Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
Clare Avery, by Emily Sarah Holt.________________________________________________________________________This book, one of Emily Holt's many historical novels, is set in thereign of Elizabeth, around the time of the Armada, which has a chapterto itself. The story revolves round a moderately well-off family, whoreally did exist, many details of the family being given in the lastchapter, or Appendix. In order to make the story realistic there are anumber of fictitious persons, but there is always a note to that effectwhen the person first appears. In general these fictitious persons areno more than minor characters.
There is an interesting passage in which Jack, one of the youths of thefamily, obtains a place at Court, but finds he needs to spend enormousamounts on apparel to keep up with the other young men he meets. By nomeans does the family have the resources to pay his trade-debts, and itturns out that his gambling debts, known as "debts of honour" are evengreater. They had to tell him to go away and sort it out for himself.
But it must be said that a great deal of the book is taken up withreligious discussions, mostly centring on the perceived imperfectionsof the Papist religion, as opposed to the Protestant. If you are notinterested in this it does tend to make the going a bit heavy at times.But if you are interested, well then, it makes good reading.
As ever with this author there are many words and phrases used whichare now outdated. When they first appear a note of the current meaningis given, for instance "popinjay [parrot]". On the whole this is notconfusing except where a word has changed or even reversed its meaning.We do not recommend learning by heart from a sort of vocab list, thewords in use in Elizabethan times, unless you are studying thatperiod in depth.________________________________________________________________________CLARE AVERY, BY EMILY SARAH HOLT.
CHAPTER ONE.
LITTLE CLARE'S FIRST HOME.
"The mossy marbles rest On the lips he hath pressed In their bloom, And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb."
_Oliver Wendell Holmes_.
"Cold!" said the carrier, blowing on his fingers to keep them warm.
"Cold, bully Penmore!" ejaculated Hal Dockett,--farrier, horse-leech,and cow-doctor in ordinary to the town of Bodmin and itsneighbourhood... "Lack-a-daisy! thou that hast been carrier thesethirty years, and thy father afore thee, and his father afore him, eversith `old Dick Boar' days, shouldst be as hard as a milestone by thistime. 'Tis the end of March, fellow!"
Be it known that "old Dick Boar" was Mr Dockett's extremely irreverentstyle of allusion to His Majesty King Richard the Third.
"'Tis the end of as bitter a March as hath been in Cornwall thesehundred years," said the carrier. "Whither away now, lad?"
"Truly, unto Bradmond, whither I am bidden to see unto the black cow."
"Is it sooth, lad, that the master is failing yonder?"
"Folk saith so," replied Hal, his jocund face clouding over. "It shallbe an evil day for Bodmin, _that_!"
"Ay so!" echoed the carrier. "Well! we must all be laid in earth oneday. God be wi' thee, lad!"
And with a crack of his whip, the waggon lumbered slowly forward uponthe Truro road, while Dockett went on his way towards a house standing alittle distance on the left, in a few acres of garden, with a paddockbehind.
About the cold there was no question. The ground, which had been whitewith snow for many days, was now a mixture of black and white, under theinfluence of a thaw; while a bitterly cold wind, which made everybodyshiver, rose now and then to a wild whirl, slammed the doors, andgroaned through the wood-work. A fragment of cloud, rather less dim andgloomy than the rest of the heavy grey sky, was as much as could be seenof the sun.
Nor was the political atmosphere much more cheerful than the physical.All over England,--and it might be said, all over Europe,--men's heartswere failing them for fear,--by no means for the first time in thatcentury. In Holland the Spaniards, vanquished not by men, but by windsand waves from God, had abandoned the siege of Leyden; and thesovereignty of the Netherlands had been offered to Elizabeth of England,but after some consideration was refused. In France, the Massacre ofSaint Bartholomew, nearly three years before, had been followed by thesiege of La Rochelle, the death of the miserable Charles the Ninth, andthe alliance in favour of Popery, which styled itself the Holy League.At home, gardeners were busy introducing the wallflower, the hollyhock,basil, and sweet marjoram; the first licence for public plays wasgranted to Burbage and his company, among whom was a young man fromWarwickshire, a butcher's son, with a turn for making verses, whose namewas William Shakspere; the Queen had issued a decree forbidding costlyapparel (not including her own); and the last trace of feudal serfdomhad just disappeared, by the abolition of "villenage" upon the Crownmanors. As concerned other countries, except when active hostilitieswere going on, Englishmen were not generally much interested, unless itwere in that far-off New World which Columbus had discovered not ahundred years before,--or in that unknown land, far away also, beyondthe white North Cape, whither adventurers every now and then set outwith the hope of discovering a north-west passage to China,--thenorth-west passage which, though sought now with a different object, noone has discovered yet.
It may be as well to recall the state of knowledge in English society atthis period. The time had gone by when the burning of coal wasprohibited, as prejudicial to health; but the limits of London, beyondwhich building might not extend, were soon after this fixed at threemiles from the city gates; the introduction of private carriages waslong opposed, lest it should lead to luxury; [Note 1] and sumptuarylaws, regulating, according to rank, the materials for dress and thedetails of trimmings, were issued every few years. Needles weretreasures beyond reach of the poor; yeast, starch, glass bottles, wovenstockings, fans, muffs, tulips, marigolds,--had all been invented orintroduced within thirty years: the peach and the potato were alikeluxuries known to few: forks, sedan or Bath chairs, coffee, tea, gas,telescopes, newspapers, shawls, muslin,--not to include railways andtelegraphs,--were ideas that had not yet occurred to any one. Nobodyhad ever heard of the circulation of the blood. A doctor was a _raraavis_: medical advice was mainly given in the towns by apothecaries, andin the country by herbalists and "wise women." There were noDissenters--except the few who remained Romanists; and perhaps therewere not likely to be many, when the fine for non-attendance at theparish church was twenty pounds per month. Parochial relief wasunknown, and any old woman obnoxious to her neighbours was likely to bedrowned as a witch. Lastly, by the Bull of excommunication of Pope Piusthe Fifth, issued in April, 1569, Queen Elizabeth had been solemnly "cutoff from the unity of Christ's Body," and "deprived of her pretendedright to the Crown of England," while all who obeyed or upheld her wereplaced under a terrible curse. [Note 2.]
Nineteen years had passed since that triumphant 17th of November whichhad seen all England in a frenzy of joy on the accession of ElizabethTudor. They were at most very young men and women who could notremember the terrible days of Mary, and the glad welcome given to hersister. Still warm at the heart of England lay the memory of the Marianmartyrs; still deep and strong in her was hatred of every shadow ofPopery. The petition had not yet been erased from the Litany--whyshould it ever have been?--"From the Bishop of Rome and all hisenormities, good Lord, deliver us!"
On the particular afternoon whereon the story opens, one of thedreariest points of the landscape was the house towards which HalDockett's steps were bent. It was of moderate size, and might have beenvery comfortable if somebody had taken pains to make it so. But itlooked as if the pains had not been taken. Half the windows werecovered by
shutters; the wainscot was sadly in want of a fresh coat ofpaint; the woodbine, which should have been trained up beside the porch,hung wearily down, as if it were tired of trying to climb when nobodyhelped it; the very ivy was ragged and dusty. The doors shut with thathollow sound peculiar to empty uncurtained rooms, and groaned, as theyopened, over the scarcity of oil. And if the spectator had passedinside, he would have seen that out of the whole house, only four roomswere inhabited beside the kitchen and its dependencies. In all therest, the dusty furniture was falling to pieces from long neglect, andthe spiders carried on their factories at their own pleasure.
One of these four rooms, a long, narrow chamber, on the upper floor,gave signs of having been inhabited very recently. On the square tablelay a quantity of coarse needlework, which somebody seemed to havebundled together and left hastily; and on one of the hard,straight-backed chairs was a sorely-disabled wooden doll, of theearliest Dutch order, with mere rudiments, of arms and legs, anddeprived by accidents of a great portion of these. The needlework saidplainly that there must be a woman in the dreary house, and the doll,staring at the ceiling with black expressionless eyes, spoke asdistinctly for the existence of a child.
Suddenly the door of this room opened with a plaintive creak, and alittle woman, on the elderly side of middle life, put in her head.
A bright, energetic, active little woman she seemed,--not the sort ofperson who might be expected to put up meekly with dim windows and dustyfloors.
"Marry La'kin!" [a corruption of "Mary, little Lady!"] she said aloud."Of a truth, what a charge be these childre!"
The cause of this remark was hardly apparent, since no child was to beseen; but the little woman came further into the room, her gestures soonshowing that she was looking for a child who ought to have been visible.
"Well! I've searched every chamber in this house save the Master'scloset. Where can yon little popinjay [parrot] have hid her? MarryLa'kin!"
This expletive was certainly not appreciated by her who used it.Nothing could much more have astonished or shocked Barbara Polwhele [afictitious person]--than whom no more uncompromising Protestant breathedbetween John o' Groat's and the Land's End--than to discover that sinceshe came into the room, she had twice invoked the assistance of SaintMary the Virgin.
Barbara's search soon brought her to the conclusion that the child shesought was not in that quarter. She shut the door, and came out into anarrow gallery, from one side of which a wooden staircase ran down intothe hall. It was a wide hall of vaulted stone, hung with fadedtapestry, old and wanting repair, like everything else in its vicinity.Across the hall Barbara trotted with short, quick steps, and opening adoor at the further end, went into the one pleasant room in all thehouse. This was a very small turret-chamber, hexagonal in shape, threeof its six sides being filled with a large bay-window, in the middlecompartment of which were several coats of arms in stained glass. Atable, which groaned under a mass of books and papers, nearly filled theroom; and writing at it sat a venerable-looking, white-haired man, who,seeing Barbara, laid down his pen, wiped his spectacles, and placidlyinquired what she wanted. He will be an old friend to some readers: forhe was John Avery of Bradmond.
"Master, an't like you, have you seen Mrs Clare of late?"
"How late, Barbara?"
"Marry, not the fourth part of an hour gone, I left the child in thenursery a-playing with her puppet, when I went down to let in HalDockett, and carry him to see what ailed the black cow; and now I beback, no sign of the child is any whither. I have been in everychamber, and looked in the nursery thrice."
"Where should she be?" quietly demanded Mr Avery.
"Marry, where but in the nursery, without you had fetched her away."
"And where should she not be?"
"Why, any other whither but here and there,--more specially in thegarden."
"Nay, then, reach me my staff, Barbara, and we will go look in thegarden. If that be whither our little maid should specially not be,'tis there we be bound to find her."
"Marry, but that is sooth!" said Barbara heartily, bringing thewalking-stick. "Never in all my life saw I child that gat into moremischievousness, nor gave more trouble to them that had her in charge."
"Thy memory is something short, Barbara," returned her master with a drysmile, "'Tis but little over a score of years sithence thou wert used tosay the very same of her father."
"Eh, Master!--nay, not Master Walter!" said Barbara, deprecatingly.
"Well, trouble and sorrow be ever biggest in the present tense,"answered he. "And I wot well thou hast a great charge on thine hands."
"I reckon you should think so, an' you had the doing of it," saidBarbara complacently. "Up ere the lark, and abed after the nightingale!What with scouring, and washing, and dressing meat, and making thebeds, and baking, and brewing, and sewing, and mending, and Mrs Clareand you atop of it all--"
"Nay, prithee, let me drop off the top, so thou lame me not, for therest is enough for one woman's shoulders."
"In good sooth, Master, but you lack as much looking after, in your way,as Mrs Clare doth; for verily your head is so lapped in your books andyour learning, that I do think, an' I tended you not, you should breakyour fast toward eventide, and bethink you but to-morrow at noon thatyou had not supped overnight."
"Very like, Barbara,--very like!" answered the old man with a meeksmile. "Thou hast been a right true maid unto me and mine,--as saithSolomon of the wise woman, thou hast done us good and not evil, all thedays of thy life. The Lord apay thee for it!--Now go thou forward, andsearch for our little maid, and I will abide hither until thou bringher. If I mistake not much, thou shalt find her within a stone's throwof the fishpond."
"The fishpond?--eh, Master!"
And Barbara quickened her steps to a run, while John Avery sat downslowly upon a stone seat on the terrace, leaning both hands on hisstaff, as if he could go no farther. Was he very tired? No. He wasonly very, very near Home.
Close to the fishpond, peering intently into it between the gaps of thestone balustrade, Barbara at length found what she sought, in the shapeof a little girl of six years old. The child was spoiling her frock tothe best of her ability, by lying on the snow-sprinkled grass; but shewas so intent upon something which she saw, or wanted to see, that hercaptor's approach was unheard, and Barbara pounced on her in triumphwithout any attempt at flight.
"Now, Mrs Clare, [a fictitious character] come you hither with me!"said Barbara, seizing the culprit. "Is this to be a good child, thinkyou, when you were bidden abide in the nursery?"
"O Bab!" said the child, half sobbingly. "I wanted to see the fishes."
"You have seen enough of the fishes for one morrow," returned Barbararelentlessly; "and if the fishes could see you, they should cry shameupon you for ruinating of your raiment by the damp grass."
"But the fishes be damp, Bab!" remonstrated Clare. Barbara professednot to hear the last remark, and lifting the small student of naturalhistory, bore her, pouting and reluctant, to her grandfather on theterrace.
"So here comes my little maid," said he, pleasantly. "Why didst notabide in the nursery, as thou wert bid, little Clare?"
"I wanted to see the fishes," returned Clare, still pouting.
"We cannot alway have what we want," answered he.
"You can!" objected Clare.
"Nay, my child, I cannot," gravely replied her grandfather. "An' Icould, I would have alway a good, obedient little grand-daughter."
Clare played with Mr Avery's stick, and was silent.
"Leave her with me, good Barbara, and go look after thy mighty charges,"said her master, smiling. "I will bring her within ere long."
Barbara trotted off, and Clare, relieved from the fear of her duenna,went back to her previous subject.
"Gaffer, what do the fishes?"
"What do they? Why, swim about in the water, and shake their tails, andcatch flies for their dinner."
"What think they on, Gaffer?"
> "Nay, thou art beyond me there. I never was a fish. How can I tellthee?"
"Would they bite me?" demanded Clare solemnly.
"Nay, I reckon not."
"What, not a wild fish?" said Clare, opening her dark blue eyes.
Mr Avery laughed, and shook his head.
"But I would fain know--And, O Gaffer!" exclaimed the child, suddenlyinterrupting herself, "do tell me, why did Tom kill the pig?"
"Kill the pig? Why, for that my Clare should have somewhat to eat ather dinner and her supper."
"Killed him to eat him?" wonderingly asked Clare, who had neverassociated live pigs with roast pork.
"For sure," replied her grandfather.
"Then he had not done somewhat naughty?"
"Nay, not he."
"I would, Gaffer," said Clare, very gravely, "that Tom had not smotheredthe pig ere he began to lay eggs. [The genuine speech of a child ofClare's age.] I would so have liked a _little_ pig!"
The suggestion of pig's eggs was too much for Mr Avery's gravity. "Andwhat hadst done with a little pig, my maid."
"I would have washed it, and donned it, and put it abed," said Clare.
"Methinks he should soon have marred his raiment. And maybe he shouldhave loved cold water not more dearly than a certain little maid that Icould put a name to."
Clare adroitly turned from this perilous topic, with an unreasoningdread of being washed there and then; though in truth it was notcleanliness to which she objected, but wet chills and rough friction.
"Gaffer, may I go with Bab to four-hours unto Mistress Pendexter?"
"An' thou wilt, my little floweret."
Mr Avery rose slowly, and taking Clare by the hand, went back to thehouse. He returned to his turret-study, but Clare scampered upstairs,possessed herself of her doll, and ran in and out of the inhabited roomsuntil she discovered Barbara in the kitchen, beating up eggs for apudding.
"Bab, I may go with thee!"
"Go with me?" repeated Barbara, looking up with some surprise. "Marry,Mrs Clare, I hope you may."
"To Mistress Pendexter!" shouted Clare ecstatically.
"Oh ay!" assented Barbara. "Saith the master so?"
Clare nodded. "And, Bab, shall I take Doll?"
This contraction for Dorothy must have been the favourite name with thelittle ladies of the time for the plaything on which it is nowinalienably fixed.
"I will sew up yon hole in her gown, then, first," said Barbara, takingthe doll by its head in what Clare thought a very disrespectful manner."Mrs Clare, this little gown is cruel ragged; if I could but see time,I had need make you another."
"Oh, do, Bab!" cried Clare in high delight.
"Well, some day," replied Barbara discreetly.
A few hours later, Barbara and Clare were standing at the door of asmall, neat cottage in a country lane, where dwelt Barbara's sister,Marian Pendexter, [a fictitious person] widow of the villageschoolmaster. The door was opened by Marian herself, a woman some fiveyears the senior of her sister, to whom she bore a good deal oflikeness, but Marian was the quieter mannered and the more silent of thetwo.
"Marry, little Mistress Clare!" was her smiling welcome. "Come in,prithee, little Mistress, and thou shalt have a buttered cake to thyfour-hours. Give thee good even, Bab."
A snowy white cloth covered the little round table in the cottage, andon it were laid a loaf of bread a piece of butter, and a jug of milk.In honour of her guests, Marian went to her cupboard, and brought out amould of damson cheese, a bowl of syllabub, and a round tea-cake, whichshe set before the fire to toast.
"And how fareth good Master Avery?" asked Marian, as she closed thecupboard door, and came back.
Barbara shook her head ominously.
"But ill, forsooth?" pursued her sister.
"Marry, an' you ask at him, he is alway well; but--I carry mine eyes,Marian."
Barbara's theory of educating children was to keep them entirelyignorant of the affairs of their elders. To secure this end, sheadopted a vague, misty style of language, of which she fondly imaginedthat Clare did not understand a word. The result was unfortunate, as itusually is. Clare understood detached bits of her nurse's conversation,over which she brooded silently in her own little mind, until sheevolved a whole story--a long way off the truth. It would have donemuch less harm to tell her the whole truth at once; for the fact of amystery being made provoked her curiosity, and her imaginations were farmore extreme than the facts.
"Ah, he feeleth the lack of my mistress his wife, I reckon," said Marianpityingly. "She must be soothly a sad miss every whither."
"Thou mayest well say so," assented Barbara. "Dear heart! 'tis nighupon five good years now, and I have not grown used to the lack of hereven yet. Thou seest, moreover, he hath had sorrow upon sorrow. 'Twasbut the year afore that Master Walter [a fictitious person] and MistressFrances did depart [die]; and then, two years gone, Mistress Kate, [afictitious person]. Ah, well-a-day! we be all mortal."
"Thank we God therefore, good Bab," said Marian quietly. "For we shallsee them again the sooner. But if so be, Bab, that aught befel theMaster, what should come of yonder rosebud?"
And Marian cast a significant look at Clare, who sat apparentlyengrossed with a mug full of syllabub.
"Humph! an' I had the reins, I had driven my nag down another road,"returned Barbara. "Who but Master Robin [a fictitious person] andMistress Thekla [a fictitious person] were meetest, trow? But lo! you!what doth Mistress Walter but indite a letter unto the Master, to notethat whereas she hath never set eyes on the jewel--and whose fault wasthat, prithee?--so, an' it liked Him above to do the thing thou wottest,she must needs have the floweret sent thither. And a cruel deal of fairwords, how she loved and pined to see her, and more foolery belike.Marry La'kin! ere I had given her her will, I had seen her alongside ofKing Pharaoh at bottom o' the Red Sea. But the Master, what did he, butwrite back and say that it should be even as she would. Happy woman beher dole, say I!"
And Barbara set down the milk-jug with a rough determinate air that musthave hurt its feelings, had it possessed any.
"Mistress Walter! that is, the Lady--" [Note 3.]
"Ay--she," said Barbara hastily, before the name could follow.
"Well, Bab, after all, methinks 'tis but like she should ask it. And ifMaster Robin be parson of that very same parish wherein she dwelleth, ofa surety ye could never send the little one to him, away from her ownmother?"
"Poor little soul! she is well mothered!" said Barbara ironically."Never to set eyes on the child for six long years; and then, whenMistress Avery, dear heart! writ unto her how sweet and _debonnaire_[pretty, pleasing] the lily-bud grew, to mewl forth that it was so greata way, and her health so pitiful, that she must needs endure to bereaveher of the happiness to come and see the same. Marry La'kin! call yon amother!"
"But it is a great way, Bab."
"Wherefore went she so far off, then?" returned Barbara quickly enough."And lo! you! she can journey thence all the way to York or Chester whenshe would get her the new fashions,--over land, too!--yet cannot shetake boat to Bideford, which were less travail by half. An' yonderjewel had been mine, Marian, I would not have left it lie in the casefor six years, trow!"
"Maybe not, Bab," answered Marian in her quiet way. "Yet 'tis illjudging of our neighbour. And if the lady's health be in very deed sopitiful--"
"Neighbour! she is no neighbour of mine, dwelling up by Marton Moss!"interrupted Barbara, as satirically as before. "And in regard to herpitiful health--why, Marian, I have dwelt in the same house with her fora year and a half, and I never knew yet her evil health let [hinder] herfrom a junketing. Good lack! it stood alway in the road when somewhatwas in hand the which misliked her. Go to church in the rain,--nay, by'r Lady!--and 'twas too cold in the winter to help string the apples,and too hot in the summer to help conserve the fruits: to be sure! Butlet there be an even's revelling at Sir Christopher Marres his house,and she bidden,--why, it might rain enough
to drench you, but her cloakwas thick then, and her boots were strong enough, and her cough was notto any hurt--bless her!"
The tone of Barbara's exclamation somewhat belied the words.
"Have a care, Bab, lest--" and Marian's glance at Clare explained hermeaning.
"Not she!" returned Barbara, looking in her turn at the child, whoseattention was apparently concentrated on one of Marian's kittens, whichshe was stroking on her lap, while the mother cat walked uneasily roundand round her chair. "I have alway a care to speak above yon head."
"Is there not a little sister?" asked Marian in a low tone.
"Ay," said Barbara, dropping her voice. "Blanche, the babe's name is [afictitious character.] Like Mrs Walter--never content with plain Nelland Nan. Her childre must have names like so many queens. And I daresay the maid shall be bred up like one."
The conversation gradually passed to other topics, and the subject wasnot again touched upon by either sister.
How much of it had Clare heard, and how much of that did she understand?
A good deal more of either than Barbara imagined. She knew that Walterhad been her father's name, and she was well aware that "MistressWalter" from Barbara's lips, indicated her mother. She knew that hermother had married again, and that she lived a long way off. She knewalso that this mother of hers was no favourite with Barbara. And fromthis conversation she gathered, that in the event of somethinghappening--but what that was she did not realise--she was to go and livewith her mother. Clare was an imaginative child, and the topic of allher dreams was this mysterious mother whom she had never seen. Many atime, when Barbara only saw that she was quietly dressing or hushing herdoll, Clare's mind was at work, puzzling over the incomprehensiblereason of Barbara's evident dislike to her absent mother. What shockingthing could she have done, thought Clare, to make Bab angry with her?Had she poisoned her sister, or drowned the cat, or stolen the big crownoff the Queen's head? For the romance of a little child is alwaysincongruous and sensational.
In truth, there was nothing sensational, and little that was notcommonplace, about the character and history of little Clare's mother,whose maiden name was Orige Williams. She had been the spoilt child ofa wealthy old Cornish gentleman,--the pretty pet on whom he lavished allhis love and bounty, never crossing her will from the cradle. And sherepaid him, as children thus trained often do, by crossing his will inthe only matter concerning which he much cared. He had set his heart onher marrying a rich knight whose estate lay contiguous to his own: whileshe, entirely self-centred, chose to make a runaway match with youngLieutenant Avery, whose whole year's income was about equal to one weekof her father's rent-roll. Bitterly disappointed, Mr Williams declaredthat "As she had made her bed, so she should lie on it;" for not onepenny would he ever bestow on her while he lived, and he would bequeaththe bulk of his property to his nephew. In consequence of this threat,which reached, her ears, Orige, romantic and high-flown, fancied herselfat once a heroine and a martyr, when there was not in her the capacityfor either. In the sort of language in which she delighted, she spokeof herself as a friendless orphan, a sacrifice to love, truth, andhonour. It never seemed to occur to her that in deceiving her father--for she had led him to believe until the last moment that she intendedto conform to his wishes--she had acted both untruthfully anddishonourably; while as to love, she was callous to every shape of itexcept love of self.
For about eighteen months Walter and Orige Avery lived at Bradmond,during which time Clare was born. She was only a few weeks old when thesummons came for her father to rejoin his ship. He had been gone twomonths, when news reached Bradmond of a naval skirmish with theSpaniards off the Scilly Isles, in which great havoc had been made amongthe Queen's forces, and in the list of the dead was Lieutenant WalterAvery.
Now Orige's romance took a new turn. She pictured herself as a widowednightingale, love-lorn and desolate, leaning her bleeding breast upon athorn, and moaning forth her melancholy lay. As others have done since,she fancied herself poetical when she was only silly. And Barbara tookgrim notice that her handkerchief was perpetually going up to tearlesseyes, and that she was not a whit less particular than usual to knowwhat there was for supper.
For six whole months this state of things lasted. Orige arrayed herselfin the deepest sables; she spoke of herself as a wretched widow whocould never taste hope again; and of her baby as a poor hapless orphan,as yet unwitting of its misery. She declined to see any visitors, andpersisted in being miserable and disconsolate, and in taking lonelywalks to brood over her wretchedness. And at the end of that time sheelectrified her husband's family--all but one--by the announcement thatshe was about to marry again. Not for love this time, of course; no,indeed!--but she thought it was her duty. Sir Thomas Enville--a widowerwith three children--had been very kind; and he would make such a goodfather for Clare. He had a beautiful estate in the North. It would bea thousand pities to let the opportunity slip. Once for all, shethought it her duty; and she begged that no one would worry her withopposition, as everything was already settled.
Kate Avery, Walter's elder and only surviving sister, was exceedinglyindignant. Her gentle, unsuspicious mother was astonished and puzzled.But Mr Avery, after a momentary look of surprise, only smiled.
"Nay, but this passeth!" [surpasses belief] cried Kate.
"Even as I looked for it," quietly said her father. "I did but think itshould maybe have been somewhat later of coming."
"Her duty!" broke out indignant Kate. "Her duty to whom?"
"To herself, I take it," said he. "To Clare, as she counteth. Methinksshe is one of those deceivers that do begin with deceiving ofthemselves."
"To Clare!" repeated Kate. "But, Father, she riddeth her of Clare. Thebabe is to 'bide here until such time as it may please my good Lady tosend for her."
"So much the better for Clare," quietly returned Mr Avery.
And thus it happened that Clare was six years old, and her mother wasstill an utter stranger to her.
The family at Bradmond, however, were not without tidings of LadyEnville. It so happened that Mr Avery's adopted son, Robert Tremayne,was Rector of the very parish in which Sir Thomas Enville lived; and aclose correspondence--for Elizabethan days--was kept up between Bradmondand the Rectory. In this manner they came to know, as time went on,that Clare had a little sister, whose name was Blanche; that LadyEnville was apparently quite happy; that Sir Thomas was very kind toher, after his fashion, though that was not the devoted fashion ofWalter Avery. Sir Thomas liked to adorn his pretty plaything with finedresses and rich jewellery; he surrounded her with every comfort; heallowed her to go to every party within ten miles, and to spend as muchmoney as she pleased. And this was precisely Orige's beau ideal ofhappiness. Her small cup seemed full--but evidently Clare was nonecessary ingredient in the compound.
If any one had taken the trouble to weigh, sort, and label theprejudices of Barbara Polwhele, it would have been found that theheaviest of all had for its object "Papistry,"--the second, dirt,--andthe third, "Mistress Walter." Lieutenant Avery had been Barbara'sdarling from his cradle, and she considered that his widow had outragedhis memory, by marrying again so short a time after his death. Forthis, above all her other provocations, Barbara never heartily forgaveher. And a great struggle it was to her to keep her own feelings asmuch as possible in the background, from the conscientious motive thatshe ought not to instil into Clare's baby mind the faintest feeling ofaversion towards her mother. The idea of the child being permanentlysent to Enville Court was intensely distasteful to her. Yet whereverClare went, Barbara must go also.
She had promised Mrs Avery, Clare's grandmother, on her dying bed,never to leave the child by her own free will so long as her childhoodlasted, and rather than break her word, she would have gone to Siberia--or to Enville Court. In Barbara's eyes, there would have been verylittle choice between the two places. Enville Court lay on thesea-coast, and Barbara abhorred the sea, on which her only brother andWal
ter Avery had died: it was in Lancashire, which she looked upon as aden of witches, and an arid desert bare of all the comforts of life; itwas a long way from any large town, and Barbara had been used to livewithin an easy walk of one; she felt, in short, as though she were beingsent into banishment.
And there was no help for it. Within the last few weeks, a letter hadcome from Lady Enville,--not very considerately worded--requesting thatif what she had heard was true, that Mr Avery's health was feeble, andhe was not likely to live long--in the event of his death, Clare shouldbe sent to her.
In fact, there was nowhere else to send her. Walter's two sisters, Kateand Frances, were both dead,--Kate unmarried, Frances van Barneveltleaving a daughter, but far away in Holland. The only other person whocould reasonably have claimed the child was Mr Tremayne; and with whatshow of justice could he do so, when his house lay only a stone's throwfrom the park gates of Enville Court? Fate seemed to determine thatClare should go to her mother. But while John Avery lived, there was tobe a respite.
It was a respite shorter than any one anticipated--except, perhaps, theold man himself. There came an evening three weeks after these events,when Barbara noticed that her master, contrary to his usual custom,instead of returning to his turret-chamber after supper, sat still bythe hall fire, shading his eyes from the lamp, and almost entirelysilent. When Clare's bed-time came, and she lifted her little face fora good-night kiss, John Avery, after giving it, laid his hands upon herhead and blessed her.
"The God that fed me all my life long, the Angel that redeemed me fromall evil, bless the maid! The peace of God, which passeth allunderstanding, keep thy heart and mind, through Jesus Christ our Lord;and the blessing of God Almighty,--the Father, the Son, and the HolyGhost--be upon thee, and remain with thee always!"
So he "let her depart with this blessing." Let her depart--to walk thethorny path of which he had reached the end, to climb the painful steepsof which he stood at the summit, to labour along the weary road which hewould tread no more. Let her depart! The God who had fed him had mannain store for her,--the Angel who had redeemed him was strong, enough,and tender enough, to carry this lamb in His bosom.
Barbara noted that his step was slower even than had been usual with himof late. It struck her, too, that his hair was whiter than she had evernoticed it before.
"Be you aweary this even, Master?"
"Something, good maid," he answered with a smile. "Even as a travellermay well be that hath but another furlong of his journey."
Another furlong! Was it more than another step? Barbara went upstairswith him, to relieve him of the light burden of the candle.
"Good night, Master! Metrusteth your sleep shall give you goodrefreshing."
"Good night, my maid," said he. "I wish thee the like. There shall begood rest up yonder."
Her eyes filled with tears as she turned away. Was it selfish that herwish was half a prayer,--that he might be kept a little longer from_that_ rest?
She waited longer than usual before she tapped at his door the nextmorning. It was seven o'clock--a very late hour for rising in thesixteenth century--when, receiving no answer, Barbara went softly intothe room and unfastened the shutters as quietly as she could. No needfor the care and the silence! There was good rest up yonder.
The shutters were drawn back, and the April sunlight streamed brightlyin upon a still, dead face.
Deep indeed was the mourning: but it was for themselves, not for him.He was safe in the Golden Land, with his children and his Isoult--allgone before him to that good rest. What cause could there be for griefthat the battle was won, and that the tired soldier had laid aside hisarmour?
But there was need enough for grief as concerned the two survivors,--forBarbara and little Clare, left alone in the cold, wide world, withnothing before them but a mournful and wearisome journey, and EnvilleCourt the dreaded end of it.
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Note 1. So lately as 1601, an Act of Parliament forbade men to ride incoaches, as an effeminate practice.
Note 2. This was "His Holiness' sentence," of which the Armada was "inexecution." See note, p.
Note 3. The names, and date of marriage, of Walter Avery and OrigeWilliams, are taken from the Bodmin Register. In every other respectthey are fictitious characters.