“A famine of pain d’épices” assented Mrs Tremayne, smiling. “Ah, Mother dear, thou spoilest the lad.”
“Who ever knew a grandame to do other?” observed Barbara. “More specially the only one.”
“The only one!” echoed his mother, softly, stroking his long hair. “There be four other, Barbara,—not lost, but waiting.”
“Now, Barbara, come in hither,” said Mrs Rose, bustling back into the room, apparently desirous of checking any sad thoughts on the part of her daughter; “sit thou down, and tell us all about the little Clare, and the dear Master Avery, and all. I listen and mix my cake, all one.”
Barbara followed her, and found herself in the kitchen. She had not done wondering at the change—not in Mrs Tremayne, but in her mother. Nineteen years before, Barbara had known Marguerite Rose, a crushed, suffering woman, with no shadow of mirth about her. It seemed unnatural and improper to hear her laugh. But Mrs Rose’s nature was that of a child,—simple and versatile: she lived in the present, whether for joy or pain.
Mrs Rose finished gathering her materials, and proceeded to mix her pain d’épices, or Flemish gingerbread, while Mrs Tremayne made Barbara sit down in a large chair furnished with soft cushions. Arthur came too, having picked up his big book, and seated himself in the window-seat with it, his long hair falling over his face as he bent down over it but whether he were reading or listening was known only to himself.
The full account of John Avery’s end was given to these his dearest friends, and there was a good deal of conversation about other members of the family: and Barbara heard, to her surprise, that a cousin of Clare, a child rather older than herself, was shortly coming to live at the parsonage. Lysken van Barnevelt (a fictitious person), like Clare, was an only child and an orphan; and Mr Tremayne purposed to pay his debt to the Averys by the adoption of Frances Avery’s child. But Barbara was rather dismayed when she heard that Lysken would not at first be able to talk to her cousin, since her English was of the most fragmentary description.
“She will soon learn,” said Mrs Tremayne.
“And until she shall learn, I only can talk to her,” added Mrs Rose, laughing. “Ay de mi! I must pull up my Flemish out of my brains. It is so deep down, I do wonder if it will come. It is—let me see!—forty, fifty—ma foi! ’tis nigh sixty years since I talk Flemish with my father!”
“And now, tell us, what manner of child is Clare?” asked Mrs Tremayne.