They were not really related; but they had been brought up as sisters
from their girlhood.
"Nigh, Mistress Philippa!" exclaimed Barbara in surprise. "What, from
Cheshire hither!"
Philippa laughed merrily. "Marry come up, Bab! thou hast not dwelt
seven years in Calais, as I have, and every yard of lawn for thy
partlets to be fetched from London, and every stone of thy meat to boot.
Why, thou earnest thine own self as far as from Cornwall."
"Eh, marry La'kin! Never came I that way but once, and if God be
served, [if it be His will] I never look to turn again."
Philippa turned to Lady Enville, who had sat, or rather reclined,
playing with a hand-screen, while she listened to the preceding
conversation. "And how goeth it with the child, tell me, Orige? She is
not yet wed, trow?"
"Not yet," replied Lady Enville, with her soft smile. "I shall ne'er be
astonied if she wed with Arthur Tremayne. 'Twere a very fair match, and
he is good enough for Clare."
"A good stock, and an old; and a good lad, I trust. Thou must have a
care, Orige, not to cast the child away on one that will not deal well
and truly by her."
"Oh, Arthur would deal well," said Lady Enville carelessly. "He is a
mighty sobersides, and so is Clare. They were cut out for one another."
"Poor child!" said Philippa.
"`Poor child'--and wherefore, Mrs Basset, say you so?"
"Because, Orige, it seemeth me she hath no mother."
"Nay, Mistress Basset, what signify you?"
"No mother, Orige--or as good as none. An' Clare had been my child, I
had never handed her o'er, to Arthur Tremayne nor any other, with no
more heed than a napron-full of sticks."
"Well, in very deed, I do take the better care of the twain for Blanche
to be well matched. Lo' you, Mistress Basset, Blanche is of good
lineage; and she is rare lovesome--well-nigh as fair as I was at her
years--so that I would not have her to cast herself away, in no wise:
but for Clare--which hath small beauty, and is of little sort--it maketh
not much matter whom she may wed."
"Good lack, Orige Enville, is a maid's heart no matter?--is a maid's
life no matter? Why, woman! thou lackest stirring up with a poker! I
marvel if I were sent hither to do it."
"Gramercy, Mistress Basset!" cried Lady Enville in horror. "That
stirring up is it which I can in no wise abide."
"The which shows how much thou lackest it. But I am afeard thou art too
far gone for any good. Well, I will look after the child; and I will
set Thekla on to do it. And if I find Arthur to be a good man and true,
and Clare reasonable well affected unto him,--trust me, I will not
interfere. But if not,--Orige, I will not see Walter's child cast away,
if thou wilt."
"Nay, good lack, Mrs Basset, what would you do?"
Lady Enville knew the energy and determination of the old lady's
character, and that if she set her mind upon a course of action, she was
pretty sure to carry it through, and to make other people do as she
wished.
"I will do _that_" said Philippa decidedly. "I will judge whether the
lot thou hast chalked out for Clare be fit for her."
"But in case you judge it not so, what then?"
"Then I will have the child away."
"I could ne'er allow that, Mistress Basset," said Lady Enville with
unusual decision.
"I shall ne'er ask thee, Orige," returned Philippa, with a slightly
contemptuous stress upon the pronoun. "I will talk with thine husband;
I trust he will hear reason, though thou mayest not. And I could find
good places enow for Clare; I have many friends in the Court. My Lady
Dowager of Kent [Susan Bertie, the only daughter of Katherine Duchess of
Suffolk] would work, I know, for Isoult Barry's granddaughter; and so
would Beatrice Vivian [a fictitious person], Isoult's old comrade, that
hath a daughter and a niece to boot in the Queen's chamber. And I dare
say my Lady Scrope [Note 1] would do somewhat for me. Any way, I would
assay it."
"What, to have Clare in the Queen's Majesty's Court?" demanded Lady
Enville, her eyes sparkling with interest and pleasure. "O Mistress
Basset, could you not compass the same for Blanche?"
"In the Court! By my troth, nay!" said Philippa heartily. "I would
never set maid that I cared a pin for in Queen Bess's Court. Soothly,
there _be_ good women there, but--And as for Blanche,--I will see her,
Orige, ere I say aught. Blanche hath stole all thine heart, methinks--
so much as there was to steal."
"But what meant you touching Clare, Mistress Basset?"
"What meant I? Why, to have her with some worthy and well-conditioned
dame of good degree, that should see her well bestowed. I would trust
my Lady Dowager of Kent, forsooth, or my Lady Scrope--she is a good
woman and a pleasant--or maybe--"
"And my Lady Scrope is herself in the Court, I take it," said Lady
Enville, pursuing her own train of thought, independent of that of
Philippa.
"Ay, and were therefore the less fitting," said Philippa coolly. "Take
no thought thereabout, Orige; I will do nought till I have seen the
maidens."
"But, Mistress Basset! you would ne'er count that mine husband's word,
that is not in very deed her father, should weigh against mine, that am
her true and natural mother?" urged Lady Enville in an injured tone.
"Thou art her natural mother, Orige, 'tis sooth," was the uncompromising
answer: "but whether true or no, that will I not say. I rather think
nay than yea. And if thine husband be better father unto the child than
thou mother, he is the fitter to say what shall come of the maid. And I
can alway reason with a man easilier than a woman. Women be geese,
mostly!"
With which reasonably plain indication of her sentiments, the old lady
rose and took her leave. She would have no escort to the parsonage.
She would come back and be introduced to Sir Thomas when she had seen
the girls. And away she trudged, leaving Lady Enville in the
undesirable situation of one who feels that a stronger will than his own
is moulding his fate, and running counter to his inclinations.
Open doors were kept at the parsonage, as was generally the case in
Elizabethan days. It was therefore no surprise to Mrs Tremayne, who
was occupied in the kitchen, with her one servant Alison acting under
her orders, to hear a smart rap on the door which shut off the kitchen
from the hall.
"Come within!" she called in answer, expecting some parishioner in want
of advice or alms.
But in marched an upright, brisk old lady, with silver hair, and a stout
staff in her hand.
"I am come to see Thekla Rose," said she.
Mrs Tremayne was surprised now. It was thirty years since that name
had belonged to her.
"And Thekla Rose has forgot me," added the visitor.
"There is a difference betwixt forgetting and not knowing," replied Mrs
Tremayne with a smile.
"There is so," returned the old lady. "Therefore to make me known,
which I see I am not,--my name is Philippa Basset."
The exclamation of delighted recognition which broke from the Rector's
wife must have shown Philippa that she was by no means forgotten. Mrs
Tremayne took her visitor into the parlour, just then unoccupied,--
seated her in a comfortable cushioned chair, and, leaving Alison to bake
or burn the cakes and pie in the oven as she found it convenient, had
thenceforward no eyes and ears but for Philippa Basset. Certainly the
latter had no cause to doubt herself welcome.
"I spake truth, Thekla, child, when I said I was come to see thee. Yet
it was but the half of truth, for I am come likewise to see Robin: and I
would fain acquaint me with yonder childre. Be they now within doors?"
"They be not all forth, or I mistake," said Mrs Tremayne; and she went
to the door and called them--all four in turn. Blanche answered from
the head of the stairs, but avowed herself ignorant of the whereabouts
of any one else; and Mrs Tremayne begged her to look for and bring such
as she could find to the parlour, to see an old friend of Clare's
family.
In a few minutes Blanche and Lysken presented themselves. Arthur and
Clare were not to be found. Philippa's keen, quick eyes surveyed the
two girls as they entered, and mentally took stock of both.
"A vain, giddy goose!" was her rapid estimate of Blanche; wherein, if
she did Blanche a little injustice, there was some element of truth.
"Calm and deep, like a river," she said to herself of Lysken: and there
she judged rightly enough.
Before any conversation beyond the mere introductions could occur, in
trotted Mrs Rose.
"Mistress Philippa, you be the fairest ointment for the eyen that I have
seen these many days!" said the lively little Flemish lady. "_Ma foi_!
I do feel myself run back, the half of my life, but to look on you. I
am a young woman once again."
"Old friend, we be both of us aged women," said Philippa.
"And it is true!" said Mrs Rose. "That will say, the joints be stiff,
and the legs be weakened, and the fatigue is more and quicker: but I
find not that thing within me, that men call my soul, to grow stiff nor
weak. I laugh, I weep, I am astonied,--just all same as fifty years
since. See you?"
"Ah! you have kept much of the childly heart," answered Philippa
smiling. "But for me, the main thing with me that is not stiff nor weak
in me is anger and grief. Men be such flat fools--and women worser, if
worse can be."
Blanche opened her eyes in amazement Lysken looked amused.
"Ah, good Mistress Philippa, I am one of the fools," said Mrs Rose with
great simplicity. "I alway have so been."
"Nay, _flog_ me with a discipline if you are!" returned Philippa
heartily. "I meant not you, old friend. You are not by one-tenth part
so much as--" Her eye fell on Blanche. "Come, I name none.--And thou
art Frank Avery's daughter?" she added, turning suddenly to Lysken.
"Come hither, Frances, and leave me look on thee."
"My name is not Frances, good Mistress," replied Lysken, coming forward
with a smile.
"Isoult, then? It should be one or the other."
"Nay--it is Elizabeth," said Lysken, with a shake of her head.
"More shame for thee," retorted Philippa jokingly. "What business had
any to call thee Elizabeth?"
"My father's mother was Lysken Klaas."
"Good.--Well, Thekla, I have looked this face o'er, and I can read no
Avery therein."
"'Tis all deep down in the heart," said Mrs Tremayne.
"The best place for it," replied Philippa. "Thou wilt do, child, as
methinks. I would say it were easier to break thy heart than to beguile
thy conscience. A right good thing--for the conscience. Is this
Clare?" she asked, breaking off suddenly as Clare came in, with a tone
which showed that she felt most interest in her of the three. She took
both Clare's hands and studied her face intently.
"Walter's eyes," she said. "Isoult Barry's eyes! The maid could have
none better. And John Avery's mouth. Truth and love in the eyes;
honour and good learning on the lips. Thou wilt do, child, and that
rarely well."
"Mistress Philippa Basset is a right old friend of thy dear grandame,
Clare," said Mrs Tremayne in explanation. "Thou canst not remember
her, but this worthy gentlewoman doth well so, and can tell thee much of
her when they were young maids together, and thy grandmother was
gentlewoman unto Mistress Philippa her mother, my sometime Lady
Viscountess Lisle."
Clare looked interested, but she did not say much.
Mr Tremayne and Arthur came in together, only just in time for
four-hours.
"God save thee, Robin dear!" was Philippa's greeting. "Art rested from
Little Ease? I saw thee but slightly sithence, mind thou, and never had
no good talk with thee."
Mr Tremayne laughed more merrily than was usual with him.
"Good Mistress Philippa, if thirty years were not enough to rest a man,
in very deed he were sore aweary."
"Now, Arthur," said Philippa, turning to him bluntly, "come and let me
look thee o'er."
Arthur obeyed, with grave lips, but amused eyes.
"Robin's eyes--Thekla's mouth--Father Rose's brow--Custance Tremayne's
chin," she said, enumerating them rapidly. "If the inward answer the
outward, lad, thou shouldst be a rare good one."
"Then I fear it doth not so," said Arthur soberly, "Humbleness will do
thee no hurt, lad.--Now, Thekla, let us have our four-hours. I could
eat a baken brick wall. Ay me! dost mind thee of the junkets, in old
days, at the Lamb?"
"Thekla, I told thee afore, and I do it yet again,--women be flat fools.
The biggest I know is Orige Enville. And in good sooth, that is much
to say! She is past old Doll, at Crowe, that threw her kerchief over
the candle to put it out. Blanche may be a step the better; methinks
she is. But for all that, she is Orige Enville's daughter. I would as
soon fetch my bodkin and pierce that child to the heart, as I would send
her to the Court, where her blind bat of a mother would fain have her.
'Twere the kindlier deed of the twain. Lack-a-daisy! she would make
shipwreck of life and soul in a month. Well, for Clare, then--I give
thee to wit, Thekla, thou art that child's mother. Orige is not. She
never was worth her salt. And she never will be. So the sooner thou
win the maid hither, the better for her."
"She doth abide hither, Mistress Philippa, even now."
"Tush, child! I mean the sooner she weds with Arthur."
"Weds with Arthur!"
It was manifest that the idea had never entered Mrs Tremayne's head
until Philippa put it there.
"Prithee, wherefore no?" demanded the old lady coolly. "Orige means it.
Mercy on us, Thekla Rose! art thou gone wood?"
"Mrs Philippa! Who e'er told you my Lady Enville meant any such
thing?"
"The goose told me herself," said Philippa bluntly, with a short laugh.
"'Twas not in a civil fashion, Thekla. She said Arthur was good enough
for Clare; it recked not whom Clare wedded withal. Marry come up! if I
had not let mine head govern mine hands, I had fetched her a good crack
on the crown with my staff. It could ne'er have hurt her brain--she has
none. What were such women born for, do all the saints wit?--without it
were to learn other folk patience."
Thekla Tremayne was a woman, and a mother. She would have been more
than human if she had not felt hurt for this insult to her boy. Was
Clare, or anything else in the world, too good for her one darling?
"Come,--swallow it, Thekla, and have done," said Philippa. "And by way
of a morsel of sugar at after the wormwood, I will tell thee I do not
think Clare hates him. I studied her face."
"Mistress Philippa, you read faces so rarely, I would you could read
Lucrece Enville. Margaret, which is eldest of the three, is plain
reading; I conceive her conditions [understand her disposition] well.
But Lucrece hath posed me ever since I knew her."
"I will lay thee a broad shilling, child, I read her off like thou
shouldst a hornbook when I see her. Ay, I have some skill touching
faces: I have been seventy years at the work."
That evening, just before supper, the indefatigable old lady marched
into the hall at Enville Court. Lady Enville introduced her to Sir
Thomas and Mistress Rachel, and presented her step-daughters and Jack.
Philippa made her private comments on each.
"A worthy, honest man--not too sharp-sighted," she said of Sir Thomas to
herself. "And a good, sound-hearted woman"--of Mistress Rachel. "There
is a pickie, or I mistake," greeted Jack. "This is Margaret, is it?
Clear as crystal: not deep, but clear. But this face"--as Lucrece came
before her--"is deep enough. Not deep like a river, but like a snake.
I could do well enough with your plain, honest sister; but I love you
not, Mistress Lucrece. Enville. Your graceful ways do not captivate
me. Ah! it takes a woman to know a woman. And the men, poor silly
things! fancy they know us better than we do each other."
If Philippa had spoken that last sentiment audibly, she would have won
the fee-simple of Rachel Enville's heart.
"Sir Thomas," said Philippa, when they rose from supper, "when it may
stand with your conveniency, I would fain have an half-hour's talk with
you."
Sir Thomas was ready enough to confer with the old lady, whom he liked,
and he led her courteously to his wife's boudoir. Lady Enville sat down
in her cushioned chair, and made a screen of her fan.
"Sir Thomas," began Philippa bluntly, "I would fain wit what you and
Orige mean to do with Clare? Forgive my asking; I love the child for
her grandame's sake."
"Good Mistress, you be full welcome to ask the same. But for me, I know
not how to answer, for I never took any thought thereupon. Hadst thou
thought thereon, Orige?"
"I counted her most like to wed with Arthur Tremayne," said Lady Enville
carelessly.
"I ne'er thought of him," remarked Sir Thomas.
"If it be so, good," said Philippa. "I have looked the lad o'er, and I
am satisfied with him. And now, I pray you, take one more word from an
old woman, of your gentleness. What do you with Blanche?"
In answer to this question--for Philippa was well known to Sir Thomas by
repute, and he was prepared to trust her thoroughly--the whole story of
Don Juan came out. Philippa sat for a minute, looking thoughtfully into
the fire.
"Have a care of yonder maid," she said.
"But what fashion of care, Mistress Basset? An' you grant it me, I
would value your thought thereupon."
Philippa turned to Sir Thomas.
"Have you not," she said, "made somewhat too much of this matter? Not
that it was other than grave, in good sooth; yet methinks it had been
better had you not let Blanche see that you counted it of so much
import. I fear she shall now go about to count herself of mighty
importance. Childre do, when you make much of their deeds; and Blanche
is but a child yet, and will so be for another year or twain. Now this
young man is safe hence, I would say, Fetch her home. And let none ever
name the matter afore her again; let bygones be bygones. Only give her
to see that you account of her as a silly child for the past, but yet
that you have hope she shall be wiser in the future."
"Well, herein I see not with you," said Lady Enville. "I had thought it
rare good fortune for Blanche to wed with Don John."
Sir Thomas moved uneasily, but did not answer. Philippa turned and
looked at the speaker.
"That was like," she said quietly. But neither of her hearers knew how
much meaning lay beneath the words.
"And what think you touching Lucrece?" asked Mrs Tremayne the next day,
when Philippa was again at the parsonage.
"I ne'er had a fancy for snakes, Thekla."
"Then you count her deceitful? That is it which I have feared."
"Have a care," said Philippa. "But what is to fear? A care of what?"
"Nay, what feareth any from a snake? That he should sting, I take it.
He may do it while you be looking. But he is far more like to do it
when you be not."
The evening before the two sisters were to return to Enville Court, Mrs
Tremayne and Clare were sitting alone in the parlour. Clare had
manoeuvred to this end, for she wanted to ask her friend a question; and
she knew there was a particular period of the evening when Mr Tremayne
and Arthur were generally out, and Lysken was occupied elsewhere. Mrs
Rose and Blanche remained to be disposed of; but the former relieved
Clare's mind by trotting away with a little basket of creature comforts
to see a sick woman in the village; and it was easy to ask Blanche to
leave her private packing until that period. But now that Clare had got
Mrs Tremayne to herself, she was rather shy in beginning her inquiries.
She framed her first question in a dozen different ways, rejected all
for various reasons, and finally--feeling that her opportunity was
sliding away--came out with that one which she had most frequently cast
aside.
"Mistress Tremayne, account you it alway sinful to harbour discontent?"
"I could much better answer thee, dear maid, if I knew the fountain
whence thy question springeth."
This was just the point which Clare was most shy of revealing. But she
really wanted Mrs Tremayne's opinion; and with an effort she conquered
her shyness.
"Well,--suppose it had pleased God to cast my lot some whither, that the
daily work I had to do was mighty dislikeful to me; and some other
maiden that I knew, had that to do withal which I would have loved
dearly:--were it ill for me to wish that my business had been like
hers?"
"Whom enviest thou, my child?" asked Mrs Tremayne very gently.
Clare blushed, and laughed.
"Well, I had not meant to say the same; but in very deed I do envy
Lysken."
"And wherefore, dear heart?"
"Because her work is so much higher and better than mine."
Mrs Tremayne did not answer for a moment. Then she said,--"Tell me,
Clare,--suppose thy father's serving-men and maids should begin to
dispute amongst themselves,--if Sim were to say, `I will no longer serve
in the hall, because 'tis nobler work to ride my master's horses:' or
Kate were to say, `I will no longer sweep the chambers, sith 'tis higher
matter to dress my master's meat:' and Nell,--`I will no longer dress
the meat, sith it were a greater thing to wait upon my mistress in her
chamber,'--tell me, should the work of the house be done better, or
worser?"
"Worser, no doubt."
"Well, dear heart, and if so, why should God's servants grudge to do the
differing works of their Master? If thou art of them, thy Master, hath
set thee thy work. He saw what thou wert fit to do, and what was fit to
be done of thee; and the like of Lysken. He hath set thee where thou
art; and such work as thou hast to do there is His work for thee. Alway
remembering,--if thou art His servant."
Clare did not quite like that recurring conjunction. It sounded as if
Mrs Tremayne doubted the fact.
"You think me not so?" she asked in a low voice.
"I hope thou art, dear Clare. But thou shouldst know," was the
searching answer.
There was silence after that, till Clare said, with a sigh, "Then you
reckon I ought not to wish for different work?"
"I think not, my maid, that wishing and discontent be alway one and the
same. I may carry a burden right willingly and cheerfully, and yet feel
it press hard, and be glad to lay it down. Surely there is no ill that
thou shouldest say to thy Father, `If it be Thy will, Father, I would
fain have this or that.' Only be content with His ordering, if He
should answer, `Child, thou hast asked an evil thing.'"
There was another pause, during which Clare was thinking.
"Am I the first to whom thou hast opened thine heart hereon, dear
Clare?"
"Well, I did let fall a word or twain at home," said Clare smiling; "but
I found no like feeling in response thereto."
"Not even from Margaret?"
"Meg thought there was work enough at home," replied Clare laughing,
"and bade me go look in the mending-chest and see how much lacked
doing."
"Nor Mistress Rachel?"
"Nay, Aunt Rachel said I might well be thankful that I was safe guarded
at home, and had not need to go about this wicked world."
"Well, there is reason in that. It is a wicked world."
"Yet, surely, we need try to make it better, Mistress Tremayne: and--any
woman could stitch and cut as well as I."
Clare spoke earnestly. Mrs Tremayne considered a little before she
answered.
"Well, dear heart, it may be the Lord doth design thee to be a worker in
His vineyard. I cannot say it is not thus. But if so, Clare, it
seemeth me that in this very cutting and stitching, which thou so much
mislikest, He is setting thee to school to be made ready. Ere we be fit
for such work as thou wouldst have, we need learn much: and one lesson
we have to learn is patience. It may be that even now, if the Lord mean
to use thee thus, He is giving thee thy lesson of patience. `Let
patience have her perfect work.' 'Tis an ill messenger that is so eager
to be about his errand, that he will needs run ere he be sent. The
great Teacher will set thee the right lessons; see thou that they be
well learned: and leave it to Him to call thee to work when He seeth
thee ripe for it."
"I thank you," said Clare meekly; "maybe I am too impatient."
"'Tis a rare grace, dear heart,--true patience: but mind thou, that is
not idleness nor backwardness. Some make that blunder, and think they
be patiently waiting for work when work waiteth for them, and they be
too lazy to put hand thereto. We need have a care on both sides."
But though Mrs Tremayne gave this caution, in her own mind she thought
it much more likely that Blanche would need it than Clare.
"And why should I press back her eagerness, if the Lord hath need of
her? Truly"--and Thekla Tremayne sighed as she said this to
herself--"`the labourers are few.'"
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note 1. Philadelphia Carey, a kinswoman of Queen Elizabeth through her
mother, Anne Boleyn.
CHAPTER ELEVEN.