Clare Avery Part 18

"But you have not told me what shall come of them."

"I told thee not! I have been answering thy questions thicker than any blackberries. My tongue fair acheth; I spake not so much this week past."

"How do you mock me, Father!"

"I will be sad as a dumpling, my la.s.s. I reckon, Mistress, all they shall be sent up to London unto the Council, without there come command that 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, and packed off to Spain. Only the galley-slaves, poor lads!--they could not help themselves."

"Here 's the leech come, Master," said Jennet, behind them.

Sir Thomas hastened back into the house, and the two sisters followed more slowly.

"Oh, behold Aunt Rachel!" said Blanche. "She will tell us somewhat."

Now, only on the previous evening, Rachel had been a.s.serting, in her strongest and sternest manner, that nothing,--no, nothing on earth!-- should ever make her harbour a Spaniard. They were one and all "evil companions;" they were wicked Papists; they were perturbators of the peace of our Sovereign Lady the Queen; hanging was a luxury beyond their deserts. It might therefore have been reasonably expected that Rachel, when called upon to serve one of these very obnoxious persons, would scornfully refuse a.s.sistance, and retire to her own chamber in the capacity of an outraged Briton. But Rachel, when she spoke in this way, spoke in the abstract, with a want of realisation. When the objectionable specimen of the obnoxious ma.s.s lifted a pair of suffering human eyes to her face, the ice thawed in a surprisingly sudden manner from the surface of her flinty heart, and the set lips relaxed into an astonis.h.i.+ngly pitying expression.

Blanche, outwardly decorous, but with her eyes full of mischief, walked up to Rachel, and desired to know how it fared with the Spanish gentleman.

"Poor lad! he is in woeful case!" answered the representative of the enraged British Lion. "What with soul and body, he must have borne well-nigh the pangs of martyrdom this night. 'Tis enough to make one's heart bleed but to look on him. And to hear him moan to himself of his mother, poor heart! when he thinks him alone--at least thus I take his words: I would, rather than forty s.h.i.+llings, she were nigh to tend him."

From which speech it will be seen that when Rachel did "turn coat," she turned it inside out entirely.

"Good lack, Aunt Rachel! what is he but an evil companion?" demanded irreverent Blanche, with her usual want of respect for the opinions of her elders.

"If he were the worsest companion on earth, child, yet the lad may lack his wounds dressed," said Rachel, indignantly.

"And a Papist!"

"So much the rather should we show him the betterness of our Protestant faith, by Christian-wise tending of him."

"And an enemy!" pursued Blanche, proceeding with the list.

"Hold thy peace, maid! Be we not bidden in G.o.d's Word to do good unto our 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 intentions crossing her mind at last.

"Nay, but hanging is far too good for him!" argued Blanche, quoting the final item.

"Thou idle prating hussy!" cried Rachel, turning hastily round to face her,--vexed, and yet laughing. "And if I have said such things in mine heat, what call hast thou to throw them about mine ears? Go get thee about thy business."

"I have no business, at this present, Aunt Rachel."

"Lack-a-daisy! that a cousin [then used in the general sense of relative] of mine should say such a word! No business, when a barrelful of wool waiteth the carding, and there is many a yard of flax, to be spun, and cordial waters to distil, and a full set of s.h.i.+rts to make for thy father, and Jack's gown to guard [trim] anew with lace, and thy mother's new stomacher--"

"Oh, mercy, Aunt Rachel!" cried lazy Blanche, putting her hands over her ears.

But Mistress Rachel was merciless--towards Blanche.

"No business, quotha!" resumed that astonished lady. "And Margaret's winter's gown should, have been cut down ere now into a kirtle, and Lucrece lacketh both a hood and a nap.r.o.n, and thine own partlets have not yet so much as the first st.i.tch set in them. No business! Prithee, stand out of my way, Madam Idlesse, for I have no time to spend in twirling of my thumbs. And when thou find thy partlets rags, burden not me withal. No business, by my troth!"

Muttering which, Rachel stalked away, while Blanche, instead of fetching needle and thread, and setting to work on her new ruffs, fled into the garden, and ensconcing herself at the foot of the ash-tree, gazed up at the windows of the blue chamber, and erected magnificent castles in the air. Meanwhile, Clare, who had heard Rachel's list of things waiting to be done, and had just finished setting the lace upon Jack's gown, quietly possessed herself of a piece of fine lawn, measured off the proper length, and was far advanced in one of Blanche's neglected ruffs before that young lady sauntered in, when summoned by the breakfast-bell.

The leech thought well of the young Spaniard's case. The broken arm was not a severe fracture--"right easy to heal," said he in a rather disappointed manner; the bruises were nothing but what would disappear with time and one of Rachel's herbal lotions. In a few weeks, the young man might expect to be fully recovered. And until that happened, said Sir Thomas, he should remain at Enville Court.

But the other survivors of the s.h.i.+pwreck did not come off so easily. On the 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 an Italian; and one of the soldiers, were quartered in the glebe barn--the rest in one of Sir Thomas Enville's barns. Two of the soldiers were Pyrenees men, and spoke French. All of them, except the Moor and the Italian, were possessed by abject terror, expecting to be immediately killed, if not eaten. The Italian, who was no stranger to English people, and into whose versatile mind nothing sank deep, was the only blithe and cheerful man in the group. The Moor kept his feelings and opinions to himself. But the others could utter nothing but lamentations, "_Ay de mi_!" [alas for me] and "_Soy muerto_!"

[literally, "I am dead"--a common lamentation in Spain.] with mournful vaticinations that their last hour was at hand, and that they would never see Spain again. Sir Thomas Enville could just manage to make himself understood by the Italian, and Mr Tremayne by the two Pyreneans. No one else at Enville Court spoke any language but English.

But Mrs Rose, a Spanish lady's daughter, who had been accustomed to speak 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 in her childhood, and had kept herself in practice with Mrs Rose's help-- these three went in and out among the prisoners, interpreted for the doctor, dressed the wounds, cheered the down-hearted men, and at last persuaded them that Englishmen were not cannibals, and that it was not certain they would all be hung immediately.

There was one person at Enville Court who would have given much to be a fourth in the band of helpers. Clare was strongly disposed to envy her friend Lysken, and to chafe against the bonds of conventionalism which bound her own actions. She longed to be of some use in the world; to till some corner of the vineyard marked out specially for her; to find some one for whom, or something for which she was really wanted. Of course, making and mending, carding and spinning, distilling and preserving, were all of use: somebody must do them. But somebody, in this case, meant anybody. It was not Clare who was necessary. And Lysken, thought Clare, had deeper and higher work. She had to deal with human hearts, while Clare dealt only with woollen and linen. Was there no possibility that some other person could see to the woollen and linen, and that Clare might be permitted to work with Lysken, and help the human hearts as well?

But Clare forgot one essential point--that a special training is needed for work of this kind. Cut a piece of cambric wrongly, and after all you do but lose the cambric: but deal wrongly with a human heart, and terrible mischief may ensue. And this special training Lysken had received, and Clare had never had. Early privation and sorrow had been Lysken's lesson-book.

Clare found no sympathy in her aspirations. She had once timidly ventured a few words, and discovered quickly that she would meet with no help at home. Lady Enville was shocked at such notions; they were both unmaidenly and communistic: had Clare no sense of what was becoming in a knight's step-daughter? Of course Lysken Barnevelt was n.o.body; it did not matter what she did. Rachel bade her be thankful that she was so well guarded from this evil world, which was full of men, and that was another term for wild beasts and venomous serpents. Margaret could not imagine what Clare wanted; was there not enough to do at home? Lucrece was demurely thankful to Providence that she was content with her station and circ.u.mstances. 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, and wished vainly that she had been a clergyman's daughter. Before her eyes there rose a sunny vision of imaginary life at the parsonage, with Mr and Mrs Tremayne for her parents, Arthur and Lysken for her brother and sister, and the whole village for her family. The story never got far enough 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. No going away; no growing old; "no cares to break the still repose," except those of the villagers, who were to be petted and soothed and helped into being all good and happy. Beyond that point, Clare's dream did not go.

Let her dream on a little longer,--poor Clare! She was destined to be rudely 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, with a half-finished square of wool-work in her hand, into which she was putting a few st.i.tches every now and then. She chose to imagine herself hard at work; but it would have fatigued n.o.body to count the number of rows which she had accomplished since she came upon the terrace. The work which Blanche was really attending to was the staple occupation of her life,--building castles in the air. At various times she had played all manner of parts, from a captive queen, a persecuted princess, or a d.u.c.h.ess in disguise, down to a fisherman's daughter saving a vessel in danger by the light in her cottage window. No one who knows how to erect the elegant edifices above referred to, will require to be told that whatever might be her temporary position, Blanche always acquitted herself to perfection: and that any of the airy _dramatis personae_ who failed to detect her consummate superiority was either compa.s.sionately undeceived, or summarily crushed, at the close of the drama.

Are not these fantasies one of the many indications that all along life's pathway, the old serpent is ever whispering to us his first lie,--"Ye shall be as G.o.ds?"

At the close of a particularly sensational scene, when Blanche had just succeeded in escaping from a convent prison wherein the wicked. Queen her sister had confined her, the idea suddenly flashed upon the oppressed Princess that Aunt Rachel would hardly be satisfied with the state of the kettle-holder; and coming down in an instant from air to earth, she determinately and compunctiously set to work again. The second row of st.i.tches was growing under her hands when, by that subtle psychological process which makes us aware of the presence of another person, though we may have heard and seen nothing, Blanche became conscious that she was no longer alone. She looked up quickly, into the face of a stranger; but no great penetration was needed to guess that the young man before her was the s.h.i.+pwrecked Spaniard.

Blanche's first idea on seeing him, was a feeling of wonder that her father should have thought him otherwise than "well-favoured." He was handsome 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 those of his daughter. Sir Thomas thought that to look well, a man must not be--to use his own phrase--"la.s.s-like and finnicking." It was all very well for a woman to have a soft voice, a pretty face, or a graceful mien: but let a man be tall, stout, well-developed, and tolerably rough.

So that the finely arched eyebrows, the languis.h.i.+ng liquid eyes, the soft delicate features, and the black silky moustache, which were the characteristics of Don Juan's face, found no favour with Sir Thomas, but were absolute perfection in the captivated eyes of Blanche. When those dark eyes looked admiringly at her, she could see no fault in them; and when a voice addressed her in flattering terms, she could readily enough overlook wrong accents and foreign idioms.

"Most beautiful lady!" said Don Juan, addressing himself to Blanche, and translating literally into English the usual style of his native land.

The epithet gave Blanche a little thrill of delight. No one--except the mythical inhabitants of the airy castles--had ever spoken to her in this manner before. And undoubtedly there was a zest in the living voice of another human being, which was unfortunately lacking in the denizens of Fairy Land. Blanche had never sunk so low in her own opinion as she did when she tried to frame an answer. She was utterly at a loss for words.

Instead of the exquisitely appropriate language which would have risen to her lips at once if she had not addressed a human being, she could only manage to stammer out, in most prosaic fas.h.i.+on, a hope that he was better. But her consciousness of inferiority deepened, when Don Juan replied promptly, with a low bow, and the application of his left hand to the place where his heart was supposed to be, that the sight of her face had effected a full and immediate cure of all his ills.