“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 the hand. Jack came lounging behind, his hands in his pockets, after his usual fashion.
“Our new daughter,—the Lady Gertrude Enville.” (A fictitious person.)
One glance, and Lady Enville almost fainted from pique. Lady Gertrude’s travelling costume was grander than her own very best new velvet. Violet velvet, of the finest quality, slashed in all directions, and the slashes filled with puffings of rich pale buff satin; yards upon yards of the costliest white lace, literally strewn upon the dress: rich embroidery upon the most delicate lawn, edged with deep lace, forming the ruff; a hood of black velvet, decorated with pearls and gold passementerie; white leather shoes, wrought with gold; long worked gloves of thick white kid,—muff, fan, mask—all complete. As the bride came 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 one of those which are proverbially “an excellent thing in woman.”
“These be your waiting gentlewomen?”
“These are my daughters,” said Lady Enville—stiffly, for her; the mistake had decidedly annoyed her.
“Ah!” And the bride kissed them. Then turning to Rachel,—“This, I account, is the lady mistress?”
(“That camlet!” said Lady Enville to herself, deeply vexed.)