Clare Avery: A Story of the Spanish Armada, Page 2

  CHAPTER TWO.

  ON THE BORDER OF MARTON MERE.

  "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. Thelandscape was not attractive, at least to a tired traveller. It was adreary waste of sandhills, diversified by patches of rough grass, and afew stunted bushes, all leaning away from the sea, as though they wantedto get as far from it as their small opportunities allowed; on one sidefoamed the said grey-green expanse of sea; on the other lay a littlelakelet, shining in the setting sun: in front, at some distance, arivulet ran from the lake to the sea. On the nearer side of the brooklay a little village; while on the further bank was a large, well-keptpark, 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. Theonly pretty or pleasant features in the landscape were the village andpark; and little could be seen of those for intervening sandhills.

  The lake was Marton Mere; the swamp was Marton Moss; and the districtwas the Fylde of Lancashire. The County Palatine was renowned, at thattime, in the eyes of the Londoners, for its air, which was "subtile andpiercing," without any "gross vapours nor foggie mists;" for theabundance and excellence of its cattle, which were sent even then to themetropolis; for the plentiful variety of its provisions; for itsmagnificent woods, "preserved by gentlemen for beauty," to such anextent 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 landmore in proportion to the inhabitants." But the good qualities of theCounty Palatine were not likely to be appreciated by our wearytravellers.

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

  "Eh me!" ejaculated Barbara Polwhele, with a weary sigh. "Master, dothany 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 bethey, 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'ssensations 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 toher favourite epithet. She took the whole pedigree to be a polysyllabicname. "Dear heart, to think of a country where the folk have names aslong as a cart-rope!"

  "Bab, I am aweary!" said little Clare, rousing up from a nap which shehad 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--Idrop the rest of the genealogy--drew bridle, and looking back, pointedwith 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;" buthad she understood it, she would have been little wiser. Fold meant toher a place to pen sheep in, while it signified to Dick an enclosuresurrounded 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, unwittinglyobeying, looked at the landscape.

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

  "Is yonder Enville Court?" asked Barbara, referring to the house in thepark.

  "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 andparsonage,--at which latter Barbara looked lovingly, as to a haven ofcomfort--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 stoneterrace round three sides of it, a garden laid out in grim, Dutch squareorder, away from the sea; and two or three cottages, with farm-buildingsand stables, grouped behind. The horses drew up at a side door.

  "Now!" lethargically said Dick, lumbering off his horse. "Con ye getoff by yoursen?"

  "I'll try," grunted the rather indignant Barbara, who considered thather precious charge, Clare, was being very neglectfully received. Shesprang 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 womanappeared, 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 handconfidingly 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'sbetter 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 herappeal was not heard by those within. She pushed the door a littleopen, 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 theladies sat with her back to the door, trying to catch the last ray ofdaylight for her work; the other had dropped asleep. Evidently neitherhad heard Jennet's knock.

  It was rather an awkward state of things. Little Clare went a few feetinto the room, stopped, and looked up at Barbara for direction. At thesame 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 notfree from angularity. She gave the impression that she must h
ave beenborn 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 thetaker of the siesta--was as free from any appearance of angularity orprimness as possible. Everything about her was soft, delicate, andgraceful. She was fair in complexion, and very pretty. She had beenengaged in fancy-work, and it lay upon her lap, held lightly by onehand, 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 exaltedexpressions of delight.

  "Fragrance of my heart! My rose of spring! My gem of beauty! Art thoucome to me at last, my soul's darling?"

  Barbara looked on with a grim smile. Clare sat in perfect silence onher 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'shair, and kissing her again. "Medoubteth if she will ever be aslovesome as I. I was much better favoured at her years.--Art thouaweary, sweeting?"

  At last Clare spoke; but only in an affirmative monosyllable. Clare'sthoughts were mixed ones. It was rather nice to sit on that soft velvetlap, and be petted: but "Bab didn't like her." And why did not Bab likeher?

  "Thou hast not called me Mother, my floweret."

  Clare was too shy for that. The suggestion distressed her. To move thehouse seemed as near possibility as to frame her lips to say that shortword. Fortunately for her, Lady Enville's mind never dwelt on a subjectfor 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 MistressWalter with thee, I am well assured. So my father Avery is dead, Icount, or ye had not come?"

  The question was put in a tone as light and airy as possible. Clarelistened 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, gentlysmoothing Clare's hair. "I cannot abide doole [mourning] and gloomyfaces. 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 momentfrom 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 Envilleto 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. Thoushalt see Blanche ere it be long."

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

  "Get away!" she said, as Margaret bent down to kiss her. "You are notmy sisters! I won't kiss you! I won't call you sisters. Blanche is mysister, 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 governchildre. Rachel, do--"

  Barbara was astonished and terrified. She laid a correcting hand uponClare's shoulder.

  "Mrs Clare, I'm ashamed of you! Cruel 'shamed, I am! The ladies willaccount that I ne'er learned you behaviour. Kiss the young damselspresently [immediately], like a sweet little maid, as you use to be, andnot like a wild blackamoor that ne'er saw governance!"

  But the matter was taken out of Barbara's hands, as Mistress Rachelresponded 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 suchtime as you shall be sorry for your fault, and desire pardon.--Meg andLucrece, come and fold your sewing. 'Tis too dark to make an endthereof 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 withalin 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. Easeyour mind; I will keep her in yonder no longer than shall stand with hergood. 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 thebetter."

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

  "Good lack!" plaintively exclaimed Lady Enville. "I hate discordsaround me. Call Jennet, and bid her take Barbara into the hall, for itmust be nigh rear-supper."

  Go and sit down comfortably to supper, with her darling shut in a darkcloset! 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 notpromising 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, lookingback.

  In utter despair Barbara appealed to Lady Enville.

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

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

  "Gramercy, Barbara!" said Lady Enville pettishly, with a shrug of hershoulders. "I never can deal with childre."

  "Leave her come forth, and I will deal withal," retorted Barbarabluntly.

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

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

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

  "Come see my sis'er," was the abrupt announcement.

  That this little bit of prettiness was queen at Enville Court, might beseen in Rachel's complacent smile. She opened the closet door about aninch.

  "Art thou yet sorry?"

  "No," said Clare stubbornly.

&nbs
p; There was a little pull at the blue kirtle.

  "Want see my sis'er!" pleaded the baby voice, in tones of someimpatience.

  "Wilt be a good maid if thou come forth?" demanded Rachel of the culpritwithin.

  "That is as may be," returned Clare insubordinately.

  "If I leave thee come forth, 'tis not for any thy goodness, but I wouldnot be hard on thee in the first minute of thy home-coming, and I makeallowance for thy coldness and weariness, that may cause thee to bepettish."

  Another little pull warned Rachel to cut short her lecture.

  "Now, be a good maid! Come forth, then. Here is Blanche awaitingthee."

  Out came Clare, looking very far from penitent. But when Blanchetoddled 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 everyone, Clare burst into tears. Nobody quite knew why, and perhaps Clarecould hardly have said herself. Barbara interposed, by coming forwardand 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 rebellionand penalty.

  The next morning rose brightly. Barbara and Jennet came to dress thefour little girls, who all slept in one room; and took them out at onceinto the garden. Clare seemed to have forgotten the episode of theprevious evening, and no one cared to remind her of it. Margaret hadbrought a ball with her, and the children set to work at play, with anamount of activity and interest which they would scarcely have bestowedupon work. Barbara and Jennet sat down on a wooden seat which ran roundthe trunk of a large ash-tree, and Jennet, pulling from her pocket apair of knitting-needles and a ball of worsted, began to ply the formertoo quickly for the eye to follow.

  "Of a truth, I would I had some matter of work likewise," observedBarbara; "I have been used to work hard, early and late, nor it likethme not to sit with mine hands idle. Needs must that I pray my Lady ofsome task belike."

  "Do but say the like unto Mistress Rachel," said Jennet, laughing, "andI 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 tellthee:--Sir Thomas is our master, see thou. Well, his wife's hismistress. And Mistress Rachel's her mistress. And Mistress Blanche isMistress Rachel's mistress. Now then, thou knowest somewhat thou didn'tafore."

  "And who is Mistress Blanche's mistress or master belike?" demandedBarbara, 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," observedBarbara, 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 wholeparty went into the hall for breakfast. Here the entire familyassembled, down to the meanest scullion-lad. Jennet took Clare's hand,and led her up to the high table, at which Mistress Rachel had alreadytaken her seat, while Sir Thomas and Lady Enville were just enteringfrom the door behind it.

  "Ha! who cometh here?" asked Sir Thomas, cheerily. "My new daughter, Iwarrant. Come hither, little maid!"

  Clare obeyed rather shyly. Her step-father set her on his knee, kissedher, stroked her hair with a rather heavy hand, and bade her "be a goodlass and serve God well, and he would be good father to her." Clare wasnot sorry when the ordeal was over, and she found herself seated betweenMargaret and Barbara. Sir Thomas glanced round the table, where anempty 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. "Ipray thee of some of that herring."

  While Rachel was being helped to the herring, a slight noise was audibleat the door behind, and the next minute, tumbling into his place with asomersault, a boy of eleven suddenly appeared in the hitherto vacantspace 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 ofmemory were painful, "as near as I may remember, 'twas about one hundredand 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," remarkedJack: "that is as sure as sure."

  Sir Thomas leaned back in his chair and laughed heartily, bidding Jackhelp himself; while Rachel shook her head ominously over Jack's future.Jack stood up, surveyed the table, and proceeded to make a wide gash inan enormous pie. Just as he was laying down knife and spoon, andretiring with his spoils, he caught a glimpse of Clare, who sat studyinghim 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 thytricks 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 onClare.

  "Now, little maids," said Rachel, when they rose from the table, "I willhear, you your tasks in an hour hence. Till the clock strike, ye may gointo 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 thytasks. Be they ready for Master Tremayne?"

  Jack turned up the whites of his eyes, and turned down the corners ofhis 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 ofdespair; but Sir Thomas, calling Margaret back, put into her hands theplate of small cakes; bidding her take them to the garden and dividethem among the children.

  "Brother, Brother!" remonstrated Rachel.

  "Tut! the cakes will do them no harm," said he carelessly. "There arebut a dozen or the like."

  Margaret went first towards the garden, carrying the plate, Clare andBlanche following. As they reached the terrace, Lucrece overtook them,going on about a yard in advance of Margaret. When the latter turnedher head to call Blanche to "come on," Clare, to her utter amazement,saw Lucrece stop, and, as Margaret passed her, silently and deftly dipher hand into the plate, and transfer two of the little cakes to herpocket. The action was so promptly and delicately performed, leavingMargaret entirely unconscious of it, that in all probability it was notthe first of its kind.

  Clare was intensely shocked. Was Lucrece a thief?


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

  "How is this?" she asked, looking perplexed. "There were thirteen ofthese, 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 outempty hands. So, thought Clare, she is a liar as well, as a thief.

  "They must be some whither," said Margaret, quietly; "and I know whereit 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 Margaretsatirically, but still quietly. "Very well,--thou hast chosen thyshare,--take it. Three for each of us three, and two over. Shall wegive them to Jack? What say ye?"

  "Jack!" cried Blanche, dancing about on the grass.

  Clare assented shyly, and she and Blanche received their three cakeseach.

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

  "Oh ay! keep what thou hast," said Margaret, calmly munching the firstof her own three cakes.

  "Who said I had any?"

  "I said it. I know thee, as Father saith to Jack. Thou hast made thybed,--go lie thereon."

  Lucrece marched slowly away, looking highly indignant; but before shewas quite out of sight, the others saw her slip her hand into herpocket, bring out one of the little cakes, and bite it in two. Margaretlaughed 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 theash-tree, had witnessed the whole scene.

  "Bab, I will not play me with yonder Lucrece. She tells lies, and is athief."

  "Marry La'kin, my poor lamb!" sighed Barbara. "My mind sorely misgivethme that I have brought thee into a den of thieves. Eh me, if the goodMaster had but lived a while longer! Of a truth, the Lord's ways bepassing strange."

  Clare had run off again to Margaret, and the last sentence was notspoken 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, thoughkindly 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 inflectionin his voice. "Walter's child,--my brother Walter!"

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

  "I am not the Shepherd, good friend,--only one of the Shepherd'sherd-lads. But I will look to the lamb as He shall speed me. And whichof the Lord's ways is so strange unto thee, Barbara?"

  "Why, to think that our dear, good Master should die but now, and leavethe little lamb to be cast in all this peril."

  "Then--`Some of the paths of the Lord are mercy and truth'--doth theverse 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 stepthereof, what matter? I shall have light to see the next step ere Imust set down my foot. That is enough, Barbara, for `such as keep Hiscovenant,' and I have ever counted thee amongst them."

  "Eh, Master Robin, but 'twere easier done to walk in darkness one'sself, 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, lestshe fall into the like evil courses, being to dwell here."

  "Thou hast not ill done, friend; nor will I neglect the warning, trustme."

  "I thank you much, Master. And how doth good Mistress Thekla? Verily Iam 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 themChrist hath housen four in His garner, and hath left but one in mysight. And that seemed unto us a very strange way; yet was it mercy andtruth."

  "Eh, but I could ne'er repine at a babe's dying!" said Barbara, shakingher head. "Do but think what they 'scape of this weary world'stroubles, 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 thepass, the most I can do is to lift mine head and hold my peace, `becauseGod 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 comeforth 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 fainto 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 waythrough the park, and instead of coming out of the great gates, near thefoot-bridge, she found herself at a little gate, opening on the road,from which neither church nor village could be seen as landmarks. Therewas no cottage in sight at which to ask the road to the parsonage.While Barbara stood and looked round her, considering the matter, sheperceived a boy of about twelve years old slowly approaching her fromthe right hand,--evidently a gentleman's son, from his dress, which,though very simple, was of materials indicative of good birth. He hadlong dark brown hair, which curled over his shoulders, and almost hidhis 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 yourstudies, but my need presseth me to pray of you the way unto MasterTremayne's house the parson?"

  The lad started on hearing a voice, hastily closed his book, and lifteda pair of large, dreamy brown eyes to Barbara's face. But he seemedquite 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 benot Tremayne?"

  "Ay so," assented the boy, with a rather surprised look. "My name isArthur 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 Barbaraquaintly. "But your mouth and nose be Mrs Thekla's. Eh, dear heart,what changes life bringeth! Why, it seemeth me but yestre'en that yourfather was no bigger than you. And every whit as much given to hisbook, 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 bigbook under his arm, and began to walk on in Barbara's company. "I countyou be our old friend, Barbara Polwhele, that is come with littleMistress Clare? My mother will be fain to see you."

  Barbara was highly gratified to find that Arthur Tremayne had heard ofher already. The two trudged onwards together, and in a few minutesreached the ivy-covered parsonage, standing in its pretty flower-garden.Arthur preceded Barbara into the house, laid down his book on the hallwindow-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 hadnot heard for nineteen years, yet which time had so little altered thatshe recognised at o
nce the Thekla Rose of old. And in another momentMrs Tremayne stood before her.

  Her aspect was more changed than her voice. The five terrible years ofthe Marian persecution had swept over her head in early youth, and theirbitter anxieties and forebodings left her, at the age of nineteen, awhite, wan, slender, delicate girl. But now a like number of years,spent in calm, happy work, had left their traces also, and Mrs Tremaynelooked what she was, a gentle, contented woman of thirty-eight, withmore bloom on her cheek than she had ever worn in youth, and the piteousexpression 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 youngeras you must needs be elder."

  "Nay, truly, for I were then but a babe in the cradle," was the laughinganswer. "Thou art a losenger [flatterer], Barbara."

  "In very deed," returned Barbara inconsistently, "I could have known youany whither."

  "And me also?" demanded another voice, as a little lively old ladytrotted out of the room which Mrs Tremayne had just left. "Shouldstthou have known me any whither, Barbara Polwhele?"

  "Marry La'kin! if 'tis not Mistress Rose!" [Name fact, characterfictitious.]

  "Who but myself? I dwell with Thekla since I am widow. And I make thecakes, as Arthur knows," added Mrs Rose, cheerily, patting hergrandson's head; "but if I should go hence, there should be a famine,_ma foi_!"

  "A famine of _pain d'epices_" assented Mrs Tremayne, smiling. "Ah,Mother dear, thou spoilest the lad."

  "Who ever knew a grandame to do other?" observed Barbara. "Morespecially 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 theroom, apparently desirous of checking any sad thoughts on the part ofher 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 notdone 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 unnaturaland improper to hear her laugh. But Mrs Rose's nature was that of achild,--simple and versatile: she lived in the present, whether for joyor pain.

  Mrs Rose finished gathering her materials, and proceeded to mix her_pain d'epices_, or Flemish gingerbread, while Mrs Tremayne madeBarbara sit down in a large chair furnished with soft cushions. Arthurcame too, having picked up his big book, and seated himself in thewindow-seat with it, his long hair falling over his face as he bent downover it but whether he were reading or listening was known only tohimself.

  The full account of John Avery's end was given to these his dearestfriends, and there was a good deal of conversation about other membersof the family: and Barbara heard, to her surprise, that a cousin ofClare, a child rather older than herself, was shortly coming to live atthe parsonage. Lysken van Barnevelt [a fictitious person], like Clare,was an only child and an orphan; and Mr Tremayne purposed to pay hisdebt to the Averys by the adoption of Frances Avery's child. ButBarbara was rather dismayed when she heard that Lysken would not atfirst be able to talk to her cousin, since her English was of the mostfragmentary 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. Itis 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 withmy 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 athroughly good teacher. But I will go and see the sweeting, so soon asI may."

  "Now, Mrs Thekla, of your goodness, do me to wit what manner of folk bethese that we be fallen in withal? It were easier for me to govern bothMrs Clare and mine own self, if I might but, know somewhat thereofaforetime."

  "Truly, good friend, they be nowise ill folk," said Mrs Tremayne, witha 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 sayover much. But he is an upright man, and a worthy, as men go in thisworld. 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 didthink thou hadst been a Christian woman, Barbara Polwhele."

  "Nay, verily, Mistress Rose!--what mean you?" demanded the astonishedBarbara.

  "_Bon_!--Is it not the second part of the duty of a Christian woman tolove her neighbour as herself?"

  "Good lack! 'tis not in human nature," said Barbara, bluntly. "If we beno Christians short of that, there be right few Christians in all theworld, 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 slightlyannoyed tone.

  "Who am I, that I should judge?" was the meek answer. "Yet methinksthere 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'ssomewhat acrid answer.

  "Ah, she showeth the worst on the outside."

  "And for the childre? I love not yon Lucrece.--Now, Mistress Rose, havea 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. "ForMargaret, she is plain and open enough; a straightforward, truthfulmaiden, that men may trust. But for Lucrece--I never felt as though Iknew her. There is that in her--be it pride, be it shamefacedness, callit 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 compoundwhich was to turn out _pain d'epices_.

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

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

  "And now, what say you to Master Jack?" demanded Barbara in sometrepidation. "Is he like to play ugsome [ugly, disagreeable] tricks onMrs Clare, think you?"

  "Jack--ah, poor Jack!" replied Mrs Tremayne.

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

  "And dost thou marvel that I say, `Poor Jack'? It is because I haveknown men of his conditions aforetime, and I have ever noted that eitherthey do go fast to wrack, or else they be set in the hottest furnace ofGod's disciplining. I know not which shall be the way with Jack. Buthow 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 Imight well-nigh say, not one that hath not holpen him at some pinch,whereto his reckless ways have brought him. If the lacings of satinribbon be gone from Mistress Rachel's best gown, and the cat be foundwith them tied all delicately around her paws and nec
k, and her verytail,--'tis Jack hath done it. If Margaret go about with a paper pinnedto the tail of her gown, importing that she is a thief and a traitor tothe 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 thegarden walk, wet and ruinated,--'tis Jack. If Mistress Rachel beastepping into her bed, and find the sheets and blankets all awry, sothat she cannot compass it till all is pulled in pieces and turnedaright, she hath no doubt to say, 'tis Jack. And yet once I say, PoorJack! If he be to come unto good, mefeareth the furnace must needs beheated fiercely. Yet after all, what am I, that I should say it? Godhath 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. Ihave 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 littleClare, yet no sooner shall he see her truly sorrowful thereat, than Jackshall turn comforter, nor go not an inch further."

  Barbara was beginning another question, of which she had plenty more toask, when she saw that the clock pointed to a quarter to eleven, whichwas dinner-time at Enville Court. There was barely time to reach thehouse, and she took leave hastily, declining Mrs Tremayne's invitationto 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 endLady Enville was delicately arranging the folds of her crimson satindress; the little girls were already seated; and Mistress Rachel, withbrown holland apron and cuffs, stood with a formidable carving-knife inher hand, ready to begin an attack upon the beef. The carving wasproperly Lady Enville's prerogative; but as with all things which gaveher trouble, she preferred to delegate it to her sister-in-law.

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

  "Good sooth! I have had such discourse with Master Tremayne," said SirThomas. "He hath the strangest fantasies. Only look you--"

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

  Lady Enville languidly declined anything so gross as beef. She wouldtake 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 eyesrove 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 indignified silence.

  "Would you think it?" resumed Sir Thomas, when everybody was helped, andconversation free to flow. "Master Tremayne doth conceive that weChristian folk be meant to learn somewhat from those ancient Jews thatdid wander about with Moses in the wilderness. Ne'er heard I no such afantasy. To conceive that we can win knowledge from the rotten oldobservances of those Jew rascals! Verily, this passeth!"

  "Beats the Dutch, Sir!" said incorrigible Jack.

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