Читать книгу Clare Avery - Emily Sarah Holt - Страница 4

“Thou too must tread, as we trod, a way

Thorny, and bitter, and cold, and grey.”

Miss Muloch.

It was drawing towards the dusk of a bright day early in May. The landscape was not attractive, at least to a tired traveller. It was a dreary waste of sandhills, diversified by patches of rough grass, and a few stunted bushes, all leaning away from the sea, as though they wanted to get as far from it as their small opportunities allowed; on one side foamed the said grey-green expanse of sea; on the other lay a little lakelet, shining in the setting sun: in front, at some distance, a rivulet ran from the lake to the sea. On the nearer side of the brook lay a little village; while on the further bank was a large, well-kept park, in which stood a grey quadrangular mansion. Beyond the park, nearly as far as the eye could reach, stretched a wide, dreary swamp, bounded only by the sea on the one hand and the lake on the other. The only pretty or pleasant features in the landscape were the village and park; and little could be seen of those for intervening sandhills.

The lake was Marton Mere; the swamp was Marton Moss; and the district was the Fylde of Lancashire. The County Palatine was renowned, at that time, in the eyes of the Londoners, for its air, which was “subtile and piercing,” without any “gross vapours nor foggie mists;” for the abundance and excellence of its cattle, which were sent even then to the metropolis; for the plentiful variety of its provisions; for its magnificent woods, “preserved by gentlemen for beauty,” to such an extent that no wood was used for fuel, and its place was supplied by “sea-coal” and turf; for its numerous churches, “in no part of the land more in proportion to the inhabitants.” But the good qualities of the County Palatine were not likely to be appreciated by our weary travellers.

The travellers were three in number:—a short, thick-set man, in a coat of frieze as rough as his surroundings; a woman, and a child; lastly came a pack-horse, bearing a quantity of luggage.

“Eh me!” ejaculated Barbara Polwhele, with a weary sigh. “Master, doth any man live hereaway?”

“Eh?” queried the man, not looking back.

Barbara repeated her question.

“Ay,” said he in a rough voice.

“By ’r Lady!” exclaimed Barbara, pityingly. “What manner of folk be they, I marvel?”

“Me an’ th’ rest,” said the man.

“Eh? what, you never—Be we anear Enville Court now?”

“O’er yon,” replied the man, pointing straight forward with his whip, and then giving it a sharp crack, as a reminder to the galloways.

“What, in the midst of yonder marsh?” cried poor Barbara.

Dick gave a hoarse chuckle, but made no other reply. Barbara’s sensations were coming very near despair.

“What call men your name, Master?” she demanded, after some minutes’ gloomy meditation.

“Name?” echoed the stolid individual before her.

“Ay,” said she.

“Dick o’ Will’s o’ Mally’s o’ Robin’s o’ Joan’s o’ owd Dick’s,” responded he, in a breath.

“Marry La’kin!” exclaimed Barbara, relieving her feelings by recourse to her favourite epithet. She took the whole pedigree to be a polysyllabic name. “Dear heart, to think of a country where the folk have names as long as a cart-rope!”

“Bab, I am aweary!” said little Clare, rousing up from a nap which she had taken leaning against Barbara.

“And well thou mayest, poor chick!” returned Barbara compassionately; adding in an undertone—“Could she ne’er have come so far as Kirkham!”

They toiled wearily on after this, until presently Dick o’ Will’s—I drop the rest of the genealogy—drew bridle, and looking back, pointed with his whip to the village which now lay close before them.

“See thee!” said he. “Yon’s th’ fold.”

“Yon’s what?” demanded Barbara.

The word was unintelligible to her, as Dick pronounced it “fowd;” but had she understood it, she would have been little wiser. Fold meant to her a place to pen sheep in, while it signified to Dick an enclosure surrounded by houses.

“What is ’t?” responded Dick. “Why, it’s th’ fowd.”

“But what is ‘fowd’?” asked bewildered Barbara.

“Open thy een, wilt thou?” answered Dick cynically.

Barbara resigned the attempt to comprehend him, and, unwittingly obeying, looked at the landscape.

Just the village itself was pretty enough. It was surrounded with trees, through which white houses peeped out, clustered together on the bank of the little brook. The spire of the village church towered up through the foliage, close to the narrow footbridge; and beside it stood the parsonage—a long, low, stone house, embowered in ivy.

“Is yonder Enville Court?” asked Barbara, referring to the house in the park.

“Ay,” said Dick.

“And where dwelleth Master Tremayne?”

“Eh?”

“Master Tremayne—the parson—where dwelleth he?”

“Th’ parson? Why, i’ th’ parsonage, for sure,” said Dick, conclusively. “Where else would thou have him?”

“Ay, in sooth, but which is the parsonage?”

“Close by th’ church—where would thou have it?”

“What, yonder green house, all o’er ivy?”

“For sure.”

They slowly filed into the village, rode past the church and parsonage—at which latter Barbara looked lovingly, as to a haven of comfort—forded the brook, and turned in at the gates of Enville Court. When they came up to the house, and saw it free of hindering foliage, she found that it was a stately quadrangle of grey stone, with a stone terrace round three sides of it, a garden laid out in grim, Dutch square order, away from the sea; and two or three cottages, with farm-buildings and stables, grouped behind. The horses drew up at a side door.

“Now!” lethargically said Dick, lumbering off his horse. “Con ye get off by yoursen?”

“I’ll try,” grunted the rather indignant Barbara, who considered that her precious charge, Clare, was being very neglectfully received. She sprang down more readily than Dick, and standing on the horse-block, lifted down little Clare.

“Hallo!” said Dick, by way of ringing the bell.

A slight stir was heard through the open door, and a young woman appeared, fresh-looking and smiling-faced.

“Mistress Polwhele, I reckon?” she asked. “An’ is this t’ little lass? Eh, God bless thee, little lass! Come in—thou’rt bound to be aweary.”

Clare looked up into the girl’s pleasant face, and sliding her hand confidingly into hers, said demurely—“I’ll come.”

“Dick ’ll see to th’ gear, Mistress,” said the girl.

“Thou’d better call Sim, Dick.—I reckon you’d best come wi’ me.”

“What is your name?” asked Barbara, following her guide.

“Jennet,” said the smiling girl.

“Well, Jennet, you are the best thing I have yet seen up hither,” announced Barbara cynically.

“Eh, you’ve none seen nought yet!” said Jennet, laughing. “There’s better things here nor me, I’se warrant you.”

“Humph!” returned Barbara meditatively. She doubted it very much.

Jennet paused at a door, and rapped. There was no answer; perhaps her appeal was not heard by those within. She pushed the door a little open, saying to Barbara, “There! you’d best go in, happen.”

So Barbara, putting little Clare before her, went in.

It was a large, square, low room, sweet with the perfume of dried roses. There were four occupants—two ladies, and two girls. One of the ladies sat with her back to the door, trying to catch the last ray of daylight for her work; the other had dropped asleep. Evidently neither had heard Jennet’s knock.

It was rather an awkward state of things. Little Clare went a few feet into the room, stopped, and looked up at Barbara for direction. At the same moment the elder girl turned her head and saw them.

“Madam!” said Barbara stiffly.

“Aunt Rachel!” (Note 1) said the girl.

The lady who sat by the window looked round, and rose. She was young—certainly under thirty; but rather stiff and prim, very upright, and not free from angularity. She gave the impression that she must have been born just as she was, in her black satin skirt, dark blue serge kirtle, unbending buckram cap, whitest and most unruffled of starched frills—and have been kept ever since under a glass case.

“You are Barbara Polwhele?” she said.

Barbara dropped a courtesy, and replied affirmatively.

“Sister!” said Mistress Rachel, appealing to the sleeper.

No greater difference between two young women could well be imagined, than that which existed in this instance. Lady Enville—for she was the taker of the siesta—was as free from any appearance of angularity or primness as possible. Everything about her was soft, delicate, and graceful. She was fair in complexion, and very pretty. She had been engaged in fancy-work, and it lay upon her lap, held lightly by one hand, just as it had dropped when she fell asleep.

“Sister!” said Rachel again.

Lady Enville stirred, sighed, and half opened her eyes.

“Here is thy little maid, Sister.”

Lady Enville opened her blue eyes fully, dropped her work on the floor, and springing up, caught Clare to her bosom with the most exalted expressions of delight.

“Fragrance of my heart! My rose of spring! My gem of beauty! Art thou come to me at last, my soul’s darling?”

Barbara looked on with a grim smile. Clare sat in perfect silence on her mother’s knee, suffering her caresses, but making no response.

“She is not like thee, Sister,” observed Rachel.

“No, she is like her father,” replied Lady Enville, stroking the child’s hair, and kissing her again. “Medoubteth if she will ever be as lovesome as I. I was much better favoured at her years.—Art thou aweary, sweeting?”

At last Clare spoke; but only in an affirmative monosyllable. Clare’s thoughts were mixed ones. It was rather nice to sit on that soft velvet lap, and be petted: but “Bab didn’t like her.” And why did not Bab like her?

“Thou hast not called me Mother, my floweret.”

Clare was too shy for that. The suggestion distressed her. To move the house seemed as near possibility as to frame her lips to say that short word. Fortunately for her, Lady Enville’s mind never dwelt on a subject for many seconds at once. She turned to Barbara.

“And how goes it with thee, Barbara?”

“Well, and I thank you, Mistress—my Lady, I would say.”

“Ah!” said Lady Enville, laughing softly. “I shall alway be Mistress Walter with thee, I am well assured. So my father Avery is dead, I count, or ye had not come?”

The question was put in a tone as light and airy as possible. Clare listened in surprised vexation. What did “she” mean by talking of “Gaffer,” in that strange way?—was she not sorry that he was gone away? Bab was—thought Clare.

Barbara’s answer was in a very constrained tone.

“Ah, well, ’tis to no good fretting,” returned Lady Enville, gently smoothing Clare’s hair. “I cannot abide doole (mourning) and gloomy faces. I would have all about me fresh and bright while I am so.”

This was rather above Clare’s comprehension; but looking up at Barbara, the child saw tears in her eyes. Her little heart revolted in a moment from the caressing lady in velvet. What did she mean by making Bab cry?

It was rather a misfortune that at this moment it pleased Lady Enville to kiss Clare’s forehead, and to say—

“Art thou ready to love us all, darling? Thou must know thy sisters, and ye can play you together, when their tasks be adone.—Margaret!”

“Ay, Madam.”

The elder girl laid down her work, and came to Lady Enville’s side.

“And thou too, Lucrece.—These be they, sweeting. Kiss them. Thou shalt see Blanche ere it be long.”

But then Clare’s stored-up anger broke out. The limit of her endurance had been reached, and shyness was extinguished by vexation.

“Get away!” she said, as Margaret bent down to kiss her. “You are not my sisters! I won’t kiss you! I won’t call you sisters. Blanche is my sister, but not you. Get away, both of you!”

Lady Enville’s eyes opened—for her—extremely wide.

“Why, what can the child mean?” she exclaimed. “I can never govern childre. Rachel, do—”

Barbara was astonished and terrified. She laid a correcting hand upon Clare’s shoulder.

“Mrs. Clare, I’m ashamed of you! Cruel ’shamed, I am! The ladies will account that I ne’er learned you behaviour. Kiss the young damsels presently (immediately), like a sweet little maid, as you use to be, and not like a wild blackamoor that ne’er saw governance!”

But the matter was taken out of Barbara’s hands, as Mistress Rachel responded to the appeal made to her—not in words, but in solid deed. She quietly grasped Clare, lifted her from her mother’s knee, and, carrying her to a large closet at one end of the room, shut her inside, and sat down again with judicial imperturbability.

“There you ’bide, child,” announced Rachel, from her chair, “until such time as you shall be sorry for your fault, and desire pardon.—Meg and Lucrece, come and fold your sewing. ’Tis too dark to make an end thereof this even.”

“Good Mistress,” entreated poor Barbara in deep dismay, “I beseech you, leave my little maid come out thence. She was never thus dealt withal in all her life afore!”

“No was she, (was she not), good wife?” returned Rachel unconcernedly. “Then the sooner she makes beginning thereof, the better for her. Ease your mind; I will keep her in yonder no longer than shall stand with her good. Is she oft-times thus trying?”

“Never afore knew I no such a thing!” said Barbara emphatically.

“Only a little waywardness then, maybe,” answered Rachel. “So much the better.”

“Marry, sweet Mistress, the child is hungered and aweary. Pray you, forgive her this once!”

“Good lack!” plaintively exclaimed Lady Enville. “I hate discords around me. Call Jennet, and bid her take Barbara into the hall, for it must be nigh rear-supper.”

Go and sit down comfortably to supper, with her darling shut in a dark closet! Barbara would as soon have thought of flying.

“Leave her come forth, Rachel,” said the child’s mother.

“I love peace as well as thou, Sister; but I love right better,” answered Rachel unmovedly. But she rose and went to the closet. “Child! art thou yet penitent?”

“Am I what?” demanded Clare from within, in a voice which was not promising for much penitence.

“Art thou sorry for thy fault?”

“No.”

“Wilt thou ask pardon?”

“No,” said Clare sturdily.

“Thou seest, Sister, I cannot let her out,” decided Rachel, looking back.

In utter despair Barbara appealed to Lady Enville.

“Mistress Walter, sure you have never the heart to keep the little maid shut up in yon hole? She is cruel weary, the sweeting!—and an-hungered to boot. Cause her to come forth, I pray you of your gentleness!”

Ah, Barbara! Appearances were illusive. There was no heart under the soft exterior of the one woman, and there was a very tender one, covered by a crust of rule and propriety, latent in the breast of the other.

“Gramercy, Barbara!” said Lady Enville pettishly, with a shrug of her shoulders. “I never can deal with childre.”

“Leave her come forth, and I will deal withal,” retorted Barbara bluntly.

“Dear heart! Rachel, couldst thou not leave her come? Never mind waiting till she is sorry. I shall have never any peace.”

Rachel laid her hand doubtfully on the latch of the closet door, and stood considering the matter.

Just then another door was softly pushed open, and a little child of three years old came into the room:—a much prettier child than Clare, having sky-blue eyes, shining fair hair, a complexion of exquisite delicacy, pretty regular features, and eyebrows of the surprised type. She ran up straight to Rachel, and grasped the blue serge kirtle in her small chubby hand.

“Come see my sis’er,” was the abrupt announcement.

That this little bit of prettiness was queen at Enville Court, might be seen in Rachel’s complacent smile. She opened the closet door about an inch.

“Art thou yet sorry?”

“No,” said Clare stubbornly.

There was a little pull at the blue kirtle.

“Want see my sis’er!” pleaded the baby voice, in tones of some impatience.

“Wilt be a good maid if thou come forth?” demanded Rachel of the culprit within.

“That is as may be,” returned Clare insubordinately.

“If I leave thee come forth, ’tis not for any thy goodness, but I would not be hard on thee in the first minute of thy home-coming, and I make allowance for thy coldness and weariness, that may cause thee to be pettish.”

Another little pull warned Rachel to cut short her lecture.

“Now, be a good maid! Come forth, then. Here is Blanche awaiting thee.”

Out came Clare, looking very far from penitent. But when Blanche toddled up, put her fat arms round her sister as far as they would go, and pouted up her little lips for a kiss—to the astonishment of every one, Clare burst into tears. Nobody quite knew why, and perhaps Clare could hardly have said herself. Barbara interposed, by coming forward and taking possession of her, with the apologetic remark—

“Fair cruel worn-out she is, poor heart!”

And Rachel condoned the affair, with—“Give her her supper, good wife, and put her abed. Jennet will show thee all needful.”

So Clare signalised her first entrance into her new home by rebellion and penalty.

The next morning rose brightly. Barbara and Jennet came to dress the four little girls, who all slept in one room; and took them out at once into the garden. Clare seemed to have forgotten the episode of the previous evening, and no one cared to remind her of it. Margaret had brought a ball with her, and the children set to work at play, with an amount of activity and interest which they would scarcely have bestowed upon work. Barbara and Jennet sat down on a wooden seat which ran round the trunk of a large ash-tree, and Jennet, pulling from her pocket a pair of knitting-needles and a ball of worsted, began to ply the former too quickly for the eye to follow.

“Of a truth, I would I had some matter of work likewise,” observed Barbara; “I have been used to work hard, early and late, nor it liketh me not to sit with mine hands idle. Needs must that I pray my Lady of some task belike.”

“Do but say the like unto Mistress Rachel,” said Jennet, laughing, “and I warrant thee thou’lt have work enough.”

“Mistress Rachel o’erseeth the maids work?”

“There’s nought here but hoo (she) does o’ersee,” replied Jennet.

“She keepeth house, marry, by my Lady’s direction?”

“Hoo does not get much direction, I reckon,” said Jennet.

“What, my Lady neither makes nor meddles?”

Jennet laughed. “I ne’er saw her make yet so much as an apple turno’er. As for tapestry work, and such, hoo makes belike. But I’ll just tell thee:—Sir Thomas is our master, see thou. Well, his wife’s his mistress. And Mistress Rachel’s her mistress. And Mistress Blanche is Mistress Rachel’s mistress. Now then, thou knowest somewhat thou didn’t afore.”

“And who is Mistress Blanche’s mistress or master belike?” demanded Barbara, laughing in her turn.

“Nay, I’ve getten to th’ top,” said Jennet. “I can go no fur’.”

“There’ll be a master some of these days, I cast no doubt,” observed Barbara, drily.

“Happen,” returned Jennet. “But ’tis a bit too soon yet, I reckon.—Mrs. Meg, yon’s the breakfast bell.”

Margaret caught the ball from Clare, and pocketed it, and the whole party went into the hall for breakfast. Here the entire family assembled, down to the meanest scullion-lad. Jennet took Clare’s hand, and led her up to the high table, at which Mistress Rachel had already taken her seat, while Sir Thomas and Lady Enville were just entering from the door behind it.

“Ha! who cometh here?” asked Sir Thomas, cheerily. “My new daughter, I warrant. Come hither, little maid!”

Clare obeyed rather shyly. Her step-father set her on his knee, kissed her, stroked her hair with a rather heavy hand, and bade her “be a good lass and serve God well, and he would be good father to her.” Clare was not sorry when the ordeal was over, and she found herself seated between Margaret and Barbara. Sir Thomas glanced round the table, where an empty place was left on the form, just opposite Clare.

“Where is Jack?” he inquired.

“Truly, I know not,” said Lady Enville languidly.

“I bade him arise at four of the clock,” observed Rachel briskly.

“And saw him do it?” asked Sir Thomas, with an amused expression.

“Nay, in very deed—I had other fish to fry.”

“Then, if Jack be not yet abed, I am no prophet.”

“Thou art no prophet, brother Tom, whether or no,” declared Rachel. “I pray thee of some of that herring.”

While Rachel was being helped to the herring, a slight noise was audible at the door behind, and the next minute, tumbling into his place with a somersault, a boy of eleven suddenly appeared in the hitherto vacant space between Rachel and Lucrece.

“Ah Jack, Jack!” reprimanded Sir Thomas.

“Salt, Sir?” suggested Jack, demurely.

“What hour of the clock did thine Aunt bid thee rise, Jack?”

“Well, Sir,” responded Jack, screwing up one eye, as if the effort of memory were painful, “as near as I may remember, ’twas about one hundred and eighty minutes to seven of the clock.”

“Thou wilt come to ill, Jack, as sure as sure,” denounced Aunt Rachel, solemnly.

“I am come to breakfast, Aunt, and I shall come to dinner,” remarked Jack: “that is as sure as sure.”

Sir Thomas leaned back in his chair and laughed heartily, bidding Jack help himself; while Rachel shook her head ominously over Jack’s future. Jack stood up, surveyed the table, and proceeded to make a wide gash in an enormous pie. Just as he was laying down knife and spoon, and retiring with his spoils, he caught a glimpse of Clare, who sat studying him in some trepidation and much curiosity.

“Hallo! who are you?” was Jack’s unceremonious greeting.

“Wilt thou ne’er learn to behave thyself, lad?” corrected Rachel.

“You see, Aunt, none never learned me yet,” returned Jack coolly; looking at Clare in a manner which said, “I await your answer.”

Sir Thomas good-naturedly replied for her.

“ ’Tis thy new sister, my lad—little Clare Avery. Play none of thy tricks on her, Jack.”

“My tricks, Sir?” demanded Jack with an air of innocent astonishment.

“I know thee, lad!” said Sir Thomas shortly, but good humouredly.

Jack proceeded to make short work of the pie, but kept his eyes on Clare.

“Now, little maids,” said Rachel, when they rose from the table, “I will hear, you your tasks in an hour hence. Till the clock strike, ye may go into the garden.”

“May we have some cakes with us, Aunt Rachel?” inquired Jack demurely.

“Cake!” echoed Blanche, clapping her little fat hands.

“Thou!” said Rachel. “Art thou a maid? I have nought to do with thy tasks. Be they ready for Master Tremayne?”

Jack turned up the whites of his eyes, and turned down the corners of his mouth, in a style which exhibited a very emphatic No.

“Go and study them, then, this minute,” said his Aunt.

The party separated, Jack putting on a look which was the embodiment of despair; but Sir Thomas, calling Margaret back, put into her hands the plate of small cakes; bidding her take them to the garden and divide them among the children.

“Brother, Brother!” remonstrated Rachel.

“Tut! the cakes will do them no harm,” said he carelessly. “There are but a dozen or the like.”

Margaret went first towards the garden, carrying the plate, Clare and Blanche following. As they reached the terrace, Lucrece overtook them, going on about a yard in advance of Margaret. When the latter turned her head to call Blanche to “come on,” Clare, to her utter amazement, saw Lucrece stop, and, as Margaret passed her, silently and deftly dip her hand into the plate, and transfer two of the little cakes to her pocket. The action was so promptly and delicately performed, leaving Margaret entirely unconscious of it, that in all probability it was not the first of its kind.

Clare was intensely shocked. Was Lucrece a thief?

Margaret sat down on a grassy bank, and counted out the cakes. There were eleven.

“How is this?” she asked, looking perplexed. “There were thirteen of these, I am well assured, for I counted them o’er as I came out of hall. Who has taken two?”

“Not I,” said Clare shortly.

Blanche shook her curly head; Lucrece, silently but calmly, held out empty hands. So, thought Clare, she is a liar as well, as a thief.

“They must be some whither,” said Margaret, quietly; “and I know where it is like: Lucrece, I do verily believe they are in thy pocket.”

“Dost thou count me a thief, Meg?” retorted Lucrece.

“By no manner of means, without thou hast the chance,” answered Margaret satirically, but still quietly. “Very well—thou hast chosen thy share—take it. Three for each of us three, and two over. Shall we give them to Jack? What say ye?”

“Jack!” cried Blanche, dancing about on the grass.

Clare assented shyly, and she and Blanche received their three cakes each.

“Must I have none, Meg?” demanded Lucrece in an injured tone.

“Oh ay! keep what thou hast,” said Margaret, calmly munching the first of her own three cakes.

“Who said I had any?”

“I said it. I know thee, as Father saith to Jack. Thou hast made thy bed—go lie thereon.”

Lucrece marched slowly away, looking highly indignant; but before she was quite out of sight, the others saw her slip her hand into her pocket, bring out one of the little cakes, and bite it in two. Margaret laughed when she saw Clare’s look of shocked solemnity.

“I said she had them—the sly-boots!” was her only comment.

Clare finished her cakes, and ran off to Barbara, who, seated under the ash-tree, had witnessed the whole scene.

“Bab, I will not play me with yonder Lucrece. She tells lies, and is a thief.”

“Marry La’kin, my poor lamb!” sighed Barbara. “My mind sorely misgiveth me that I have brought thee into a den of thieves. Eh me, if the good Master had but lived a while longer! Of a truth, the Lord’s ways be passing strange.”

Clare had run off again to Margaret, and the last sentence was not spoken to her. But it was answered by somebody.

“Which of the Lord’s ways, Barbara Polwhele?”

“Sir?” exclaimed Barbara, looking up surprisedly into the grave, though kindly face of a tall, dark-haired man in clerical garb. “I was but—eh, but yon eyes! ’Tis never Master Robin?”

Mr. Tremayne’s smile replied sufficiently that it was.

“And is yonder little Clare Avery?” he asked, with a tender inflection in his voice. “Walter’s child—my brother Walter!”

“Ay, Master Robin, yon is Mistress Clare; and you being shepherd of this flock hereaway, I do adjure you, look well to this little lamb, for I am sore afeard she is here fallen amongst wolves.”

“I am not the Shepherd, good friend—only one of the Shepherd’s herd-lads. But I will look to the lamb as He shall speed me. And which of the Lord’s ways is so strange unto thee, Barbara?”

“Why, to think that our dear, good Master should die but now, and leave the little lamb to be cast in all this peril.”

“Then—‘Some of the paths of the Lord are mercy and truth’—doth the verse run thus in thy Bible, Barbara?”

“Nay, not so: but can you understand the same Master Robin?”

“By no means. Wherefore should I?”

Barbara made no answer beyond an appealing look.

“ ‘He knoweth the way that I take.’ If I know not so much as one step thereof, what matter? I shall have light to see the next step ere I must set down my foot. That is enough, Barbara, for ‘such as keep His covenant,’ and I have ever counted thee amongst them.”

“Eh, Master Robin, but ’twere easier done to walk in darkness one’s self, than to see yon little pet lamb—”

And Barbara’s voice faltered.

“Hath somewhat troubled thee specially at this time?”

In answer, she told him what she had just seen.

“And I do trust, Master Robin, I have not ill done to say this unto you, but of a truth I am diseased (uneasy, anxious) touching my jewel, lest she fall into the like evil courses, being to dwell here.”

“Thou hast not ill done, friend; nor will I neglect the warning, trust me.”

“I thank you much, Master. And how doth good Mistress Thekla? Verily I am but evil-mannered to be thus long ere I ask it.”

“She is well, and desiring much to see thee.”

“And your childre, Master Robin—have you not?”

“I have five childre, Barbara, two sons and three daughters; but of them Christ hath housen four in His garner, and hath left but one in my sight. And that seemed unto us a very strange way; yet was it mercy and truth.”

“Eh, but I could ne’er repine at a babe’s dying!” said Barbara, shaking her head. “Do but think what they ’scape of this weary world’s troubles, Master Robin.”

“Ah, Barbara, ’tis plain thou never hadst a child,” said Mr. Tremayne, sighing. “I grant all thou hast said. And yet, when it cometh to the pass, the most I can do is to lift mine head and hold my peace, ‘because God did it.’ God witteth best how to try us all.”

“Nay, if He would but not try yon little lambkin!”

“An unhappy prayer, Barbara; for, that granted, she should never come forth as gold.—But I must be on my way to give Jack his Latin lesson. When thou canst find thy way to my dwelling, all we shall be full fain to see thee. Good morrow.”

When Clare was undergoing her ordeal in the schoolroom, an hour later, Barbara set out on her visit to the parsonage. But she missed her way through the park, and instead of coming out of the great gates, near the foot-bridge, she found herself at a little gate, opening on the road, from which neither church nor village could be seen as landmarks. There was no cottage in sight at which to ask the road to the parsonage. While Barbara stood and looked round her, considering the matter, she perceived a boy of about twelve years old slowly approaching her from the right hand—evidently a gentleman’s son, from his dress, which, though very simple, was of materials indicative of good birth. He had long dark brown hair, which curled over his shoulders, and almost hid his face, bent down over a large book, for he was reading as he walked. Barbara waited until he came up to her.

“Give you good morrow, Master! I be loth to come betwixt you and your studies, but my need presseth me to pray of you the way unto Master Tremayne’s house the parson?”

The lad started on hearing a voice, hastily closed his book, and lifted a pair of large, dreamy brown eyes to Barbara’s face. But he seemed quite at a loss to recall what he had been asked to do.

“You would know?”—he said inquiringly.

“I would know, young Master,” returned Barbara boldly, “if your name be not Tremayne?”

“Ay so,” assented the boy, with a rather surprised look. “My name is Arthur Tremayne.” (A fictitious person.)

“And you be son unto Master Tremayne the parson?”

“Truly.”

“Verily I guessed so much, for his eyes be in your head,” said Barbara quaintly. “But your mouth and nose be Mrs. Thekla’s. Eh, dear heart, what changes life bringeth! Why, it seemeth me but yestre’en that your father was no bigger than you. And every whit as much given to his book, I warrant you. Pray you, is my mistress your mother at home?”

“Ay, you shall find her there now,” said the boy, as he tucked the big book under his arm, and began to walk on in Barbara’s company. “I count you be our old friend, Barbara Polwhele, that is come with little Mistress Clare? My mother will be fain to see you.”

Barbara was highly gratified to find that Arthur Tremayne had heard of her already. The two trudged onwards together, and in a few minutes reached the ivy-covered parsonage, standing in its pretty flower-garden. Arthur preceded Barbara into the house, laid down his book on the hall window-seat, and opening a door which led to the back part of the house, appealed to an unseen person within.

“Mother! here is Mistress Barbara Polwhele.”

“Barbara Polwhele!” said a voice in reply—a voice which Barbara had not heard for nineteen years, yet which time had so little altered that she recognised at once the Thekla Rose of old. And in another moment Mrs. Tremayne stood before her.

Her aspect was more changed than her voice. The five terrible years of the Marian persecution had swept over her head in early youth, and their bitter anxieties and forebodings left her, at the age of nineteen, a white, wan, slender, delicate girl. But now a like number of years, spent in calm, happy work, had left their traces also, and Mrs. Tremayne looked what she was, a gentle, contented woman of thirty-eight, with more bloom on her cheek than she had ever worn in youth, and the piteous expression of distressed suspense entirely gone from her eyes.

“Eh, Mistress Thekla!” was Barbara’s greeting.

“I be cruel glad to see you. Methinks you be gone so many years younger as you must needs be elder.”

“Nay, truly, for I were then but a babe in the cradle,” was the laughing answer. “Thou art a losenger (flatterer), Barbara.”

“In very deed,” returned Barbara inconsistently, “I could have known you any whither.”

“And me also?” demanded another voice, as a little lively old lady trotted out of the room which Mrs. Tremayne had just left. “Shouldst thou have known me any whither, Barbara Polwhele?”

“Marry La’kin! if ’tis not Mistress Rose!” (Name fact, character fictitious.)

“Who but myself? I dwell with Thekla since I am widow. And I make the cakes, as Arthur knows,” added Mrs. Rose, cheerily, patting her grandson’s head; “but if I should go hence, there should be a famine, ma foi!”

“A famine of pain d’épices” assented Mrs. Tremayne, smiling. “Ah, Mother dear, thou spoilest the lad.”

“Who ever knew a grandame to do other?” observed Barbara. “More specially the only one.”

“The only one!” echoed his mother, softly, stroking his long hair. “There be four other, Barbara—not lost, but waiting.”

“Now, Barbara, come in hither,” said Mrs. Rose, bustling back into the room, apparently desirous of checking any sad thoughts on the part of her daughter; “sit thou down, and tell us all about the little Clare, and the dear Master Avery, and all. I listen and mix my cake, all one.”

Barbara followed her, and found herself in the kitchen. She had not done wondering at the change—not in Mrs. Tremayne, but in her mother. Nineteen years before, Barbara had known Marguerite Rose, a crushed, suffering woman, with no shadow of mirth about her. It seemed unnatural and improper to hear her laugh. But Mrs. Rose’s nature was that of a child—simple and versatile: she lived in the present, whether for joy or pain.

Mrs. Rose finished gathering her materials, and proceeded to mix her pain d’épices, or Flemish gingerbread, while Mrs. Tremayne made Barbara sit down in a large chair furnished with soft cushions. Arthur came too, having picked up his big book, and seated himself in the window-seat with it, his long hair falling over his face as he bent down over it but whether he were reading or listening was known only to himself.

The full account of John Avery’s end was given to these his dearest friends, and there was a good deal of conversation about other members of the family: and Barbara heard, to her surprise, that a cousin of Clare, a child rather older than herself, was shortly coming to live at the parsonage. Lysken van Barnevelt (a fictitious person), like Clare, was an only child and an orphan; and Mr. Tremayne purposed to pay his debt to the Averys by the adoption of Frances Avery’s child. But Barbara was rather dismayed when she heard that Lysken would not at first be able to talk to her cousin, since her English was of the most fragmentary description.

“She will soon learn,” said Mrs. Tremayne.

“And until she shall learn, I only can talk to her,” added Mrs. Rose, laughing. “Ay de mi! I must pull up my Flemish out of my brains. It is so deep down, I do wonder if it will come. It is—let me see!—forty, fifty—ma foi! ’tis nigh sixty years since I talk Flemish with my father!”

“And now, tell us, what manner of child is Clare?” asked Mrs. Tremayne.

“The sweetest little maid in all the world, and of full good conditions (disposition), saving only that she lacketh breeding (education) somewhat.”

“The which Mistress Rachel shall well furnish her withal. She is a throughly good teacher. But I will go and see the sweeting, so soon as I may.”

“Now, Mrs. Thekla, of your goodness, do me to wit what manner of folk be these that we be fallen in withal? It were easier for me to govern both Mrs. Clare and mine own self, if I might but, know somewhat thereof aforetime.”

“Truly, good friend, they be nowise ill folk,” said Mrs. Tremayne, with a quiet smile. “Sir Thomas is like to be a good father unto the child, for he hath a kindly nature. Only, for godliness, I fear I may not say over much. But he is an upright man, and a worthy, as men go in this world. And for my Lady his wife, you know her as well as I.”

“Marry La’kin, and if you do love her no better!—”

“She is but young,” said Mrs. Tremayne, excusingly.

“What heard I?” inquired Mrs. Rose, looking up from her cookery. “I did think thou hadst been a Christian woman, Barbara Polwhele.”

“Nay, verily, Mistress Rose!—what mean you?” demanded the astonished Barbara.

“Bon!—Is it not the second part of the duty of a Christian woman to love her neighbour as herself?”

“Good lack! ’tis not in human nature,” said Barbara, bluntly. “If we be no Christians short of that, there be right few Christians in all the world, Mistress mine.”

“So there be,” was the reply. “Is it not?”

“Truly, good friend, this is not in nature,” said Mrs. Tremayne, gently. “It is only in grace.”

“Then in case it so be, is there no grace?” asked Barbara in a slightly annoyed tone.

“Who am I, that I should judge?” was the meek answer. “Yet methinks there must be less grace than nature.”

“Well!—and of Mistress Rachel, what say you?”

“Have you a care that you judge her not too harshly. She is, I know, somewhat forbidding on the outside, yet she hath a soft heart, Barbara.”

“I am thankful to hear the same, for I had not so judged,” was Barbara’s somewhat acrid answer.

“Ah, she showeth the worst on the outside.”

“And for the childre? I love not yon Lucrece.—Now, Mistress Rose, have a care your cakes be well mingled, and snub not me.”

“Ah! there spake the conscience,” said Mrs. Rose, laughing.

“I never did rightly understand Lucrece,” answered her daughter. “For Margaret, she is plain and open enough; a straightforward, truthful maiden, that men may trust. But for Lucrece—I never felt as though I knew her. There is that in her—be it pride, be it shamefacedness, call it as you will—that is as a wall in the way.”

“I call it deceitfulness, Thekla,” said her mother decidedly.

“I trust not so, Mother! yet I have feared—”

“Time will show,” said Mrs. Rose, filling her moulds with the compound which was to turn out pain d’épices.

“Mistress Blanche, belike, showeth not what her conditions shall be,” remarked Barbara.

“She is a lovesome little maid as yet,” said Mrs. Tremayne. “Mefeareth she shall be spoiled as she groweth toward womanhood, both with praising of her beauty and too much indulging of her fantasies.”

“And now, what say you to Master Jack?” demanded Barbara in some trepidation. “Is he like to play ugsome (ugly, disagreeable) tricks on Mrs. Clare, think you?”

“Jack—ah, poor Jack!” replied Mrs. Tremayne.

Barbara looked up in some surprise. Jack seemed to her a most unlikely subject for the compassionate ejaculation.

“And dost thou marvel that I say, ‘Poor Jack’? It is because I have known men of his conditions aforetime, and I have ever noted that either they do go fast to wrack, or else they be set in the hottest furnace of God’s disciplining. I know not which shall be the way with Jack. But how so—poor Jack!”

“But what deem you his conditions, in very deed?”

“Why, there is not a soul in all the village that loveth not Jack, and I might well-nigh say, not one that hath not holpen him at some pinch, whereto his reckless ways have brought him. If the lacings of satin ribbon be gone from Mistress Rachel’s best gown, and the cat be found with them tied all delicately around her paws and neck, and her very tail—’tis Jack hath done it. If Margaret go about with a paper pinned to the tail of her gown, importing that she is a thief and a traitor to the Queen’s Highness—’tis Jack hath pinned it on when she saw him not. If some rare book from Sir Thomas his library be found all open on the garden walk, wet and ruinated—’tis Jack. If Mistress Rachel be astepping into her bed, and find the sheets and blankets all awry, so that she cannot compass it till all is pulled in pieces and turned aright, she hath no doubt to say, ’tis Jack. And yet once I say, Poor Jack! If he be to come unto good, mefeareth the furnace must needs be heated fiercely. Yet after all, what am I, that I should say it? God hath a thousand ways to fetch His lost sheep home.”

“But is he verily ill-natured?”

“Nay, in no wise. He hath as tender a heart as any lad ever I saw. I have known him to weep bitterly over aught that hath touched his heart. Trust me, while I cast no doubt he shall play many a trick on little Clare, yet no sooner shall he see her truly sorrowful thereat, than Jack shall turn comforter, nor go not an inch further.”

Barbara was beginning another question, of which she had plenty more to ask, when she saw that the clock pointed to a quarter to eleven, which was dinner-time at Enville Court. There was barely time to reach the house, and she took leave hastily, declining Mrs. Tremayne’s invitation to stay and dine at the parsonage.

When she entered the hall, she found the household already assembled, and the sewers bringing in a smoking baron of beef. At the upper end Lady Enville was delicately arranging the folds of her crimson satin dress; the little girls were already seated; and Mistress Rachel, with brown holland apron and cuffs, stood with a formidable carving-knife in her hand, ready to begin an attack upon the beef. The carving was properly Lady Enville’s prerogative; but as with all things which gave her trouble, she preferred to delegate it to her sister-in-law.

Sir Thomas came in late, and said grace hastily. The Elizabethan grace was not limited to half-a-dozen words. It took about as long as family prayers usually do now. Jack, in his usual style, came scampering in just when grace was finished.

“Good sooth! I have had such discourse with Master Tremayne,” said Sir Thomas. “He hath the strangest fantasies. Only look you—”

“A shive of beef, Sister?” interpolated Rachel, who had no notion of allowing the theoretical to take precedence of the practical.

Lady Enville languidly declined anything so gross as beef. She would take a little—very little—of the venison pasty.

“I’ll have beef, Aunt!” put in unseasonable Jack.

“Wilt thou have manners?” severely returned Rachel.

“Where shall I find them, Aunt?” coolly inquired Jack, letting his eyes rove about among the dishes. “May I help you likewise?”

“Behave thyself, Jack!” said his father, laughing.

The rebuke was neutralised by the laughter. Rachel went on carving in dignified silence.

“Would you think it?” resumed Sir Thomas, when everybody was helped, and conversation free to flow. “Master Tremayne doth conceive that we Christian folk be meant to learn somewhat from those ancient Jews that did wander about with Moses in the wilderness. Ne’er heard I no such a fantasy. To conceive that we can win knowledge from the rotten old observances of those Jew rascals! Verily, this passeth!”

“Beats the Dutch, Sir!” said incorrigible Jack.

Note 1. All members of the Enville family and household are fictitious persons.