Joyce Morrell's Harvest / The Annals of Selwick Hall

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

’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.

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.

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.

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.

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.