Joyce Morrell's Harvest Page 4

  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 havemeditated much whether I should go on to tell of Sir _Edwin_, for itshall ne'er serve to have folk read the same. And methinketh it bestfor 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 Ican 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 withmy _Protection_, who doffed his plumed bonnet and saluted me as his mostfair _Amiability_. I do see him most days, though but for a minute: andin truth I think long from one time to another. Coming back, Imeditated what I should say to Mistress _Nell_ (that loveth somewhat toomuch to meddle) should she have caught sight of him: for it shall notserve every time to send him to _Kirkstone_. Nor, of course, could Ithink to tell a lie thereabout. So I called to mind that he had onceasked me what name we called the eye-bright in these parts, though itwere not this morrow, but I should not need to say that, and it shouldbe no lie, seeing he did say so much. Metrusteth the cushion should notprick 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 ofthe wood. This very afternoon, what should _Edith_ say, without oneword 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_. "Whereheardst of him, child?"

  "'Twas when we went o'er to Saint _Hubert's_ Isle, _Mother_," she madeanswer,--"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 hesaid he knew you, _Mother_, of old time, when you were Mistress_Lettice_. I told him _Father_ was at home, and he desired to know whattime 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-lookingup, "for I cannot be easy till I have so done, and I wis well you willnot 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 shouldhave liked you no better: commending my drawing, and mine hair, and mineeyes, 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 intruth 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 afantasy that I could win _Father_ to grant him, and so would the ratherif 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! Butthen, of course, he did not know _Father_. I trust I did not aught toyour 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 somewhatthat methought should be to ask pardon, and then went off in anotherminute."

  _Mother_ laid down her work with a glow in her eyes.

  "O _Edith_!" saith she: "I am so thankful thou art not,"--but allsuddenly she shut up tight, and the glow went out of her _eyes_ and intoher cheeks. I never know what that signifieth: and I have seen it tohap aforetime. But she took up her sewing again, and said no more, tillshe 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 atree at the other side of the isle, which spake to me and asked me whatthe isle was called, and who Saint _Hubert_ were. He told me, the sameas _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 touchingmine 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 itso were.

  "Oh, nay," quoth _Edith_: "but well-favoured, and of a fair hair andbeard."

  "And clad of a dark green velvet jerkin," saith Cousin _Bess_, "andtawny 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 dothdesire for to see Sir _Aubrey_ some, for he asked at us all three if hewere 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 tosell 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 heis, a-selling of pigs! Yet I must say I was not o'er well pleased tohear of his complimenting of _Edith_: though, 'tis true, that was ere hehad seen me.

  "What like is he, _Bess_?" saith _Mother_. "I would know the thought hegave to thee."

  "Marry, the first were that he was like to have no wife, or she shouldhave amended a corner of his rare slashed sleeve, that was ravellingforth o' the stitching," saith she. "And the second were, that he werelike the folk in this vicinage, with his golden hair and grey eyen. Andthe 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 bucklesof his shoes must have cost him a pretty penny. And the last, that I'dbe 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 theysaw not the lovesomeness and gentilesse of that my gallant _Protection_?But as for Cousin _Bess_, she never had no high fantasies. All herlikings be what the _French_ call _bourgeois_. But I was somethingsurprised that _Edith_ should make no count of him. I marvel if shemeant the same.

  "Well, there must needs be some blunder," saith _Mother_, when we hadsat silent a while: "for I never knew no man of that name, nor nogentleman 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 Iknew 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 wantedsomewhat of you, he'd be fain enough to make out that he had known youany way he might."

  "Ay, very like," saith _Mother_.

  "And if he come up to the door, like an honest companion, and desirespeech of Sir _Aubrey_, well, he may be a decent man, for all hisslashed sleeves and flying feathers: but if not so, then I write himdown no better than he should be, though what he is after it passeth mywit to see."

  "I do believe," quoth _Edith_, a-laughing, "that Cousin _Bess_ hatesevery thing that flies. What with Dr _Meade's_ surplice, and Sir_Edwin's_ long feather--verily, I would marvel what shall come a-flyingnext."

  "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 notmeant to fly. If God Almighty had meant men and women to fly, He'd haveput wings on them. And I never can see why men should deck themselvesout o' birds' feathers, without they be poor savages that take colouredbeads to be worth so much as gold angels. And as for yon surplice, 'tisa 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 thatthe priest must needs bear, and such like. And `Mistress _Meade_,' saysI, `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 Lordisn't,' says I: `so you may pick and choose,' says I. Eh dear! but shelooked on me as if I'd spake some ill words o' the Queen's Majesty--nota bit less. And `Mistress _Wolvercot_,' says she, `what ever do youmean?' says she. `Well, Mistress _Meade_,' says I, `that's what Imean--that there can be no _Christian_ priests so long as _Christ_ ourLord is alive: so if Dr _Meade's_ a priest, He must be dead. And ifso,' says I, `why then, I don't see how there can be no _Christians_ ofno sort, priests or no,' says I. `Why, Mistress _Wolvercot_!' says she,`you must have lost your wits.' `Well,' says I, `some folks has: but Idon't rightly think I'm one,'--and so home I came."

  _Edith_ was rarely taken, and laughed merrily. For me, I was so glad tosee 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 forDr _Meade_. I thought we'd done with bishops and priests and suchlike, 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 cannotsee why they kept no bishops. Lawn sleeves, forsooth! and rochets! andcassocks! and them square caps,--they're uncommon like the Beast! Imake no count of 'em."

  "And rochets can fly!" cries _Edith_ merrily.

  "Why, Cousin _Bess_," said I, "you shall be a _Brownist_ in a week ortwain."

  "Nay, I'll be ruled by the law: but I reckon I may call out if itpinches," saith she.

  So, with mirth, we ended the matter: and thankful was I when the talkwere o'er.

  SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XIX.I do keep my book right needfully locked up, for I would not for all theworld that _Nell_ nor _Edith_ should read this last fortnight. Yestereven, just as it grew to dusk, met I with my _Protection_ outside thegarden door, that would fain win me to meet with him some whither on thehills, where (said he) we might talk more freely. But so feared was Ito vex _Father_ and _Mother_ that this I did deny, though I could see itvexed him, and it went to mine heart to do thus. And he asked at me ifI loved him not, and did very hard press me to say that I would lovehim: for he saith he loveth me better than all the world. Yet thatwould I not fully grant him, but plagued him a bit thereon. 'Tis rarefun plaguing a man. But methought I would try this even if I could notwring a fashion of consent out of _Father_, without his knowing thesame: 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 luckwould have it, he, that was going forth of the chamber, tarried, withthe 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 throatsomewhat. Yet have I _Father's_ consent to loving: and surely none needbreak God's commandments because they love each other. 'Tis no breakingthereof for me to meet and talk with Sir _Edwin_--of that am I ascertain as that my name is _Milisent_. And I have not told a single lieabout it, sithence my good _Protection_ revealed in mine ear the rightway not to tell lies: namely, should _Mother_ ask me, "_Milly_, hastthou seen again that gentleman?" that I should say out loud, "No,_Mother_,"--and whisper to myself, under my breath, "this morrow,"--thewhich should make it perfectly true. And right glad was I to hear ofthis most neat and delicate way of saving the truth, and yet notuttering your secrets.

  SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XXII.If Mistress _Helena Louvaine_ could ever hold her peace from saying justthe 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 shebegin 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 beginand end? Put a case that I am talking with _Alice Lewthwaite_, and sheshall 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 falsehoodbegins and ends,--it begins in thine heart: but where it ends, who shalltell but God? But set forth thy case something plainer."

  "Well," saith she, "suppose, _Father_, that _Mother_ or you had showedto me that _Wat_ was coming home, but had (for some cause you wist, andI not) bidden me not to tell the same. If _Alice_ should say `Hastheard aught of late touching _Wat_, _Nell_?' must I say to her plain, `Icannot answer thee,'--the which should show her there was a secret: orshould there be no ill to say `Not to-day,' or `Nought much,' or somesuch matter as that?"

  "Should there be any wrong in that, _Father_?" saith _Edith_, as thoughshe could not think there should.

  "Dear hearts," saith _Father_, "I cannot but think a man's heart is gonesomething wrong when he begins to meddle with casuistry. The veryminute 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 wasafraid, and he did hide himself. Yet there was deception, for it wasnot all the truth--no, nor the half. As methinks, 'tis alway safest totell out the plain truth, and leave the rest to God."

  "_Jack Lewthwaite_ said once," quoth _Edith_, "that at the grammarschool at _Kendal_, where he was, there was a lad that should speak outto the master that which served his turn, and whisper the rest into hiscap; yet did he maintain stoutly that he told the whole truth. Whatshould you call that, _Father_?"

  "A shift got straight from the father of lies," he made answer. "Trustme, that lad shall come to no good, without he repent and change hiscourse."

  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 hadhit on so excellent a fashion of telling the truth, and yet hiding mysecrets, 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.M
y good _Protection_ tells me 'tis country fashion to count such matterdeceit, 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 whileas though to be a _Puritan_ were somewhat not over well-liked of thegreat. Then I told him that I knew not well his meaning, for that wordwas strange unto me. So he said that word _Puritan_ was of late comeup, to denote certain precise folk that did desire for to be better thantheir neighbours, and most of them only to make a talk, and getthemselves well accounted of by such common minds as should take them attheir own appraisement.

  "Not, of course," saith he, "that such could ever be the case with agentleman of Sir _Audrey's_ worshipfulness, and with such an angel inhis house to guard him from all ill."

  I did not well like this, for I would alway have _Father_ right wellaccounted 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 awhile 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 consentthereto, I would be a deal happier. But my _Protection_ saith that werecontrary unto all custom of love-matters, and they must well know thesame: for in all matters where the elders do wit and order the samethemselves, 'tis always stupid and humdrum for the young folks, and noromance left therein at all.

  "It should suit well with Mistress _Nell_," saith he, "from what I dohear touching her conditions [disposition]: but never were meet for thenoble and generous soul of my fairest _Amiability_, that is far aboveall such mean things."

  So I reckon, if the same always be, I must be content, and not troubleme touching _Father's_ and _Mother's_ knowing. But I do marvel if_Father_ and _Mother_ did the like their own selves, for I know theymarried o' love. Howbeit, _Mother_ had none elders then living, nor_Father_ neither, now I come to think thereon: wherefore with them 'twasother matter.

  Sithence I writ that last, come _Alice_ and _Blanche Lewthwaite_, andtheir _Robin_, to four-hours: and mighty strange it is how folk be forever a-saying things as though they wist what I were a-thinking. Here_Blanche_ saith to _Nell_, that she would account that no jolly weddingwhere her elders had ordered all for her, but would fain choose forherself.

  "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 andmother should desire otherwise. But thou signifiest not, surely,_Blanche_, that thou shouldst love to order the whole matter thine ownself, 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 dishonestyshould be therein?"

  "Nay, _Blanche_, measure such dealing thyself by God's ell-wand of theFifth Commandment, and judge if it were honouring thine elders as He bidthee."

  "I do vow, _Nell_, thou art a _Puritan_!"

  "By the which I know not what thou meanest," saith _Nell_, as cool as amarble image.

  "Why, 'tis a new word of late come up," quoth _Blanche_. "They do callall 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 greatfolk?"

  "An' I have not," quoth she, something hotly, "I reckon I may havetalked 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 himand 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 knownall o'er for the bashfullest and silentest man with women ever was. Ido 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 othermatter, for I think she saw that _Blanche's_ temper (which is ne'er thatof 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 beena-flattering of her. She is metely well-looking,--good of stature, anda fair fresh face, grey eyen, and fair hair, as have the greater part ofmaids about here, but her nose turns up too much for beauty. She is notfor to compare with me nor _Edith_.

  I must ask at Sir _Edwin_ to-morrow if he wist aught of _Blanche_. If Ifind him double-tongued--good lack! but methinks I would ne'er see himno more, though it should break mine heart--as I cast no doubt itshould.

  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_, andhe seemed fair astonied, and said he knew no such an one, nor that anyof that name dwelt in all the vale. Then I told him wherefore I hadasked it. And he said that to think I was jealous of any for him didhim uttermost honour and pleasance, but did his fairest _Amiability_(quo' he) think he could so much as look on any other face at afterhers?

  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 hadan old friend, a parson, dwelling on _Winander-side_, and he did alwayabide with him o'er the _Sunday_. Moreover he was something feared(saith he) to be seen at _Keswick_ church, lest _Father_ should getscent 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 thefirst?"

  "Soft you now!" saith he, and laughed too. "`All is fair in love andwar.'"

  "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 suchlike company. A man cannot square all his dealings by the Bible and theparsons, 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 ofan hobby than in Town, where you must do like other folk or else becounted singular and ridiculous. No brave and gallant man would run therisk of being thought singular."

  "Why, _Father's_ notion is right the contrary," said I. "I have heardhim to say divers times that 'tis the cowards which dare not be laughedat, 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 thehonour to tell you aforetime. You should never hear no gentleman of theCourt 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 heshould ne'er give o'er.

  "My fairest _Amiability_," saith he, "had I but thee in the Court, as isthe only place meet for thee, then shouldst thou see how admired ofevery creature were thy wondrous wit and most incomparable beauties.Why, I dare be sworn on all the books in _Cumberland_, thou shouldest beof the Queen's Majesty's maids in one week's time. And of the delightsand jollities of that life, dwelling here in a corner of _England_, thoucanst not so much as cast an idea." Methought that should be rightrare.

  SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XXVII.With Aunt _Joyce_ this morrow to visit old _Nanny Crewdson_, that isbrother's widow to _Isaac_, and dwelleth in a cot up _Thirlmere_ way. Iwould fain have avoided the same an' I might, for I never took no listin visiting poor folk, and sithence I have wist my right noble_Protection_ do I take lesser than ever. In very deed, all relish isgone for me out of every thing but him and the jolly Court doingswhereof he tells me. And I am ever so much happier than I was of old,with n
ought but humdrum matter; only that now and then, for a shortwhile, I am a deal more miserabler. I cannot conceive what it is thatcometh o'er me at those times. 'Tis like as if I were dancing onflowers, 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 falsestep should cast me down therein. Nor will any thing comfort me, atthose times, but to talk with my _Protection_, that can alway dispel thegloom. But the things around, that I have been bred up in, do grow moreand more distasteful unto me than ever.

  Howbeit, I am feared to show folk the same, so when Aunt _Joyce_ calledme to come with her to _Nanny_, I made none ado, but tied on mine hoodand went.

  We found old _Nanny_--that is too infirm for aught but to sit of a chairin the sunshine--so doing by the window, beside her a little table, andthereon a great Bible open, with her spectacles of her nose, that shepulled 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, seeyou, were bred up never to see a Bible in _English_ till they weregrown: which is as different as can be to the like of us maids, thatnever knew the day when it lay not of the hall table. But therein runsmy 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 aword could I conceive. [Note 1.] They might well-nigh as good havetalked _Greek_ for me. Yet one matter will I set down the which I meanto 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 secondverses. There's fine reading in _Esaias_."

  "Ay, _Nan_, there is," saith Aunt _Joyce_. "But what toucheth it? I amill 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'smore--`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 getnear. Nay, folk o' that make has a care not to get too near. They'lllay down a chalk line, and they'll stop outside on't. If they'd onlycome near enough, th' light 'd burn up all them transgressions: but, yesee, 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 andthirty-ninth Psalm, his heart's middlin' perfect wi' the Lord.Otherwise, he'll boggle at them last verses. We don't want Him tosearch 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 Psalmbetwixt two leaves, and turn them o'er both together, so that I see nota word on't. I reckon _Nan_ should say my heart was not perfect by agreat 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 Igive up the book to _Edith_. I shall not tear out the leaves till thelast minute, and I will keep them when I do.

  I do never see nought of my _Protection_ of a _Sunday_, but all otherdays 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 heessaying 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 amnot 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_ mustneeds come in and give us leave to be wed rightly in church. But I willconsider of the same a day or twain longer.

  As to setting down what we do of a _Sunday_, 'tis alway the same o'eragain, 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 setforth for the copse where I do meet with my _Protection_, and hadwell-nigh reached it,--verily, I could discern him coming through thetrees to meet me--when from _Nanny's_ hut, right upon us, who shouldcome out save _Father_, and _Mother_, and _Edith_, their own selves. Icast but a glint to him that he should not note me, and walked on tomeet 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 hepassed by us, taking no note of us at all. "Is it not the same we meton Saint _Hubert's_ Isle?"

  "Is it so?" said I, making believe to look after him, the rather sinceit gave me an excuse to turn my back on them. "He bears a greenjerkin,--otherwise--"

  Wherein I am very sure I said _no_ falsity, as whatso _Father_ mightsay.

  "I do think it is the same," saith _Edith_. "Came he ever to speak withyou, _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 mattersthan I, dear heart. I only note the way a man's soul looketh out of hiseyes, 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'ssoul looked forth of."

  _Father_ laughs at this, and doffs his cap merrily.

  "Your very humble servant, Mistress _Editha Louvaine_," quoth he: "whenI 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 mineeyes. They serve me well to see withal, I thank God, and beyond thatissue have I never troubled me regarding them."

  "And how liked you the manner of Sir _Edwin Tregarvon's_ soul lookingforth, _Father_?" saith _Edith_, also laughing.

  "Why, that could I not see," quoth he, "for he keeping his eyes bentupon the ground, it did not look forth. But I cannot say his facealtogether pleased me."

  How mighty strange is it that all they--and in especial _Father_, that Ihave 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 Igo yet again to the copse, to see if I may find my _Protection_: for Ihave well-nigh granted the privy wedding he hath pled so hard for, andthis morrow we thought to order the inwards thereof [settle thedetails]. As next _Sunday_ at even, saith he, I am to steal forth ofthe garden door, and he shall meet me in the lane with an hackney andtwo 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 thereshall be much commotion, and some displeasant speeches; but I trust allshall blow o'er in time: and after all (as saith my _Protection_) whenthere is no hope that _Father_ and _Mother_ should give us leaveaforehand, 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 elderthan I. In the stead of only ten or fifteen years younger than_Father_,
he is twenty-five well reckoned, having but four-and-thirtyyears: and I was twenty my last birthday, which is two months gone. Andif he look (as he alloweth) something elder than his years, it is, as hehath told me, but trouble and sorrow, of which he hath known much. Mypoor _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 keepthe book right heedfully under lock and key.

  As for any paying of two-pences, that is o'er for me now; so there wereno good to reckon them up. My noble _Protection_ saith, when he hathbut once gat me safe to the Court, then shall I have a silken gown everyday I do live, and jewelling so much as ever I shall desire. He willset off his _Amiability_ (quoth he) that all shall see and wonder ather. 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.

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  Note 1. The words _understand_ and _conceive_ have changed places sincethe days of Elizabeth. To understand then meant to originate an idea:to conceive, to realise an imparted thought.