Chapter One.
The Folding of the Lamb.
“And then she fell asleep; but God
Knew that His Heaven was better far,
Where little children angels are;
And so, for paths she should have trod
Through thorns and flowers, gave her this sod.
“He gave her rest for troublousness,
And a calm sleep for fitful dreams
Of what is, and of more that seems
For tossings upon earth and seas
Gave her to see Him where He is.”
W.M. Rossetti.
“Arbel, look forth and see if thy father and Robin be at hand. I fear the pie shall be overbaken.”
The speaker was a woman of about forty years of age, of that quiet and placid demeanour which indicates that great provocation would be needed to evoke any disturbance of temper. Gathering up the garment on which she was at work, Arbel (Note 1) crossed the long, low room to a wide casement, on the outer mullions of which sundry leafless boughs were tapping as if to ask shelter from the cold; and after standing there for two or three minutes, announced that the missing members of the family were approaching.
“And a third party withal,” added she; “that seemeth me, so far as I may hence discern, to be Doctor Thorpe.”
“He is very welcome, an’ it be he,” returned her mother, still calmly spinning. “I trust to ask his counsel touching Robin.”
Figuratively speaking, for more than a century was yet to elapse ere George Fox founded the Society of Friends, it might be said that Custance (Note 2) Tremayne was born a Quakeress. It had hitherto proved impossible, through all the annals of the family experience, to offend or anger her. She was an affectionate wife and mother, but nothing roused in her any outward exhibition of anxiety or annoyance. The tenor of her way was very even indeed.
Before Arbel had done much more than resume her seat and her needle, the room was entered by two men and a lad of sixteen years. The master of the house, Mr Anthony Tremayne, (Note 3) who came in first, was a man of more demonstrative manners than his quiet partner. He who entered second was shorter and stronger-built, and had evidently seen a longer term of life. His hair, plentifully streaked with grey, was thinned to slight baldness on the summit of the head; his features, otherwise rather strong and harsh, wore an expression of benevolence which redeemed them; his eyes, dark grey, were sharp and piercing. When he took off his hat, he carefully drew forth and put on a black skull-cap, which gave him a semi-priestly appearance. The lad, who entered with a slow and almost languid step, though in face resembling his father, was evidently not without an element of his mother in his mental composition. His hair was dark, and his eyes brown: but the same calm placidity of expression rested on his features as on hers, and his motions were quiet and deliberate.
“Good morrow, Dr Thorpe,” (Note 4) said Mistress Tremayne, rising from her work.