“It were as little grief, Sir Thomas! I would not for the world—nay, not for the whole world—that Blanche should be thus lost. Why, she might as well wed a fisherman at once!”
“Well, the first Christian parsons were fishermen; and I dare be bound they made not ill husbands. Yet methinks, Orige, if thou keptest thy grief until the matter came to pass, it were less waste of power than so.”
“‘Forewarned is forearmed,’ Sir Thomas. And I am marvellous afeared lest you should be a fool.”
“Marry guep!” (probably a corruption of go up) ejaculated Rachel, coming in. “‘Satan rebuketh sin,’ I have heard say, but I ne’er listed him do it afore.”
After all, Lady Enville proved a true prophet. Mr John Feversham was so obtuse, so unreasonable, so unpardonably preposterous, as to imagine it possible that Blanche Enville might yet marry him, though he had the prospect of a curacy, and had not the prospect of Feversham Hall.
“I told you, Sir Thomas!” said the prophetess, in the tone with which she might have greeted an earthquake. “Oh that you had listed me, and gat him away hence ere more mischief were done!”
“I see no mischief done, Orige,” replied her husband quietly. “We will call the child, and see what she saith.”
“I do beseech you, Sir Thomas, commit not this folly! Give your own answer, and let it be, Nay. Why, Blanche may be no wiser than to say him ay.”
“She no may,” (she may not) said Sir Thomas dryly.
But he was determined to tell her, despite the earnest protestations of his wife, who dimly suspected that Blanche’s opinion of John was not what it had been, and was afraid that she would be so wanting in worldly wisdom as to accept his offer. Lady Enville took her usual resource—an injured tone and a handkerchief—while Sir Thomas sent for Blanche.