Blanche had been half awake before, and she was wide awake now. Yet the awakening, for all that, was very bitter. Naturally enough, her first thought was that all men were of this stamp, and that there was no truth in any of them. Aunt Rachel was right:--they were a miserable, false, deceiving race, created for the delusion and suffering of woman: she would never believe another of them as long as she lived. There might be here and there an exception to the rule, such as her father or Mr Tremayne; she could not believe such evil of them: but that was the rule. And Blanche, being not quite seventeen, declared to herself that after this vast and varied experience of the world, she would never--not if she lived to be a hundred--_never_ trust man again.

She slipped quietly down-stairs, and caught Sir Thomas just as he was leaving the house.

"Father!" she whispered, sliding into his hand the little packet of Don Juan's hair, "maybe I ought to have given you this aforetime. Allgates now take it; it is nought to me any more--sith he is hot."

Sir Thomas transferred the little parcel to his pocket.

"'Give thee good night, my jewel! We shall all be fain to have thee home again to-morrow."

Blanche returned the greeting, but glided away again, and was seen very little that night. But Mrs Tremayne guessed the state of the girl's mind more truly than Sir Thomas had done.

The next day they went home.

"Bless thee, my precious Blanche!" was Lady Enville's greeting. "And thee too, Clare. Good lack, how faded is yon camlet! 'Tis well ye were but at the parsonage, for it should have shamed thee any other whither."

"Well, child!" said Aunt Rachel. "I trust thou hast come home to work like a decent la.s.s, and not sit moaning with thine hands afore thee like a cushat dove. What man ever trod middle earth that was worth a moan?"

"I will essay to give you content, Aunt Rachel," said Blanche quietly.

"Clare, my good la.s.s, I have lacked thee sorely. I scarce wis what to do without thee."

Clare looked pleased. "Well, Aunt Rachel, I am come to work, and that with a will," she answered cheerily.

"I am thankful to hear it. Now, if Heaven's will it be, all things shall go on as usual once again."

But nothing was to go on as usual any more.

Not for Margaret, for Harry Travis had returned from the Netherlands, and her marriage was to be that day six weeks. Not for Lucrece, who was elated with what she considered her triumph over Blanche, and was on the look-out for fresh laurels. Not for Blanche, as the reader knows: nor for Clare, as he soon will know: nor even for Rachel herself--

"Though only the sorrow of others Threw its shadow over her."

There was but one person to whom matters went on at all as usual, and that was Lady Enville. As usual, to her, meant a handsome dress, a cushioned chair, a good dinner, and an occasional junketing: and since recent events had not interfered with any of these, Lady Enville went on much as usual. Yet even she never ceased to regret Blanche's lost coronet, which no revelation of Don Juan's duplicity would ever persuade her had not been lying at her daughter's feet, ready to be taken up and worn. She was one of those persons who will not believe anything which they do not wish to be true; and on them vouchers and verifications are always thrown away.

The first point different from usual was that Arthur Tremayne began to drop in continually at Enville Court. Lady Enville was gratified, for she thought her neat little arrangement was taking effect; and it would be a comfort, she said to herself, to have Clare off her hands. She said this one day to Rachel: but though, she knew that worthy spinster's opinion of matrimony, yet she was hardly prepared for the diatribe which she received in answer. Rachel had lately, and with much annoyance, began to perceive--what she had never seen so clearly before--that Lady Enville cared very little for her elder daughter. And of all the four girls, Clare was Rachel's darling. She was prepared to do battle in her cause to a greater extent than she herself knew. So, having received this hint, Rachel set herself to watch Arthur, and see that he behaved properly.

It was not easy to guess Arthur's motive in coming. He usually sat between Clare and Blanche when he was present at supper; and just now that was pretty often. But either of the two might be the attraction.

In other respects, his courtesies were evenly divided among the four, and were not pointed to any.

Meanwhile, Clare was honestly trying to do the work set her well, and to be contented with it. She often carried her troubles to Mrs Tremayne, and sought advice or cheering at her hands: nor was she ever sent away unsatisfied. Rachel was delighted with Clare's steady and cheerful help, and complacently thought that the parsonage had done her good.

So the summer drew on, and Margaret was married to Harry Travis, and went to live in another part of the county.

On a late afternoon in autumn, Clare stood in the arbour, tying up bouquets. An old friend of Sir Thomas was expected on a visit, and was likely to arrive that evening. This was Sir Piers Feversham, [fict.i.tious person] a Norfolk knight, of Lancashire extraction on his mother's side, who had not seen Sir Thomas Enville since both had been young squires together in the household of the Earl of Derby. His nephew and heir presumptive, John Feversham, [fict.i.tious person] was coming with him. There was little presumption, to all appearance, about the heirship, for Sir Piers bore the character of a confirmed old bachelor, and was now upwards of sixty.

Clare's bouquets were nearly all tied up, and ready to be carried to the hall, which was to be decorated in honour of the guests. She was tying the last but one, when she heard slow footsteps and low voices pa.s.sing on the outside of the arbour. Not too low, however, for two sentences to be audible inside,--words which blanched Clare's cheek, and made her trembling fingers loose their hold, till the gathered flowers slid away one by one, and lay a fragrant ma.s.s on the ground at her feet.

The remarks which she overheard were limited to a fervent appeal and a low reply. The appeal--which was a declaration of love--was uttered in the familiar accents of Arthur Tremayne; and the answer--a vague disclaimer of merit which sounded like a shy affirmative--came in the low, soft voice of Lucrece Enville.

Clare was totally ignorant of the fate which her mother had designed for her; nor had she ever realised until that evening that she cared more for Arthur than she did for Jack. They were both like brothers to her: but now she suddenly felt that if it had been Jack whose voice she had heard uttering similar words, it would have mattered little or nothing to her.

The hardest thought of all was that of resigning him to Lucrece.

Fourteen years had elapsed since that day of their childhood on which Clare had witnessed the first instance of Lucrece's duplicity; but she had never been able to forget it, and it had infused a sort of vague discomfort and constraint into all their intercourse.

"Oh, if it had been Lysken!" said Clare to her own heart. "I could have borne it better."

And it had to be borne, and in utter silence. _This_ trouble could not be carried to Mrs Tremayne; and the idea of betraying Lucrece, as that young lady had herself betrayed Blanche, would have seemed black treachery to Clare. No, things must take their course: and let them take it, so long as that would make Arthur happy, and would be for his good. In her inmost heart Clare was sorely doubtful about both items.

Well, she could ask G.o.d to grant them.

It was half an hour later than she had expected when Clare carried her nosegays into the hall. She went on mechanically putting them in order, and finding, when she had finished, that there was one more than was needed, she carried it to her mother's boudoir.

"How late thou art, Clare!" said Lady Enville, looking up from Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia, which she was lazily reading. "Sir Piers may come now at any minute. Hast made an end in the hall?"

"Ay, Madam."

"Hast one posy left o'er? Set it here, by my chair, child. Dost know where is Blanche?"

"No, Madam."

"And Lucrece?"

"No, Madam."

Clare's conscience smote her as soon as she had given this answer.

Certainly she did not know where Lucrece was; but she could very well guess.

"I would thou wert not fully thus bashful, Clare; hast nought but 'Ay'

and 'No'?--I would fain have thee seek Lucrece: I desire speech of her."

Clare did not reply at all this time. She had disposed of her flowers, and she left the room.

Seek Lucrece! Clare had never had a harder task. If the same burden had been laid on them, Lucrece would have left the commission unfulfilled, and Blanche would have sent somebody else. But such alternatives did not even suggest themselves to Clare's conscientious mind. She went through the hall towards the garden door in search of Lucrece.

"Child, what aileth thee?" asked a voice suddenly, as Clare was opening the garden door.

"I?" said Clare absently. "Lucrece--my mother would have me seek her."

"Sit thee down, and I will send her to thy mother," said Rachel.

Away she went; and Clare sat down by the fire, feeling just then as if she could do little else. Lucrece glided through the hall with her smooth, silent step, but did not appear to see Clare; and Rachel followed in a minute.

"I have sent Lucrece to thy mother," she said. "Now, child, what aileth thee?"

"Oh--nothing, Aunt Rachel."

"When I was a small maid, Clare, my mother told me that 'twas not well to lie."

"I did not--Aunt Rachel, I cry you mercy--I meant not--"

"Thou meantest not to tell me what ailed thee. I know that. But I mean to hear it, Clare."