Clare Avery | Page 8

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.
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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 leaning away from the sea, as though they wanted to get as far from it as their small opportunities allowed; on one side foamed the said grey-green expanse of sea; on the other lay a little lakelet, shining in the setting sun: in front, at some distance, a rivulet ran from the lake to the sea. On the nearer side of the brook lay a little village; while on the further bank was a large, well-kept park, in which stood a grey quadrangular mansion. Beyond the park, nearly as far as the eye could reach, stretched a wide, dreary swamp, bounded only by the sea on the one hand and the lake on the other. The only pretty or pleasant features in the landscape were the village and park; and little could be seen of those for intervening sandhills.
The lake