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 towards the close of August.
“’Twas a cruel rough night, in sooth,” was the answer. “Yet the wind is westerly. 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 avert evil 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, for aught I care.”
“They be some woman’s childre, every man,” was Barbara’s reply.
“O Blanche!” interposed Clare, reproachfully. “Do but think of their childre at home: and the poor mothers that are watching in the villages of Spain for their lads to come back to them! How canst thou wish them hurt?”
“How touching a picture!” said Blanche in the same tone.
“In very deed, I would not by my good-will do them none ill,” responded Barbara; “I would but pray and endeavour myself that they should do none ill 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 cruel nor flinty-hearted, but was arguing and opposing, as she often did, sheerly from a spirit of contradiction, and a desire to astonish her little world; Blanche’s vanity was of the Erostratus character. While she longed to be liked and admired, she would have preferred that people should think her disagreeable, rather than not think of her at all.
“But, Blanche,” deprecated Clare, who did not enter into this peculiarity of her sister, “do but fancy, if one of these very men did seek thy gate, all wet and weary and hungered, and it might be maimed in the storm, without so much as one penny in his pocket for to buy him fire 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 bade us, ‘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. ’Twas never meant for folk in these days?”
“Marry La’kin! What say you, Mistress Blanche?—that God’s Word was not meant 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, in Queen Mary’s days, that the great Council to London were busy undoing what had been done in King Harry’s and King Edward’s time: but I ne’er heard that the Lord had ta’en His Word in pieces, and laid up an handful thereof 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 such gear 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 this cap sit well behind; I am but ill pleased withal.”
Heavy rapid steps came down the corridor, and with a hasty knock, Jennet put her head in at the door.
“Mrs Blanche! Mrs Clare! If you ’ll none miss th’ biggest sight ever you 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’ Penny Bank. 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. “Sim said ’twere a Spaniard, and Dick said ’twere an Englishman; and Abel bade ’em both hold their peace for a pair o’ gaumless (stupid) noodles.”
“But what saith my father?” cried excited Blanche, who had forgotten all about the fit of her cap.
“Eh, bless you!—he’s no noodle: Why, he said he’d see ’t afore he told anybody 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,” said Jennet, and summarily departed.
There was no loitering after that. In a very few minutes the two girls were dressed, Blanche’s ruff being satisfactory in a shorter time than Barbara could ever remember it before. Clare stayed for her prayers, but Blanche dashed off without them, and made her way to the end of the terrace, where her sister presently joined her.
“She is a Spaniard!” cried Blanche, in high excitement. “Do but look on her build, Clare. She is not English-built, as sure as this is Venice ribbon.”
Clare disclaimed, with a clear conscience, all acquaintance with shipbuilding, and declined even to hazard a guess as to the nationality of the ill-fated vessel. But Blanche was one of those who must be (or seem to be; either will do) conversant with every subject under discussion. So she chattered on, making as many blunders as assertions, until at last, just at the close of a particularly absurd mistake, she heard 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 storm in 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 seventy souls—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 be these nine men, Father?”
“There be two of them poor galley-slaves; two sailors; and four soldiers, of the common sort. No officers; but one young gentleman, of a good house in Spain, that was come abroad for his diversion, and to see 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’s questions.
“His name is Don John de Las Rojas, (a fictitious person) Mistress Blanche,—of a great house and ancient, as he saith, in Andalusia: and as to what manner of man,—why, he hath two ears, and two eyes, and one nose, 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 tarry till he is at ease.”
“At ease!—what aileth him?”
Sir Thomas laughed. “Dost think coming through a storm at sea as small matter 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 hard bruises; but I reckon a day or twain will pass ere it shall be to his conveniency to appear in thy royal presence, my Lady Blanche.”
“But what chamber hath he?—and who is with him?—Do tell me all thereabout.”
“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 thine aunt and Jennet be with him; and I have sent Abel to Bispham after the leech. (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 man with 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 look well-favoured, my Lady Blanche, but now come off a shipwreck, and his arm brake, and after fasting some forty hours,—methinks he should be a rare goodly one. Maybe a week’s dieting and good rest shall better his beauty.”
“Hath he any English?”
“But a little, and that somewhat droll: yet enough to make one conceive his wants. His father and mother both, he told me, were of the Court when King Philip dwelt here, and they have learned him some English for this his journey.”
“Doth his father live?”
“Woe worth the day! I asked him not. I knew not your Grace should desire to wit it.”
“And his mother? Hath he sisters?”
“Good lack! ask at him when thou seest him. Alack, poor lad!—his work is 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 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 lass. 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 asserting, 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 assistance, 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 mass 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 astonishingly 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 shillings, 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 God’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 shirts 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 napron, and thine own partlets have not 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 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 shipwreck 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 nobody; 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 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, 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.