Joyce Morrell's Harvest
by Emily Sarah Holt · English · Gutenberg #25691 · 425,653 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Joyce Morrell's Harvest
Author: Emily Sarah Holt
Release date: June 3, 2008 [eBook #25691]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/25691
Credits: Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JOYCE MORRELL'S HARVEST ***
Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
Joyce Morrell's Harvest, by Emily Sarah Holt.
________________________________________________________________________
This book is one of a series involving the same late sixteenth century
family. Its predecessor is "Lettice Eden", and its successor is "It
might have been." Readers may find a little difficulty with the
language, for it is written in Elizabethan English, though that won't
bother you if you are familiar with the plays of Shakespeare.
Three young teenage girls, and their aunt Joyce are chatting together
one evening, when one of the girls suggests they might all try to keep a
journal. The idea is scoffed at, because, it was said, nothing ever
happens in their neck of the woods. A few exaggerated examples of the
daily events that might be recorded were given, but nonetheless, they
applied to their father for the paper, pens and ink, that they would
need, and set to work, taking it in turns to write up the journal.
It is slightly annoying that every proper name is written in italics,
which your reviewer found rather unusual, but you can get used to
anything, and once you have done that it doesn't seem too bad.
The author was said to be a good historian, and so you will find the
book informative and interesting, as the great issues of the day are
discussed, many of them being of a religious nature.
________________________________________________________________________
JOYCE MORRELL'S HARVEST, BY EMILY SARAH HOLT.
PREFACE.
Those to whom "Lettice Eden" is an old friend will meet with many
acquaintances in these pages. The lesson is partly of the same type--
the difference between that which seems, and that which is; between the
gold which will stand the fire, and the imitation which the flame will
dissolve in a moment; between the true diamond, small though it be,
which is worth a fortune, and the glittering paste which is worth little
more than nothing.
But here there is a further lesson beyond this. It is one which God
takes great pains to teach us, and which we, alas! are very slow to
learn. "Tarry thou the Lord's leisure." In the dim eyes of frail
children of earth, God's steps are often very slow. We are too apt to
forget that they are very sure. But He will not be hurried: He has
eternity to work in, "If we ask anything according to His will, He
heareth us." How many of us, who fancied their prayers unheard because
they could not see the answer, may find that answer, rich, abundant,
eternal, in that Land where they shall know as they are known! Let us
wait for God. We shall find some day that it was worth while.
CHAPTER ONE.
THE DWELLERS AT SELWICK HALL.
"He would be on the mountain's top, without the toil and travail of the
climbing."--Tupper.
SELWICK HALL, LAKE DERWENTWATER, OCTOBER YE FIRST, MDLXXIX.
It came about, as I have oft noted things to do, after a metely deal of
talk, yet right suddenly in the end.
Aunt _Joyce_, _Milly_, _Edith_, and I, were in the long gallery. We had
been talking a while touching olden times (whereof Aunt _Joyce_ is a
rare hand at telling of stories), and _Mother's_ chronicle she was wont
to keep, and hath shown us, and such like matter. When all at once
quoth _Edith_--
"Why should not _we_ keep a chronicle?"
"Ay, why not?" saith Aunt _Joyce_, busied with her sewing.
_Milly_ fell a-laughing.
"Dear heart, _Edith_, and what should we put in a chronicle?" saith she.
"`_Monday_, the cat washed her face. _Tuesday_, it rained.
_Wednesday_, _Nell_ made a tansy pudding. _Thursday_, I lost my temper.
_Friday_, I found it again. _Saturday_, _Edith_ looked in the mirror,
and Aunt _Joyce_ made an end of a piece of sewing.' Good lack, it shall
be a rare jolly book!"
"Nay, I would never set down such stuff as that," answered _Edith_.
"Why, what else is there?" saith _Milly_. "We have dwelt hither ever
since we were born, saving when we go to visit Aunt _Joyce_, and one day
is the very cut of an other. Saving when Master _Stuyvesant_ came
hither, nought never happened in this house since I was born."
"Would'st love better a life wherein matters should happen, _Milly_?"
saith Aunt _Joyce_, looking up at her, with a manner of face that I
knew. It was a little mirthful, yet sorrowful withal.
"Ay, I would so!" quoth she.
"Child," Aunt _Joyce_ makes answer, "`happy is the man that hath no
history.'"
"But things do happen, _Milly_," saith _Edith_. "Thou hast forgot
_Anstace_ her wedding."
"_That_ something happening!" pouts _Milly_. "Stupid humdrum business!
Do but think, to wed a man that dwelleth the next door, which thou hast
known all thy life! Why, I would as lief not be wed at all, very nigh."
"It seemed to suit _Anstace_," puts in _Edith_.
"Aught should do that."
"Ay," saith Aunt _Joyce_, something drily, "`godliness is great riches,
if a man be content with that he hath.'" [Note 1.]
"Easy enough, trow, when you have plenty," quoth _Milly_.
"Nay, it is hardest then," saith she. "`Much would have more.'"
"What wist Aunt _Joyce_ thereabout?" murmurs _Milly_, so that I could
just hear. "She never lacked nought she wanted."
"Getting oldish, _Milly_, but not going deaf, thank God," saith Aunt
_Joyce_, of her dry fashion. "Nay, child, thou art out there. Time was
when I desired one thing, far beyond all other things in this world, and
did not get it."
"Never, _Aunt_?"
"Never, _Milly_." And a somewhat pained look came into her face, that
is wont to seem so calm.
"What was it, Aunt _Joyce_, sweet heart?"
"Well, I took it for fine gold, and it turned out to be pinchbeck,"
saith she. "There's a deal of that sort of stuff in this world."
Methought _Milly_ feared to ask further, and all was still till _Edith_
saith--
"Would you avise us, Aunt _Joyce_, to keep a chronicle, even though
things did not happen?"
"Things will happen, trust me," she made answer. "Ay, dear maids,
methinks it should be profitable for you."
"Now, Aunt _Joyce_, I would you had not said that!"
"Why, _Milly_?"
"By reason that things which be profitable be alway dry and gloomsome."
"Not alway, _Lettice Eden's_ daughter."
I could not help but smile when Aunt _Joyce_ said this. For indeed,
_Mother_ hath oft told us how, when she was a young maid like _Milly_,
she did sorely hate all gloom and sorrowfulness, nor could not abide for
to think thereon. And _Milly_ is much of that turn.
"Then which of us shall keep the grand chronicle?" saith _Edith_, when
we had made an end of laughing.
"Why not all of you?" quoth Aunt _Joyce_. "Let each keep it a month
a-piece, turn about."
"And you, Aunt _Joyce_?"
"Nay, I will keep no chronicles. I would not mind an' I writ my
thoughts down of the last page, when it was finished."
"But who shall read it?" said I.
"There spake _Nell_!" quoth _Milly_. "`Who shall read it?' Why, all
the world, for sure, from the Queen's Majesty down to Cat and Kitling."
These be our two serving-maids, _Kate_ and _Caitlin_, which _Milly_ doth
affect dearly to call Cat and Kitling. And truly the names come pat,
the rather that _Kate_ is tall and big, and fair of complexion, she
being _Westmoreland_ born; while _Caitlin_, which is _Cumberland_ born,
is little and wiry, and of dark complexion. "The Queen's Majesty shall
have other fish to fry, I reckon," saith Aunt _Joyce_. "And so shall
_Kate_ and _Caitlin_,--if they could read."
"But who is to make a beginning of this mighty chronicle?" saith
_Edith_. "Some other than I, as I do trust, for I would never know what
to set down first."
"Let _Nell_ begin, then, as she is eldest of the three," quoth Aunt
_Joyce_.
So here am I, making this same beginning of the family chronicle. For
when _Father_ and _Mother_ heard thereof, both laughed at the first, and
afterward grew sad. Then saith _Mother_--
"Methinks, dear hearts, it shall be well for you,--at the least, an' ye
keep it truly. Let each set down what verily she doth think."
"And not what she reckons she ought to think," saith Aunt _Joyce_.
"Then, _Father_, will it please you give us some pens and paper?" said
I. "For I see not how, elsewise, we shall write a chronicle."
"That speech is right, _Nell_!" puts in _Milly_.
"Why, if we dwelt on the banks of the _Nile_, in _Egypt_," saith
_Father_, "reeds and bulrushes should serve your turn: or, were ye old
_Romans_, a waxen tablet and iron stylus. But for _English_ maidens
dwelling by Lake _Derwentwater_, I count paper and pens shall be
wanted--and ink too, belike. Thou shalt have thy need supplied,
_Nell_!"
And as this morning, when he came into the parlour where we sat
a-sewing, what should _Father_ set down afore me, in the stead of the
sheets of rough paper I looked to see, but this beautiful book, all full
of fair blank paper ready to be writ in,--and an whole bundle of pens,
with a great inkhorn. _Milly_ fell a-laughing.
"Oh dear, dear!" saith she. "Be we three to write up all those?
Verily, _Father_, under your good pleasure, but methinks you should pen
a good half of this chronicle yourself."
"Nay, not so much as one line," saith he, "saving those few I have writ
already on the first leaf. Let _Nell_ read them aloud."
So I read them, as I set them down here, for without I do copy them,
cannot I put in what was said.
"_Fees and Charges of the Chronicle of Selwick Hall_.--_Imprimis, to be
writ, turn about, by a month at each, by Helen, Milisent, and Editha
Louvaine_."
_Milly_ was stuffing her kerchief into her mouth to let her from
laughing right out.
"_Item, the said Helen to begin the said book_.
"_Item, for every blot therein made, one penny to the poor_."
"Oh, good lack!" from _Milly_.
"I care not, so _Father_ give us the pennies," from _Edith_.
"I reckon that is what men call a dividing of labour," saith _Father_ in
his dry way. "I to pay the pennies, and _Edith_ to make the blots.
Nay, my maid: the two must come of one hand."
"Then both of yours, _Father_," saith _Milly_, saucily.
"_Item, for every unkind sentence touching an other, two pence to the
poor_."
"Lack-a-daisy!" cries _Milly_; "I shall be ruined!"
"Truth for once," quoth Aunt _Joyce_.
"I am sorry to hear it, my maid," saith _Father_.
"_Item, for every sentence disrespectful to any in lawful authority over
the writer thereof, sixpence to the poor_."
"_Father_," quoth _Milly_, "by how much mean you to increase mine income
while this book is a-writing?"
_Father_ smiled, but made no further answer.
"_Item, for a gap of so much as one week, without a line herein writ,
two pence to the poor_."
"That is it which shall work my ruin," saith _Edith_, a-laughing.
"Therein art thou convict of laziness," quoth _Father_.
"_Item, on the ending of the said book, each of them that hath writ the
same shall read over her own part therein from the beginning: and for so
many times as she hath gainsaid her own words therein writ, shall
forfeit each time one penny to the poor_."
"That will bring both _Edith_ and me to beggary," quoth _Milly_, "Only
_Nell_ shall come off scot-free. _Father_, have you writ nought that
will catch her?"
"_Item, the said book shall, when ended, but not aforetime, be open to
the reading of Aubrey Louvaine, Lettice Louvaine, Joyce Morrell, and
Anstace Banaster_."
"And none else? Alack the day!" saith _Milly_.
"I said not whom else," quoth _Father_. "Be that as it like you."
But I know well what should like me,--and that were, not so much as one
pair of eyes beyond. _Milly_, I dare reckon--but if I go on it shall
cost me two pence, so I will forbear.
"Well!" saith _Edith_, "one thing will I say, your leave granted,
_Father_: and that is, I am fain you shall not read my part till it be
done. I would lief be at my wisest on the last page."
"Dear heart! I look to be wise on no page," cries _Milly_.
"Nay," said I, "I would trust to be wise on all."
"There spake our _Nell_!" cries _Milly_. "I could swear it were she,
though mine eyes were shut close."
"This book doth somewhat divert me, _Joyce_," quoth _Father_, looking at
her. "Here be three writers, of whom one shall be wise on each page,
and one on none, and one on the last only. I reckon it shall be
pleasant reading."
"And I reckon," saith Aunt _Joyce_, "they shall be reasonable true to
themselves an' it be thus."
"And I," saith _Milly_, "that my pages shall be the pleasantest of any."
"_Ergo_," quoth _Father_, "wisdom is displeasant matter. So it is,
_Milly_,--to unwise folks."
"Then, _Father_, of a surety my chronicling shall ill please you," saith
she, a-laughing.
_Father_ arose, and laid his hand upon _Milly's_ head as he passed by
her.
"The wise can love the unwise, my maid," saith he. "How could the only
wise God love any one of us else?"
SELWICK HALL, OCTOBER YE II.
_Milly_ saith, and _Edith_ likewise, that I must needs set down somewhat
touching all us,--who we be, and how many, and our names, and such like.
Truly, it seemeth me somewhat lost labour, if none but ourselves are to
read the same. But as _Milly_ will have it the Queen's Majesty and all
her Council shall be highly diverted thereby (though little, as
methinks, they should care to know of us), I reckon, to please these my
sisters, I must needs do their bidding.
We therefore, that dwell in _Selwick_ Hall, be Sir _Aubrey Louvaine_,
the owner thereof (that is _Father_), and Dame _Lettice_ his wife, and
us their daughters, _Helen, Milisent_, and _Editha_. Moreover, there is
Aunt _Joyce Morrell_, that dwelleth in _Oxfordshire_, at _Minster
Lovel_, but doth once every five year tarry six months with us, and we
with her the like: so that we see each the other once in every two or
three years. 'Tis but a week Aunt _Joyce_ hath been hither, so all the
six months be to run. And here I should note she is not truly our aunt,
but _Father's_ cousin, her mother being sister unto his mother: but
_Father_ had never no brother nor sister, and was bred up along, with
these his cousins, Aunt _Joyce_ and Aunt _Anstace_, after whom mine
eldest sister hath her name: but Aunt _Anstace_ hath been dead these
many years, afore any of us were born. I would I had known her; for to
hear them talk of her,--_Father_, and _Mother_, and Aunt _Joyce_,--I
could well-nigh think her an angel in human flesh. Now, wherefore is
it, for I have oft-times marvelled, that we speak more tenderly and
reverently of folk that be dead, than of the living? Were I to die a
young maid, should _Milly_ (that loves to mock me now) tell her children
henceforward of their Aunt _Helen_, as though she had been somewhat
better than other women? May-be. If we could only use folks we love,
while they do live, with the like loving reverence as we shall do after
they be dead, if we overlive them! Wherefore do we not so? We do seem
for to forget then all that we loved not in them. Could we not essay to
do the same a little sooner?
And when _Milly_ cometh hither in her reading, as sure as her name is
_Milisent_, shall she say,--"Now, Mistress _Nell_, there you go,
a-riding your high horse of philosophy! Prithee, keep to common earth."
Beside those I have named, in the house dwelleth Mynheer _Floris
Stuyvesant_, a _Dutch_ gentleman that did flee from his country when the
persecution was in _Holland_, eleven years gone: and _Father_, which had
a little known him aforetime when he made the grand tour, did most
gladly welcome him hither, and made him (of his own desire) governor to
_Ned_ and _Wat_, our brothers. These our brothers dwell not now at
home, for _Wat_ is squire unto my very good Lord of _Oxenford_, that is
_Father's_ kinsman: and _Ned_ is at sea with Sir _Humphrey Gilbert_. We
therefore see them but rarely. Then, beyond, there is likewise in the
house Mistress _Elizabeth Wolvercot_, that is a cousin of _Mother_, whom
all we do alway call Cousin _Bess_; she dwelleth with us at all times.
Also be _Kate_ and _Caitlin_, of whom I have aforetime spoken: and old
_Matthias_, our serving-man; and the boy, _Adam_ o' Bill's o' old
Mall's.
And here I should note that once were two of us more, _Aubrey_ and
_Julian_: of whom _Aubrey_ died a babe, three years afore I was born,
and _Julian_ a little maid of eleven years, between _Milly's_ birth and
_Edith's_. I mind her well, for she was two years elder than I, so that
I was nine years old when she departed; but _Milly_, that was only
three, cannot remember her.
Our eldest of all, _Anstace_, is wife unto Master _Henry Banaster_, and
dwelleth (as _Milly_ saith) next door, he having the estate joining
_Father's_ own. She hath two children, _Aubrey_, that is of seven
years, and _Cicely_, that is four; beside her eldest, _Lettice_, which
did decease in the cradle.
I reckon I have told all now, without I name the cows, which be _Daisy_,
and _Molly_, and _Buttercup_, and _Rose_, and _Ladybird_, and _June_;
and the great house-dog, which is _Clover_; and the cat, which is a
_Spanish_ cat [a tortoise-shell cat, then a rarity], her name _Hermosa_
(the which _Ned_ gave her, saying a _Spanish_ cat should have a
_Spanish_ name, and _Hermosa_ signifieth beautiful in that tongue), but
_Caitlin_ will make it _Moses_, and methinks she is called _Moses_ more
than aught else. She hath two kits, that be parti-coloured like
herself, their names (given of _Milly) Dan_ and _Nan_.
And now I feel well-nigh sure I have said all.
Nay, and forgat the horses! _Milly_ will laugh at me, for she dearly
loveth an horse. We have six riding-horses, with two baggage-horses,
but only four of them have names,--to wit, _Father's_, that is
_Favelle_, because he is favel-colour [chestnut]; and _Mother's,
Garnet_; and mine, _Cowslip_; and the last, that _Milly_ or _Edith_ doth
commonly ride when we journey, is called _Starlight_.
And now I have verily told every thing.
(_At this point the handwriting of the chronicle changes_.)
'Tis not yet my turn to write, but needs must, or it shall cause me to
split in twain with laughter. Here is our _Nell_, reckoning three times
o'er that she hath told all, and finding somewhat fresh every time, and
with all her telling, hath set down never a note of what we be like, nor
so much as the colour of one of our eyes. So, having gat hold of her
chronicle, I shall do it for her. I dare reckon she was feared it
should cost her two pence each one. But nothing venture, nothing have;
and _Mother_ laid down that we should write our true thoughts. So what
I think shall I write; and how to make _Father's_ two pence rhyme with
_Mother's_ avisement, I leave to Mistress _Nell_ and her philosophy.
_Father_ is a gentleman of metely good height, and well-presenced, but
something heavy built: of a dark brown hair, a broad white brow, and
dark grey eyes that be rare sweet and lovesome. Of old time was he
squire of the body unto my right noble Lord of _Surrey_, that was
execute in old King _Henry's_ days. Moreover, he is of far kin (yet not
so far, neither) unto my most worthy Lord of _Oxenford_. Now, sithence
I am to write my thoughts, I must say that I would _Father_ had a better
nose. I cannot speak very truth and set down that I did ever admire
_Father's_ nose. But he hath good white teeth, and a right pleasant
smile, the which go far to make amends for his nose.
_Mother_ was right fair when she was a young maid, and is none so ill
now. She is graceful of carriage, very fair of complexion, and hath the
sweetest, shining golden hair was ever seen. Her eyes be pale grey
[blue], right like the sky.
Of us three maids, _Edith_ is best-favoured, and all that see her do say
she is right the very picture of _Mother_, when she was young. Next her
am I; for though I say it, I am a deal fairer than either _Anstace_ or
_Nell_, both which favour [resemble] _Father_, though _Nell_ is the
liker, by reason she hath his mind as well as his face. Now, _Nell_ is
all ways slower than _Edith_ and me, and nothing like so well-favoured.
But for beauty, the least I did ever see in any man is in Mynheer
_Stuyvesant_, which hath a flat nose and a stoop in the shoulders, and
is high and thin as a scarecrow. Cousin _Bess_ is metely well,--she is
rosy and throddy [plump]. For Aunt _Joyce_, I do stand in some fear of
her sharp speeches, and will say nought of her, saving that (which she
can not deny) she hath rosy cheeks and dark brown hair (yet not so dark
as _Father's_), and was, I guess, a comely young maid when she were none
elder than we. As for _Ned_ and _Wat, Ned_ is the better-favoured, he
having _Mother's_ nose and the rest of him _Father_; but _Wat_ (which
favoureth _Mother_ of his colouring, yet is not so comely) a deal the
courtlier.
Now when they shall all come to read this same, trow, shall they know
their own portraits? or shall they every one cry out, "This is not me!"
So now I leave the rest to Mistress _Helen_, till it shall come to me
next month, when I will say what I think yet again.
SELWICK HALL, OCTOBER YE V.
(_In Helen's handwriting_.)
Dear heart, but what hath _Milly_ been a-doing! I could not think last
night where was my book, but I was rare sleepy, and let it a-be. And
here this morrow do I find a good two pages all scribbled o'er of
_Milly's_ writing. Well! 'tis not my fault, so I trust shall not be my
blame.
And it is true, as _Milly_ saith, that she is better-favoured than I.
As for _Anstace_, I wis not, only I know and am well assured, that I am
least comely of the four. But she should never have writ what she did
touching _Father's_ nose, and if it cost me two pence, that must I say.
I do love every bit of _Father_, right down to the tip of his nose, and
I never thought if it were well-favoured or no. 'Tis _Father_, and that
is all for me. And so should it be for _Milly_,--though it be two pence
more to say so.
SELWICK HALL, OCTOBER YE VI.
We had been sat at our sewing a good hour this morrow,--that is,
_Mother_, and Aunt _Joyce_, and we three maids,--when all at once
_Milly_ casts hers down with a sigh fetched from ever so far.
"Weary of sewing, _Milly_?" saith _Mother_ with a smile.
"Ay--no--not right that, _Mother_," quoth she. "But here have I been
this hour gone, a-wishing I had been a man, till it seemed me as if I
could not abide for to be a woman no longer."
"The general end of impossible wishes," saith _Mother_, laughing a
little.
"Well!" quoth Aunt _Joyce_, a-biting off her thread, "in all my wishing
never yet wished I that."
"Wherefore is it, _Milly_?" saith _Mother_.
"Oh, a man has more of his own way than a woman," _Milly_ makes answer.
"And he can make some noise in the world. He is not tied down to stupid
humdrum matters, such like as sewing, and cooking, and distilling, and
picking of flowers, with a song or twain by now and then to cheer you.
A man can preach and fight and write books and make folk listen."
"I misdoubt if thou art right, _Milly_, to say that a man hath the more
of his own way always," saith _Mother_. "Methinks there be many women
get much of that."
"Then a man is not tied down to one corner. He can go and see the
world," saith _Milly_.
"In short," quoth Aunt _Joyce_, "the moral of thy words, Milly,
is--`Untie me.'"
"I wish I were so!" mutters _Milly_.
"And what should happen next?" saith Aunt _Joyce_.
"Why, I reckon I could not do much without money," answereth _Milly_.
"Oh, grant all that," quoth Aunt _Joyce_,--"money, and leave, and all
needed, and Mistress _Milisent_ setting forth to do according to her
will. What then?"
"Well, I would first go up to _London_," saith she, "and cut some figure
in the Court."
Aunt _Joyce_ gave a dry little laugh.
"There be figures of more shapes than one, _Milly_," saith she.
"Howbeit--what next?"
"Why, then, methinks, I would go to the wars."
"And bring back as many heads, arms, and legs, as thou tookest thither?"
"Oh, for sure," saith _Milly_. "I would not be killed."
"Just. Very well,--Mistress _Milisent_ back from the wars, and covered
with glory. And then?"
"Well--methinks I would love to be a judge for a bit."
"Dry work," saith Aunt _Joyce_. "And then a bishop?"
"Ay, if you will."
"And then?"
"Why, I might as well be a king, while I went about it."
"Quite as well. I am astonished thou hast come thither no sooner. And
then?"
"Well,--I know not what then. You drive one on, Aunt _Joyce_.
Methinks, then, I would come home and see you all, and recount mine
aventures."
"Oh, mightily obliged to your Highness!" quoth Aunt _Joyce_. "I had
thought, when your Majesty were thus up at top of the tree, you should
forget utterly so mean a place as _Selwick_ Hall, and the contemptible
things that inhabit there. And then?"
"Come, I will make an end," saith _Milly_, laughing. "I reckon I should
be a bit wearied by then, and fain to bide at home and take mine ease."
"And pray, what hindereth that your Grace should do that now?" saith
Aunt _Joyce_, looking up with a comical face.
"Well, but I am not aweary, and have no aventures to tell," _Milly_
makes answer.
"Go into the garden and jump five hundred times, _Milly_, and I will
warrant thee to be aweary and thankful for rest. And as to aventures,--
eh, my maid, my maid!" And Aunt _Joyce_ and _Mother_ smiled one upon
the other.
"Now, _Mother_ and _Aunt_, may I say what I think?" cries Milly.
"Prithee, so do, my maid."
"Then, why do you folks that be no longer young, ever damp and chill
young folks that would fain see the world and have some jollity?"
"By reason, _Milly_, that we have been through the world, and we know it
to be a damp place and a cold."
"But all folks do not find it so?"
"God have mercy on them that do not!"
"Now, _Aunt_, what mean you?"
"Dear heart, the brighter the colour of the poisoned sweetmeat, the more
like is the babe to put in his mouth."
"Your parable is above me, Aunt _Joyce_."
"_Milly_, a maiden must give her heart to something. The Lord's word
unto us all is, Give Me thine heart. But most of us will try every
thing else first. And every thing else doth chill and disappoint us.
Yet thou never sawest man nor Woman that had given the heart to God,
which could ever say with truth that disappointment had come of it."
"I reckon they should be unready to confess the same," saith she.
"They be ready enough to confess it of other things," quoth Aunt
_Joyce_. "But few folks will learn by the blunders of any but their own
selves. I would thou didst."
"By whose blunders would you have me learn, _Aunt_?" saith _Milly_ in
her saucy fashion that is yet so bright and coaxing that she rarely gets
flitten [scolded] for the same.
"By those of whomsoever thou seest to blunder," quoth she.
"That must needs be thee, _Edith_," saith _Milly_ in a demure voice.
"For it standeth with reason, as thou very well wist, that I shall never
see mine elders to make no blunders of no sort whatever."
"Thou art a saucy baggage, _Milly_," quoth Aunt _Joyce_. "That shall
cost thee six pence an' it go down in the chronicle."
"Oh, 'tis not yet my turn for to write, _Aunt_. And I am well assured
_Nell_ shall pay no sixpences."
"Fewer than thou, I dare guess," saith Aunt _Joyce_. "Who has been to
visit old _Jack Benn_ this week?"
"Not I, _Aunt_," quoth _Edith_, somewhat wearily, as if she feared Aunt
_Joyce_ should bid her go.
"Oh, I'll go and see him!" cries _Milly_. "There is nought one half so
diverting in all the vale as old _Jack_. _Aunt_, be all _Brownists_ as
queer as he?"
"Nay, I reckon _Jack_ hath some queer notions of his own, apart from his
_Brownery_," quoth she. "But, _Milly_,--be diverted as much as thou
wilt, but let not the old man see that thou art a-laughing at him."
"All right, _Aunt_!" saith _Milly_, cheerily. "Come, _Nell_. _Edith_
shall bide at home, that can I see."
So _Milly_ and I set forth to visit old _Jack_, and _Mother_ gave us a
bottle of cordial water, and a little basket of fresh eggs, for to take
withal.
He dwells all alone, doth old _Jack_, in a mud cot part-way up the
mountain, that he did build himself, ere the aches in his bones 'gan
trouble him, that he might scantly work. He is one of those queer folk
that call themselves _Brownists_, and would fain have some better
religion than they may find at church. _Jack_ is nigh alway reading of
his Bible, but never no man could so much as guess the strange meanings
he brings forth of the words. I reckon, as Aunt _Joyce_ saith, there is
more _Jack_ than _Brownist_ in them.
We found _Jack_ sitting in the porch, his great Bible on his knees. He
looked up when he heard our voices.
"Get out!" saith he. "I never want no women folk."
'Tis not oft we have fairer greeting of _Jack_.
"Nay, truly, _Jack_," saith _Milly_ right demurely. "They be a rare bad
handful,--nigh as ill as men folk. What thou lackest is eggs and
cordial water, the which women can carry as well as jackasses."
She held forth her basket as she spake.
"Humph!" grunts old _Jack_. "I'd liever have the jackasses."
"I am assured thou wouldst," quoth _Milly_. "Each loveth best his own
kind."
Old _Jack_ was fingering of the eggs.
"They be all hens' eggs!"
"So they be," saith _Milly_. "I dare guess, thou shouldst have loved
goose eggs better."
"Ducks'," answereth old _Jack_.
"The ducks be gone a-swimming," saith she.
I now drew forth my bottle of cordial water, the which the old man took
off me with never a thank you, and after smelling thereto, set of the
ground at his side.
"What art reading, _Jack_?" saith _Milly_.
"What _Paul's_ got to say again' th' law," quoth he. "'Tis a rare ill
thing th' law, Mistress _Milisent_. And so be magistrates, and
catchpolls [constables] and all the lawyer folk. Rascals, Mistress
_Milisent_,--all rascals, every man Jack of 'em. Do but read _Paul_,
and you shall see so much."
"Saith the Apostle so?" quoth _Milly_, and gave me a look which nigh
o'erset me.
"He saith `the law is not given unto a righteous man,' so how can they
be aught but ill folk that be alway a-poking in it? Tell me that,
Mistress. If `birds of a feather will flock together,' then a chap
that's shaking hands every day wi' th' law mun be an ill un, and no
mistake."
"Go to, _Jack_: it signifies not that," _Milly_ makes answer. "Saint
_Paul_ meant that the law of God was given for the sake of ill men, not
good men. The laws of _England_ be other matter."
"Get out wi' ye!" saith _Jack_. "Do ye think I wis not what _Paul_
means as well as a woman? It says th' law, and it means th' law. And
if he'd signified as you say, he'd have said as th' law wasn't given
again' a righteous man, not to him. You gi'e o'er comin' a-rumpagin'
like yon."
For me, I scarce knew which way to look, to let me from laughing. But
_Milly_ goes on, sad as any judge.
"Well, but if lawyers be thus bad, _Jack_--though my sister's husband is
a lawyer, mind thou--"
"He's a rascal, then!" breaks in _Jack_. "They're all rascals, every
wastrel [an unprincipled, good-for-nothing fellow] of 'em."
"But what fashion of folk be better?" saith _Milly_. "Thou seest,
_Jack_, we maids be nigh old enough for wedding, and I would fain know
the manner of man a woman were best to wed."
"Best let 'em all a-be," growls _Jack_. "Women's always snarin' o' men.
Women's bad uns. Howbeit, you lasses down at th' Hall are th' better
end, I reckon."
"Oh, thank you, _Jack_!" cries _Milly_ with much warmth. "Now do tell
me--shall I wed with a chirurgeon?"
"And take p'ison when he's had enough of you," quoth _Jack_. "Nay,
never go in for one o' them chaps. They kills folks all th' day, and
lies a-thinkin' how to do it all th' night."
"A soldier, then?" saith _Milly_.
"Hired murderers," saith _Jack_.
"Come, _Jack_, thou art hard on a poor maid. Thou wilt leave me ne'er a
one. Oh, ay, there is the parson."
"What!" shrieks forth _Jack_. "One o' they _Babylonian_ mass-mongers?
Hypocrites, wolves in sheep's clothing a-pretending for to be shepherds!
Old _'Zekiel_, he's summut to say touching them. You get home, and
just read his thirty-fourth chapter; and wed one o' them wastrels at
after, if ye can! Now then, get ye forth; I've had enough o' women. I
telled ye so."
"Fare thee well, _Jack_," quoth _Milly_ in mocking tribulation. "I see
how it is,--I shall be forced to wed a lead-miner."
I was verily thankful that _Milly_ did come away, for I could bear no
longer. We ran fast down the steep track, and once at the bottom, we
laughed till the tears ran down. When we were something composed, said
I--
"Shall we look in on old _Isaac Crewdson_?"
"Gramercy, not this morrow," quoth _Milly_. "_Jack's_ enough for one
day. Old _Isaac_ alway gives me the horrors. I cannot do with him atop
of _Jack_."
So we came home. But if _Milly_ love it not, then will I go by myself
to see old _Isaac_, for he liketh me well.
SELWICK HALL, OCTOBER YE IX.
Aunt _Joyce_ went with me yesterday to see _Isaac_. We found him of the
chimney-corner, whence he seldom stirreth, being now infirm. Old _Mary_
had but then made an end of her washing, and she was a-folding the clean
raiment to put by. I ran into the garden and gathered sprigs of
rosemary, whereof they have a fine thriving bush.
"Do tell me, _Mall_," said I, "how thou orderest matters, for to have
thy rosemary thrive thus? Our bush is right stunted to compare withal."
"I never did nought to it," quoth old _Mall_, somewhat crustily. She is
_Jack Benn's_ sister, and truly they be something like.
"Eh, Mistress _Nell_, dunna ye know?" saith _Isaac_, laughing feebly.
"Th' rosemary always thrives well where th' missis is th' master. Did
ye never hear yon saying?"
"Shut up wi' thy foolish saws!" saith _Mall_, a-turning round on him.
"He's a power of proverbs and saws, Mistress _Nell_, and he's for ever
and the day after a-thrustin' of 'em in. There's no wit i' such work."
"Eh, but there's a deal o' wit in some o' they old saws!" _Isaac_ makes
answer, of his slow fashion. "Look ye now,--`_Brag's_ a good dog, but
_Holdfast's_ better'--there's a true sayin' for ye. Then again look
ye,--`He that will have a hare to breakfast must hunt o'er night.' And
`A grunting horse and a groaning wife never fails their master.' Eh,
but that's true!" And old _Isaac_ laughed, of his feeble fashion, yet
again.
"There be some men like to make groaning wives," quoth _Mall_, crustily.
"They sit i' th' chimney-corner at their ease, and put ne'er a hand to
the work."
"That is not thy case, _Mall_," saith Aunt _Joyce_, cheerily. "So long
as he were able, I am well assured _Isaac_ took his share of the work.
And now ye be both infirm and stiff of the joints, what say ye to a good
sharp lass that should save your old bones? I know one that should come
but for her meat,--a good stirring maid that should not let the grass
grow under her feet. What sayest, _Mall_?"
"What, me?" saith _Mall_. "Eh, you'd best ask th' master. I am none
th' master here, howso the rosemary may thrive. I would say she should
ne'er earn the salt to her porridge; but I'm of no signification in this
house, as I well wis. You'd best ask o' them as is."
"Why, then, we mun gi'e th' porridge in," quoth _Isaac_. "Come, _Mall_,
thou know'st better, lass."
But old _Mary_, muttering somewhat we might not well hear, went forth to
fetch in a fresh armful of linen from the hedge.
"What hath put her out, _Isaac_?" asks Aunt _Joyce_.
"Eh, Mistress _Joyce_, there's no telling!" saith he. "'Tis not so much
as puts her in. She's easy put out, is _Mall_: and 'tis no good on
earth essaying to pull her in again. You'd best let her be. She'll
come in of hersen, when she's weary of threapin'." [Grumbling,
fault-finding.]
"I reckon thou art weary first, most times," saith _Aunt_.
"Well! I've ay kept a good heart up," quo' he. "`The still sow eateth
all the draff,' ye ken. I've bore wi' _Mall_ for fifty year, and it
comes easier than it might to an other man. And the Lord has bore wi'
me for seventy odd. If He can bear wi' me a bit longer, I reckon I can
wi' _Mall_."
Aunt _Joyce_ smiled on old _Isaac_ as she rose up.
"Ay, Goodman, that is the best way for to take it," saith she. "And
now, _Nell_, we must hurry home, for I see a mighty black cloud o'er
yonder."
So we home, bidding God be wi' ye to old _Mall_, in passing, and had but
a grunt in answer: but we won home afore the rain, and found _Father_
and _Mynheer_ a-talking in the great chamber, and _Mother_ above, laying
of sweet herbs in the linen with _Edith_.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note 1. Passages from the New Testament are quoted from Cranmer's or
the Geneva version, both then in common use.
CHAPTER TWO.
WHEREIN IDEAS DIFFER.
"O man, little hast thou learned of truth in things most true."--Martin
Farquhar Tupper.
(_In Helen's handwriting_.)
SELWICK HALL, OCTOBER THE XII.
Well! _Milly_ saith nought never happens in this house. Lack-a-daisy!
but I would fain it were so!
One may love one's friends, and must one's enemies, _Father_ saith. But
how should one feel towards them that be nowise enemies, for they mean
right kindly, and yet not friends, seeing they make your life a burden
unto you?
Now, all our lives have I known Master _Lewthwaite_, of _Mere Lea_, and
Mistress _Lewthwaite_ his wife, and their lads and lasses, _Nym, Jack_,
and _Robin_, and _Alice_ and _Blanche_. Many a game at hunt the slipper
and blind man's buff have we had at _Mere Lea_, and I would have said
yet may, had not a thing happed this morrow which I would right fain
should ne'er have happened while the world stood.
What in all this world should have made _Nym_ so to do cannot I so much
as conceive. He might have found a deal fairer lasses. Why, our
_Milly_ and _Edith_ are ever so much better-favoured. But to want me!--
nor only that, but to come with so pitiful a tale, that he should go
straight to ruin an' I would not wed with him; that I was the only maid
in all the world that should serve against the same; and that if I
refused, all his sins thereafter should be laid at my door! Heard any
ever the like?
And I have no list to wed with _Nym_. I like him--as a dozen other
lads: but that is all. And meseems that before I could think to leave
_Father_ and _Mother_ and all, and go away with a man for all my life,
he must be as the whole world to me, or I could never do it. I cannot
think what _Nym_ would be at. And he saith it shall be my blame and my
sin, if I do it not. _Must_ I wed _Nym Lewthwaite_?
I sat and pondered drearily o'er my trouble for a season, and then went
to look for Aunt _Joyce_, whom I found in the long gallery, at her
sewing in a window.
"Well, _Nell_, what hast ado, maid?" saith she.
"Pray you, Aunt _Joyce_, tell me a thing," said I.
"That will I, with a very good will, my maid," saith she.
"Aunt _Joyce_, if a man were to come to you and entreat you to wed with
him, by reason that he could not (should he say) keep in the right way
without you did help him, and that, you refusing, you should be
blameworthy of all his after sins--what should you say to him?"
I listened right earnestly for her answer. I was woeful 'feared she
should say, "Wed with him, _Nell_, for sure, and thus save him."
"Say?" quoth Aunt _Joyce_, looking up, with (it seemed me) somewhat like
laughter in her eyes. "Fetch him a good buffet of his ear, forsooth,
and ask at him by what right he called himself a man."
"Then you should not think you bound to save him, _Aunt_?"
"Poor weak creature! Not I," saith Aunt _Joyce_. "But whatso, Nell?
Hast had any such a simpleton at thee?"
"_Aunt_," said I, "'tis _Nym Lewthwaite_, who saith an' I wed him not,
he shall go straight to ruin, and that I must answer unto God for all
his sins if so be."
"Ask him where he found that in the Bible," saith Aunt _Joyce_. "Take
no thought about him, _Nell_. Trust me, if a man cannot keep straight
without thee, he will not keep straight with thee. Poor limping soul!
to come halting up and plead with a weak woman to leave him put his hand
on her shoulder, to help him o'er the stones! `Carry me, prithee, good
Mistress, o'er this rough place.' Use thine own two legs, would I say
to him, and be ashamed of thy meanness. And I dare be sworn he calls
himself one of the nobler sex," ends Aunt _Joyce_ with a snort of scorn.
"O _Aunt_, I am so thankful you see it thus!" said I, drawing a long
breath. "I was so afeard you should bid me do as _Nym_ would."
"Nay, not this while," quoth she, of her dry fashion. "When we lack
stuff for to mend the foul roads, _Nell_, we'll find somewhat fitter to
break up than thee. If young _Lewthwaite_ harry thee again, send him to
me. He'll not want to see me twice, I'll warrant."
"I was 'feared I was wicked to shrink from it, _Aunt_," I made answer.
"_Nym_ said so. He said 'twas all self-loving and seeking of mine ease
that alone did make me for to hesitate; and that if I had loved God and
my neighbour better than myself, I would have strake hands with him at
once. And I was 'feared lest it should be true."
"Ay, it is none so difficult to paint black white," saith Aunt _Joyce_.
"'Tis alway the self-lovers that cry out upon the unkindliness of other
folks. And thou art one of them, _Nell_, my maid, that be prone to
reckon that must needs be right which goes against the grain. There be
that make self-denial run of all fours in that fashion. They think duty
and pleasure must needs be enemies. Why, child, they are the best
friends in the world. Only _Duty_ is the elder sister, and is jealous
to be put first. Run thou after _Duty_, and see if _Pleasure_ come not
running after thee to beseech thee of better acquaintance. But run
after _Pleasure_, and she'll fly thee. She's a rare bashful one."
"Then you count it not wrong that one should desire to be happy,
_Aunt_?"
"The Lord seems not to count it so, _Nell_. He had scarce, methinks,
told us so much touching the happiness of Heaven, had He meant us to
think it ill to be happy. But remember, maid, she that findeth her
happiness in God hath it alway ready to her hand; while she that findeth
her happiness in this world must wait till it come to seek her."
"I would I were as good as _Father_!" said I; and I believe I fetched a
sigh.
"Go a little higher, _Nell_, while thou art a-climbing," quoth Aunt
_Joyce_. "`I would I were as good as _Christ_.'"
"Eh, _Aunt_, but who could?" said I.
"None," she made answer. "But, _Nell_, he that shoots up into the sky
is more like to rise than he that aims at a holly-bush."
"Methinks _Father_ is higher than I am ever like to get," said I.
"And if thou overtop him," she made answer, "all shall see it but
thyself. Climb on, _Nell_. Thou wilt not grow giddy so long as thine
eyes be turned above."
I am so glad that Aunt _Joyce_ seeth thus touching _Nym_!
SELWICK HALL, OCTOBER YE II.
There goeth my first two pence for a blank week. In good sooth, I have
been in ill case to write. This weary _Nym_ would in no wise leave me
be, but went to _Anstace_ and _Hal_, and gat their instance [persuaded
them to intercede] unto _Father_ and _Mother_. Which did send for me,
and would know at me if I list to wed with _Nym_ or no. And verily, so
bashful am I, and afeared to speak when I am took on the sudden thus,
that I count they gat not much of me, but were something troubled to
make out what I would be at. Nor wis I what should have befallen (not
for that _Father_ nor _Mother_ were ever so little hard unto me, good
lack! but only that I was stupid), had not Aunt _Joyce_ come in, who no
sooner saw how matters stood than she up and spake for me.
"Now, _Aubrey_ and _Lettice_," saith she, "both of you, fall
a-catechising me in the stead of _Nell_. The maid hath no list to wed
with _Nym Lewthwaite_, and hath told me so much aforetime. Leave her
be, and send him away the other side of _Jericho_, where he belongs, and
let him, an' he list, fetch back a _Syrian_ maiden with a horn o'er her
forehead and a ring of her nose."
"Wherefore didst thou not tell us so much, _Nell_, my lass?" saith
_Father_ right kindlily, laying of his hand on my shoulder.
But in the stead of answering him thankfully, as a dutiful daughter
should, what did I but burst forth o' crying, as though he had been
angered with me: yea, nor might I stop the same, but went on, truly I
knew not wherefore, till _Mother_ came up and put her arms around me,
and hushed me as she wont to do when I was a little child.
"The poor child is o'erwrought," quoth she, tenderly. "Let us leave her
be, _Aubrey_, till she calms down.--There, come to me and have it out,
my _Nelly_, and none shall trouble thee, trust me."
Lack-a-daisy! I sobbed all the harder for a season, but in time I
calmed down, as _Mother_ says, and when so were, I prayed her of pardon
for that I could be so foolish.
"Nay, my lass," saith she, "we be made of body and soul, and either
comes uppermost at times. 'Tis no good trying to live with one, which
so it be."
"Ah, the old monks made that blunder," saith _Father_, "and thought they
could live with souls only, or well-nigh so. And there be scores of
other that essay to live with nought but bodies. A man that starves his
body is ill off, but a man that starves his soul is yet worser. No is
it thus, _Mynheer_?"
Mynheer van _Stuyvesant_ had come in while _Father_ was a-speaking.
"Ah!" saith he, "there be in my country certain called _Mennonites_,
that do starve their natures of yonder fashion."
"Which half of them,--body or soul?" saith _Father_.
"Nay, I would say both two," he makes answer. "They run right to the
further end of every matter. Because they read in their Bibles that `in
the multitude of words there wanteth not sin,' therefore they do forbid
all speech that is not of very necessity,--even a word more than needful
is sin in their eyes. If you shall say, `Sit you down in that chair to
your comfort,' there are eight words more than you need. You see?--
there are eight sins. `Sit' were enough. So, one mouthful more bread
than you need--no, no!--that is a sin. One drop of syrup to your
bread--not at all! You could eat your bread without syrup. All that is
joyous, all that is comfortable, all that you like to do--all so many
sins. Those are the _Mennonites_."
"What sinful men they must be!" saith _Father_.
"Good lack, Master _Stuyvesant_, but think you all those folks tarried
in _Holland_?" saith Aunt _Joyce_. "Marry, I could count you a round
dozen I have met in this country. And they _be_ trying, I warrant you.
My fingers have itched to shake them ere now."
"How do they serve them when they would get them wed?" saith _Father_.
"Quoth Master _John_ to Mistress _Bess_, `Wed me' and no more?--and
saith she, `Ay' and no more? A kiss, I ween, shall be a sin, for 'tis
no wise necessary."
I could not help to laugh, and so did Aunt _Joyce_ and _Mother_.
"Wed!" makes answer _Mynheer_, "the _Mennonites_ wed? Why, 'tis the
biggest of all their sins, the wedding."
"There'll not be many of them, I reckon," saith Aunt _Joyce_.
"More than you should think," saith he. "There be to join them every
year."
"Well, I'll not join them this bout," quoth she.
"Now, wherein doth that differ from the old monks?" saith _Father_, as
in meditation. "Be we setting up monasteries for _Protestants_
already?"
_Mynheer_ shrugged up his shoulders. "They say, the _Mennonites_," he
made answer, "that all pleasing of self is contrary unto God's Word. I
must do nothing that pleases me. Are there two dishes for my dinner? I
like this, I like not that. Good! I take that I love not. Elsewise, I
please me. A Christian man must not please himself--he must please God.
And (they say) he cannot please both."
"Ah, therein lieth the fallacy," saith _Father_. "All pleasing of self
counter unto God, no doubt, is forbidden in Holy Scripture. But surely
I am not bid to avoid doing God's commandments, if He command a thing I
like?"
"Why, at that rate," quoth Aunt _Joyce_, "one should never search God's
Word, nor pray unto Him,--except such as did not love it. Methinks
these _Mennonites_ stand o' their heads, with their heels in air."
"Ah, but they say it is God's command that thou shalt not please
thyself," saith _Mynheer_. "Therefore, that which pleases thee cannot
be His will. You see?"
"They do but run the old monks' notions to ground," quoth _Father_.
"They go a bit further--that is all. I take it that whensoever my will
is contrary unto God's, my will must go down. But when my will runneth
alongside of His, surely I am at liberty to take as much pleasure in
doing His will as I may? `Ye have been called unto liberty,' saith
_Paul_: `only, let not your liberty be an occasion to the flesh, but in
love serve one another.'"
"And if serving one another be pleasant unto thee, then give o'er,"
quoth Aunt _Joyce_. "Good lack, this world doth hold some fools!"
"Pure truth, _Joyce_," saith _Father_. "Yet, for that of monks, in good
sooth I do look to see them back, only under other guise. Monachism is
human nature: and human nature will out. If he make not way at one
door, trust him to creep forth of an other."
"But, _Aubrey_, the Church is reformed. There is no room for monks and
nuns, and such rubbish," saith Aunt _Joyce_.
"The Church is reformed,--ay," saith he: "but human nature is not. That
shall not be until we see the King in His beauty,--whether by our going
to Him in death, or by His coming to us in the clouds of heaven."
"Dear heart, man!--be not alway on the watch for black clouds," quoth
she. "As well turn _Mennonite_ at once."
"Well, `sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,'" _Father_ makes
answer: "and so far thou art right, _Joyce_. Yet it is well we should
remember, at times, that we be not yet in Heaven."
"`At times!'" quoth Aunt _Joyce_, with a laugh. "What a blessed life
must be thine, if those that be about thee suffer thee to forget the
same save `at times'! I never made that blunder yet, I can tell thee."
And so she and I away, and left all laughing.
SELWICK HALL, OCTOBER YE XXII.
This afternoon come _Hal_ and _Anstace_, with their childre. _Milly_
soon carried off the childre, for she is a very child herself, and can
lake [play] with childre a deal better than I: and _Hal_ went (said he)
to seek _Father_, with whom I found him an hour later in the great
chamber, and both right deep in public matter, whereof I do love to hear
them talk at times, but _Milly_ and _Edith_ be no wise compatient [the
lost adjective of compassion] therewith. _Anstace_ came with me to our
chamber, and said she had list for a good chat.
"Whereof be we to chat?" said I, something laughing.
"Oh, there is plenty," saith she. "We shall not be done with the
childre this hour."
"Thou wilt not, _Anstace_," said I, "for in very deed all mothers do
love rarely to talk over their childre, and I need not save thee. But I
am no great talker, as thou well wist."
"That do I," saith she: "for of all young maids ever I saw, thou hast
the least list [inclination] to discourse. But, _Nell_, I want to know
somewhat of thee. What ails thee at _Nym Lewthwaite_?"
"Why, nothing at all," I made answer: "save that I do right heartily
desire him to leave me be."
"Good sooth, but I thought it a rare chance for thee," quoth she: "and I
was fair astonied when _Edith_ told me thou wouldst have none ado with
him. But thou must mind thy shooting, _Nell_: if thou pitchest all
thine arrows over high, thou wilt catch nought."
"I want to pitch no arrows," said I.
"Well, but I do desire thee to conceive," saith she, "that too much
niceness is not good for a young maid. 'Tis all very well to go
a-picking and a-choosing ere thou art twenty: but trust me, _Nell_, by
the time thou comest to thirty, thou shouldst be thankful to take any
man that will have thee."
"Nay!" said I, "that shall I not."
"Eh, but thou wilt," quoth she, "yea, if it were _Nym Lewthwaite_."
"I won't!" said I.
_Anstace_ fell a-laughing. "Then thou wilt have to go without!" saith
she.
"Well," said I, "that could I do, may-be, nor break my heart o'er it
neither. But to take any that should have me,--_Anstace_, I would as
soon sell me for a slave."
"Come, _Nell_!--where didst pick up such notions?" quoth she.
"Verily, I might answer thee, of the Queen's Majesty," said I: "and if I
be not in good company enough, search thou for better. Only, for pity's
sake, Sister _Anstace_, do let me a-be."
"Eh, I'll let thee be," saith she, and wagged her head and laughed.
"But in good sooth, _Nell_, thou art a right queer body. And if it
should please the Queen's Highness to wed with _Mounseer_ [Note 1], as
'tis thought of many it shall, then thou wilt be out of her company, and
I shall be in. What shalt thou do then for company?"
"Marry, I can content me with Aunt _Joyce_ and Cousin _Bess_," quoth I,
"and none so bad neither."
So at after that we gat to other discourse, and after a while, when
_Milly_ came in with the childre, we all went down into the great
chamber, where _Father_, and _Hal_, and _Mynheer_, were yet at their
weighty debates. Cousin _Bess_ was sat in the window, a-sewing on some
flannel: and Aunt _Joyce_, in the same window, but the other corner, was
busied with tapestry-work, being a cushion that she is fashioning for a
_Christmas_ gift for some dame that is her friend at _Minster Lovel_.
'Tis well-nigh done; and when it shall be finished, it shall go hence by
old _Postlethwaite_ the carrier; for six weeks is not too much betwixt
here and _Minster Lovel_.
As we came in, I heard _Father_ to say--
"Truly, there is no end of the diverse fantasy of men's minds." And
then he brought forth some _Latin_, which I conceived not: but
whispering unto Aunt _Joyce_ (which is something learned in that tongue)
to say what it were, she made answer, "So many men, so many minds."
[_Quot homines, tot sententiae_.]
"Ha!" saith _Mynheer_. "Was it not that which the Emperor _Charles_ did
discover with his clocks and watches? He was very curious in clocks and
watches--the Emperor _Charles_ the Fifth--you know?--and in his chamber
at the Monastery of _San Yuste_ he had so many. And watching them each
day, he found they went not all at one. The big clock was five minutes
to twelve when the little watch was two minutes past. So he tried to
make them at one: but they would not. No, no! the big clock and the
little watch, they go their own way. Then said the Emperor, `Now I see
something I saw not aforetime. I thought I could make these clocks go
together, but no! Yet they are only the work of men like me. Ah, the
foolish man to think that I could compel men to think all alike, who are
the work of the great God.' You see?"
"If His Majesty had seen it a bit sooner," quoth _Hal_, "there should
have been spared some ill work both in _Spain_ and the Low Countries."
_Mynheer_ saith, "Ah!" more than once, and wagged his head right sadly.
"Why," quoth _Hal_, something earnestly, "mind you not, some dozen years
gone, of the stir was made all over this realm, when the ministers were
appointed to wear their surplices at all times of their ministration,
and no longer to minister in gowns ne cloaks, with their hats on, as
they had been wont? Yea, what tumult had we then against the order
taken by the Queen and Council, and against the Archbishop and Bishops
for consenting thereto! And, all said, what was the mighty ado about?
Why, whether a man should wear a black gown or a white. Heard one ever
such stuff?"
"Ah, _Hal_, that shall scantly serve," saith _Father_. "Mind, I pray
thee, that the question to the eyes of these men was somewhat far
otherwise. Thou wouldst not say that _Adam_ and _Eva_ were turned forth
of _Paradise_ by reason they plucked an apple?"
"But, I pray you, Sir _Aubrey_, what was the question?" saith _Mynheer_.
"For I do not well know, as I fain should."
"Look you," quoth _Father_, "in the beginning of the Book of Common
Prayer, and you shall find a rubric, that `such ornaments of the church
and of the ministers thereof, at all times of their ministration, shall
be retained and be in use, as were in this Church of _England_, by the
authority of Parliament, in the second year of King _Edward_ the
Sixth.'"
"But they were not retained," breaks in _Hal_, that will alway be first
to speak of aught.
(Lack-a-day! shall that cost me two pence?)
"They were not retained," repeateth _Father_, "but the clergy took to
ministering in their gowns and other common apparel, such as they ware
every day, with no manner of vestments of no sort. Whereupon, such
negligence being thought unseemly, it pleased the Queen's Majesty,
sitting in her Council, and with consent of the Archbishop and Bishops,
to issue certain injunctions for the better ordering of the Church: to
wit, that at all times of their ministration the clergy should wear a
decent white surplice, and no other vestment, nor should minister in
their common apparel as aforetime."
"Then the rubric touching the garments as worn under King _Edward_ was
done away?" saith _Mynheer_.
"Done away completely," quoth _Hal_, afore _Father_ could speak.
"But not by Parliament?" answers _Mynheer_.
"Good lack, what matter?" saith _Hal_. "The Queen's Majesty is supreme
in this Church of _England_. If she issue her injunctions through her
great Council, or her little Council, or her Bishops, they are all one,
so they be her true injunctions."
"These were issued through the Bishops," saith _Father_, "though
determined on in the Privy Council."
"Then did the ministers not obey?" asks _Mynheer_.
"Many did. But some counted the surplice a return towards Popery, and
utterly refused to wear it. I mind [remember] there was a burying at
that time at Saint _Giles'_ Church in _London_, without [outside]
_Cripplegate_, where were six clerks that ware the white surplice: and
Master _Crowley_, the Vicar, stood in the church door to withstand their
entering, saying that no such superstitious rags of _Rome_ should come
into his church. There should have been a bitter tumult there, had not
the clerks had the wit to give way and tarry withoutside the door. And
about the same time, a _Scots_ minister did preach in _London_ right
vehemently against the order taken for the apparel of ministers. Why,
at Saint _Mildred's_ in _Bread_ Street, where a minister that had
conformed was brought of the worshipful of that parish for the communion
service, he was so withstood by the minister of the church and his
adherents, that the Deputy of the Ward and other were fain to stand
beside him in the chancel to defend him during the service, or the
parson and his side should have plucked him down with violence. And at
long last," saith _Father_, laughing, "the _Scots_ minister that had so
inveighed against them was brought to conform; but no sooner did he show
himself in the pulpit of Saint _Margaret Pattens_ in a surplice, than
divers wives rose up and pulled him forth of the pulpit, tearing his
surplice and scratting his face right willingly."
"Eh, good lack!" cries _Mynheer_. "Your women, they keep silence in the
churches after such a manner?"
"There was not much silence that morrow, I warrant," quoth _Hal_,
laughing right merrily.
"Eh, my gentlemen, I pray you of pardon," saith Cousin _Bess_, looking
up earnestly from her flannel, "but had I been in yon church I'd have
done the like thing. I'd none have scrat his face, but I'd have rent a
good tear in that surplice."
"Thou didst not so, _Bess_, the last _Sunday_ morrow," quoth _Father_,
laughing as he turned to look at her.
"Nay, 'tis all done and settled by now," saith she. "I should but get
took up for brawling. But I warrant you, that flying white thing
sticketh sore in my throat, and ever did. An' I had my way, no parson
should minister but in his common coat."
"But that were unseemly and undecent, _Bess_," quoth Aunt _Joyce_.
"Nay, Mistress _Joyce_, but methinks 'tis a deal decenter," answers she.
"Wherefore, if a man can speak to me of earthly things in a black gown,
must he needs don a white when he cometh to speak to me of heavenly
things? There is no wit in such stuff."
"See you, _Mynheer_," saith _Father_, again laughing, "even here in
_Selwick_ Hall, where I trust we be little given to quarrel, yet the
clocks keep not all one time."
"Eh! No!" saith _Mynheer_, shrugging of his shoulders and smiling.
"The gentlewomen, they be very determined in their own opinions."
"Well, I own, I like to see things decent," saith Aunt _Joyce_. "I
desire not to have back the Popish albs and such like superstitious
gauds--not I: but I do like to see a parson in a clean white surplice,
and I would be right sorry were it laid aside."
Cousin _Bess_ said nought, but wagged her head, and tare her flannel in
twain.
"Now, I dare be bound, _Bess_, thou countest me gone half-way back to
_Rome_," saith Aunt _Joyce_.
"That were nigh the _Via Mala_," quoth _Father_.
"Eh, Mistress _Joyce_, I'll judge no man, nor no woman," makes answer
Cousin _Bess_. "The Lord looketh on the heart; and 'tis well for us He
doth, for if we were judged by what other folk think of us, I reckon we
should none of us come so well off. But them white flying kites be rags
of _Popery_, that _will_ I say,--yea, and stand to."
"Which side be you, _Father_?" asks _Anstace_.
"Well, my lass," saith he, "though I see not, mine own self, the Pope
and all his Cardinals to lurk in the folds of Dr _Meade's_ white
surplice, and I am bound to say his tall, portly figure carrieth it off
rarely, yet I do right heartily respect _Bess_ her scruple, and desire
to abstain from that which she counteth the beginnings of _evil_."
"Now, I warrant you, _Bess_ shall reckon that, of carrying it off well,
to be the lust of the eye," saith Aunt _Joyce_. "She's a bit of a
_Mennonite_, is _Bess_."
"Eh, Mistress _Joyce_, pray you, give me not such an ill word!" saith
Cousin _Bess_, reproachfully. "I never cared for Mammon, not I. I'd be
thankful for a crust of bread and a cup of water, and say grace o'er him
with _Amen_."
We all laughed, and _Father_ saith--
"Nay, _Bess_, thou takest _Joyce_ wrong. In that of the _Mennonites_,
she would say certain men of whom _Mynheer_ told us a few days gone,
that should think all things pleasurable and easeful to be wrong."
"Good lack, Mistress _Joyce_, but I'm none so bad as that!" saith
_Bess_. "I'm sure, when I make gruel for whoso it be, I leave no lumps
in, nor let it burn neither."
"No, dear heart, thou art only a _Mennonite_ to thyself, not to other
folk," saith Aunt _Joyce_. "Thou shouldst be right well content of a
board for thy bed, but if any one of us had the blanket creased under
our backs, it should cost thee thy night's rest. I know thee, _Bess
Wolvercot_."
"Well, and I do dearly love to see folk comfortable," quoth she. "As
for me, what recketh? I thank the Lord, my health is good enough; and a
very fool were I to grumble at every bit of discomfort. Why, only do
think, Mistress _Joyce_, how much worser I might have been off! Had I
been born of that country I heard Master _Banaster_ a-telling of, where
they never see the sun but of the summer, and dwell of huts full o'
smoke, with ne'er a chimney--why, I never could see if my face were
clean, nor my table rubbed bright. Eh, but I wouldn't like that fashion
of living!"
"They have no tables in _Greenland_ for to rub, _Bess_," quoth _Hal_.
"Nor o'er many clean faces, I take it," saith _Father_.
"Ah! did you hear, Sir," saith _Mynheer_, "of Mynheer _Heningsen's_
voyage to _Greenland_ the last year?"
"I have not, _Mynheer_," saith _Father_. "Pray you, what was notable
therein?"
"Ah! he was not far from the coast of _Greenland_, when he found the
ship go out of her course. He turned the rudder, or how you say, to
guide the ship--I am not sea-learned, I ask your pardon if I mistake--
but the ship would not move. Then they found, beneath a sunken rock,
and it was--how you say?--magnetical, that drew to it the iron of the
ship. Then Mynheer _Heningsen_, he look to his charts, for he know no
rock just there. And what think you he found? Why, two hundred years
back, exactly--in the year of our Lord 1380, there were certain
_Venetians_, the brothers _Zeni_, sailing in these seas, and they
brought word home to _Venice_ that on this very spot, where _Heningsen_
found nothing but a sunken rock, they found a beautiful large island,
where were one hundred villages, inhabited by _Christian_ people, in a
state of great civility [civilisation], but so simple and guileless that
hardly you can conceive. Think you! nothing now but a sunken rock."
"But what name hath the island?" asks _Hal_.
"No name at all. No eyes ever saw it but the brothers _Zeni_ of
_Venice_."
"Nay, _Mynheer_, I cry you mercy," saith _Father_ of his thoughtful
fashion. "If the brothers _Zeni_ told truth (as I mean to signify no
doubt), there was One that saw it, from the time when He pronounced all
things very good, to the day when some convulsion of nature, whatso it
were, by His commandment engulfed that fair isle in the waters.
`Whatsoever the Lord pleased, that did He,--in heaven, and in earth, and
in the sea, and in all deep places.' Not one hair from the head of
those unknown _Christians_, that were _Christians_ in truth, perished in
those North waters. We shall know it when we meet them in the Land that
is very far off."
SELWICK HALL, OCTOBER YE XXXI.
Mine hand was so weary when I was come to the last sentence afore this,
that I set down no more. Truly, there was little at after that
demerited the same.
And now I be come to the end of my month, I have been a-reading over
what I writ, to see how much I must needs pay. There be but two blots,
the which shall be so many pence: and two blank spaces of one week or
over, the which at two pence each brings the account to sixpence. I
cannot perceive that I have at any time writ disrespectfully of my
betters--which, I take it, be _Father_, and _Mother_, and Aunt _Joyce_,
and Cousin _Bess_, and Mynheer _Stuyvesant_, But for speaking unkindly
of other, I fear I am not blameless. I can count six two-pences, which
shall be one shilling and sixpence. I must try and do better when my
month cometh round again. Verily, I had not thought that I should speak
unkindly six times in one month! 'Tis well to find out a body's faults.
So now I pass my book over to _Milly_--and do right earnestly desire
that she may be less faultful than I. What poor infirm things be we, in
very sooth!
Note 1. Francois Duke of Anjou, who visited the Queen in September,
1579, to urge his suit. Elizabeth hesitated for some time before she
gave a decided negative.
CHAPTER THREE.
MILISENT MAKES A FRIEND.
"The inward depths of that deceitful fount
Where many a sin lies sleeping, but not dead."
(_In Milisent's handwriting_.)
SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE FIRST.
Things be alway going awry with me. Elsewise, this jolly book should
ne'er have come into my hands first of a _Sunday_. I would love dearly
to read o'er what my philosophical sister hath writ, and comment on the
same: but I reckon I must tarry till to-morrow.
Now, _Mother_ said I was to write what I thought, and I mean to do the
same. As to the pennies and the two-pences, they may count up
themselves, for all I care. They'll not outrun half-a-crown, I reckon:
and having paid the same at my month end, I shall just worry the life
out of _Father_ till he give me an other. So here goes it!
Well, the first thing I think is,--Why must everything pleasant be set
aside while _Monday_? _Father_ saith happiness and wickedness be not
alike, though (quoth he) some folk think so much. Now, it seems me that
happiness and holiness should be the same thing. Why should a matter
not be right simply by reason that I like it? I want to know, and I
will ask somebody, some of these days.
Howbeit, of one thing am I assured,--namely, that it cannot be wicked to
write on _Sunday_ what it is not wicked to do. So I shall tell what we
did.
Now, there some folk are so queer! They will take down a gown, and
shake out the folds, and talk an half-hour o'er it,--how this gimp
should be better to run that way, and next week the bottom must needs be
fresh bound: all of a _Sunday_. But to stick a neeld in, and make the
gimp run that way, and fresh bind the bottom,--good lack! they should
count you a very heathen an' you asked them. Now, I want to know how
the one is a bit better than the other. I cannot see a pin to choose
betwixt them.
Well! we gat out of bed this morrow--I reckon that is the first thing,
beyond opening one's eyes.
_Nell_ is alway the first up, and _Edith_ the last. She is rare hard to
wake, is _Edith_; or rather, not to wake, but to make her rise up when
she is woke. She takes a deal of shaking and talking to, some mornings
specially. _Nell_ does the talking, and I do the shaking: and I warrant
you, I give it her.
Howbeit, we were all up, at long last--and if one of us be late of a
_Sunday_ morrow, _Father_ looks as if we had brake his heart. Our
_Sunday_ gowns at this season be of green satin, of sixteen shillings
the yard,--eh, good lack! should I have set that down of a _Sunday_?
Well, never mind; 'tis now done--and furred with pampilion [an unknown
species of fur]. Our out-door hoods be black velvet: and in this gear
went we to church, at _Keswick_. And I would with all mine heart we had
a church nearer unto us than three weary miles, though every body saith
'tis mighty near. _Father_ rid on _Favelle_, with _Edith_ behind him;
and _Mother_ on _Garnet_, behind Master _Stuyvesant_; and _Nell_ and I
on _Cowslip_; and Aunt _Joyce_ of her own hackney, that is called
_Hermit_, with old _Matthias_. Cousin _Bess_ come ambling after, on
_Starlight_, with _Adam_ afore her: and behind trudged _Kate_ and
_Kitling_. And by the same token, _Moses_ came a-mewing to the door to
see us depart.
So came we to the church, and there found afore us my Lord _Dilston_ and
his following, that had rowed over from _Lord's Island_, whereon of old
time the Barons of _Dilston_ [the Radcliffes, subsequently created Earls
of Derwentwater] have had an house (I am mindful of strangers the which
shall read our chronicle, which is more, I reckon, than _Nell_ shall
have been), and in good sooth, but Mistress _Jane_ is fair of face, and
I do love to look upon her. Well, of course, _Father_ being but a
knight, we stood of one side to let pass a baron: and when all they were
gone up, went up we, in due order, _Father_ handing _Mother_, and
_Mynheer_ with Aunt _Joyce_, and then Cousin _Bess_ and we three maids.
And there was Dr _Meade_ with his white rag of _Popery_ (as Cousin
_Bess_ will have it) a-flying behind him as he came from the vestry: and
I might not forbear to give a little pinch to _Edith_ as I saw it fly.
'Tis to no good to pinch _Nell_, for she doth but kill me with a look.
And there, of either side (which I had nigh forgot), stood the common
folk, the townsfolk, and the lead-miners from _Vicar's Island_
[anciently belonging to Fountains Abbey] and such like, all a-gaping and
a-staring on us as we went by, to see the baron and the knight. And eh,
but I do love to be gaped on! 'Tis the best bit of all the _Sunday_,
for me.
(Now, _Mother_, you said I was to write what I thought.)
Then come matins, which one has to sit through, of course: the only good
matter being the chants. I can sing out, and I do. Then come the
sermon, which is unto me sore weariness, and I gape through it as I best
may. Dear heart, what matter is it to me if _Peter_ were ever at _Rome_
or no, or if Saint _James_ and _Paul_ do both say the same thing
touching faith and works? We have all faith--say we not the Creed every
_Sunday_? and what would you have more? And as to works, I hate good
works. Good works always means doing the very thing you would rather
not. 'Tis good works to carry a pudding to old _Nanny Crewdson_ through
a lane where I nigh lose my shoes in the mire, right at the time when I
want to bide at home and play the virginals. Or 'tis sitting of a chair
and reading of _Luther's_ Commentary on the _Galatians_ to one of my
betters, when my very toes be tingling to be out in the sunshine. Good
lack, but I do owe a pretty penny to Master Doctor _Luther_ for that
commentary! I have had to sit and read it a good score of times when it
should have done me marvellous ease to have boxed his ears with it. Had
I been Mistress _Katherine_, it should have gone hard with me but I
would have pulled Master Doctor out of his study, and made him lake with
little _Jack_ and _Maudlin_, in the stead of toiling o'er yon old musty
commentary. _Nell_ saith she loveth to read it. In good sooth, but I
wish she may!
Well! matins o'er, come the communion, for which all tarried but
_Edith_; she, not being yet confirmed, is alway packed off ere it begin.
And when that were o'er--and I do love the last _Amen_ of all--went all
we to dinner with Mistress _Huthwaite_, at whose house we do ever dine
of a _Sunday_: and mighty late it is of a communion _Sunday_; and I am
well-nigh famished ere I break bread. And for dinner was corned beef
and carrots, and for drink sherris-sack and muscadel. Then, at three o'
the clock, all we again to church: and by the same token, if Dr _Meade_
gave us not two full hours of a sermon, then will I sell my gold chain
for two pence. And at after church, in the porch were my Lord _Dilston_
and fair Mistress _Jane_; and my Lord was pleased to take _Father_ by
the hand, and _Mother_ and Aunt _Joyce_ likewise; but did but kiss us
maids. [Note 1.] But Mistress _Jane_ took us all three by the hand,
and did say unto me that she would fain be better acquainted. And in
very deed, it should be a feather in my cap were I to come unto close
friendship with my Lord _Dilston_ his daughter, as I do right heartily
trust I may. Nor, after all, were it any such great preferment for me,
that am daughter unto Sir _Aubrey Louvaine_ of _Selwick_ Hall, Knight,
which is cousin unto my right honourable Lord the Earl of _Oxenford_,
and not so far off neither. For my most honourable Lord, Sir _Aubrey de
Vere_, sometime Earl of _Oxenford_, was great-great-great-grandfather
unto my Lord that now is: and his sister, my Lady _Margaret_, wife to
Sir _Nicholas Louvaine_, was great-great-grandmother unto _Father_: so
they twain be cousins but four and an half times removed: and, good
lack, what is this? Surely, I need not to plume me upon Mistress _Jane
Radcliffe_ her notice and favour. If the _Radcliffes_ be an old house,
as in very deed they be, so be the _Veres_ and the _Louvaines_ both: to
say nought of the _Edens_, that have dwelt in _Kent-dale_ these thousand
years at the least. But one thing will I never own, and that is of
Mynheer _Stuyvesant_, which shall say, and hold to it like a leech, that
our family be all _Dutch_ folk. He will have it that the _Louvaines_
must needs have sprung from _Louvain_ in the Low Countries; but of all
things doth he make me mad [angry: a word still used in the north of
England] when he saith the great House of _Vere_ is _Dutch_ of origin.
For he will have it a weir to catch fish, when all the world doth know
that _Veritas_ is _Latin_ for truth, and _Vere_ cometh of that, or else
of _vir_, as though it should say, one that is verily a man, and no base
coward loon. And 'tis all foolishness for to say, as doth _Mynheer_,
that the old _Romans_ had no surnames like ours, but only the name of
the family, such like as _Cornelius_ or _Julius_, which ran more akin
unto our _Christian_ names. I believe it not, and I won't. Why, was
there not an Emperor, or a Prince at the least, that was called _Lucius
Verus_? and what is that but _Vere_? 'Tis as plain as the barber's
pole, for all _Mynheer_, and that will I say.
Howbeit, I am forgetting my business, and well-nigh that it is _Sunday_.
So have back. Church over, all we come home, in the very order as we
went: and in the hall come _Moses_ a-purring to us, and a-rubbing of her
head against _Nell_; and there was _Dan_ a-turning round and round after
his tail, and _Nan_, that had a ball of paper, on her back a-laking
therewith. _So_ we to doff our hoods, and then down into the hall,
where was supper served: for it was over late for four-hours [Note 2],
and of a communion _Sunday_ we never get none. Then _Nell_ to read a
chapter from Master Doctor _Luther_ his magnifical commentary: and by
the mass, I was glad it was not me. Then--(Eh, happy woman be my dole!
but if _Father_ shall see that last line, it shall be a broad shilling
out of my pocket at the least. He is most mighty nice, is _Father_,
touching that make of talk. I believe I catched it up of old
_Matthias_. I must in very deed essay to leave it off; and I do own,
'tis not over seemly to swear of a _Sunday_, for I suppose it is
swearing, though 'tis not profane talk. Come, _Father_, you must
o'erlook it this once: and I will never do so no more--at the least, not
till the next time.)
Well then, had we a chapter of _Luke_, and a long prayer of _Father_:
and I am sore afeared I missed a good ten minutes thereof, for I wis not
well what happed, nor how I gat there, but assuredly I was a-dancing
with my Lord of _Oxenford_, and the Queen's Majesty and my Lord
_Dilston_ a-looking on, and Mistress _Jane_ as black as thunder, because
I danced better than she. I reckon _Father's_ stopping woke me, and I
said _Amen_ as well as any body. Then the Hundredth Psalm, _Nell_
a-playing on the virginals: and then (best of all) the blessing, and
then with good-night all round, to bed. I reckon my nap at prayers had
made me something wakeful, for I heard both _Nell_ and _Edith_ asleep
afore me.
SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE III.
Now have I read o'er every line my philosophical sister hath writ: and
very nigh smothered me o' laughing at divers parts. The long discourses
she putteth in, touching all manner of dreary matters! I warrant, you
shall not see me to deal with the Queen's Majesty's injunctions touching
the apparel of parsons, nor with the _Dutch Mennonites_, nor with
philosophical questions touching folks' thoughts and characters, nor no
such rubbish. I like sunlight, I do. Catch me a-setting down Master
_Stuyvesant_ his dreary speeches! (I go not further, for then should it
cost me sixpence: but Master _Stuyvesant_ hath no authority over me, so
I may say what I will of him for two pence.) But it seemeth me, for all
her soberness and her killing looks, that Mistress _Helena_ is something
diverted with my speeches, else had she not put so many in. But I ought
not to have said what I did, quotha, touching _Father's_ nose! Ought I
not, forsooth? Mistress _Helena_, that shall cost you two pence, and I
shall be fain to see the fine paid.
(Eh, lack-a-day! but that shall cost me two pence! Dear heart, whatever
was _Father_ a-thinking of? I shall be as clean ruined as the velvet
doublet that _Ned_ dropped in the fish-pond!)
It seemeth me _Father_ must have desired to make a good box for the
poor. I would it had not been at my cost.
One thing is plain,--that Mistress _Nell_ keeps a conscience. I scarce
think I do. There is a cushion full of pins somewhere down near my
stomach, and now and then I get a prick: but I do but cry pish and turn
the pin end into the cushion. _Nell_, on the contrary, pulleth forth
the pin and looketh on it, holding it in all lights. But there was one
time, I mind, that I did not cry pish, and methinks every pin in the
cushion had set a-work to prick me hard. 'Twas ever so long gone, when
_Wat_ and I dressed up the mop in a white sheet, and set it on the
stairs for to make _Anstace_ and _Nell_ scream forth, a-taking it for a
ghost: but as ill luck would have it, the first came by was _Mother_,
with _Edith_ in her arms, that was then but a babe, and it so frighted
her she went white as the very sheet, and dropped down of a dead faint,
and what should have come of _Edith_ I wis not, had not _Anstace_, that
came after, been quick to catch at her. Eh, but in all my life never
saw I _Father_ as he then were! It was long time ere _Mother_ come to,
and until after said he never a word, for he was all busied with her:
but when she was come to herself and well at ease,--my word! but he did
serve out _Wat_ and me! _Wat_ gat the worst, by reason he was the
elder, and had (said _Father_) played the serpent to mine _Eva_: but I
warrant you I forgat not that birch rod for a week or twain. Good lack!
we never frighted nobody again.
And after all, I do think _Father's_ talk was worser than the
fustigation [whipping]. How he did insense it into us, that we might
have been the death of our mother and sister both, and how it was rare
wicked and cruel to seek to fright any, and had been known to turn
folks' heads ere this! You see, _Father_, I have not forgot it, and I
reckon I never shall.
But one thing _Father_ alway doth, and so belike do all in this house,
which I hear not other folks' elders for to do. When _Alice Lewthwaite_
gets chidden, Mistress _Lewthwaite_ saith such matters be unseemly, or
undutiful, and such like. But _Father_, he must needs pull forth his
Bible, and give you chapter and verse for every word he saith. And it
makes things look so much worser, some how. 'Tis like being judged of
God instead of men. And where Mistress _Lewthwaite_ talks of faults,
_Father_ and _Mother_ say sins. And it makes ever so much difference,
to my thinking, whether a matter be but a fault you need be told of, or
a sin that you must repent. Then, Mistress _Lewthwaite_ (and I have
noted it in other) always takes things as they touch her, whereas
_Father_ and _Mother_ do look on them rather as they touch God. And it
doth seem ever so much more awfuller thus. Methinks it should be a
sight comfortabler world if men had no consciences, and could do as it
listed them at all times without those pin-pricks. I am well assured
folks should mostly do right. I should, at any rate. 'Tis but
exceeding seldom I do aught wrong, and then mostly because I am teased
with forbiddance of the same. I should never have touched the
fire-fork, when I was a little maid, and nigh got the house a-fire, had
not old Dame _Conyers_, that was my godmother, bidden me not do the
same. Had she but held her peace, I should ne'er have thought thereon.
Folks do not well to put matters into childre's heads, and then if aught
go wrong the childre get the blame. And in this world things be ever
a-going wrong. But wherefore must I be blamed for that, forsooth? 'Tis
the things go wrong, not me. I should be a very angel for goodness if
only folks gave o'er a putting of me out, and gainsaying of me, and
forbidding things to be done. In good sooth, 'tis hard on a poor maid
that cannot be suffered to be as good as she should, were she but let
a-be.
SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE VI.
Yesterday, the afternoon was so fair and sunshine, that _Edith_ and I
(_Mother_ giving us leave) rowed o'er to Saint _Hubert's_ Isle, where
_Edith_ sat her down of a great stone, and said she would draw the
lake's picture in little. So I, having no list to stand behind and look
on, went off to see if I could find aught, such as a squirrel or a pie,
to divert me withal. As for _Adam_, which had rowed us o'er, he
gathered up his nose and his heels all of a lump on the grass, and in
five minutes he was snoring like an owl. For me, I wandered on a while,
and went all over the ruins of the hermitage, and could find nought to
look at save one robin, that sat on a bough and stared at me. After a
while I sat me down, and I reckon I should have been a-snoring like
_Adam_ afore long, but I heard a little bruit [noise] that caused me
turn mine head, and all suddenly I was aware of a right goodly
gentleman, and well clad, that leaned against a tree, and gazed upon me,
yet with mighty respect and courtesy. He was something past his youth,
yet right comely to look to; of a fair hair and beard, and soft eyes,
grey [blue] as the sky. Truly, I was something fluttered, for he ware a
brave velvet jerkin, and a gold chain as thick as Master _Mayor's_. And
while I meditated if I should speak unto him or no, he spake first. "I
pray you, fair my Mistress, or Madam [then restricted to noble ladies
and knights' wives] if so be, of your good pleasure, to do a stranger to
wit of the name of this charming isle?"
"Saint _Hubert's_ Isle, Sir," quoth I. "Of old time, as 'tis said,
Saint _Hubert_ had an hermitage hereon: the ruins whereof you may see
down yonder."
"Truly, the isle is better accommodated at this present," saith he, and
smiled one of the comeliest smiles ever saw I on a man's face. "And who
was Saint _Hubert_, if it please my fair damosel?"
"In good sooth, Sir, that know I not," said I; "save that he were one of
the old saints, now done away."
"If the old saints be done away," saith he, "thank goodness, the new at
least be left."
Good lack! but I wist not what to answer to so courtly compliments, and
the better liked I my neighbour every minute. Methought I had never
seen a gentleman so grand and amiable, not to say of so good words.
"And, I pray you, sweet Mistress," saith he, yet a-leaning against the
tree, which was an oak, and I could find it again this minute: "is it
lawful for the snared bird to request the name of the fowler?"
"Sir, I pray you of pardon," I made answer, and I could not help to
laugh a little, "but I am all unused to so courtly and flattering words.
May it please you to put what you would say into something plainer
_English_?"
"Surely," saith he, "the rose is not unaccustomed to the delightsome
inhalation of her fragrance. Well, fairest Mistress, may I know your
name? Is that _English_ plain enough to do you a pleasure?"
"Sir," quoth I, "my name is _Milisent Louvaine_, to serve you."
"Truly," saith he, "and it shall serve me right well to know so
mellifluous a name. [Note 3.] And what dwelling is honoured by being
your fair home, my honey-sweet damsel?"
"Sir," said I, "I dwell at _Selwick_ Hall, o'er the lake in yonder
quarter."
"It must be a delightsome dwelling," he made answer. "And--elders have
you, fairest Mistress?"
"I thank the Lord, ay, Sir. Sir _Aubrey Louvaine_ is my father, and
Dame _Lettice_, sometime named _Eden_, my mother."
"_Lettice Eden_!" saith he, and methought something sorrowfully, as
though _Mother's_ old name should have waked some regrets within him.
"I do mind me, long time gone, of a fair maiden of that name, that was
with my sometime Lady of _Surrey_, and might now and then be seen at the
Court with her lady, or with the fair Lady of _Richmond_, her lord's
sister. Could it have been the same, I marvel?"
"Sir," said I, "I cast no doubt thereon. My mother was bower-maiden
unto my Lady of _Surrey_, afore she were wed."
"Ah!" saith he, and fetched a great sigh. "She was the fairest maiden
that ever mine eyes beheld. At the least--I thought so yesterday."
"My sister is more like her than I," I did observe. "She is round by
yonder, a-playing the painter."
"Ah," quoth he, something carelessly, "I did see a young damsel, sitting
of a stone o'er yonder. Very fair, in good sooth: yet I have seen
fairer,--even within the compass of Saint _Hubert's_ Isle. And I do
marvel that she should be regarded as favouring my good Lady your mother
more than you, sweet Mistress _Milisent_."
I was astonished, for I know _Edith_ is reckoned best-favoured of all
us, and most like to _Mother_. But well as it liked me to sit and
listen, methought, somehow, I had better get me up and return to
_Edith_.
"Alas!" saith he, when he saw me rise, "miserable man, am I driving
hence the fairest floweret of the isle?"
"Not in no wise, Sir," answered I; "but I count it time to return, and
my sister shall be coming to look for me."
"Then, sweet Mistress, give me leave to hand you o'er these rough
paths."
So I put mine hand into his, which was shapely, and well cased in fair
_Spanish_ leather; and as we walked, he asked me of divers matters; as,
how many brothers I had, and if they dwelt at home; and if _Father_ were
at home; and the number and names of my sisters, and such like; all
which I told him. Moreover, he would know if we had any guests; which,
with much more, seeing he had been of old time acquainted with _Mother_,
I told. Only I forgat to make mention of Aunt _Joyce_.
So at long last--for he, being unacquainted with the Isle, took the
longest way round, and I thought it good manners not to check him--at
long last come we to _Edith_, which was gat up from her stone, and was
putting by her paper and pencils in the bag which she had brought for
them.
"We shall be something late for four-hours, _Milly_," saith she.
"Prithee, wake _Adam_, whilst I make an end."
Off went I and gave _Adam_ a good shake, and coming back, found _Edith_
in discourse with my gentleman. I cannot tell why, but I would as lief
he had not conversed with any but me.
"Sir," said I, "may we set you down of the lakeside?"
"No, I thank you much," saith he: and lifting his bonnet from his head,
I saw how gleaming golden was yet his hair. "I have a boat o'er the
other side. Farewell, my sweet mistresses both: I trust we shall meet
again. Methinks I owe it you, howbeit, to tell you my name. I am Sir
_Edwin Tregarvon_, of _Cornwall_, and very much your servant."
So away went he, with a graceful mien: and we home o'er the lake. All
the way _Edith_ saith nought but--"_Milly_, where didst thou pick up thy
_cavaliero_?"
"Nay," said I, "he it was who picked me up. He was leaning of a tree,
of t'other side, over against _Borrowdale_: and I sat me down of a log,
and saw him not till he spake."
_Edith_ said no more at that time. But in the even, when we were
doffing us, and _Nell_ was not yet come up, quoth she--
"_Milly_, is Sir _Edwin_ something free to ask questions?"
"Oh, meterly," [tolerably] said I.
"I trust thou gavest him not o'er full answers."
"Oh, nought of import," said I. "Beside, _Edith_, he is an old friend
of _Mother_."
"Is he so?" quoth she. "Then we can ask _Mother_ touching him."
Now, I could not have told any wherefore, but I had no list to ask
_Mother_, nor had I told her so much as one word touching him. I
believe I was half afeared she might forbid me to encourage him in talk.
I trust _Edith_ shall forget the same, for she hath not an over good
memory.
SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE IX.
I well-nigh do wish I had not writ down that same o' _Friday_ last.
Howbeit, there is no penalty against tearing out o' leaves: and that
must I do, if need be. Meanwhile, I will go right forward with my
chronicling.
I did verily think I saw Sir _Edwin_ part-way up the hill behind us o'
_Saturday_ even: but o' _Sunday_ he was not in church, for I looked for
him. I reckon he must have left this vicinage, or he should scarce run
the risk of a twenty pound fine [the penalty per month for
non-attendance at the parish church], without he be fairly a-rolling in
riches, as his gold chain looked not unlike.
Thank goodness, _Edith_ hath forgot to say aught to _Mother_, and 'tis
not like she shall think on now.
SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XII.
_Mother_ bid me, this morrow, carry a basket of eggs and a spice-cake
[the northern name for a plum-cake] to old _Jack_. They were ducks'
eggs, for I had told her what _Jack_ said the last time we visited him.
I bade _Edith_ go with me [Note 4], but she would not, the day being
somewhat foul. I did never see a maid so unwilling to mire her shoes as
our _Edith_. So I all alone up to _Jack Benn's_: which saw me from his
hut door, and gave me his customary courteous welcome.
"There's a woman a-coming!" quoth he. "Get away wi' ye! I hate women."
"Nay, _Jack_," said I; "thou alway savest me, as thou wist. Here be
eggs for thee--ducks', every one: and a spice-cake, which I know thou
lovest."
"I love nought so much as I hate women," saith he. But he took the cake
and the eggs off me, notwithstanding. "They're fleshly folk, is women,"
quoth old _Jack_.
"Nay, what signifiest?" said I. "Women have no more flesh than men, I
reckon."
"Mistress _Milisent_, does thou wit what _Paul_ says to th' _Romans_,
touching th' flesh and th' spirit?"
"Oh ay, _Jack_, I have read it afore now."
"Well, and does thou mind how he threaps again' th' flesh?"
"To be sure," said I.
"Now look ye here," saith he. "Here's my hand,"--and he reacheth forth
a great brown paw. "Does thou see it?"
"Ay, I am thankful I have eyes good enough for that, _Jack_!"
"Well--this hand's made o' flesh, does thou wit?"
"I reckon so much, _Jack_."
"Good. Well, _Paul_ he says we're none to mind th' things o' th' flesh,
but only th' things o' th' spirit. Your spirit's your thoughts and
meditations like. And that's why women's such ill uns--because they are
alway minding th' things o' th' flesh: scrubbing, and washing, and
baking, and sewing, and such like. And it stands to reason, Mistress
_Milisent_, that what ye do wi' th' flesh mun be th' things o' th'
flesh. Does thou see?"
"Well, _Jack_, I am afeared I do not entirely."
"Get thee gone!" saith he. "Women never can see nought. They're ill
uns, I tell ye--they're ill uns!"
"But, _Jack_, the sins of the flesh have nought to do with cooking and
washing."
"Does thou think I dunna know better nor a woman? Thee be off, or I'll
let fly th' broom at thee."
"_Jack_, thou art a very uncivil companion," said I; but I gathered up
my gown for to go.
"I never were civil to a woman yet," saith he, "and I hope I never shall
be. That's a sin I'll none have to answer for."
"In very deed it is, _Jack_," said I, "and I will bear witness for thee
to that end if need be. Farewell."
So away turned I from the grim old man, but had not run many steps down
ere I was aware of an hand, very different from _Jack's_, held forth to
me, and a voice saluting me in exceeding diverse language.
"Fairest Mistress _Milisent_, well met this cloudy morrow! I see the
flowers be out, though the sun shine not. Give me leave, I pray you, to
aid your graceful steps down this rough hill-side."
So down the hill with me came Sir _Edwin_, and mighty pleasant discourse
had we--all the fairer for coming after _Jack_. And much he told me of
his estate in _Cornwall_, where he hath a fair castle, built of old
time, and mines like to ours, saving they be tin, not lead. And these
_Cornish_ mines, as he told me, were worked of old time by the _Jews_:
but when I did demand of him how _Jews_ should come to work them, that
(quoth he) could he not say. And at times, in these mines, deep down in
the old workings, do they hear the ghosts of them that worked them a
thousand years ago, a-knocking with the pickaxe; and when they do break
into the ancient workings, they come on the olden pickaxes of stags'
horn, used of these old _Jews_ and _Romans_, that did labour in these
mines of old time.
"Good lack!" cried I: "and be these the very pickaxes used of these
ghosts? Verily, I would be feared for to touch them."
"Nay, the tools themselves be no ghosts," saith he, laughing: "and I do
ensure you, fair my mistress, I have seen and handled divers thereof."
Then he told me, moreover, of a new custom is risen up in the Queen's
Majesty's Court: for right courtly discourse he hath, and the names of
dukes and earls do fly about in his talk as though he were hand and
glove with every man of them. I do love to hear such discourse, and
that right dearly. Many a time have I essayed for to win _Mother_ to
enter into talk touching those days when she dwelt in _Surrey_ Place
with my good Lady Countess of _Surrey_: but I wis not well wherefore,
she ever seemeth to have no list to talk of that time. She will tell us
of her 'prisonment in the _Counter_, and how _Father_ brought the little
shell for to comfort her, and at after how he fetched her out, and rode
away with her and had a care of her, when as she was let forth: but even
in that there seems me like as there should be a gap, which she never
filleth up. I marvel if there were somewhat of that time the which she
would not we should know. [Note 5.] I did once whisper a word of this
make unto _Nell_: but Mistress _Helena_, that doth alway the right and
meet thing, did seem so mighty shocked that I should desire to ferret
forth somewhat that _Mother_ had no list for me to know, that I let her
a-be. But for all that would I dearly love to know it. I do take
delight in digging up of other folks' secrets, as much as in keeping of
mine own.
Howbeit, here am I a great way off from Sir _Edwin_ and his discourse of
the new Court custom, the which hath name _Euphuism_, and is a right
fair conceit, whereby divers gentlemen and gentlewomen do swear
friendship unto one the other, by divers quaint names the which they do
confer. Thus the Queen's Majesty herself is pleased to honour some of
her servants, as my Lord of _Burleigh_, who is her _Spirit_, and Sir
_Walter Raleigh_ her _Water_, and Mr Vice-Chamberlain [Sir Christopher
Hatton] her _Sheep_, and Mr Secretary [Sir Francis Walsingham] her
_Moon_. Sir _Edwin_ saith he had himself such a friendship with some
mighty great lady, whose name he would not utter, (though I did my best
to provoke him thereto) he calling her his _Discretion_, and she naming
him her _Fortitude_. Which is pleasant and witty matter. [Note 6.]
"And," quoth Sir _Edwin_, "mine honey-sweet Mistress, if it may stand
with your pleasure, let us two follow the Court fashion. You shall be
mine _Amiability_, [loveliness, not loveableness], and (if it shall
please you) shall call me your _Protection_. Have I well said, my
fairest?"
"Indeed, Sir, and I thank you," I made answer, "and should you do me so
much honour, it should like me right well."
By this time we were come to the turn nigh the garden gate, and I dared
not be seen with Sir _Edwin_ no nearer the house. The which he seemed
to guess, and would there take his leave: demanding of me which road led
the shortest way to _Kirkstone_ Pass. So I home, and into our chamber
to doff my raiment, where, as ill luck would have it, was _Nell_. Now,
our chamber window is the only one in all the house whence the path to
_Jack's_ hut can be seen: wherefore I reckoned me fairly safe. But how
did mine heart jump into my mouth when _Nell_ saith, as I was a-folding
of my kerchief--
"Who was that with thee, _Milly_?"
Well, I do hope it was not wicked that I should answer,--"A gentleman,
_Nell_, that would know his shortest way to _Kirkstone_ Pass." In good
sooth, it was a right true answer: for Sir _Edwin_ is a gentleman, and
he did ask me which were the shortest way thereto. But, good lack! it
seemed me as all the pins that ever were in a cushion started o'
pricking me when I thus spake. Yet what ill had I done, forsooth? I
had said no falsehood: only shut _Nell's_ mouth, for she asked no
further. And, dear heart, may I not make so much as a friend to divert
me withal, but I must send round the town-crier to proclaim the same?
After I had writ thus much, down come I to the great chamber, where I
found _Anstace_ and _Hal_ come; and _Hal_, with _Father_ and _Mynheer_,
were fallen of mighty grave discourse touching the news of late come,
that the Pope hath pretended to deprive the Queen's Majesty of all right
to _Ireland_. Well-a-day! as though Her Majesty should think to let go
_Ireland_ or any other land because a foreign bishop should bid her!
Methinks this companion the Pope must needs be clean wood [mad].
_Hal_, moreover, is well pleased that the Common Council of _London_
should forbid all plays in the City, the which, as he will have it, be
ill and foolish matter. Truly, it maketh little matter to me here in
_Derwent_ dale: but methinks, if I dwelt in _London_ town, I should be
but little pleased therewith. Why should folk not divert them?
Being aweary of Master _Hal's_ grave discourse, went I over to
_Anstace_, whom I found mighty busied of more lighter matter,--to wit,
the sumptuary laws of late set forth against long cloaks and wide ruffs,
which do ill please her, for _Anstace_ loveth to ruffle it of a good
ruff. Thence gat she to their _Cicely_, which is but ill at ease, and
Dr _Bell_ was fetched to her this last even: who saith that on _Friday_
and _Saturday_ the sign [of the Zodiac] shall be in the heart, and from
_Sunday_ to _Tuesday_ in the stomach, during which time it shall be no
safe dealing with physic preservative, whereof he reckoneth her need to
be: so she must needs tarry until _Wednesday_ come seven-night, and from
that time to fifteen days forward shall be passing good.
Howbeit, we gat back ere long to the fashions, whereof _Anstace_ had of
late a parcel of news from her husband's sister, Mistress _Parker_, that
dwelleth but fifty miles from _London_, and is an useful sister for to
have. As to the newest fashion of sleeves (quoth she), nothing is more
certain than the uncertainty; and likewise of hoods. Cypress, saith
she, is out of fashion (the which hath put me right out of conceit with
my cypress kirtle that was made but last year), and napped taffeta is
now thought but serving-man-like. All this, and a deal more, _Anstace_
told us, as we sat in the compassed window [bay window].
Dr _Meade's_ hour-glass is broke of the sexton. I am fain to hear the
same, if it shall cut his sermons shorter.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note 1. At this time, shaking hands indicated warmer cordiality than
the kiss, which last was the common form of greeting amongst all
classes.
Note 2. Four-hours answered to afternoon tea, and was usually served,
as its name denotes, at four o'clock.
Note 3. Millicent has really no connection with Melissa, though many
persons have supposed so. It comes, through Milisent and Melisende,
from the Gothic _Amala-suinde_, which signifies Heavenly wisdom.
Note 4. Bade is the imperfect, and bidden the participle, of bid, to
invite, as well as of bid, to command.
Note 5. The reader who wishes for more light on this point than was
allowed to Milisent, will find it in "Lettice Eden."
Note 6. At this time "pleasant" meant humorous, and "witty" meant
intellectual. This curious child's play termed Euphuism, to which grave
men and sedate women did not hesitate to lower themselves, was peculiar
to the age of Elizabeth, than whom never was a human creature at once so
great and so small.
CHAPTER FOUR.
IN BY-PATH MEADOW.
"I thought that I was strong, Lord,
And did not need Thine arm;
Though dangers thronged around me,
My heart felt no alarm:
I thought I nothing needed--
Riches, nor dress, nor sight:
And on I walked in darkness,
And still I thought it light."
SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XV.
I have but now read o'er what I writ these last few days, and have
meditated much whether I should go on to tell of Sir _Edwin_, for it
shall ne'er serve to have folk read the same. And methinketh it best
for to go straight on, and at the end, if need be, tear out the leaves.
For it doth me a mighty pleasure to write and think upon the same: and I
can make some excuse when I come to it.
Though Mistress _Nell_,
I guess right well,
Of neatness should be heedful:
Yet I will tear
The leaves out fair,
If it shall so be needful.
There! who saith I cannot write poesy?
This morrow again (I being but just without the garden gate), I met with
my _Protection_, who doffed his plumed bonnet and saluted me as his most
fair _Amiability_. I do see him most days, though but for a minute: and
in truth I think long from one time to another. Coming back, I
meditated what I should say to Mistress _Nell_ (that loveth somewhat too
much to meddle) should she have caught sight of him: for it shall not
serve every time to send him to _Kirkstone_. Nor, of course, could I
think to tell a lie thereabout. So I called to mind that he had once
asked me what name we called the eye-bright in these parts, though it
were not this morrow, but I should not need to say that, and it should
be no lie, seeing he did say so much. Metrusteth the cushion should not
prick me for that, and right sure am I there should be no need.
SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XVII.
Truly, as saith the old saw, 'tis best not to halloo till thou be out of
the wood. This very afternoon, what should _Edith_ say, without one
word of warning, as we were sat a-sewing, but--
"_Mother_, do you mind a gentleman, by name _Tregarvon_?"
"What name saidst, _Edith_?" asks _Mother_.
"_Tregarvon_," quoth she. "Sir _Edwin Tregarvon_, of _Cornwall_."
"Nay, I never knew no gentleman of that name," saith _Mother_. "Where
heardst of him, child?"
"'Twas when we went o'er to Saint _Hubert's_ Isle, _Mother_," she made
answer,--"what day were it, _Milly_?--about ten days gone--"
"Aye, I mind it," saith _Mother_.
"Well, while I sat of the rock a-drawing, come up a gentleman to me,"
saith she, "and asked at me if _Louvaine_ were not my name. (Why, then,
he knew us! thought I.) I said `Aye,' and he went on to ask me if
_Father_ were at home, for he had list to have speech of him: and he
said he knew you, _Mother_, of old time, when you were Mistress
_Lettice_. I told him _Father_ was at home, and he desired to know what
time should be the best to find him: when I told him the early morrow,
for he was oft away in the afternoon. And then--"
"Well, my lass?" saith _Mother_, for _Edith_ was at a point.
"Well, _Mother_, methinks I had better tell you," saith she, a-looking
up, "for I cannot be easy till I have so done, and I wis well you will
not lay to my charge a thing that was no blame of mine. So--then he
'gan to speak of a fashion that little liked me, and I am assured should
have liked you no better: commending my drawing, and mine hair, and mine
eyes, and all such matter as that: till at the last I said unto him,
`Sir, I pray you of pardon, but I am not used to such like talk, and in
truth I know not what to answer. If your aim be to find favour with me,
you were best hold your peace from such words.' For, see you, _Mother_,
I thought he might have some petition unto _Father_, and might take a
fantasy that I could win _Father_ to grant him, and so would the rather
if he talked such matter as should flatter my foolish vanity. As though
_Father_ should be one to be swayed by such a fantasy as that! But
then, of course, he did not know _Father_. I trust I did not aught to
your displeasance, _Mother_?"
"So far as I can judge, dear child, thou didst very well," saith
_Mother_: "and I am right glad thou wert thus discreet for thy years.
But what said he in answer?"
"Oh, he tarried not after that," quoth she: "he did only mutter somewhat
that methought should be to ask pardon, and then went off in another
minute."
_Mother_ laid down her work with a glow in her eyes.
"O _Edith_!" saith she: "I am so thankful thou art not,"--but all
suddenly she shut up tight, and the glow went out of her _eyes_ and into
her cheeks. I never know what that signifieth: and I have seen it to
hap aforetime. But she took up her sewing again, and said no more, till
she saith all at once right the thing which I desired her not to say.
"Did this gentleman speak with thee, _Milly_?"
I made my voice as cool and heedless as I could.
"Well, _Mother_, I reckon it was the same that I saw leaning against a
tree at the other side of the isle, which spake to me and asked me what
the isle was called, and who Saint _Hubert_ were. He told me, the same
as _Edith_, that he had known you aforetime."
"Didst get a poem unto thy sweet eyes, _Milly_?" saith _Edith_,
laughing.
"Nay," said I, "mine eyes be not so sweet as thine."
"Did he ask at thee if _Father_ were at home?"
"Ay, he asked that."
Herein told I no falsehood, for that day he said not a word touching
mine eyes.
Then Cousin _Bess_ looks up. Cousin _Bess_ was by, but not Aunt
_Joyce_.
"What manner of man, my lasses?" saith she.
I left _Edith_ to make answer.
"Why," saith she, "I reckon he might be ten years younger than _Father_,
or may-be more: and--"
"Oh, not a young man, then?" saith _Mother_, as though she were fain it
so were.
"Oh, nay," quoth _Edith_: "but well-favoured, and of a fair hair and
beard."
"And clad of a dark green velvet jerkin," saith Cousin _Bess_, "and
tawny hose, with a rare white feather in 's velvet bonnet?"
"That is he," saith _Edith_.
"Good lack, then!"
Cousin _Bess_ makes answer, "but he up to me only yester-morrow on the
_Keswick_ road, as I come back from _Isaac's_. My word, but he doth
desire for to see Sir _Aubrey_ some, for he asked at us all three if he
were at home."
"Was he a man thou shouldest feel to trust, _Bess_?" asks _Mother_.
"Trust!" saith she. "I'd none trust yon dandified companion, not for to
sell a sucking-pig."
Dear heart, but what queer things doth she say at times! I would Cousin
_Bess_ were somewhat more civiler. To think of a gentleman such as he
is, a-selling of pigs! Yet I must say I was not o'er well pleased to
hear of his complimenting of _Edith_: though, 'tis true, that was ere he
had seen me.
"What like is he, _Bess_?" saith _Mother_. "I would know the thought he
gave to thee."
"Marry, the first were that he was like to have no wife, or she should
have amended a corner of his rare slashed sleeve, that was ravelling
forth o' the stitching," saith she. "And the second were, that he were
like the folk in this vicinage, with his golden hair and grey eyen. And
the third, that he were not, for that his speech was not of these parts.
And the fourth, that his satin slashed sleeves and his silver buckles
of his shoes must have cost him a pretty penny. And the last, that I'd
be fain to see the back of him."
"Any more betwixt, _Cousin_?" saith _Edith_, laughing.
"Eh, there was a cart-load betwixt," saith she. "I mattered him nought,
I warrant you."
"Well, neither did I, o'er much," saith _Edith_.
Dear heart, thought I, but where were their eyes, both twain, that they
saw not the lovesomeness and gentilesse of that my gallant _Protection_?
But as for Cousin _Bess_, she never had no high fantasies. All her
likings be what the _French_ call _bourgeois_. But I was something
surprised that _Edith_ should make no count of him. I marvel if she
meant the same.
"Well, there must needs be some blunder," saith _Mother_, when we had
sat silent a while: "for I never knew no man of that name, nor no
gentleman of _Cornwall_, to boot."
"May-be he minds you, _Mother_, though you knew not him," quoth _Edith_.
"Soothly," saith she, "there were knights in the Court, whose names I
knew not: but if they saw me so much as thrice, methinks that were all--
and never spake word unto me."
"See you now, Cousin _Lettice_," saith _Bess_, "if this man wanted
somewhat of you, he'd be fain enough to make out that he had known you
any way he might."
"Ay, very like," saith _Mother_.
"And if he come up to the door, like an honest companion, and desire
speech of Sir _Aubrey_, well, he may be a decent man, for all his
slashed sleeves and flying feathers: but if not so, then I write him
down no better than he should be, though what he is after it passeth my
wit to see."
"I do believe," quoth _Edith_, a-laughing, "that Cousin _Bess_ hates
every thing that flies. What with Dr _Meade's_ surplice, and Sir
_Edwin's_ long feather--verily, I would marvel what shall come a-flying
next."
"Nay, my lass, I love the song-birds as well as any," saith Cousin
_Bess_: "'tis only I am not compatient with matter flying that is not
meant to fly. If God Almighty had meant men and women to fly, He'd have
put wings on them. And I never can see why men should deck themselves
out o' birds' feathers, without they be poor savages that take coloured
beads to be worth so much as gold angels. And as for yon surplice, 'tis
a rag o' _Popery_--that's what it is: and I'd as lief tell Dr _Meade_
so as an other man. I did tell Mistress _Meade_ so, t' other day: but,
poor soul! she could not see it a whit. 'Twas but a decent garment that
the priest must needs bear, and such like. And `Mistress _Meade_,' says
I, `I'll tell you what it is,' says I: `you are none grounded well in
_Hebrews_,' says I. `Either Dr _Meade's_ no priest, or else the Lord
isn't,' says I: `so you may pick and choose,' says I. Eh dear! but she
looked on me as if I'd spake some ill words o' the Queen's Majesty--not
a bit less. And `Mistress _Wolvercot_,' says she, `what ever do you
mean?' says she. `Well, Mistress _Meade_,' says I, `that's what I
mean--that there can be no _Christian_ priests so long as _Christ_ our
Lord is alive: so if Dr _Meade's_ a priest, He must be dead. And if
so,' says I, `why then, I don't see how there can be no _Christians_ of
no sort, priests or no,' says I. `Why, Mistress _Wolvercot_!' says she,
`you must have lost your wits.' `Well,' says I, `some folks has: but I
don't rightly think I'm one,'--and so home I came."
_Edith_ was rarely taken, and laughed merrily. For me, I was so glad to
see the talk win round to Mistress _Meade_, that I was fain to join.
"Thou art right, _Bess_," saith _Mother_.
"Why," saith she, "I'm with _Paul_: and he's good company enough for me,
though may-be, being but a tent-maker by trade, he'd scarce be meet for
Dr _Meade_. I thought we'd done with bishops and priests and such
like, I can tell you, when the Church were reformed: but, eh dear!
they're a coming up again every bit as bad as them aforetime. I cannot
see why they kept no bishops. Lawn sleeves, forsooth! and rochets! and
cassocks! and them square caps,--they're uncommon like the Beast! I
make no count of 'em."
"And rochets can fly!" cries _Edith_ merrily.
"Why, Cousin _Bess_," said I, "you shall be a _Brownist_ in a week or
twain."
"Nay, I'll be ruled by the law: but I reckon I may call out if it
pinches," saith she.
So, with mirth, we ended the matter: and thankful was I when the talk
were o'er.
SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XIX.
I do keep my book right needfully locked up, for I would not for all the
world that _Nell_ nor _Edith_ should read this last fortnight. Yester
even, just as it grew to dusk, met I with my _Protection_ outside the
garden door, that would fain win me to meet with him some whither on the
hills, where (said he) we might talk more freely. But so feared was I
to vex _Father_ and _Mother_ that this I did deny, though I could see it
vexed him, and it went to mine heart to do thus. And he asked at me if
I loved him not, and did very hard press me to say that I would love
him: for he saith he loveth me better than all the world. Yet that
would I not fully grant him, but plagued him a bit thereon. 'Tis rare
fun plaguing a man. But methought I would try this even if I could not
wring a fashion of consent out of _Father_, without his knowing the
same: so when none was there but he and I and _Moses_, quoth I--
"_Father_, is it ever wrong to love any?"
"`Love is of God,'" he made answer. "Surely no."
And therewith should I have been content, and flattered me that I had
_Father's_ assent to the loving of my _Protection_: but as ill luck
would have it, he, that was going forth of the chamber, tarried, with
the door in his hand, to say--
"But mind that it be very love, my maid. That is not love, but unlove,
which will help a friend to break God's commandments."
I had liefer he had let that last alone. It sticketh in my throat
somewhat. Yet have I _Father's_ consent to loving: and surely none need
break God's commandments because they love each other. 'Tis no breaking
thereof for me to meet and talk with Sir _Edwin_--of that am I as
certain as that my name is _Milisent_. And I have not told a single lie
about it, sithence my good _Protection_ revealed in mine ear the right
way not to tell lies: namely, should _Mother_ ask me, "_Milly_, hast
thou seen again that gentleman?" that I should say out loud, "No,
_Mother_,"--and whisper to myself, under my breath, "this morrow,"--the
which should make it perfectly true. And right glad was I to hear of
this most neat and delicate way of saving the truth, and yet not
uttering your secrets.
SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XXII.
If Mistress _Helena Louvaine_ could ever hold her peace from saying just
the very matter that I would give her a broad shilling to be quiet on!
Here, now, this even, when all we were sat in hall, what should she
begin with, but--
"_Father_, there is a thing I would ask at you."
"Say on, my maid," quoth he, right kindly as his wont is: for _Father_
is alway ready to counsel us maids, whensoever we may desire it.
"Then, _Father_," saith she, "what is falsehood? Where doth it begin
and end? Put a case that I am talking with _Alice Lewthwaite_, and she
shall ask me somewhat that I list not to tell her. Should I commit sin,
if I told her but the half?"
"Hardly plain enough, my maid," saith _Father_. "As to where falsehood
begins and ends,--it begins in thine heart: but where it ends, who shall
tell but God? But set forth thy case something plainer."
"Well," saith she, "suppose, _Father_, that _Mother_ or you had showed
to me that _Wat_ was coming home, but had (for some cause you wist, and
I not) bidden me not to tell the same. If _Alice_ should say `Hast
heard aught of late touching _Wat_, _Nell_?' must I say to her plain, `I
cannot answer thee,'--the which should show her there was a secret: or
should there be no ill to say `Not to-day,' or `Nought much,' or some
such matter as that?"
"Should there be any wrong in that, _Father_?" saith _Edith_, as though
she could not think there should.
"Dear hearts," saith _Father_, "I cannot but think a man's heart is gone
something wrong when he begins to meddle with casuistry. The very
minute that _Adam_ fell from innocence, he took refuge in casuistry.
There was not one word of untruth in what he said to the Lord: he was
afraid, and he did hide himself. Yet there was deception, for it was
not all the truth--no, nor the half. As methinks, 'tis alway safest to
tell out the plain truth, and leave the rest to God."
"_Jack Lewthwaite_ said once," quoth _Edith_, "that at the grammar
school at _Kendal_, where he was, there was a lad that should speak out
to the master that which served his turn, and whisper the rest into his
cap; yet did he maintain stoutly that he told the whole truth. What
should you call that, _Father_?"
"A shift got straight from the father of lies," he made answer. "Trust
me, that lad shall come to no good, without he repent and change his
course."
Then Aunt _Joyce_ said somewhat that moved the discourse other whither:
but I had heard enough to make me rare diseaseful. When I thought I had
hit on so excellent a fashion of telling the truth, and yet hiding my
secrets, to have _Father_ say such things came straight from _Satan_!
It liketh me not at all. I would _Nell_ would let things a-be!
SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XXIV.
My good _Protection_ tells me 'tis country fashion to count such matter
deceit, and should never obtain in the Court at all. And he asked me if
_Father_ were not given to be a little _Puritan_--he smiling the while
as though to be a _Puritan_ were somewhat not over well-liked of the
great. Then I told him that I knew not well his meaning, for that word
was strange unto me. So he said that word _Puritan_ was of late come
up, to denote certain precise folk that did desire for to be better than
their neighbours, and most of them only to make a talk, and get
themselves well accounted of by such common minds as should take them at
their own appraisement.
"Not, of course," saith he, "that such could ever be the case with a
gentleman of Sir _Audrey's_ worshipfulness, and with such an angel in
his house to guard him from all ill."
I did not well like this, for I would alway have _Father_ right well
accounted of, and not thought to fall into mean country ways. But then
'gan he to talk of mine eyes, which he is ever a-praising, and after a
while I forgat my disease.
Still, I cannot right away with what _Father_ said. If only _Father_
and _Mother_ could know all about this matter, and really consent
thereto, I would be a deal happier. But my _Protection_ saith that were
contrary unto all custom of love-matters, and they must well know the
same: for in all matters where the elders do wit and order the same
themselves, 'tis always stupid and humdrum for the young folks, and no
romance left therein at all.
"It should suit well with Mistress _Nell_," saith he, "from what I do
hear touching her conditions [disposition]: but never were meet for the
noble and generous soul of my fairest _Amiability_, that is far above
all such mean things."
So I reckon, if the same always be, I must be content, and not trouble
me touching _Father's_ and _Mother's_ knowing. But I do marvel if
_Father_ and _Mother_ did the like their own selves, for I know they
married o' love. Howbeit, _Mother_ had none elders then living, nor
_Father_ neither, now I come to think thereon: wherefore with them 'twas
other matter.
Sithence I writ that last, come _Alice_ and _Blanche Lewthwaite_, and
their _Robin_, to four-hours: and mighty strange it is how folk be for
ever a-saying things as though they wist what I were a-thinking. Here
_Blanche_ saith to _Nell_, that she would account that no jolly wedding
where her elders had ordered all for her, but would fain choose for
herself.
"I would likewise fain have my choice go along therewith," saith _Nell_,
"and so, doubtless, would every maid: nor do I think that any father and
mother should desire otherwise. But thou signifiest not, surely,
_Blanche_, that thou shouldst love to order the whole matter thine own
self, apart from thine elders' pleasure altogether?"
"Ay, but I would," saith she: "it should have a deal better zest."
"It should have a deal less honesty!" saith _Nell_ with some heat--heat,
that is, for _Nell_.
"Honesty!" quoth _Blanche_: "soft you now [gently],--what dishonesty
should be therein?"
"Nay, _Blanche_, measure such dealing thyself by God's ell-wand of the
Fifth Commandment, and judge if it were honouring thine elders as He bid
thee."
"I do vow, _Nell_, thou art a _Puritan_!"
"By the which I know not what thou meanest," saith _Nell_, as cool as a
marble image.
"Why, 'tis a new word of late come up," quoth _Blanche_. "They do call
all sad, precise, humdrum folk, _Puritans_."
"Who be `they'?" asks _Nell_.
"Why, all manner of folks--great folk in especial," saith she.
"Come, _Blanche_!" saith _Edith_, "where hast thou jostled with great
folk?"
"An' I have not," quoth she, something hotly, "I reckon I may have
talked with some that have."
"No great folk--my Lord _Dilston_ except--ever come to _Derwent-side_,"
saith _Edith_.
"And could I not discourse with my Lord _Dilston_, if it so pleased him
and me?" quoth _Blanche_, yet something angered.
"Come, my maids, fall not out," saith _Alice_. "Thou well wist,
_Blanche_, thou hast had no talk with my Lord _Dilston_, that is known
all o'er for the bashfullest and silentest man with women ever was. I
do marvel how he e'er gat wed, without his elders did order it for him."
Well, at this we all laughed, and _Alice_ turned the talk aside to other
matter, for I think she saw that _Blanche's_ temper (which is ne'er that
of an angel) were giving way.
I cannot help to be somewhat diseaseful, for it seemeth me as though
_Blanche_ might hint at Sir _Edwin_. And I do trust he hath not been
a-flattering of her. She is metely well-looking,--good of stature, and
a fair fresh face, grey eyen, and fair hair, as have the greater part of
maids about here, but her nose turns up too much for beauty. She is not
for to compare with me nor _Edith_.
I must ask at Sir _Edwin_ to-morrow if he wist aught of _Blanche_. If I
find him double-tongued--good lack! but methinks I would ne'er see him
no more, though it should break mine heart--as I cast no doubt it
should.
SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XXV.
'Tis all well, and _Blanche_ could not have meant to hint at my
_Protection_. I asked at him if he knew one _Blanche Lewthwaite_, and
he seemed fair astonied, and said he knew no such an one, nor that any
of that name dwelt in all the vale. Then I told him wherefore I had
asked it. And he said that to think I was jealous of any for him did
him uttermost honour and pleasance, but did his fairest _Amiability_
(quo' he) think he could so much as look on any other face at after
hers?
Then I asked at him (as I had often desired to wit) where he were of a
_Sunday_, for that he never came to church. And he told me that he had
an old friend, a parson, dwelling on _Winander-side_, and he did alway
abide with him o'er the _Sunday_. Moreover he was something feared
(saith he) to be seen at _Keswick_ church, lest _Father_ should get
scent of him, wherefore he did deny himself the delight it had been
(quoth he) to feast his eyes on the fair face of his most sweet
_Amiability_.
"Then," said I, laughing, "you did not desire for to see _Father_ at the
first?"
"Soft you now!" saith he, and laughed too. "`All is fair in love and
war.'"
"I doubt if _Father_ should say the same," said I.
"Well, see you," quoth he, "Sir _Aubrey_ is a right excellent gentleman,
yet hath he some precise notions which obtain not at Court and in such
like company. A man cannot square all his dealings by the Bible and the
parsons, without he go out of the world. And here away in the country,
where every man hath known you from your cradle, it is easier to ride of
an hobby than in Town, where you must do like other folk or else be
counted singular and ridiculous. No brave and gallant man would run the
risk of being thought singular."
"Why, _Father's_ notion is right the contrary," said I. "I have heard
him to say divers times that 'tis the cowards which dare not be laughed
at, and that it takes a right brave man to dare to be thought singular."
"Exactly!" saith he. "That is right the _Puritan_ talk, as I had the
honour to tell you aforetime. You should never hear no gentleman of the
Court to say no such a thing."
"But," said I, "speak they alway the most truth in the Court?"
This seemed to divert him rarely. He laughed for a minute as though he
should ne'er give o'er.
"My fairest _Amiability_," saith he, "had I but thee in the Court, as is
the only place meet for thee, then shouldst thou see how admired of
every creature were thy wondrous wit and most incomparable beauties.
Why, I dare be sworn on all the books in _Cumberland_, thou shouldest be
of the Queen's Majesty's maids in one week's time. And of the delights
and jollities of that life, dwelling here in a corner of _England_, thou
canst not so much as cast an idea." Methought that should be right
rare.
SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XXVII.
With Aunt _Joyce_ this morrow to visit old _Nanny Crewdson_, that is
brother's widow to _Isaac_, and dwelleth in a cot up _Thirlmere_ way. I
would fain have avoided the same an' I might, for I never took no list
in visiting poor folk, and sithence I have wist my right noble
_Protection_ do I take lesser than ever. In very deed, all relish is
gone for me out of every thing but him and the jolly Court doings
whereof he tells me. And I am ever so much happier than I was of old,
with nought but humdrum matter; only that now and then, for a short
while, I am a deal more miserabler. I cannot conceive what it is that
cometh o'er me at those times. 'Tis like as if I were dancing on
flowers, and some unseen hand did now and then push aside the flowers,
and I saw a great and horrible black gulf underneath, and that one false
step should cast me down therein. Nor will any thing comfort me, at
those times, but to talk with my _Protection_, that can alway dispel the
gloom. But the things around, that I have been bred up in, do grow more
and more distasteful unto me than ever.
Howbeit, I am feared to show folk the same, so when Aunt _Joyce_ called
me to come with her to _Nanny_, I made none ado, but tied on mine hood
and went.
We found old _Nanny_--that is too infirm for aught but to sit of a chair
in the sunshine--so doing by the window, beside her a little table, and
thereon a great Bible open, with her spectacles of her nose, that she
pulled off and wiped, and set down of the book to keep her place.
"Well, _Nanny_!" saith Aunt _Joyce_. "`Sitting down under His shadow,'
dear heart?"
"Ay, Mistress _Joyce_," saith she, "and `with great delight.'"
I marvel if old folk do really like to read the Bible. I never did.
And the older I grow, the lesser doth it like me. Can they mean it,
trow? If they do, then I suppose I shall like it when I am as old as
_Nanny_. But, good lack! what gloomsome manner of life must that be,
wherein one shall find one's diversion in reading of the Bible!
I know _Father_ and _Mother_ would say clean contrary. But they, see
you, were bred up never to see a Bible in _English_ till they were
grown: which is as different as can be to the like of us maids, that
never knew the day when it lay not of the hall table. But therein runs
my pen too fast, for _Anstace_ can well remember Queen _Mary's_ time,
though _Nell_ scarce can do so,--only some few matters here and there.
So then Aunt _Joyce_ and _Nan_ fell a-talking,--and scarce so much as a
word could I conceive. [Note 1.] They might well-nigh as good have
talked _Greek_ for me. Yet one matter will I set down the which I mean
to think o'er--some time, when I am come to divert me with the Bible,
and am as old as _Nanny_. Not now, of course.
"Where art reading, _Nanny_?" saith Aunt _Joyce_.
"In _Esaias_, Mistress _Joyce_. Fifty-eighth chapter, first and second
verses. There's fine reading in _Esaias_."
"Ay, _Nan_, there is," saith Aunt _Joyce_. "But what toucheth it? I am
ill set to remember chapter and verse."
"Well, Mistress, first it saith, `Show My people their transgression.'
And i' th' very next verse,--`Yet they seek me daily,'--nay, there's
more--`they take delight in approaching to God.'"
"Well, _Nan_? That reads strange,--no doth it?"
"Ah, it doth, Mistress _Joyce_. But I think, look ye, there's a deal i'
th' word _approaching_. See ye, it saith not they take delight to get
near. Nay, folk o' that make has a care not to get too near. They'll
lay down a chalk line, and they'll stop outside on't. If they'd only
come near enough, th' light 'd burn up all them transgressions: but, ye
see, that wouldn't just suit 'em. These is folk that wants to have th'
Lord--a tidy way from 'em--and keep th' transgressions too. Eh,
Mistress, but when a man can pray right through th' hundred and
thirty-ninth Psalm, his heart's middlin' perfect wi' the Lord.
Otherwise, he'll boggle at them last verses. We don't want Him to
search us when we know He'll find yon wedge o' gold and yon _Babylonish_
garment if He do. Nay, we don't so!"
Now, I know not o'er well what old _Nan_ meaneth: but this do I know--
that whenever I turn o'er the _Psalter_, I ever try to get yon Psalm
betwixt two leaves, and turn them o'er both together, so that I see not
a word on't. I reckon _Nan_ should say my heart was not perfect by a
great way. Well, may-be she'd be none so far out.
SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XXIX.
To-morrow shall be the last day of my month, and _Tuesday_ even must I
give up the book to _Edith_. I shall not tear out the leaves till the
last minute, and I will keep them when I do.
I do never see nought of my _Protection_ of a _Sunday_, but all other
days meet I him now (whenas I can) in the little copse that lieth
_Thirlmere_ way, not so far from _Nanny's_ hut. Last even was he
essaying to win me for to wed him (as he hath done afore) without
_Father_ and _Mother_ knowing. I have ever held off till now: but I am
not so sure I shall do it much longer. He saith he wist a _Popish_
priest that should do it: and it so done, _Father_ and _Mother_ must
needs come in and give us leave to be wed rightly in church. But I will
consider of the same a day or twain longer.
As to setting down what we do of a _Sunday_, 'tis alway the same o'er
again, so it should be to no good. Once is enough for all.
SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE LAST.
Such a fright have I had this morrow, I may scantly hold my pen. I set
forth for the copse where I do meet with my _Protection_, and had
well-nigh reached it,--verily, I could discern him coming through the
trees to meet me--when from _Nanny's_ hut, right upon us, who should
come out save _Father_, and _Mother_, and _Edith_, their own selves. I
cast but a glint to him that he should not note me, and walked on to
meet them.
"Why, _Milly_!" saith _Mother_. "I wist not thou wert coming this way,
child."
"Under your pleasure, _Mother_, no more did I of you," said I.
"Why, _Milly_, do but look at yon gentleman!" saith _Edith_, as he
passed by us, taking no note of us at all. "Is it not the same we met
on Saint _Hubert's_ Isle?"
"Is it so?" said I, making believe to look after him, the rather since
it gave me an excuse to turn my back on them. "He bears a green
jerkin,--otherwise--"
Wherein I am very sure I said _no_ falsity, as whatso _Father_ might
say.
"I do think it is the same," saith _Edith_. "Came he ever to speak with
you, _Father_?"
"Nay, my lass, I mind him not," saith _Father_.
"He is not ill-looking," saith _Mother_.
"May-be not," quoth _Father_. "Thou art a better judge of such matters
than I, dear heart. I only note the way a man's soul looketh out of his
eyes, not the colour of the eyes whence it looketh."
"Now, _Father_, under your good leave, that is not well said," _Edith_
makes answer: "for you have your own self the fairest eyes ever a man's
soul looked forth of."
_Father_ laughs at this, and doffs his cap merrily.
"Your very humble servant, Mistress _Editha Louvaine_," quoth he: "when
I do desire to send forth to the world a book of all my beauties,
learning, and virtues, I will bid you to write therein touching mine
eyes. They serve me well to see withal, I thank God, and beyond that
issue have I never troubled me regarding them."
"And how liked you the manner of Sir _Edwin Tregarvon's_ soul looking
forth, _Father_?" saith _Edith_, also laughing.
"Why, that could I not see," quoth he, "for he keeping his eyes bent
upon the ground, it did not look forth. But I cannot say his face
altogether pleased me."
How mighty strange is it that all they--and in especial _Father_, that I
have alway reckoned so wise--should have so little discernment!
Well, methought, as they were there, I must needs come home with them:
and this afternoon, if I can steal hence without any seeing me, will I
go yet again to the copse, to see if I may find my _Protection_: for I
have well-nigh granted the privy wedding he hath pled so hard for, and
this morrow we thought to order the inwards thereof [settle the
details]. As next _Sunday_ at even, saith he, I am to steal forth of
the garden door, and he shall meet me in the lane with an hackney and
two or three serving-men for guard: and so go we forth to _Ambleside_,
where the priest shall join our hands, and then come back and entreat
_Father_ and _Mother's_ pardon and blessing. I dare be bound there
shall be much commotion, and some displeasant speeches; but I trust all
shall blow o'er in time: and after all (as saith my _Protection_) when
there is no hope that _Father_ and _Mother_ should give us leave
aforehand, what else can we do?
Verily, it is a sore trouble that elders will stand thus in young folks'
way that do love each other. And my _Protection_ is not so much elder
than I. In the stead of only ten or fifteen years younger than
_Father_, he is twenty-five well reckoned, having but four-and-thirty
years: and I was twenty my last birthday, which is two months gone. And
if he look (as he alloweth) something elder than his years, it is, as he
hath told me, but trouble and sorrow, of which he hath known much. My
poor _Protection_! in good sooth, I am sorry for his trouble.
I shall not tear out my leaves afore I am back, and meantime, I do keep
the book right heedfully under lock and key.
As for any paying of two-pences, that is o'er for me now; so there were
no good to reckon them up. My noble _Protection_ saith, when he hath
but once gat me safe to the Court, then shall I have a silken gown every
day I do live, and jewelling so much as ever I shall desire. He will
set off his _Amiability_ (quoth he) that all shall see and wonder at
her. Though I count _Father_ doth love me, yet am I sure, my
_Protection_ loveth me a deal the more. 'Tis only fitting, therefore,
that I cleave to him rather.
Now must I go forth and see if I may meet with him.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note 1. The words _understand_ and _conceive_ have changed places since
the days of Elizabeth. To understand then meant to originate an idea:
to conceive, to realise an imparted thought.
CHAPTER FIVE.
AUNT JOYCE SPOILS THE GAME.
"We shun two paths, my maiden,
When strangers' way we tell--
That which ourselves we know not,
That which we know too well.
"I `never knew!' Thou think'st it?
Well! Better so, to-day.
The years lie thick and mossy
O'er that long-silent way.
"The roses there are withered,
The thorns are tipped with pain:
Thou wonderest if I tell thee
`Walk not that way again?'
"Oh eyes that see no further
Than this world's glare and din!
I warn thee from that pathway
Because I slipped therein.
"So, leave the veil up-hanging!
And tell the world outside--
`She cannot understand me--
She nothing has to hide!'"
(_In Edith's handwriting_.)
SELWICK HALL, DECEMBER THE FIRST.
I would have fain let be the records of this sad first day that this
chronicle is come to mine hand. But _Father_ and _Mother_ do desire me
to set down honestly what hath happed, the which therefore I must essay
to do.
It was of long time that I had noted a strange difference in _Milly_,
and had talked with _Nell_ thereabout, more than once or twice. Though
_Milisent_ is by four years elder than I, yet she had alway been the one
of us most loving frolicsome merriment. But now it seemed me as though
she had grown up over my head, all at once. Not that she was less
mirthful at times: nay, rather more, if aught. But at other times she
seemed an other maid, and not our _Milly_ at all. It was not our
_Milly's_ wont to sit with her hands of her lap, a-gazing from the
window; nor to answer sharp and short when one spake to her; nor to
appear all unrestful, as though she were in disease of mind. And at
last, _Nell_ thinking less thereof than I, I made up my mind to speak
with Aunt _Joyce_, that I knew was wise and witty [sensible], and if
there were aught gone wrong, should take it less hard than _Mother_, and
could break the same to _Mother_ more gentler than we. To say truth, I
was feared--and yet I scarce knew why--of that man we met on Saint
_Hubert's_ Isle. I had noted that _Milly_ never named him, though he
were somewhat cause of mirth betwixt _Helen_ and me: and when an other
so did, she seemed as though she essayed to speak as careless as ever
she could. This liked me not: nor did it like me that twice I had met
_Milly_ coming from the garden, and she went red as fire when she saw
me. From all this I feared some secret matter that should not be: and
as yester-morrow, when we were come from _Nanny's_, I brake my mind to
Aunt _Joyce_.
Aunt _Joyce_ did not cry "Pish!" nor fault me for conceiving foolish
fantasies, as I was something feared she might. On the contrary part,
she heard me very kindly and heedfully, laying down her work to give
better ear. When I had done, she saith--
"Tell me, _Edith_, what like is this man."
I told her so well as I could.
"And how oft hast thou seen him?"
"Three times, _Aunt_. The first on Saint _Hubert's_ Isle, whereof you
know: the second, I met him once in the lane behind the garden, as I was
a-coming home from _Isaac Crewdson's_: and the last, this morrow, just
as we came out of _Nanny's_ door, we met _Milisent_, full face: and a
minute at after, this Sir _Edwin_ passed us on the road."
"Took he any note of you, either time?"
"When he met me alone, he doffed his cap and smiled, but spake not.
This morrow he took no note of any one."
"_Could_ she be going to meet him?" saith Aunt _Joyce_ in a low and very
troubled voice.
"In good sooth, _Aunt_," said I, "you have put into words my very fear,
which I did scarce dare to think right out."
"_Edith_," saith she, "is _Milly_ within, or no?"
"She was tying on her hood a moment since, as though she meant to go
forth. I saw her through a chink of the door, which was not close shut,
as I passed by."
"Come thou with me quickly," saith Aunt _Joyce_, and rose up. "We will
follow her. 'Tis no treachery to lay snare for a traitor, if it be as I
fear. And 'tis not she that is the traitor, poor child--poor, foolish
child!"
We walked quickly, for our aim was to keep _Milisent_ but just in view,
yet not to let her see us. She was walking fast, too, and she took the
road to _Nanny's_, but turned off just ere she were there, into the
little shaw that lieth by the way. We followed quietly, till we could
hear voices: then Aunt _Joyce_ stayed her behind a poplar-tree, and made
me a sign to be still.
"All things be now ordered, my fairest," I heard a voice say which
methought was Sir _Edwin's_: and peeping heedfully round the poplar, I
caught a glimpse of his side-face, enough to be sure it were he. Aunt
_Joyce_ could see him likewise. "All things be ordered," quoth he:
"remember, nine o' the clock on _Sunday_ night."
"But thou wilt not fail me?" saith _Milisent's_ voice in answer.
"Fail thee!" he made answer. "My sweetest of maids, impossible!"
"I feel afeared," she saith again. "I would they had wist at home. I
cannot be sure 'tis right."
"Nay, sweet heart, call not up these old ghosts I have laid so oft
already," saith he. "Sir _Aubrey's Puritan_ notions should never
suffer him to give thee leave afore: but when done, he shall right soon
o'erlook all, and all shall go merry as a marriage bell. Seest thou, we
do him in truth a great kindness, sith he should be feared to give
consent, and yet would fain so do if his conscience should allow."
"Would he?" asks _Milly_, in something a troubled tone.
"Would he!" Sir _Edwin_ makes answer. "Would he have his daughter a
right great lady at the Court? Why, of course he would. Every man
would that were not a born fool. My honey-sweet _Milisent_, let not
such vain scruples terrify thee. They are but shadows, I do ensure
thee."
"I think thus when I am with thee," saith she, smiling up in his face:
"but when not--"
"Sweet heart," saith he, bending his goodly head, "_not_ is well-nigh
over, and then thy cruel _Puritan_ scruples shall never trouble thee
more."
"It is as we feared," I whispered into the ear of Aunt _Joyce_, whose
face was turned from me: but when she turned her head, I was terrified.
I never in my life saw Aunt _Joyce_ look as she did then. Out of her
cheeks and lips every drop of blood seemed driven, and her eyes were
blazing fire. When she whispered back, it was through her set teeth.
"`As!' Far worse. Worser than thou wist. Is this the man?"
"This is Sir _Edwin_!"
Without another word Aunt _Joyce_ stalked forth, and had _Milisent_ by
the arm ere she found time to scream. Then she shrieked and shrank, but
Aunt _Joyce_ held her fast.
"Get you gone!" was all she said to Sir _Edwin_.
"Nay, Mistress, tell me rather by what right--"
"Right!" Aunt _Joyce_ loosed her hold of _Milisent_, and went and stood
right before him. "Right!--from you to me!"
"Mistress, I cry you mercy, but we be entire strangers."
"Be we?" she made answer, with more bitterness in her voice than ever I
heard therein. "Be we such strangers? What! think you I know you not,
_Leonard Norris_? You counted on the change of all these years to hide
you from _Aubrey_ and _Lettice_, and you counted safely enough. They
would not know you if they stood here. But did you fancy years could
hide you from _Joyce Morrell_? Traitor! a woman will know the man she
has loved, though his own mother were to pass him by unnoted."
Sir _Edwin_ uttered not a word, but stood gazing on Aunt _Joyce_ as
though she had bound him by a spell.
She turned back to us a moment. "_Milisent_ and _Edith_, go home!" she
saith. "_Milisent_, thank God that He hath saved thee from the very
jaws of Hell--from a man worser than any fiend. _Edith_, tell thy
father what hath happed, but say nought of all this to thy mother. I
shall follow you anon. I have yet more ado with him here. Make thy
mind easy, child--he'll not harm _me_. Now go."
_Milisent_ needed no persuasions. She seemed as though Aunt _Joyce's_
words had stunned her, and she followed me like a dog. We spake no word
to each other all the way. When we reached home, _Milly_ went straight
up to her own chamber: and I, being mindful of Aunt _Joyce's_ bidding,
went in search of _Father_, whom I found at his books in his closet.
Ah me, but what sore work it were to tell him! I might scarce bear to
see the sorrowful changes wrought in his face. But when I came to tell
how Aunt _Joyce_ had called this gentleman by the name of _Leonard
Norris_, for one minute his eyes blazed out like hers. Then they went
very dark and troubled, and he hid his face in his hands till I had made
an end of my sad story.
"And I would fain not have been she that told you, _Father_," said I,
"but Aunt _Joyce_ bade me so to do."
"I must have heard it from some lips, daughter," he saith sorrowfully.
"But have a care thou say no word to thy mother. She must hear it from
none but me. My poor _Lettice_!--and my poor _Milisent_, my poor,
foolish, duped child!"
I left him then, for I thought he would desire it, and went up to
_Milly_. She had cast off her hood and tippet, and lay on her bed, her
face turned to the wall.
"Dost lack aught, _Milly_?" said I.
"Nay," was all she said.
"Shall I bide with thee?"
"Nay."
Nor one word more might I get out of her. So I left her likewise, and
came down to the little parlour, where I sat me to my sewing.
It was about an hour after that I heard Aunt _Joyce's_ firm tread on the
gravel. She came into the parlour, and looked around as though to see
who were there. Then she saith--
"None but thee, _Edith_? Where are the rest?"
There was a break in her voice, such as folk have when they have been
sore troubled.
"I have been alone this hour, _Aunt_. _Milly_ is in our chamber, and
_Father_ I left in his closet. Whither _Mother_ and _Nell_ be I know
not."
"Hast told him?"
"Ay, and he said only himself must tell _Mother_."
"I knew he would. God help her!"
"You think she shall take it very hard, _Aunt_?"
"_Edith_," saith Aunt _Joyce_ softly, "there is more to take hard than
thou wist. And we know not well yet all the ill he may have wrought to
_Milisent_."
Then away went she, and I heard her to rap on the door of _Father's_
closet. For me, I sat and sewed a while longer: and yet none coming, I
went up to our chamber, partly that I should wash mine hands, and partly
to see what was come of _Milly_.
She still lay on the bed, but her face turned somewhat more toward me,
and by her shut eyes and even breathing I could guess that she slept. I
sat me down in the window to wait, when mine hands were washen: for I
thought some should come after a while, and may-be should not count it
right that I left _Milisent_ all alone. I guess it were a good
half-hour I there sat, and _Milly_ slept on. At the last come _Mother_,
her eyes very red as though she had wept much.
"Doth she sleep, _Edith_?" she whispered.
I said, "Ay, _Mother_: she hath slept this half-hour or more."
"Poor child!" she saith. "If only I could have wist sooner! How much I
might have saved her! O poor child!"
The water welled up in her eyes again, and she went away, something in
haste. I had thought _Mother_ should be angered, and I was something
astonied to see how soft she were toward _Milly_. A while after, Aunt
_Joyce_ come in: but _Milly_ slept on.
"I am fain to see that," saith she, nodding her head toward the bed. "A
good sign. Yet I would I knew exactly how she hath taken it."
"I am afeared she may be angered, Aunt _Joyce_, to be thus served of one
she trusted."
"I hope so much. 'Twill be the best thing she can be. The question is
what she loved--whether himself or his flattering of herself. She'll
soon get over the last, for it shall be nought worser with her than hurt
vanity."
"Not the first, _Aunt_?"
"I do not know, _Edith_," she saith, and crushed in her lips. "That
hangs on what sort of woman she be. There shall be a wound, in either
case: but with some it gets cicatrised over and sound again with time,
and with other some it tarries an open issue for ever. It hangs all on
the manner of woman."
"What should it be with you, Aunt _Joyce_?" said I, though I were
something feared of mine own venturesomeness.
"What it _is_, _Edith_," she made answer, crushing in her lips again,
"is the open issue, bandaged o'er so that none knows it is there save He
to whose eyes all things be open. Child, there be some things in life
wherein the only safe confidant thou canst have is _Jesu Christ_. I say
so much, by reason that thine elders think it best--and I likewise--that
ye maids should be told somewhat more than ye have heard aforetime. Ay,
I give full assent thereto. I only held out for one thing--that I, not
your mother, should be she that were to tell it."
We were silent a moment, and then _Milisent_ stirred in her sleep. Aunt
_Joyce_ went to her.
"Awake, my dear heart?" saith she.
_Milly_ sat up, and pushed aside her hair from her face, the which was
flushed and sullen.
"Aunt _Joyce_, may the Lord forgive you for this day's work!" saith she.
I was fair astonied that she should dare thus to speak. But Aunt
_Joyce_ was in no wise angered.
"Amen!" she saith, as softly as might be spoken. "Had I no worser sins
to answer for, methinks I should stand the judgment."
"No worser!" _Milisent_ blazed forth. "What, you think it a light
matter to part two hearts that love well and truly?"
"Nay, truly, I think it right solemn matter," saith Aunt _Joyce_, still
softly. "And if aught graver can be, _Milly_, it is to part two whereof
the one loveth well, and the other--may God forgive us all!"
"What mean you now?" saith _Milisent_ of the same fashion. "Is it my
love you doubt, or his?"
"_Milisent Louvaine_," saith Aunt _Joyce_, "if thou be alive twenty
years hence, thou shalt thank God from thy very heart-root that thou
wert stayed on that road to-day."
"Oh ay, that is what folk always say!" murmurs she, and laid her down
again. "`Thou wilt thank me twenty years hence,' quoth they, every
stinging stroke of the birch. And they look for us beaten hounds to
crede it, forsooth!"
"Ay--when the twenty years be over."
"I am little like to thank you at twenty years' end," saith _Milly_
sullenly, "for I count I shall die of heart-break afore twenty weeks."
"No, _Milly_, I think not."
"And much you care!"
Then I saw Aunt _Joyce's_ face alter--terribly.
"_Milisent_," she said, "if I had not cared, I should scantly have gone
of set purpose through that which wrung every fibre of my heart, ay, to
the heart's core."
"It wrung me more than you," _Milisent_ makes answer, of the same
bitter, angered tone as aforetime.
Aunt _Joyce_ turned away from the bed, and I saw pain and choler strive
for a moment in her eyes. Then the choler fell back, and the pain
abode.
"Poor child! She cannot conceive it." She said nought sterner; and she
came and sat in the window alongside of me.
"I tell you, Aunt _Joyce_,"--and _Milisent_ sat up again, and let
herself down, and came and stood before us--"I tell you, you have ruined
my life!"
"My maid," Aunt _Joyce_ makes answer, with sore trouble in her voice,
"thine elders will fain have thee and thy sisters told a tale the which
we have alway kept from you until now. It was better hidden, unless you
needed the lesson. But now they think it shall profit thee, and may-be
save _Helen_ and _Edith_ from making any like blunder. And--well, I
have granted it. Only I stood out for one point--that I myself should
be the one to tell it you. Wait till thou hast heard that story, the
which I will tell thee to-morrow. And at after thou hast heard it,--
then tell me, _Milly_, whether I cared for thee this morrow, or whether
the hand that hath ruined thy life were the hand of _Joyce Morrell_."
"Oh, but you were cruel, cruel!" sobbed _Milly_. "I loved him so!"
"So did I, _Milisent_," saith Aunt _Joyce_ very softly, "long ere you
maids were born. Loved him so fondly, trusted him so wholly, clung to
him so faithfully, that mine eyes had to be torn open before I would see
the truth--that even now, after all these years, it is like thrusting a
dagger into my soul to tell you verily who and what he is. Ay, child, I
loved that man in mine early maidenhood, better than ever thou didst or
wouldst have done. Dost thou think it was easy to stand up to the face
that I had loved, and to play the avenging angel toward his perfidy? If
thou dost, thou mayest know much of foolishness and fantasy, but very
little of true and real love."
_Milisent_ seemed something startled and cowed. Then all suddenly she
saith,--"But, Aunt _Joyce_! He told me he were only of four-and-thirty
years."
Aunt _Joyce_ laughed bitterly.
"Wert so poor an innocent as to crede that, _Milly_?" saith she. "He is
a year elder than thy father. But I grant, he looks by far younger than
he is. And I reckon he 'bated ten years or so of what he looked. He
alway looked young," she saith, the softened tone coming back into her
voice. "Men with fair hair like his, mostly do, until all at once they
break into aged men. And he hath kept him well, with washes and
unguents."
It was strange to hear how the softness and the bitterness strave
together in her voice. I count it were by reason they so strave in her
heart.
"Wait till to-morrow, _Milly_," saith Aunt _Joyce_, arising. "Thou
shalt hear then of my weary walk through the thorns, and judge for
thyself if I had done well to leave thee to the like."
_Milly_ sobbed again, but methought something more softly.
"We were to have been wed o' _Sunday_ even," saith she, "by a _Popish_
priest, right as good as in church,--and then to have come home and won
_Father_ and _Mother_ to forgive us and bless us. Then all had been
smooth and sweet, and we should have lived happy ever after."
Oh, but what pitifulness was there in Aunt _Joyce's_ smile!
"Should you?" saith she, in a tone which seemed to me like the biggest
nay ever printed in a book. "Poor innocent child! A _Popish_ priest
cannot lawfully wed any, and evening is out of the canonical hours.
Wist thou not that such marriage should ne'er have held good in law?"
"It might have been good in God's sight, trow," saith she, something
perversely.
"Nay!" saith Aunt _Joyce_. "When men go to, of set purpose, to break
the laws of their country,--without it be in obedience to His plain
command,--I see not how the Lord shall hold them guiltless. So he
promised to bring thee home to ask pardon, did he? Poor, trusting,
deluded child! Thou shouldst never have come home, _Milly_--unless it
had been a year or twain hence, a forlorn, heart-broken, wretched thing.
Well, we could have forgiven thee and comforted thee then--as we will
now."
I am right weary a-writing, and will stay mine hand till I set down
_Aunt's_ story to-morrow.
SELWICK HALL, DECEMBER YE SECOND.
I marvel when I can make an end of writing, or when matters shall have
done happening. For early this morrow, ere breakfast were well over,
come a quick rap of the door, which _Caitlin_ opened, and in come _Alice
Lewthwaite_. Not a bit like herself looked she, with a scarf but just
cast o'er her head, and all out of breath, as though she had come forth
all suddenly, and had run fast and far. We had made most of us an end
of eating, but were yet sat at the table.
"_Alice_, dear heart, what aileth thee?" saith _Mother_, and rose up.
"Lady _Lettice_, do pray you tell me," panteth she, "if you have seen or
heard aught of our _Blanche_?"
"Nay, _Alice_, in no wise," saith _Mother_.
"Lack the day!" quoth she, "then our fears be true."
"What fears, dear heart?" I think _Father_, and _Mother_, and Aunt
_Joyce_, asked at her all together.
"I would as lief say nought, saving to my Lady, and Mistress _Joyce_,"
she saith: so they bare her away, and what happed at that time I cannot
say, saving that _Father_ himself took _Alice_ home, and did seem
greatly concerned at her trouble. Well, this was scantly o'er ere a
messenger come with a letter to _Mother_, whereon she had no sooner cast
her eyes than she brake forth with a cry of pleasure. Then, _Father_
desiring to know what it were, she told us all that certain right dear
and old friends of hers, the which she had not seen of many years, were
but now at the _Salutation_ Inn at _Ambleside_, and would fain come on
and tarry a season here if it should suit with _Mother's_ conveniency to
have them.
"And right fain should I be," saith she; and so said _Father_ likewise.
Then _Mother_ told us who were these her old friends: to wit, Sir
_Robert Stafford_ and his lady, which was of old time one Mistress
_Dulcibel Fenton_, of far kin unto my Lady _Norris_, that was _Mother's_
mistress of old days at _Minster Lovel_: and moreover, one Mistress
_Martin_, a widow that is sister unto Sir _Robert_, and was _Mother's_
fellow when she served my dear-worthy Lady of _Surrey_. So _Father_
saith he would ride o'er himself to _Ambleside_, and give them better
welcome than to send but a letter back: and _Mother_ did desire her most
loving commendations unto them all, and bade us all be hasteful and help
to make ready the guest-chambers. So right busy were we all the morrow,
and no time for no tales of no sort: but in the afternoon, when all was
done, Aunt _Joyce_ had us three up into her chamber, and bade us sit and
listen.
"For it is a sorrowful story I have to tell," saith she: and added, as
though she spake to herself,--"ay, and it were best got o'er ere
_Dulcie_ cometh."
So we sat all in the window-seat, _Milly_ in the midst, and Aunt _Joyce_
afore us in a great cushioned chair.
"When I was of your years, _Milly_," saith she, "I dwelt--where I now do
at _Minster Lovel_, with my father and my sister _Anstace_. Our mother
was dead, and our baby brother _Walter_; and of us there had never been
more. But we had two cousins--one _Aubrey Louvaine_, the son of our
mother's sister,--you wot who he is," she saith, and smiled: "and the
other, the son of our father's sister dwelt at _Oxford_ with his mother,
a widow, and his name was--_Leonard Norris_."
The name was so long a-coming that I marvelled if she meant to tell us.
"I do not desire to make my tale longer than need is, dear hearts,"
pursueth she, "and therefore I will but tell you that in course of time,
with assent of my father and his mother, my cousin _Leonard_ and I were
troth-plight. I loved him, methinks, as well as it was in woman to love
man: and--I thought he loved me. I never knew a man who had such a
tongue to cajole a woman's heart. He could talk in such a fashion that
thou shouldst feel perfectly assured that he loved thee with all his
heart, and none but thee: and ere the sun had set, he should have given
the very same certainty to _Nan_ at the farm, and to _Mall_ down in the
glen. I believe he did rarely make love to so little as one woman at
once. He liked--he once told your father so much--a choice of strings
for his bow. But of all this, at first, lost in my happy love, I knew
nothing. My love to him was so true and perfect, that the very notion
that his could be lesser than so never entered mine head. It was
_Anstace_ who saw the clouds gathering before any other--_Anstace_, to
whom, in her helpless suffering, God gave a strange power of reading
hearts. There came a strange maiden on the scene--a beautiful maiden,
with fair eyes and gleaming hair--and _Leonard's_ heart was gone from me
for ever. Gone!--had it ever come? I cannot tell. May-be some little
corner of his heart was mine, once on a time--I doubt if I had more. He
had every corner and every throb of mine. Howbeit, when this maid--"
"How was she called, Aunt _Joyce_?" saith _Milly_, in rather an hard
voice.
Aunt _Joyce_ did not make answer for a moment: and, looking up on her, I
saw drawn brows and flushed cheeks.
"Never mind that, _Milly_. I shall call her _Mary_. It was not her
name. Well, when this maid first came to visit us, and I brought her
above to my sister, that as ye know might never arise from the couch
whereon she lay--I something marvelled to see how quick from her face to
mine went _Anstace'_ eyes, and back again to her. I knew, long after,
what had been her thought. She had no faith in _Leonard_, and she
guessed quick enough that this face should draw him away from me. She
tried to prepare me as she saw it coming. But I was blind and deaf. I
shut mine eyes tight, and put my fingers in mine ears. I would not face
the cruel truth. For _Mary_ herself, I am well assured she meant me no
ill, nor did she see that any ill was wrought till all were o'er. She
did but divert her with _Leonard's_ words, caring less for him than for
them. She was vain, and loved flatteries, and he saw it, and gave her
them by the bushel. She was a child laking with a firebrand, and never
knew what it were until she burnt her fingers. And at last, maids, mine
eyes were forced open. _Leonard_ himself told me, and in so many words,
what I had refused to hear from others,--that he loved well enough the
gold that was like to be mine, but he did not love me. There were
bitter words on both sides, but mine were bitterest. And so, at last,
we parted. I could show you the flag on which he stood when I saw his
face for the last time--the last, until I saw it yester-morrow. Others
had seen him, and knew him not, through the changes of years. Even your
father did not know him, though they had been bred up well-nigh as
brothers. But mine eyes were sharper. I had not borne that face in
mine heart, and seen it in my dreams, for all these years, that I should
look on him and not know it. I knew the look in his eyes, the poise of
his head, the smile on his lips, too well--too well! I reckon that
between that day and this, a thousand women may have had that smile upon
them. But I thought of the day when I had it--when it was the one light
of life to me--for I had not then beheld the Light of the World.
_Milly_, didst thou think me cruel yester-morrow?--cold, and hard, and
stern? Ah, men do think a woman so,--and women at times likewise--think
her words hard, when she has to crush her heart down ere she can speak
any word at all--think her eyes icy cold, when behind them are a storm
of passionate tears that must not be shed then, and she has to keep the
key hard turned lest they burst the door open. Ah, young maids, you
look upon me as who should say, that I am an old woman from whom such
words are strange to you. They be fit only for a young lass's lips,
forsooth? Childre, you wis not yet that the hot love of youth is nought
to be compared to the yearning love of age,--that the maid that loveth a
man whom she first met a month since cannot bear the rushlight unto her
that has shrined him in her heart for thirty years."
Aunt _Joyce_ tarried a moment, and drew a long breath. Then she saith
in a voice that was calmer and lower--
"_Anstace_ told me I loved not the _Leonard_ that was, but only he that
should have been. But I have prayed God day and night, and I will go on
yet praying, that the man of my love may be the _Leonard_ that yet shall
be,--that some day he may turn back to God and me, and remember the true
heart that poured all that love upon him. If it be so, let the Lord
order how, and where, and when. For if I may know that it is, when I
come into His presence above, I can finish my journey here without the
knowledge."
"But it were better to know it, Aunt _Joyce_?" saith _Helen_ tenderly.
Methinks the tale had stirred her heart very much.
"It were happier, _Nelly_," quoth Aunt _Joyce_ softly. "God knoweth
whether it were best. If it be so, He will give it me.--And now is the
hardest part of my tale to tell. For after a while, _Milly_,
this--_Mary_--came to see what _Leonard_ meant, and methinks she came
about the same time to the certainty that she loved one who was not
_Leonard_. When he had parted from me he sought her, and there was much
bitterness betwixt them. At the last she utterly denied him, and shut
the door betwixt him and her: for the which he never forgave her, but at
a later time, when in the persecutions under King _Henry_ she came into
his power, he used her as cruelly as he might then dare to go. I
reckon, had it been under _Queen Mary_, he should have been content with
nought less than her blood. But it pleased the good Lord to deliver
her, he getting him entangled in some briars of politics that you should
little care to hear: and so when she was freed forth of prison, he was
shut up therein."
"Then, Aunt _Joyce_, is he a _Papist_?" saith _Helen_, of a startled
fashion.
"Ay, _Nell_, he is a black _Papist_. When we all came forth of
_Babylon_, he tarried therein."
"And what came of her you called _Mary_, if it please you, _Aunt_?"
quoth I.
"She was wed to one that dwelt at a distance from those parts, _Edith_,"
saith Aunt _Joyce_, in the constrained tone wherein she had begun her
story. "And sithence then have I heard at times of _Leonard_, though
never meeting him,--but alway as of one that was journeying from bad to
worse--winning hearts and then breaking them. Since Queen _Elizabeth_
came in, howbeit, heard I never word of him at all: and I knew not if he
were in life or no, till I set eyes on his face yesterday."
We were all silent till Aunt _Joyce_ saith gently--
"Well, _Milly_,--should we have been more kinder if we had let thee
alone to break thine heart, thinkest?"
"It runneth not to a certainty that mine should be broke, because others
were," mutters _Milly_ stubbornly.
"Thou countest, then, that he which had been false to a thousand maids
should be true to the one over?" saith Aunt _Joyce_, with a pitying
smile. "Well, such a thing may be possible,--once in a thousand times.
Hardly oftener, methinks, my child. But none is so blind as she that
will not see. I must leave the Lord to open thine eyes,--for I wis He
had to do it for me."
And Aunt _Joyce_ rose up and went away.
"I marvel who it were she called _Mary_," said I.
"Essay not to guess, dear heart," saith _Helen_ quickly. "'Tis plain
Aunt _Joyce_ would not have us know."
"Why, she told us, or as good," quoth _Milisent_, in that bitter fashion
she hath had to-day and yesterday. "Said she not, at the first, that
`it were well to get the tale o'er ere _Dulcie_ should come'? 'Tis my
Lady _Stafford_, of course."
"I am not so sure of that," saith _Helen_, in a low voice: and methought
she had guessed at some other, but would not say out [Note 1]. "I think
we were better to go down now."
So down went we all to the great chamber, and there found, with
_Mother_, Mistress _Lewthwaite_, that was, as was plain to see, in a
mighty taking [much agitated].
"Dear heart, Lady _Lettice_, but I never looked for this!" she crieth,
wiping of her eyes with her kerchief. "I wis we have been less stricter
than you in breeding up our maids: but to think that one of them should
bring this like of a misfortune on us! For _Blanche_ is gone to be
undone, of that am I sure. Truth to tell, yonder Sir _Francis Everett_
so took me with his fine ways and goodly looks and comely apparel and
well-chosen words,--ay, and my master too--that we never thought to
caution the maids against him. Now, it turns out that _Alice_ had some
glint of what were passing: but she never betrayed _Blanche_, thinking
it should not be to her honour; and me,--why, I ne'er so much as dreamed
of any ill in store."
"What name said you?" quoth _Mother_, that was trying to comfort her.
"_Everett_," saith she; "Sir _Francis Everett_, he said his name were,
of _Woodbridge_, in the county of _Suffolk_, where he hath a great
estate, and spendeth a thousand pound by the year. And a well-looked
man he was, not o'er young, belike, but rare goodly his hair fair and
his eyen shining grey,--somewhat like to yours, my Lady."
_Helen_ and I looked on each other, and I saw the same thought was in
both our minds. And looking then upon _Mother_, I reckoned it had come
to her likewise. At _Milisent_ I dared not look, though I saw _Helen_
glance at her.
"And now," continueth Mistress _Lewthwaite_, "here do I hear that at
_Grasmere_ Farm he gave out himself to be one Master _Tregarvon_, of
_Devon_; and up in _Borrowdale_, he hath been playing the gallant to two
or three maids by the name of Sir _Thomas Brooke_ of _Warwickshire_: and
the saints know which is his right one. He's a bad one, Lady _Lettice_!
And after all, here is your Mistress _Bess_, she saith she is as sure
as that her name is _Wolvercot_, that no one of all these names is his
own. She reckons him to be some young gentleman that she once wist,
down in the shires,--marry, what said she was his name, now? I cannot
just call to mind. She should ne'er have guessed at him, quoth she, but
she saw him do somewhat this young man were wont to do, and were
something singular therein--I mind not what it were. Dear heart, but
this fray touching our _Blanche_ hath drove aught else out of mine head!
But Mistress _Bess_ said _he_ were a bad one, and no mistake."
"Is _Blanche_ gone off with him, Mistress _Lewthwaite_?" saith _Helen_.
"That is right what she is, _Nell_, and ill luck go with her," quoth
Mistress _Lewthwaite_: "for it will, that know I. God shall never bless
no undutiful childre,--of that am I well assured."
"Nay, friend, curse not your own child!" saith _Mother_, with a little
shudder.
"Eh, poor lass, I never meant to curse her," quoth she: "she'll get
curse enough from him she's gone withal. She has made her bed, and she
must lie on it. And a jolly hard one it shall be, by my troth!"
Here come Cousin _Bess_ and Aunt _Joyce_ into the chamber, and a deal
more talk was had of them all: but at the last Mistress _Lewthwaite_
rose up, and went away. But just ere she went, saith she to _Milisent_
and me, that were sat together of one side of the chamber--
"Eh, my maids, but you twain should thank God and your good father and
mother! for if you had been bred up with less care, this companion,
whatso his name be, should have essayed to beguile you as I am a
_Cumberland_ woman. A pair of comely young lasses like you should have
been a great catch for him, I reckon."
"Ah, Mistress mine," saith Cousin _Bess_, "when lasses take as much care
of their own selves as their elders of them, we shall catch larks by the
sky falling, _I_ reckon."
"You are right, Mistress _Bess_," saith she: and so away hied she.
No sooner was Mistress _Lewthwaite_ gone, than _Mother_ saith,--"_Bess_,
who didst thou account this man to be? Mistress _Lewthwaite_ saith thou
didst guess it to be one thou hadst known down in the shires, but she
had forgat the name."
I saw Cousin _Bess_ look toward Aunt _Joyce_ with a question in her
eyes: and if ever I read _English_ in eyes, what _Aunt's_ said
was,--"Have a care!" Then Cousin _Bess_ saith, very quiet--
"It was a gentleman in _Oxford_ town, Cousin _Lettice_, that I was wont
to hear of from our _Nell_ when she dwelt yonder."
"Oh, so?" saith _Mother_: and thus the matter ended.
But at after, in the even, when _Father_ and Aunt _Joyce_ and I were by
ourselves a little season in the hall, I heard Aunt _Joyce_ say, very
soft--
"_Aubrey_, didst thou give her the name?"
Methought _Father_ shook his head.
"I dared not, _Joyce_," saith he. "She was so sore troubled touching--
the other matter."
"I thought so," quoth _Aunt_. "Then I will beware that I utter it not."
"But _Edith_ knows," answereth _Father_ in a low voice.
"The maids all know," saith she. "I did not reckon thou wouldest keep
it from her."
"I should not, but,"--and _Father_ paused. "Thou wist, _Joyce_, how she
setteth her heart on all things."
"I am afeared, _Aubrey_, she shall have to know sooner or later.
Mistress _Lewthwaite_ did all but utter it to her this morning, only I
thank God her memory failed her just at the right minute."
"We were better to tell her than that," saith _Father_, and leaned his
head upon his hand as though he took thought.
Then _Mother_ and _Helen_ came in, and no more was said.
SELWICK HALL, DECEMBER THE FOURTH.
I had no time to write yestereven, for we were late abed, it being nigh
nine o' the clock ere we came up; and all the day too busy. My Lady
_Stafford_ and Sir _Robert_ and Mistress _Martin_ did return with
_Father_--the which I set not down in his right place at my last
writing,--and yesterday we gat acquaint and showed them the vicinage and
such like. As to-morrow, _Mother_ shall carry them to wait on my Lord
_Dilston_.
Sir _Robert Stafford_ is a personable gentleman, much of _Father's_
years; his nose something high, yet not greatly so, and his hair and
beard now turning grey, but have been dark. Mistress _Martin_ his
sister (that when _Mother_ wist her was Mistress _Grissel Stafford_) is
much like to him in her face, but some years the younger of the twain,
though her hair be the greyer. My Lady _Stafford_, howbeit, hath not a
grey hair of her head, and hath more ruddiness of her face than Mistress
_Martin_, being to my thought the comelier dame of the twain. _Mother_,
nathless, saith that Mistress _Grissel_ was wont to be the fairer when
all were maids, and that she hath wist much trouble, the which hath thus
consumed her early lovesomeness. For her husband, Captain _Martin_,
that was an officer of _Calais_, coming home after that town was lost in
Queen _Mary's_ time, was attaint of heresy and taken of Bishop _Bonner_,
he lying long in prison, and should have been brent at the stake had not
Queen _Mary's_ dying (under God's gracious ordering) saved him
therefrom. And all these months was Mistress _Martin_ in dread disease,
never knowing from one week to another what should be the end thereof.
And indeed he lived not long after, but two or three years. Sir _Robert
Stafford_, on the other part, was a wiser man; for no sooner was it
right apparent, on Queen _Mary's_ incoming, how matters should turn,
than he and his dame and their two daughters gat them over seas and
dwelt in foreign parts all the days that Queen _Mary_ reigned. And in
_Dutchland_ [Germany] were both their daughters wedded, the one unto a
noble of that country, by name the Count of _Rothenthal_, and the other
unto a priest, an Englishman that took refuge also in those parts, by
name Master _Francis Digby_, that now hath a living in _Somerset_.
Medoubteth if _Mother_ be told who Sir _Edwin Tregarvon_ were.
_Milly_ 'bideth yet in the sulks, and when she shall come thereout will
I not venture to guess. _Alice Lewthwaite_ come over this afternoon but
for a moment, on her way to her aunt's, Mistress _Rigg_, and saith no
word is yet heard of their _Blanche_, whom her father saith he will
leather while he can lay on if she do return, while her mother is all
for killing the fatted calf and receiving her back with welcome.
SELWICK HALL, DECEMBER THE V.
This morrow we set forth for _Lord's Island_, a goodly company--to wit,
_Father_, and _Mother_, and Sir _Robert_ and my Lady _Stafford_, and
Mistress _Martin_, and _Milisent_, and me. Too many were we for _Adam_
to row, and thought to take old _Matthias_, had not _Robin Lewthwaite_
chanced on us the last minute, and craved leave to take an oar, saying
it should be a jolly pleasance for him to spend the day on _Lord's
Island_. So _Father_ took the second oar, and _Adam_ steered, and all
we got well across, thanks to God. We landed, _Father_ gave his hand to
my Lady _Stafford_, and Sir _Robert_ to _Mother_, and _Robin_, pulling a
face at _Milly_ and me (for I wis well he had liever have been with us),
his to Mistress _Martin_.
"Well, _Edith_," saith _Milly_, the pleasantest she hath spoken of late,
"I reckon I must be thy _cavaliero_."
"Will you have my cap, _Milisent_?" saith _Robin_, o'er his shoulder.
"Thanks, I reckon I shall manage without," quoth she.
"Well, have a care you demean yourself as a _cavaliero_ should," saith
he. "Tell her she is the fairest maid in all the realm, and you shall
die o' despair an' you get not a glance from her sweet eyes."
"Nay, I'll leave that for you," saith _Milly_.
"Good. I will do mine utmost to mind it the next opportunity," quoth
_Robin_.
So, with mirth, come we up to _Dilston_ Hall.
My Lord was within, said the old serving-man, and so likewise were
Mistress _Jane_ and Mistress _Cicely_: so he led us across the hall,
that is set with divers coloured stones, of a fashion they have in
_Italy_, and into a pleasant chamber, where Mistress _Cicely_ was sat at
her frame a-work, and rose up right lovingly to welcome us. Mistress
_Jane_, said she, was in the garden: but my Lord come in the next
minute, and was right pleasant unto us after his sad and bashful
fashion, for never saw I a man like him, as bashful as any maid. Then
Mistress _Jane_ come anon, and bare us--to wit, _Milisent_ and me--away
to her own chamber, where she gave us sweet cakes and muscadel; and
Mistress _Cicely_ came too. And a jolly time should we have had, had it
not come into Mistress _Cicely's_ head to ask at us if it were true that
_Blanche Lewthwaite_ was gone away with some gallant. I had need to say
Ay, for _Milisent_ kept her mouth close shut.
"And who were he?" quoth Mistress _Jane_. I answered that so far as we
heard he had passed by divers names, all about this vicinage: but the
name whereby he had called himself at _Mere Lea_ (which is Master
_Lewthwaite's_) was _Everett_.
"I warrant you, _Jane_," saith Mistress _Cicely_, "'tis the same
_Everett_ Farmer _Benson_ was so wroth with, for making up to his
_Margaret_. He said if ever he came nigh his house again, he should go
thence with a bullet more than he brought. A man past his youth, was
he, _Edith_, with fair shining hair--no grey in it--and mighty sweet
spoken?"
"Ay, that is he," said I, "or I mistake, Madam."
"Dear heart, but what an ill one must he be!" quoth Mistress _Jane_.
"Why he made old _Nanny's_ grand-daughter _Doll_ reckon he meant to wed
her, and promised to give her a silver chain for her neck this next
_Sunday_!"
All this while sat _Milisent_ still and spake never a word. I gat
discourse turned so soon as ever I might. Then after a little while
went we down to hall, and good mirth was had of the young gentlewomen
with _Robin_ and me: but all the while _Milisent_ very still, so that at
last Mistress _Cicely_ noted it, and asked her if her head ached. She
said ay: and she looked like it. So, soon after came we thence, and
crossed the lake again, and so home. _Milly_ yet very silent all the
even: not as though she sulked, as of late, but rather as though she
meditated right sadly.
SELWICK HALL, DECEMBER YE VII.
This morrow, I being in Aunt _Joyce's_ chamber, helping her to lay by
the new-washed linen, come _Milisent_ in very softly.
"Aunt _Joyce_," she saith, "I would fain have speech of you."
"Shall I give thee leave [go away and leave you], _Milly_?" said I,
arising, for I was knelt of the floor, before the bottom drawer.
"Nay, _Edith_," she makes answer: "thou knowest my faults, and it is but
meet thou shouldst hear my confession."
Her voice choked somewhat, and Aunt _Joyce_ saith lovingly, "Dost think,
then, thou hast been foolish, dear child?"
"I can hardly tell about foolish, _Aunt_," saith she, casting down her
eyes, "but methinks I have been sinful. Will you forgive me mine hard
words and evil deeds?"
"Ay, dear heart, right willingly. And I shall not gainsay thee,
_Milly_," saith Aunt _Joyce_, sadly: "for `the thought of foolishness is
sin,' and God calls many a thing sin whereof we men think but too
lightly. Yet, bethink thee that `if any man sin, we have an Advocate
with the Father.' Now, dear heart, if thou wilt be ruled by me, thou
wilt `arise and go to thy father' and thy mother, and say to them right
as did the prodigal, that thou hast sinned against Heaven and in their
sight. I think neither of them is so much angered as sorrowful and
pitying: yet, if there be any anger in them, trust me, that were the way
to disarm it. Come back, _Milly_--first to God, and then to them. Thou
shalt find fatherly welcome from either."
_Milly_ still hid her face.
"Aunt _Joyce_," she saith, "I dare not say I have come _back_ to God,
for I have been doubting this morrow if I were ever near Him. But I
think I have _come_. So now I may go to _Father_ and _Mother_."
Aunt _Joyce_ kissed her lovingly, and carried her off. Of course I know
not what happed betwixt _Father_ and _Mother_, and _Milly_, but I know
that _Milly_ looks a deal happier, and yet sadder [graver], than she
hath done of many days: and that both _Father_ and _Mother_ be very
tender unto her, as to one that had been lost and is found.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note 1. Helen guessed rightly. As the readers of "Lettice Eden" will
know, the "Mary" of the tale was her mother.
CHAPTER SIX.
CHRISTMAS CHEER.
"Then opened wide the baron's hall
To vassal, tenant, serf, and all;
All hailed with uncontrolled delight,
And general voice, the happy night
That to the cottage, as the crown,
Brought tidings of salvation down."
Scott.
(_In Edith's handwriting_.)
SELWICK HALL, DECEMBER YE X.
Here have I been a-thinking I should scantly write a word when my month
was come, and already, with but ten days thereof, have I filled half as
much paper as either _Helen_ or _Milisent_. But in good sooth, I do
trust the next ten days shall not be so full of things happening as
these last. Nathless, I do love to have things happen, after a fashion:
but I would have them to be alway pleasant things. And when things
happen, they be so oft unpleasant.
Now, if one might order one's own life, methinks it should be a right
pleasant thing. For I reckon I should not go a-fooling, like as some
lasses do. Mine head is not all stuffed with gallants, nor yet with
velvet and gold. But I would love to be great. Not great like a
duchess, just a name and no more: but to make a name for myself, and to
have folks talk of me, how good and how clever I were. That is what I
would fain be thought--good and clever. I take no care to be thought
fair, nor in high place; howbeit, I desire not to be ugly nor no lower
down than I am. But I am quite content with mine own place, only I feel
within me that I could do great things.
And how can a woman do great things, without she be rare high in place,
such like as the Queen's Majesty, or my Lady Duchess of _Suffolk_? Or
how could I ever look to do great things, here in _Derwent_ dale? Oh, I
do envy our _Wat_ and _Ned_, by reason they can go about the world and
o'er the seas, and make themselves famous.
And, somehow, in a woman's life everything seems so little. 'Tis just
cooking and eating; washing linen and soiling of it; going to bed and
rising again. Always doing things and then undoing them, and alway the
same things over and over again. It seems as if nought would ever stay
done. If one makes a new gown, 'tis but that it may be worn out, and
then shall another be wanted. I would the world could give o'er going
on, and every thing getting worn out and done with.
Other folks do not seem to feel thus. I reckon _Helen_ never does, not
one bit. Some be so much easier satisfied than other. I count them the
happiest.
I cannot tell how it is, but I do never feel satisfied. 'Tis as though
there were wings within me, that must ever of their nature be stretching
upward and onward. Where should they end, an' they might go forward?
Would there be any end? Can one be satisfied, ever?
I believe _Anstace_ and _Helen_ are satisfied, but then 'tis their
nature to be content with things as they be. I do not know about
_Mother_ and Aunt _Joyce_. I misdoubt if it be altogether their nature.
But then neither do they seem always satisfied. _Father_ doth so: and
his nature is high enough. I think I shall ask _Father_. As for Cousin
_Bess_, an' I were to ask at her, she should conceive me never a whit.
'Tis her nature to cook and darn and scour, and to look complacently on
her cake and her mended hole and her cleaned chamber, and never trouble
herself to think that they shall lack doing o'er again to-morrow.
Chambers are like to need cleansing, and what were women made for save
to keep them clean? That is Cousin _Bess_, right out. For Master
_Stuyvesant_, methinks he is right the other way, and rather counts the
world a dirty place and full of holes, that there shall be no good in
neither cleansing nor mending. And I look not on matters in that light.
Methinks it were better to cleanse the chamber, if only one could keep
it from being dirtied at after. I shall see what _Father_ saith.
SELWICK HALL, DECEMBER THE XII.
Yester even, as we were sat in the great chamber,--there was _Mother_
and _Helen_ at their wheels, and Aunt _Joyce_ and my Lady _Stafford_
a-sewing, and Mistress _Martin_ and _Milisent_ and me at the broidery,--
and _Father_ had but just beat Sir _Robert_ in a game of the chess, and
_Mynheer_, one foot upon his other knee, was deep in a great book which
thereon rested,--and fresh logs were thrown of the fire by _Kate_, which
sent forth upward a shower of pleasant sparkles, and methought as I
glanced around the chamber, that all looked rare pleasant and
comfortable, and we ought to thank God therefore. When all had been
silent a short while, out came I with my question, well-nigh ere I
myself wist it were out--
"_Father_, are you satisfied?"
"A mighty question, my maid," saith he,--while _Helen_ looked up in
surprise, and Aunt _Joyce_ and Mistress _Martin_ and _Milisent_ fell
a-laughing. "With what? The past, the present, or the future?" quoth
_Father_.
"With things, _Father_," said I. "With life and every thing."
"Ah, _Edith_, hast thou come to that?" saith my Lady _Stafford_: and she
exchanged smiles with _Mother_.
"_Daughter_," _Father_ makes answer, "methinks no man is ever satisfied
with life, until he be first satisfied with God. The furthest he can go
in that direction, is not to think if he be satisfied or no. A man may
be well pleased with lesser things: but to be satisfied, that can he
not."
"`Whosoever drinketh of this water shall thirst again,'" quoth _Mother_,
softly.
"Ay," saith Sir _Robert_; "and wit you, Mistress _Edith_, what cometh at
times to men adrift of the ocean, when all their fresh water is spent?"
"Why, surely, they should find water in plenty in the sea, Sir," said I.
"Right so do they," saith he: "and 'tis a quality of the sea-water, that
if a man athirst doth once taste the same, his thirst becometh so great
that he drinketh thereof again and again, the thirst worsening with
every draught, until at last it drives him mad."
"An apt image of the pleasures of this world," answers _Father_. "Ah,
how is all nature as God's picture-book, given to help His dull childer
over their tasks!"
"But, _Father_,"--said I, and stayed.
"Well, my maid?" he answers of his kindly fashion.
"I cry you mercy, _Father_, if I speak foolishly; but it seems me that
pious folk be not alway satisfied. They make as much fume as other folk
when things go as they would not have them."
"The angels do not so, I reckon," saith _Mynheer_, a-looking up.
"We are not angels yet," quoth _Father_, a little drily. "Truth, my
maid: and we ought to repent thereof, seeing such practices but too oft
cause the enemy to blaspheme, and put stumbling-blocks in the way of
weak brethren. Ay, and from what we read in God's Word, it should seem
as though all murmuring and repining--not sorrowing, mark thou; but
murmuring--went for far heavier sin in His eyes than it doth commonly in
ours. We count it a light matter if we grumble when things go awry, and
matters do seem as if they were bent on turning forth right as we would
not have them. Let us remember, for ourselves, that such displeaseth
the Lord. He reckons it unbelief and mistrust. `How long,' saith He
unto Moses, `will this people provoke Me? and how long will it be ere
they believe Me?' Howbeit, as for our neighbours, we need not judge
them. And indeed, such matters depend much on men's complexions [Note
1], and some find it a deal easier to control them than other. And
after all, _Edith_, there is a sense wherein no man can ever be fully
satisfied in this life. We were meant to aspire; and if we were
entirely content with present things, then should we grovel. To submit
cheerfully is one thing: to be fully gratified, so that no desire is
left, is an other. We shall not be that, methinks, till we reach
Heaven."
"Shall we so, even there?" saith Sir _Robert_. "It hath alway seemed to
me that when _Diogenes_ did define his gods as `they that had no wants,'
he pointed to a very miserable set of creatures. Is it not human nature
that the thing present shall fall short of the thing prospective?"
"The _in posse_ is better than the _in esse_?" saith _Father_. "Well,
it should seem so, in this dispensation. But how, in the next world,
our powers may be extended, and our souls in some degree suffer change,
that we can be fully satisfied and yet be alway aspiring--I reckon we
cannot now understand. I only gather from Scripture that it shall be
thus. You and I know very little, _Robin_, of what shall be in Heaven."
"Ah, true,--true!" saith Sir _Robert_.
"It hath struck me at times," saith _Father_, "that while it may seem
strange to the young and eager soul, yet it is better understood as one
grows older,--how the account of Heaven given us in Scripture is nearly
all in negations. God and ourselves are the two matters positive. The
rest are nays: there shall be no pain, no crying, no sorrow, no night,
no death, no curse. And though youth would oft have it all yea, yet nay
suits age the better. An old man and weary feels the thought of active
bliss at times too much for him. It wearies him to think of perpetual
singing and constant flying. It is rest he needs--it is peace."
"Well, _Father_," saith _Milisent_, looking up, "I hope it is not wicked
of me, but I never did enjoy the prospect of sitting of a cloud and
singing _Hallelujah_ for ever and ever."
"Right what I was wont to think at thy years, _Milly_," saith _Mother_,
a-laughing.
"Dear hearts," saith _Father_, "there is in God's Word a word for the
smallest need of every one of us, if we will only take the pain to
search and find it there. `They had no rest day neither night,'
[Cranmer's version of Revelations chapter four verse 8]--that is for the
eager, active soul that longs to be up and doing. And `they rest from
their labours,'--that is for the weary heart that is too tired for
rapture."
"Yet doth not that latter class of texts, think you," saith Sir
_Robert_, "refer mainly to the rest of the body in the grave?"
"Well, it may be so," answers _Father_: "yet, look you, the rest of the
grave must be something that _will rest us_."
"What is thy notion, _Aubrey_," saith Aunt _Joyce_, "of the state of the
soul betwixt death and resurrection?"
"My notion, _Joyce_," saith _Father_, "is that _Scripture_ giveth us no
very plain note thereon. I conclude, therefore, that it shall be time
to know when we come to it. This only do I see--that all the passages
which speak thereof as `sleep,' `forgetfulness,' and the like, be in the
Old Testament: and all those--nay, let me correct myself--most of those
which speak thereof as of a condition of conscious bliss, `being with
_Christ_,' and so, are in the New. There I find the matter: and there,
under your good pleasure, will I leave it."
"Well, that should seem," quoth Aunt _Joyce_, "as if the condition of
souls had been altered by the coming of our Lord."
"By His death, rather, as methinks, if so be. It may be so. I dare not
be positive either way."
"Has it never seemed strange to you, _Louvaine_," saith Sir _Robert_,
"how little we be told in God's Word touching all those mysteries
whereon men's minds will ever be busying themselves--to all appearance,
so long as the world lasts? This matter of our talk--the origin of
evil--free-will and sovereign grace--and the like. Why are we told no
more?"
"Why," saith _Father_, with that twinkle in his eyes which means fun, "I
am one of the meaner intelligences of the universe, and I wis not. If
you can find any whither the Angel _Gabriel_, you may ask at him if he
can untie your knots."
"Now, _Aubrey_, that is right what mads me!" breaks in Aunt _Joyce_.
"Sir _Robert_ asks why we be told no more, and thine answer is but to
repeat that we be told no more. Do, man, give a plain answer to a plain
question."
"Nay, now thou aft like old Lawyer _Pearson_?" quoth _Father_. "`I wis
not, Master,' saith the witness. `Ay, but will you swear?' saith he.
`Why,' quoth the witness, `how can I swear when I wis not?' `Nay, but
you must swear one way or an other,' saith he. Under thy leave,
_Joyce_, I do decline to swear either way, seeing I wis not."
Aunt _Joyce_ gives a little stamp of her foot. "What on earth is the
good of men, when they wit no more than women?" quoth she: whereat all
laughed.
"Ah, some women have great wits," saith _Father_.
"Give o'er thy mocking, _Aubrey_!" answers she. "Tell us plain, what
notion thou hast, and be not so strict tied to chapter and verse."
"Of what worth shall then be my notions? Well," saith _Father_, "I have
given them on the one matter. As for the origin of evil, I find the
origin of mine evil in mine own heart, and no further can I get except
to _Satan_."
"Ay, but I would fain reach over _Satan_," saith she.
"That shall we not do without _Satan_ overreaching us," quoth _Father_.
"Well, then--as to free-will and grace, I find both. `Whosoever will,
take of the water of life,'--and `Yet will ye not come unto Me that ye
might have life.' But also I find, `No man can come to Me, except the
Father draw him;' and that faith cometh `Not of yourselves; it is the
gift of God.'"
"Come, tarry not there!" saith Aunt _Joyce_. "How dost thou reconcile
them?"
"Why, I don't reconcile them," quoth he.
"Ay, but do!" she makes answer.
"Well," saith he, "if thou wilt come and visit me, _Joyce_, an hundred
years hence, at the sign of the _Burnt-Sacrifice_, in _Amethyst_ Lane,
in the _New Jerusalem_, I will see if I can do it for thee then."
"_Aubrey Louvaine_!" saith Aunt _Joyce_, "thou art--"
"Not yet there," he answers. "I am fully aware of it."
"The wearifullest tease ever I saw, when it liketh thee!" saith she.
"Dost thou know, _Joyce_," quoth _Mother_, laughing merrily, "I found
out that afore I was wed. He did play right cruelly on mine eagerness
once or twice."
"Good lack! then why didst thou wed him?" saith Aunt _Joyce_.
_Mother_ laughed at this, and _Father_ made a merry answer, which turned
the discourse to other matter, and were not worth to set down. So we
gat not back to our sad talk, but all ended with mirth.
This morrow come o'er _Robin Lewthwaite_, with a couple of rare fowl and
his mother's loving commendations for _Mother_. He saith nothing is yet
at all heard of their _Blanche_, and he shook his head right sorrowfully
when I asked at him if he thought aught should be. It seemed so strange
a thing to see _Robin_ sorrowful.
SELWICK HALL, DECEMBER YE XVI.
This morrow, my Lady _Stafford_, Aunt _Joyce_, and I, were sat at our
work alone in the great chamber. _Milly_ was gone with _Mother_
a-visiting poor folk, and Sir _Robert_ and Mistress _Martin_, with
_Helen_ for guide, were away towards _Thirlmere_,--my Lady _Stafford_
denying to go withal, by reason she had an ill rheum catched yesterday
amongst the snowy lanes. All at once, up looks my Lady, and she saith--
"_Joyce_, what is this I heard yestereven of old _Mall Crewdson_,
touching one _Everett_, or _Tregarvon_--she wist not rightly which his
name were--that hath done a deal of mischief in these parts of late?
What manner of mischief?--for old _Mary_ was very mysterious. May-be I
do not well to ask afore _Edith_?"
"Ay, _Dulcie_, well enough," saith Aunt _Joyce_, sadly, "for _Edith_
knows the worst she can already. And if you knew the worst you could--"
"Why, what is it?" quoth she.
"_Leonard_," saith Aunt _Joyce_, curtly.
"_Leonard_!" Every drop of blood seemed gone out of my Lady's face. "I
thought he was dead, years gone."
"So did not I," Aunt _Joyce_ made low answer.
"No, I wis thou never didst," saith my Lady, tenderly. "So thy love is
still alive, _Joyce_? Poor heart!"
"My heart is," she saith. "As for love, it is poor stuff if it
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