A Forgotten Hero; Or, Not for Him

“O pale, pale face, so sweet and meek, Oriana!” Tennyson.
“Is the linen all put away, Clarice?”
“Ay, Dame.”
“And the rosemary not forgotten?”
“I have laid it in the linen, Dame.”
“And thy day’s task of spinning is done?”
“All done, Dame.”
“Good. Then fetch thy sewing and come hither, and I will tell thee somewhat touching the lady whom thou art to serve.”
“I humbly thank your Honour.” And dropping a low courtesy, the girl left the room, and returned in a minute with her work.
“Thou mayest sit down, Clarice.”
Clarice, with another courtesy and a murmur of thanks, took her seat in the recess of the window, where her mother was already sitting. For these two were mother and daughter; a middle-aged, comfortable-looking mother, with a mixture of firmness and good-nature in her face; and a daughter of some sixteen years, rather pale and slender, but active and intelligent in her appearance. Clarice’s dark hair was smoothly brushed and turned up in a curl all round her head, being cut sufficiently short for that purpose. Her dress was long and loose, made in what we call the Princess style, with a long train, which she tucked under one arm when she walked. The upper sleeve was of a narrow bell shape, but under it came down tight ones to the wrist, fastened by a row of large round buttons quite up to the elbow. A large apron—which Clarice called a barm-cloth—protected the dress from stain. A fillet of ribbon was bound round her head, but she had no ornaments of any kind. Her mother wore a similar costume, excepting that in her case the fillet round the head was exchanged for a wimple, which was a close hood, covering head and neck, and leaving no part exposed but the face. It was a very comfortable article in cold weather, but an eminently unbecoming one.