“I never did rightly understand Lucrece,” answered her daughter. “For Margaret, she is plain and open enough; a straightforward, truthful maiden, that men may trust. But for Lucrece—I never felt as though I knew her. There is that in her—be it pride, be it shamefacedness, call it as you will—that is as a wall in the way.”
“I call it deceitfulness, Thekla,” said her mother decidedly.
“I trust not so, Mother! yet I have feared—”
“Time will show,” said Mrs Rose, filling her moulds with the compound which was to turn out pain d’épices.
“Mistress Blanche, belike, showeth not what her conditions shall be,” remarked Barbara.
“She is a lovesome little maid as yet,” said Mrs Tremayne. “Mefeareth she shall be spoiled as she groweth toward womanhood, both with praising of her beauty and too much indulging of her fantasies.”
“And now, what say you to Master Jack?” demanded Barbara in some trepidation. “Is he like to play ugsome (ugly, disagreeable) tricks on Mrs Clare, think you?”
“Jack—ah, poor Jack!” replied Mrs Tremayne.
Barbara looked up in some surprise. Jack seemed to her a most unlikely subject for the compassionate ejaculation.
“And dost thou marvel that I say, ‘Poor Jack’? It is because I have known men of his conditions aforetime, and I have ever noted that either they do go fast to wrack, or else they be set in the hottest furnace of God’s disciplining. I know not which shall be the way with Jack. But how so,—poor Jack!”