the garden, saw that Arthur was entreating or urgingsomething, to which Lucrece would not consent. 

The month of Sir Piers Feversham's stay was drawing to a close, andstill Rachel had not spoken to her brother about Lucrece. She feltconsiderably puzzled as to what it would be either right or wise to do. Lucrece was no foolish, romantic, inexperienced child like Blanche, buta woman of considerable worldly wisdom and strong self-reliance. It wasno treachery to interfere with her, in her aunt's eyes, since Lucreceherself had been the traitor; and for Clare's sake Rachel longed torescue Arthur, whom she considered infatuated and misled. 

Before Rachel had been able to make up her mind on this point, oneSaturday afternoon Sir Thomas sought her, and asked her to come to thelibrary. 

"Rachel, " he said, "I would fain have thy counsel. Sir PiersFeversham--much to mine amazing--hath made me offer of service[courtship] for Lucrece. What thinkest thereon?"

"Brother, leave her go!"

"He is by three years elder than I, Rachel. "

"Ne'er mind thou. "

"Methinks he should make the maid a good husband?" remarked Sir Thomasinterrogatively. 

"Better than she shall make him a wife, " said Rachel grimly. 

"Rachel!"

"Brother, I have ne'er said this to thee aforetime; but my trueconviction is that Lucrece is a mischief-maker, and until she be hence, there is like to be little peace for any. I saw not all things at thefirst; but I can tell thee now that she hath won Arthur Tremayne intoher toils, and methinks she tried hard to compass Don Juan. If she willwed with Sir Piers (and he dare venture on her!) let it be so: he is oldenough to have a care of himself; and she is less like to wreck his lifethan she should be with a younger man. In good sooth, there is all theless of it to wreck. "

"Yet, Rachel, if the maid be entangled with Arthur--"

"Make thy mind easy, Tom. 'Tis Arthur is entangled, not she. Trust herfor that! She hath good enough scissors for the cutting of a likeknot. "

"Arthur ne'er spake word to me, " said Sir Thomas, with a perplexed, meditative air. 

"That is it which I would know, Tom. Ne'er spake word, quotha? So muchthe better. Well! I reckon thou shalt be like to tell Orige; but leaveher not persuade thee to the contrary course. Yet I think she is scarcelike. A knighthood and Feversham Hall shall go down very sweetly withher. "

"But there is yet another matter, Rachel. Sir Piers maketh offer to setJack in good place about the Court, for the which he saith he hathpower. What sayest to that, trow?"

"I say that Jack is safe to go to wrack some whither, and may be 'twereas well hence as hither. "

"It shall be mighty chargeable, I fear, " said Sir Thomas thoughtfully. 

"Jack shall be that any whither. "

"Wouldst have me, then, say Ay to both offers?"

"Nay, think well touching Jack first. I meant not that. Good sooth! Isorely misdoubt--"

"Well, I will see what saith Orige unto both, and Jack and Lucrece toeither. "

"If I be a prophet, " answered Rachel, "one and all shall say, Ay. "

If that were the criterion, Rachel proved a prophet One and all did sayay. Lady Enville was enchanted with both schemes. Jack averred thatlife at home was a very humdrum kind of thing, and life might be worthhaving in London, and at Court. And Lucrece, in her demure style, softly declared that she was thankful for Sir Piers' goodness, and wouldgladly accept his offer, though she felt that her merits were not equalto the kind estimate which he had formed of her. 

"But, Lucrece, " said her father gravely, "one told me that ArthurTremayne had made suit unto thee. "

If he expected the mask to drop for an instant from the soft, regularfeatures of Lucrece, he was sadly disappointed. Not a look, nor agesture, showed that she felt either surprised or disconcerted. 

"'Tis true, Father. The poor lad did say some like words unto me. ButI gave him no encouragement to seek you. "

"Thou wouldst have me to conceive, then, that thou art wholly free fromany plight whatsoe'er unto Arthur?"

"Wholly free, Father. I ne'er gave him to wit otherwise. "

Sir Thomas believed her; Rachel did not. The next thing, in thesquire's honest eyes, was to let Arthur know that Lucrece was about tomarry Sir Piers, --not directly, since Arthur himself had made no opendeclaration; but he proposed to go down to the parsonage, and mentionthe fact, as if incidentally, in Arthur's presence. He found Lucrecerather averse to this scheme. 

"It should but trouble the poor lad, " she said. "Why not leave himdiscover the same as matters shall unfold them?"

"Tom!" said Rachel to her brother apart, "go thou down, and tell Arthurthe news. I am afeared Lucrece hath some cause, not over good, forwishing silence kept. "

"Good lack!" cried the worried Squire. "Wellnigh would I that every oneof my childre had been a lad! These maidens be such changeable andchargeable gear, I verily wis not what to do withal. "

"Bide a while, Tom, till Jack hath been in the Court a year or twain;maybe then I shall hear thee to wish that all had been maids. "

Down to the parsonage trudged the puzzled and unhappy man, and foundthat Arthur was at home. He chatted for a short time with the family ingeneral, and then told the ladies, as a piece of news which he expectedto interest them, that his daughter Lucrece was about to be married. Had he not intentionally kept his eyes from Arthur while he spoke, hewould have seen that the young man went white to the lips. 

"Eh, _ma foi_!" said Mrs Rose. 

"With whom shall she wed?" asked Mrs Tremayne. 

"Sir Thomas, is that true?" was the last remark--in hoarse accents, fromArthur. 

"It is true, my lad. Have I heard truly, that you would not have itso?"

Mrs Tremayne looked at her son in a mixture of astonishment and dismay. It had never occurred to her guileless, unsuspicious mind that theobject of his frequent visits to Enville Court could be any one butClare. 

"Sir, I cry you mercy, " said Arthur with some dignity. "I do readilyacknowledge that I ought not to have left you in the dark. But to speaktruth, it was she, not I, that would not you should be told. "

"That would not have me told what, Arthur?"

"That I loved her, " said Arthur, his voice slightly tremulous. "And--she _said_ she loved me. "

"She told me that she had given thee no encouragement to speak to me. "

"To speak with you--truth. Whene'er I did approach that matter, shealway deterred me from the same. But if she hath told you, Sir, thatshe gave me no encouragement to love and serve her, nor no hope ofwedding with her in due time, --why, then, she hath played you false aswell as me. "

It was manifest that Arthur was not only much distressed, but also veryangry. 

"And thou never spakest word to me, my son!" came in gentle tones ofrebuke from his mother. 

"Ah, the young folks make not the confessor of the father nor themother, " said Mrs Rose smiling, and shaking her head. "It were thebetter that they did it, Arthur. "

"Mother, it was not my fault, " pleaded Arthur earnestly. "I would havespoken both to you and to Sir Thomas here, if she had suffered me. Onlythe very last time I urged it on her--and that no further back than thislast week--she threatened me to have no further dealing with me, an' Ispake to either of you. "

"Often-times, " observed Mrs Rose thoughtfully, "the maidens love notlike the mothers, _mon cheri_. "

"God have mercy!" groaned poor Sir Thomas, who was not least to bepitied of the group. "I am afeared Rachel hath the right. Lucrece hathnot been true in this matter. "

"There is no truth in her!" cried Arthur bitterly. "And for the matterof that, there is none in woman!"

"_Le beau compliment_!" said his grandmother, laughing. 

His mother looked reproachfully at him, but did not speak. 

"And Rachel saith there is none in man, " returned Sir Thomas with grimhumour. "Well-a-day! what will the world come to?"

These little pebbles in her path did not seem to trouble the easysmoothness of Lucrece's way. She prepared her trousseau with hercustomary placidity; debated measures and trimmings with her aunt as ifentirely deaf to that lady's frequent interpolations of wrath; consultedBlanche on the style of her jewellery, and Clare on the embroidery ofher ruffs, as calmly as if there were not a shadow on her conscience norher heart. Perhaps there was not. 

Sir Piers took Jack down to London, and settled him in his post ofdeputy gentleman usher to the Queen; and at the end of six months, hereturned to Enville Court for his marriage. Everything went off withthe most absolute propriety. Lucrece's costume was irreproachable; hermanners, ditto. The festivities were prolonged over a week, and ontheir close, Sir Piers and Lady Feversham set out, for their home inNorfolk. No sign of annoyance was shown from the parsonage, except thatArthur was not at home when the wedding took place; and that Lysken, whom Lucrece graciously requested to be one of her bridesmaids, declined, with a quiet keenness of manner which any one but Lucrecewould have felt. 

"If it should like thee to have me for thy bridesmaid, Lucrece, " shesaid, looking her calmly in the face, "it should not like me. " [Inmodern phraseology, --I should not like it. ]

The bride accepted the rebuke with unruffled suavity. 

Of course there were the ceremonies then usual at weddings, and a showerof old slippers greeted bride and bridegroom as they rode away. 

"Aunt Rachel, you hit her on the head!" cried Blanche, lookingastonished. 

"I took metely good aim, " assented Rachel, with grim satisfaction. "Agood riddance of--Blanche, child, if thou wouldst have those flowers tolive, thou wert best put them in water. "

CHAPTER TWELVE. 

A GLIMPSE OF THE HOT GOSPELLER. 

 "In service which Thy love appoints There are no bonds for me; My secret heart has learned the truth Which makes Thy children free: A life of self-renouncing love Is a life of liberty. "

 _Anna L. Waring_. 

"I hold not with you there, Parson!"

The suddenness of this appeal would have startled any one less calm andself-controlled than the Reverend Robert Tremayne, who was taking offhis surplice in the vestry after morning prayers one Wednesday, whenthis unexpected announcement reached him through the partially opendoor. But it was not the Rector's habit to show much emotion of anykind, whatever he might feel. 

"Pray you, come forward, " he said quietly, in answer to the challenge. 

The door, pushed wide open by the person without, revealed a handsomeold man, lithe and upright still, --whose hair was pure white, and hisbrown eyes quick and radiant. He marched in and seated himself upon thesettle, grasping a stout oaken stick in both hands, and gazing up intothe Rector's face. His dress, no less than his manners, showed thatnotwithstanding the blunt and eccentric nature of his greeting, he wasby birth a gentleman. 

"And wherein hold you not with me, Sir, I pray you?" inquired MrTremayne with some amusement. 

"In your tolerating of evil opinion. "

"I cry you mercy. What evil opinion have I tolerated?"

"If you will tolerate men which hold evil opinions, you must needstolerate evil opinion. "

"I scantly see that. "

"Maybe you see this?" demanded the stranger, pulling a well-worn Biblefrom a capacious pocket. 

"My sight is sharp enough for so much, " returned Mr Tremaynegood-naturedly. 

"Well, and I tell you, " said the stranger, poising the open Biblebetween his hands, "there is no such word as toleration betwixt the twobacks of this book!"

The two backs of the book were brought together, by way of emphasisingthe assertion, with a bang which might almost have been heard to theparsonage. 

"There is no such _word_, I grant you. "

"No, Sir!--and there is no such thing. "

"That hangeth, I take it, on what the word is held to signify. "

"Shall I tell you what it signifieth?"

"Pray you, so do. "

"Faint-heartedness, Sir!--weakness--recreancy--cowardliness--shamednessof the truth!"

"An ill-sounding list of names, " said Mr Tremayne quietly. "And one ofnone whereof I would by my good-will be guilty. --Pray you, whom have Ithe honour to discourse withal?"

"A very pestilent heretic, that Queen Mary should have burned, andforgat. "

"She did not that with many, " was the significant answer. 

"She did rare like to it with a lad that I knew in King Edward's days, whose name was Robin Tremayne. "

"Master Underhill, my dear old friend!" cried the Rector, grasping hisvisitor's hand warmly. "I began these two minutes back to think Ishould know those brown eyes, but I might not set a name thereto all atonce. "

"Ha! the `pestilent heretic' helped thee to it, I reckon!" replied theguest laughing. "Ay, Robin, this is he thou knewest of old time. Wewill fight out our duello another time, lad. I am rare glad to see theeso well-looking. "

"From what star dropped you, Master Underhill? or what fair wind blewyou hither?"

"I am dropped out of Warwickshire, lad, if that be a star; and I camehither of a galloway's back (but if he were the wind, 'twas on thestillest night of the year!) And how goes it with Mrs Thekla? I sawher last in her bride's gear. "

"She will be rarely glad to see you, old friend; and so, I warrant you, will our mother, Mistress Rose. Will you take the pain to go with me tomine house?--where I will ensure you of a good bed and a rare welcome. "

"Wilt thou ensure me of twain, lad?" asked the old man, with a comictwinkle in his eyes. 

"Twain! What, which of all my small ancient friends be with you?--Ay, and that as hearty as to yourself. --Is it Hal or Ned?"

"Thou art an ill guesser, Robin: 'tis neither Ned nor Hal. Thy _small_friends, old lad, be every man and woman of them higher than theirfather. Come, let us seek the child. I left her a-poring and posingover one of the tombs in the church. --What, Eunice!--I might as wellhave left my staff behind as leave her. "

It was plainly to be perceived, by the loud call which resounded throughthe sacred edifice, that Mr Underhill was not fettered by anysuperstitious reverence for places. A comely woman answered the call, --in years about thirty-seven, in face particularly bright and pleasant. The last time that Mr Tremayne had seen her, Eunice Underhill was aboutas high as the table. 

"And doth Mistress Rose yet live?" said her father, as they went towardsthe parsonage. "She must be a mighty old grandame now. And all else begone, as I have heard, that were of old time in the Lamb?"

"All else, saving Barbara Polwhele, --you mind Barbara, the chamber--maiden?--and Walter's daughter, Clare, which is now a maid of twentyyears. "

"Ah, I would fain see yon lass of little Walter's. What manner of wifedid the lad wed?"

"See her--ask not me, " said the Rector smiling. 

"Now, how read I that? Which of the Seven Sciences hath she lost herway in?"

"In no one of them all. "

"Come, I will ask Mrs Thekla. "

Mr Tremayne laughed. 

"You were best see her for yourself, as I cast no doubt you soon will. How long time may we hope to keep you?"

"Shall you weary of us under a month?"

Mr Underhill was warmly enough assured that there was no fear of anysuch calamity. 

Most prominent of his party--which was Puritan of the Puritans--wasEdward Underhill of Honyngham, the Hot Gospeller. His history was asingular one. Left an heir and an orphan at a very early age, he hadbegun life as a riotous reveller. Soon after he reached manhood, Godtouched his heart--by what agency is not recorded. Then he "fell toreading the Scriptures and following the preachers, "--throwing his wholesoul into the service of Christ, as he had done before into that ofSatan. Had any person acquainted with the religious world of that daybeen asked, on the outbreak of Queen Mary's persecution, to name thefirst ten men who would suffer, it is not improbable that EdwardUnderhill's name would have been found somewhere on the list. But, tothe astonishment of all who knew his decided views, and equally decidedcharacter, he had survived the persecution, with no worse suffering thana month spent in Newgate, and a tedious illness as the result. Nor wasthis because he had either hidden his colours, or had struck them. Rather he kept his standard flying to the breeze, and defied the foe. No reason can be given for his safety, save that still the God of Danielcould send His angel and shut the lions' mouths, that they should do Hisprophets no hurt. 

On the accession of Elizabeth, Underhill returned for a short time tohis London home in Wood Street, Cheapside; but die soon went back to thefamily seat in Warwickshire, where he had since lived as a countrysquire. [Note 1. ]

"Yet these last few months gone have I spent in London, " said he, "formy Hal [name true, character imaginary] would needs have me. Now, Robin, do thou guess what yon lad hath gat in his head. I will givethee ten shots. "

"No easy task, seeing I ne'er had the good fortune to behold him. Whatmanner of lad is he?"

"Eunice?" said her father, referring the question to her. 

Eunice laughed. "Hal is mighty like his father, Master Tremayne. Hehath a stout will of his own, nor should you quickly turn him thence. "

"Lo you, now, what conditions doth this jade give me!" laughedUnderhill. "A stubborn old brute, that will hear no reason!"

"Hal will not hear o'ermuch, when he is set on aught, " said Eunice. 

"Well, " said Mr Tremayne thoughtfully, "so being, I would guess that hehad set his heart, to be Archbishop of Canterbury, or else Lord PrivySeal. "

"_Ma foi_!" interposed Mrs Rose, "but I would guess that no son of MrUnderhill should tarry short of a king. Mind you not, _hermano_, that Idid once hear you to say that you would not trust your own self, had youthe chance to make your Annette a queen?"

"Dear heart, Mistress Rose! I would the lad had stayed him at noughtworser. Nay, he is not for going up the ladder, but down. Conceiveyou, nought will serve him but a journey o'er seas, and to set him up ahome in the Queen's Majesty's country of Virginia--yea, away in theplantations, amongst all the savages and wild beasts, and men worserthan either, that have been of late carried thither from this land, forto be rid of them. `Come, lad, ' said I to him, `content thee witheating of batatas [the Spanish word of which _potato_ is a corruption]and drinking of tobacco [smoking tobacco was originally termed_drinking_ it], and leave alone this mad fantasy. ' But not he, in goodsooth! Verily, for to go thither as a preacher and teacher, with hopeto reform the ill men, --that had been matter of sore peril, and well tobe thought on; yet would I not have said him nay, had the Lord calledhim to it;--but to make his _home_!"

And Mr Underhill stopped short, as if words were too weak adequately toconvey his feelings. 

"Maybe the Lord hath called him to that, old friend, " said the Rector. "His eyes be on Virginia, no less than England. "

"God forbid I should deny it! Yet there is such gear as tempting theLord. For my part, --but la! I am an old man, and the old be lessventuresome than the young, --yet for me, I see not what should move aman to dwell any whither out of his own country, without he must needsfly to save his life. "

"Had all men been of your mind, " observed Mr Tremayne with a smile, "there had ne'er been any country inhabited save one, until men werefairly pushed thence by lack of room. "

"Well!--and wherefore should any quit home until he be pushed out?"

"Ask at Hal, " said the Rector laughing. 

"No have I so? Yea, twenty times twice told: but all I may win from theyoung ne'er-do-well is wise saws that the world must be peopled (why so, I marvel?), --and that there is pleasure in aventure (a deal more, Ireckon, in keeping of one's carcase safe and sound!)--and that some menmust needs dwell in strange lands, and the like. Well-a-day! whereforeshould they so? Tell me that, Robin Tremayne. "

"I will, old friend, when mine amaze is o'er at hearing of such wordsfrom one Ned Underhill. "

"Amaze!--what need, trow?"

"But little need, when one doth call to mind that the most uncommon ofall things is consistency. Only when one hath been used for forty yearsand more to see a man (I name him not) ever foremost in all perilousaventure, and thrusting him forward into whatsoever danger there were asinto a bath of rosewater, 'tis some little surprise that taketh one tohear from the self-same party that 'tis never so much sweeter to keepsafe and sound at home. "

Mr Underhill threw his head back, and indulged in a hearty peal oflaughter. 

"On my word, Robin, thou ticklest me sore! But what, lad!--may a mannot grow prudent in his old age?"

"By all manner of means, or in his youth no less; but this will I say, that the last prudent man I looked to set eyes on should bear the nameof Underhill. "

"Well-a-day! Here is Eunice made up of prudence. "

"She taketh after her mother, trow, " replied the Rector dryly. 

"Come, I'll give o'er, while I have some bones left whole. --And whatthinkest, lad, of the outlook of matters public at this time?"

"Nay, what think you, that have been of late in London?"

"Robin, " said Mr Underhill gravely, "dost mind, long years gone, whenKing Edward his reign was well-nigh o'er, the ferment men's minds gat intouching the succession?"

"_Eh, la belle journee_!" said Mrs Rose waggishly. "I do well mind theferment _you_ were in, Mr Underhill, and how you did push your QueenMary down all the throats of your friends: likewise how sweetly she didrepay you, bidding you for a month's visit to her palace of Newgate!Pray you, shall it be the same again, _hermano_?"

"Dear heart! What a memory have you, Mistress Rose!" said MrUnderhill, with another hearty laugh. "It shall scantly be Newgateagain, metrusteth: the rather, since there is no Queen Mary to thrustadown your throats--thank the Lord for that and all other His mercies. He that we may speak of is no Papist, whatso else; but I mistakegreatly, Robin, if somewhat the same matter shall not come o'er again, should it please God to do a certain thing. "

Mr Underhill spoke thus vaguely, having no wish to finish his days onthe gallows; as men had done ere now, for little more than a hint thatthe reigning Sovereign might not live for ever. 

"And when the ferment come, under what flag must we look for you, MrUnderhill?" asked. Mrs Tremayne. 

"Well, " said he, "Harry Eighth left a lad and two lasses, and we havehad them all. But Harry Seventh left likewise a lad and two lasses; andwe have had the lad, but ne'er a one of the lasses. "

"Both these lasses be dead, " responded the Rector. 

"They be so. But the first left a lad and a lass; and that lad left alass, and that lass left a lad--which is alive and jolly. "

This meant, that Queen Margaret of Scotland, elder sister of Henry theEighth, had issue King James the Fifth, whose daughter was Mary Queen ofScots, and her son was James the Sixth, then living. 

"You count the right lieth there?" queried Mr Tremayne. 

Mr Underhill nodded his head decidedly. 

"And is--yonder party--well or ill affected unto the Gospellers?--howhear you?"

"Lutheran to the back-bone--with no love for Puritans, as men do nowbegin to call us Hot Gospellers. "

"Thus is the Queen, mecounteth: and we have thriven well under her, andhave full good cause to thank God for her. "

"Fifty years gone, Robin--when she was but a smatchet [a very youngperson]--I said that lass would do well. There is a touch of old Hal inher--not too much, but enough to put life and will into her. "

"There shall scantly be that in him. "

"Nay, I'll not say so much. Meg had a touch of Hal, too. 'Twas illturning her down one road an' she took the bit betwixt her teeth, andhad a mind to go the other. There was less of it in Mall, I grant you. And as to yon poor luckless loon, Mall's heir, --if he wit his own mind, I reckon 'tis as much as a man may bargain for. England ne'er lovethsuch at her helm--mark you that, Robin. She may bear with them, but shelayeth no affiance in them. "

Mr Underhill's hearers knew that by the poor luckless loon, he meantEdward Seymour, Lord Beauchamp, the representative of the Princess Mary, younger sister of Henry the Eighth. He was heir of England underHenry's will, and might, if he had chosen it, have been a veryformidable opponent of King James. 

"There was trial made, in King Harry's days, " said the Rectorthoughtfully, "to join the two Crowns of England and Scotland, bymarrying of King Edward, that then was Prince, with their young QueenMary. "

"Well-a-day!--what changes had been, had that matter come toperfection!"

"It were a mighty great book, friend, that should be writ, were all setdown that might have happened if things had run other than they havedone. But I pray you, what outlook is now for the Gospellers--orPuritans, if they be so called--these next few years? Apart from theCourt--be they in good odour in London, or how?"

"Be they in good odour in Heaven, you were better to ask. What is anygreat town but a sink of wickedness? And when did ill men hold good menin esteem?"

"Ah, Mr Underhill, but there is difficulty beside that, " said MrsRose, shaking her head. "Wherefore, will you tell me, cannot the goodmen be content to think all the same thing, and not go quarrel, quarrel, like the little boys at play?"

"So they should, Mistress Rose!--so they should!" said Mr Underhilluncompromisingly. "What with these fantasies and sectaries andfollies--well-a-day! were I at the helm, there should be ne'er anopinion save one. "

"That is the very thing Queen Mary thought, " said Mr Tremayne, lookingamused. 

"Dear heart! what will the lad say next?" demanded Mr Underhill in asurprised tone. 

"'Tis truth, old friend. See you not that to keep men of one opinion, the only way is to slay them that be of the contrary? Living men mustdiffer. Only the dead ne'er wrangle touching aught. "

"Eh, Robin, man! `Live peaceably with all men. '"

"`As much as lieth in you. ' Paul was wiser than you, saving yourpresence. "

"But, Robin, my son, " said Mrs Rose, "I would not say only, for suchmatters as men may differ in good reason. They cannot agree on thegreater things, _mon cheri_, --nay, nor on the little, littles no more. --Look you, Mr Underhill, we have in this parish a man that call himselfa Brownist--I count he think the brown the only colour that is right; ifhe had made the world, all the flowers should be brown, and the leavesblack: eh, _ma foi_! what of a beautiful world to live in!--_Bien_! thislast May Day, Sir Thomas Enville set up the maypole on the green. `Come, Master, ' he said to the Brownist, `you dance round themaypole?'--`Nay, nay, ' saith he, `it savoureth of Popery. ' `Well, 'quoth he, `then you come to prayer in the church! There is nothingagainst that, I trow?'--`Good lack, nay!' saith he, `'tis an idle form. I cannot pray without the Spirit aid me; and the Spirit will not bebounden down unto dead forms. ' And so, Mr Underhill, they fall towrangling. Now, is it not sad? Not only they will not take theirpleasure together, but they will not say their prayers together no more. Yet they all look to meet in Heaven. They will not wrangle and quarrelthere, I trow? Then why can they not be at peace these few days thesooner?"

This was a long speech for Mrs Rose. 

"Well, to speak truth, " said Mr Underhill, "I could find in mine heartto cry `Hail, fellow!' to your Brownist over the maypole: though I seenot wherein it savoureth of Popery, but rather of Paganism. Howbeit, asI well know, Popery and Paganism be sisters, and dwell but over the waythe one from the other. But as to the Common Prayer being but a form, and that dead, --why, I pray you, what maketh it a dead form save thedead heart of him that useth the same? The very Word of God is but adead thing, if the soul of him that readeth it be dead. "

A certain section of the laity are earnestly petitioning the clergy for"a hearty service. " Could they make a more absurd request? The heartis in the worshipper, not in the service. And who can bring his heartto it but himself?

"_Ma foi_!" said Mrs Rose, with a comical little grimace, "but indeed Idid think, when we were set at rest from the Queen Mary and herburnings, that we could have lived at peace the ones with the others. "

"Then which counted you to be rid of, Mistress Rose--the childre of Godor the childre of the devil?. So long as both be in the world, I reckonthere'll not be o'er much peace, " bluntly replied Underhill. 

"Mind you what my dear father was used to say, " asked MrTremayne, --"`Afore the kingdom must come the King'? Ah, dear friends, we have all too little of Christ. `We shall be satisfied, ' and we shallbe of one mind in all things, only when we wake up `after Hislikeness. '"

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Clare Avery and Eunice Underhill struck up a warm friendship. Eunice[name and dates true, character imaginary] was one of the few women whokeep "the dew of their youth, " and in freshness, innocence, andignorance of this evil world, she was younger than many girls not halfher age. Her simplicity put Clare at ease, while her experience of lifeawoke respect. Clare seized her opportunity one day, while taking along walk with Eunice, to obtain the opinion of the latter on the pointwhich still interested her, and compare it with that of Mrs Tremayne. Why it was easier to talk to Eunice than to those at home, Clare couldnot decide. Perhaps, had she discovered the reason, she might not havefound it very flattering to her self-love. 

"Mistress Eunice, think you it easy to be content with small gear?"

"You would say with lack of goods?" asked Eunice. 

"Nay; but with the having to deal with petty, passing matter, in thestead of some noble deed that should be worthy the doing. "

"I take you now, Mistress Clare. And I can feel for your perplexity, seeing I have known the same myself. "

"Oh, you have so?" responded Clare eagerly. 

"Ay, I have felt as though the work set me to do were sheer waste ofsuch power and knowledge as God had given unto me; and have marvelled (Iwould speak it with reverence) what the Lord would be at, that He thusdealt with me. Petty things--mean things--little passing matter, as yousaid, that none shall be the better for to-morrow; wherefore must I dothese? I have made a pudding, maybe; I have shaken up a bed; I have cutan old gown into a kirtle. And to-morrow the pudding shall be eaten, and the bed shall lack fresh straw, and ere long the gown shall be wornto rags. But I shall live for ever. Wherefore should a soul be set tosuch work which shall live for ever?"

"Ay, --you know!" said Clare, drawing a deep breath of satisfaction. "Now tell me, Mistress Eunice, what answer find you to this question?Shall it be with you, as with other, that these be my tasks at school?"

"That is verily sooth, Mistress Clare; yet there is another lightwherein I love the better to look thereat. And it is this: that in thisworld be no little things. "

"What would you say, Mistress Eunice? In good sooth, it seemeth me therather, there be few great. "

"I cry you mercy, " said Eunice, with her bright smile. "Lo' you, --'tisafter this fashion. The pudding I have made a man shall eat, andthereby be kept alive. This man shall drop a word to another, which onepassing by shall o'erhear, --on the goodness and desirableness oflearning, I will say. Well, this last shall turn it o'er in his mind, and shall determine to send his lad to school, and have him welllearned. Time being gone, this lad shall write a book, or shall preacha sermon, whereby, through the working of God's Spirit, many men'shearts shall be touched, and led to consider the things that belong untotheir peace. Look you, here is a chain; and in this great chain onelittle link is the pudding which I made, twenty years gone. "

"But the man could have eaten somewhat else. "

"Soothly; but he did not, you see. "

"Or another than you could have made the pudding. "

"Soothly, again: but I was to make it. "

Clare considered this view of the case. 

"All things in this world, Mistress Clare, be links in some chain. InDutchland [Germany], many years gone now, a young man that studied in anuniversity there was caught in an heavy thunderstorm. He grew soreaffrighted; all his sins came to his mind: and he prayed Saint Anne todispel the storm, promising that he would straightway become a monk. The storm rolled away, and he suffered no harm. But he was mindful ofhis vow, and he became a monk. Well, some time after, having a sparehalf-hour, he went to the library to get him a book. As God would haveit, he reached down a Latin Bible, the like whereof he had ne'er seenaforetime. Through the reading of this book--for I am well assured youknow that I speak of Luther--came about the full Reformation of religionwhich, thanks be to God! is now spread abroad. And all this cometh--tospeak after the manner of men--in that one Martin was at one timeaffrighted with the thunder; and, at another time, reached him down abook. Nay, Mistress Clare--in God's world be no little things!"

"Mistress Eunice, in so saying, you make life to look a mighty terriblething, and full of care. "

"And is life not a most terrible thing to them that use it not aright?But for them that do trust them unto God's guidance, and search His Wordto see what He would have them do, and seek alway and above all thingsbut to do His will, --it may be life is matter for meditation, yea, andwatchfulness; but methinks none for care. God will see to the chain:'tis He, not we, that is weaver thereof. We need but to be careful, each of his little link. "

"My links be wearyful ones!" said Clare with a little sigh. "'Tis tocut, and snip, and fit, and sew, and guard, and mend. My cousin Lyskendealeth with men and women, I with linen and woollen. Think you itstrange that her work should seem to me not only the nobler, but thesweeter belike?"

"Methinks I have seen Mistress Lysken to deal pretty closely with linenand woollen, sithence Father and I came hither, " said Eunice smiling. "But in very deed, Mistress Clare, 'tis but nature that it so shouldseem unto you. Yet did it ever come into your mind, I pray you, that webe poor judges of that which is high and noble? I marvel if any saveChrist and Gabriel e'er called John Baptist a great man. Yet he wasgreat in the sight of the Lord. Yea, that word, `more than a prophet'was the very accolade of the King of the whole world. You know, Mistress Clare, that if the Queen's Majesty should call a man `SirRobert, ' though it were but a mistake, and he no knight, that very wordfrom her should make him one. And the King of Heaven can make nomistake; His great men be great men indeed. Now whether would yourather, to be great with men, or with God?"

"Oh, with God, undoubtedly!" said Clare shyly. 

"It seemeth me, " said Eunice, knitting her brows a little, "there bethree questions the which your heart may ask himself touching your work. _Wherefore_ do I this? You will very like say, Because you be bidden. Good. But then--_How_ do I this?--is it in the most excellent way Ican? And yet again, _For whom_ do I this? That last lieth deepest ofall. "

"Why, I do it for my mother and Aunt Rachel, " said Clare innocently. 

"Good. But wherefore not, henceforward, do it for God?"

"For God, Mistress Eunice!"

"'Tis the true touchstone of greatness. Nought can be little that a mandoth for God; like as nought can be great that a man doth but forhimself. "

"Lysken can work for God, " said Clare thoughtfully; "but I, who do butdraw needles in and out--"

"Cannot draw them for God? Nay, but Paul thought not so. He biddethyou `whether ye eat, or drink, or whatsoever ye do, do _all_ to theglory of God. ' But mind you, only the very best work is to His glory:that is to say, only _your_ very best. He measures not Mall's work byJane's, but he looketh at the power of both, and judgeth if they havewrought their best or no. Jane may have finished the better piece ofwork, but if Mall have wrought to her utmost, and Jane not so, thenMall's work shall take first rank, and Jane's must fall behind. "

"That is a new thought unto me, Mistress Eunice--that I can do such workfor God. I did indeed account that I could be patient under the same, for to please Him: and I could have thought that the saving of a childfrom drowning, or the leading of a ship to battle, and so forth, mightbe done as unto God: but to cut and sew and measure!"

"I would 'twere not a new thought to many another, " answered Eunice. "But I guess we can sew well or ill; and we can cut carefully orcarelessly; and we can measure truly or untruly. Truth is no littlematter, Mistress Clare; neither is diligence; nor yet a real, honest, hearty endeavouring of one's self to please the Lord, who hath given usour work, in every little thing. Moreover, give me leave to tell you, --you may be set a great work, and you may fail to see the greatnessthereof. I mind me, when I was something younger than you be, and mybrother Hal was but a little child, he fell into sore danger, and shouldbelike have been killed, had none stretched out hand to save him. Well, as the Lord in His mercy would have it, I saw his peril, and I ran andsnatched up the child in the very nick of time. There was but anhalf-minute to do it. And at afterward, men praised me, and said I haddone a great thing. But think you it bare the face of a great thing tome, as I was in the doing thereof? Never a whit. I ne'er tarried tothink if it were a great thing or a small: I thought neither of me norof my doing, but alonely of our Hal, and how to set him in safety. Theysaid it was a great matter, sith I had risked mine own life. But, dearheart! I knew not that I risked aught--I ne'er thought once thereon. Had I known it, I would have done the same, God helping me: but I knewit not. Now, whether was this a great thing or a small?"

"I have no doubt to say, a great. "

"Maybe, Mistress Clare, when you and I shall stand--as I pray God wemay!--among the sheep at the right hand of Christ our Saviour, --when thebooks be opened, and the dead judged according to that which is writtenof them, --He may pick out some little petty deed (to our eyes), and maysay thereof, This was a great thing in My sight. And it may be, too, that the deeds we counted great He shall pass by without any mention. Dear heart, let us do the small deeds to our utmost, and the great aresure to follow. `He that is faithful in that which is least, isfaithful also in much. ' And you know what He saith touching that poorcup of cold water, which assuredly is but a right small thing to give. Think you, if the Queen's Highness were passing here but now, and shoulddrop her glove, and you picked up the same and offered it to HerGrace, --should you e'er forget it? I trow not. Yet what a pettymatter--to pick up a dropped glove! `Ah, but, ' say you, `It was theQueen's glove--that wrought the difference. ' Verily so. Then set thelike gilding upon your petty deeds. It is the King's work. You havewrought for the King. Your guerdon is His smile--is it not enough?--andyour home shall be within His house for ever. "

"Ay!" said Clare, drawing a long sigh--not of care: "it is enough, Mistress Eunice. "

"And He hath no lack of our work, " added Eunice softly. "It is _given_to us to do, like as it was given unto Peter and John to suffer. Methinks he were neither a good child nor a thankful, that should refuseto stretch forth hand for his Father's gift. "

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Note 1. I have not been able to ascertain the true date of Underhill'sdeath, but he was living on the 6th of March 1568. (Rot. Pat. , 10Elizabeth, Part Two. )

CHAPTER THIRTEEN. 

GENTLEMAN JACK. 

 "He is transformed, And grown a gallant of the last edition. "

 _Massinger_. 

Jack's letters from London were exuberant. He was delighted with hisnew phase of existence. He had made some most advantageous friendships, and was in hopes of obtaining a monopoly, which would bring him in abouta hundred a year. In the meantime, he begged that his father wouldremember that life at Court was a very costly affair; and perhaps hewould be so good as to send him a little more money. Half-a-dozenletters of this description passed, and Jack was liberally supplied withsuch an amount as his father anticipated that he might reasonably want. But at the end of about two years came a much more urgent epistle. Jackwas sorry to say that he had been unavoidably compelled to go into debt. No blame was to be attached to him in the matter. He had not incurredthe obligation of a penny for anything beyond the barest necessaries; hehoped his father would not imagine that he had been livingextravagantly. But he wished Sir Thomas to understand that he reallyhad not a suspicion of the inevitable expenses of Court life. The sumswhich he had been so good as to remit were a mere drop in the ocean ofJack's necessities. 

Sir Thomas replied, without any expression of displeasure, that if hisson could get leave of absence sufficient to pay a visit to Lancashire, he would be glad to see him at home, and he desired that he would bringall his bills with him. 

The answer to this letter was Jack himself, who came home on an autumnevening, most elaborately attired, and brimful of news. 

A fresh punishment had been devised for felony--transportation to thecolonies among the savages. The Spaniards were finally and completelyexpelled from the Dutch provinces. A Dutchman had made theextraordinary discovery that by an ingenious arrangement of pieces ofglass, of certain shapes, at particular distances, objects far off couldbe made to seem nearer and larger. The Queen was about to send out acommercial expedition to India--the first--from which great things wereexpected. There was a new proclamation against Jesuits and "seminarypriests. " All these matters naturally enough, with Jack's personaladventures, occupied the first evening. 

The next morning, Sir Thomas asked to see the bills. Jack brought out atolerably large package of documents, which he presented to his fatherwith a graceful reverence. 

"I do ensure you, Sir, that I have involved me for nought beyond thebarest necessities of a gentleman. "

His father opened and perused the first bill. 

"`One dozen of shirts at four pound the piece. ' Be those, my lad, amongthe barest necessities?"

"Of a gentleman, Sir, " said Jack. 

"Four pound, Brother! Thou must mean four shillings, " cried Rachel. 

"'Tis writ four pound, " calmly returned Sir Thomas. 

"Good lack Jack!" said Rachel, turning to her nephew. "Were thereangels for buttons all the way down?"

"The broidery, Aunt--the broidery!" returned Jack. "Four pound is areasonable charge enough. Marry, I do ensure you, my sometime Lord ofLeicester was wont to pay ten pound the piece for his shirts. "

"I would I had been his shirt-maker!" said Rachel. "'Twould have builtup my fortune. "

"What wist thou touching broidery, Jack?" demanded Lady Enville, withher silvery laugh. 

"Go to!" said Sir Thomas, taking up the next bill. "`Five score of silkstockings, broidered, with golden clocks [Note 1], twenty-six andeight-pence the pair. '--Those be necessaries, belike, Jack?"

"Assuredly, Sir. White, look you--a pair the day, or maybe two. "

"Ha!" said his father. "`Item, one short coat, guarded with budge[lambskin], and broidered in gold thread, 45 pounds. --Item, one longgown of tawny velvet, furred with pampilion [an unknown species of fur], and guarded with white lace, 66 pounds, 13 shillings, 4 pence. '--Necessaries, Jack?"

"Mercy preserve us!" ejaculated Rachel. 

"Good lack, Sir Thomas!--the lad must have gear!" urged his step-mother. 

Sir Thomas laid down the bills. 

"Be so good, Jack, as to tell me the full figures of these counts?"

"Good sooth, Sir! I have not added them, " replied Jack in acontemptuous tone. "A gentleman is ne'er good at reckoning. "

"He seems to be reasonable good at spending, " said his father. "But howmuch, Jack, dost guess they may all come to?"

"Really, Sir, I cannot say. "

"Go to--give a guess. "

"Marry--somewhere about five thousand pound, it may be. "

According to the equivalent value of money in the present day, Jack'sdebts amounted to about seventy-five thousand pounds. His father'syearly income was equal to about six thousand. 

"How lookest thou to pay this money, Jack?" asked Sir Thomas, in a toneof preternatural calmness which argued rather despair than lack ofannoyance. 

"Well, Sir, there be two or three fashions of payment, " returned Jack, airily. "If you cannot find the money--"

"I cannot, in very deed, lad. "

"Good, " answered Jack quite complacently. "Then--if I win not themonopoly--"

"The monopoly would not pay thy debts under fifty years, Jack; not ifthou gavest every penny thereof thereto, and hadst none fresh to pay. How about that, lad?"

"Of course I must live like a gentleman, Sir, " said Jack loftily. "Thenthe next way is to win the grant of a wardship. "

This way of acquiring money is so entirely obsolete that it needsexplanation. The grant of a wardship meant that some orphan heir of alarge inheritance was placed in the care of the grantee, who was obligedto defray out of the heir's estate the necessary expenses of hissustenance and education, but was free to apply all the surplus to hisown use until the heir was of age. When the inheritance was large, therefore, the grant was a considerable boon to the guardian. 

"And supposing that fail thee?"

"Well, then--if the worst come to the worst--I can but wed an heir, "remarked Jack with serenity. 

"Wed an estate, thou meanest, Jack. "

"Of course, Sir. The woman must come with it, I reckon. That I cannothelp. "

"Marry come up!" exclaimed Rachel. "Thou art a very man. Those beright the man's ways. `The woman must come with it, ' forsooth! Jack, my fingers be itching to thrash thee. "

"Such matters be done every day, Aunt, " observed Jack, smilinggraciously, --not with reference to the suggested reward of his misdeeds. 

"Black sin is done every day, lad. I wis that without thy telling. Butthat is no cause why thou shouldst be the doer of it. "

"Nay, Aunt Rachel!" retorted Jack, in the same manner. "'Tis no sin towed an heir. "

"It was a sin, when I was a child, to tell lies. Maybe that is alterednow, " said Rachel dryly. 

"What lies, Aunt Rachel?" asked Jack laughing. 

"Is it no lie, Jack, to lead a woman into believing that thou lovest_her_, when, if she plucked her purse out of her pocket and gave itthee, thou wert fully content, and shouldst ask no more?"

"You have old-fashioned notions, Aunt Rachel, " said Jack, stilllaughing. 

"Jack! I do trust thou wilt not wed with any but one of good degree. Let her be a knight's daughter, at the least--a lord's were all thebetter, " said his step-mother. 

"But touching these debts, Jack, " resumed his father. "Suppose thoushouldst fail to wed thine heir, --how then?"

"Then, Sir, I shall trust to redeem the money at play. "

Every man of substance--not a Puritan--was at that time a gamester. 

"And how, if that fail?"

"They can't all fail, Sir!" said Jack lightly. 

"My lad!" replied His father earnestly, "I did an ill deed when I sentthee to London. "

"Dear heart, Sir!" exclaimed Jack, just suppressing a much strongerejaculation, "I do ensure you, you never did a wiser thing. "

"Then my life hath been one of sore folly, " answered his father. 

"I alway told thee thou shouldst come to wrack, " added his aunt. 

"Nay, now, what wrack have I come to?" returned Jack with a gracefulflourish of his hands. "Call you it wrack to have a good post in theQueen's Majesty's house, with hope of a better, maybe, when it pleaseGod?--or, to be well [stand well, be on good terms] with many honourablegentlemen, and heirs of good houses, throughout all England?--or, tohave the pick of their sisters and cousins, when it liketh me to wed?"

"They shall have a jolly picking that pick out thee!" growled AuntRachel. 

"Or to have open door of full many honourable houses, --and good credit, that there is not a craftsman in London that should not count it honourto serve me with such goods as I might choose?" pursued Jack. 

"A mighty barren honour, Jack, on thine own showing. "

"Jack!" interposed Sir Thomas, who had seemed deep in thought for aminute, "tell me honestly, --of this five thousand pound, if so be, howmuch was lost at the dice?"

"Why, Sir!--you did not count I should reckon my debts of honour?"

Sir Thomas groaned within himself. 

"Debts of honour!" cried Rachel. "What, be there a parcel more?"

"These be trade-debts, Aunt!" said Jack, with an injured air, --"debtsthat I can defray or leave, as it may stand with conveniency. My debtsof honour must be paid, of course!--I looked to your bounty, Sir, forthat. They be not much--but a light thousand or twelve hundred pound, Itake it. "

That is to say, about 15, 000 pounds to 18, 000 pounds. 

"Jack!" said his father, "dost remember thou hast two sisters yetunwed?"

"One, Sir, under your good pleasure, " replied Jack suavely. 

"Two, " gravely repeated Sir Thomas. "I will set no difference betwixtBlanche and Clare. And they be to portion, lad; and we have all tolive. I cannot pay thy debts of honour and see to these likewise. And, Jack, the trade-debts, as thou callest them, must come first. "

"Sir!" exclaimed Jack aghast. 

"I say, the trade-debts must stand first, " repeated his father firmly. 

"A gentleman never puts his trade-debts before his debts of honour, Sir!" cried Jack in a tone of intense disgust mixed with amazement. 

"I know not what you gentlemen of the Court may account honour norhonesty, Sir, " replied Sir Thomas, now sternly; "but I am a plain honestman, that knows nought of Court fashions, for the which His goodprovidence I thank God. And if it be honest to heap up debt that thouhast no means of paying to thy certain knowledge, then I know not thesignification of honesty. "

"But I must play, Sir!" replied Jack--in the tone with which he mighthave said, "I must breathe. "

"Then thou must pay, " said Sir Thomas shortly. 

"Must play, quotha!" interjected Rachel. "Thou must be a decent lad, --that is all the must I see. "

"Come, be not too hard on the lad!" pleaded Lady Enville, fanningherself elegantly. "Of course he must live as other young men. "

"That is it, Madam!" responded Jack eagerly, turning to his welcomeally. "I cannot affect singularity--'tis not possible. "

"Of course not, " said Lady Enville, who quite agreed with Jack'ssentiments, as women of her type generally do. 

"Thou canst affect honesty, trow, " retorted Rachel. 

"Sir, " said Jack, earnestly addressing his father, "I do entreat you, look on this matter in a reasonable fashion. "

"That is it which I would fain do, Jack. "

"Well, Sir, --were I to put my trade-debts before my debts of honour, allwhom I know should stamp me as no gentleman. They should reckon me somecraftsman's son that had crept in amongst them peradventure. "

"Good lack!" said his step-mother and aunt together, --the former indismay, the latter in satire. 

"I am willing that any should count me no gentleman, if he find me notone, " answered his father; "but one thing will I never do, and that is, give cause to any man to reckon me a knave. "

"But, Sir, these be nought save a parcel of beggarly craftsmen. "

"Which thou shouldst have been, had it so pleased God, " put in AuntRachel. 

"Aunt, " said Jack loftily, "I was born a gentleman; and under your goodleaves, a gentleman I do mean to live and die. "

"Thou hast my full good leave to live and die a gentleman, my lad, " saidhis father; "and that is, a man of honour, truth, and probity. "

"And 'tis no true man, nor an honourable, that payeth not his justdebts, " added Rachel. 

"I cry thee mercy, Rachel; a gentleman never troubleth him touchingdebts, " observed Lady Enville. 

"In especial unto such like low companions as these, " echoed Jack. 

"Well!--honesty is gone out of fashion, I reckon, " said Rachel. 

"Only this will I say, Sir, " resumed Jack with an air of settlingmatters: "that if you will needs have my trade-debts defrayed before mydebts of honour, you must, an't like you, take them on yourself. I willbe no party to such base infringement of the laws of honour. "

"Good lack, lad! Thou talkest as though thy father had run into debt, and was looking unto thee to defray the charges! 'Tis tother way about, Jack. Call thy wits together!" exclaimed his aunt. 

"Well, Aunt Rachel, you seem determined to use me hardly, " said Jack, with an air of reluctant martyrdom; "but you will find I harbour nomalice for your evil conception of mine intents. "

To see this Jack, who had done all the mischief and made everybodyuncomfortable, mount on his pedestal and magnanimously forgive them, wastoo much for Rachel's equanimity. 

"Of all the born fools that e'er gat me in a passion, Jack, thou artvery king and captain! I would give my best gown this minute thou wertsix in the stead of six-and-twenty--my word, but I would leather thee!I would whip thee till I was dog-weary, whatever thou shouldst be. Theborn patch [fool]!--the dolt [dunce]!--the lither loon [idle, good-for-nothing fellow]!--that shall harbour no malice against mebecause--he is both a fool and a knave! If thou e'er hadst any sense, Jack (the which I doubt), thou forgattest to pack it up when thouearnest from London. Of all the long-eared asses ever I saw--"

Mistress Rachel's diatribe came to a sudden close, certainly not fromthe exhaustion of her feelings, but from the want of suitable wordswherein to express them. 

"Aunt!" said Jack, still in an injured tone, "would you have me togovern myself by rule and measure, like a craftsman?"

"Words be cast away on thee, Jack: I will hold my peace. When thybrains be come home from the journey they be now gone, thou canst giveme to wit, an' it like thee. "

"I marvel, " murmured Sir Thomas absently, "what Master Tremayne shouldsay to all this. "

"He!" returned Jack with sovereign scorn. "He is a Puritan!"

"He is a good man, Jack. And I doubt--so he keep out of ill company--whether Arthur shall give him the like care, " said his father sighing. 

"Arthur! A sely milksop, Sir, that cannot look a goose in the face!"

"Good lack! how shall he ever win through this world, that is choke-fullof geese?" asked Rachel cuttingly. 

"Suffer me to say, Sir, that Puritans be of no account in the Court. "

"Of earth, or Heaven?" dryly inquired Sir Thomas. 

"The Court of England, I mean, Sir. They be universally derided andheld of low esteem. All these Sectaries--Puritans, Gospellers, Anabaptists, and what not--no gentleman would be seen in their company. "

"Dear heart!" growled the still acetic Rachel. "The angels must bemighty busy a-building chambers for the gentry, that they mix not inHeaven with the poor common saints. "

"'Tis the general thought, Aunt, among men of account. --and doth commenditself for truth, --that 't will take more ill-doing to damn a gentlemanthan a common man. " [Note 2. ]

"Good lack! I had thought it should be the other way about, " saidRachel satirically. 

"No doubt, " echoed Lady Enville--in approbation of Jack's sentiment, notRachel's. 

"Why, Aunt!--think you no account is taken of birth and blood inHeaven?"

"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'treckon there be separate chambers there. Do but think what it were, ifit _should_ chance to a gentleman to be shut up yonder along with thepoor 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, keepthese, " said his father, taking up the bills. 

"As it like you, Sir, " responded Jack airily. "I care not though Inever see them again. "

"What ado is here!" said Lady Enville, as her husband departed. "I amsore afeared thou wilt have some trouble hereabout, Jack. Both thyfather 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 onme 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 withhim. "

"Good lack, these lads and lasses!" groaned poor Sir Thomas. "They dowear a man's purse--ay, and his heart. Marry, but I do trust I gave nosuch thought and sorrow to my father! Yet in very deed my care for thefuture passeth it for the past. If Jack go on thus, what shall the endbe?"

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 isbut for the head. There is but one thing that will touch the heart toany lasting purpose; and that is, the quickening grace of God the HolyGhost. "

"Nay, all they seem to drift further away from Him, " sighed the fathersadly. 

"My good friend, it may seem so to you, mainly because yourself arecoming nearer. "

Sir Thomas shook his head sorrowfully. 

"Nay, for I ne'er saw me to be such a sinner as of late I have. Youcall not that coming nearer God?"

"Ay, but it is!" said Mr Tremayne. "Think you, friend; you _were_ sucha 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 thistrue sight of yourself because the Lord hath touched your eyes with theointment of His grace. Maybe you are somewhat like as yet unto himwhose eyen Christ touched, that at first he could not tell betwixt menand 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 dofor Jack? I would I had listed you and Rachel, and had not sent him toLondon. 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 ithimself, an' you so could. "

"Jack will ne'er smart for aught, " said his father. "Were I to stay hisallowance, he should but run into further debt, ne'er doubting to paythe same somewhen and somehow. The way and the time he should leave tochance. I see nought but ruin before the lad. He hath learned over illlessons in the Court, --of honour which is clean contrary to commonhonesty, and courtesy which standeth not with plain truth. "

"Ay, the Devil can well glose, " [flatter, deceive] said Mr Tremaynesadly. 

"The lad hath no conscience!" added Sir Thomas. "With all this, helaugheth and singeth as though nought were on his mind. Good lack! butif I had done as he, I had been miserable thereafter. I conceive notsuch conditions. "

"I conceive them, for I have seen them aforetime. But I would not havesuch a conscience for the worth of the Queen's Mint. "

Indeed, Jack did seem perfectly happy. His appetite, sleep, andspirits, were totally unaffected by his circumstances. Clare, to whomthis 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, inwalked Mr John Feversham. He did not seem to have much to say, exceptthat Uncle Piers and Aunt Lucrece were well. In fact, he never had muchto say. Nor did he think it necessary to state what had brought him toLancashire. He was asked to remain, of course, to which he assented, and slipped into his place with a quiet ponderosity which seemed tobelong 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 ofa truth he is solid matter. "

"I marvel if he ever gat into debt, " observed Clare quietly from theother side of Jack. 

"He!" sneered that young gentleman. "He is the fashion of man thatshould 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'ersaw a spark thereof in yon bale of woollen goods labelled JackFeversham. "

"May be thou wilt, some day, " answered Clare. 

"That will be when the Ribble runneth up instead of down. He is acoward, --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 visitcame out. He wanted Blanche. 

Sir Thomas was quite taken by surprise. It had never occurred to himthat silent John Feversham had the faintest design upon any one. Andwhat could this calm, undemonstrative man have seen in the butterflyBlanche, which had captivated him, of all people? He promised an answerthe next day; and, feeling as if another straw had been added to hisburden, he went to consult the ladies. 

Lady Enville disapproved of the proposal. So unlike Don Juan!--sototally inferior, in every respect! And would it not be desirable towait and see whether John were really likely to succeed to his uncle'sinheritance within any reasonable time? she calmly urged. Sir Piersmight live twenty years yet, or he might have a family of his own, andthen where would John Feversham be? In present circumstances, concludedher Ladyship, enjoying the scent of her pomander, she thought this amost undesirable match for Blanche, who could not do much worse, andmight do much better. 

Rachel, as might be expected, took the contrary view. Unlike DonJuan!--yes, she hoped so, indeed! This was a sensible young man, who, it might be trusted, would keep Blanche in order, which she was likelyenough to need as long as she lived. How should the girl do better? Byall 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 voicein 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. Shewas 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 thematter. 

To all outward appearance, John Feversham took his rejection veryquietly. Sir Thomas couched it in language as kind as possible. Johnsaid little in answer, and exhibited no sign of vexation. But Rachel, who was still pursuing her career of amateur detective, thought that hefelt more distress than he showed. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. The embroidery about the heel and ankle, which showed above thelow shoes then fashionable. 

Note 2. Lest the reader should think this idea too preposterous to havebeen seriously entertained, I refer him to words actually uttered (andapproved by the hearers) on the death of Philippe, Duke of Orleans, brother of Louis the Fourteenth:--"I can assure you, God thinks twicebefore He damns a person of the Prince's quality. "--(_Memoires deDangeau_). 

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 nocompassion for the bull. Clare declined without giving her reason. Blanche looked as if she did not know whether or not to ask permissionto accompany her brother. Sir Thomas said he had too much to thinkabout; 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. Fevershamcontinued 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 anddespise like to a Puritan!"

"There is a worse thing than reckoning a laugh to be sin, Jack, " saidSir Thomas gravely; "and that is, reckoning sin a thing to laugh at. "

"And wherefore dost loathe a Puritan, quotha?" demanded Rachel. "Bethey so much better than thou?"

"There be no gentlemen amongst them, Aunt Rachel, " suggested Blanchemischievously. 

"They set them up for having overmuch goodness, " answered Jack in adisgusted tone. 

"Prithee, Jack, how much goodness is that?" his Aunt Rachel wished toknow. 

"Over Jack's goodness, " whispered Blanche. 

"There is not one that is not a coward, " resumed Jack, ignoring thequery. "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 thebull should break loose. "

Blanche was curious to hear what John Feversham would say to thisaccusation--one which to her mind was a most insulting one. Surely thiswould 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 couldhardly believe his ears. 

John Feversham looked him steadily in the face. 

"Ay, Jack Enville, " he said, unmoved by the taunt. "I am afeared ofGod. "

"Well said, my brave lad!" muttered Sir Thomas. 

Jack turned, and left the hall without answering. But after thatevening, his whole conduct towards Feversham evinced the uttermostcontempt. 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 onecould doubt what was meant by them. Unless Feversham were extremelycareless of the opinion of his fellows, he must have found this verygalling; but he showed no indication of annoyance, beyond an occasionalflush and quiver of the lip. Sir Thomas had at once exhibited hisdispleasure when he heard this, so that Jack restricted hismanifestations to times when his father was absent; but the amusementsometimes visible in Blanche's face was not likely to be pleasant to theman whom Blanche had refused to marry. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Well, Sir?" queried Jack one Saturday evening, as the family sat roundthe 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 wayto 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 greatmatters. "

"Forsooth, no, Sir! There be few gentlemen in the Court that do owe solittle 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 themanner of dwellers in the town. Of course, aught should serve here thatwere decent and comely. But in the Court 'tis right needful thatfashion be observed. Go to!--these chairs we sit on, I dare say, havebeen here these fifty years or more?"

"As long as I mind, Jack, " said his father; "and that is somewhat overfifty years. "

"Truly, Sir. Now, no such a thing could not be done in the Court. Achair that is ten years old is there fit for nought; a glass of fiveyears may not be set on board; and a gown you have worn one year must becast aside, whether it be done or no. The fashion choppeth and changethall one with the moon; nor can a gentleman wear aught that is not thenewest of his sort. Sir, the Queen's Highness carrieth ne'er a gown twoseasons, nor never rippeth--all hang by the walls. "

It was the custom at that time to pull handsome dresses in pieces, anduse the materials for something else; but if a dress were not worth theunpicking, it was hung up and left to its fate. Queen Elizabeth keptall hers "by the walls;" she never gave a dress, and never took one inpieces. 

"Gentility, son--at least thy gentility--is costly matter, " remarked SirThomas. 

"Good lack, Sir! You speak as though I had been an ill husband!" [anextravagant man] cried Jack in an injured tone. "Look you, a gentlemanmust have his raiment decent--"

"Three cloth suits, six shirts, and six pair of stockings should servefor that, Jack, nor cost above twenty pound the year, and that freereckoned, " [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, " saidAunt Rachel oracularly. 

This idea evidently amused Jack greatly. 

"'Tis in very deed as I said but now: you have no fantasy hereaway ofthe necessities of a man that is in the Court. He must needs have hisbroidered 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 whiteleather; his paned [slashed and puffed with another colour or material]velvet breeches, guarded with golden lace; his satin cloak, wellbroidered and laced; his coats of fine cloth, some forty shillings theyard; his long, furred gown of Lukes' [Lucca] velvet; his muff, Spanishhat, Toledo rapier; his golden and jewelled ear-rings; his stays--"

A few ejaculations, such as "Good lack!" and "Well-a-day!" had beenaudible from Aunt Rachel as the list proceeded; but Sir Thomas keptsilence until the mention of this last article, which was in his eyes apurely 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 dooft-times go together. "

"My good Sir!" returned Jack, with amused condescension. "How shall agentleman go about a sorry figure, more than a gentlewoman?"

"Marry come up!" interposed Rachel. "If the gentleman thou hast scarcefinished 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 bea-running after the next? We shall have them twisting rats' tails intheir hair, or riding in coaches. "

"I ensure you, Sir, many gentlemen do even now ride in coaches. 'Tissaid 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 paidfor. "

"Nay, worry not the lad thus!" was softly breathed from Lady Enville'scorner. "If other gentlemen wear such gear, Jack must needs have thesame 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 airymanner. "If these bills must needs be paid--and so seem you to say--howshall it be? Must I essay for the monopoly?--or for a wardship?--or foran 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'llspeak truth. "

Rachel was playing, as many did in her day, on the similarity of soundbetween "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 halfthereof. 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 youngvisitor, "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 ofthe 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 themeanest 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 couldearn money in no daintier fashion, I would do it. "

"I despise mean-spirited loons!" muttered Jack, addressing himself tothe fire. 

"So doth not God, my son, " said his father quietly. 

Blanche felt uncertain whether she did or not. In fact, the state ofBlanche's mind just then was chaos. She thought sometimes there must betwo of her, each intent upon pursuing a direction opposite to that ofthe 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 wantedto please herself. She was under the impression--(how many share itwith her!)--that religion meant just two things--giving up everythingthat one liked, and doing everything that one disliked. She did notrealise that what it really does mean is a change in the liking. But atpresent she was ready to accept Christ's salvation from punishment, ifonly she might dispense with the good works which God had prepared forher to walk in. 

And when the heart is thus divided between God and self, it will befound as a rule that, in all perplexities which have to be decided, selfcarries the day. 

The only result of the struggle in Blanche's mind which was apparent tothose around her was that she was very cross and disagreeable. He whois dissatisfied with himself can never be pleased with other people. 

Ah, how little we all know--how little we can know, as regards oneanother--of the working of that internal kingdom which is in every man'sbreast! A woman's heart may be crushed to death within her, and thosewho habitually talk and eat and dwell with her may only suppose that shehas a headache. 

And those around Blanche entirely misunderstood her. Lady Envillethought she was fretting over her crossed love, and lavished endlesspity and petting upon her. Clare only saw, in a vague kind of way, thatsomething was the matter with her sister which she could not understand, and let her alone. Her Aunt Rachel treated her to divers acidulatedlectures upon the ingratitude of her behaviour, and the intensity withwhich she ought to be ashamed of herself. None of these courses oftreatment was exactly what Blanche needed; but perhaps the nipping northwind of Aunt Rachel was better than the dead calm of Clare, and farsuperior to the soft summer breeze of Lady Enville. 

It was a bright, crisp, winter day. The pond in the grounds at EnvilleCourt was frozen over, and Jack, declaring that no consideration shouldbaulk him of a slide, had gone down to it for that purpose. JohnFeversham followed more deliberately; and a little later, Clare andBlanche sauntered down in the same direction. They found the two Johnssliding on the pond, and old Abel, the head gardener, earnestly adjuringMaster 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 Jackscornfully. "Hallo, maids! Come on the ice--'tis as jolly as a play. "

Clare smilingly declined, but Blanche stepped on the ice, aided byJack's hand, and was soon sliding away as lithely and merrily ashimself. 

"Ay me! yonder goeth the dinner bell, " said Blanche at last. "Help meback 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, andhe 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 orcared not. They came flying along the pond, --when all at once there wasa shriek of horror, and Jack--who was not able to stop himself--finishedthe slide alone. Blanche had disappeared. Near the south end of thegreat pond was a round jagged hole in the ice, showing where she hadgone down. 

"Hold her up, Master, quick!" cried old Abel. "Dunnot let her be suckedunder, as what happens! Creep along to th' edge, and lay you down; andwhen hoo comes to th' top, catch her by her gown, or her hure [hair], oraught as 'll hold. I'll get ye help as soon as I can;" and as fast ashis limbs would carry him, Abel hurried away. 

Jack did not move. 

"I shall be drowned! I can't swim!" he murmured, with white lips, "Iwould sure go in likewise. "

Neither he nor Clare saw in the first moment of shocked excitement thatsomebody else had been quicker and braver than they. 

"I have her!" said John Feversham's voice, just a little less calm thanusual. "I think I can keep her head above water till help cometh. JackEnville, fetch a rope or a plank--quick!"

They saw then that Feversham was lying on his face on the ice, andholding firmly to Blanche by her fair hair, thus bringing her face abovethe 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 ownsense of the term. 

"How should I know? I am no serving-man. "

Clare dashed off towards the house without another word. She met SirThomas at the garden gate, hastening out to ascertain the meaning of thescreams 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 onewith 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, graspingBlanche, who was white and motionless; while Jack, standing in perfectsafety on the bank, was favouring the hero with sundry scraps of cheapadvice. 

"Hasten!" said Feversham in a low, constrained voice, when he heard helpcoming. "I am wellnigh spent. "

Sir Thomas was really angry with his son. A few words of witheringscorn made that young gentleman--afraid of his father for the firsttime--assist with his own courtly hands in pushing the plank across theice. 

The relief reached those endangered just in time. 

Blanche was carried home in her father's arms, and delivered to Rachelto be nursed; while Feversham, the moment that he recognised himself tobe no longer responsible for her safety, fainted where he lay. He wasborne to the house by Sim and Dick--Master Jack following in a leisurelymanner, 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 lookedslightly 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, thoughscarcely seeming to like the expressions of admiration which wereshowered upon him. 

"Metrusteth, Jack, " said Rachel cuttingly to her nephew, "next time thouwilt do thy best not to mistake a hero for a coward. I should notmarvel, trow, if the child's going on yon ice were some mischievous workof thine. "

"'Twas a gallant deed, in very sooth, Master Feversham, --without you canswim, " said Lady Enville faintly. She had gone into hysterics onhearing of the accident, and considered herself deserving of the deepestcommiseration for her sufferings. "I am thankful Blanche wear but hercamlet. "

"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 forthat I trusted God. For aught else--nay: it was no time to thinkthereof. "

"Methinks, Jack Feversham, " said Sir Thomas affectionately, "none shallcall thee a coward any more. "

Feversham smiled back in answer. 

"Sir Thomas, " he said, "I fear God, and I love her. This was God'swork, and her great peril. How could I have held back?"

Sir Thomas glanced at his son; but Jack was twirling his moustache, andintently contemplating one of the stags' heads which decorated the hall. 

After that day, there was a great change in Blanche Enville. She hadcome so near death, and that so suddenly, that she was sobered andsoftened. God in His mercy opened her eyes, and she began to askherself, --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 wasno possibility of mistaking him for a coward any longer. And whateverhe had been, she could scarcely have failed to cherish some kindlyfeeling towards the man who had risked his life for hers. 

The two Johns left Enville Court together on the following Tuesday. Andafter reaching London, Jack began to write letters home prettyregularly, for that time, --always gay, airy, and sanguine. 

Jack's first letter conveyed the information that he was absolutelycertain of obtaining the monopoly. Sir Christopher Hatton and SirWalter Raleigh had both promised their interest, and any thought offailure after that was quite out of the question. 

The second letter brought the news that Sir Christopher was veryill--(in fact, he was dying)--and that, by some unfortunate mistake(with Jack, any want of capacity to see his immense value, was always amistake), the monopoly had been granted to young Philip Hoby. But therewas no reason for disappointment. Jack had had an unusual run of goodluck that week at the gaming-table. It was quite Providential. ForJack, like some other gentlemen of his day, dealt largely in religiousphrases, and did not trouble himself about religion in any other way. 

The third letter stated that Jack had not been able to obtain the grantof a wardship. That was another unfortunate mistake. But his good luckas a gamester still kept up, and my Lord of 'Bergavenny was his verygood lord. These items, also, were most Providential. 

The fourth letter informed his father that all his difficulties were atlast 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 Ican 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 andchorus of the whole. But still it did not apparently occur to Jack thathis 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 SirThomas. 

"`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 shortand 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 toknow!" said Rachel satirically. "In white satin, trow, at the veryleast, 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. "Wehave nought fit to show. "

Sir Thomas glanced at his wife's flowing satin dress, trimmed withcostly lace, and, like an unreasonable man, opined that it was quitegood enough for anything; "This!" exclaimed Lady Enville. "Surely youcannot mean it, Sir Thomas. This gown is all rags, and hath been madethese 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?--andbe 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 Icannot wholly conceive it, --we went not to church in rags this lastSunday, 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 dostthou need to show my Lady Jack?"

"I lack no new gowns, I thank thee, Tom. I set a new dowlas lining inmy 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 shillingsand 4 pence] shall serve me. "

"Then thy charges be less than Orige, for she ensureth me that all hergowns 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 notin her coffers two velvet gowns, and a satin, and a kersey, and threecamlets--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 bearseven; 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 Clareand Blanche, leave me see to them. Clare hath one gown was made thisyear--"

"A beggarly say!" [a coarse kind of silk, often used for curtains andcovering 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 beright 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 incloth of gold, --not though Jack should wed all the countesses inEngland. If she love not me by reason of my gowns, she may hold me offwith 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. "Iwould have nought but to be decent and fit for our degree, and not toshame us in the eyes of her that hath been in the Court. I was ne'erone to cast money right and left. If I had but a new velvet gown, and afair kirtle of laced satin, and a good kersey for every day, and anhood, and a partlet or twain of broidered work, and two or three othersmall matters, I would ask no more. Rachel would fain don us all likescullery-maids!"

Sir Thomas hated to see a woman weep; and above all, his wife--whom hestill 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 Iwill spare it, though I cut timber therefor. "

Which was equivalent, in his eyes, to the very last and worst of allhonest resources for raising money. 

Lady Enville made a rapid calculation (with her handkerchief still ather eyes), which ran much in this fashion:--

+========================================+======+�Velvet dress - at least 40; say �45 0 0�+----------------------------------------+------+�Satin kirtle - about �20 0 0�+----------------------------------------+------+�Kersey dress �3 10 0�+----------------------------------------+------+�Hood, best � 1 6 8�+----------------------------------------+------+�Hood, second-rate � 13 4�+----------------------------------------+------+�Frontlet � 4 4�+----------------------------------------+------+�Lawn for ruffs (embroidered at home) say� 2 6�+----------------------------------------+------+�Gloves, one dozen pairs, best quality � 2 6�+----------------------------------------+------+�Ribbon, 40 yards, various colours � 13 4�+----------------------------------------+------+�Miscellaneous items, a good margin, say � 9 7 4�+----------------------------------------+------+�Which makes a total of �80 0 0�+========================================+======+

Without removing the signal of distress, her Ladyship announced that thesmall sum of 80 pounds would satisfy her need: a sum equivalent to about1200 pounds in our day. Sir Thomas held his breath. But he knew thatunless he had courage authoritatively to deny the fair petitioner, argument and entreaty would alike be thrown away upon her. And thatcourage 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 hemet her alone. 

"If it liked your goodness to bestow on me a crown-piece, Father, Iwould be very thankful, " said Clare, blushing as if she thought herselfextravagant. "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 satindress and velvet hood. The old Blanche would have asked for themwithout scruple. But the new Blanche glanced at her father's face, andsaw that he looked grave and worried. 

"I thank you much, Father, " she said. "There is nought I do reallylack, without it were three yards of blue ribbon for a girdle. "

This would cost about a shilling. Sir Thomas smiled, blessed her, andput a crown-piece in her hand; and Blanche danced down-stairs in herdelight, --evoked less by the crown-piece than by the little victory overherself. It was to her that for which a despot is recorded to havelonged 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 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?]

------------------------------------------------------------------------

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. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

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. 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN. 

"DIEU LA VOULU. "

 "Over himself and his own heart's complaining Victorious still. "

The bells were pealing merrily for the marriage of Clare Avery--I begher pardon--of Clare Tremayne; and the wedding party were seated atbreakfast in the great hall at Enville Court. 

"The bridesmaids be well-looking, " said Lady Enville, behind her fan, toSir Piers Feversham, who was her next neighbour, --for Sir Piers andLucrece had come to the wedding--"and I do hear Mistress PenelopeTravis--she of them that is nearest--is like to be the next bride of ourvicinage. "

"Say you so?" responded Sir Piers. "I do desire all happiness be withher. But there is one of yonder maids for whom in very deed I feelcompassion, and it is Mistress Lysken Barnevelt. Her May is well-nighover, and no bells be ringing for her. Poor maiden!"

"Go to, now, what dolts be men!" quoth Mistress Rachel Enville, addressing herself, to all appearance, to the dish of flummery whichstood before her. "They think, poor misconceiving companions! that webe all a-dying for them. That's a man's notion. Moreover, they take itthat 'tis the one end and aim of every woman in the world to be wed. That's a man's notion, again. And belike they fancy, poor patches! thatwhen she striketh thirty years on the bell, any woman will wed any manthat will but take compassion to ask her. That caps all their notions. (Thou shalt right seldom hear a woman to make no such a blunder. Theyknow better. ) Poor blockheads!--as if we could not be useful nor happywithout _them_! Lysken Barnevelt and Rachel Enville, at the least, benot fools enough to think it. "

"Neither is the Queen's Majesty, my mistress, " observed Sir Piers, greatly amused. 

"Who e'er said the Queen's Majesty were a fool?" demanded Rachelbluntly. "She is a woman, and no man--Heaven be praised for all Hismercies!"

"Yet if no man were, " pursued Sir Piers, "methinks you gentlewomenshould be but ill bestead. "

"Oh, should we so?" retorted Rachel. "Look you, women make no wars, norserve therein: nor women be no lawyers, to set folk by the ears: norwomen write not great tomes of controversy, wherein they curse the onethe other because Nell loveth a white gown, and Bess would have a black. Is the Devil a woman? Answer me that, I pray you. "

"Do women make no wars?" laughed Sir Piers. "What! with Helen of Troy, and--"

"Good lack, my master!--and what ill had Helen's fair face wrought inall this world, had there been no dolts of men to be beguilen thereby?"was Rachel's instant response. 

Sir Piers made a hasty retreat from that part of the field. 

"But, my mistress, though the Devil be no woman, yet was the woman thefirst to be deceived by him. "

"Like enough!" snapped Rachel. "She sinned not open-eyed, as did Adam. She trusted a man-devil, like too many of her daughters sithence, andshe and they alike have found bitter cause to rue the day they did it. "

Sir Piers prudently discovered that Lady Enville was asking him aquestion, and let Rachel alone thereafter. 

Ay, Lysken Barnevelt adopted from choice the life to which Clare hadbeen only willing to resign herself because she thought it was theFather's will. It amused Lysken to hear people pity her as one who hadfailed to win the woman's aim in life. To have failed to obtain whatshe had never sought, and did not want, was in Lysken's eyes an easilyendurable affliction. The world was her home, while she passed throughit on her journey to the better Home: and all God's family were herbrethren or her children. The two sisters from Enville Court were bothhappy and useful in their corners of the great harvest-field; but shewas the happiest, and the best loved, and when God called her the mostmissed of all--this solitary Lysken. Distinguished by no unusual habit, fettered by no unnatural vow, she went her quiet, peaceful, blessedway--a nun of the Order of Providence, for ever. 

And what was the fate of Lady Enville?

Just what is generally the fate of women of her type. They pass throughlife making themselves vastly comfortable, and those around them vastlyuncomfortable, and then "depart without being desired. " They are nevermissed--otherwise than as a piece of furniture might be missed. To suchwomen the whole world is but a platform for the exhibition andglorification of the Great Me: and the persons in it are units with whomthe Great Me deigns--or does not deign--to associate. Happy are thosefew of them who awake, on this side of the dread tribunal, to theknowledge that in reality this Great Me is a very little me indeed, yeta soul that can be saved, and that may be lost. 

And Rachel?--Ah, Rachel was missed when she went on the inevitablejourney. The house was not the same without her. She had been like afresh breeze blowing through it, --perhaps a little sharp at times, butalways wholesome. Those among whom she had dwelt never realised all shehad been to them, nor all the love they had borne to her, until theycould tell her of it no more. 

The winter of 1602 had come, and on the ground in Devonshire the snowlay deep. The trees, thickly planted all round Umberleigh, drooped withthe white weight; and a keen North wind groaned among the branches. Allwas gloomy and chill outside. 

And inside, all was gloomy and mournful too, for a soul was indeparting. The ripe fruit that had tarried so late on the old tree, wasshaken down at last. Softly and tenderly, the Lady Elizabeth, the youngwife of Sir Robert Basset, was ministering to the last earthly needs ofPhilippa the aged, the sister of her husband's grandfather. [Note 1. ]

"'Tis high time, Bess, child!" whispered the dying woman, true to hercharacter to the last. "I must have been due on the roll of Death thesethirty years. I began to marvel if he had forgot me. And I am goingHome, child. Thank God, I am going Home!

"They are are all safe yonder, Bess--Arthur, and Nell [Wife of SirArthur Basset], and little Honor, and thy little lad [Arthur, who diedin infancy], and Jack, and Frances--my darling sister!--and George, andKate, and Nan. I am assured of them, all. There be James and Mall, --well, I am not so sure of them. Would God I were! He knoweth. 

"But I do hope I shall see my mother. And, O Bess! I shall see him--myblessed, beloved father--I _shall_ see him!

"And they'll be glad, child. They'll all be glad when they see poorblundering old Philippa come stumbling in at the gate. I misdoubt ifthey look for it. They'll be glad!

"Bess, I do hope thou wilt ne'er turn thy back upon God so many years asI have done. And I had never turned to Him at last, if He had notstooped and turned me. 

"Tell Robin, with my blessing, to be a whole man for God. A whole manand a true! He is too rash--and yet not bold [true] enough. He carestoo much what other folk think. (Thank God, I ne'er fell in that trap!'Tis an ill one to find the way out. ) Do thou keep him steadfast, Bess. He'll ask some keeping. There's work afore thee yet, child; 'tis workworthy an angel--to keep one man steadfast for God. Thou must walkclose to God thyself to do it. And after all, 'twill be none of thydoing, but of His that wrought by thee. --

"And God bless the childre! I count there's the making of a true man inlittle Arthur. Thou mayest oft-times tell what a child is like to bewhen he is but four years old. God bless him, and make him anotherArthur! (Nay, I stay me not at Robin's father, as thou dost. AnotherArthur, --like that dear father of ours, whom we so loved! He is _the_Arthur for me. ) I can give the lad no better blessing. 

"Wilt draw the curtain, Bess? I feel as though I might sleep. Blessthee, dear heart, for all thy tender ministering. And if I wake notagain, but go to God in sleep, --farewell, and Christ be with thee!"

So she slept--and woke not again. 

Three months after the death of Philippa Basset, came another death--like hers, of an old woman full of years. The last of the Tudors passedaway from earth. Sir Robert Basset was free. To Stuart, or Seymour, orClifford, he "owed no subscription. " King of England he would be _defacto_, as _de jure_ he believed himself in his heart. 

And but for two obstacles in his way, it might have been Robert Bassetwho seated himself on the seat of England's Elizabeth. For England wasmuch exercised as to who had really the right to her vacant throne. 

It was no longer a question of Salic law--a dispute whether a womancould reign. That point, long undetermined, had been finally settledfifty years before. 

Nor was it any longer a doubtful matter concerning the old law ofnon-representation, --to which through centuries the English clungtenaciously, --the law which asserted that if a son of the sovereignpredeceased his father, leaving issue, that issue was barred from thesuccession, because the link which bound them to the throne was lost. This had been "the custom of England" for at least three hundred years. But, originally altered by the mere will of Edward the Third, the changehad now been confirmed by inevitable necessity, for when the Wars of theRoses closed, links were lost in _all_ directions, and the custom ofEngland could no longer be upheld. 

The two obstacles in Robert Basset's way were the apathy of themajority, and the strong contrary determination of the few who took aninterest in the question. 

The long reign of Elizabeth, and her personal popularity, had combinedto produce that apathy. Those who even dimly remembered the Wars of theRoses, and whose sympathies were fervid for White or Red, had been longdead when Elizabeth was gathered to her fathers. And to the newgeneration, White and Red were alike; the popular interest in thequestion was dead and buried also. 

But there was a little knot of men and women whose interest was alive, and whose energies were awake. And all these sided with one candidate. Sir Robert Cecil, the clever, wily son of the sagacious Burleigh, --LordRich and his wife Penelope sister of the beheaded Earl of Essex, --RobertCarey, a distant cousin of Queen Elizabeth through her mother, --hissister, Lady Scrope, one of the Queen's suite--and a few more, were allactive in the interest of James the Sixth of Scotland, who wasundoubtedly the true heir, if that true heir were not Sir Robert Basset. 

In their way, too, there was an obstacle. And they were all intent ongetting rid of it. 

King Henry the Eighth had introduced into the complicated question ofthe succession one further complication, which several of hispredecessors had tried to introduce in vain. The success of all, beforehim, had been at best only temporary. It took a Tudor will to do thedeed, and it took an obsequious Tudor age to accept it. 

This new element was the pure will of the sovereign. Richard the Firsthad willed his crown to a nephew shut out by the law ofnon-representation, and the attempt had failed to change the order ofsuccession. Edward the Third had in his life demanded the consent ofhis nobility to a scheme exactly similar on behalf of his grandson, andhis plan had taken effect for twenty-three years, mainly on account ofthe fact that the dispossessed heir, a protesting party in the firstcase, had been a consenting party in the second. But one great elementin the success of Henry the Fourth was the return of the succession tothe old and beloved order. 

The principle on which Henry the Eighth had governed for nearly fortyyears was his own despotic will. And it would appear that England likedhis strong hand upon the rein. He had little claim beyond his stronghand and (so much as he had of) his "Right Divine. " Having becomeaccustomed to obey this man's will for thirty-eight years, when thatwill altered the order of succession after the deaths of his ownchildren, England placidly submitted to the prospective change. 

His son, Edward the Sixth, followed his father's example, and againtried to alter the succession by will. But he had inherited only aportion of his father's prestige. The party which would have followedhim was just the party which was not likely to struggle for its rights. The order set up by Henry the Eighth prevailed over the change made byEdward the Sixth. 

But when Elizabeth came to die, the prestige of Henry the Eighth hadfaded, and it was to her personal decision that England looked for thesettlement of the long-vexed question. The little knot of persons whowished to secure the King of Scots' accession, therefore, were intenselyanxious to obtain her assent to their project. 

The Delphic oracle remained obstinately silent. Neither graverepresentations of necessity, nor coaxing, could induce her to open herlips upon the subject; and as no living creature had ever takenElizabeth off her guard, there was no hope in that direction. The oldwoman remembered too well the winter day, forty-five years before, whenthe time-serving courtiers left the dying sister at Westminster, to paycourt to the living sister at Hatfield; and with the mixture of weaknessand shrewdness which characterised her, she refused to run the risk ofits repetition by any choice of a successor from the candidates for thethrone. 

There were five living persons who could set up a reasonable claim, ofwhom four were descendants of Henry the Seventh. They were all a longway from the starting-point. 

The first was the King of Scotland, son of Mary Queen of Scots, daughterof James the Fifth, son of Princess Margaret of England, eldest daughterof Henry the Seventh. 

The second was the Lady Arbella Stuart, the only child of Lord CharlesStuart, son of Lady Margaret Douglas, daughter of the same PrincessMargaret. 

The third was Edward Seymour, son of Lady Katherine Grey, daughter ofLady Frances Brandon, eldest daughter of Princess Mary, youngestdaughter of Henry the Seventh. 

The fourth was Lady Anne Stanley, eldest daughter of Ferdinand Earl ofDerby, son of Lady Margaret Clifford, only daughter of Lady EleanorBrandon, second daughter of the same Princess Mary. 

And the fifth was Sir Robert Basset of Umberleigh, son of Sir ArthurBasset, son of Lady Frances Plantagenet, eldest daughter of Arthur LordLisle, son of Edward the Fourth. 

Of these five, the one who would have inherited the Crown, under thewill of Henry the Eighth, was unquestionably Edward Seymour; and, Maryand Elizabeth being both now dead, the reversion fell to him also underthat of Edward the Sixth. But, strange to say, he was not a formidableopponent of James of Scotland. Queen Elizabeth had been so deeplyoffended with his mother (Lady Katherine Grey, sister of the beheadedLady Jane) for making a love-match without her royal licence, that shehad immured both bride and bridegroom in the Tower for years. Perhapsthe prestige of Elizabeth's will remained potent, even after Elizabethwas dead; perhaps Edward Seymour had no wish to occupy such a thornyseat as the throne of England. Neither he nor Lady Anne Stanley set upthe faintest claim to the succession; though Seymour, at least, mighthave done so with a decided show of justice, as the law of successionthen stood. By the two royal wills, King James of Scotland, and hiscousin, Lady Arbella Stuart, were entirely dispossessed; their claim hadto be made under the law as it had stood unaltered by the will of Henrythe Eighth. 

But there was one prior question, which, had it been settled in theaffirmative, would have finally disposed of all these four claims atonce. If the contract between Edward the Fourth and Elizabeth Lucy wereto be regarded as a legal marriage, then there could be no doubt who wasthe true heir. Better than any claim of Stuart or Tudor, of Seymour orStanley, was then that of the Devonshire knight, Sir Robert Basset. Forfifteen hundred years, a contract had been held as legal marriage. Thevast estates of the Plantagenets of Kent had passed to the Holands onthe validity of a contract no better, and perhaps worse, than that ofElizabeth Lucy. [Note 2. ] Why was this contract to be set aside?

Had England at large been less apathetic, or had the little knot ofagitators been less politic, a civil war might have been reasonablyanticipated. But the intriguers were determined that James of Scotlandshould succeed; and James himself, aware of the flaw in his title, wasbusily working with them to the same end. Cecil, Lady Rich, LadyScrope, and Carey, were all pledged to let him know the exact moment ofthe Queen's, decease, that he might set out for England at once. 

All was gloom and suspense in the chamber of Richmond Palace, where thegreat Queen of England lay dying. Her ladies and courtiers urged her totake more nourishment, --she refused. They urged her to go to bed, --sherefused. She would be a queen to her last breath. No failure of bodilystrength could chill or tame the lion heart of Elizabeth. 

At last, very delicately, Cecil attempted to sound the dying Queen onthat subject of the succession, always hitherto forbidden. Her throatwas painful, and she spoke with difficulty: Cecil, as spokesman for herCouncil, asked her to declare "whom she would have for King, " offeringto name sundry persons, and requesting that. Her Majesty would hold upher finger when he came to the name which satisfied her. To test thevigour of her mind, he first named the King of France. 

Elizabeth did not stir. 

"The King's Majesty of Scotland?"

There was no sign still. 

"My Lord Beauchamp?"--Edward Seymour, the heir according to the wills ofher father and brother. 

Then the royal lioness was roused. 

"I tell you, " she said angrily, "I will have no rascal's son in my seat, but a king's son. "

There was no king's son among the candidates but one, and that was Jamesof Scotland. 

Once more, when she was past speech, Elizabeth was asked if she wishedJames to succeed her. She indicated her pleasure in a manner which somemodern writers have questioned, but which was well understood in her ownday. Lifting her clasped hands to her head, the dying Elizabeth madethem assume the form of a crown; and once more those around her knewthat she desired her successor to be a king. 

Tradition says that as soon as Elizabeth was dead, Lady Scrope dropped asapphire ring from the window--a preconcerted signal--to her brother, Robert Carey, who was waiting below. Carey states that he was told in amore matter-of-fact way--by a sentinel, whom he had previously requestedto bring him the news. 

That hour Carey set out: and except for one night's rest at Carlisle, hespurred night and day till he stood before King James. There was asudden intimation--a hurried action taken--and the Stuarts were Kings ofEngland. 

The claims of the Lady Arabella were disposed of by making her acompanion to the new Queen, until she had the presumption to marry, and, of all people, to marry the heir under King Henry the Eighth's will. This was too much. She was imprisoned for life, and she died in herprison, simply because she was her father's daughter and her husband'swife. 

The claims of Lord Beauchamp and Lady Anne Stanley needed no disposal, since they had both remained perfectly quiescent, and had put forth noclaim. 

But Robert Basset was not so easily managed. James knew that he wascapable of making the throne a very uncomfortable seat. And Basset, with his usual rashness, had on the Queen's death dashed into the arenaand boldly asserted his right as the heir of Edward the Fourth. Theonly way to dispose of him was by making him realise that the crown wasbeyond his grasp; and that if he persevered, he would find the scaffoldand the axe within it. This was accordingly done so effectually thatweak, impulsive Basset quailed before the storm, and fled to France tosave his own life. He survived the accession of James the First forseventeen years at least [Note 3]; but no more was heard of his right tothe throne of England. 

Forty years after the death of Elizabeth, the son of James of Scotlandwas struggling for his crown, with half England against him. Five yearslater, there was a scaffold set up at Whitehall, and the blood royal waspoured out. There were comparatively few who stood by King Charles tothe last. But there was one--who had headed charges at Marston Moor"for God, and King, and Country"--who had bled under his banner atEdgehill--who lived to welcome back his most unworthy son and successor, and to see the monarchy re-established in the Stuart line. His name wasArthur Basset. [He died January 7, 1672. See Prince's Worthies ofDevon. ]

Ay, there had been "the making of a true man" in Colonel Arthur Basset. The fit representative of that earlier Arthur, he had adopted in hislife the motto which, a hundred and fifty years before, the son ofEdward the Fourth had embroidered on his banner--"_Dieu l'a voulu_. "

God had not written the name of Arthur Basset on the roll of the Kingsof England. And Arthur Basset bowed his noble head to the decree, andfell back to the ranks like a hero--no king, but a true man. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. The date is fictitious. The Atherington register has beenvainly searched for the burial of Philippa Basset, and the Heantonregister is marked in the return "illegible. "

Note 2. The evidence in the earlier case (of Joan Plantagenet) seems tohave rested entirely on the oaths of husband and wife; in the latter (ofElizabeth Lucy) the contract was known to the entire family of thebridegroom. 

Note 3. Prince states that "in consequence of his pretensions to theCrown, and of his extravagance, " Sir Robert was obliged to sell Heantonand Whitechapel, which last was the old seat of his family. If he didsell Heanton, his son must have bought it back; for it was the familyresidence in the year after Colonel Basset's death. Umberleigh had beendeserted for Heanton on account of the low, damp situation of theformer, and the thick trees which crowded round the house. 

APPENDIX. 

THE ARMADA. 

The strength of the Spanish fleet is differently represented by variouswriters, whose accounts disagree to the wide extent of--ships, from 128to 176; men, from fourteen to twenty-nine thousand. I append thetabulated statement given by Speed, which is neither the highest nor thelowest, and is the carefully-prepared account of a generally accuratecompiler. 

Vessels:--Galliasses and gallions, 72; ships and hulkes, 47; pinnasesand carviles, 11:--130. 

Men:--Soldiers, 18, 658; sailors, 8094; galley-slaves, 2088:--28, 840. 

Munition:--Great ordnance, 2843; bullets, 220, 000; powder, 4200quintals, each one hundredweight; lead for bullets, 1000 quintals, ditto; matches, 1200 quintals; muskets and calivers, 7000; partizans andhalberts, 10, 000; cannon and field pieces unnumbered. 

Provision:--Bread, biscuit, and wine laid in for six months; bacon, 6500quintals; cheese, 3000 quintals; fresh water, 12, 000 pipes; flesh, rice, beans, peas, oil, and vinegar, unestimated. 

General items:--Torches, lanterns, lamps, canvas, hides, lead to stopleaks, whips, and knives. 

Army 32, 000 strong, and cost 30, 000 ducats every day; 124 noblemen onboard as volunteers. 

_Speed's Chronicle_, page 885. 

BASSET OF UMBERLEIGH. 

I think the following account of the Basset family will be moreconvenient for reference than a number of explanatory notes interspersedthroughout the narrative, and will also avoid frequent repetition. Owing to further research, it will be found fuller and more accuratethan the corresponding notes in _Isoult Barry_ and _Robin Tremayne_. 

Sir John Basset of Umberleigh, son of Sir John Basset and Joan Beaumont, died January 31, 1528 (Inq. 20 Henry Eight 20). The "Heralds'Visitations" appear to be mistaken in giving Sir John four wives. JaneBeaumont, whom they call his second wife, was his mother: whileElizabeth, the third wife, seems to be an imaginary person altogether. He married:--

A. Anne, daughter of John Dennis of Oxleigh and Eleanor Giffard; widowof Patrick Bellewe of Aldervescot; buried with husband in AtheringtonChurch, Devon. 

B. Honor, daughter of Sir Thomas Grenville of Stow and Isabel Gilbert;born about 1498, married about 1515, died probably about 1548. Buriedin Atherington Church. [The burial register of this church previous to1570 has perished. ] She married, secondly, Arthur Plantagenet, ViscountLisle, son of Edward the Fourth and Elizabeth Lucy. 

Issue of Sir John Basset

(A) by Anne Dennis:--

1. A son, whose only memorial is on the sepulchral brass of his parentsat Atherington probably died young. 

2. Anne, married Sir James Courtenay of Powderham. (Issue, --James, andJohn. )

3. Margery, (Harl. Ms. 1149, folio 13, b. ) married Edward Marrays ofMarrays, Cornwall. (Issue, --Margaret, married George Rolle, LadyLisle's solicitor. )

4. Jane, born about 1505; apparently died unmarried. 

5. Thomasine, born about 1512, died unmarried, March 19, 1535--(LislePapers, Three 1. )

(B) By Honor Grenville:--

6. Philippa, born about 1516; probably died unmarried. 

7. Katherine, born about 1518; married, after 1542, Sir Henry Ashley ofAshley and Wimborne Saint Giles (Shaftesbury family); date of death notknown. (Issue, --Henry, and Edward, who probably died young. --Harl. Ms. 888, folio 40, b. )

8. John, born October 26, 1519 (Inq. 20 Henry Eight 20); died Apr. 3, 1545 (Inq. 2 Philip and Mary, 10). Married Frances, eldest daughter ofArthur Plantagenet, Viscount Lisle, by his first wife Elizabeth Grey;married at Calais, February 17 to 22, 1538 (Lisle Papers, Eleven 40, 41); died about 1560. She married, secondly, Thomas Monke ofPotheridge, county Devon. 

9. Anne, born about 1520; Maid of Honour from 1537 (Lisle Papers, Eleven 110) to 1554 (Tallies Roll, 2-3 Philip and Mary); married, probably between July 7 and October 27, 1555, Sir Walter Hungerford ofFarleigh Castle, son of the last Lord Hungerford of Heytesbury; diedchildless, probably in 1558-9. (Hungerford family papers). 

10. George, born about 1522, died in London, 1579. (Harl. Mss. , 757, folio 214; 760, folio 322. ) Married Jaquit, daughter and heir of JohnCoffyn of Portledge, county Devon. She married, secondly, Henry Jones. 

11. Mary, born about 1525, married at Atherington, June 9, 1557(Register), John Wollacombe of Combe, county Devon. (Issue, --John, Thomas, and Honor. --Harl. Ms. 3288, folio 49. )

12. James, born 1527 (Foxe's Acts and Monuments, Pratt's Townsend'sed. , Six 231), proctor of Bishop Gardiner, 1543 to 1555; Gentleman ofChamber to Queen Mary, about 1556-8; died November 1558; buried BlackFriars' Church, London. ("Machyn's Diary, " page 179. ) Married Mary, daughter of William Roper and Margaret his wife, daughter of Sir ThomasMore. 

Issue of John Basset and Frances Plantagenet:--

1. Honor, born at Calais, about May 10, 1539 (Lisle Papers, One 72;Eleven 97; Twelve 85), probably died young. 

2. Sir Arthur, born 1540 (Inq. 1 March--2 Philip and Mary, 10), probably at Calais; died of gaol fever, caught at the Black Assize, Exeter (Stow's "Chronicle, " page 719), April 2, 1586 (Epitaph); buriedat Atherington, April 7 (Register). Married Eleanor, daughter of JohnChichester of Raleigh, county Devon, and Gertrude Courtenay ofPowderham; buried at Atherington, July 8, 1585 (Register). 

Issue of Sir Arthur Basset and Eleanor Chichester:--

1. Sir Robert, born 1574 (Matriculation Books, Queen's College, Oxford); living 1620 (Anderson's. "Royal Genealogies, " page 745). Claimed the Crown on death of Queen Elizabeth, as legal descendant ofEdward the Fourth. He married Elizabeth, daughter and coh. Of SirWilliam Periam, Judge of the King's Bench; married November 21, 1591(Register of Saint Dunstan in the West, London); died 1633. 

2. Anne, married after 1585 Sir John Chichester of Hall, county Devon;died 1665; buried at Marwood. (Left issue. )

3. Margaret, under ten years old in 1585 (Will of Sir A. Basset). 

4. Arthur, under fourteen years old in 1585 (Will of Sir A. Basset). 

5. William, born 1583 (Matriculation Books, University College, Oxford). 

6. Francis, baptised at Atherington, May 8, 1584 (Register). 

7. John, baptised at Atherington June 1, 1585 (Register). 

Issue of Sir Robert Basset and Elizabeth Feriam:--

1. Arthur, baptised June 6, 1593 (Register of Saint Dunstan in theWest, London); buried February 3, 1595 (Register of Saint Bartholemewthe Less, London). 

2. Anne, baptised October 16, 1594 (Register of Saint Bartholemew theLess, London); married Jonathan Rashley of Fox (Harl. Mss. 1091, folio122; 1538, folio 280). 

3. Ellen, married George Yeo of Hushe (Harl. Mss. 1091, folio 122;1538, folio 280). 

4. Arthur, born at Heanton (Prince's "Worthies of Devon, " page 113), 1598 (ibidem, Harl. Ms. 1080, folio 343, b. ); Colonel in King Charles'sarmy; died January 7, 1672; buried at Heanton (Prince, page 116). Married Anne, daughter of William Leigh of Burrow, county Devon. 

5. Eleanor (Harl. Ms. 1091, folio 122). 

6. Mary (Harl. Ms. 1091, folio 122). 

7. William, born March 28, 1602-3 (Harl. Ms. 1080, folio 343, b. ;Matriculation Books, Exeter College, Oxford). 

Issue of Colonel Basset and Anne:--

1. John, of Heanton, living [?] 1673. Married Susannah, daughter of(unknown). 

2. Arthur, entered at Oriel College, Oxford, 1652, (MatriculationBooks. )

3. Francis, entered at Oriel College, Oxford, 1652 (MatriculationBooks. )

Issue of John Basset and Susannah:--

1. John, born February 26, 1653 (Atherington Register). 

2. Arthur, born 1656 (Matriculation Books, Exeter College, Oxford). 

3. Francis, born April 13, 1657 (Atherington Register). Married(unknown), daughter of (unknown). 

Issue of Francis Basset and (unknown):--

John, born 1688 (Matriculation Books, Exeter College, Oxford). 

The male line of the Basset family died out with Francis Basset, Esquire, in 1802; but the family estates remain in the hands of thedescendants of his eldest sister Eustachia, who married (Unknown) Davieof Orleigh, and her posterity bear the name of Davie-Bassett. 

The Younger Branches of the Family:--

Issue of George Basset and Jaquit Coffyn:--

1. Mary, baptised December 11, 1558 (Atherington Register); probablydied young. 

2. John, baptised February 8, 1559 (Atherington Register), probablydied young. 

3. Katherine, baptised January 11, 1560 (Atherington Register). 

4. Blanche (Harl. Ms. 1080, folio 344). 

5. James (Harl. Ms. 1080, folio 344). Married Jane, daughter of SirFrancis Godolphin and Margaret Killigrew (ibidem). 

Issue of James Basset and Jane Godolphin:--

1. Thomas (Harl. Ms. 1080, folio 344). 

2. Sir Francis, of Tehiddy, Cornwall; born 1594 (Matriculation Books, Exeter College, Oxford); knighted 1620 (Harl. Ms. 1080, folio 344). Married Anne, daughter of Jonathan Trelawney of Trelawney. 

3. Arthur (Harl, Ms. 1080, folio 344). 

4. Nicholas (Harl, Ms. 1080, folio 344). 

5. James, born 1602 (Matriculation Books, Exeter College, Oxford). 

6. Margery (Harl. Ms. 1080, folio 344). 

7. Jane, married William Courtenay (Harl. Ms. 1080, folio 344). 

8. Grace (Harl. Ms. 1080, folio 344). 

9. Margaret (Harl. Ms. 1080, folio 344). 

Issue of James Basset and Mary Roper:--

Philip, appointed Receiver of Revenues in Suffolk and Cambridgeshire, October 1, 1584 (Rot. Pat. 25 Elizabeth, Part 7). Married (unknown), daughter of (unknown) Verney (Harl. Ms. 1091, folio 122). 

Issue:--

Two daughters, names and alliances unknown (Harl Ms. 1080, folio 344). 

I owe especial thanks to various persons who have most kindly helped mein the elucidation of the above pedigree: in particular to ColonelChester, the Reverend G. Whitehead of Atherington, and CharlesChichester, Esquire, of Hall. 

HOWARD OF EFFINGHAM, CHARLES, LORD HIGH ADMIRAL. 

The extracts which follow will show the reasons for the belief that LordHoward was a Protestant, possibly at the time of the Armada, andcertainly at a later period. 

1559. December 17. --He was an invited guest at the consecration ofMatthew Parker at Lambeth, as Archbishop of Canterbury, "and many yearsafter, by his testimony, confuted those lewd and loud lies which thePapists tell of the Nag's Head in Cheapside. "--(Fuller's "Worthies, "quoted in Notes and Queries, 1st S. Three, 244. )

1604. February. --He was "at the head of a commission to discover andexpel all Catholic priests. "--(Memorials of the Howard Family, quotedibidem, Three 309. --The quoter adds that Howard "was certainly aProtestant in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. ")

1604. May [?] "Only we forewarn you that in the performance of theseceremonies [ratification by King of Spain of treaty of peace withEngland], which is likely to be done in the King's Chapel, you haveespecial care that it be not done in the forenoon, in the time of Mass, to the scandal of our religion, but rather in the afternoon, at whattime their service is more free from note of superstition. "--(King Jamesthe First to Lord Howard, then Earl of Nottingham and Ambassador toSpain. Biographies Brit, page 2679; quoted in Notes and Queries, 1stS. , Three 244. )

1604. "On Friday, the last of this Month, His Catholick Majestyratified the Peace upon Oath in a great chamber of the Palace. . . It waspretended that the Clergy would not suffer this to be done in a Churchor Chapel where neglect of reverence of the Holy Sacrament should givescandal. "--(Collins' Peerage, Four 272, quoted ibidem. )

[It may be urged that Lord Howard, as Ambassador of a Protestant King, would feel himself obliged to act on behalf of his master, showing nomore nor less reverence than James would have done himself. But is itat all likely that, had such been his wish, James would have selectedfor this office a man who could not act according to the belief of hismaster without committing sacrilege according to his own? The want ofreverence must have been expected from Lord Nottingham or his suite, forthere was no one else present who was not a devout Romanist]. 

1605. When Lord Monteagle delivered the anonymous letter winch revealedthe Gunpowder Plot to Lord Salisbury, the second person to whom thelatter confided the transaction was Lord Nottingham. --(Baker's"Chronicle, " page 508. )

1605. He sat as one of the Commissioners for the trial of Garnet andother conspirators, after the discovery of the GunpowderPlot--(Archaeologia, volume fifteen. )

1613. He stood sponsor for the Countess of Salisbury's daughter. (Calendar of State Papers, Domestic, 1611-1618, page 170; quoted inNotes and Queries, 2nd S. , Seven 364. )

1623. May 20. --"John, son of Sir William Monson, is a dangerous Papist;neither Garnet, Constable, nor Tobie Mathew is comparable to him. Heasserts openly that the King is a Papist at heart . . . And delights instriving to pervert people. . . Thinks it his duty, as Lieutenant of theShire, to inform against him. "--(Lord Nottingham to Archbishop ofCanterbury, Calend. State Papers, Domestic, James the First; quotedibidem, Seven 405. )

He married two Protestants; the first, a daughter of Henry Carey, LordHunsdon; the second, of the "Bonnie" Earl of Moray. 

THE END.