Clare Avery. Emily Sarah Holt

asked Barbara, referring to the house in the park.

      “Ay,” said Dick.

      “And where dwelleth Master Tremayne?”

      “Eh?”

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

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

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

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

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

      “For sure.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Jennet,” said the smiling girl.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Madam!” said Barbara stiffly.

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

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

      “You are Barbara Polwhele?” she said.

      Barbara dropped a courtesy, and replied affirmatively.

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

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

      “Sister!” said Rachel again.

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

      “Here is thy little maid, Sister.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “And how goes it with thee, Barbara?”

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

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

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

      Barbara’s answer was in a very constrained tone.

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

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

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

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

      “Ay, Madam.”

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

      “And