“Good sonties! (Little saints!) do’t as thou wilt,” sneered Gertrude. “I would I had brought all my gear withal. Whate’er possessed yon jade Audrey 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, that wist 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 to dress thy hure again, thou may ask me o’ thy bended knees—nor I’ll none do’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 forth into a torrent of mingled wrath and profanity. She averred that if one of her fathers servants had thus spoken, she would have had her horsewhipped within an inch of her life. Clare let her run on until she cooled down a little, and then quietly answered that in that part of the world 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 be of no use to ask Jennet again, Clare well knew; and she shrank from exposing 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 to Clare’s inexperienced handling. For a first attempt, however, the result was tolerably satisfactory, though Clare had never before dressed any hair but her own; and Gertrude showed her gratitude by merely asserting, without anger or swearing, that she was right thankful no ladies nor gentlemen should behold her thus disfigured, as she would not for all the treasures of the Indies that they should. With this delicate compliment to her new relatives, she rustled down into the hall, Clare following meekly. Gertrude had not changed her dress; perhaps she did not think it worth while to honour people who dressed in say and camlet. Sir Thomas received her with scrupulous deference, set her on his right hand, and paid all kindly attention to her comfort. For some time, however, it appeared doubtful whether anything on the supper-table was good enough for the exacting young lady. Those around her came at last to the conclusion that Gertrude’s protestations required considerable discount; since, after declaring that she “had no stomach,” and “could not pick a lark’s bones,” she finished by eating more than Clare and Blanche put together. Jack, meanwhile, was attending to his own personal wants, and took no notice of his bride, beyond a cynical remark now and then, to which Gertrude returned a sharp answer. It was evident that no love was lost between them.
As soon as supper was over, the bride went up to her own room, declaring as she went that “if yon savage creature had the handling of her gowns”—by which epithet Clare guessed that she meant Jennet—“there would not be a rag left meet to put on”—and commanding, rather than requesting, that Clare and Blanche would come and help her. Sir Thomas looked 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 feet of her daughter-in-law, because she was Lady Gertrude. “So commanding is she!—as a very queen, I do protest. She hath no doubt been used to great store of serving-maidens.”
“That maketh not our daughters serving-maids,” said Sir Thomas in an annoyed tone.
“I would have thought her mother should have kept her in order,” said Rachel with acerbity. “If that woman were my daughter, she had need look out.”