The Panchronicon Part 30

Rebecca stood stupefied, gazing first at one and then at the other, till she was rudely brought to her senses by no other than Dame Goldsmith herself.

"What, Rebecca!" she exclaimed. "Hast breakfasted, woman--what?"

"Ay, aunt," Phoebe broke in, hurriedly. "Rebecca must to my chamber to tire me ere I see mine uncle. Prithee temper the fury of his homily, sweet aunt."

Taking the dame's extended hand, she suffered herself to be led within, followed by Rebecca, too amazed to speak.

On entering the street door they found themselves in a large hall, at the farther end of which a bright wood fire was burning, despite the season. A black oak table was on one side of the room against the wall, upon which were to be seen a number of earthen beakers and a great silver jug or tankard. A carved and cushioned settle stood against the opposite wall, and besides two comfortable arm-chairs at the two chimney-corners there were two or three heavy chairs of antique pattern standing here and there. The floor was covered with newly gathered fresh-smelling rushes.

A wide staircase led to the right, and to this Phoebe turned at once as though she had always lived there.

"Hast heard from my father yet?" she asked, pausing upon the first stair and addressing Dame Goldsmith.

"Nay, girl. Not so much as a word. I trow he'll have but little to say to me. Ay--ay--a humorous limb, thy father, la.s.s."

She swept out of the room with a toss of the head, and Phoebe smiled as she turned to climb the stairs. Immediately she turned again and held out one hand to Rebecca.

"Come along, Rebecca. Let's run 'long up," she said, relapsing into her old manner.

She led the way without hesitation to a large, light bedroom, the front of which hung over the street. Here, too, the floor was covered with sweet rushes, a fact which Rebecca seemed to resent.

"Why the lands sakes do you suppose these London folks dump weeds on their floors?" she asked. "An' look there at those two beds, still unmade and all tumbled disgraceful!"

"Why, there's where we slept last night, Rebecca," said Phoebe, laughing as she dropped into a chair. "As for the floors," she continued, "they're always that way when folks ain't mighty rich. The lords and all have carpets and rugs."

Rebecca, stepping very high to avoid stumbling in the rushes, moved over to the dressing-table and proceeded to remove her outer wraps, having first deposited her bag and umbrella on a chair.

"I don't see how in gracious you know so much about it," she remarked, querulously. "'Pon my word, you acted with that young jackanapes an'

that fat old lady downstairs jest's ef you'd allus known em."

"Well, so I have," Phoebe replied, smiling. "I knew them all nearly three hundred years before you were born, Rebecca Wise."

Rebecca dropped into a chair and looked helplessly at her sister with her arms hanging at her sides.

"Phoebe Wise--" she began.

"No, not now!" Phoebe exclaimed, stopping her sister with a gesture.

"You must call me Mistress Mary. I'm Mary Burton, daughter of Isaac Burton, soon to be Sir Isaac Burton, of Burton Hall. You are my dear old tiring-woman--my sometime nurse--and thou must needs yield me the respect and obedience as well as the love thou owest, thou fond old darling!"

The younger woman threw her arms about the other's neck and kissed her repeatedly.

Rebecca sat mute and impa.s.sive, making no return.

"Seems as though I ought to wake up soon now," she muttered, weakly.

"Come, Rebecca," Phoebe exclaimed, briskly, stepping to a high, carved wardrobe beside her bed, "this merry-making habit wearies me. Let us don a fitter attire. Come--lend a hand, dearie--be quick!"

Rebecca sat quite still, watching her sister as she proceeded to change her garments, taking from wardrobe and tiring chest her wide skirts, long-sleeved jacket, and striped under-vest with a prompt.i.tude and readiness that showed perfect familiarity with her surroundings.

"There," thought Rebecca, "I have it! She's been reading those old letters and looking at that ivory picture so long she thinks that she's the girl in the picture herself, now. Yes, that's it. Mary Burton was the name!"

When Phoebe was new-dressed, her sister could not but acknowledge inwardly that the queer clothes were mightily becoming. She appeared the beau ideal of a merry, light-hearted, healthy girl from the country.

On one point, however, Rebecca could not refrain from expostulating.

"Look a-here, Phoebe," she said, in a scandalized voice, as she rose and faced her sister, "ain't you goin' to put on somethin' over your chest? That ain't decent the way you've got yerself fixed now!"

"Nonsense!" cried Phoebe, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

"Wouldst have me cover my breast like a married woman! Look to thine own attire. Come, where hast put it?"

Rebecca put her hands on her hips and looked into her sister's face with a stern determination.

"Ef you think I'm agoin' to put on play-actor clothes an' go round lookin' indecent, Phoebe Wise, why, you're mistaken--'cause I ain't--so there!"

"Nay, nurse!" Phoebe exclaimed, earnestly. "'Tis the costume thou art wearing now that is mummer's weeds. Come, sweet--come! They'll not yield thee admittance below else."

She concluded with a warning inflection, and shook her finger affectionately at her sister.

Rebecca opened her mouth several times and closed it again in despair ere she could find a reply. At length she seated herself slowly, folded her arms, and said:

"They can do jest whatever they please downstairs, Phoebe. As fer me, I'd sooner be seen in my nightgown than in the flighty, flitter-scatter duds the women 'round here wear. Not but you look good enough in 'em, if you'd cover your chest, but play-actin' is meant for young folks--not fer old maids like me."

"Nay--but----"

"What the lands sakes d'ye holler neigh all the time fer? I'm not agoin'

to neigh, an' you might's well make up your mind to't."

Phoebe bit her lips and then, after a moment's hesitation, turned to the door.

"Well, well! E'en have it thy way!" she said.

Followed by Rebecca, the younger woman descended the stairs. As she reached the entrance hall, she stopped short at sight of a tall, heavy man standing beside the table across the room with his face buried in a great stone mug.

He had dropped his flat round hat upon the table, and his long hair fell in a sort of bush to his wide, white-frilled ruff. He wore a long-skirted, loose coat of green cloth with yellow fringe, provided with large side-pockets, but without a belt. The sleeves were loose, but brought in tightly at the wrists by yellow bands. His green hose were of the short and tight French pattern, and he wore red stockings and pointed shoes of Spanish leather.

As he removed the cup with a deep sigh of satisfaction, there was revealed a large, cheerful red face with a hooked nose between bushy brows overhanging large blue eyes.

Phoebe stood upon the lowest stair in smiling silence and with folded hands as he caught her eye.

"Ha, thou jade!" cried Master Goldsmith, for he it was. "Wilt give me the slip of a May-day morn!"

He set down his cup with a loud bang and strode over to the staircase, shaking his finger playfully at his niece.

Rebecca had just time to notice that his long, full beard and mustache were decked with two or three spots of froth when, to her great indignation, Phoebe was folded in his arms and soundly kissed on both cheeks.

"There, la.s.s!" he chuckled, as he stepped back, rubbing his hands. "I told thy aunt I'd make thee do penance for thy folly."

Phoebe wiped her cheeks with her handkerchief and tipped her head impudently at the cheerful ravisher.