The Poor Clare | Page 2

returned to Starkey Manor- house--some of his Lancashire neighbours
having lent their good offices to reconcile him to the powers that were.
He was as firm a Catholic as ever, and as stanch an advocate for the
Stuarts and the divine rights of kings; but his religion almost amounted
to asceticism, and the conduct of these with whom he had been brought
in such close contact at St. Germains would little bear the inspection of
a stern moralist. So he gave his allegiance where he could not give his
esteem, and learned to respect sincerely the upright and moral character
of one whom he yet regarded as an usurper. King William's
government had little need to fear such a one. So he returned, as I have
said, with a sobered heart and impoverished fortunes, to his ancestral
house, which had fallen sadly to ruin while the owner had been a
courtier, a soldier, and an exile. The roads into the Trough of Bolland
were little more than cart-ruts; indeed, the way up to the house lay
along a ploughed field before you came to the deer-park. Madam, as
the country-folk used to call Mrs. Starkey, rode on a pillion behind her
husband, holding on to him with a light hand by his leather riding-belt.
Little master (he that was afterwards Squire Patrick Byrne Starkey) was
held on to his pony by a serving-man. A woman past middle age
walked, with a firm and strong step, by the cart that held much of the
baggage; and high up on the mails and boxes, sat a girl of dazzling
beauty, perched lightly on the topmost trunk, and swaying herself
fearlessly to and fro, as the cart rocked and shook in the heavy roads of
late autumn. The girl wore the Antwerp faille, or black Spanish mantle
over her head, and altogether her appearance was such that the old
cottager, who described the possession to me many years after, said that
all the country-folk took her for a foreigner. Some dogs, and the boy
who held them in charge, made up the company. They rode silently
along, looking with grave, serious eyes at the people, who came out of
the scattered cottages to bow or curtsy to the real Squire, "come back at
last," and gazed after the little procession with gaping wonder, not
deadened by the sound of the foreign language in which the few

necessary words that passed among them were spoken. One lad, called
from his staring by the Squire to come and help about the cart,
accompanied them to the Manor-house. He said that when the lady had
descended from her pillion, the middle-aged woman whom I have
described as walking while the others rode, stepped quickly forward,
and taking Madam Starkey (who was of a slight and delicate figure) in
her arms, she lifted her over the threshold, and set her down in her
husband's house, at the same time uttering a passionate and outlandish
blessing. The Squire stood by, smiling gravely at first; but when the
words of blessing were pronounced, he took off his fine feathered hat,
and bent his head. The girl with the black mantle stepped onward into
the shadow of the dark hall, and kissed the lady's hand; and that was all
the lad could tell to the group that gathered round him on his return,
eager to hear everything, and to know how much the Squire had given
him for his services.
From all I could gather, the Manor-house, at the time of the Squire's
return, was in the most dilapidated state. The stout gray walls remained
firm and entire; but the inner chambers had been used for all kinds of
purposes. The great withdrawing-room had been a barn; the state
tapestry-chamber had held wool, and so on. But, by-and-by, they were
cleared out; and if the Squire had no money to spend on new furniture,
he and his wife had the knack of making the best of the old. He was no
despicable joiner; she had a kind of grace in whatever she did, and
imparted an air of elegant picturesqueness to whatever she touched.
Besides, they had brought many rare things from the Continent;
perhaps I should rather say, things that were rare in that part of
England--carvings, and crosses, and beautiful pictures. And then, again,
wood was plentiful in the Trough of Bolland, and great log-fires danced
and glittered in all the dark, old rooms, and gave a look of home and
comfort to everything.
Why do I tell you all this? I have little to do with the Squire and
Madame Starkey; and yet I dwell upon them, as if I were unwilling to
come to the real people with whom my life was so strangely mixed up.
Madam