"If the old saints be done away," saith he, "thank goodness, the new at least be left."

Good lack! but I wist not what to answer to so courtly compliments, and the better liked I my neighbour every minute. Methought I had never seen a gentleman so grand and amiable, not to say of so good words.

"And, I pray you, sweet Mistress," saith he, yet a-leaning against the tree, which was an oak, and I could find it again this minute: "is it lawful for the snared bird to request the name of the fowler?"

"Sir, I pray you of pardon," I made answer, and I could not help to laugh a little, "but I am all unused to so courtly and flattering words. May it please you to put what you would say into something plainer English?"

"Surely," saith he, "the rose is not unaccustomed to the delightsome inhalation of her fragrance. Well, fairest Mistress, may I know your name? Is that English plain enough to do you a pleasure?"

"Sir," quoth I, "my name is Milisent Louvaine, to serve you."

"Truly," saith he, "and it shall serve me right well to know so mellifluous a name. [Note 3.] And what dwelling is honoured by being your fair home, my honey-sweet damsel?"

"Sir," said I, "I dwell at Selwick Hall, o'er the lake in yonder quarter."

"It must be a delightsome dwelling," he made answer. "And—elders have you, fairest Mistress?"

"I thank the Lord, ay, Sir. Sir Aubrey Louvaine is my father, and Dame Lettice, sometime named Eden, my mother."

"Lettice Eden!" saith he, and methought something sorrowfully, as though Mother's old name should have waked some regrets within him. "I do mind me, long time gone, of a fair maiden of that name, that was with my sometime Lady of Surrey, and might now and then be seen at the Court with her lady, or with the fair Lady of Richmond, her lord's sister. Could it have been the same, I marvel?"

"Sir," said I, "I cast no doubt thereon. My mother was bower-maiden unto my Lady of Surrey, afore she were wed."

"Ah!" saith he, and fetched a great sigh. "She was the fairest maiden that ever mine eyes beheld. At the least—I thought so yesterday."

"My sister is more like her than I," I did observe. "She is round by yonder, a-playing the painter."

"Ah," quoth he, something carelessly, "I did see a young damsel, sitting of a stone o'er yonder. Very fair, in good sooth: yet I have seen fairer,—even within the compass of Saint Hubert's Isle. And I do marvel that she should be regarded as favouring my good Lady your mother more than you, sweet Mistress Milisent."

I was astonished, for I know Edith is reckoned best-favoured of all us, and most like to Mother. But well as it liked me to sit and listen, methought, somehow, I had better get me up and return to Edith.

"Alas!" saith he, when he saw me rise, "miserable man, am I driving hence the fairest floweret of the isle?"

"Not in no wise, Sir," answered I; "but I count it time to return, and my sister shall be coming to look for me."

"Then, sweet Mistress, give me leave to hand you o'er these rough paths."

So I put mine hand into his, which was shapely, and well cased in fair Spanish leather; and as we walked, he asked me of divers matters; as, how many brothers I had, and if they dwelt at home; and if Father were at home; and the number and names of my sisters, and such like; all which I told him. Moreover, he would know if we had any guests; which, with much more, seeing he had been of old time acquainted with Mother, I told. Only I forgat to make mention of Aunt Joyce.

So at long last—for he, being unacquainted with the Isle, took the longest way round, and I thought it good manners not to check him—at long last come we to Edith, which was gat up from her stone, and was putting by her paper and pencils in the bag which she had brought for them.

"We shall be something late for four-hours, Milly," saith she. "Prithee, wake Adam, whilst I make an end."

Off went I and gave Adam a good shake, and coming back, found Edith in discourse with my gentleman. I cannot tell why, but I would as lief he had not conversed with any but me.

"Sir," said I, "may we set you down of the lakeside?"

"No, I thank you much," saith he: and lifting his bonnet from his head, I saw how gleaming golden was yet his hair. "I have a boat o'er the other side. Farewell, my sweet mistresses both: I trust we shall meet again. Methinks I owe it you, howbeit, to tell you my name. I am Sir Edwin Tregarvon, of Cornwall, and very much your servant."

So away went he, with a graceful mien: and we home o'er the lake. All the way Edith saith nought but—"Milly, where didst thou pick up thy cavaliero?"

"Nay," said I, "he it was who picked me up. He was leaning of a tree, of t'other side, over against Borrowdale: and I sat me down of a log, and saw him not till he spake."

Edith said no more at that time. But in the even, when we were doffing us, and Nell was not yet come up, quoth she—

"Milly, is Sir Edwin something free to ask questions?"

"Oh, meterly," [tolerably] said I.

"I trust thou gavest him not o'er full answers."

"Oh, nought of import," said I. "Beside, Edith, he is an old friend of Mother."

"Is he so?" quoth she. "Then we can ask Mother touching him."

Now, I could not have told any wherefore, but I had no list to ask Mother, nor had I told her so much as one word touching him. I believe I was half afeared she might forbid me to encourage him in talk. I trust Edith shall forget the same, for she hath not an over good memory.

SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE IX. I well-nigh do wish I had not writ down that same o' Friday last. Howbeit, there is no penalty against tearing out o' leaves: and that must I do, if need be. Meanwhile, I will go right forward with my chronicling.

I did verily think I saw Sir Edwin part-way up the hill behind us o' Saturday even: but o' Sunday he was not in church, for I looked for him. I reckon he must have left this vicinage, or he should scarce run the risk of a twenty pound fine [the penalty per month for non-attendance at the parish church], without he be fairly a-rolling in riches, as his gold chain looked not unlike.

Thank goodness, Edith hath forgot to say aught to Mother, and 'tis not like she shall think on now.

SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XII. Mother bid me, this morrow, carry a basket of eggs and a spice-cake [the northern name for a plum-cake] to old Jack. They were ducks' eggs, for I had told her what Jack said the last time we visited him. I bade Edith go with me [Note 4], but she would not, the day being somewhat foul. I did never see a maid so unwilling to mire her shoes as our Edith. So I all alone up to Jack Benn's: which saw me from his hut door, and gave me his customary courteous welcome.

"There's a woman a-coming!" quoth he. "Get away wi' ye! I hate women."

"Nay, Jack," said I; "thou alway savest me, as thou wist. Here be eggs for thee—ducks', every one: and a spice-cake, which I know thou lovest."

"I love nought so much as I hate women," saith he. But he took the cake and the eggs off me, notwithstanding. "They're fleshly folk, is women," quoth old Jack.

"Nay, what signifiest?" said I. "Women have no more flesh than men, I reckon."

"Mistress Milisent, does thou wit what Paul says to th' Romans, touching th' flesh and th' spirit?"

"Oh ay, Jack, I have read it afore now."

"Well, and does thou mind how he threaps again' th' flesh?"

"To be sure," said I.

"Now look ye here," saith he. "Here's my hand,"—and he reacheth forth a great brown paw. "Does thou see it?"

"Ay, I am thankful I have eyes good enough for that, Jack!"

"Well—this hand's made o' flesh, does thou wit?"

"I reckon so much, Jack."

"Good. Well, Paul he says we're none to mind th' things o' th' flesh, but only th' things o' th' spirit. Your spirit's your thoughts and meditations like. And that's why women's such ill uns—because they are alway minding th' things o' th' flesh: scrubbing, and washing, and baking, and sewing, and such like. And it stands to reason, Mistress Milisent, that what ye do wi' th' flesh mun be th' things o' th' flesh. Does thou see?"

"Well, Jack, I am afeared I do not entirely."

"Get thee gone!" saith he. "Women never can see nought. They're ill uns, I tell ye—they're ill uns!"

"But, Jack, the sins of the flesh have nought to do with cooking and washing."

"Does thou think I dunna know better nor a woman? Thee be off, or I'll let fly th' broom at thee."

"Jack, thou art a very uncivil companion," said I; but I gathered up my gown for to go.

"I never were civil to a woman yet," saith he, "and I hope I never shall be. That's a sin I'll none have to answer for."

"In very deed it is, Jack," said I, "and I will bear witness for thee to that end if need be. Farewell."

So away turned I from the grim old man, but had not run many steps down ere I was aware of an hand, very different from Jack's, held forth to me, and a voice saluting me in exceeding diverse language.

"Fairest Mistress Milisent, well met this cloudy morrow! I see the flowers be out, though the sun shine not. Give me leave, I pray you, to aid your graceful steps down this rough hill-side."

So down the hill with me came Sir Edwin, and mighty pleasant discourse had we—all the fairer for coming after Jack. And much he told me of his estate in Cornwall, where he hath a fair castle, built of old time, and mines like to ours, saving they be tin, not lead. And these Cornish mines, as he told me, were worked of old time by the Jews: but when I did demand of him how Jews should come to work them, that (quoth he) could he not say. And at times, in these mines, deep down in the old workings, do they hear the ghosts of them that worked them a thousand years ago, a-knocking with the pickaxe; and when they do break into the ancient workings, they come on the olden pickaxes of stags' horn, used of these old Jews and Romans, that did labour in these mines of old time.

"Good lack!" cried I: "and be these the very pickaxes used of these ghosts? Verily, I would be feared for to touch them."

"Nay, the tools themselves be no ghosts," saith he, laughing: "and I do ensure you, fair my mistress, I have seen and handled divers thereof."

Then he told me, moreover, of a new custom is risen up in the Queen's Majesty's Court: for right courtly discourse he hath, and the names of dukes and earls do fly about in his talk as though he were hand and glove with every man of them. I do love to hear such discourse, and that right dearly. Many a time have I essayed for to win Mother to enter into talk touching those days when she dwelt in Surrey Place with my good Lady Countess of Surrey: but I wis not well wherefore, she ever seemeth to have no list to talk of that time. She will tell us of her 'prisonment in the Counter, and how Father brought the little shell for to comfort her, and at after how he fetched her out, and rode away with her and had a care of her, when as she was let forth: but even in that there seems me like as there should be a gap, which she never filleth up. I marvel if there were somewhat of that time the which she would not we should know. [Note 5.] I did once whisper a word of this make unto Nell: but Mistress Helena, that doth alway the right and meet thing, did seem so mighty shocked that I should desire to ferret forth somewhat that Mother had no list for me to know, that I let her a-be. But for all that would I dearly love to know it. I do take delight in digging up of other folks' secrets, as much as in keeping of mine own.

Howbeit, here am I a great way off from Sir Edwin and his discourse of the new Court custom, the which hath name Euphuism, and is a right fair conceit, whereby divers gentlemen and gentlewomen do swear friendship unto one the other, by divers quaint names the which they do confer. Thus the Queen's Majesty herself is pleased to honour some of her servants, as my Lord of Burleigh, who is her Spirit, and Sir Walter Raleigh her Water, and Mr Vice-Chamberlain [Sir Christopher Hatton] her Sheep, and Mr Secretary [Sir Francis Walsingham] her Moon. Sir Edwin saith he had himself such a friendship with some mighty great lady, whose name he would not utter, (though I did my best to provoke him thereto) he calling her his Discretion, and she naming him her Fortitude. Which is pleasant and witty matter. [Note 6.]

"And," quoth Sir Edwin, "mine honey-sweet Mistress, if it may stand with your pleasure, let us two follow the Court fashion. You shall be mine Amiability, [loveliness, not loveableness], and (if it shall please you) shall call me your Protection. Have I well said, my fairest?"

"Indeed, Sir, and I thank you," I made answer, "and should you do me so much honour, it should like me right well."

By this time we were come to the turn nigh the garden gate, and I dared not be seen with Sir Edwin no nearer the house. The which he seemed to guess, and would there take his leave: demanding of me which road led the shortest way to Kirkstone Pass. So I home, and into our chamber to doff my raiment, where, as ill luck would have it, was Nell. Now, our chamber window is the only one in all the house whence the path to Jack's hut can be seen: wherefore I reckoned me fairly safe. But how did mine heart jump into my mouth when Nell saith, as I was a-folding of my kerchief—

"Who was that with thee, Milly?"

Well, I do hope it was not wicked that I should answer,—"A gentleman, Nell, that would know his shortest way to Kirkstone Pass." In good sooth, it was a right true answer: for Sir Edwin is a gentleman, and he did ask me which were the shortest way thereto. But, good lack! it seemed me as all the pins that ever were in a cushion started o' pricking me when I thus spake. Yet what ill had I done, forsooth? I had said no falsehood: only shut Nell's mouth, for she asked no further. And, dear heart, may I not make so much as a friend to divert me withal, but I must send round the town-crier to proclaim the same? After I had writ thus much, down come I to the great chamber, where I found Anstace and Hal come; and Hal, with Father and Mynheer, were fallen of mighty grave discourse touching the news of late come, that the Pope hath pretended to deprive the Queen's Majesty of all right to Ireland. Well-a-day! as though Her Majesty should think to let go Ireland or any other land because a foreign bishop should bid her! Methinks this companion the Pope must needs be clean wood [mad].

Hal, moreover, is well pleased that the Common Council of London should forbid all plays in the City, the which, as he will have it, be ill and foolish matter. Truly, it maketh little matter to me here in Derwent dale: but methinks, if I dwelt in London town, I should be but little pleased therewith. Why should folk not divert them?

Being aweary of Master Hal's grave discourse, went I over to Anstace, whom I found mighty busied of more lighter matter,—to wit, the sumptuary laws of late set forth against long cloaks and wide ruffs, which do ill please her, for Anstace loveth to ruffle it of a good ruff. Thence gat she to their Cicely, which is but ill at ease, and Dr Bell was fetched to her this last even: who saith that on Friday and Saturday the sign [of the Zodiac] shall be in the heart, and from Sunday to Tuesday in the stomach, during which time it shall be no safe dealing with physic preservative, whereof he reckoneth her need to be: so she must needs tarry until Wednesday come seven-night, and from that time to fifteen days forward shall be passing good.

Howbeit, we gat back ere long to the fashions, whereof Anstace had of late a parcel of news from her husband's sister, Mistress Parker, that dwelleth but fifty miles from London, and is an useful sister for to have. As to the newest fashion of sleeves (quoth she), nothing is more certain than the uncertainty; and likewise of hoods. Cypress, saith she, is out of fashion (the which hath put me right out of conceit with my cypress kirtle that was made but last year), and napped taffeta is now thought but serving-man-like. All this, and a deal more, Anstace told us, as we sat in the compassed window [bay window].

Dr Meade's hour-glass is broke of the sexton. I am fain to hear the same, if it shall cut his sermons shorter.

————————————————————————————————————

Note 1. At this time, shaking hands indicated warmer cordiality than the kiss, which last was the common form of greeting amongst all classes.

Note 2. Four-hours answered to afternoon tea, and was usually served, as its name denotes, at four o'clock.

Note 3. Millicent has really no connection with Melissa, though many persons have supposed so. It comes, through Milisent and Melisende, from the Gothic Amala-suinde, which signifies Heavenly wisdom.

Note 4. Bade is the imperfect, and bidden the participle, of bid, to invite, as well as of bid, to command.

Note 5. The reader who wishes for more light on this point than was allowed to Milisent, will find it in "Lettice Eden."

Note 6. At this time "pleasant" meant humorous, and "witty" meant intellectual. This curious child's play termed Euphuism, to which grave men and sedate women did not hesitate to lower themselves, was peculiar to the age of Elizabeth, than whom never was a human creature at once so great and so small.



CHAPTER FOUR.

IN BY-PATH MEADOW.

"I thought that I was strong, Lord, And did not need Thine arm; Though dangers thronged around me, My heart felt no alarm: I thought I nothing needed— Riches, nor dress, nor sight: And on I walked in darkness, And still I thought it light."

SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XV. I have but now read o'er what I writ these last few days, and have meditated much whether I should go on to tell of Sir Edwin, for it shall ne'er serve to have folk read the same. And methinketh it best for to go straight on, and at the end, if need be, tear out the leaves. For it doth me a mighty pleasure to write and think upon the same: and I can make some excuse when I come to it.

Though Mistress Nell, I guess right well, Of neatness should be heedful: Yet I will tear The leaves out fair, If it shall so be needful.

There! who saith I cannot write poesy?

This morrow again (I being but just without the garden gate), I met with my Protection, who doffed his plumed bonnet and saluted me as his most fair Amiability. I do see him most days, though but for a minute: and in truth I think long from one time to another. Coming back, I meditated what I should say to Mistress Nell (that loveth somewhat too much to meddle) should she have caught sight of him: for it shall not serve every time to send him to Kirkstone. Nor, of course, could I think to tell a lie thereabout. So I called to mind that he had once asked me what name we called the eye-bright in these parts, though it were not this morrow, but I should not need to say that, and it should be no lie, seeing he did say so much. Metrusteth the cushion should not prick me for that, and right sure am I there should be no need.

SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XVII. Truly, as saith the old saw, 'tis best not to halloo till thou be out of the wood. This very afternoon, what should Edith say, without one word of warning, as we were sat a-sewing, but—

"Mother, do you mind a gentleman, by name Tregarvon?"

"What name saidst, Edith?" asks Mother.

"Tregarvon," quoth she. "Sir Edwin Tregarvon, of Cornwall."

"Nay, I never knew no gentleman of that name," saith Mother. "Where heardst of him, child?"

"'Twas when we went o'er to Saint Hubert's Isle, Mother," she made answer,—"what day were it, Milly?—about ten days gone—"

"Aye, I mind it," saith Mother.

"Well, while I sat of the rock a-drawing, come up a gentleman to me," saith she, "and asked at me if Louvaine were not my name. (Why, then, he knew us! thought I.) I said 'Aye,' and he went on to ask me if Father were at home, for he had list to have speech of him: and he said he knew you, Mother, of old time, when you were Mistress Lettice. I told him Father was at home, and he desired to know what time should be the best to find him: when I told him the early morrow, for he was oft away in the afternoon. And then—"

"Well, my lass?" saith Mother, for Edith was at a point.

"Well, Mother, methinks I had better tell you," saith she, a-looking up, "for I cannot be easy till I have so done, and I wis well you will not lay to my charge a thing that was no blame of mine. So—then he 'gan to speak of a fashion that little liked me, and I am assured should have liked you no better: commending my drawing, and mine hair, and mine eyes, and all such matter as that: till at the last I said unto him, 'Sir, I pray you of pardon, but I am not used to such like talk, and in truth I know not what to answer. If your aim be to find favour with me, you were best hold your peace from such words.' For, see you, Mother, I thought he might have some petition unto Father, and might take a fantasy that I could win Father to grant him, and so would the rather if he talked such matter as should flatter my foolish vanity. As though Father should be one to be swayed by such a fantasy as that! But then, of course, he did not know Father. I trust I did not aught to your displeasance, Mother?"

"So far as I can judge, dear child, thou didst very well," saith Mother: "and I am right glad thou wert thus discreet for thy years. But what said he in answer?"

"Oh, he tarried not after that," quoth she: "he did only mutter somewhat that methought should be to ask pardon, and then went off in another minute."

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

"O Edith!" saith she: "I am so thankful thou art not,"—but all suddenly she shut up tight, and the glow went out of her eyes and into her cheeks. I never know what that signifieth: and I have seen it to hap aforetime. But she took up her sewing again, and said no more, till she saith all at once right the thing which I desired her not to say.

"Did this gentleman speak with thee, Milly?"

I made my voice as cool and heedless as I could.

"Well, Mother, I reckon it was the same that I saw leaning against a tree at the other side of the isle, which spake to me and asked me what the isle was called, and who Saint Hubert were. He told me, the same as Edith, that he had known you aforetime."

"Didst get a poem unto thy sweet eyes, Milly?" saith Edith, laughing.

"Nay," said I, "mine eyes be not so sweet as thine."

"Did he ask at thee if Father were at home?"

"Ay, he asked that."

Herein told I no falsehood, for that day he said not a word touching mine eyes.

Then Cousin Bess looks up. Cousin Bess was by, but not Aunt Joyce.

"What manner of man, my lasses?" saith she.

I left Edith to make answer.

"Why," saith she, "I reckon he might be ten years younger than Father, or may-be more: and—"

"Oh, not a young man, then?" saith Mother, as though she were fain it so were.

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

"And clad of a dark green velvet jerkin," saith Cousin Bess, "and tawny hose, with a rare white feather in 's velvet bonnet?"

"That is he," saith Edith.

"Good lack, then!"

Cousin Bess makes answer, "but he up to me only yester-morrow on the Keswick road, as I come back from Isaac's. My word, but he doth desire for to see Sir Aubrey some, for he asked at us all three if he were at home."

"Was he a man thou shouldest feel to trust, Bess?" asks Mother.

"Trust!" saith she. "I'd none trust yon dandified companion, not for to sell a sucking-pig."

Dear heart, but what queer things doth she say at times! I would Cousin Bess were somewhat more civiler. To think of a gentleman such as he is, a-selling of pigs! Yet I must say I was not o'er well pleased to hear of his complimenting of Edith: though, 'tis true, that was ere he had seen me.

"What like is he, Bess?" saith Mother. "I would know the thought he gave to thee."

"Marry, the first were that he was like to have no wife, or she should have amended a corner of his rare slashed sleeve, that was ravelling forth o' the stitching," saith she. "And the second were, that he were like the folk in this vicinage, with his golden hair and grey eyen. And the third, that he were not, for that his speech was not of these parts. And the fourth, that his satin slashed sleeves and his silver buckles of his shoes must have cost him a pretty penny. And the last, that I'd be fain to see the back of him."

"Any more betwixt, Cousin?" saith Edith, laughing.

"Eh, there was a cart-load betwixt," saith she. "I mattered him nought, I warrant you."

"Well, neither did I, o'er much," saith Edith.

Dear heart, thought I, but where were their eyes, both twain, that they saw not the lovesomeness and gentilesse of that my gallant Protection? But as for Cousin Bess, she never had no high fantasies. All her likings be what the French call bourgeois. But I was something surprised that Edith should make no count of him. I marvel if she meant the same.

"Well, there must needs be some blunder," saith Mother, when we had sat silent a while: "for I never knew no man of that name, nor no gentleman of Cornwall, to boot."

"May-be he minds you, Mother, though you knew not him," quoth Edith.

"Soothly," saith she, "there were knights in the Court, whose names I knew not: but if they saw me so much as thrice, methinks that were all— and never spake word unto me."

"See you now, Cousin Lettice," saith Bess, "if this man wanted somewhat of you, he'd be fain enough to make out that he had known you any way he might."

"Ay, very like," saith Mother.

"And if he come up to the door, like an honest companion, and desire speech of Sir Aubrey, well, he may be a decent man, for all his slashed sleeves and flying feathers: but if not so, then I write him down no better than he should be, though what he is after it passeth my wit to see."

"I do believe," quoth Edith, a-laughing, "that Cousin Bess hates every thing that flies. What with Dr Meade's surplice, and Sir Edwin's long feather—verily, I would marvel what shall come a-flying next."

"Nay, my lass, I love the song-birds as well as any," saith Cousin Bess: "'tis only I am not compatient with matter flying that is not meant to fly. If God Almighty had meant men and women to fly, He'd have put wings on them. And I never can see why men should deck themselves out o' birds' feathers, without they be poor savages that take coloured beads to be worth so much as gold angels. And as for yon surplice, 'tis a rag o' Popery—that's what it is: and I'd as lief tell Dr Meade so as an other man. I did tell Mistress Meade so, t' other day: but, poor soul! she could not see it a whit. 'Twas but a decent garment that the priest must needs bear, and such like. And 'Mistress Meade,' says I, 'I'll tell you what it is,' says I: 'you are none grounded well in Hebrews,' says I. 'Either Dr Meade's no priest, or else the Lord isn't,' says I: 'so you may pick and choose,' says I. Eh dear! but she looked on me as if I'd spake some ill words o' the Queen's Majesty—not a bit less. And 'Mistress Wolvercot,' says she, 'what ever do you mean?' says she. 'Well, Mistress Meade,' says I, 'that's what I mean—that there can be no Christian priests so long as Christ our Lord is alive: so if Dr Meade's a priest, He must be dead. And if so,' says I, 'why then, I don't see how there can be no Christians of no sort, priests or no,' says I. 'Why, Mistress Wolvercot!' says she, 'you must have lost your wits.' 'Well,' says I, 'some folks has: but I don't rightly think I'm one,'—and so home I came."

Edith was rarely taken, and laughed merrily. For me, I was so glad to see the talk win round to Mistress Meade, that I was fain to join.

"Thou art right, Bess," saith Mother.

"Why," saith she, "I'm with Paul: and he's good company enough for me, though may-be, being but a tent-maker by trade, he'd scarce be meet for Dr Meade. I thought we'd done with bishops and priests and such like, I can tell you, when the Church were reformed: but, eh dear! they're a coming up again every bit as bad as them aforetime. I cannot see why they kept no bishops. Lawn sleeves, forsooth! and rochets! and cassocks! and them square caps,—they're uncommon like the Beast! I make no count of 'em."

"And rochets can fly!" cries Edith merrily.

"Why, Cousin Bess," said I, "you shall be a Brownist in a week or twain."

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

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

SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XIX. I do keep my book right needfully locked up, for I would not for all the world that Nell nor Edith should read this last fortnight. Yester even, just as it grew to dusk, met I with my Protection outside the garden door, that would fain win me to meet with him some whither on the hills, where (said he) we might talk more freely. But so feared was I to vex Father and Mother that this I did deny, though I could see it vexed him, and it went to mine heart to do thus. And he asked at me if I loved him not, and did very hard press me to say that I would love him: for he saith he loveth me better than all the world. Yet that would I not fully grant him, but plagued him a bit thereon. 'Tis rare fun plaguing a man. But methought I would try this even if I could not wring a fashion of consent out of Father, without his knowing the same: so when none was there but he and I and Moses, quoth I—

"Father, is it ever wrong to love any?"

"'Love is of God,'" he made answer. "Surely no."

And therewith should I have been content, and flattered me that I had Father's assent to the loving of my Protection: but as ill luck would have it, he, that was going forth of the chamber, tarried, with the door in his hand, to say—

"But mind that it be very love, my maid. That is not love, but unlove, which will help a friend to break God's commandments."

I had liefer he had let that last alone. It sticketh in my throat somewhat. Yet have I Father's consent to loving: and surely none need break God's commandments because they love each other. 'Tis no breaking thereof for me to meet and talk with Sir Edwin—of that am I as certain as that my name is Milisent. And I have not told a single lie about it, sithence my good Protection revealed in mine ear the right way not to tell lies: namely, should Mother ask me, "Milly, hast thou seen again that gentleman?" that I should say out loud, "No, Mother,"—and whisper to myself, under my breath, "this morrow,"—the which should make it perfectly true. And right glad was I to hear of this most neat and delicate way of saving the truth, and yet not uttering your secrets.

SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XXII. If Mistress Helena Louvaine could ever hold her peace from saying just the very matter that I would give her a broad shilling to be quiet on! Here, now, this even, when all we were sat in hall, what should she begin with, but—

"Father, there is a thing I would ask at you."

"Say on, my maid," quoth he, right kindly as his wont is: for Father is alway ready to counsel us maids, whensoever we may desire it.

"Then, Father," saith she, "what is falsehood? Where doth it begin and end? Put a case that I am talking with Alice Lewthwaite, and she shall ask me somewhat that I list not to tell her. Should I commit sin, if I told her but the half?"

"Hardly plain enough, my maid," saith Father. "As to where falsehood begins and ends,—it begins in thine heart: but where it ends, who shall tell but God? But set forth thy case something plainer."

"Well," saith she, "suppose, Father, that Mother or you had showed to me that Wat was coming home, but had (for some cause you wist, and I not) bidden me not to tell the same. If Alice should say 'Hast heard aught of late touching Wat, Nell?' must I say to her plain, 'I cannot answer thee,'—the which should show her there was a secret: or should there be no ill to say 'Not to-day,' or 'Nought much,' or some such matter as that?"

"Should there be any wrong in that, Father?" saith Edith, as though she could not think there should.

"Dear hearts," saith Father, "I cannot but think a man's heart is gone something wrong when he begins to meddle with casuistry. The very minute that Adam fell from innocence, he took refuge in casuistry. There was not one word of untruth in what he said to the Lord: he was afraid, and he did hide himself. Yet there was deception, for it was not all the truth—no, nor the half. As methinks, 'tis alway safest to tell out the plain truth, and leave the rest to God."

"Jack Lewthwaite said once," quoth Edith, "that at the grammar school at Kendal, where he was, there was a lad that should speak out to the master that which served his turn, and whisper the rest into his cap; yet did he maintain stoutly that he told the whole truth. What should you call that, Father?"

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

Then Aunt Joyce said somewhat that moved the discourse other whither: but I had heard enough to make me rare diseaseful. When I thought I had hit on so excellent a fashion of telling the truth, and yet hiding my secrets, to have Father say such things came straight from Satan! It liketh me not at all. I would Nell would let things a-be!

SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XXIV. My good Protection tells me 'tis country fashion to count such matter deceit, and should never obtain in the Court at all. And he asked me if Father were not given to be a little Puritan—he smiling the while as though to be a Puritan were somewhat not over well-liked of the great. Then I told him that I knew not well his meaning, for that word was strange unto me. So he said that word Puritan was of late come up, to denote certain precise folk that did desire for to be better than their neighbours, and most of them only to make a talk, and get themselves well accounted of by such common minds as should take them at their own appraisement.

"Not, of course," saith he, "that such could ever be the case with a gentleman of Sir Audrey's worshipfulness, and with such an angel in his house to guard him from all ill."

I did not well like this, for I would alway have Father right well accounted of, and not thought to fall into mean country ways. But then 'gan he to talk of mine eyes, which he is ever a-praising, and after a while I forgat my disease.

Still, I cannot right away with what Father said. If only Father and Mother could know all about this matter, and really consent thereto, I would be a deal happier. But my Protection saith that were contrary unto all custom of love-matters, and they must well know the same: for in all matters where the elders do wit and order the same themselves, 'tis always stupid and humdrum for the young folks, and no romance left therein at all.

"It should suit well with Mistress Nell," saith he, "from what I do hear touching her conditions [disposition]: but never were meet for the noble and generous soul of my fairest Amiability, that is far above all such mean things."

So I reckon, if the same always be, I must be content, and not trouble me touching Father's and Mother's knowing. But I do marvel if Father and Mother did the like their own selves, for I know they married o' love. Howbeit, Mother had none elders then living, nor Father neither, now I come to think thereon: wherefore with them 'twas other matter.

Sithence I writ that last, come Alice and Blanche Lewthwaite, and their Robin, to four-hours: and mighty strange it is how folk be for ever a-saying things as though they wist what I were a-thinking. Here Blanche saith to Nell, that she would account that no jolly wedding where her elders had ordered all for her, but would fain choose for herself.

"I would likewise fain have my choice go along therewith," saith Nell, "and so, doubtless, would every maid: nor do I think that any father and mother should desire otherwise. But thou signifiest not, surely, Blanche, that thou shouldst love to order the whole matter thine own self, apart from thine elders' pleasure altogether?"

"Ay, but I would," saith she: "it should have a deal better zest."

"It should have a deal less honesty!" saith Nell with some heat—heat, that is, for Nell.

"Honesty!" quoth Blanche: "soft you now [gently],—what dishonesty should be therein?"

"Nay, Blanche, measure such dealing thyself by God's ell-wand of the Fifth Commandment, and judge if it were honouring thine elders as He bid thee."

"I do vow, Nell, thou art a Puritan!"

"By the which I know not what thou meanest," saith Nell, as cool as a marble image.

"Why, 'tis a new word of late come up," quoth Blanche. "They do call all sad, precise, humdrum folk, Puritans."

"Who be 'they'?" asks Nell.

"Why, all manner of folks—great folk in especial," saith she.

"Come, Blanche!" saith Edith, "where hast thou jostled with great folk?"

"An' I have not," quoth she, something hotly, "I reckon I may have talked with some that have."

"No great folk—my Lord Dilston except—ever come to Derwent-side," saith Edith.

"And could I not discourse with my Lord Dilston, if it so pleased him and me?" quoth Blanche, yet something angered.

"Come, my maids, fall not out," saith Alice. "Thou well wist, Blanche, thou hast had no talk with my Lord Dilston, that is known all o'er for the bashfullest and silentest man with women ever was. I do marvel how he e'er gat wed, without his elders did order it for him."

Well, at this we all laughed, and Alice turned the talk aside to other matter, for I think she saw that Blanche's temper (which is ne'er that of an angel) were giving way.

I cannot help to be somewhat diseaseful, for it seemeth me as though Blanche might hint at Sir Edwin. And I do trust he hath not been a-flattering of her. She is metely well-looking,—good of stature, and a fair fresh face, grey eyen, and fair hair, as have the greater part of maids about here, but her nose turns up too much for beauty. She is not for to compare with me nor Edith.

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

SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XXV. 'Tis all well, and Blanche could not have meant to hint at my Protection. I asked at him if he knew one Blanche Lewthwaite, and he seemed fair astonied, and said he knew no such an one, nor that any of that name dwelt in all the vale. Then I told him wherefore I had asked it. And he said that to think I was jealous of any for him did him uttermost honour and pleasance, but did his fairest Amiability (quo' he) think he could so much as look on any other face at after hers?

Then I asked at him (as I had often desired to wit) where he were of a Sunday, for that he never came to church. And he told me that he had an old friend, a parson, dwelling on Winander-side, and he did alway abide with him o'er the Sunday. Moreover he was something feared (saith he) to be seen at Keswick church, lest Father should get scent of him, wherefore he did deny himself the delight it had been (quoth he) to feast his eyes on the fair face of his most sweet Amiability.

"Then," said I, laughing, "you did not desire for to see Father at the first?"

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

"I doubt if Father should say the same," said I.

"Well, see you," quoth he, "Sir Aubrey is a right excellent gentleman, yet hath he some precise notions which obtain not at Court and in such like company. A man cannot square all his dealings by the Bible and the parsons, without he go out of the world. And here away in the country, where every man hath known you from your cradle, it is easier to ride of an hobby than in Town, where you must do like other folk or else be counted singular and ridiculous. No brave and gallant man would run the risk of being thought singular."

"Why, Father's notion is right the contrary," said I. "I have heard him to say divers times that 'tis the cowards which dare not be laughed at, and that it takes a right brave man to dare to be thought singular."

"Exactly!" saith he. "That is right the Puritan talk, as I had the honour to tell you aforetime. You should never hear no gentleman of the Court to say no such a thing."

"But," said I, "speak they alway the most truth in the Court?"

This seemed to divert him rarely. He laughed for a minute as though he should ne'er give o'er.

"My fairest Amiability," saith he, "had I but thee in the Court, as is the only place meet for thee, then shouldst thou see how admired of every creature were thy wondrous wit and most incomparable beauties. Why, I dare be sworn on all the books in Cumberland, thou shouldest be of the Queen's Majesty's maids in one week's time. And of the delights and jollities of that life, dwelling here in a corner of England, thou canst not so much as cast an idea." Methought that should be right rare.

SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XXVII. With Aunt Joyce this morrow to visit old Nanny Crewdson, that is brother's widow to Isaac, and dwelleth in a cot up Thirlmere way. I would fain have avoided the same an' I might, for I never took no list in visiting poor folk, and sithence I have wist my right noble Protection do I take lesser than ever. In very deed, all relish is gone for me out of every thing but him and the jolly Court doings whereof he tells me. And I am ever so much happier than I was of old, with nought but humdrum matter; only that now and then, for a short while, I am a deal more miserabler. I cannot conceive what it is that cometh o'er me at those times. 'Tis like as if I were dancing on flowers, and some unseen hand did now and then push aside the flowers, and I saw a great and horrible black gulf underneath, and that one false step should cast me down therein. Nor will any thing comfort me, at those times, but to talk with my Protection, that can alway dispel the gloom. But the things around, that I have been bred up in, do grow more and more distasteful unto me than ever.

Howbeit, I am feared to show folk the same, so when Aunt Joyce called me to come with her to Nanny, I made none ado, but tied on mine hood and went.

We found old Nanny—that is too infirm for aught but to sit of a chair in the sunshine—so doing by the window, beside her a little table, and thereon a great Bible open, with her spectacles of her nose, that she pulled off and wiped, and set down of the book to keep her place.

"Well, Nanny!" saith Aunt Joyce. "'Sitting down under His shadow,' dear heart?"

"Ay, Mistress Joyce," saith she, "and 'with great delight.'"

I marvel if old folk do really like to read the Bible. I never did. And the older I grow, the lesser doth it like me. Can they mean it, trow? If they do, then I suppose I shall like it when I am as old as Nanny. But, good lack! what gloomsome manner of life must that be, wherein one shall find one's diversion in reading of the Bible!

I know Father and Mother would say clean contrary. But they, see you, were bred up never to see a Bible in English till they were grown: which is as different as can be to the like of us maids, that never knew the day when it lay not of the hall table. But therein runs my pen too fast, for Anstace can well remember Queen Mary's time, though Nell scarce can do so,—only some few matters here and there.

So then Aunt Joyce and Nan fell a-talking,—and scarce so much as a word could I conceive. [Note 1.] They might well-nigh as good have talked Greek for me. Yet one matter will I set down the which I mean to think o'er—some time, when I am come to divert me with the Bible, and am as old as Nanny. Not now, of course.

"Where art reading, Nanny?" saith Aunt Joyce.

"In Esaias, Mistress Joyce. Fifty-eighth chapter, first and second verses. There's fine reading in Esaias."

"Ay, Nan, there is," saith Aunt Joyce. "But what toucheth it? I am ill set to remember chapter and verse."

"Well, Mistress, first it saith, 'Show My people their transgression.' And i' th' very next verse,—'Yet they seek me daily,'—nay, there's more—'they take delight in approaching to God.'"

"Well, Nan? That reads strange,—no doth it?"

"Ah, it doth, Mistress Joyce. But I think, look ye, there's a deal i' th' word approaching. See ye, it saith not they take delight to get near. Nay, folk o' that make has a care not to get too near. They'll lay down a chalk line, and they'll stop outside on't. If they'd only come near enough, th' light 'd burn up all them transgressions: but, ye see, that wouldn't just suit 'em. These is folk that wants to have th' Lord—a tidy way from 'em—and keep th' transgressions too. Eh, Mistress, but when a man can pray right through th' hundred and thirty-ninth Psalm, his heart's middlin' perfect wi' the Lord. Otherwise, he'll boggle at them last verses. We don't want Him to search us when we know He'll find yon wedge o' gold and yon Babylonish garment if He do. Nay, we don't so!"

Now, I know not o'er well what old Nan meaneth: but this do I know— that whenever I turn o'er the Psalter, I ever try to get yon Psalm betwixt two leaves, and turn them o'er both together, so that I see not a word on't. I reckon Nan should say my heart was not perfect by a great way. Well, may-be she'd be none so far out.

SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XXIX. To-morrow shall be the last day of my month, and Tuesday even must I give up the book to Edith. I shall not tear out the leaves till the last minute, and I will keep them when I do.

I do never see nought of my Protection of a Sunday, but all other days meet I him now (whenas I can) in the little copse that lieth Thirlmere way, not so far from Nanny's hut. Last even was he essaying to win me for to wed him (as he hath done afore) without Father and Mother knowing. I have ever held off till now: but I am not so sure I shall do it much longer. He saith he wist a Popish priest that should do it: and it so done, Father and Mother must needs come in and give us leave to be wed rightly in church. But I will consider of the same a day or twain longer.

As to setting down what we do of a Sunday, 'tis alway the same o'er again, so it should be to no good. Once is enough for all.

SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE LAST. Such a fright have I had this morrow, I may scantly hold my pen. I set forth for the copse where I do meet with my Protection, and had well-nigh reached it,—verily, I could discern him coming through the trees to meet me—when from Nanny's hut, right upon us, who should come out save Father, and Mother, and Edith, their own selves. I cast but a glint to him that he should not note me, and walked on to meet them.

"Why, Milly!" saith Mother. "I wist not thou wert coming this way, child."

"Under your pleasure, Mother, no more did I of you," said I.

"Why, Milly, do but look at yon gentleman!" saith Edith, as he passed by us, taking no note of us at all. "Is it not the same we met on Saint Hubert's Isle?"

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

Wherein I am very sure I said no falsity, as whatso Father might say.

"I do think it is the same," saith Edith. "Came he ever to speak with you, Father?"

"Nay, my lass, I mind him not," saith Father.

"He is not ill-looking," saith Mother.

"May-be not," quoth Father. "Thou art a better judge of such matters than I, dear heart. I only note the way a man's soul looketh out of his eyes, not the colour of the eyes whence it looketh."

"Now, Father, under your good leave, that is not well said," Edith makes answer: "for you have your own self the fairest eyes ever a man's soul looked forth of."

Father laughs at this, and doffs his cap merrily.

"Your very humble servant, Mistress Editha Louvaine," quoth he: "when I do desire to send forth to the world a book of all my beauties, learning, and virtues, I will bid you to write therein touching mine eyes. They serve me well to see withal, I thank God, and beyond that issue have I never troubled me regarding them."

"And how liked you the manner of Sir Edwin Tregarvon's soul looking forth, Father?" saith Edith, also laughing.

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

How mighty strange is it that all they—and in especial Father, that I have alway reckoned so wise—should have so little discernment!

Well, methought, as they were there, I must needs come home with them: and this afternoon, if I can steal hence without any seeing me, will I go yet again to the copse, to see if I may find my Protection: for I have well-nigh granted the privy wedding he hath pled so hard for, and this morrow we thought to order the inwards thereof [settle the details]. As next Sunday at even, saith he, I am to steal forth of the garden door, and he shall meet me in the lane with an hackney and two or three serving-men for guard: and so go we forth to Ambleside, where the priest shall join our hands, and then come back and entreat Father and Mother's pardon and blessing. I dare be bound there shall be much commotion, and some displeasant speeches; but I trust all shall blow o'er in time: and after all (as saith my Protection) when there is no hope that Father and Mother should give us leave aforehand, what else can we do?

Verily, it is a sore trouble that elders will stand thus in young folks' way that do love each other. And my Protection is not so much elder than I. In the stead of only ten or fifteen years younger than Father, he is twenty-five well reckoned, having but four-and-thirty years: and I was twenty my last birthday, which is two months gone. And if he look (as he alloweth) something elder than his years, it is, as he hath told me, but trouble and sorrow, of which he hath known much. My poor Protection! in good sooth, I am sorry for his trouble.

I shall not tear out my leaves afore I am back, and meantime, I do keep the book right heedfully under lock and key.

As for any paying of two-pences, that is o'er for me now; so there were no good to reckon them up. My noble Protection saith, when he hath but once gat me safe to the Court, then shall I have a silken gown every day I do live, and jewelling so much as ever I shall desire. He will set off his Amiability (quoth he) that all shall see and wonder at her. Though I count Father doth love me, yet am I sure, my Protection loveth me a deal the more. 'Tis only fitting, therefore, that I cleave to him rather.

Now must I go forth and see if I may meet with him.

————————————————————————————————————

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



CHAPTER FIVE.

AUNT JOYCE SPOILS THE GAME.

"We shun two paths, my maiden, When strangers' way we tell— That which ourselves we know not, That which we know too well.

"I 'never knew!' Thou think'st it? Well! Better so, to-day. The years lie thick and mossy O'er that long-silent way.

"The roses there are withered, The thorns are tipped with pain: Thou wonderest if I tell thee 'Walk not that way again?'

"Oh eyes that see no further Than this world's glare and din! I warn thee from that pathway Because I slipped therein.

"So, leave the veil up-hanging! And tell the world outside— 'She cannot understand me— She nothing has to hide!'"

(In Edith's handwriting.)

SELWICK HALL, DECEMBER THE FIRST. I would have fain let be the records of this sad first day that this chronicle is come to mine hand. But Father and Mother do desire me to set down honestly what hath happed, the which therefore I must essay to do.

It was of long time that I had noted a strange difference in Milly, and had talked with Nell thereabout, more than once or twice. Though Milisent is by four years elder than I, yet she had alway been the one of us most loving frolicsome merriment. But now it seemed me as though she had grown up over my head, all at once. Not that she was less mirthful at times: nay, rather more, if aught. But at other times she seemed an other maid, and not our Milly at all. It was not our Milly's wont to sit with her hands of her lap, a-gazing from the window; nor to answer sharp and short when one spake to her; nor to appear all unrestful, as though she were in disease of mind. And at last, Nell thinking less thereof than I, I made up my mind to speak with Aunt Joyce, that I knew was wise and witty [sensible], and if there were aught gone wrong, should take it less hard than Mother, and could break the same to Mother more gentler than we. To say truth, I was feared—and yet I scarce knew why—of that man we met on Saint Hubert's Isle. I had noted that Milly never named him, though he were somewhat cause of mirth betwixt Helen and me: and when an other so did, she seemed as though she essayed to speak as careless as ever she could. This liked me not: nor did it like me that twice I had met Milly coming from the garden, and she went red as fire when she saw me. From all this I feared some secret matter that should not be: and as yester-morrow, when we were come from Nanny's, I brake my mind to Aunt Joyce.

Aunt Joyce did not cry "Pish!" nor fault me for conceiving foolish fantasies, as I was something feared she might. On the contrary part, she heard me very kindly and heedfully, laying down her work to give better ear. When I had done, she saith—

"Tell me, Edith, what like is this man."

I told her so well as I could.

"And how oft hast thou seen him?"

"Three times, Aunt. The first on Saint Hubert's Isle, whereof you know: the second, I met him once in the lane behind the garden, as I was a-coming home from Isaac Crewdson's: and the last, this morrow, just as we came out of Nanny's door, we met Milisent, full face: and a minute at after, this Sir Edwin passed us on the road."

"Took he any note of you, either time?"

"When he met me alone, he doffed his cap and smiled, but spake not. This morrow he took no note of any one."

"Could she be going to meet him?" saith Aunt Joyce in a low and very troubled voice.

"In good sooth, Aunt," said I, "you have put into words my very fear, which I did scarce dare to think right out."

"Edith," saith she, "is Milly within, or no?"

"She was tying on her hood a moment since, as though she meant to go forth. I saw her through a chink of the door, which was not close shut, as I passed by."

"Come thou with me quickly," saith Aunt Joyce, and rose up. "We will follow her. 'Tis no treachery to lay snare for a traitor, if it be as I fear. And 'tis not she that is the traitor, poor child—poor, foolish child!"

We walked quickly, for our aim was to keep Milisent but just in view, yet not to let her see us. She was walking fast, too, and she took the road to Nanny's, but turned off just ere she were there, into the little shaw that lieth by the way. We followed quietly, till we could hear voices: then Aunt Joyce stayed her behind a poplar-tree, and made me a sign to be still.

"All things be now ordered, my fairest," I heard a voice say which methought was Sir Edwin's: and peeping heedfully round the poplar, I caught a glimpse of his side-face, enough to be sure it were he. Aunt Joyce could see him likewise. "All things be ordered," quoth he: "remember, nine o' the clock on Sunday night."

"But thou wilt not fail me?" saith Milisent's voice in answer.

"Fail thee!" he made answer. "My sweetest of maids, impossible!"

"I feel afeared," she saith again. "I would they had wist at home. I cannot be sure 'tis right."

"Nay, sweet heart, call not up these old ghosts I have laid so oft already," saith he. "Sir Aubrey's Puritan notions should never suffer him to give thee leave afore: but when done, he shall right soon o'erlook all, and all shall go merry as a marriage bell. Seest thou, we do him in truth a great kindness, sith he should be feared to give consent, and yet would fain so do if his conscience should allow."

"Would he?" asks Milly, in something a troubled tone.

"Would he!" Sir Edwin makes answer. "Would he have his daughter a right great lady at the Court? Why, of course he would. Every man would that were not a born fool. My honey-sweet Milisent, let not such vain scruples terrify thee. They are but shadows, I do ensure thee."

"I think thus when I am with thee," saith she, smiling up in his face: "but when not—"

"Sweet heart," saith he, bending his goodly head, "not is well-nigh over, and then thy cruel Puritan scruples shall never trouble thee more."

"It is as we feared," I whispered into the ear of Aunt Joyce, whose face was turned from me: but when she turned her head, I was terrified. I never in my life saw Aunt Joyce look as she did then. Out of her cheeks and lips every drop of blood seemed driven, and her eyes were blazing fire. When she whispered back, it was through her set teeth.

"'As!' Far worse. Worser than thou wist. Is this the man?"

"This is Sir Edwin!"

Without another word Aunt Joyce stalked forth, and had Milisent by the arm ere she found time to scream. Then she shrieked and shrank, but Aunt Joyce held her fast.

"Get you gone!" was all she said to Sir Edwin.

"Nay, Mistress, tell me rather by what right—"

"Right!" Aunt Joyce loosed her hold of Milisent, and went and stood right before him. "Right!—from you to me!"

"Mistress, I cry you mercy, but we be entire strangers."

"Be we?" she made answer, with more bitterness in her voice than ever I heard therein. "Be we such strangers? What! think you I know you not, Leonard Norris? You counted on the change of all these years to hide you from Aubrey and Lettice, and you counted safely enough. They would not know you if they stood here. But did you fancy years could hide you from Joyce Morrell? Traitor! a woman will know the man she has loved, though his own mother were to pass him by unnoted."

Sir Edwin uttered not a word, but stood gazing on Aunt Joyce as though she had bound him by a spell.

She turned back to us a moment. "Milisent and Edith, go home!" she saith. "Milisent, thank God that He hath saved thee from the very jaws of Hell—from a man worser than any fiend. Edith, tell thy father what hath happed, but say nought of all this to thy mother. I shall follow you anon. I have yet more ado with him here. Make thy mind easy, child—he'll not harm me. Now go."

Milisent needed no persuasions. She seemed as though Aunt Joyce's words had stunned her, and she followed me like a dog. We spake no word to each other all the way. When we reached home, Milly went straight up to her own chamber: and I, being mindful of Aunt Joyce's bidding, went in search of Father, whom I found at his books in his closet.

Ah me, but what sore work it were to tell him! I might scarce bear to see the sorrowful changes wrought in his face. But when I came to tell how Aunt Joyce had called this gentleman by the name of Leonard Norris, for one minute his eyes blazed out like hers. Then they went very dark and troubled, and he hid his face in his hands till I had made an end of my sad story.

"And I would fain not have been she that told you, Father," said I, "but Aunt Joyce bade me so to do."

"I must have heard it from some lips, daughter," he saith sorrowfully. "But have a care thou say no word to thy mother. She must hear it from none but me. My poor Lettice!—and my poor Milisent, my poor, foolish, duped child!"

I left him then, for I thought he would desire it, and went up to Milly. She had cast off her hood and tippet, and lay on her bed, her face turned to the wall.

"Dost lack aught, Milly?" said I.

"Nay," was all she said.

"Shall I bide with thee?"

"Nay."

Nor one word more might I get out of her. So I left her likewise, and came down to the little parlour, where I sat me to my sewing.

It was about an hour after that I heard Aunt Joyce's firm tread on the gravel. She came into the parlour, and looked around as though to see who were there. Then she saith—

"None but thee, Edith? Where are the rest?"

There was a break in her voice, such as folk have when they have been sore troubled.

"I have been alone this hour, Aunt. Milly is in our chamber, and Father I left in his closet. Whither Mother and Nell be I know not."

"Hast told him?"

"Ay, and he said only himself must tell Mother."

"I knew he would. God help her!"

"You think she shall take it very hard, Aunt?"

"Edith," saith Aunt Joyce softly, "there is more to take hard than thou wist. And we know not well yet all the ill he may have wrought to Milisent."

Then away went she, and I heard her to rap on the door of Father's closet. For me, I sat and sewed a while longer: and yet none coming, I went up to our chamber, partly that I should wash mine hands, and partly to see what was come of Milly.

She still lay on the bed, but her face turned somewhat more toward me, and by her shut eyes and even breathing I could guess that she slept. I sat me down in the window to wait, when mine hands were washen: for I thought some should come after a while, and may-be should not count it right that I left Milisent all alone. I guess it were a good half-hour I there sat, and Milly slept on. At the last come Mother, her eyes very red as though she had wept much.

"Doth she sleep, Edith?" she whispered.

I said, "Ay, Mother: she hath slept this half-hour or more."

"Poor child!" she saith. "If only I could have wist sooner! How much I might have saved her! O poor child!"

The water welled up in her eyes again, and she went away, something in haste. I had thought Mother should be angered, and I was something astonied to see how soft she were toward Milly. A while after, Aunt Joyce come in: but Milly slept on.

"I am fain to see that," saith she, nodding her head toward the bed. "A good sign. Yet I would I knew exactly how she hath taken it."

"I am afeared she may be angered, Aunt Joyce, to be thus served of one she trusted."

"I hope so much. 'Twill be the best thing she can be. The question is what she loved—whether himself or his flattering of herself. She'll soon get over the last, for it shall be nought worser with her than hurt vanity."

"Not the first, Aunt?"

"I do not know, Edith," she saith, and crushed in her lips. "That hangs on what sort of woman she be. There shall be a wound, in either case: but with some it gets cicatrised over and sound again with time, and with other some it tarries an open issue for ever. It hangs all on the manner of woman."

"What should it be with you, Aunt Joyce?" said I, though I were something feared of mine own venturesomeness.

"What it is, Edith," she made answer, crushing in her lips again, "is the open issue, bandaged o'er so that none knows it is there save He to whose eyes all things be open. Child, there be some things in life wherein the only safe confidant thou canst have is Jesu Christ. I say so much, by reason that thine elders think it best—and I likewise—that ye maids should be told somewhat more than ye have heard aforetime. Ay, I give full assent thereto. I only held out for one thing—that I, not your mother, should be she that were to tell it."

We were silent a moment, and then Milisent stirred in her sleep. Aunt Joyce went to her.

"Awake, my dear heart?" saith she.

Milly sat up, and pushed aside her hair from her face, the which was flushed and sullen.

"Aunt Joyce, may the Lord forgive you for this day's work!" saith she.

I was fair astonied that she should dare thus to speak. But Aunt Joyce was in no wise angered.

"Amen!" she saith, as softly as might be spoken. "Had I no worser sins to answer for, methinks I should stand the judgment."

"No worser!" Milisent blazed forth. "What, you think it a light matter to part two hearts that love well and truly?"

"Nay, truly, I think it right solemn matter," saith Aunt Joyce, still softly. "And if aught graver can be, Milly, it is to part two whereof the one loveth well, and the other—may God forgive us all!"

"What mean you now?" saith Milisent of the same fashion. "Is it my love you doubt, or his?"

"Milisent Louvaine," saith Aunt Joyce, "if thou be alive twenty years hence, thou shalt thank God from thy very heart-root that thou wert stayed on that road to-day."

"Oh ay, that is what folk always say!" murmurs she, and laid her down again. "'Thou wilt thank me twenty years hence,' quoth they, every stinging stroke of the birch. And they look for us beaten hounds to crede it, forsooth!"

"Ay—when the twenty years be over."

"I am little like to thank you at twenty years' end," saith Milly sullenly, "for I count I shall die of heart-break afore twenty weeks."

"No, Milly, I think not."

"And much you care!"

Then I saw Aunt Joyce's face alter—terribly.

"Milisent," she said, "if I had not cared, I should scantly have gone of set purpose through that which wrung every fibre of my heart, ay, to the heart's core."

"It wrung me more than you," Milisent makes answer, of the same bitter, angered tone as aforetime.

Aunt Joyce turned away from the bed, and I saw pain and choler strive for a moment in her eyes. Then the choler fell back, and the pain abode.

"Poor child! She cannot conceive it." She said nought sterner; and she came and sat in the window alongside of me.

"I tell you, Aunt Joyce,"—and Milisent sat up again, and let herself down, and came and stood before us—"I tell you, you have ruined my life!"

"My maid," Aunt Joyce makes answer, with sore trouble in her voice, "thine elders will fain have thee and thy sisters told a tale the which we have alway kept from you until now. It was better hidden, unless you needed the lesson. But now they think it shall profit thee, and may-be save Helen and Edith from making any like blunder. And—well, I have granted it. Only I stood out for one point—that I myself should be the one to tell it you. Wait till thou hast heard that story, the which I will tell thee to-morrow. And at after thou hast heard it,— then tell me, Milly, whether I cared for thee this morrow, or whether the hand that hath ruined thy life were the hand of Joyce Morrell."

"Oh, but you were cruel, cruel!" sobbed Milly. "I loved him so!"

"So did I, Milisent," saith Aunt Joyce very softly, "long ere you maids were born. Loved him so fondly, trusted him so wholly, clung to him so faithfully, that mine eyes had to be torn open before I would see the truth—that even now, after all these years, it is like thrusting a dagger into my soul to tell you verily who and what he is. Ay, child, I loved that man in mine early maidenhood, better than ever thou didst or wouldst have done. Dost thou think it was easy to stand up to the face that I had loved, and to play the avenging angel toward his perfidy? If thou dost, thou mayest know much of foolishness and fantasy, but very little of true and real love."

Milisent seemed something startled and cowed. Then all suddenly she saith,—"But, Aunt Joyce! He told me he were only of four-and-thirty years."

Aunt Joyce laughed bitterly.

"Wert so poor an innocent as to crede that, Milly?" saith she. "He is a year elder than thy father. But I grant, he looks by far younger than he is. And I reckon he 'bated ten years or so of what he looked. He alway looked young," she saith, the softened tone coming back into her voice. "Men with fair hair like his, mostly do, until all at once they break into aged men. And he hath kept him well, with washes and unguents."

It was strange to hear how the softness and the bitterness strave together in her voice. I count it were by reason they so strave in her heart.

"Wait till to-morrow, Milly," saith Aunt Joyce, arising. "Thou shalt hear then of my weary walk through the thorns, and judge for thyself if I had done well to leave thee to the like."

Milly sobbed again, but methought something more softly.

"We were to have been wed o' Sunday even," saith she, "by a Popish priest, right as good as in church,—and then to have come home and won Father and Mother to forgive us and bless us. Then all had been smooth and sweet, and we should have lived happy ever after."

Oh, but what pitifulness was there in Aunt Joyce's smile!

"Should you?" saith she, in a tone which seemed to me like the biggest nay ever printed in a book. "Poor innocent child! A Popish priest cannot lawfully wed any, and evening is out of the canonical hours. Wist thou not that such marriage should ne'er have held good in law?"

"It might have been good in God's sight, trow," saith she, something perversely.

"Nay!" saith Aunt Joyce. "When men go to, of set purpose, to break the laws of their country,—without it be in obedience to His plain command,—I see not how the Lord shall hold them guiltless. So he promised to bring thee home to ask pardon, did he? Poor, trusting, deluded child! Thou shouldst never have come home, Milly—unless it had been a year or twain hence, a forlorn, heart-broken, wretched thing. Well, we could have forgiven thee and comforted thee then—as we will now."

I am right weary a-writing, and will stay mine hand till I set down Aunt's story to-morrow.

SELWICK HALL, DECEMBER YE SECOND. I marvel when I can make an end of writing, or when matters shall have done happening. For early this morrow, ere breakfast were well over, come a quick rap of the door, which Caitlin opened, and in come Alice Lewthwaite. Not a bit like herself looked she, with a scarf but just cast o'er her head, and all out of breath, as though she had come forth all suddenly, and had run fast and far. We had made most of us an end of eating, but were yet sat at the table.

"Alice, dear heart, what aileth thee?" saith Mother, and rose up.

"Lady Lettice, do pray you tell me," panteth she, "if you have seen or heard aught of our Blanche?"

"Nay, Alice, in no wise," saith Mother.

"Lack the day!" quoth she, "then our fears be true."

"What fears, dear heart?" I think Father, and Mother, and Aunt Joyce, asked at her all together.

"I would as lief say nought, saving to my Lady, and Mistress Joyce," she saith: so they bare her away, and what happed at that time I cannot say, saving that Father himself took Alice home, and did seem greatly concerned at her trouble. Well, this was scantly o'er ere a messenger come with a letter to Mother, whereon she had no sooner cast her eyes than she brake forth with a cry of pleasure. Then, Father desiring to know what it were, she told us all that certain right dear and old friends of hers, the which she had not seen of many years, were but now at the Salutation Inn at Ambleside, and would fain come on and tarry a season here if it should suit with Mother's conveniency to have them.

"And right fain should I be," saith she; and so said Father likewise.

Then Mother told us who were these her old friends: to wit, Sir Robert Stafford and his lady, which was of old time one Mistress Dulcibel Fenton, of far kin unto my Lady Norris, that was Mother's mistress of old days at Minster Lovel: and moreover, one Mistress Martin, a widow that is sister unto Sir Robert, and was Mother's fellow when she served my dear-worthy Lady of Surrey. So Father saith he would ride o'er himself to Ambleside, and give them better welcome than to send but a letter back: and Mother did desire her most loving commendations unto them all, and bade us all be hasteful and help to make ready the guest-chambers. So right busy were we all the morrow, and no time for no tales of no sort: but in the afternoon, when all was done, Aunt Joyce had us three up into her chamber, and bade us sit and listen.

"For it is a sorrowful story I have to tell," saith she: and added, as though she spake to herself,—"ay, and it were best got o'er ere Dulcie cometh."

So we sat all in the window-seat, Milly in the midst, and Aunt Joyce afore us in a great cushioned chair.

"When I was of your years, Milly," saith she, "I dwelt—where I now do at Minster Lovel, with my father and my sister Anstace. Our mother was dead, and our baby brother Walter; and of us there had never been more. But we had two cousins—one Aubrey Louvaine, the son of our mother's sister,—you wot who he is," she saith, and smiled: "and the other, the son of our father's sister dwelt at Oxford with his mother, a widow, and his name was—Leonard Norris."

The name was so long a-coming that I marvelled if she meant to tell us.

"I do not desire to make my tale longer than need is, dear hearts," pursueth she, "and therefore I will but tell you that in course of time, with assent of my father and his mother, my cousin Leonard and I were troth-plight. I loved him, methinks, as well as it was in woman to love man: and—I thought he loved me. I never knew a man who had such a tongue to cajole a woman's heart. He could talk in such a fashion that thou shouldst feel perfectly assured that he loved thee with all his heart, and none but thee: and ere the sun had set, he should have given the very same certainty to Nan at the farm, and to Mall down in the glen. I believe he did rarely make love to so little as one woman at once. He liked—he once told your father so much—a choice of strings for his bow. But of all this, at first, lost in my happy love, I knew nothing. My love to him was so true and perfect, that the very notion that his could be lesser than so never entered mine head. It was Anstace who saw the clouds gathering before any other—Anstace, to whom, in her helpless suffering, God gave a strange power of reading hearts. There came a strange maiden on the scene—a beautiful maiden, with fair eyes and gleaming hair—and Leonard's heart was gone from me for ever. Gone!—had it ever come? I cannot tell. May-be some little corner of his heart was mine, once on a time—I doubt if I had more. He had every corner and every throb of mine. Howbeit, when this maid—"

"How was she called, Aunt Joyce?" saith Milly, in rather an hard voice.

Aunt Joyce did not make answer for a moment: and, looking up on her, I saw drawn brows and flushed cheeks.

"Never mind that, Milly. I shall call her Mary. It was not her name. Well, when this maid first came to visit us, and I brought her above to my sister, that as ye know might never arise from the couch whereon she lay—I something marvelled to see how quick from her face to mine went Anstace' eyes, and back again to her. I knew, long after, what had been her thought. She had no faith in Leonard, and she guessed quick enough that this face should draw him away from me. She tried to prepare me as she saw it coming. But I was blind and deaf. I shut mine eyes tight, and put my fingers in mine ears. I would not face the cruel truth. For Mary herself, I am well assured she meant me no ill, nor did she see that any ill was wrought till all were o'er. She did but divert her with Leonard's words, caring less for him than for them. She was vain, and loved flatteries, and he saw it, and gave her them by the bushel. She was a child laking with a firebrand, and never knew what it were until she burnt her fingers. And at last, maids, mine eyes were forced open. Leonard himself told me, and in so many words, what I had refused to hear from others,—that he loved well enough the gold that was like to be mine, but he did not love me. There were bitter words on both sides, but mine were bitterest. And so, at last, we parted. I could show you the flag on which he stood when I saw his face for the last time—the last, until I saw it yester-morrow. Others had seen him, and knew him not, through the changes of years. Even your father did not know him, though they had been bred up well-nigh as brothers. But mine eyes were sharper. I had not borne that face in mine heart, and seen it in my dreams, for all these years, that I should look on him and not know it. I knew the look in his eyes, the poise of his head, the smile on his lips, too well—too well! I reckon that between that day and this, a thousand women may have had that smile upon them. But I thought of the day when I had it—when it was the one light of life to me—for I had not then beheld the Light of the World. Milly, didst thou think me cruel yester-morrow?—cold, and hard, and stern? Ah, men do think a woman so,—and women at times likewise—think her words hard, when she has to crush her heart down ere she can speak any word at all—think her eyes icy cold, when behind them are a storm of passionate tears that must not be shed then, and she has to keep the key hard turned lest they burst the door open. Ah, young maids, you look upon me as who should say, that I am an old woman from whom such words are strange to you. They be fit only for a young lass's lips, forsooth? Childre, you wis not yet that the hot love of youth is nought to be compared to the yearning love of age,—that the maid that loveth a man whom she first met a month since cannot bear the rushlight unto her that has shrined him in her heart for thirty years."

Aunt Joyce tarried a moment, and drew a long breath. Then she saith in a voice that was calmer and lower—

"Anstace told me I loved not the Leonard that was, but only he that should have been. But I have prayed God day and night, and I will go on yet praying, that the man of my love may be the Leonard that yet shall be,—that some day he may turn back to God and me, and remember the true heart that poured all that love upon him. If it be so, let the Lord order how, and where, and when. For if I may know that it is, when I come into His presence above, I can finish my journey here without the knowledge."

"But it were better to know it, Aunt Joyce?" saith Helen tenderly. Methinks the tale had stirred her heart very much.

"It were happier, Nelly," quoth Aunt Joyce softly. "God knoweth whether it were best. If it be so, He will give it me.—And now is the hardest part of my tale to tell. For after a while, Milly, this—Mary—came to see what Leonard meant, and methinks she came about the same time to the certainty that she loved one who was not Leonard. When he had parted from me he sought her, and there was much bitterness betwixt them. At the last she utterly denied him, and shut the door betwixt him and her: for the which he never forgave her, but at a later time, when in the persecutions under King Henry she came into his power, he used her as cruelly as he might then dare to go. I reckon, had it been under Queen Mary, he should have been content with nought less than her blood. But it pleased the good Lord to deliver her, he getting him entangled in some briars of politics that you should little care to hear: and so when she was freed forth of prison, he was shut up therein."

"Then, Aunt Joyce, is he a Papist?" saith Helen, of a startled fashion.

"Ay, Nell, he is a black Papist. When we all came forth of Babylon, he tarried therein."

"And what came of her you called Mary, if it please you, Aunt?" quoth I.

"She was wed to one that dwelt at a distance from those parts, Edith," saith Aunt Joyce, in the constrained tone wherein she had begun her story. "And sithence then have I heard at times of Leonard, though never meeting him,—but alway as of one that was journeying from bad to worse—winning hearts and then breaking them. Since Queen Elizabeth came in, howbeit, heard I never word of him at all: and I knew not if he were in life or no, till I set eyes on his face yesterday."

We were all silent till Aunt Joyce saith gently—

"Well, Milly,—should we have been more kinder if we had let thee alone to break thine heart, thinkest?"

"It runneth not to a certainty that mine should be broke, because others were," mutters Milly stubbornly.

"Thou countest, then, that he which had been false to a thousand maids should be true to the one over?" saith Aunt Joyce, with a pitying smile. "Well, such a thing may be possible,—once in a thousand times. Hardly oftener, methinks, my child. But none is so blind as she that will not see. I must leave the Lord to open thine eyes,—for I wis He had to do it for me."

And Aunt Joyce rose up and went away.

"I marvel who it were she called Mary," said I.

"Essay not to guess, dear heart," saith Helen quickly. "'Tis plain Aunt Joyce would not have us know."

"Why, she told us, or as good," quoth Milisent, in that bitter fashion she hath had to-day and yesterday. "Said she not, at the first, that 'it were well to get the tale o'er ere Dulcie should come'? 'Tis my Lady Stafford, of course."

"I am not so sure of that," saith Helen, in a low voice: and methought she had guessed at some other, but would not say out [Note 1]. "I think we were better to go down now."

So down went we all to the great chamber, and there found, with Mother, Mistress Lewthwaite, that was, as was plain to see, in a mighty taking [much agitated].

"Dear heart, Lady Lettice, but I never looked for this!" she crieth, wiping of her eyes with her kerchief. "I wis we have been less stricter than you in breeding up our maids: but to think that one of them should bring this like of a misfortune on us! For Blanche is gone to be undone, of that am I sure. Truth to tell, yonder Sir Francis Everett so took me with his fine ways and goodly looks and comely apparel and well-chosen words,—ay, and my master too—that we never thought to caution the maids against him. Now, it turns out that Alice had some glint of what were passing: but she never betrayed Blanche, thinking it should not be to her honour; and me,—why, I ne'er so much as dreamed of any ill in store."

"What name said you?" quoth Mother, that was trying to comfort her.

"Everett," saith she; "Sir Francis Everett, he said his name were, of Woodbridge, in the county of Suffolk, where he hath a great estate, and spendeth a thousand pound by the year. And a well-looked man he was, not o'er young, belike, but rare goodly his hair fair and his eyen shining grey,—somewhat like to yours, my Lady."

Helen and I looked on each other, and I saw the same thought was in both our minds. And looking then upon Mother, I reckoned it had come to her likewise. At Milisent I dared not look, though I saw Helen glance at her.

"And now," continueth Mistress Lewthwaite, "here do I hear that at Grasmere Farm he gave out himself to be one Master Tregarvon, of Devon; and up in Borrowdale, he hath been playing the gallant to two or three maids by the name of Sir Thomas Brooke of Warwickshire: and the saints know which is his right one. He's a bad one, Lady Lettice! And after all, here is your Mistress Bess, she saith she is as sure as that her name is Wolvercot, that no one of all these names is his own. She reckons him to be some young gentleman that she once wist, down in the shires,—marry, what said she was his name, now? I cannot just call to mind. She should ne'er have guessed at him, quoth she, but she saw him do somewhat this young man were wont to do, and were something singular therein—I mind not what it were. Dear heart, but this fray touching our Blanche hath drove aught else out of mine head! But Mistress Bess said he were a bad one, and no mistake."

"Is Blanche gone off with him, Mistress Lewthwaite?" saith Helen.

"That is right what she is, Nell, and ill luck go with her," quoth Mistress Lewthwaite: "for it will, that know I. God shall never bless no undutiful childre,—of that am I well assured."

"Nay, friend, curse not your own child!" saith Mother, with a little shudder.

"Eh, poor lass, I never meant to curse her," quoth she: "she'll get curse enough from him she's gone withal. She has made her bed, and she must lie on it. And a jolly hard one it shall be, by my troth!"

Here come Cousin Bess and Aunt Joyce into the chamber, and a deal more talk was had of them all: but at the last Mistress Lewthwaite rose up, and went away. But just ere she went, saith she to Milisent and me, that were sat together of one side of the chamber—

"Eh, my maids, but you twain should thank God and your good father and mother! for if you had been bred up with less care, this companion, whatso his name be, should have essayed to beguile you as I am a Cumberland woman. A pair of comely young lasses like you should have been a great catch for him, I reckon."

"Ah, Mistress mine," saith Cousin Bess, "when lasses take as much care of their own selves as their elders of them, we shall catch larks by the sky falling, I reckon."

"You are right, Mistress Bess," saith she: and so away hied she.

No sooner was Mistress Lewthwaite gone, than Mother saith,—"Bess, who didst thou account this man to be? Mistress Lewthwaite saith thou didst guess it to be one thou hadst known down in the shires, but she had forgat the name."

I saw Cousin Bess look toward Aunt Joyce with a question in her eyes: and if ever I read English in eyes, what Aunt's said was,—"Have a care!" Then Cousin Bess saith, very quiet—

"It was a gentleman in Oxford town, Cousin Lettice, that I was wont to hear of from our Nell when she dwelt yonder."

"Oh, so?" saith Mother: and thus the matter ended.

But at after, in the even, when Father and Aunt Joyce and I were by ourselves a little season in the hall, I heard Aunt Joyce say, very soft—

"Aubrey, didst thou give her the name?"

Methought Father shook his head.

"I dared not, Joyce," saith he. "She was so sore troubled touching— the other matter."

"I thought so," quoth Aunt. "Then I will beware that I utter it not."

"But Edith knows," answereth Father in a low voice.

"The maids all know," saith she. "I did not reckon thou wouldest keep it from her."

"I should not, but,"—and Father paused. "Thou wist, Joyce, how she setteth her heart on all things."

"I am afeared, Aubrey, she shall have to know sooner or later. Mistress Lewthwaite did all but utter it to her this morning, only I thank God her memory failed her just at the right minute."

"We were better to tell her than that," saith Father, and leaned his head upon his hand as though he took thought.

Then Mother and Helen came in, and no more was said.

SELWICK HALL, DECEMBER THE FOURTH. I had no time to write yestereven, for we were late abed, it being nigh nine o' the clock ere we came up; and all the day too busy. My Lady Stafford and Sir Robert and Mistress Martin did return with Father—the which I set not down in his right place at my last writing,—and yesterday we gat acquaint and showed them the vicinage and such like. As to-morrow, Mother shall carry them to wait on my Lord Dilston.

Sir Robert Stafford is a personable gentleman, much of Father's years; his nose something high, yet not greatly so, and his hair and beard now turning grey, but have been dark. Mistress Martin his sister (that when Mother wist her was Mistress Grissel Stafford) is much like to him in her face, but some years the younger of the twain, though her hair be the greyer. My Lady Stafford, howbeit, hath not a grey hair of her head, and hath more ruddiness of her face than Mistress Martin, being to my thought the comelier dame of the twain. Mother, nathless, saith that Mistress Grissel was wont to be the fairer when all were maids, and that she hath wist much trouble, the which hath thus consumed her early lovesomeness. For her husband, Captain Martin, that was an officer of Calais, coming home after that town was lost in Queen Mary's time, was attaint of heresy and taken of Bishop Bonner, he lying long in prison, and should have been brent at the stake had not Queen Mary's dying (under God's gracious ordering) saved him therefrom. And all these months was Mistress Martin in dread disease, never knowing from one week to another what should be the end thereof. And indeed he lived not long after, but two or three years. Sir Robert Stafford, on the other part, was a wiser man; for no sooner was it right apparent, on Queen Mary's incoming, how matters should turn, than he and his dame and their two daughters gat them over seas and dwelt in foreign parts all the days that Queen Mary reigned. And in Dutchland [Germany] were both their daughters wedded, the one unto a noble of that country, by name the Count of Rothenthal, and the other unto a priest, an Englishman that took refuge also in those parts, by name Master Francis Digby, that now hath a living in Somerset.

Medoubteth if Mother be told who Sir Edwin Tregarvon were. Milly 'bideth yet in the sulks, and when she shall come thereout will I not venture to guess. Alice Lewthwaite come over this afternoon but for a moment, on her way to her aunt's, Mistress Rigg, and saith no word is yet heard of their Blanche, whom her father saith he will leather while he can lay on if she do return, while her mother is all for killing the fatted calf and receiving her back with welcome.