“Why, she told us, or as good,” quoth Milisent, in that bitter fashion she hath had to-day and yesterday. “Said she not, at the first, that ‘it were well to get the tale o’er ere Dulcie should come’? ’Tis my Lady Stafford, of course.”
“I am not so sure of that,” saith Helen, in a low voice: and methought she had guessed at some other, but would not say out (Note 1). “I think we were better to go down now.”
So down went we all to the great chamber, and there found, with Mother, Mistress Lewthwaite, that was, as was plain to see, in a mighty taking (much agitated).
“Dear heart, Lady Lettice, but I never looked for this!” she crieth, wiping of her eyes with her kerchief. “I wis we have been less stricter than you in breeding up our maids: but to think that one of them should bring this like of a misfortune on us! For Blanche is gone to be undone, of that am I sure. Truth to tell, yonder Sir Francis Everett so took me with his fine ways and goodly looks and comely apparel and well-chosen words,—ay, and my master too—that we never thought to caution the maids against him. Now, it turns out that Alice had some glint of what were passing: but she never betrayed Blanche, thinking it should not be to her honour; and me,—why, I ne’er so much as dreamed of any ill in store.”
“What name said you?” quoth Mother, that was trying to comfort her.
“Everett,” saith she; “Sir Francis Everett, he said his name were, of Woodbridge, in the county of Suffolk, where he hath a great estate, and spendeth a thousand pound by the year. And a well-looked man he was, not o’er young, belike, but rare goodly his hair fair and his eyen shining grey,—somewhat like to yours, my Lady.”
Helen and I looked on each other, and I saw the same thought was in both our minds. And looking then upon Mother, I reckoned it had come to her likewise. At Milisent I dared not look, though I saw Helen glance at her.
“And now,” continueth Mistress Lewthwaite, “here do I hear that at Grasmere Farm he gave out himself to be one Master Tregarvon, of Devon; and up in Borrowdale, he hath been playing the gallant to two or three maids by the name of Sir Thomas Brooke of Warwickshire: and the saints know which is his right one. He’s a bad one, Lady Lettice! And after all, here is your Mistress Bess, she saith she is as sure as that her name is Wolvercot, that no one of all these names is his own. She reckons him to be some young gentleman that she once wist, down in the shires,—marry, what said she was his name, now? I cannot just call to mind. She should ne’er have guessed at him, quoth she, but she saw him do somewhat this young man were wont to do, and were something singular therein—I mind not what it were. Dear heart, but this fray touching our Blanche hath drove aught else out of mine head! But Mistress Bess said he were a bad one, and no mistake.”
“Is Blanche gone off with him, Mistress Lewthwaite?” saith Helen.
“That is right what she is, Nell, and ill luck go with her,” quoth Mistress Lewthwaite: “for it will, that know I. God shall never bless no undutiful childre,—of that am I well assured.”