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'epices_" 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'epices_, 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.