Clare Avery | Page 8

from Lady Enville,--not very considerately worded--requesting
that if what she had heard was true, that Mr Avery's health was feeble,
and he was not likely to live long--in the event of his death, Clare
should be sent to her.
In fact, there was nowhere else to send her. Walter's two sisters, Kate
and Frances, were both dead,--Kate unmarried, Frances van Barnevelt
leaving a daughter, but far away in Holland. The only other person who
could reasonably have claimed the child was Mr Tremayne; and with
what show of justice could he do so, when his house lay only a stone's
throw from the park gates of Enville Court? Fate seemed to determine
that Clare should go to her mother. But while John Avery lived, there
was to be a respite.
It was a respite shorter than any one anticipated--except, perhaps, the
old 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 by the
hall fire, shading his eyes from the lamp, and almost entirely silent.
When Clare's bed-time came, and she lifted her little face for a
good-night kiss, John Avery, after giving it, laid his hands upon her
head and blessed her.
"The God that fed me all my life long, the Angel that redeemed me
from all evil, bless the maid! The peace of God, which passeth all
understanding, keep thy heart and mind, through Jesus Christ our Lord;
and the blessing of God Almighty,--the Father, the Son, and the Holy
Ghost--be upon thee, and remain with thee always!"
So he "let her depart with this blessing." Let her depart--to walk the

thorny path of which he had reached the end, to climb the painful
steeps of which he stood at the summit, to labour along the weary road
which he would tread no more. Let her depart! The God who had fed
him had manna in 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
him of late. It struck her, too, that his hair was whiter than she had ever
noticed it before.
"Be you aweary this even, Master?"
"Something, good maid," he answered with a smile. "Even as a
traveller may well be that hath but another furlong of his journey."
Another furlong! Was it more than another step? Barbara went upstairs
with him, to relieve him of the light burden of the candle.
"Good night, Master! Metrusteth your sleep shall give you good
refreshing."
"Good night, my maid," said he. "I wish thee the like. There shall be
good rest up yonder."
Her eyes filled with tears as she turned away. Was it selfish that her
wish 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 next
morning. It was seven o'clock--a very late hour for rising in the
sixteenth century--when, receiving no answer, Barbara went softly into
the room and unfastened the shutters as quietly as she could. No need
for the care and the silence! There was good rest up yonder.
The shutters were drawn back, and the April sunlight streamed brightly
in 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--all
gone before him to that good rest. What cause could there be for grief
that the battle was won, and that the tired soldier had laid aside his
armour?
But there was need enough for grief as concerned the two
survivors,--for Barbara and little Clare, left alone in the cold, wide
world, with nothing before them but a mournful and wearisome journey,
and Enville Court the dreaded end of it.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note 1. So lately as 1601, an Act of Parliament forbade men to ride in
coaches, as an effeminate practice.
Note 2. This was "His Holiness' sentence," of which the Armada was
"in execution." See note, p.
Note 3. The names, and date of marriage, of Walter Avery and Orige
Williams, are taken from the Bodmin Register. In every other respect
they are fictitious characters.
CHAPTER TWO.
ON THE BORDER OF MARTON MERE.
"Thou too must tread, as we trod, a way Thorny, and bitter, and cold,
and grey."
Miss Muloch.
It was drawing towards the dusk of a bright day early in May. The
landscape was not attractive, at least to a tired traveller. It was a dreary
waste of sandhills, diversified by patches of rough grass, and a few
stunted bushes, all