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 no compassion for the bull. Clare declined without giving her reason. Blanche looked as if she did not know whether or not to ask permission to accompany her brother. Sir Thomas said he had too much to think about; 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. Feversham continued 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 and despise like to a Puritan!”
“There is a worse thing than reckoning a laugh to be sin, Jack,” said Sir Thomas gravely; “and that is, reckoning sin a thing to laugh at.”
“And wherefore dost loathe a Puritan, quotha?” demanded Rachel. “Be they so much better than thou?”
“There be no gentlemen amongst them, Aunt Rachel,” suggested Blanche mischievously.
“They set them up for having overmuch goodness,” answered Jack in a disgusted tone.
“Prithee, Jack, how much goodness is that?” his Aunt Rachel wished to know.
“Over Jack’s goodness,” whispered Blanche.
“There is not one that is not a coward,” resumed Jack, ignoring the query. “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 the bull should break loose.”
Blanche was curious to hear what John Feversham would say to this accusation—one which to her mind was a most insulting one. Surely this would 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 could hardly believe his ears.
John Feversham looked him steadily in the face.
“Ay, Jack Enville,” he said, unmoved by the taunt. “I am afeared of God.”
“Well said, my brave lad!” muttered Sir Thomas.
Jack turned, and left the hall without answering. But after that evening, his whole conduct towards Feversham evinced the uttermost contempt. 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 one could doubt what was meant by them. Unless Feversham were extremely careless of the opinion of his fellows, he must have found this very galling; but he showed no indication of annoyance, beyond an occasional flush and quiver of the lip. Sir Thomas had at once exhibited his displeasure when he heard this, so that Jack restricted his manifestations to times when his father was absent; but the amusement sometimes visible in Blanche’s face was not likely to be pleasant to the man whom Blanche had refused to marry.
“Well, Sir?” queried Jack one Saturday evening, as the family sat round the 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 way to 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 great matters.”
“Forsooth, no, Sir! There be few gentlemen in the Court that do owe so little 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 the manner of dwellers in the town. Of course, aught should serve here that were decent and comely. But in the Court ’tis right needful that fashion be observed. Go to!—these chairs we sit on, I dare say, have been here these fifty years or more?”
“As long as I mind, Jack,” said his father; “and that is somewhat over fifty years.”
“Truly, Sir. Now, no such a thing could not be done in the Court. A chair that is ten years old is there fit for nought; a glass of five years may not be set on board; and a gown you have worn one year must be cast aside, whether it be done or no. The fashion choppeth and changeth all one with the moon; nor can a gentleman wear aught that is not the newest of his sort. Sir, the Queen’s Highness carrieth ne’er a gown two seasons, nor never rippeth—all hang by the walls.”
It was the custom at that time to pull handsome dresses in pieces, and use the materials for something else; but if a dress were not worth the unpicking, it was hung up and left to its fate. Queen Elizabeth kept all hers “by the walls;” she never gave a dress, and never took one in pieces.
“Gentility, son—at least thy gentility—is costly matter,” remarked Sir Thomas.
“Good lack, Sir! You speak as though I had been an ill husband!” (an extravagant man) cried Jack in an injured tone. “Look you, a gentleman must have his raiment decent—”
“Three cloth suits, six shirts, and six pair of stockings should serve for that, Jack, nor cost above twenty pound the year, and that free reckoned,” (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,” said Aunt Rachel oracularly.
This idea evidently amused Jack greatly.
“’Tis in very deed as I said but now: you have no fantasy hereaway of the necessities of a man that is in the Court. He must needs have his broidered 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 white leather; his paned (slashed and puffed with another colour or material) velvet breeches, guarded with golden lace; his satin cloak, well broidered and laced; his coats of fine cloth, some forty shillings the yard; his long, furred gown of Lukes’ (Lucca) velvet; his muff, Spanish hat, Toledo rapier; his golden and jewelled ear-rings; his stays—”
A few ejaculations, such as “Good lack!” and “Well-a-day!” had been audible from Aunt Rachel as the list proceeded; but Sir Thomas kept silence until the mention of this last article, which was in his eyes a purely 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 do oft-times go together.”
“My good Sir!” returned Jack, with amused condescension. “How shall a gentleman go about a sorry figure, more than a gentlewoman?”
“Marry come up!” interposed Rachel. “If the gentleman thou hast scarce finished 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 be a-running after the next? We shall have them twisting rats’ tails in their hair, or riding in coaches.”
“I ensure you, Sir, many gentlemen do even now ride in coaches. ’Tis said 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 paid for.”
“Nay, worry not the lad thus!” was softly breathed from Lady Enville’s corner. “If other gentlemen wear such gear, Jack must needs have the same 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 airy manner. “If these bills must needs be paid—and so seem you to say—how shall it be? Must I essay for the monopoly?—or for a wardship?—or for an 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’ll speak truth.”
Rachel was playing, as many did in her day, on the similarity of sound between “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 half thereof. 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 young visitor, “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 of the 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 the meanest 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 could earn money in no daintier fashion, I would do it.”
“I despise mean-spirited loons!” muttered Jack, addressing himself to the fire.
“So doth not God, my son,” said his father quietly.
Blanche felt uncertain whether she did or not. In fact, the state of Blanche’s mind just then was chaos. She thought sometimes there must be two of her, each intent upon pursuing a direction opposite to that of the 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 wanted to please herself. She was under the impression—(how many share it with her!)—that religion meant just two things—giving up everything that one liked, and doing everything that one disliked. She did not realise that what it really does mean is a change in the liking. But at present she was ready to accept Christ’s salvation from punishment, if only she might dispense with the good works which God had prepared for her to walk in.
And when the heart is thus divided between God and self, it will be found as a rule that, in all perplexities which have to be decided, self carries the day.
The only result of the struggle in Blanche’s mind which was apparent to those around her was that she was very cross and disagreeable. He who is dissatisfied with himself can never be pleased with other people.
Ah, how little we all know—how little we can know, as regards one another—of the working of that internal kingdom which is in every man’s breast! A woman’s heart may be crushed to death within her, and those who habitually talk and eat and dwell with her may only suppose that she has a headache.
And those around Blanche entirely misunderstood her. Lady Enville thought she was fretting over her crossed love, and lavished endless pity and petting upon her. Clare only saw, in a vague kind of way, that something was the matter with her sister which she could not understand, and let her alone. Her Aunt Rachel treated her to divers acidulated lectures upon the ingratitude of her behaviour, and the intensity with which she ought to be ashamed of herself. None of these courses of treatment was exactly what Blanche needed; but perhaps the nipping north wind of Aunt Rachel was better than the dead calm of Clare, and far superior to the soft summer breeze of Lady Enville.
It was a bright, crisp, winter day. The pond in the grounds at Enville Court was frozen over, and Jack, declaring that no consideration should baulk him of a slide, had gone down to it for that purpose. John Feversham followed more deliberately; and a little later, Clare and Blanche sauntered down in the same direction. They found the two Johns sliding on the pond, and old Abel, the head gardener, earnestly adjuring Master 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 Jack scornfully. “Hallo, maids! Come on the ice—’tis as jolly as a play.”
Clare smilingly declined, but Blanche stepped on the ice, aided by Jack’s hand, and was soon sliding away as lithely and merrily as himself.
“Ay me! yonder goeth the dinner bell,” said Blanche at last. “Help me back 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, and he 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 or cared not. They came flying along the pond,—when all at once there was a shriek of horror, and Jack—who was not able to stop himself—finished the slide alone. Blanche had disappeared. Near the south end of the great pond was a round jagged hole in the ice, showing where she had gone down.
“Hold her up, Master, quick!” cried old Abel. “Dunnot let her be sucked under, as what happens! Creep along to th’ edge, and lay you down; and when hoo comes to th’ top, catch her by her gown, or her hure (hair), or aught as ’ll hold. I’ll get ye help as soon as I can;” and as fast as his limbs would carry him, Abel hurried away.
Jack did not move.
“I shall be drowned! I can’t swim!” he murmured, with white lips, “I would sure go in likewise.”
Neither he nor Clare saw in the first moment of shocked excitement that somebody else had been quicker and braver than they.
“I have her!” said John Feversham’s voice, just a little less calm than usual. “I think I can keep her head above water till help cometh. Jack Enville, fetch a rope or a plank—quick!”
They saw then that Feversham was lying on his face on the ice, and holding firmly to Blanche by her fair hair, thus bringing her face above the 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 own sense of the term.
“How should I know? I am no serving-man.”
Clare dashed off towards the house without another word. She met Sir Thomas at the garden gate, hastening out to ascertain the meaning of the screams 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 one with 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, grasping Blanche, who was white and motionless; while Jack, standing in perfect safety on the bank, was favouring the hero with sundry scraps of cheap advice.
“Hasten!” said Feversham in a low, constrained voice, when he heard help coming. “I am wellnigh spent.”
Sir Thomas was really angry with his son. A few words of withering scorn made that young gentleman—afraid of his father for the first time—assist with his own courtly hands in pushing the plank across the ice.
The relief reached those endangered just in time.
Blanche was carried home in her father’s arms, and delivered to Rachel to be nursed; while Feversham, the moment that he recognised himself to be no longer responsible for her safety, fainted where he lay. He was borne to the house by Sim and Dick—Master Jack following in a leisurely manner, 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 looked slightly 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, though scarcely seeming to like the expressions of admiration which were showered upon him.
“Metrusteth, Jack,” said Rachel cuttingly to her nephew, “next time thou wilt do thy best not to mistake a hero for a coward. I should not marvel, trow, if the child’s going on yon ice were some mischievous work of thine.”
“’Twas a gallant deed, in very sooth, Master Feversham,—without you can swim,” said Lady Enville faintly. She had gone into hysterics on hearing of the accident, and considered herself deserving of the deepest commiseration for her sufferings. “I am thankful Blanche wear but her camlet.”
“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 for that I trusted God. For aught else—nay: it was no time to think thereof.”
“Methinks, Jack Feversham,” said Sir Thomas affectionately, “none shall call thee a coward any more.”
Feversham smiled back in answer.
“Sir Thomas,” he said, “I fear God, and I love her. This was God’s work, and her great peril. How could I have held back?”
Sir Thomas glanced at his son; but Jack was twirling his moustache, and intently contemplating one of the stags’ heads which decorated the hall.
After that day, there was a great change in Blanche Enville. She had come so near death, and that so suddenly, that she was sobered and softened. God in His mercy opened her eyes, and she began to ask herself,—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 was no possibility of mistaking him for a coward any longer. And whatever he had been, she could scarcely have failed to cherish some kindly feeling towards the man who had risked his life for hers.
The two Johns left Enville Court together on the following Tuesday. And after reaching London, Jack began to write letters home pretty regularly, for that time,—always gay, airy, and sanguine.
Jack’s first letter conveyed the information that he was absolutely certain of obtaining the monopoly. Sir Christopher Hatton and Sir Walter Raleigh had both promised their interest, and any thought of failure after that was quite out of the question.
The second letter brought the news that Sir Christopher was very ill—(in fact, he was dying)—and that, by some unfortunate mistake (with Jack, any want of capacity to see his immense value, was always a mistake), the monopoly had been granted to young Philip Hoby. But there was no reason for disappointment. Jack had had an unusual run of good luck that week at the gaming-table. It was quite Providential. For Jack, like some other gentlemen of his day, dealt largely in religious phrases, and did not trouble himself about religion in any other way.
The third letter stated that Jack had not been able to obtain the grant of a wardship. That was another unfortunate mistake. But his good luck as a gamester still kept up, and my Lord of ’Bergavenny was his very good lord. These items, also, were most Providential.
The fourth letter informed his father that all his difficulties were at last 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 I can make out of the lad’s letter.”
The fifth epistle condescended to rather mere detail. Jack’s fiancée 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 and chorus of the whole. But still it did not apparently occur to Jack that his 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 Sir Thomas.
“‘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 short and 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 to know!” said Rachel satirically. “In white satin, trow, at the very least, 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. “We have nought fit to show.”
Sir Thomas glanced at his wife’s flowing satin dress, trimmed with costly lace, and, like an unreasonable man, opined that it was quite good enough for anything; “This!” exclaimed Lady Enville. “Surely you cannot mean it, Sir Thomas. This gown is all rags, and hath been made these 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?—and be 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 I cannot wholly conceive it,—we went not to church in rags this last Sunday, 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 dost thou need to show my Lady Jack?”
“I lack no new gowns, I thank thee, Tom. I set a new dowlas lining in my 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 shillings and 4 pence) shall serve me.”
“Then thy charges be less than Orige, for she ensureth me that all her gowns 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 not in her coffers two velvet gowns, and a satin, and a kersey, and three camlets—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 bear seven; 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 Clare and Blanche, leave me see to them. Clare hath one gown was made this year—”
“A beggarly say!” (a coarse kind of silk, often used for curtains and covering 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 be right 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 in cloth of gold,—not though Jack should wed all the countesses in England. If she love not me by reason of my gowns, she may hold me off with 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. “I would have nought but to be decent and fit for our degree, and not to shame us in the eyes of her that hath been in the Court. I was ne’er one to cast money right and left. If I had but a new velvet gown, and a fair kirtle of laced satin, and a good kersey for every day, and an hood, and a partlet or twain of broidered work, and two or three other small matters, I would ask no more. Rachel would fain don us all like scullery-maids!”
Sir Thomas hated to see a woman weep; and above all, his wife—whom he still 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 I will spare it, though I cut timber therefor.”
Which was equivalent, in his eyes, to the very last and worst of all honest resources for raising money.
Lady Enville made a rapid calculation (with her handkerchief still at her 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 the small sum of 80 pounds would satisfy her need: a sum equivalent to about 1200 pounds in our day. Sir Thomas held his breath. But he knew that unless he had courage authoritatively to deny the fair petitioner, argument and entreaty would alike be thrown away upon her. And that courage 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 he met her alone.
“If it liked your goodness to bestow on me a crown-piece, Father, I would be very thankful,” said Clare, blushing as if she thought herself extravagant. “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 satin dress and velvet hood. The old Blanche would have asked for them without scruple. But the new Blanche glanced at her father’s face, and saw that he looked grave and worried.
“I thank you much, Father,” she said. “There is nought I do really lack, without it were three yards of blue ribbon for a girdle.”
This would cost about a shilling. Sir Thomas smiled, blessed her, and put a crown-piece in her hand; and Blanche danced down-stairs in her delight,—evoked less by the crown-piece than by the little victory over herself. It was to her that for which a despot is recorded to have longed in vain—a new pleasure.