CHAPTER V.

JACK'S MISFORTUNE.

MRS. ALWRIGHT rose up with a firm and somewhat dissatisfied countenance, as her lady entered with Winifred. Fond as she was of the child, she was not well pleased that Winifred should have so long a conference with her lady from which she herself was excluded, and she had already prepared in her own mind a lecture upon forwardness and presumption of which she meant to give Winifred the benefit so soon as they should be alone together. This lecture, however, was destined never to be delivered.

"Will you come with me, Alwright?" said Lady Peckham. "Winifred, you may remain here and amuse yourself, if you will, with the pictures in that great book on the table. Keep the door shut, and inform me if any one wants me."

The book was well worth looking at, being a Bible illustrated with wood-cuts by Albert Durer, the father, as he might almost be called, of wood-engraving. Winifred almost forgot her mighty secret, as she studied the pictures of Joseph and his brethren, of David and Goliath, of Samson and the Queen of Sheba, and above all those in the Gospels, of the shepherds coming with their humble offerings, of the wise men presenting their gifts, and of Mary and Martha in their house at Bethany.

Her natural good taste and feeling led her fully to appreciate the beauty and sentiment of the pictures, while her ignorance prevented her from seeing the various incongruities of scenery, costume, &c. For aught she knew, Jerusalem might have been adorned with just such steeples and gables, and Martha might have kept her dishes in just such an open carved dresser as that in the picture. She had not nearly finished the volume, when Mrs. Alwright appeared, her eyes red with weeping.

She took Winifred by the hand without speaking a word, and led her through various galleries and up a turnpike stair to her own private chamber, when, having bolted the door, she caught the child in her arms, and covered her with kisses, mingled with tears, sobs, and words of endearment. Winifred was amazed, for Mrs. Alwright had usually thought it necessary that her pupil, like all young people, should be kept down to her proper place, and made to understand that if she were treated with any consideration, it arose solely from the kindness of her elders and superiors, and not in the least from any merits of her own. Winifred had never before received from her good old friend any greater token of approbation than a pat on the head or a few carefully measured words of praise.

"Oh, my dear lamb! My blessed child!" sobbed Mrs. Alwright. "To think that you should have done such a thing! That you should have saved Master Arthur, whom I have carried in my arms when he was a baby, and taught him his letters with my own hands, my dear—and risking your precious life abroad in the lonesome fields at midnight, and the dew and all, enough to give you your death! You shall have two bottles of the rose cordial to take home with you; and mind you take a glass whenever you come in, to prevent catching cold.

"But Master Arthur, living in that lonesome place, along with Dame Sprat! She was always a good woman and kind to the poor, and I never did justify my Lord Carew in turning her off his land, where she and hers had lived for hundreds of years, even before my lord's ancestors came from Normandy, which they did with the Conqueror, my dear! And all because her husband was for the Protector, which, for the matter of that, so were some other folks who shall be nameless, though they turned round quickly enough when the sun shone on the other side of the hedge. Dame Sprat shall have my duffel gown and my gray cloak to keep her warm this winter, and I will knit her some woollen stockings with my own hands.

"But poor dear Master Arthur, how he could be so mad I can't think, only he was always in mischief from a boy, when he used to steal my saffron cakes, and was flogged at school for helping to bar out the master. But to think of him wounded and lying out in the fields all night! Dear, dear! It is enough to break one's heart!"

All this and much more did Mrs. Alwright pour out with many sobs and little regard to her stops or her grammar, till Winifred, terrified for the consequences, reminded her that it would be highly dangerous for any one to hear Master Arthur's name mentioned, or even to guess that anything unusual was the matter.

"I know it, my dear, I know it! And you shall see that no one shall ever guess anything from me. I shall feel better now that I have had my cry out! But poor dear Master Arthur, that was such a lovely baby, and my poor dear lady loved him more like a son than a brother—"

"I think I hear some one coming up-stairs!" said Winifred, fearing lest the cry should commence again.

Mrs. Alwright started up and wiped her eyes vigorously.

"Open the door, Winifred, while I wash my face," said she. "It will be only Betty, coming to say that our dinner is ready. You are to stay and dine with me, my dear, and then you shall help me to make the conserve of hips, and I will send a pot of it to your good mother against winter comes."

But Betty had more to tell. The herd-boy had come up to say that Winifred was needed at home, because her brother had fallen from a tree and hurt himself very badly. Also Betty gave notice that Colonel Kirke was come to dine and sup with Sir Edward, and Mrs. Alwright was wanted to attend to the pastry and other additions to the dinner-which the presence of such an important guest rendered necessary.

"Dear me!" said Mrs. Alwright. "How things do happen all together! I hope that unlucky boy has broken no bones, but it would be just like him. I often wonder why boys should be made at all, they are such plagues. One can do something with girls in the way of needlework and giving them dolls to play with, but men ought to be made already grown up, and then they are plagues enough. You must go home at once, Winifred, without waiting to finish your work, and mind you remember what I have told you. Your mother will need you, for at such times even little girls can be of use, if they are not idle and careless, as too many are. Betty, why do you stand staring and listening there at the door, instead of getting the fowls ready for the spit? Go about your work directly, and let me find the chickens neatly dressed when I come down-stairs. Come into the store-room with me, Winifred, and I will give you a basket and medicine for the poor woman you spoke of."

Mrs. Alwright's store-room was a model of its kind. The stone floor was as white as hands could make it, and the wood-work shone with much rubbing. Every inch of wall was covered with cupboards, shelves, and drawers, containing piles upon piles of fine linen, much of it of Mrs. Alwright's own spinning, and jars, pots, and boxes innumerable filled with all sorts of good things, while hams, sausages, bundles of sweet herbs, and bunches of onions and garlic dangled from the ceiling. It was evident to the most unpractised eye that all these good things were presided over by a vigilant and capable guardian, for nothing was out of place—everything was labelled, covered, and secured in the most approved manner, and not a stray crumb was left lying anywhere to tempt the mice. Mrs. Alwright took down a good-sized basket and began filling it, taking the opportunity, which, indeed, she seldom lost, of delivering a little moral lecture for Winifred's benefit.

"You see now, Winifred, the advantage of having a place for everything, and everything in its place. If I were obliged to hunt all over the house for a basket, and then look half an hour for every individual thing I wanted to put into it, it would take me half the day, but now you see I have everything ready to my hand. These saffron cakes and these clean napkins and handkerchiefs are for Master Arthur. He used to be very fond of saffron cakes, poor dear young gentleman! This bit of bacon and these sausages are for the dame, and also this bottle of ginger cordial, which will be warming and comforting for her poor old bones. Now, can you carry any more?"

Winifred lifted the basket, and thought she could.

"Well then, here is the rose cordial for yourself, and a cake of gingerbread, but mind you must not let Jack have any of that to-day. And here are two clean shirts for Master Arthur. They are Sir Edward's, and are old and worn, but they will be better than none. So now go along, my dear, and may God bless you! Come again as soon as you can. And, Winifred!" she called after her. "Don't forget to tell your good mother to send up the green geese as soon as she can get them ready. She need not dress them. Betty and her niece can see to that."

"Don't you mind Mrs. Alwright, Miss Winifred!" said good-natured Betty, as Winifred presently passed out by the kitchen door. "Her bark is worse than her bite, we all know that. I see she has been lecturing you, but that is all for your good. Young folks must learn. She scolds me too, but la! I don't mind. I know her ways, and take her the year round, you will not find many better people than Mrs. Alwright, look where you will."

"And that is very true, Betty," said Winifred, not at all displeased to see Betty go off on a wrong scent. "I am sure she is very good to me. But I must hurry home as fast as I can."

"Aye, and you have a heavy basket to carry—for some poor body, I warrant me! That is another of her ways. She will rail at my poor sister for having so many children, and not keeping them cleaner, but she always ends by giving her something to make over for them, and maybe a loaf of white bread for a treat. Then there was Madge Wilkin—"

"I really must go, Betty!" said Winifred, cutting short the catalogue of Mrs. Alwright's good deeds, to which at another time she would gladly have listened. "Mother will need me, I am sure, and I want to see poor Jack."

"Aye, go along, there's a dear maid! It is some comfort to have you about," said Betty, continuing her remarks for the benefit of her own niece, a girl about Winifred's age, who was cleaning some pots near by. "Not like some girls, who cannot even scour a saucepan without blacking themselves from head to foot. Why can't you take pattern by Miss Winifred, Cicily? You never saw 'her' in such a mess—no, not when she was no bigger than my thumb!"

Winifred was not destined to reach home without farther interruption. She was walking very fast down the avenue, with her eyes bent on the ground, when she was nearly run over by two gentlemen, who were coming in the opposite direction with their guns and dogs, and followed by a groom leading their horses. Winifred looked up with a start, and recognized Sir Edward Peckham. She had never seen the other gentleman in the richly laced uniform, but she guessed at once that the fierce, sun-burnt face, bold, wicked-looking eyes, and long mustache belonged to no other than the dreaded Colonel Kirke, who was feared and hated almost as much as the chief-justice himself, for his cruelty and rapacity. Her color rose and her heart beat fast at the sight of the man whom she associated with so much misery and distress. She courtesied, and would have passed on, but she was not to escape so easily.

"Holloa! What little Puritan have we here?" said the soldier, in a loud, coarse voice, and seizing Winifred by the arm. "Not so fast, my pretty maid!" he added, as Winifred would have escaped. "What, do you think I make a breakfast of children every morning, as some folks say, that you are so afraid of me?"

[Illustration: "Holloa! What little Puritan have we here?" said the soldier in a loud coarse voice and seizing Winifred by the arm.]

"I am not afraid of you," said Winifred, standing still and looking her captor in the face, while her large gray eyes flashed with indignation. "My brother is sick, and my mother needs me at home. I pray you let me pass on my way!"

"Your brother is sick, eh? That means he has been out with Monmouth and got hurt, I suppose! Where does this brother of yours live, mistress? I must look after him!"

"My brother is only twelve years old, and was hurt in falling from a tree," replied Winifred, calmly. "He and I live with our grandfather, at the gray house on the hill yonder."

"What, you are old Master Evans' granddaughter!" said Sir Edward, kindly. "You are so grown, I did not know you! This maid is a favorite of Lady Peckham's, Colonel Kirke, and I can vouch for the loyalty of her whole family. I pray you let her pass on her way, as she desires."

"My lady knows how to choose her favorites, I should say!" returned Colonel Kirke. "I protest I have not seen a prettier rustic damsel. Well, give me a kiss for your ransom, my shepherdess, and here is a gold piece for you all the way from Africa, to make up for the fright I have given you."

Trembling more with indignation than fear, Winifred submitted to the kiss, and received the piece of gold, which she inwardly determined to put into the poor-box the very first time she went to church.

"It looks as though it had blood upon it," she thought, as she went on her way; "and what an evil-looking man he is! I wonder how Sir Edward can endure to have him in his house. But they say he is always for keeping well with whatever party is uppermost. I am glad that Colonel Kirke did not take notice of my basket. I don't know what I should have said to account for some of the things in it. Poor Jack! I trust he is not very much hurt. It is unlucky that he should take just this busy time for his mishap. I fear I shall not be able to go to Dame Sprat's at all to-day. They have food enough to last till to-morrow, that is one comfort."

When Winifred arrived at home, she found both pain and pleasure awaiting her. The pain was the news that Jack was indeed very much hurt, having broken his arm and bruised himself severely. He had climbed the tree to the magpie's nest, secured a pair of the young ones, and come half way down with his prize, when one of the dry limbs gave way, and he came to the ground, killing the poor young birds in his fall.

The vicar, who possessed considerable knowledge of surgery, happened to be riding by at the time, saw the tumble, and had been the first on the spot. He carried the poor boy into the house, set his arm, and gave his mother directions for his treatment, adding a special injunction to let the patient have no food stronger than gruel or weak broth till he came again.

This injunction seemed to poor Jack a greater calamity even than his broken arm. He was very fond of good things. He remembered the nice jellies and cordials, the beaten-up eggs and roasted fowls, which had been prepared for Winifred when she was slowly recovering from her long fever, and he had comforted himself with the thought of all these dainties for his prospective pain and confinement.

The water-gruel law was a terrible blow, and poor Jack was in very low spirits indeed. He had the additional discomfort of knowing that his trouble was all his own fault, for he had been strictly forbidden to climb the tree, and he had waited till his grandfather was away in the barley field, and his mother busy in the dairy, before he made the attempt. As his grandfather said, he was bold in the wrong place and cowardly in the wrong place. He was not afraid to disobey, and he was afraid to do a necessary errand.

The good news which met Winifred was the arrival of a letter and a parcel from her father, whose ship had come into Plymouth, instead of into Bristol as usual, having been damaged by a gale not far from the coast. The parcel contained, besides tokens for the rest of the family, the promised new gown for Winifred, and better still, three new books! One of these was the "Pilgrim's Progress," then lately published, with wood-cuts, which, however rude they might appear beside the latest edition of the Tract Society and the Sunday-School Union, were marvels of art in the eyes of our young friend. The other books were "A Serious Call to a Devout and Holy Life," by Mr. William Law, and the "Paradise Lost" of John Milton.

"These seem but grave books for a young maid like Winifred," wrote her father; "but I have read the 'Pilgrim's Progress,' and believe my serious daughter will care more for it than for any fairy tale. The other books were given me by a very grave and religious gentleman who went out to India on board our ship; so I doubt not Winifred will be pleased with them. I have just now heard of the terrible things which have been happening among you, and I am thankful that none of our family have been engaged in them, but I doubt I shall hear heavy tidings of some of our neighbors. I cannot leave the ship just at present, but I shall come as soon as possible."

Delighted as Winifred was with her new treasures, she had scant time to examine them. She was wanted everywhere at once—by Jack's bedside, to tell him tales and sing him to sleep; in the dairy, to churn, while Priscy carried their lunch to the men in the barley field; then to feed the fowls, and take especial care of a brood of late chickens; to count up the ducks and drive home the young turkeys. She had hardly time to eat her supper, and any visit to Dame Sprat was of course out of the question; so she carefully locked up the basket lest it should tell tales, and set about her multifarious tasks with her usual neatness and dispatch.

As Dame Magdalen said, the child was run off her feet! So that when bed-time came, she was glad to go to bed without even asking to sit by the fire and examine her precious new books.