Joyce Morrell's Harvest Read online

  CHAPTER SEVEN.

  AUNT JOYCE TACKLES A GHOST.

  "'Twas but one little drop of sin We saw this morning enter in, And lo! at eventide the world is drowned."

  Keble.

  (_In Helen's handwriting_.)

  SELWICK HALL, JANUARY YE IV.Dear heart, but I ne'er thought our _Edith_ should have filled so muchpaper! Yet it doth seem me she is more livelier at writing than athousehold duties. I have watched her pen a-flying of a night (for shecan write twice as fast as I, she writing of the new _Italian_ hand, andI but the old _English_) [Note 1] till I marvelled whate'er she found tosay. And methinks she hath, likewise, a better memory than I, for Ireckon I should have made some mighty blunder in all these long talkswhich she hath set down so pat.

  I had no time to write afore to-day, nor much now: for o' New Year's Dayhad we all the childre of all the vicinage, and I were fair run off myfeet, first a-making ready, and then a-playing games. Then was there a'stowing away of such matter as should not be wanted again o' TwelfthNight. Trust me, but after Twelfth Night we shall have some jolly work!

  Dear heart! but how much hath happed since the last line I writ in thisbook, and 'tis but two months gone. I do see, as saith the wise man,that we verily wit not what a day may bring forth.

  Our _Milly_ is coming back something to her old self, though methinksshe hath learned an hard lesson, and shall ne'er be so light and foolishas aforetime. I trust this is not unkindly to say, for in very deed Imean it not so. But more and more hear we of all sides touching thisMaster _Norris_ (as Aunt _Joyce_ saith is his true name), which dothplainly show him a right evil man, and that if our poor _Milly_ hadtrusted to his fair words, she should soon have had cause to repent herbitterly thereof. Why, there is scarce a well-favoured maid in all_Derwentdale_, nor _Borrowdale_, that hath not token to show of him, andan heap of besugared flatteries for to tell. Eh, but what an ill worldis this we live in!--and how thankful should young maids be that have agood home to shelter them in, and a loving father and mother to defendthem from harm! Trust me, but I never knew how ill place was the world.

  Nor did I ever truly conceive aforetime of Aunt _Joyce_. Methought thatfor her, being rich and well to do, the wheels of life had run raresmooth: and that 'twas but a short way to the bottom of her mind andheart. And all suddenly an hand uplifts the corner of a curtain that Ihad taken no note of, and lo! a mighty deep that I never guessed to bethere. Is it thus with all folks, I do marvel?--and if we could lookinto the inwards of them that seem as though nought were in them, shouldwe find great dreary caverns, or vast mines of wealth? Yet for all thisis Aunt _Joyce_ ever bright and cheery, and ready to do all kindlyservice for whoso it be that needeth it. And 'tis harder to carry anheavy burden that it shall not show under your cloak, than to heave itup on your shoulder. I did alway love Aunt _Joyce_, but never better,methinks, than sithence I have known somewhat more of her inner mind.Poor hasty spirits that we be, how do we misjudge other folk! But now Imust tarry in my chronicling, for I hear _Anstace'_ voice below, and Ireckon she is come to help in making ready for Twelfth Night.

  SELWICK HALL, JANUARY YE VIII.Well! Twelfth Night is o'er, and the most of things 'stowed away, andall come back to our common ways. Sixty-eight guests had we, grown folkand childre, and I shall not essay, as I see _Edith_ hath done rarely,to set down all their names; only there were most of those that come on_Christmas_ Eve, but not Dr _Meade_ and his folks, he being bidden ofmy Lord _Dilston_. Much merriment was there a-drawing of king andqueen, and it o'er, behold, _Dudley Murthwaite_ was King, and _Mother_was Queen. So _Father_ (which had drawn the Chamberlain) rightcourtlily hands _Mother_ up to the throne, that was set at the furtherend of the great chamber, all laughing rarely to see how well 'twasdone: and _Martha Rigg, Agnes Benson, Gillian Armstrong_, and our_Milly_, that had drawn the Maids of Honour, did dispose themselvesbehind her. Aunt _Joyce_ was Mother of the Maids, and she said shewould have a care to rule them with a rod of iron. So she armed herwith the poker, and shaked it at each one that tittered, till the mostwere a-holding of their sides with laughter. _Jack Lewthwaite_ drew theChancellor, and right well he carried him. Ere their Majestiesabdicated, and the Court dispersed, had we rare mirth, for Aunt _Joyce_laid afore the throne a 'plaint of one of her maids for treason, whichwas _Gillian_, that could no way keep her countenance: and 'twassolemnly decreed of their Majesties, and ratified of the Chancellor,that the said prisoner be put in fetters, and made to drink poison: thewhich fetters were a long piece of silver lace that had come off a gownof _Mother's_, and the poison a glass of syllabub, which Mr Chancellorbrought to the prisoner, that screamed and begged for mercy, but had itnot--and hard work had _Gillian_ to beg for mercy, for she was laughingtill she could scarce utter no words. Howbeit, this o'er, all wegathered around the fire, and played at divers sitting games. And as wewere in the midst of "I love my love," and had but just finished R,--afore _Margaret Benson_, that was next, could begin with S,--behold, astrange voice behind, yet no strange one, crieth out loud and cheery--

  "I love my love with an S, because she is sweet; I hate her with S,because she is sulky: I took her to the sign of the _Ship_, and treatedher to sprats and seaweed; her name is _Sophonisba Suckabob_, and shecomes from _San Sebastian_."

  Well, we turned round all and looked on him that had spoke, but in goodsooth not one of us knew the bright fresh face, until _Mother_ criesout,--"_Ned_! _Ned_, my boy!" and then, I warrant you, there was somekissing and hand-shaking, ay, more than a little.

  "Fleet ahoy!" saith _Ned_. "Haven't seen so many crafts in the oldharbour, for never so long."

  "Why, _Ned_, hast thou forgot 'tis Twelfth Night?" says _Milly_.

  "So 'tis," quoth _Ned_. "Shall I dance you a hornpipe?"

  So after all the greeting was done, _Ned_ sat down next to _Mother_: butwe gat no further a-loving of our loves that night, for all wanted tohear _Ned_, that is but now come back from the _Spanish_ seas: anddivers tales he told that were rare taking, and one or twain that didmake my flesh creep: but truly his sea-talk is rare hard to conceive.When all at once saith _Ned_:--

  "Have you a ghost cruising these parts?"

  "Eh, _Ned_, hast thou seen her?" cries _Austin Park_.

  "Who's her?" saith _Ned_. "I've seen a craft with a white hull and allsails up, in the copse nigh old _Nanny's_."

  "Couldst thou make it thy conveniency to speak _English, Ned_?" saith_Father_. "That is the language we talk in _Derwentdale_."

  _Ned_ laughed, and saith, "I'll endeavour myself; but 'tis none so easyto drop it. Well, who or what is it?"

  "'Tis a ghost," saith _Austin_; "and folks laughed at me when I said Ihad seen it: may-be they'll give o'er now."

  "Why didst not send a buck-shot through her?" quoth _Ned_.

  "Good lack! I had no arms," saith _Austin_: "and what good should comeo' shooting a ghost?"

  "Make you first sure she is a ghost," saith _Father_: "for it should beright little good that should come of shooting a woman."

  This was all said that night; and we brake up at nine o' the clock, andaway hied our guests.

  But yestereven, as I was a-crossing of the hall, just after the duskfell, what should I see but Aunt _Joyce_, clad in hood, cloak, andpattens, drawing back of the bolt from the garden door: and I ran tohelp her.

  "Why, Aunt _Joyce_, whither go you so late?" said I. "But may-be I doill to ask."

  "Nay, thou dost not so, child," saith she: "and I will take thee into mysecret, for I can trust thee. _Nell_, I am going to see the ghost."

  "Aunt _Joyce_," was all I could utter.

  "Ay," saith she, "I will: for my mind misgives me that this is no ghost,but a living woman: and a woman that it should be well had an otherwoman to speak unto her. Be not afeared, dear heart; I am not runningafore I am sent. It was said to me last night, `Go in this thy might.'And when the Lord sends men on His errands, He pays the
charges."

  "But if you should be hurt, _Aunt_!" cried I.

  "Well, what so?" saith she. "He were a poor soldier that were afearedto be hurt in his King's battles. But if it be as I think, _Nell_,there is no fear thereof. And if there were, mine ease is of lessmoment than a sinner's soul. Nay, dear maid, take thine heart to thee[cheer up]. There is more with me than all the constables in_Cumberland_. `Whatsoever the Lord pleased, that did He,--in heaven,and in the earth, and in the seas, and in all deep places.' I am notafeared, _Nell_."

  And away trudged she, without an other word. But I sat on thorns till,about seven o' the clock, she came into the great chamber, her hood andcloak doffed.

  "Why, _Joyce_, I had lost thee," saith _Mother_, looking up brightlyfrom her sewing.

  "I would rather thou hadst lost me than the Lord, _Lettice_: and if thouhadst not, methinks He had found me wanting," saith Aunt _Joyce_. "Now,dear hearts, list me. I have much trust in you, _Aubrey_ and _Lettice_,or I had not dared to do as I have done this night. I have brought intoyour house a woman that is a sinner. Will you turn her forth of thedoors to die in the snow without, or will you let her 'bide till shehath had time to behold Him that sitteth as guest at your banquet, and,I would hope, to wash His feet with tears, and wipe them with the hairsof her head?"

  "O _Joyce_, let her 'bide!" crieth _Mother_, and the tears ran down hercheeks.

  "Amen!" saith _Father_, gently.

  "But who is she?" saith _Mother_, as if something fearfully.

  "She is,"--Aunt _Joyce's_ voice was very husky--"she is what our_Milisent_ would have been, if the Lord had not stayed her right at thelast minute."

  So then I knew that _Blanche Lewthwaite_ was found at last.

  There were none in the chamber, as it happed, but _Father_, _Mother_,and me, when _Aunt_ came in.

  "And what hath she to say?" asks _Mother_.

  "She will not talk of the past," saith Aunt _Joyce_: "and, God wot, Ishall not ask her."

  "Is she very 'shamed and sorrowful?"

  "Never a whit. She is more angered than aught else."

  "Angered!--with whom?"

  "With _Providence_, I take it," quoth Aunt _Joyce_, something drily."She counts a miracle should have been wrought for her to hinder herfrom sinning, and that since it were not, there can be no blame laid ather door."

  "So hard as that!" saith _Mother_.

  "May-be not all through," Aunt _Joyce_ makes answer. "The crust seemsthick at present: but there may be a soft spot deep down below. I shallwork till I find it."

  "Is she not softened toward thee?" asks _Father_.

  "Me!" saith Aunt _Joyce_, with a bitter little laugh. "Why, so far as Ican make out, I am but one step fairer than _Providence_ in her eyes. Igat not much flattery this even, I can tell you--no more than I had of_Milly_ a month gone. Nay, _Aubrey_. He that would save a sinneragainst his will must not expect thanks from him."

  "Shall I go to her, _Joyce_?" saith _Mother_, and rose up.

  "As thou wilt, _Lettice_," saith Aunt _Joyce_. "Only, an' thou so dost,look not for any fair words save out of thine own mouth. She is in thegreen chamber. I locked her in."

  "Hath she had to eat?" saith _Mother_.

  "Ay; I saw to that ere I came below."

  _Mother_ went forth of the chamber.

  "May I see her, Aunt _Joyce_," said I, "or must I not?"

  "Better not at this present, _Nell_," she made answer. "But--I am notsure that it were not well for _Milly_."

  When _Mother_ came down again, she saith in a despairing voice, andspreading forth her hands--

  "O _Joyce_, she is as hard as a stone!"

  "Ay," saith Aunt _Joyce_, quietly. "So, I reckon, was _Peter_, untilthe Lord turned and looked upon him. That melted him, _Lettice_. Leaveus take _Blanche_ to the Lord."

  "Sin is the most hardening thing in the world, dear heart," saith_Father_, sadly.

  So here is poor _Blanche_, locked of the green chamber, with Aunt_Joyce_ for her waiting-maid, for none other will she have to enter--noteven _Mother_, for her one talk with _Blanche_ hath sore distressed her.

  "Wait a while, _Lettice_," saith Aunt _Joyce_: "I will bid thee when Ireckon any good should come of it."

  _Milisent_ hath been told, and seemeth much touched therewith: but noneof us have yet seen _Blanche_. Poor heart! may the good Lord have mercyupon her!

  SELWICK HALL, JANUARY YE XII._Mother_, and I with her, went up this morrow to _Mere Lea_, to doMistress _Lewthwaite_ to wit touching _Blanche_. We found her rightbusy a-making of pies, and _Alice_ by her paring of apples. She gave usgood welcome, and we sat us down, and talked a short while of othermatter. Then saith _Mother_:--

  "Suffer me to ask at you, Mistress _Lewthwaite_, if you have heard everany news of _Blanche_?"

  Mistress _Lewthwaite_ shaked her head sorrowfully.

  "Nay, not we," saith she. "It should be a good day we did. Albeit, herfather is sore angered: yet methinks if he did verily stand face to facewith the child, he should not be so hard on her as he talks now."

  "Then I hope the good day is coming," saith _Mother_. "For methinks,neighbour, we have heard somewhat."

  Mistress _Lewthwaite_ left her pastry of the board, and come up to_Mother_.

  "Eh, Lady _Lettice_, what have you heard? Tell me quick, now!"

  "My poor heart, I saw her last night."

  "Where is the child?"

  "With us, at _Selwick_ Hall. _Joyce_ found her, wandering about, andhiding in copses, and she brought her in."

  "And what hath happed, Lady _Lettice_?"

  "We have not asked her."

  "Not asked her!" saith Mistress _Lewthwaite_, in manifest amazement; and_Alice_ looked up with the like.

  "We know," saith _Mother_, "but such matter as it hath liked her to tellus: the which is, that she was wed to this gentleman of a _Popish_priest, which as you know is not good in law: and that after she hadbidden with him but a fortnight, they quarrelled, and he left her."

  "Ah, she ne'er had a good temper, hadn't _Blanche_," saith her mother."Well, poor heart! I'll not quarrel with her. We're all sinners, Ireckon. The lass may come home when she will, for all me; and I'll domine utmost to peace her father. We haven't so much time o' this world,nor so much happiness, that we need wrangle and make matters worser."

  For Mistress _Lewthwaite_ is herself a right easy-going woman: 'tis herfather of whom _Blanche_ hath her temper. But _Alice_ saith to me, thatsat right at the end of the board where she was a-work--

  "All very well, methinks, for my fine mistress to come hither a-prinkingand a-pranking of her, and looking to be took back as if nought hadhappened. If I had the word to say, she'd not come home in no hurry, Iwarrant you. She should lie on her bed as she'd made it."

  "O _Alice_!" said I, "but sure, thou wilt be right glad to have_Blanche_ back?"

  "Shall I so?" saith she, and tossed her head. "Thank you for nothing,_Nell Louvaine_. I'm a decent maid that have alway carried me belike,and I go not about to say `sister' to one that brought disgrace on hername."

  "_Alice_, art thou about to play the _Pharisee_?" said I, for I was soretroubled. I had ever thought _Alice_ right sorry after _Blanche_, andit did astonish me to hear such words of her.

  "Let my fine Lady _Everett_ play the publican first, then," quoth she.

  I scarce wist what to say, yet I would have said more, but that _Mother_rose up to depart at this time. But I am so astonied at _Alice_. Whileso _Blanche_ were lost, she did seem quite soft toward her; and now sheis found, here is _Alice_ grown hard as a board, and all of a minute, asit were. Had it been our _Milly_ (which I do thank God from mineheart-root it is not) I think I would not have been thus towards her. Iknow I am but sinful and not to be trusted for the right, as much ormore than other: but I do _think_ I should not so do.

  Yet is there one matter that I comprehend not, nor never shall, neitherof _Milly_ nor of any other. To think of a ma
id leaving of father andmother, and her home, and her brethren and sisters, to go away with afine-spoken man that she had not known a month, all by reason he spakesome flattering words--in good sooth, but 'tis a marvel unto me. Truly,I might conceive the same in case a maid were rare ill-usen at home--were her father ever harsh unto her, and her mother all day a-nagging ather--then, if the man should show him no mere flatterer, but a truefriend, would I not stick to the days she had known him. And yet, asmethinks, it should be a strange case wherein a true man should not goboldly and honestly to the maid's father, and ask her of him, with nohole-and-corner work. But to think of so leaving _our_ father andmother, that never in all their lives did deny us any good thing thatwas meet for us, and that have loved us and cared for us all, from theday we were born unto this day--to go away from them with a strangeflatterer--nay, this passeth me by many a mile.

  SELWICK HALL, JANUARY YE XVI.This morrow, as I was sat a-work alone in the great chamber, come myLady _Stafford_, with her broidery in her hand, and sat her down besideme. And ere many minutes were passed, saith she--

  "_Helen_, I have been to see _Blanche_."

  "And is she still so hard, my Lady?" said I.

  "I should not call her mood hard," saith she. "I think she is very,very sorry, and would fain not have us see it. But," she paused amoment, and then went on, "it is the worldly sorrow which causethdeath."

  "Your Ladyship would say?"

  "She is right sorry for my Lady _Everett_, for the great lady shethought to have been, and the grand life she looked to lead: but for_Blanche Lewthwaite_ as a sinner before God, methinks she is not sorryat all."

  "'Tis a sad case," said I.

  My Lady _Stafford_ gave me no answer, and when I looked up at her, I sawher dark eyes fastened on the white clouds which were floating softlyacross the blue, and her eyes so full that they all-to [nearly] rano'er.

  "_Helen_," she saith, "hast thou any idea what is sin?"

  "Truly, Madam, I think so," I made answer.

  "I marvel," she pursueth, "if there ever were man or woman yet, thatcould see it as God seeth it. It may be that unto Him all the evil that_Blanche_ hath done--and 'tis an evil with many sides to it--is a lesserthing than the pride and unbelief which will not give her leave to ownthat she hath done it. And for what others have done--"

  All suddenly, her Ladyship brake off, and hiding her face in herkerchief, she brake into such a passion of weeping tears as methought Ihad scarce seen in any woman aforetime.

  "O my God, my God!" she sobbeth through her tears, "how true is it that`man knows the beginnings of sin, but who boundeth the issues thereof!'"[Note 2.]

  I felt that my Lady's trouble, the cause whereof was unknown to me, layfar beyond any words, specially of me: and I could but keep respectfulsilence till she grew calm. When so were, quoth she--

  "Dost marvel at my tears, _Helen_?"

  "In no wise, Madam," said I: "for I reckoned there were some cause forthem, beyond my weak sight."

  "Cause!" saith she--"ay, _Helen_, cause more than thou wist. Dost knowthat this _Leonard Norris_--the man that hath wrought all thismischief--and more beside than thou or I can tell--is my brother, of thefather's side?"

  "Madam!" cried I in amaze.

  "Ay," saith she sorrowfully: "and that is not all, _Helen_, by verymuch. For our father was just such an other: and not only are the sins,but the leanings and temptations of the fathers, visited upon thechildren. And I thought, _Helen_, beyond that--of a quiet grave inunconsecrate ground, wherein, now nigh fifty years agone, they laid onethat had not sinned against the light like to _Blanche Lewthwaite_, yetto whom the world was harder than it is like to be to her. She waslawfully wed, _Helen_, but she stood pledged to convent vows, and theChurch cursed her and flung her forth as a loathsome thing. Her lifefor twelve years thereafter was a daily dying, whereto death came atlast as a hope and a mercy. I reckon the angels drew not their whiterobes aside, lest her soiled feet should brush them as she passed up tothe Judgment Bar. And methinks her sentence from the Judge should be noworser than one He gave in the days of His flesh--`Thy sins be forgiventhee: go in peace.' The Church cast her out, but not the Cross. Therewas no room for her in the churchyard: but methinks there was enough inthe Sepulchre on _Golgotha_!"

  Oh, but how sorry I felt for this poor soul! and I saw she was one whomher Ladyship had loved well.

  "There was a time, _Helen_," she went on, "when it seemed to meuttermost misery that no prayers should be permitted for her soul.Think thou with what comfort I found in God's Word that none were neededfor her. Ah, these _Papists_ will tell you of the happiness of theirpriests' fatherly care, and the sweetness of absolution: but they tellyou not of the agony of despair to them to whom absolution is denied,and for whom the Church and the priest have no words save curses. Ihave seen it, _Helen_. Well for them whom it drives straight to Himthat is high above all Churches, and who hath mercy on whom He will havemercy. Praise be to His holy name, that the furthest bounds of men'sforbearance touch not the `uttermost' of God."

  When my Lady thus spake, it came upon my mind all of a sudden, to ask ather somewhat the which had troubled me of long time. I marvel whereforeit should be, that it doth alway seem easier to carry one's knots andgriefs unto them that be not the nearest and dearest, than unto themthat be. Is it by reason that courtesy ordereth that they shall listthe better, and not be so like to snub a body?--yet that can scarce beso with me, that am alway gently entreated both of _Father_ and_Mother_. Or is it that one would not show ignorance or mistakingsafore them one loves, nor have them hereafter cast in one's teeth, asmight be if one were o'erheard of one's sist--Good lack! but methought Iwere bettered of saying unkindly things. I will stay me, not by reasonthat it should cost me two pence, but because I do desire to please Godand do the right.

  Well, so I said unto my Lady, "Madam, I pray you pardon me if I speaknot well, but there is one place of Holy Writ that doth sore pose andtrouble me. It is that of Saint _Paul_, which saith, that if they thatwere once enlightened shall fall away, there shall be no hope to renewthem again. That doth alway seem to me so awful a word!--to think ofone that had sinned longing for forgiveness, and yet must not have it--Icannot understand how it should be, when _Christ_ liveth to save to theuttermost!"

  "Nor any other," saith she. "Dear _Helen_, thou readest it wrong, as Ibelieve many do. The Apostle saith not, there is no renewing to_pardon_: he saith, there is no renewing to _repentance_. With themthat have sinned against light, the language of whose hearts is, `I haveloved idols, and after them I will _go_,'--these have no desire ofremission. They do not wish to be forgiven. But these, dear maid, arenot they that long for pardon and are willing to turn from sin. That isrepentance. So long as a sinner can repent, so long can he receivepardon. The sinner that doth long for forgiveness which God can not orwill not give him, is a monster was never found yet in this world orthat which is to come."

  Right comfortable did I think these words. I never should have dared(as _Milly_ saith touching the 139th Psalm) to have turned o'er the twoleaves together that I might not see this sixth chapter of _Hebrews_:yet did I never see it without a diseaseful creeping feeling, belike,coming o'er me. And I am sore afeared lest I may have come nigh, attimes, to wishing that Saint _Paul_ had not writ the same.

  "Yet mark thou, _Helen_," again saith my Lady, "there is a differencebetwixt remission of sin and remission of penalty. Every sinner shouldbe glad enough to part with his punishment: but no sinner was ever yetwilling to part with his sin but under the promptings of God's Spirit.And that is but a sorry repentance which would fain keep the sin, ifonly it might without incurring penalty."

  "Madam, you do cause sin to look very awful," said I.

  "That is how God would have thee see it, _Helen_," saith she."Remember, He hates sin not for His own sake only, but for thy sake.Ah, dear maid, when some sin, or some matter that perhaps scarce seemssin to thee, yet makes a cl
oud to rise up betwixt God and thee--whenthis shall creep into thy very bosom, and nestle himself there warm andclose, and be unto thee as a precious jewel--remember, if so be, that`it is better _for thee_ to enter into life halt or maimed, rather thanthou shouldst, having two hands, or two feet, be cast into everlastingfire.' He that said that, _Helen_, knew what Hell was."

  SELWICK HALL, JANUARY YE XXI._Blanche_ is gone home at last. Aunt _Joyce_ and I went thither thislast night with her, her mother having wrung consent from her fatherthat she should come. For all that was the scene distressful, forMaster _Lewthwaite_ kept not in divers sharp speeches, and _Blanche_(that is sore wanting in reverence to her elders) would answer back asshe should not: but at the last Mistress _Lewthwaite_ gat them peaced,and _Alice_ and _Blanche_ went off together. _Alice_ behaved betterthan my fears. But, dear heart, to my thinking, how hard and proud is_Blanche_! Why, she would brazen it out that she hath done none ill ofno kind. The good Lord open her eyes!

  When we came out from _Mere Lea_, and were come down the garden path,Aunt _Joyce_ stood a moment on the hill-side, her eyes lift up to thestill stars.

  "Good Lord!" then saith she, "how hard be we poor sinful men and women,each to other, and how much more forbearing art Thou against whom wehave sinned! Make Thou Thy servants more like Thyself!"

  And then away, with a quick foot, and never an other word spake she tillwe gat us home.

  SELWICK HALL, JANUARY YE XXVII.When I come to read o'er that I have writ, I find I have said rarelittle touching _Ned_. And in very deed it is not that I meant to keephim out, for _Ned_ is my very hero, and my true thought is that neveryet were young man so brave and good, nor so well-favoured. I must sayI would I could conceive his talk better: for 'tis all so stuffed withsea-words that I would fain have an interpreter. _Ned_ laughs when Isay this.

  "Well," saith he, "'tis the strangest thing in the world you should notconceive me. 'Tis all along of you being maids, I reckon."

  "Nay," say I, "'tis by reason we were ne'er at sea."

  "Well, how any human creature can be a landlubber," saith _Ned_, "whenhe might have a good boat and a stiff capful o' wind, passeth merarely."

  "Why," quoth _Father_, that had listed us in silence till now, "if wewere all sailors and mermen, _Ned_, how wouldst come by a sea-biscuit ora lump of salt meat? There should be none to sow nor reap, if the landwere deserted."

  "Oh ay, 'tis best some should love it," saith _Ned_. "But how they soshould, that is it passeth me."

  "'Tis a strange matter," saith _Father_, "that we men should be all ofus unable to guess how other men can affect that we love not. I dare bebound that _Wat_ should say what passed him was that any man which mightdwell on the land should take to the sea."

  "_Wat_!" saith Ned, curling of his lip. "I saw him, Sir, and spent twodays in his company, when we touched at _London_ some eight months gone.Why, he is--Nay, I wis not what he is like. All the popinjays in theSouth Seas be fools to him."

  "Is he so fine, _Ned_?" asks _Milly_.

  "Fine!" saith _Ned_. "Go to, I have some whither an inventory of hisLordship's garments, the which I set down for the mirth of you maids. Igat the true names of _Wat_, look you."

  And he pulleth forth a great bundle of papers from his pocket, and aftersome search lighteth on the right.

  "Now then, hearken, all of you," saith _Ned_. "_Imprimis_, on hishead--when it is on, but as every minute off it cometh to every creaturehe meeteth, 'tis not much--a _French_-fashioned beaver, guarded of a setof gold buttons enamelled with black--cost, eight pound."

  "For a hat!" cries _Milly_.

  "Tarry a bit," saith _Ned_; "I am not in port yet by a thousand knots.Then in this hat was a white curled ostrich feather, six shillings.Below, a gown of tawny velvet, wherein were six yards, _London_ measure,of four-and-twenty shillings the yard: and guarded with some make of fur(I forgat to ask him the name of that), two dozen skins, eight penceeach: cost of this goodly gown, six pound, ten shillings, and fourpence."

  "Eh!" cried _Milly_ and _Edith_ together.

  "Bide a bit!" saith _Ned_. "_Item_, a doublet, of black satin ofsixteen shillings the yard, with points of three and sixpence the dozen._Item_, a pair of hose of popinjay green (they be well called popinjay)of thirty shillings. _Item_, cross-garters of scarlet--how's that?"quoth _Ned_, scratching his forehead with a pencil: "I must have forgatthe price o' them. Boots o' red _Spanish_ leather, nine shillings.Gloves of _Cordova_, well scented, ten pence. Gold rings of 's ears,three shilling the pair."

  "Rings! Of his ears!" cries Cousin _Bess_, that was sat in the windowat her sewing, as she mostly is of an afternoon. "And prithee, whatcost the one of his nose?"

  "He hasn't bought that yet," saith _Ned_ drily.

  "It'll come soon, I reckon," quoth she.

  "Then, o'er all, a mighty gold chain, as thick as a cart-rope. Butthat, as he told me, was given to him: so 'tis not fair to put it of theprice. Eh, good lack! I well-nigh forgat the sleeves--green velvet,slashed of mallard-colour satin; and guarded o' silver lace--threepound, eight shillings, and four pence."

  "Hast made an end, _Ned_?" saith _Edith_.

  "Well, I reckon I may cast anchor," saith _Ned_, looking o'er to theother side of his paper.

  "Favour me with the total, _Ned_," quoth _Father_.

  "Twenty-three pound, two and six pence, Sir, I make it," saith _Ned_."I am not so sure _Wat_ could. He saith figuring is only fit forshop-folk."

  "Is thrift only fit for shop-folk too?" asks _Father_.

  "I'll warrant you _Wat_ thinks so, Sir," answers _Ned_.

  "What have thy garments cost this last year, _Ned_?" pursueth _Father_.

  "Eh, five pound would buy mine any year," quoth he.

  "And so I reckon would ten mine," saith _Father_. "What be _Wat's_wages now?--is he any thing bettered?"

  "Sixteen pound the year, Sir, as he told me."

  "I guess shop-folk should be something put to it to take twenty-threeout of sixteen," quoth _Father_.

  "And prithee, _Ned_, how many such suits hath my young gentleman in hiswardrobe?"

  "That cannot I say certainly, Sir: but I would guess six or seven,"_Ned_ makes answer. "But, dear heart! you wit not the half hath to comeof that sixteen pound: beyond clothes, there be presents, many and rich(this last new year but one girdle of seven pound;) pomanders [perfumedballs, which served as scent-bottles], and boxes of orange comfits, andcups of tamarisk wood, and _aqua mirabilis_, and song books, andvirginals [the predecessor of the piano] and viols [violins], and hisportrait in little, and playing tables [backgammon], and speculationglasses [probably magnifying glasses], and cinnamon water, andsugar-candy, and fine _Venice_ paper for his letters, andpouncet-boxes--"

  "Take breath, _Ned_," saith _Father_. "How many letters doth _Wat_write by the year?"

  "They be love-letters, on the _Venice_ paper," quoth _Ned_. "In goodsooth, I wis not, Sir: only I saw them flying hither and thither asthick as Mother _Carey's_ chickens."

  "Is he troth-plight?" saith _Father_, very seriously.

  "Not that I heard," _Ned_ makes answer. "He had two or three strings tohis bow, I guess. One a right handsome young lady, daughter unto myLord of _Sheffield_, that had taken up with him the new fashion called_Euphuism_."

  "Prithee interpret, _Ned_," saith _Father_, "for that passeth my weakhead."

  I saw _Milly_ to blush, and cast down her eyes of her tapestry-work: andI guessed she wist what it were.

  "'Tis a rare diversion, Sir, come up of late," answers _Ned_: "whereby,when a gentlewoman and a gentleman be in treaty of love,--or without thesame, being but friends--they do agree to call each other by certaindainty and fantastical names: as the one shall be _Perfection_, and theother _Hardihood_: or, the one _Sweetness_, and the other _Fortitude_:and the like. I prayed _Wat_ to show me how it were, or else had I wistno more than a baker how to reef a sail. The names whereby he and h
islady do call each other be, she his _Excellency_, and he her _Courage_."

  "Be these men and women grown?" quoth _Father_.

  "Nay, sure!" cries Cousin _Bess_.

  "Every one, Sir," saith _Ned_, a-laughing.

  "And, poor souls! can they find nought better to do?" quoth _Father_.

  "They have not yet, it seems," saith Aunt _Joyce_.

  "Are you ne'er mocking of us, think you?" saith Cousin _Bess_ to _Ned_.

  "Never a whit!" crieth he. "Eh, Cousin _Bess_, I could tell you queerermatters than that."

  "Nay, I'll hear none, o' my good will," saith she. "_Paul_ saith we beto think on whatsoever things be lovely: and I reckon he wasn't like tomean on a parcel o' big babes, playing at make-believe."

  "They have nought else to do, it appears," quoth _Father_.

  "Dear heart!" saith she. "Could they ne'er buy a bale of flannel, andmake some doublets and petticoats for the poor? He must be a poor sillycompanion that shall call a woman _Excellency_, when she hath donenought all her life but to pluck roses and finger her gold chain.Where's her excellency, belike?"

  "Things were ill enough in the Court of old," saith _Father_, "but itdoth seem me we were scantly so brainless of old time as this. I shallsend a letter to my cousin of _Oxenford_ touching _Walter_. He must notbe suffered to drift into--"

  _Father_ did not end his sentence. But methought I could guessreasonable well how it should have been finished.

  Verily, I am troubled touching _Wat_, and will pray for him, that he maybe preserved safe from the snares of the world, the flesh, and theDevil. Oh, what a blessed place must Heaven be, seeing there shall benone of them!

  One thing, howbeit, doth much comfort me,--and that is, that _Ned_ istrue and staunch as ever to the early training he had of _Father_ and_Mother_ out of God's Word. Some folk might think him careless and toofond of laughter, and fun, and the like: but I know _Ned_--of early daysI was ever his secret fellow--and I am well assured his heart is rightand true. He shall 'bide with us until Sir _Humphrey Gilbert_ his nextvoyage out to the _Spanish_ seas, but we know not yet when that shallbe. He had intended to make the coast of _Virginia_ this last time, butwas beat back by the tempest. 'Tis said that when he goeth, his brotherof the mother's side, Sir _Walter Raleigh_, shall go with him. This Sir_Walter_, saith _Ned_, is a young gentleman that hath but eight andtwenty years, yet is already of much note in the Court. He hath a rareintelligence and a merry wit. Aunt _Joyce_ was mightily taken by onetale that _Ned_ told us of him,--how that, being at the house of somegentleman in the country, where the mistress of the house was mightilyset up and precise, one morrow, this Sir _Walter_, that was a-donning[dressing] himself, did hear the said his precise and delicate hostess,without his door, to ask at her servants, "Be the pigs served?" Nosooner had they met below, than saith Sir _Walter_, "Madam, be the pigsserved?"

  But my Lady, that moved not a muscle of her face, replied as calm as youwill, "You know best, Sir, whether you have had your breakfast." Aunt_Joyce_ did laugh o'er this, and said Sir _Walter_ demerited to have asgood given him as he brought.

  "I do like," quoth she, "a woman that can stand up to a man!"

  "I can credit it, _Joyce_," saith _Father_.

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  Note 1. The English hand was the running hand of the old black letter,and was a very crabbed and tedious piece of work. The Italian hand,which came in about this time, has lasted until the present day, thoughits latest variety has lost much of the old clearness and beauty. Itwas at its best in the reign of James the First, of which period somespecimens of writing have been preserved, exquisitely beautiful, and aslegible as copper-plate. Most lovely is the youthful hand of his eldestdaughter: the cacography of her later years is, alas! somethinghorrible. Queen Elizabeth could write the Italian hand (and did it toperfection), but she has left on record that she did not like doing it.

  Note 2. These were the last words of Francesco Spira, an Italian lawyerand a pervert, whose terrible death, in the agonies of remorse anddespair, made a deep and lasting impression on the Protestants ofEngland.