CHAPTER FOURTEEN.
WHICH WAS THE COWARD?
"Je crains Dieu, cher Abner, et n'ai point d'autre crainte."
_Racine_.
"There shall be a bull baited to-morrow at Rosso Hall," [now Rossall]said Jack one evening at rear-supper. "I shall be there, without fail;who goeth withal?"
Lady Enville was doubtful of the weather, but she expressed nocompassion for the bull. Clare declined without giving her reason.Blanche looked as if she did not know whether or not to ask permissionto accompany her brother. Sir Thomas said he had too much to thinkabout; and if not, it was an amusement for which he had no fancy.
"And thou, Feversham?"
"No! I thank you."
"No!--and wherefore?"
"Because I count it not right."
"Puritan!" cried Jack in accents of the deepest scorn. Fevershamcontinued his supper with great unconcern.
"Art thou no Puritan?"
"What is a Puritan?" calmly returned John.
"One that reckoneth a laugh sin."
"Then, if so be, I am no Puritan."
"Jack!" reproved his father.
"Sir, of all things in this world, there is nought I do loathe anddespise like to a Puritan!"
"There is a worse thing than reckoning a laugh to be sin, Jack," saidSir Thomas gravely; "and that is, reckoning sin a thing to laugh at."
"And wherefore dost loathe a Puritan, quotha?" demanded Rachel. "Bethey so much better than thou?"
"There be no gentlemen amongst them, Aunt Rachel," suggested Blanchemischievously.
"They set them up for having overmuch goodness," answered Jack in adisgusted tone.
"Prithee, Jack, how much goodness is that?" his Aunt Rachel wished toknow.
"Over Jack's goodness," whispered Blanche.
"There is not one that is not a coward," resumed Jack, ignoring thequery. "As for Feversham yonder, I can tell why he would not go."
"Why?" said Feversham, looking up.
"Because," returned Jack with lofty scorn, "thou art afeared lest thebull should break loose."
Blanche was curious to hear what John Feversham would say to thisaccusation--one which to her mind was a most insulting one. Surely thiswould rouse him, if anything could.
"That is not all I am afeared of," said John quietly.
"Art thou base enough to confess fear?" cried Jack, as if he couldhardly believe his ears.
John Feversham looked him steadily in the face.
"Ay, Jack Enville," he said, unmoved by the taunt. "I am afeared ofGod."
"Well said, my brave lad!" muttered Sir Thomas.
Jack turned, and left the hall without answering. But after thatevening, his whole conduct towards Feversham evinced the uttermostcontempt. He rarely spoke to him, but was continually speaking at him,in terms which classed him with "ancient wives" and "coward loons"--insinuations so worded that it was impossible to reply, and yet no onecould doubt what was meant by them. Unless Feversham were extremelycareless of the opinion of his fellows, he must have found this verygalling; but he showed no indication of annoyance, beyond an occasionalflush and quiver of the lip. Sir Thomas had at once exhibited hisdispleasure when he heard this, so that Jack restricted hismanifestations to times when his father was absent; but the amusementsometimes visible in Blanche's face was not likely to be pleasant to theman whom Blanche had refused to marry.
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"Well, Sir?" queried Jack one Saturday evening, as the family sat roundthe hall fire after rear-supper. "My leave, an' I remember rightly,shall end this week next but one. I must look shortly to be on my wayto London. What say you touching these little matters?"
"What little matters, Jack?" inquired his father.
"These bills, Sir."
"I cry thee mercy," said Sir Thomas dryly. "I counted those greatmatters."
"Forsooth, no, Sir! There be few gentlemen in the Court that do owe solittle as I."
"The Court must be a rare ill place, belike."
"My good Sir!" said Jack condescendingly, "suffer me to say that you,dwelling hereaway in the country, really can form no fantasy of themanner of dwellers in the town. Of course, aught should serve here thatwere decent and comely. But in the Court 'tis right needful thatfashion be observed. Go to!--these chairs we sit on, I dare say, havebeen here these fifty years or more?"
"As long as I mind, Jack," said his father; "and that is somewhat overfifty years."
"Truly, Sir. Now, no such a thing could not be done in the Court. Achair that is ten years old is there fit for nought; a glass of fiveyears may not be set on board; and a gown you have worn one year must becast aside, whether it be done or no. The fashion choppeth and changethall one with the moon; nor can a gentleman wear aught that is not thenewest of his sort. Sir, the Queen's Highness carrieth ne'er a gown twoseasons, nor never rippeth--all hang by the walls."
It was the custom at that time to pull handsome dresses in pieces, anduse the materials for something else; but if a dress were not worth theunpicking, it was hung up and left to its fate. Queen Elizabeth keptall hers "by the walls;" she never gave a dress, and never took one inpieces.
"Gentility, son--at least thy gentility--is costly matter," remarked SirThomas.
"Good lack, Sir! You speak as though I had been an ill husband!" [anextravagant man] cried Jack in an injured tone. "Look you, a gentlemanmust have his raiment decent--"
"Three cloth suits, six shirts, and six pair of stockings should servefor that, Jack, nor cost above twenty pound the year, and that freereckoned," [a very handsome allowance] put in Aunt Rachel.
"Six shirts, my dear Aunt!--and six pair of stockings!" laughed Jack."Why, 'twere not one the day."
"Two a-week is enow for any man--without he be a chimney-sweep," saidAunt Rachel oracularly.
This idea evidently amused Jack greatly.
"'Tis in very deed as I said but now: you have no fantasy hereaway ofthe necessities of a man that is in the Court. He must needs have hisbroidered shirts, his Italian ruff, well-set, broidered, and starched;his long-breasted French doublet, well bombasted [padded]; his hose,--either French, Gally, or Venetian; his corked Flemish shoes of whiteleather; his paned [slashed and puffed with another colour or material]velvet breeches, guarded with golden lace; his satin cloak, wellbroidered and laced; his coats of fine cloth, some forty shillings theyard; his long, furred gown of Lukes' [Lucca] velvet; his muff, Spanishhat, Toledo rapier; his golden and jewelled ear-rings; his stays--"
A few ejaculations, such as "Good lack!" and "Well-a-day!" had beenaudible from Aunt Rachel as the list proceeded; but Sir Thomas keptsilence until the mention of this last article, which was in his eyes apurely feminine item of apparel.
"Nay, Jack, nay, now! Be the men turning women in the Court?"
"And the women turning men, belike," added Rachel. "The twain dooft-times go together."
"My good Sir!" returned Jack, with amused condescension. "How shall agentleman go about a sorry figure, more than a gentlewoman?"
"Marry come up!" interposed Rachel. "If the gentleman thou hast scarcefinished busking be not a sorry figure, I ne'er did see the like."
"Stays, ear-rings, muffs!" repeated Sir Thomas under his breath."Belike a fan, too, Jack?--and a pomander?--and masks?--and gloves?"
"Gloves, without doubt, sir; and they of fair white Spanish leather,wrought with silk. Masks, but rarely; nor neither fans nor pomanders."
"Not yet, I reckon. Dear heart! what will the idle young gallants bea-running after the next? We shall have them twisting rats' tails intheir hair, or riding in coaches."
"I ensure you, Sir, many gentlemen do even now ride in coaches. 'Tissaid the Queen somewhat misliketh the same."
"Dear heart!" said Sir Thomas again.
"And now, Sir, you can well see all these must needs be had--"
"Beshrew me, Jack, if I see aught of the sort!"
"A
ll I see," retorted Rachel, "is, if they be had, they must be paidfor."
"Nay, worry not the lad thus!" was softly breathed from Lady Enville'scorner. "If other gentlemen wear such gear, Jack must needs have thesame also. You would not have him mean and sorry?" [shabby.]
"Thou wouldst have him a scarlet and yellow popinjay!" said Rachel.
"I would not have him mean, Orige," replied Sir Thomas significantly.
"Well, Sir,--all said, we come to this," resumed Jack in his airymanner. "If these bills must needs be paid--and so seem you to say--howshall it be? Must I essay for the monopoly?--or for a wardship?--or foran heir?--or shall I rather trust to my luck at the dice?"
"Buy aught but a living woman!" said Rachel, with much disgust.
"The woman is nought, Aunt. 'Tis her fortune."
"Very good. I reckon she will say, `The man is naught.' And she'llspeak truth."
Rachel was playing, as many did in her day, on the similarity of soundbetween "nought," nothing, and "naught," good-for-nothing.
"Like enough," said Jack placidly.
"I will spare thee what money I can, Jack," said his father sighing."But I do thee to wit that 'twill not pay thy debt--no, or the halfthereof. For the rest, I must leave thee to find thine own means: but,Jack!--let them be such means that an honest man and true need not be'shamed thereof."
"Oh!--of course, sir," said Jack lightly.
"Jack Feversham!" asked Sir Thomas, turning suddenly to his youngvisitor, "supposing this debt were thine, how shouldst thou pay it?"
"God forbid it were!" answered Feversham gravely. "But an' it were,sir, I would pay the same."
"At the dice?" grimly inquired Rachel.
"I never game, my mistress."
"A monopoly?" pursued she.
"I am little like to win one," said Feversham laughingly.
"Or by wedding of an heir?"
"For the sake of her money? Nay, I would think I did her lesser ill ofthe twain to put my hand in her pocket and steal it."
"Then, whereby?" asked Sir Thomas, anxious to draw John out.
"By honest work, Sir, whatso I might win: yea, though it were themeanest that is, and should take my life to the work."
"Making of bricks?" sneered Jack.
"I would not choose that," replied Feversham quietly. "But if I couldearn money in no daintier fashion, I would do it."
"I despise mean-spirited loons!" muttered Jack, addressing himself tothe fire.
"So doth not God, my son," said his father quietly.
Blanche felt uncertain whether she did or not. In fact, the state ofBlanche's mind just then was chaos. She thought sometimes there must betwo of her, each intent upon pursuing a direction opposite to that ofthe other. Blanche was in the state termed in the Hebrew Old Testament,"an heart and an heart." She wished to serve God, but she also wantedto please herself. She was under the impression--(how many share itwith her!)--that religion meant just two things--giving up everythingthat one liked, and doing everything that one disliked. She did notrealise that what it really does mean is a change in the liking. But atpresent she was ready to accept Christ's salvation from punishment, ifonly she might dispense with the good works which God had prepared forher to walk in.
And when the heart is thus divided between God and self, it will befound as a rule that, in all perplexities which have to be decided, selfcarries the day.
The only result of the struggle in Blanche's mind which was apparent tothose around her was that she was very cross and disagreeable. He whois dissatisfied with himself can never be pleased with other people.
Ah, how little we all know--how little we can know, as regards oneanother--of the working of that internal kingdom which is in every man'sbreast! A woman's heart may be crushed to death within her, and thosewho habitually talk and eat and dwell with her may only suppose that shehas a headache.
And those around Blanche entirely misunderstood her. Lady Envillethought she was fretting over her crossed love, and lavished endlesspity and petting upon her. Clare only saw, in a vague kind of way, thatsomething was the matter with her sister which she could not understand,and let her alone. Her Aunt Rachel treated her to divers acidulatedlectures upon the ingratitude of her behaviour, and the intensity withwhich she ought to be ashamed of herself. None of these courses oftreatment was exactly what Blanche needed; but perhaps the nipping northwind of Aunt Rachel was better than the dead calm of Clare, and farsuperior to the soft summer breeze of Lady Enville.
It was a bright, crisp, winter day. The pond in the grounds at EnvilleCourt was frozen over, and Jack, declaring that no consideration shouldbaulk him of a slide, had gone down to it for that purpose. JohnFeversham followed more deliberately; and a little later, Clare andBlanche sauntered down in the same direction. They found the two Johnssliding on the pond, and old Abel, the head gardener, earnestly adjuringMaster Jack to keep off the south end of it.
"Th' ice is good enough at this end; but 'tis a deal too thin o'er yon.You'd best have a care, of you'll be in ere you know aught about it."
"Thou go learn thy gra'mmer!" [teach thy grandmother] said Jackscornfully. "Hallo, maids! Come on the ice--'tis as jolly as a play."
Clare smilingly declined, but Blanche stepped on the ice, aided byJack's hand, and was soon sliding away as lithely and merrily ashimself.
"Ay me! yonder goeth the dinner bell," said Blanche at last. "Help meback on the bank, Jack; I must away."
"Butter the dinner bell!" responded Jack. "Once more--one grand slide,Snowdrop."
This had been Jack's pet name for his youngest sister in childhood, andhe used it now when he was in a particularly good temper.
"Master! Master! yo're comin' too near th' thin!" shouted old Abel.
Jack and Blanche, executing their final and most superb slide, heard orcared not. They came flying along the pond,--when all at once there wasa shriek of horror, and Jack--who was not able to stop himself--finishedthe slide alone. Blanche had disappeared. Near the south end of thegreat pond was a round jagged hole in the ice, showing where she hadgone down.
"Hold her up, Master, quick!" cried old Abel. "Dunnot let her be suckedunder, as what happens! Creep along to th' edge, and lay you down; andwhen hoo comes to th' top, catch her by her gown, or her hure [hair], oraught as 'll hold. I'll get ye help as soon as I can;" and as fast ashis limbs would carry him, Abel hurried away.
Jack did not move.
"I shall be drowned! I can't swim!" he murmured, with white lips, "Iwould sure go in likewise."
Neither he nor Clare saw in the first moment of shocked excitement thatsomebody else had been quicker and braver than they.
"I have her!" said John Feversham's voice, just a little less calm thanusual. "I think I can keep her head above water till help cometh. JackEnville, fetch a rope or a plank--quick!"
They saw then that Feversham was lying on his face on the ice, andholding firmly to Blanche by her fair hair, thus bringing her face abovethe water.
"O Jack, Jack!" cried Clare in an agony. "Where is a rope or plank?"
Even in that moment, Jack was pre-eminently a gentleman--in his ownsense of the term.
"How should I know? I am no serving-man."
Clare dashed off towards the house without another word. She met SirThomas at the garden gate, hastening out to ascertain the meaning of thescreams which had been heard.
"Father!--a rope--a plank!" she panted breathlessly. "Oh, help!Blanche is drowning!"
Before Clare's sentence was gasped out, Sim and Dick ran past, the onewith a plank, the other with a coil of rope, sent by Abel to the rescue.Sir Thomas followed them at his utmost speed.
The sight which met his eyes at the pond, had it been less serious,would have been ludicrous. Feversham still lay on the ice, graspingBlanche, who was white and motionless; while Jack, standing in perfectsafety on the bank, was favouring the hero with sundry scraps of cheapadvice.
"Hasten!" said Feversham in a low,
constrained voice, when he heard helpcoming. "I am wellnigh spent."
Sir Thomas was really angry with his son. A few words of witheringscorn made that young gentleman--afraid of his father for the firsttime--assist with his own courtly hands in pushing the plank across theice.
The relief reached those endangered just in time.
Blanche was carried home in her father's arms, and delivered to Rachelto be nursed; while Feversham, the moment that he recognised himself tobe no longer responsible for her safety, fainted where he lay. He wasborne to the house by Sim and Dick--Master Jack following in a leisurelymanner, with his gentlemanly hands in his pockets.
When all was safely over, Sir Thomas put his hand on Jack's shoulder.For the first time that the father could remember, the son lookedslightly abashed.
"Jack, which was the coward?"
And Jack failed to answer.
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John Feversham joined the party again at supper. He looked very pale,but otherwise maintained his usual imperturbable demeanour, thoughscarcely seeming to like the expressions of admiration which wereshowered upon him.
"Metrusteth, Jack," said Rachel cuttingly to her nephew, "next time thouwilt do thy best not to mistake a hero for a coward. I should notmarvel, trow, if the child's going on yon ice were some mischievous workof thine."
"'Twas a gallant deed, in very sooth, Master Feversham,--without you canswim," said Lady Enville faintly. She had gone into hysterics onhearing of the accident, and considered herself deserving of the deepestcommiseration for her sufferings. "I am thankful Blanche wear but hercamlet."
"Canst thou swim, lad?" asked Sir Thomas of John.
"No," he answered quietly.
"Were you not afeared, Master Feversham?" said Rachel.
"Ay, a little--lest I should be full spent ere help could come. But forthat I trusted God. For aught else--nay: it was no time to thinkthereof."
"Methinks, Jack Feversham," said Sir Thomas affectionately, "none shallcall thee a coward any more."
Feversham smiled back in answer.
"Sir Thomas," he said, "I fear God, and I love her. This was God'swork, and her great peril. How could I have held back?"
Sir Thomas glanced at his son; but Jack was twirling his moustache, andintently contemplating one of the stags' heads which decorated the hall.
After that day, there was a great change in Blanche Enville. She hadcome so near death, and that so suddenly, that she was sobered andsoftened. God in His mercy opened her eyes, and she began to askherself,--What is the world worth? What, after all, is anything worth,except to please God, and win His blessing, and inherit His glory?
Her opinion was changed, too, as it respected John Feversham. There wasno possibility of mistaking him for a coward any longer. And whateverhe had been, she could scarcely have failed to cherish some kindlyfeeling towards the man who had risked his life for hers.
The two Johns left Enville Court together on the following Tuesday. Andafter reaching London, Jack began to write letters home prettyregularly, for that time,--always gay, airy, and sanguine.
Jack's first letter conveyed the information that he was absolutelycertain of obtaining the monopoly. Sir Christopher Hatton and SirWalter Raleigh had both promised their interest, and any thought offailure after that was quite out of the question.
The second letter brought the news that Sir Christopher was veryill--(in fact, he was dying)--and that, by some unfortunate mistake(with Jack, any want of capacity to see his immense value, was always amistake), the monopoly had been granted to young Philip Hoby. But therewas no reason for disappointment. Jack had had an unusual run of goodluck that week at the gaming-table. It was quite Providential. ForJack, like some other gentlemen of his day, dealt largely in religiousphrases, and did not trouble himself about religion in any other way.
The third letter stated that Jack had not been able to obtain the grantof a wardship. That was another unfortunate mistake. But his good luckas a gamester still kept up, and my Lord of 'Bergavenny was his verygood lord. These items, also, were most Providential.
The fourth letter informed his father that all his difficulties were atlast surmounted. Providence had rewarded his merits as they deserved.He was on the eve of marriage.
"To whom?" asked Lady Enville, with languid curiosity.
"To seven thousand pounds," said Sir Thomas dryly; "that is as much as Ican make out of the lad's letter."
The fifth epistle condescended to rather mere detail. Jack's _fiancee_was the daughter of an Earl, and the niece by marriage of a Viscount.She had a fortune of seven thousand pounds--that was the cream andchorus of the whole. But still it did not apparently occur to Jack thathis friends at home might be interested to know the name of his beloved.
"What must we call her?" asked Blanche. "We know not her name."
"And we cannot say `Mistress Jack,' sith she hath a title," added SirThomas.
"`My Lady Jack,'" laughingly suggested Rachel.
And "Lady Jack" the bride was dubbed from that day forth.
The sixth letter was longer in coming. But when it came it was shortand sweet. Jack's nuptials were to be solemnised on the following day,and he and his bride would start three days later for Enville Court.There was a general flutter through the family.
"Dear heart! how was Jack donned? I would give a broad shilling toknow!" said Rachel satirically. "In white satin, trow, at the veryleast, with a mighty great F on his back, wrought in rubies."
"F, Aunt Rachel!" repeated Blanche innocently. "You mean E, surely.What should F spell?"
"Thou canst spell aught thou wilt therewith, child," said Rachel coolly,as she left the room.
"Sir Thomas, I pray you of money," said Lady Enville, rousing up. "Wehave nought fit to show."
Sir Thomas glanced at his wife's flowing satin dress, trimmed withcostly lace, and, like an unreasonable man, opined that it was quitegood enough for anything; "This!" exclaimed Lady Enville. "Surely youcannot mean it, Sir Thomas. This gown is all rags, and hath been madethese four years."
Sir Thomas contemplated the dress again, with a rather puzzled face.
"I see not a patch thereon, Orige. Prithee, be all thy gowns rags?--andbe Clare and Blanche in rags likewise?"
"Of course--not fit to show," said the lady.
"It seemeth me, Orige, thou shouldst have had money aforetime. Yet Icannot wholly conceive it,--we went not to church in rags this lastSunday, without somewhat ail mine eyes. If we be going thus the next,prithee lay out in time to avoid the same."
"Gramercy, Sir Thomas!--how do you talk!"
"Rachel," said her brother, as she entered, "how many new gowns dostthou need to show my Lady Jack?"
"I lack no new gowns, I thank thee, Tom. I set a new dowlas lining inmy camlet but this last week. I would be glad of an hood, 'tis true,for mine is well worn; but that is all I need, and a mark [13 shillingsand 4 pence] shall serve me."
"Then thy charges be less than Orige, for she ensureth me that all hergowns be but rags, and so be Clare's, and the like by Blanche."
"Lack-a-daisy!" cried Rachel. "Call me an Anabaptist, if she hath notin her coffers two velvet gowns, and a satin, and a kersey, and threecamlets--to say nought of velvet kirtles and other habiliments!"
"My dear Rachel!--not one made this year!"
"My satin gown was made six years gone, Orige; and this that I bearseven; and my camlet--well-a-day!--it may be ten."
"They be not fit to sweep the house in."
"Marry come up!--Prithee, Tom, set Orige up in tinsel. But for Clareand Blanche, leave me see to them. Clare hath one gown was made thisyear--"
"A beggarly say!" [a coarse kind of silk, often used for curtains andcovering furniture] put in Lady Enville.
"And Blanche hath one a-making."
"A sorry kersey of twenty pence the yard!"
"Orige, prithee talk no liker a fool than thou
canst help. Our gowns beright and--decent, according to our degree. We be but common folks,woman! For me, I go not about to prink [make smart and showy] me incloth of gold,--not though Jack should wed all the countesses inEngland. If she love not me by reason of my gowns, she may hold me offwith the andirons. I can do without her."
And away marched Rachel in high dudgeon. "It is too bad of Rachel!"moaned Lady Enville, lifting her handkerchief to tearless eyes. "Iwould have nought but to be decent and fit for our degree, and not toshame us in the eyes of her that hath been in the Court. I was ne'erone to cast money right and left. If I had but a new velvet gown, and afair kirtle of laced satin, and a good kersey for every day, and anhood, and a partlet or twain of broidered work, and two or three othersmall matters, I would ask no more. Rachel would fain don us all likescullery-maids!"
Sir Thomas hated to see a woman weep; and above all, his wife--whom hestill loved, though he could no longer esteem her.
"Come, Orige,--dry thine eyes," he said pityingly.
He did not know, poor victim! that they required no drying.
"Thou shalt have what thou wouldst. Tell me the sum thou lackest, and Iwill spare it, though I cut timber therefor."
Which was equivalent, in his eyes, to the very last and worst of allhonest resources for raising money.
Lady Enville made a rapid calculation (with her handkerchief still ather eyes), which ran much in this fashion:--
+========================================+======+YVelvet dress - at least 40; say Y45 0 0Y+----------------------------------------+------+YSatin kirtle - about Y20 0 0Y+----------------------------------------+------+YKersey dress Y3 10 0Y+----------------------------------------+------+YHood, best Y 1 6 8Y+----------------------------------------+------+YHood, second-rate Y 13 4Y+----------------------------------------+------+YFrontlet Y 4 4Y+----------------------------------------+------+YLawn for ruffs (embroidered at home) sayY 2 6Y+----------------------------------------+------+YGloves, one dozen pairs, best quality Y 2 6Y+----------------------------------------+------+YRibbon, 40 yards, various colours Y 13 4Y+----------------------------------------+------+YMiscellaneous items, a good margin, say Y 9 7 4Y+----------------------------------------+------+YWhich makes a total of Y80 0 0Y+========================================+======+
Without removing the signal of distress, her Ladyship announced that thesmall sum of 80 pounds would satisfy her need: a sum equivalent to about1200 pounds in our day. Sir Thomas held his breath. But he knew thatunless he had courage authoritatively to deny the fair petitioner,argument and entreaty would alike be thrown away upon her. And thatcourage he was conscious he had not.
"Very well, Orige," he said quietly; "thou shalt have it."
But he ordered four fine oaks to be felled that evening.
"Clare, what lackest thou in the matter of raiment?" he asked when hemet her alone.
"If it liked your goodness to bestow on me a crown-piece, Father, Iwould be very thankful," said Clare, blushing as if she thought herselfextravagant. "I do lack gloves and kerchiefs."
"And what for thee, Blanche?" he asked in similar circumstances.
Before Blanche's eyes for a moment floated the vision of a new satindress and velvet hood. The old Blanche would have asked for themwithout scruple. But the new Blanche glanced at her father's face, andsaw that he looked grave and worried.
"I thank you much, Father," she said. "There is nought I do reallylack, without it were three yards of blue ribbon for a girdle."
This would cost about a shilling. Sir Thomas smiled, blessed her, andput a crown-piece in her hand; and Blanche danced down-stairs in herdelight,--evoked less by the crown-piece than by the little victory overherself. It was to her that for which a despot is recorded to havelonged in vain--a new pleasure.