Clare Avery: A Story of the Spanish Armada

by Emily Sarah Holt

  CHAPTER ELEVEN.

  CATCHING MOTHS.

  "For my soul's sake, Maid Marjorie, And yet for my soul's sake, - I know no wrong I've done to thee, Nor why thy heart should break."

  Rather late on the same evening, Sir Thomas walked into the parsonage,and rapped with his silver-hilted staff at the parlour door. Clare hadgone up-stairs, and Mrs Tremayne was at that moment alone. She offeredto send for her young guests, but he declined; he wished first to speakwith her apart. He told her that Don Juan had gone to London; and thatbefore leaving him, that estimable young gentleman had franklycommunicated the interesting fact that he was bound by an engagement toa lady of his own country.

  "Now what think you? Were it better, or worser, that Blanche shouldknow the same?"

  "Better far--by all manner of means," said the Rector's wife decidedly.

  "I thought even so," replied Sir Thomas. "I had come sooner, but mywife was contrary thereto."

  Mrs Tremayne could not feel astonished to hear of any amount ofunwisdom on the part of Lady Enville, but she merely repeated that shethought it much better that Blanche should know.

  "It should help to open her eyes. Though in sooth I do think they bescantly so close shut as at the first."

  "Then you will tell the child, good Mistress?"

  "If you so desire, assuredly: but wherefore not give her to wityourself?"

  Sir Thomas evidently shrank from the idea.

  "For Blanche's sake, I do think it should be better, Sir Thomas. Youspeak as he that hath heard this right from Don Juan himself; for me, Ihave but heard it from you."

  "Well, if needs must--for Blanche's sake, then," said her father,sighing. "Pray you, send the child hither."

  In another minute Blanche came in, with a warm welcome for her father ineyes and voice.

  "So thou comest home to-morrow, my skylark!" he said. "Art thou glad,or sorry, Blanche?"

  "Oh, glad, Father!"

  "And all we be glad likewise.--Blanche, Don John is gone to London."

  "Yes, I guessed so much," she answered, in a rather constrained tone.

  "And ere he went, my darling, he said somewhat unto me which I reckon itbest thou shouldst hear likewise."

  Blanche looked up, surprised and expectant,--perhaps with a shade offear. Sir Thomas passed his arm round her, and drew her close to him.He anticipated a burst of tears, and was ready to console her.

  "He told me, dear heart, that he is, and for divers years hath so been,troth-plight unto a maiden of his own land, with whom he shall wed whenhe is gone home."

  There was no light in the room but from the fire, and Blanche's head wasbent low, so that her father could not see her face. But no tearsanswered him. No answer came at all. Sir Thomas was astonished.

  "Doth it grieve thee, my Blanche?" he asked tenderly, when he had waiteda moment.

  He waited still another. Then the reply came.

  "I suppose it was better I should know it," she said in a cold, hardvoice.

  "So thou seest, dear child, he meant not his fair words."

  "No," she said, in the same tone. "He meant it not."

  Sir Thomas let her go. He thought she bore it uncommonly well. She didnot care much about it, thank Heaven! He was one of those numeroussurface observers who think that a woman cannot be startled if she doesnot scream, nor be unhappy if she does not weep.

  Blanche went quietly enough out of the room, saying that she would sendClare. Her father did not see that in the middle of the stairs shepaused, with a tight grasp on the banister, till the deadly faintnessshould pass off which seemed to make the staircase go spinning roundher. Clare noticed nothing peculiar when Blanche came into theirbedroom, and told her that Sir Thomas was below. But as soon as hersister was gone, Blanche knelt down by the bed, and buried her face inthe counterpane.

  This, then, was the end. The shrine was not only deserted--it wasdestroyed: the idol was not only dethroned--it was broken, and shown tobe nothing but stone. Don Juan was not true. Nay, worse--he never hadbeen true. His vow of eternal fidelity was empty breath; his reiteratedprotestations of single and unalterable love were worth just nothing.He had only been amusing himself. He had known all the while, that inexchange for the solid gold of her young heart, he was offering her theveriest pinchbeck.

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

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

  "Father!" she whispered, sliding into his hand the little packet of DonJuan's hair, "maybe I ought to have given you this aforetime. Allgatesnow 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 theehome again to-morrow."

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

  The next day they went home.

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

  "Well, child!" said Aunt Rachel. "I trust thou hast come home to worklike a decent lass, and not sit moaning with thine hands afore thee likea 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 lass, I have lacked thee sorely. I scarce wis what todo without thee."

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

  "I am thankful to hear it. Now, if Heaven's will it be, all thingsshall 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 waselated with what she considered her triumph over Blanche, and was on thelook-out for fresh laurels. Not for Blanche, as the reader knows: norfor 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, andthat was Lady Enville. As usual, to her, meant a handsome dress, acushioned chair, a good dinner, and an occasional junketing: and sincerecent events had not interfered with any of these, Lady Enville went onmuch as usual. Yet even she never ceased to regret Blanche's lostcoronet, which no revelation of Don Juan's duplicity would ever persuadeher had not been lying at her daughter's feet, ready to be taken up andworn. She was one of those persons who will not believe anything whichthey do not wish to be true; and on them vouchers and verifications arealways thrown away.

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

  It was not easy to guess Arthur's motive in coming. He usually satbetween Clare and Blanche when he was present at supper; and just nowthat 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 tobe contented with it. She often carried her troubles to Mrs Tremayne,and sought advice or cheering at her hands: nor was she ever sent awayunsatisfied. Rachel was delighted with Clare's steady and cheerfulhelp, and complacently thought that the parsonage had done her good.

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

  On a late afternoon in autumn, Clare stood in the arbour, tying upbouquets. An old friend of Sir Thomas was expected on a visit, and waslikely to arrive that evening. This was Sir Piers Feversham,[fictitious person] a Norfolk knight, of Lancashire extraction on hismother's side, who had not seen Sir Thomas Enville since both had beenyoung squires together in the household of the Earl of Derby. Hisnephew and heir presumptive, John Feversham, [fictitious person] wascoming with him. There was little presumption, to all appearance, aboutthe heirship, for Sir Piers bore the character of a confirmed oldbachelor, and was now upwards of sixty.

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

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

  Clare was totally ignorant of the fate which her mother had designed forher; nor had she ever realised until that evening that she cared morefor 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 hadheard uttering similar words, it would have mattered little or nothingto her.

  The hardest thought of all was that of resigning him to Lucrece.Fourteen years had elapsed since that day of their childhood on whichClare had witnessed the first instance of Lucrece's duplicity; but shehad never been able to forget it, and it had infused a sort of vaguediscomfort and constraint into all their intercourse.

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

  And it had to be borne, and in utter silence. _This_ trouble could notbe carried to Mrs Tremayne; and the idea of betraying Lucrece, as thatyoung lady had herself betrayed Blanche, would have seemed blacktreachery to Clare. No, things must take their course: and let themtake it, so long as that would make Arthur happy, and would be for hisgood. In her inmost heart Clare was sorely doubtful about both items.Well, she could ask God to grant them.

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

  "How late thou art, Clare!" said Lady Enville, looking up from SirPhilip Sidney's Arcadia, which she was lazily reading. "Sir Piers maycome 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 knowwhere 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 wellguess.

  "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 burdenhad been laid on them, Lucrece would have left the commissionunfulfilled, and Blanche would have sent somebody else. But suchalternatives did not even suggest themselves to Clare's conscientiousmind. She went through the hall towards the garden door in search ofLucrece.

  "Child, what aileth thee?" asked a voice suddenly, as Clare was openingthe 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 ifshe could do little else. Lucrece glided through the hall with hersmooth, silent step, but did not appear to see Clare; and Rachelfollowed in a minute.

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

  "Oh--nothing, Aunt Rachel."

  "When I was a small maid, Clare, my mother told me that 'twas not wellto 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 meanto hear it, Clare."

  "'Tis nought, in very deed, Aunt--of any moment."

  "Nought of any moment to thee?"

  "Nay, to--Oh, pray you, ask me not, Aunt Rachel! It makes no matter."

  "Ha! When a maid saith that,--a maid of thy years, Clare,--I knowmetely well what she signifieth. Thou art a good child. Get theeup-stairs and pin on thy carnation knots."

  Clare went up the wide hall staircase with a slow, tired step, andwithout making any answer beyond a faint attempt at a smile.

  "Ha!" said Rachel again, to herself. "Providence doth provide allthings. Methinks, though, at times, 'tis by the means of men and women,the which He maketh into little providences. I could find it in mineheart to fall to yonder game but now. Only I will bide quiet, methinks,till to-morrow. Well-a-day! if yon grandmother Eve of ours had ne'erate yon apple! Yet Master Tremayne will have it that I did eat it mineown self. Had I so done, Adam might have whistled for a quarter. Theblind, stumbling moles men are! Set a pearl and a pebble afore them,and my new shoes to an old shoeing-horn, but they shall pick up thepebble, and courtesy unto you for your grace. And set your mind on alad that you do count to have more sense than the rest, and beshrew meif he show you not in fair colours ere the week be out that he is asgreat a dunce as any. I reckon Jack shall be the next. Well, well!--let the world wag. 'Twill all be o'er an hundred years hence. Theyshall be doing it o'er again by then. Howbeit, 'tis ill work to weepo'er spilt milk."

  Sir Piers Feversham and his nephew arrived late that evening. Theformer was a little older than Sir Thomas Enville, and had mixed more ingeneral society;--a talkative, good-natured man, full of anecdote; andBlanche at least found him very entertaining.

  John Feversham, the nephew, was almost the antipodes of his uncle. Hewas not handsome, but there was an open, honest look in his grey eyeswhich bore the impress of sincerity. All his movements were slow anddeliberate, his manners very quiet and calm, his speech grave andsedate. Nothing in the shape of repartee could be expected from him;and with him Blanche was fairly disgusted.

  "As sober as a judge, and as heavy as a leaden seal!" said that younglady,--who had been his next neighbour at the supper-table,--when shewas giving in her report to Clare while they were undressing. "He hathbut an owl's eye for
beauty, of whatever fashion. Thou mindest how fairwas the sunset this even? Lo' thou, he could see nought but a deal ofwater in the sea, and divers coloured clouds in the sky. Stupid oldcompanion!"

  "And prithee, Mistress Blanche, who ever did see aught in the sea savinga cruel great parcel of water?"

  "Good lack, Bab!--thou art as ill as he. Clare, what seest thou in thesea?"

  Clare tried to bring her thoughts down to the subject.

  "I scantly know, Blanche. 'Tis rarely beautiful, in some ways. Yet itsoundeth to me alway very sorrowful."

  "Ay so, Mistress Clare!" returned Barbara. "It may belike to thee, poorsweet heart, whose father was killed thereon,--and to me, that had abrother which died far away on the Spanish main."

  "I suppose," answered Clare sighing, "matters sound unto us according aswe are disposed."

  "Marry, and if so, some folks' voices should sound mighty discordant,"retorted Barbara.

  Blanche was soon asleep; but there was little sleep for Clare thatnight. Nor was there much for Rachel. Since Margaret's marriage,Lucrece had shared her aunt's chamber; for it would have been thoughtpreposterous in the Elizabethan era to give a young girl a bedroom toherself. Rachel watched her niece narrowly; but Lucrece neither saidnor did anything from which the least information could be gleaned. Shewas neither elated nor depressed, but just as usual,--demure, slippery,and unaccountable.

  Rachel kept her eye also, like an amateur detective, upon Arthur. Hecame frequently, and generally managed to get a walk with Lucrece in thegarden. On two occasions the detective, seated at her own window, whichoverlooked the garden, saw that Arthur was entreating or urgingsomething, to which Lucrece would not consent.

  The month of Sir Piers Feversham's stay was drawing to a close, andstill Rachel had not spoken to her brother about Lucrece. She feltconsiderably puzzled as to what it would be either right or wise to do.Lucrece was no foolish, romantic, inexperienced child like Blanche, buta woman of considerable worldly wisdom and strong self-reliance. It wasno treachery to interfere with her, in her aunt's eyes, since Lucreceherself had been the traitor; and for Clare's sake Rachel longed torescue Arthur, whom she considered infatuated and misled.

  Before Rachel had been able to make up her mind on this point, oneSaturday afternoon Sir Thomas sought her, and asked her to come to thelibrary.

  "Rachel," he said, "I would fain have thy counsel. Sir PiersFeversham--much to mine amazing--hath made me offer of service[courtship] for Lucrece. What thinkest thereon?"

  "Brother, leave her go!"

  "He is by three years elder than I, Rachel."

  "Ne'er mind thou."

  "Methinks he should make the maid a good husband?" remarked Sir Thomasinterrogatively.

  "Better than she shall make him a wife," said Rachel grimly.

  "Rachel!"

  "Brother, I have ne'er said this to thee aforetime; but my trueconviction is that Lucrece is a mischief-maker, and until she be hence,there is like to be little peace for any. I saw not all things at thefirst; but I can tell thee now that she hath won Arthur Tremayne intoher toils, and methinks she tried hard to compass Don Juan. If she willwed with Sir Piers (and he dare venture on her!) let it be so: he is oldenough to have a care of himself; and she is less like to wreck his lifethan she should be with a younger man. In good sooth, there is all theless of it to wreck."

  "Yet, Rachel, if the maid be entangled with Arthur--"

  "Make thy mind easy, Tom. 'Tis Arthur is entangled, not she. Trust herfor that! She hath good enough scissors for the cutting of a likeknot."

  "Arthur ne'er spake word to me," said Sir Thomas, with a perplexed,meditative air.

  "That is it which I would know, Tom. Ne'er spake word, quotha? So muchthe better. Well! I reckon thou shalt be like to tell Orige; but leaveher not persuade thee to the contrary course. Yet I think she is scarcelike. A knighthood and Feversham Hall shall go down very sweetly withher."

  "But there is yet another matter, Rachel. Sir Piers maketh offer to setJack in good place about the Court, for the which he saith he hathpower. What sayest to that, trow?"

  "I say that Jack is safe to go to wrack some whither, and may be 'twereas well hence as hither."

  "It shall be mighty chargeable, I fear," said Sir Thomas thoughtfully.

  "Jack shall be that any whither."

  "Wouldst have me, then, say Ay to both offers?"

  "Nay, think well touching Jack first. I meant not that. Good sooth! Isorely misdoubt--"

  "Well, I will see what saith Orige unto both, and Jack and Lucrece toeither."

  "If I be a prophet," answered Rachel, "one and all shall say, Ay."

  If that were the criterion, Rachel proved a prophet One and all did sayay. Lady Enville was enchanted with both schemes. Jack averred thatlife at home was a very humdrum kind of thing, and life might be worthhaving in London, and at Court. And Lucrece, in her demure style,softly declared that she was thankful for Sir Piers' goodness, and wouldgladly accept his offer, though she felt that her merits were not equalto the kind estimate which he had formed of her.

  "But, Lucrece," said her father gravely, "one told me that ArthurTremayne had made suit unto thee."

  If he expected the mask to drop for an instant from the soft, regularfeatures of Lucrece, he was sadly disappointed. Not a look, nor agesture, showed that she felt either surprised or disconcerted.

  "'Tis true, Father. The poor lad did say some like words unto me. ButI gave him no encouragement to seek you."

  "Thou wouldst have me to conceive, then, that thou art wholly free fromany plight whatsoe'er unto Arthur?"

  "Wholly free, Father. I ne'er gave him to wit otherwise."

  Sir Thomas believed her; Rachel did not. The next thing, in thesquire's honest eyes, was to let Arthur know that Lucrece was about tomarry Sir Piers,--not directly, since Arthur himself had made no opendeclaration; but he proposed to go down to the parsonage, and mentionthe fact, as if incidentally, in Arthur's presence. He found Lucrecerather averse to this scheme.

  "It should but trouble the poor lad," she said. "Why not leave himdiscover the same as matters shall unfold them?"

  "Tom!" said Rachel to her brother apart, "go thou down, and tell Arthurthe news. I am afeared Lucrece hath some cause, not over good, forwishing silence kept."

  "Good lack!" cried the worried Squire. "Wellnigh would I that every oneof my childre had been a lad! These maidens be such changeable andchargeable gear, I verily wis not what to do withal."

  "Bide a while, Tom, till Jack hath been in the Court a year or twain;maybe then I shall hear thee to wish that all had been maids."

  Down to the parsonage trudged the puzzled and unhappy man, and foundthat Arthur was at home. He chatted for a short time with the family ingeneral, and then told the ladies, as a piece of news which he expectedto interest them, that his daughter Lucrece was about to be married.Had he not intentionally kept his eyes from Arthur while he spoke, hewould have seen that the young man went white to the lips.

  "Eh, _ma foi_!" said Mrs Rose.

  "With whom shall she wed?" asked Mrs Tremayne.

  "Sir Thomas, is that true?" was the last remark--in hoarse accents, fromArthur.

  "It is true, my lad. Have I heard truly, that you would not have itso?"

  Mrs Tremayne looked at her son in a mixture of astonishment and dismay.It had never occurred to her guileless, unsuspicious mind that theobject of his frequent visits to Enville Court could be any one butClare.

  "Sir, I cry you mercy," said Arthur with some dignity. "I do readilyacknowledge that I ought not to have left you in the dark. But to speaktruth, it was she, not I, that would not you should be told."

  "That would not have me told what, Arthur?"

  "That I loved her," said Arthur, his voice slightly tremulous. "And--she _said_ she loved me."

  "She told me that she had given thee no encouragement to speak to me."

  "To speak with you--truth. Whene'er I did approac
h that matter, shealway deterred me from the same. But if she hath told you, Sir, thatshe gave me no encouragement to love and serve her, nor no hope ofwedding with her in due time,--why, then, she hath played you false aswell as me."

  It was manifest that Arthur was not only much distressed, but also veryangry.

  "And thou never spakest word to me, my son!" came in gentle tones ofrebuke from his mother.

  "Ah, the young folks make not the confessor of the father nor themother," said Mrs Rose smiling, and shaking her head. "It were thebetter that they did it, Arthur."

  "Mother, it was not my fault," pleaded Arthur earnestly. "I would havespoken both to you and to Sir Thomas here, if she had suffered me. Onlythe very last time I urged it on her--and that no further back than thislast week--she threatened me to have no further dealing with me, an' Ispake to either of you."

  "Often-times," observed Mrs Rose thoughtfully, "the maidens love notlike the mothers, _mon cheri_."

  "God have mercy!" groaned poor Sir Thomas, who was not least to bepitied of the group. "I am afeared Rachel hath the right. Lucrece hathnot been true in this matter."

  "There is no truth in her!" cried Arthur bitterly. "And for the matterof that, there is none in woman!"

  "_Le beau compliment_!" said his grandmother, laughing.

  His mother looked reproachfully at him, but did not speak.

  "And Rachel saith there is none in man," returned Sir Thomas with grimhumour. "Well-a-day! what will the world come to?"

  These little pebbles in her path did not seem to trouble the easysmoothness of Lucrece's way. She prepared her trousseau with hercustomary placidity; debated measures and trimmings with her aunt as ifentirely deaf to that lady's frequent interpolations of wrath; consultedBlanche on the style of her jewellery, and Clare on the embroidery ofher ruffs, as calmly as if there were not a shadow on her conscience norher heart. Perhaps there was not.

  Sir Piers took Jack down to London, and settled him in his post ofdeputy gentleman usher to the Queen; and at the end of six months, hereturned to Enville Court for his marriage. Everything went off withthe most absolute propriety. Lucrece's costume was irreproachable; hermanners, ditto. The festivities were prolonged over a week, and ontheir close, Sir Piers and Lady Feversham set out, for their home inNorfolk. No sign of annoyance was shown from the parsonage, except thatArthur was not at home when the wedding took place; and that Lysken,whom Lucrece graciously requested to be one of her bridesmaids,declined, with a quiet keenness of manner which any one but Lucrecewould have felt.

  "If it should like thee to have me for thy bridesmaid, Lucrece," shesaid, looking her calmly in the face, "it should not like me." [Inmodern phraseology,--I should not like it.]

  The bride accepted the rebuke with unruffled suavity.

  Of course there were the ceremonies then usual at weddings, and a showerof old slippers greeted bride and bridegroom as they rode away.

  "Aunt Rachel, you hit her on the head!" cried Blanche, lookingastonished.

  "I took metely good aim," assented Rachel, with grim satisfaction. "Agood riddance of--Blanche, child, if thou wouldst have those flowers tolive, thou wert best put them in water."