"Well," saith he, "'tis the strangest thing in the world you should not conceive 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, "when he might have a good boat and a stiff capful o' wind, passeth me rarely."

"Why," quoth Father, that had listed us in silence till now, "if we were all sailors and mermen, Ned, how wouldst come by a sea-biscuit or a lump of salt meat? There should be none to sow nor reap, if the land were deserted."

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

"'Tis a strange matter," saith Father, "that we men should be all of us unable to guess how other men can affect that we love not. I dare be bound that Wat should say what passed him was that any man which might dwell on the land should take to the sea."

"Wat!" saith Ned, curling of his lip. "I saw him, Sir, and spent two days 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 the South Seas be fools to him."

"Is he so fine, Ned?" asks Milly.

"Fine!" saith Ned. "Go to, I have some whither an inventory of his Lordship's garments, the which I set down for the mirth of you maids. I gat the true names of Wat, look you."

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

"Now then, hearken, all of you," saith Ned. "Imprimis, on his head—when it is on, but as every minute off it cometh to every creature he meeteth, 'tis not much—a French-fashioned beaver, guarded of a set of 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 pence each: cost of this goodly gown, six pound, ten shillings, and four pence."

"Eh!" cried Milly and Edith together.

"Bide a bit!" saith Ned. "Item, a doublet, of black satin of sixteen 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 forgat the 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 window at her sewing, as she mostly is of an afternoon. "And prithee, what cost 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. But that, as he told me, was given to him: so 'tis not fair to put it of the price. Eh, good lack! I well-nigh forgat the sleeves—green velvet, slashed of mallard-colour satin; and guarded o' silver lace—three pound, 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 the other 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 for shop-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-three out of sixteen," quoth Father.

"And prithee, Ned, how many such suits hath my young gentleman in his wardrobe?"

"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 come of that sixteen pound: beyond clothes, there be presents, many and rich (this last new year but one girdle of seven pound;) pomanders [perfumed balls, which served as scent-bottles], and boxes of orange comfits, and cups of tamarisk wood, and aqua mirabilis, and song books, and virginals [the predecessor of the piano] and viols [violins], and his portrait in little, and playing tables [backgammon], and speculation glasses [probably magnifying glasses], and cinnamon water, and sugar-candy, and fine Venice paper for his letters, and pouncet-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 good sooth, I wis not, Sir: only I saw them flying hither and thither as thick 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 to his bow, I guess. One a right handsome young lady, daughter unto my Lord of Sheffield, that had taken up with him the new fashion called Euphuism."

"Prithee interpret, Ned," saith Father, "for that passeth my weak head."

I saw Milly to blush, and cast down her eyes of her tapestry-work: and I 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 the same, being but friends—they do agree to call each other by certain dainty and fantastical names: as the one shall be Perfection, and the other 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 wist no more than a baker how to reef a sail. The names whereby he and his lady 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 queerer matters than that."

"Nay, I'll hear none, o' my good will," saith she. "Paul saith we be to think on whatsoever things be lovely: and I reckon he wasn't like to mean 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, and make some doublets and petticoats for the poor? He must be a poor silly companion that shall call a woman Excellency, when she hath done nought 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 it doth seem me we were scantly so brainless of old time as this. I shall send a letter to my cousin of Oxenford touching Walter. He must not be suffered to drift into—"

Father did not end his sentence. But methought I could guess reasonable well how it should have been finished.

Verily, I am troubled touching Wat, and will pray for him, that he may be preserved safe from the snares of the world, the flesh, and the Devil. Oh, what a blessed place must Heaven be, seeing there shall be none of them!

One thing, howbeit, doth much comfort me,—and that is, that Ned is true 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 too fond of laughter, and fun, and the like: but I know Ned—of early days I was ever his secret fellow—and I am well assured his heart is right and true. He shall 'bide with us until Sir Humphrey Gilbert his next voyage out to the Spanish seas, but we know not yet when that shall be. He had intended to make the coast of Virginia this last time, but was beat back by the tempest. 'Tis said that when he goeth, his brother of the mother's side, Sir Walter Raleigh, shall go with him. This Sir Walter, saith Ned, is a young gentleman that hath but eight and twenty years, yet is already of much note in the Court. He hath a rare intelligence and a merry wit. Aunt Joyce was mightily taken by one tale that Ned told us of him,—how that, being at the house of some gentleman in the country, where the mistress of the house was mightily set 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?" No sooner had they met below, than saith Sir Walter, "Madam, be the pigs served?"

But my Lady, that moved not a muscle of her face, replied as calm as you will, "You know best, Sir, whether you have had your breakfast." Aunt Joyce did laugh o'er this, and said Sir Walter demerited to have as good 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.

————————————————————————————————————

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, though its latest variety has lost much of the old clearness and beauty. It was at its best in the reign of James the First, of which period some specimens of writing have been preserved, exquisitely beautiful, and as legible as copper-plate. Most lovely is the youthful hand of his eldest daughter: the cacography of her later years is, alas! something horrible. Queen Elizabeth could write the Italian hand (and did it to perfection), 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 lawyer and a pervert, whose terrible death, in the agonies of remorse and despair, made a deep and lasting impression on the Protestants of England.



CHAPTER EIGHT.

HOW TWO WENT IN AT THE GATE.

"All the foolish work Of fancy, and the bitter close of all."

Tennyson.

"On all the sweet smile falleth Of Him who loveth so, But to one the sweet voice calleth, 'Arise, and let us go; They wait to welcome thee, This night, at Home, with Me.'"

"B.M."

(In Milisent's handwriting.)

SELWICK HALL, FEBRUARY YE II. This day was called of old time Candlemas, by reason of the great number of candles, saith Father, which were brent afore the altar at the Purification of Saint Mary. Being an holy day, all we to church this morrow, after the which I was avised to begin my chronicling.

And afore I set down anything else, 'tis meet I should say that I do now see plain how I have played the fool, and have erred exceedingly. I would not think now to tear forth those pages I writ this last November, though they be such a record of folly and sin as few maids should need to set down. I would rather keep them, that I may see in future days all the ill that was once in Milisent Louvaine, and all the great mercy and goodness which the Lord my God did show me.

Oh, the bitter anger that was in mine heart that night toward dear Aunt Joyce!—who, next unto Father and Mother, hath been to me as an angel of God. For had she not stopped me in my madness, where and what had I been to-night? I can scarce bear to think on it. Perchance I feel it the more, sith I am ever put in mind thereof by the woefully changed face of poor Blanche—Blanche, but three months gone the merriest of us all, and now looking as though she should never know a day's merriment again. Her whole life seems ruined: and Dr Bell, the chirurgeon at Keswick, told Mother but yesterday that Blanche should not live long. She hath, said he, a leaning of her nature toward the consumption of the lungs, the which was greatly worsened by those days that she hid in the copse, fearing to come home, until Aunt Joyce went to her.

And to think that I might have been thus now—with nought but a wasted life to look back on, and nought to look forward to but a rapid and early death! And to know well, as I do know, that I have but mine own headstrong foolery to thank for the danger, and am far from having any wisdom of mine to thank for the rescue. Verily, I should be the humblest of women, all the days of my life.

Oh, when will young maids learn, without needing to have it brent into them of hot irons, that they which have dwelt forty or sixty years in this world be like to know more about its ways than they that have lived but twenty; or that their own fathers and mothers, which have loved and cared for them since they lay in the cradle, be not like to wreck their happiness, even for a while, without they have good cause! Of force, I know 'tis not every maid hath such a father and mother as we—thank God for the same!—but I do think, nevertheless, there be few mothers that be good women at all, which should not be willing to have their daughters bring their sorrows and joys to them, rather than pour them into the ear of the first man that will flatter them. I have learned, from Aunt Joyce, that there is oft a deal more in folk than other folk reckon, and that if we come not on the soft spot in a woman's heart, 'tis very commonly by reason that we dig not deep enough. Howbeit, Aunt Joyce saith there be women that have no hearts. The good Lord keep them out of my path, if His will be!

SELWICK HALL, FEBRUARY YE V. This morrow, we maids were sat a-work in the great chamber, where was Aunt Joyce a-work likewise, and Mother coming in and out on her occasions. Father was there, but he was wrapped in a great book that lay afore him. I cannot well mind how we gat on the matter, but Aunt Joyce 'gan speak of the blunders that men do commonly make when they speak of women.

"Why," saith she, "we might be an other sort of animal altogether, instead of the one half of themselves. Do but look you what I have heard men to say in my life. A woman's first desire is to be wed; that's not true but of some women, and they be the least worthy of the sex. A woman can never keep a secret: that's not true but of some. A woman can never take a joke: that's as big a falsehood as Westminster Abbey. A woman cannot understand reason and logic: that's as big an one as all England. Any woman can keep a house or manage a babe: heyday, can she so? I know better. Poor loons, what should they say if we made as great blunders touching them? And an other thing I will tell you which hath oft-times diverted me: 'tis the queer ways whereby a man will look to win favour of a woman. Nine men of every ten will suppose they shall be liked of a woman for telling her (in substance) that she is as good as if she had not been one. Now, that should set the man that did it out of my grace for ever and ever."

"How mean you, Aunt, an' it like you?" saith Nell.

"Why, look you here," saith Aunt Joyce. "But this last week, said I to Master Coward, touching somewhat he had said, 'But,' said I, 'that were not just.' Quoth he, 'How, my mistress!—you a woman, and love justice?' Again: there was once a companion would fain have won me to wed him. When I said 'Nay,' (and meant it), quoth he, 'Oh, a maid doth never say yea at the first.' And I do believe that both these thought to flatter me. If they had but known how I longed to shake them! For look you what the words meant. A woman is never just: a woman is never sincere. And the dolts reckon it shall please us to know that they take us for such fools! Verily, I would give a pretty penny but to make them conceive that the scrap of flattery which they do offer to my particular is utterly swamped in the vast affront which they give to my sex in the general. But you shall rarely see a man to guess that. Moreover, there be two other points. Mark you how a man shall serve a woman, if he come to know that she hath the tongues [knows the classical languages]. Doth he take it as he should with an other man? Never a whit. He treats the matter as though an horse should read English, or a cat play the spinnet. What right hath he to account my brains so much worser than his (I being the same creature as he) that I cannot learn aught he can? 'So mean-brained a thing as a woman to know as much as any man!' I grant you, he shall not say such words: but he shall say words that mean it. And then, forsooth, he shall reckon he hath paid me a compliment! I trow no woman should have brains as dull as that. And do tell me, belike, why a man that can talk right good sense to his fellows, shall no sooner turn him around to a woman, than he shall begin to chatter the veriest nonsense? It doth seem me, that a man never thinks of any woman but the lowest quality. He counts her loving, if you will; but alway foolish, frothy, witless. He'll take every one of you for that make of woman, till he find the contrary. Oh, these men! these men!"

"Ah!" saith Father. "I feel myself one of the inferior sex."

"Aubrey, what business hast thou hearkening?" quoth she. "I thought thou wert lost in yonder big book."

"I found myself again, some minutes gone," saith Father. "But thou wist, 'tis an old saw that listeners do never hear any good of themselves."

"I didn't mean thee, man!" saith Aunt Joyce. "Present company always excepted."

"Methought I was reckoned absent company," saith Father, with a twinkle in his eyes, and lifting his big book from the table. "Howbeit, I am not too proud to learn."

"Even from a woman?" quoth Aunt Joyce. "Thou art the pearl of men, if so be."

Father laughed, and carried off his book, pausing at the door to observe—"There is some truth in much thou hast said, Joyce."

"Lack-a-day, what an acknowledgment from a man!" cries Aunt Joyce. "Yet 'tis fenced round, look you. 'There is some truth in much' I have said. Ah, go thy ways, my good Aubrey; thou art the best man ever I knew: but, alack! thou art a man, after all."

"Why, Aunt Joyce," saith Edith, who was laughing rarely, "what should we do, think you, if there were no men?"

"I would do some way, thou shouldst see," saith Aunt Joyce, sturdily.

And so she let the matter drop; or should so have done, but Nell saith—

"I reckon we all, both men and women, have in us a touch of our father, old Adam!"

"And our mother, old Eva," said I.

"You say well, childre," quoth Aunt Joyce: "and she that hath the biggest touch of any I know is a certain old woman of Oxfordshire, by name Joyce Morrell."

Up springeth Edith, and giveth Aunt Joyce a great hug.

"She is the best, sweetest, dearest old woman (if so be) ever I knew," saith she. "I except not even Mother, for I count not her an old woman."

Aunt Joyce laughed, and paid Edith back her hug with usury.

Then, when Edith was set down again to her work, Aunt Joyce saith—

"Anstace was wont to say—my Anstace, not yours, my maids—that she which did commonly put herself in the lowest place should the seldomest find her out of her reckoning."

SELWICK HALL, FEBRUARY THE IX. Come Dr Bell this morrow to let us blood, as is alway done of the spring-time. I do never love these blood-letting days, sith for a se'nnight after I do feel weak as water. But I reckon it must needs be, to keep away fever and plague and such like, the which should be worser than blood-letting a deal. All we were blooded, down to Adam; and Dr Bell rode away, by sixteen shillings the richer man, which is a deal for a chirurgeon to earn but of one morrow. Aunt Joyce saith she marvelleth if in time to come physicians cannot discover some herb or the like that shall purify folks' blood without having it run out of them like water from a tap. I would, if so be, that they might make haste and find the same.

Father hath writ to his cousin my Lord of Oxenford, praying him to give leave for Wat to visit us at home. 'Tis four years sithence he were here; and Father hath been wont to say that shall be a rare well-writ letter which shall (in common cases) do half the good of a talk face to face. I can see he is somewhat diseaseful touching Wat, lest he should slide into ill ways.

We do hear of old Nanny, that cometh by nows and thens for waste victuals, that daft Madge is something sick. Her grandmother reckons she caught an ill rheum that even of Christmas Day when she were here: but Madge herself will strongly deny the same, saying (poor maid!) that she never could take nought ill at Selwick Hall, for never nought but good (saith she) came to her there. Mother would go to visit her, but she hath an evil rheum herself, and Father saith she must tarry at home this sharp frost: so Aunt Joyce and I be to go this afternoon, and carry her a basket of comfortable things.

SELWICK HALL, FEBRUARY YE X. A rare basket that was Mother packed yester-morrow for daft Madge. First went in a piece of beef, and then a goodly string of salt ling (for Lent is nigh at hand [Note 1]), a little bottle of cinnamon water, divers pots of conserves and honey, a roll of butter, a half-dozen of eggs (which at this present are ill to come by, for the hens will scarce lay this frost weather); and two of the new foreign fruit called oranges [first introduced in 1568], which have been of late brought from abroad, and Ned did bring unto Mother a little basket of them.

We had an ill walk, for there hath been frost after snow, and the roads be slippy as they were greased with butter. Howbeit, we come at last safe to Madge's door, and there found daft Madge in a great chair afore the fire, propped up of pillows, and old Madge her grandmother sat a-sewing, with her horn-glasses across her nose, and by her old Isaac Crewdson, that is daft Madge her grandfather of the other side. She smiled all o'er her face when she saw us, and did feebly clap her hands, as she is wont to do when rare pleased.

"Good morrow, Madge!" saith Aunt Joyce. "See thou, my Lady Lettice hath sent thee a basket of good things, to strengthen thee up a bit."

Madge took Aunt Joyce's hand, and kissed it.

"They'll be good, but your faces be better," saith she.

Old Madge gat her up, and bustled about, unpacking of the basket, and crying out o' pleasure as she came to each thing and told what it were. But daft Madge seemed not much to care what were therein, though she was ever wont dearly to love sweets, there being (I reckon) so few pleasures she had wit for. Only she sat still, gazing from Aunt Joyce to me, and smiling on us.

"What art thinking, Madge?" saith Aunt Joyce.

For, natural [idiot] though she be, Madge is alway thinking. 'Tis very nigh as though there were a soul within her which tried hard to see through the smoked glass of her poor brains. Nay, I take it, so there is.

"I were thinking," saith she, "a-looking on your faces, what like it'll be to see His Face."

Madge hath rarely any name for God. It is mostly "He."

"Wouldst love to see it, Madge?" saith Aunt Joyce.

"Shall," quoth she, "right soon. He sent me word, Mistress Joyce, yestereven."

"Ay," saith old Isaac, "she reckons she's going."

"Wilt be glad, Madge?" saith Aunt Joyce, softly.

"Glad!" she makes answer. "Eh, Mistress Joyce—glad! Why, 'twill be better than plum-porridge!"

Poor Madge!—she took the best symbol she had wit for.

"Ay, my lass, it'll be better nor aught down here," saith old Isaac. "Plum-porridge and feather beds'll be nought to what they've getten up yonder.—You see, Mistress Joyce, we mun tell her by what she knows, poor maid!"

"Ay, thou sayest well, Isaac," Aunt Joyce made reply. "Madge, thy mother's up yonder."

"I know!" she saith, a-smiling. "She'll come to th' gate when I knock. He'll sure send her to meet me. She'll know 'tis me, ye ken. It'd never do if some other maid gave my name, and got let in by mistake for me. He'll send somebody as knows me to see I get in right. Don't ye see, that's why we keep a-going one at once? Somebody mun be always there that'll ken th' new ones."

"I reckon the Lord will ken them, Madge," saith Aunt Joyce.

"Oh ay, He'll ken 'em, sure enough," saith Madge. "But then, ye see, they'd feel lonely like if they waited to see any body they knew till they got right up to th' fur end: and th' angels 'd be stoppin' 'em and wanting to make sure all were right. That wouldn't be pleasant. So He'll send one o' them as knows 'em, and then th' angels 'll be satisfied, and not be stoppin' of 'em."

Aunt Joyce did not smile at poor Madge's queer notions. She saith at times that God Himself teaches them that men cannot teach. And at after, quoth she, that it were but Madge her way of saying, "He careth for you."

"Dost thou think she is going, Isaac?" saith Aunt Joyce. For old Isaac is an herb-gatherer, or were while he could; and he wist a deal of physic.

"Now, Gaffer, thou'lt never say nay!" cries Madge faintly, as though it should trouble her sore if he thought she would live through it.

"I'll say nought o' th' sort, Madge," said Isaac. "Ay, Mistress Joyce. She's been coming to the Lord this ever so long: and now, I take it, she's going to Him."

"That's right!" saith Madge, with a comforted look, and laying of her head back on her pillows. "It would be sore to get right up to th' gate, and then an angel as one didn't know just put his head forth, and say, 'Th' Master says 'tis too soon, Madge: thou must not come in yet. Thou'lt have to walk a bit outside.' Eh, but I wouldn't like yon!"

"He'll not leave thee outside, I reckon," saith Aunt Joyce.

"Eh, I hope not!" quoth Madge, as regretfully. "I do want to see Him so. I'd like to see if He looks rested like after all He bare for a poor daft maid. And I want to know if them bad places is all healed up in His hands and feet, and hurt Him no more now. I'd like to see for myself, ye ken."

"Ay, Madge, they're healed long ago," saith Isaac.

"Well, I count so," saith she, "for 'tis a parcel o' Sundays since first time thou told me of 'em: still, I'd like to see for myself."

"Thou'lt see for thyself," saith Isaac. "Th' Lord's just th' same up yonder that He were down here."

"Well, I reckon so," quoth Madge, in a tone of wonder. "Amn't I th' same maid up at th' Hall as I am here?"

"Ay, but I mean He's as good as ever He were," Isaac makes answer. "He were right good, He were, to yon poor gaumering [silly] Thomas,— eh, but he were a troublesome chap, was Thomas! He said he wouldn't believe it were th' Lord without he stuck his hand right into th' bad place of His side. He were a hard one to deal wi', was yon Thomas."

"Did He let him stick it in?" saith Madge, opening her eyes.

"Yea, He told him to come and stick't in, if he could not believe without: but he mun have been a dizard [foolish man], that he couldn't— that's what I think," quoth old Isaac.

"Was he daft?" saith Madge.

"Well, nay, I reckon not," saith he.

"I'll tell ye how it were," saith she. "His soul was daft—that's it— right th' inside of him, ye ken."

"Ay, I reckon thou'rt about right," quoth Isaac.

"Well, I wouldn't have wanted that," saith she. "I'd have wist by His face and the way He said 'Good morrow, Thomas!' I'd never have wanted to hurt Him more to see whether it were Him. So He'd rather be hurt than leave Thomas a-wondering! Well—it were just like Him."

"He's better than men be, Madge," saith Aunt Joyce, tenderly.

"That's none so much to say, Mistress Joyce," saith Madge. "Men's bad uns. And some's rare bad uns. So's women, belike. I'd liever ha' th' door betwixt."

Madge hath alway had a strange fantasy to shut the half-door betwixt her and them she loveth not. There be very few she will let come withinside. I reckon them that may might be counted of her fingers.

"Well, Madge, there shall be no need to shut to the door in Heaven," saith Aunt Joyce. "The gates be never shut by day; and there is no night there."

"They've no night! Eh, that's best thing ever you told me yet!" quoth Madge. "I canna 'bide th' dark. It'll be right bonnie, it will!"

Softly Aunt Joyce made answer. "'Thine eyes shall see the King in His beauty; they shall behold the Land that is very far off.'"

Madge's head came up from the pillow. "Eh, that's grand! And that's Him?"

"Ay, my maid."

"Ay, that's like," saith she. "It couldn't be nobody else. And Him that could make th' roses and lilies mun be good to look at. 'Tisn't always so now: but I reckon they've things tidy up yon. They'll fit like, ye ken. But, Mistress Joyce, do ye tell me, will us be any wiser up yon?"

I saw the water in Aunt Joyce's eyes, as she arose; and she bent down and kissed Madge on the brow.

"Dear heart," quoth she, "thou shalt know Him then as well as He knows thee. Is that plenty, Madge?"

"I reckon 'tis a bit o' t'other side," saith Madge, with her eyes gleaming. But when I came to kiss her the next minute, quoth she—"Mistress Milisent, saw ye e'er Mistress Joyce when she had doffed her?"

"Ay, Madge," said I, marvelling what notion was now in her poor brain.

"And," saith she, "be there any wings a-growing out of her shoulders? Do tell me. I'd like to know how big they were by now."

"Nay, Madge; I never saw any."

"No did ye?" quoth she, in a disappointed tone. "I thought they'd have been middling grown by now. But may-be He keeps th' wings till we've got yon? Ay, I reckon that's it. She'll have 'em all right, some day."

And Madge seemed satisfied.

SELWICK HALL, FEBRUARY YE XVI. Yester-morn, Dr Bell being at church, Mother was avised to ask him, if it might stand with his conveniency, to look in on Madge the next time he rideth that way, and see if aught might be done for her. He saith in answer that he should be a-riding to Thirlmere early this morrow, and would so do: and this even, on his way home, he came in hither to tell Mother his thought thereon. 'Tis even as we feared, for he saith there is no doubt that Madge is dying, nor shall she overlive many days. But right sorry were we to hear him say that he did marvel if she or Blanche Lewthwaite should go the first.

"Why, Doctor!" saith Mother, "I never reckoned Blanche so far gone as that."

"May-be not when you saw her, Lady Lettice," saith he. "But—women be so perverse! Why, the poor wretch might have lived till this summer next following, or even (though I scarce think it) have tided o'er another winter, but she must needs take it into her foolish head to rush forth into the garden, to say a last word to somebody, a frosty bitter even some ten days back, with never so much as a kerchief tied o'er her head; and now is she laid of her bed, as was the only thing like, and may scarce breathe with the inflammation of her lungs. She may win through, but verily I look not for it."

"Poor heart! I will go and see her," saith Mother.

"Ay, do so," saith he. "Poor foolish soul!—as foolish in regard of her health as of her happiness."

This even, I being the first in our chamber, was but making ready my gown with a clean partlet [ruff] for to-morrow, when Mother come in.

"Milly," she saith, "I shall go (if the Lord will) to see Blanche to-morrow, and I would have thee go withal."

I guess Mother saw that I did somewhat shrink from the thought. In truth, though I have seen Blanche in church, and know how she looketh, yet I have never yet spoke with her sithence she came home, and I feel fearful, as though I were going into a chamber where was somewhat might hurt me.

"My Milisent," saith Mother—and that is what she calls me at her tenderest—"I would not hurt thee but for thine own good. And I know, dear heart, that few matters do more good than for a sinner to be shown that whereto he might have come, if the Lord had not hedged up his way with thorns. 'Tis not alway—I might say 'tis not often—that we be permitted to see whither the way should have led that the Father would not have us to take. And, my dear heart, thou art of thy nature so like thy foolish mother, that I can judge well what should be good for thee."

"Nay, Mother, dear heart! I pray you, call not yourself names," said I, kissing her hand.

"I shall be of my nature foolish, Milly, whether I do so call myself or no," saith Mother, laughing.

"And truly, the older I grow, the more foolish I think myself in my young days."

"Shall I so do, Mother, when I am come to your years?" said I, also laughing.

"I hope so, Milly," saith she. "I am afeared, if no, thy wisdom shall then be small."

SELWICK HALL, FEBRUARY YE XVII. I have seen Blanche Lewthwaite, and I do feel to-night as though I should never laugh again. Verily, O my God, the way of the transgressors is hard!

She lies of her bed, scarce able to speak, and that but of an hoarse whisper. Dr Bell hath given order that she shall not be suffered to talk but to make known her wants or to relieve her mind, though folk may talk to her so long as they weary her not. We came in, brought of Alice, and Mother sat down by the bed, while I sat in the window with Alice.

Blanche looked up at Mother when she spake some kindly words unto her.

"I am going, Lady Lettice!" was the first thing she said.

"I do trust, dear heart, if the Lord will, Dr Bell's skill may yet avail for thee," saith Mother. "But if not, Blanche—"

Blanche interrupted her impatiently, with a question whereof the tone, yet more than the words, made my blood run cold.

"Whither am I going?"

"Dear Blanche," said Mother, "the Lord Jesus Christ is as good and as able to-day as ever He were."

There was a little impatient movement of her head.

"Too late!"

"Never too late for Him," saith Mother.

"Too late for me," Blanche made answer. "You mind the text—last Sunday. I loved idols—after them I would go!"

She spoke with terrible pauses, caused by that hard, labouring breath.

Mother answered, as I knew, from the Word of God.

"'Yet return again to me,' saith the Lord."

"I cannot return. I never came."

"Then 'come unto Me, all ye that are weary and laden.' 'The Son of Man is come to seek and to save that which was lost.'"

Blanche made no answer. She only lay still, her eyes fixed on Mother, which did essay for to show her by God's Word that she might yet be saved if she so would. Methought when Mother stayed, and rose to kiss her as she came thence, that surely Blanche could want no more. Her only word to Mother was—

"Thanks."

Then she beckoned to me, and I came and kissed her. Mother was gone to speak with Mistress Lewthwaite, and Alice withal. Blanche and I were alone.

"Close!" she said: and I bent mine ear to her lips. "Very kind—Lady Lettice. But—too late."

"O Blanche!" I was beginning: but her thin weak hand on mine arm stayed further speech.

"Hush! Milisent—thank God—thou art not as I. Thank God—and keep clean. Too late for me. Good-bye."

"O Blanche, Blanche!" I sobbed through my tears. The look in her eyes was dreadful to me. "The Lord would fain have thee saved, and wherefore dost thou say 'too late'?"

"I want it not," she whispered.

"Blanche," I cried in horror. "What canst thou mean? Not want to be saved from Hell! Not want to go to Heaven!"

"From Hell—ay. But not—to go to Heaven."

"But there is none other place!" cried I.

"I know. Would there were!"

I believe I stood and gazed on her in amaze. I could not think what were her meaning, and I marvelled if she were not feather-brained [wandering, light-headed] somewhat.

"God is in Heaven," she said. "I do not want God. Nor He me."

I could not tell what to say. I was too horrified.

"There was a time," saith Blanche, in that dreadful whisper, which seemed me hoarser than ever, "He would—have saved me—then. But I would not. Now—too late. Thanks! Go—good-bye."

And then Mother called me.

I think that hoarse whisper will ring in mine ears, and those awful eyes will haunt me, till the day I die. And this might have been my portion!

No word of all this said I to Mother. As Aunt Joyce saith, she picks up everything with her heart, and Father hath alway bidden us maids to spare her such trouble as we may—which same he ever doth himself. But I found my Lady Stafford in the little chamber, and I threw me down on the floor at her feet, and gave my tears leave to have their way. My Lady always seemeth to conceive any in trouble, and she worketh not at you to comfort you afore you be ready to be comforted. She only stroked mine head once or twice, as though to show me that she felt for me: until I pushed back my tears, and could look up and tell her what it were that troubled me.

"What ought I to have said, my Lady?" quoth I.

"No words of thine, Milisent," she made answer. "That valley of the shadow is below the sound of any comfort of men. The words that will reach down there are the words of God. And not always they."

"But—O my Lady, think you the poor soul can be right—that it is too late for her?"

"There is only One that can answer thee that question," she saith. "Let us cry mightily unto Him. So long as there is life, there may be hope. There be on whom even in this world the Lord seems to have shut His door. But I think they be commonly hardened sinners, that have resisted His good Spirit through years of sinning. There is no unforgivable sin save that hard unbelief which will not be forgiven. Dear Milisent, let us remember His word, that if two of us shall agree on earth as touching anything they shall ask, it shall be done. And He willeth not the death of a sinner."

We made that compact: and ever sithence mine heart hath been, as it were, crying out to God for poor Blanche. I cannot tell if it be foolish to feel thus or no, but it doth seem as though I were verily guilty touching her; as though the saving of me had been the loss of her. O Lord God, have mercy upon her!

SELWICK HALL, FEBRUARY YE XXII. This cold even were we maids and Ned bidden to a gathering at Master Murthwaite's, it being Temperance her birthday, and she is now two and twenty years of age. We had meant for to call on our way at Mere Lea, to ask how was Blanche, but we were so late of starting (I need not blame any) that there was no time left, and we had to foot it at a good pace. Master Murthwaite dwells about half a mile on this side of Keswick, so we had a middling good walk. There come, we found Gillian Armstrong and her brethren, but none from Mere Lea. Gillian said her mother had been thither yester-morn, when she reckoned Blanche to be something better: and they were begun to hope (though Dr Bell would not yet say so much) that she might tide o'er her malady. A pleasant even was it, but quiet: for Master Murthwaite is a strong Puritan (as folk do now begin to call them that be strict in religion,) and loveth not no manner of noisy mirth: nor do I think any of us were o'er inclined to vex him in that matter. I was not, leastwise. We brake up about eight of the clock, or a little past, and set forth of our way home. Not many yards, howbeit, were we gone, when a sound struck on our ears that made my blood run chill. From the old church at Keswick came the low deep toll of the passing bell.

"One,—two!"—then a pause. A woman.

There were only two women, so far as I knew, that it was like to be. I counted every stroke with my breath held. Would it pause at the nineteen which should point to daft Madge, or go on to the twenty-one which should mean Blanche Lewthwaite?

"Eighteen—nineteen—twenty—twenty-one!"

Then the bell stopped.

"O Ned, it is Blanche!" cries Edith.

"Ay, I reckon so," saith Ned, sadly.

We hurried on then to the end of the lane which leads up to Mere Lea. Looking up at the house, whereof the upper windows can be seen, we saw all dark and closed up: and in Blanche's window, where of late the light had burned day and night, there was now only pitch darkness. She needed no lights now: for she was either in the blessed City where they need no light of the sun, or else cast forth into the blackness of darkness for ever. Oh, which should it be?

"Milisent!" said a low, sorrowful voice beside me; and mine hand clasped Robin Lewthwaite's.

"When was it, Robin?"

"Two hours gone," he saith, mournfully.

"Robin," I could not help whispering, "said she aught comfortable at the last?"

"She never spake at all for the last six hours," he made answer. "But the last word she did say was—the publican's prayer, Milly."

"Then there is hope!" I thought, but I said it not to Robin.

So we came home and told the sorrowful tidings.

SELWICK HALL, FEBRUARY YE XXV. I was out in the garden this morrow, picking of snowdrops to lay round Blanche's coffin. My back was to the gate, when all suddenly I heard Dr Bell's voice say—"Milisent, is that thou?"

I rose up and ran to the gate, where he sat on his horse.

"Well, Milly," saith he, "the shutters are up at Mere Lea."

"Ay, we know it, Doctor," said I, sadly.

"Poor maid!" saith he. "A life flung away! And it might have been so different!"

I said nought, for the tears burned under mine eyelids, and there was a lump in my throat that let me from speech.

"I would thou wouldst say, Milly," goeth on Dr Bell, "to my Lady and Mistress Joyce, that daft Madge (as methinks) shall not pass the day, and she hath a rare fantasy to see Mistress Joyce once more. See if it may be compassed. Good morrow."

I went in forthwith and sought Aunt Joyce, which spake no word, but went that instant moment and tied on her hood and cloak: and so did I mine.

'Twas nigh ten o' the clock when we reached old Madge's hut.

We found daft Madge in her bed, and seemingly asleep. But old Madge said 'twas rather a kind of heaviness, whence she would rouse if any spake to her.

Aunt Joyce leaned over her and kissed her brow.

"Eh, 'tis Mistress Joyce!" saith Madge, feebly, as she oped her eyes. "That's good. He's let me have all I wanted."

"Art comfortable, Madge?"

"Close to th' gate. I'm lookin' to see 't open and Mother come out. Willn't she be pleased?"

Aunt Joyce wiped her eyes, but said nought.

"Say yon again, Mistress Joyce," saith Madge.

"What, my dear heart?"

"Why, you," saith Madge. "Over seeing th' King. Dinna ye ken?"

"Eh, Mistress Joyce, but ye ha' set her up some wi' that," saith old Madge. "She's talked o' nought else sin', scarce."

Aunt Joyce said it once more. "'Thine eyes shall see the King in His beauty: they shall behold the Land that is very far off.'"

"'Tis none so fur off now," quoth Madge. "I've getten a many miles nearer sin' you were hither."

"I think thou hast, Madge," saith Aunt Joyce.

"Ay. An' 'tis a good place," saith she. "'Tis a good place here, where ye can just lie and watch th' gate. They'll come out, they bonnie folk, and fetch me in anon: and Mother's safe sure to be one."

"Ah, Madge! Thou wist whither thou goest," saith Aunt Joyce.

"Why, for sure!" saith she. "He's none like to send me nowhere else but where He is. Dun ye think I'd die for somebody I didn't want?"

She saith not much else, but seemed as though she sank back into that heavy way she had afore. But at last, when we were about to depart, she roused up again a moment.

"God be wi' ye both," said she. "I'm going th' longer journey, but there's t' better home at t' end. May-be I shall come to th' gate to meet you. Mind you dunnot miss, Mistress Milly. Mistress Joyce, she's safe."

"I will try not to miss, Madge," I answered through my tears, "God helping me."

"He'll help ye if ye want helpin'," saith Madge.

"Only He'll none carry you if ye willn't come. Dunna throw away good gold for dead leaves Mistress Milly. God be wi' ye!"

We left her there—"watching the gate."

SELWICK HALL, FEBRUARY YE XXVI. This morrow, as I came down the stairs, what should I see but Aunt Joyce, a-shaking the snow from her cloak and pulling off her pattens.

"Why, Aunt!" cried I. "Have you been forth thus early?"

Aunt Joyce turned on me a very solemn face.

"Milly," saith she, "Madge is in at the gate."

"O Aunt! have you seen her die?"

"I have seen her rise to life," she made answer. "Child, the Lord grant to thee and me such a death as hers! It seemed as though, right at the last moment, the mist that had veiled it all her earth-time cleared from the poor brain, and the light poured in on her like a flood. 'The King in His beauty! The King in His beauty!' were the last words she spake, but in such a voice of triumph and gladness as I never heard from her afore. O Milly, my darling child! how vast the difference between the being 'saved so as by fire,' and the abundant entrance of the good and faithful servant! Let us not rest short of it."

And methought, as I followed Aunt Joyce into the breakfast-chamber, that God helping me, I would not.

————————————————————————————————————

Note 1. For many years after the Reformation the use of fish was made compulsory in Lent, from the wish to benefit the fish trade. A licence to eat flesh in Lent (obtained from the Queen, not the Pope) cost 40 shillings in 1599.



CHAPTER NINE.

WALTER LEARNS TO SAY NO.

"Betray mean terror of ridicule,—thou shalt find fools enough to mock thee:—

"But answer thou their laughter with contempt, and the scoffers shall lick thy feet."

Martin Farquhar Tupper.

(In Edith's handwriting.)

SELWICK HALL, MARCH THE II. Never, methinks, saw I any so changed as our Milly by the illness and death of poor Blanche. From being the merriest of all us, methinks she is become well-nigh the saddest. I count it shall pass in time, but she is not like Milisent at this present. All we, indeed, have much felt the same: but none like her. I never did reckon her so much to love Blanche.

I have marvelled divers times of late, what did bring Robin Lewthwaite here so oft; and I did somewhat in mine own mind, rhyme his name with Milisent's, for all (as I find on looking) my damsel hath set down never a time he came. The which, as methinks, is somewhat significant. So I was little astonied this afternoon to be asked of Robin, as we two were in the garden, if I reckoned Milisent had any care touching him.

"Thou wist, Edith," saith he, "I did alway love her: but when yon rogue came in the way betwixt that did end all by the beguilement of our poor Blanche, I well-nigh gave up all hope, for methought she were fair enchanted by him."

"I think she so were, for a time, Robin," said I, "until she saw verily what manner of man he were: and that it were not truly he that she had loved, but the man she had accounted him."

"Well," saith Robin, "I would like to be the man she accounted him. Thinkest there is any chance?"

"Thou wist I can but guess," I made answer, "for Milisent is very close of that matter, though she be right open on other: but I see no reason, Robin, wherefore thou shouldst not win her favour, and I do ensure thee I wish thee well therein."

"Edith, thou art an angel!" crieth he out: and squeezed mine hand till I wished him the other side the Border.

"Nay!" said I, a-laughing: "what then is Milly?"

"Oh, aught thou wilt," saith he, also laughing, "that is sweet, and fair, and delightsome. Dost know, Edith, our Nym goeth about to be a soldier? He shall leave us this next month."

"A soldier!" cried I: for in very deed Nym and a soldier were two matters that ran not together to my thoughts. Howbeit, I was not sorry to hear that Nym should leave this vicinage, and thereby cease tormenting of our Helen. The way he gazeth on her all the sermon-time in church should make me fit to poison him, were I she, and desired not (as I know she doth not) that he should be a-running after me. But, Nym a soldier! I could as soon have looked to see Moses play the virginals. Why, he is feared of his own shadow, very nigh: and is worser for ghosts than even Austin Park. I do trust, if we need any defence here in Derwentdale, either the Queen's Majesty shall not send Nym to guard us, or else that his men shall have stouter hearts than he. An hare were as good as Nym Lewthwaite.

Sithence I writ what goeth afore, have we all been rare gladded by Walter's coming, which was just when the dusk had fallen. He looketh right well of his face, and is grown higher, and right well-favoured: but, eh me, so fine! I felt well-nigh inclined to lout [courtesy] me low unto this magnifical gentleman, rather than take him by the hand and kiss him. Ned saith—

"The Queen's Highness' barge ahoy!—all lined and padded o' velvet!—and in the midst the estate [the royal canopy] of cloth of gold! Off with your caps, my hearties!"

Walter laughed, and took it very well. Saith Aunt Joyce, when he come to her—

"Wat, how much art thou worth by the yard?"

"Ten thousand pound, Aunt," saith he, boldly, and laughing.

"Ha!" saith she, somewhat dry. "I trust 'tis safe withinside, for I see it not without."

SELWICK HALL, MARCH YE IV. Yesterday, being Sunday, was nought said touching Wat and his ways: only all to church, of course, at matins and evensong, but this day no sermons. This morrow, after breakfast, as we arose from the table, saith Father:—

"Walter, my lad, thou and I must have some talk."

"An' it like you, Sir," saith Wat.

"Wouldst thou choose it rather without other ears?"

"Not any way, I thank you, Sir."

"Then," quoth Father, drawing of a chair afore the fire, "we may tarry as we be."

Walter sat him down in the chimney-corner; Mother, with her sewing, on the other side the fire; Aunt Joyce in the place she best loveth, in the window. Cousin Bess and Mynheer were gone on their occasions. Ned and we three maids were in divers parts of the chamber; Ned carving of a wooden boat for Anstace her little lad, and we at our sewing.

"Wilt tell me, Wat," saith Father, "what years thou hast?"

"Why, Sir," quoth he, "I reckon you know that something better than I; but I have alway been given to wit that the year of my birth was Mdlvii." [1557.]

"The which, sith thou wert born in July, makes thee now of two and twenty years," Father makes answer.

"I believe so much, Sir," saith Walter, that looked somewhat diverted at this beginning.

"And thy wage at this time, from my Lord of Oxenford, is sixteen pound by the year?" [Note 1.]

"It is so, Sir," quoth Wat.

"And what reckonest thy costs to be?"

"In good sooth, Sir, I have not reckoned," saith he.

"Go to—make a guess."

Wat did seem diseased thereat, and fiddled with his chain. At the last (Father keeping silence) he saith, looking up, with a flush of his brow—

"To speak truth, Sir, I dare not."

"Right, my lad," saith Father. "Speak the truth, and let come of it what will. But, in very deed, we must come to it, Wat. This matter is like those wounds that 'tis no good to heal ere they be probed. Nor knew I ever a chirurgeon to use the probe without hurting of his patient. Howbeit, Wat, I will not hurt thee more than is need. Tell me, dost thou think that all thy costs, of whatsoever kind, should go into two hundred pound by the year?"

The red flush on Wat's brow grew deeper.

"I am afeared not, Sir," he made answer, of a low voice.

"Should they go into three?" Wat hesitated, but seemed more diseased [uncomfortable] than ever.

"Should four overlap them?"

Wat brake forth.

"Father, I would you would scold me—I cannot stand it! I should feel an hard whipping by far less than your terrible gentleness. I know I have been a downright fool, and I have known it all the time: but what is a man to do? The fellows laugh at you if you do not as all the rest. Then they come to one every day, with, 'Here, Louvaine, lend me a sovereign,'—and 'Look you, Louvaine, pay this bill for me,'—and they should reckon you the shabbiest companion ever lived, if you did it not, or if, having done it, you should ask them for it again."

"Wat!" saith Aunt Joyce from the window.

"What so, Aunt?" quoth he.

"Stand up a minute, and let me look at thee," saith she.

Walter did so, but with a look as though he marvelled what Aunt Joyce would be at.

"I would judge from thy face," quoth she, "if thou art the right lad come, or they have changed thee in London town. Our Walter used to have his father's eyes and his mother's mouth. Well, I suppose thou art: but I should scantly have guessed it from thy talk."

"Walter," softly saith Mother, "thy father should never have so dealt when he were of thy years."

"Lack-a-daisy! I would have thought the world was turning round," quoth Aunt Joyce, "had I ever heard such a speech of Aubrey at any years whatsoever."

Father listed this with some diversion, as methought from the set of his lips.

"Well, I am not as good as Father," saith Wat.

"Amen!" quoth Aunt Joyce.

"But, Aunt, you are hard on a man. See you not, all the fellows think you a coward if you dare not spend freely and act boldly? Ay, and a miser belike."

"Is it worser to be thought a coward than to be one?" saith Father.

"Who be 'all the fellows'?" saith Aunt Joyce. "My Lord of Burleigh and my Lord Hunsdon and Sir Francis Walsingham, I'll warrant you."

"Now, Aunt!" saith Walter. "Not grave old men like they! My Lord of Oxenford, that is best-dressed man of all the Court, and spendeth an hundred pound by the year in gloves and perfumes only—"

"Eh, Wat!" cries Helen: and Mother,—"Walter, my dear boy!"

"'Tis truth, I do ensure you," saith he: "and Sir Walter Raleigh, one of the first wits in all Europe: and young Blount, that is high in the Queen's Majesty's favour: and my young Lord of Essex, unto whom she showeth good countenance. 'Tis not possible to lower one's self in the eyes of such men as these—and assuredly I should were I less free-handed."

"My word, Wat, but thou hast fallen amongst an ill pack of hounds!" saith Aunt Joyce.

"Then it is possible, or at least more possible, to lower thyself in our eyes, Wat?" saith Father.

"Father, you make me to feel 'shamed of myself!" crieth Wat. "Yet, think you, so should they when I were among them, if I should hold back from these very deeds."

"Then is there no difference, my son," asks Father, still as gentle as ever, "betwixt being 'shamed for doing the right, and for doing the wrong?"

"But—pardon me, Sir—you are not in it!" saith Walter. "Do but think, what it should feel to be counted singular, and as a speckled bird, unlike all around."

"Well!" saith Aunt Joyce, fervently, "I am five and fifty years of age this morrow; and have in my time done many a foolish deed: but I do thank Heaven that I was never so left to mine own folly as to feel any ambition to make one of a row of buttons!"

I laughed—I could not choose.

"You are a woman, Aunt," saith Wat. "'Tis different with you."

"I pay you good thanks, Master Walter Louvaine," quoth she, "for the finest compliment was ever paid me yet. I am a woman (wherefore I thank God), and therefore (this young gentleman being testimony) have more bravery of soul than a man. For that is what thy words come to, Master Wat; though I reckon thou didst not weigh them afore utterance.—Now, Aubrey, what art thou about to do with this lad?"

"I fear there is but one thing to do," saith Father, and he fetched an heavy sigh. "But let us reach the inwards of the matter first. I reckon, Walter, thou hast many debts outstanding?"

"I am afeared so, Sir," saith Wat,—which, to do him credit, did look heartily ashamed of himself.

"To what sum shall they reach, thinkest?"

Wat fiddled with his chain, and fidgetted on his seat, and Father had need of some patience (which he showed rarely) ere he gat at the full figures. It did then appear that our young gallant should have debts outstanding to the amount of nigh two thousand pounds.

"But, Wat," saith Helen, looking sore puzzled, "how couldst thou spend two thousand pounds when thou hadst but sixty-two in these four years?"

"Maidens understand not the pledging of credit," saith Ned. "See thou, Nell: I am a shop-keeper, and sell silk gowns; and thou wouldst have one that should cost an angel—"

"Eh, Ned!" crieth she, and all we laughed.

"Thou shalt not buy a silk gown under six angels at the very least. Leastwise, not clear silk: it should be all full of gum."

"Go to!" saith Ned. "Six angels, then—sixty if thou wilt. (Dear heart, what costly matter women be! I'll don my wife in camlet.) Well, in thy purse is but two angels. How then shalt thou get thy gown?"

"Why, how can I? I must do without it," saith she.

"Most sweet Helen; sure thou earnest straight out of the Garden of Eden! Dear heart, folks steer not in that quarter now o' days. Thou comest to me for the gown, and I set down thy name in my books, that thou owest me six angels: and away goest thou with the silk, and turnest forth o' Sunday as fine as a fiddler."

"Well—and then?" saith she.

"Then, with Christmas in cometh my bill: and thou must pay the same."

"But if I have no money?"

"Then I lose six angels."

"Father, is that honest?" saith Helen.

"If thou hadst no reason to think thou shouldst have the money by Christmas, certainly not, my maid," he made answer.

"Not honest, Sir!" saith Wat.

"Is it so?" quoth Father.

"Oh, look you, words mean different in the Court," crieth Aunt Joyce, "from what they do in Derwent-dale and at Minster Lovel. If we pay not our debts here, we go to prison; and folks do but say, Served him right! But if they pay them not there, why, the poor tailor and jeweller must feed their starving childre on the sight of my Lord of Essex' gold lace, and the smell of my Lord of Oxenford his perfumes. Do but think, what a rare supper they shall have!"

"Now, hearken, Walter," saith Father. "I must have thee draw up a list of all thy debts, what sum, for what purpose, and to whom owing: likewise a list of all debts due to thee."

"But you would not ask for loans back, Sir?" cries Wat.

"That depends on whom they were lent to," answers Father. "If to a poor man that can scarce pay his way, no. But if to my cousin of Oxenford and such like gallants that have plenty wherewith to pay, then ay."

"They would think it so mean, Sir!" saith Walter, diseasefully.

"Let them so do," saith Father. "I shall sleep quite as well."

"But really, Sir, I could not remember all."

"Then set down what thou canst remember."

Walter looked as if he would liefer do aught else.

"And, my son," saith Father, so gently that it was right tender, "I must take thee away from the Court."

"Sir!" crieth Walter, in a voice of very despair.

"I can see thou art not he that can stand temptation. I had hoped otherwise. But 'tis plain that this temptation, at the least, hath been too much for thee."

Wat's face was as though his whole life should be ruined if so were.

"Come, Wat, take heart o' grace!" cries Ned. "I wouldn't cruise in those muddy waters if thou shouldst pay me two thousand pound to do the same. Think but of men scenting themselves—with aught but a stiff sea-breeze. Pish! And as to dancing, cap in hand, afore a woman, and calling her thine Excellency, or thy Floweriness, or thy Some-Sort-of-Foolery, why, I'd as lief strike to a Spanish galleon, very nigh. When I want a maid to wed me, an' I ever do—at this present I don't—I shall walk straight up to her like a man, and say, 'Mistress Cicely (or whatso she be named), I love you; will you wed me?' And if she cannot see an honest man's love, or will not take it, without all that flummery, why, she isn't worth a pail o' sea-water: and I can get along without her, and I will."

"Hurrah for Ned!" saith Aunt Joyce. "'Tis a comfort to find we have one man in the family."

"I trust we may have two, in time," quoth Father. "Wat, my lad, I know this comes hard: and as I count thee not wicked, but weak, I would fain help thee all I may. But thou canst not be suffered to forget that my fortune is but three hundred pound by the year; and I have yet three daughters to portion. I could not pay thy debts without calling in that for which thou hast pledged my credit—for it is mine, Wat, rather than thine, seeing thine own were thus slender."

"But, Sir!" crieth Wat, "that were punishing you for mine extravagance. I never dreamed of that!"

"Come, he is opening his eyes a bit at last," saith Aunt Joyce to me, that was next her.

"May-be, Wat," saith Father, with a kindly smile, "it had been better if thou hadst dreamed thereof a little sooner. I think, my boy, it will be punishment enough for one of thy nature but to 'bide at home, and to see the straits whereto thou hast put them that love thee best."

"Punishment!" saith Wat, in a low, 'shamed voice. "Yes, Father, the worst you could devise."

"Well, then we will say no more," saith Father. "Only draw up those lists, Walter, and let me have them quickly."

Father then left the chamber: and Wat threw him down at Mother's knee.

"O Mother, Mother, if I had but thought sooner!" crieth he. "If I could but have stood out when they laughed at me!—for that, in very deed, were the point. I did begin with keeping within my wage: and then all they mocked and flouted me, and told me no youth of any spirit should do so: and—and I gave way. Oh, if I had but held on!"

Mother softly stroked Wat's gleaming fair hair, that is so like hers.

"My boy!" she saith, "didst thou ask for God's strength, or try to hold on in thine own?"

Walter made no answer in words, but methought I saw the water stand in his eyes.

When Mother and Wat were both gone forth, Aunt Joyce saith,—"I cannot verily tell how it is that folk should have a fantasy that 'tis a shame to be 'feared of doing ill, and no shame at all to be 'feared of being laughed at. Why, one day when I were at home, there was little Jack Bracher a-stealing apples in mine orchard: and Hewitt (that is Aunt Joyce's chief gardener) caught him and brought him to me. Jack, he sobbed and thrust his knuckles into his eyes, and said it were all the other lads. 'But what did the other lads to thee?' quoth I. 'Oh, they dared me!' crieth he. 'They said I durst not take 'em: and so I had to do it.' Now, heard you ever such stuff in your born days? Why, they might have dared me till this time next year, afore ever I had turned thief for their daring."

"But then, Aunt, you see," saith Ned, a twinkle in his eyes, "you are but a woman. That alters the case."

"Just so, Ned," quoth Aunt Joyce, the fun in her eyes as in his: "I am one of the weaker sex, I know."

"Now, I'll tell you," saith Ned, "how they essayed it with me, when I first joined my ship. They dared me—my mates, wot you—to go up to the masthead, afore I had been aboard a day. 'Now, look you here, mates,' says I. 'When the Admiral bids me, I'll scale every mast in the ship; and if I break my neck, I shall but have done my duty. But I'll do nought because I'm dared, and so that you know.' Well, believe me who will, but they cheered me as if I had taken a galleon laden with ducats. And I've been their white son [favourite] ever since."

"Of course!" saith Aunt Joyce. "They alway do. 'Tis men which have no true courage that dare others: and when they come on one that hath, they hold him the greater hero because 'tis not in themselves to do the like. Ned, lad, thou art thy father's son. I know not how Wat gat changed."

"Well, Aunt, I hope I am," saith Ned. "I would liefer copy Father than any man ever I knew."

"Hold thou there, and thou shalt make a fair copy," saith Aunt Joyce.

We wrought a while in silence, when Aunt Joyce saith—

"Sure, if men's eyes were not blinded by the sin of their nature, they should perceive the sheer folly of fearing the lesser thing, and yet daring the greater. 'Feared of the laughter of fools, that is but as the crackling of thorns under the pot: and not 'feared of the wrath of Him that liveth for ever and ever—which is able, when He hath killed, to destroy body and soul in Hell. Oh the folly and blindness of human nature!"

SELWICK HALL, MARCH YE VII. Was ever any creature so good as this dear Aunt Joyce of ours? This morrow, when all were gone on their occasions saving her and Father, and Nell and me, up cometh she to Father, that was sat with a book of his hand, and saith—

"Aubrey!"

Father laid down his book, and looked up on her.

"Thou wert so good as to tell us three mornings gone," saith she, "that thine income was three hundred pound by the year. Right interesting it were, for I never knew the figure aforetime."

"Well?" saith Father, laughing.

"But I hope," continueth she, "thou didst not forget (what thou didst know aforetime) that mine is two thousand."

"My dear Joyce!" saith Father, and held forth his hand. "My true sister! I will not pretend to lack knowledge of thy meaning. Thou wouldst have me draw on thee for help to pay Walter's debts—"

"Nay, not so," saith she, "for I would pay them all out. Look thou, to do the same at once should inconvenience me but a trifle, and to do it at twice, nothing at all."

"But, dear Joyce, I cannot," quoth he. "Nay, not for thy sake—I know thou wouldst little allow such a plea—but for Walter's own. To do thus should be something to ease myself, at the cost of a precious lesson that might last him his whole life."

"I take thy meaning," saith she, "yet I cannot sleep at ease if I do not somewhat. Give me leave to help a little, if no more. Might not that be done, yet leave Wat his lesson?"

"Well, dear heart, this I promise thee," saith Father, "that in case we go a-begging, we will come first to the Manor House at Minster Lovel."

"After which you shall get no farther," saith Aunt Joyce. "But I want more than that, Aubrey. I would not of my good will tarry to help till thou and Lettice be gone a-begging. I can give the maids a gown-piece by now and then, of course, and so ease my mind enough to get an half-hour's nap: but what am I to do for a night's rest?"

Father laughed. "Come, a word in thine ear," saith he.

Aunt Joyce bent her head down, but then pursed up her lips as though she were but half satisfied at last.

"Will that not serve?" saith Father, smiling on her.

"Ay, so far as it goeth," she made answer: "yet it is but an if, Aubrey?"

"Life is a chain of ifs, dear Joyce," saith he.

"Truth," saith she, and stood a moment as if meditating. "Well," saith she at last, "'half a loaf is better than no bread at all,' so I reckon I must be content with what I have. But if I send thee an whole flock of sheep one day, and to Lettice the next an hundred ells of velvet, prithee be not astonied."

Father laughed, and said nought of that sort should ever astonish him, for he knew Aunt Joyce by far too well.

SELWICK HALL, MARCH YE IX. We were sat this morrow all in the little chamber at work, and I somewhat marvelled what was ado with Mother, for smiles kept ever and anon flitting across her face, as though she were mighty diverted with the flax she was spinning: and I guessed her thoughts should be occupying somewhat that was of mirthful sort. At last saith Aunt Joyce:—

"Lettice, what is thy mind a-laughing at? I have kept count, and thou hast smiled eleven times this half-hour. Come, give us a share, good fellow."

Mother laughed right out then, and saith—

"Why, Joyce, I knew not I was thus observed of a spy. Howbeit, what made me smile, that shall you know. Who is here to list me?"

All the women of the house were there but Milisent; of the men none save Ned.

"Aubrey hath had demand made of him for our Milly," saith Mother.

"Heave he!" cries Ned. "Who wants her?"

"Good lack, lad, hast no eyes in thine head?" quoth Aunt Joyce. "Robin Lewthwaite, of course. I can alway tell when young folks be after that game."

"Eh deary me!" cries Cousin Bess. "Why, I ne'er counted one of our lasses old enough to be wed. How doth time slip by, for sure!"

"I scarce looked for Milly to go the first," saith Mistress Martin.

I reckon she thought Nell should have come afore, for she is six years elder than Milly: and so she might, would she have taken Nym Lewthwaite, for Father and Mother were so rare good as leave her choose. But I would not have taken Nym, so I cannot marvel at Helen.

"You see, Aunt," saith Ned, answering Aunt Joyce, "I am not yet up to the game."

"And what wilt choose by, when thou art?" saith Aunt Joyce, with a little laugh. "I know a young man that chose his wife for her comely eyebrows: and an other (save the mark!) by her French hood. Had I had no better cause than that last, I would have bought me a French hood as fair, if I had need to send to Paternoster Row [Note 2] for it, and feasted mine eyen thereon. It should not have talked when I desired quietness, nor have threaped [scolded] at me when I did aught pleased it not."

"That speech is rare like a man, Joyce," saith my Lady Stafford.

"Dear heart, Dulcie, dost think I count all women angels, by reason I am one myself?" quoth Aunt Joyce. "I know better, forsooth."

"Methinks, Aunt, I shall follow your example," saith Ned, winking on me, that was beside him. "Women be such ill matter, I'll sheer off from 'em."

"Well, lad, thou mayest do a deal worser," saith Aunt Joyce: "yet am I more afeared of Wat than thee."

"Is Wat the more like to wed a French hood?" saith Ned.

"I reckon so much," saith she, "or a box of perfume, or some such rubbish. Eh dear, this world! Ned, 'tis a queer place: and the longer thou livest the queerer shalt thou find it."

"'Tis a very pleasant place, Aunt, by your leave," said I.

"Thou art not yet seventeen, Edith," saith she: "and thou hast not seen into all the dusty corners, nor been tangled in the spiders' webs.—Well, Lettice, I reckon Aubrey gave consent?"

"Oh ay," saith Mother, "in case Milisent were agreeable."

"And were Milisent agreeable?" asks my Lady Stafford.

"I think so much," made answer Mother, and smiled.

"None save a blind bat should have asked that," saith Aunt Joyce. "But thou hast worn blinkers, Dulcie, ever sith I knew thee. Eh, lack-a-daisy! but that is fifty year gone, or not far thence."

"Three lacking," quoth my Lady Stafford.

"I'll tell you what, we be growing old women!" saith Aunt Joyce. "Ned and Edith, ye ungracious loons, what do ye a-laughing?"

"I cry you mercy, Aunt, I could not help it," said I, when I might speak: "you said it as though you had discovered the same but that instant minute."

"Well, I had," saith she. "And so shall you, afore you come to sixty years: or if not, woe betide you."

"Dear heart, Aunt, there is a long road betwixt sixteen and sixty!" cried I, yet laughing.

"There is, Edith," right grave, Aunt Joyce makes answer. "A long stretch of road: and may-be steep hills, child, and heavy moss, and swollen rivers to ford, and snowstorms to breast on the wild moors. Ah, how little ye young things know! I reckon most folk should count my life an easy one, beside other: but I would not live it again, an' I might choose. Wouldst thou, Dulcie?"

"Oh dear, no!" cries my Lady Stafford.

"And thou, Grissel?"

Mistress Martin shook her head.

"And thou, Lettice?"

Mother hesitated a little. "Some part, I might," she saith.

"Ay, some part: we could all pick out that," returns Aunt Joyce. "What sayest thou, Bess?"

"What, to turn back, and begin all o'er again?" quoth Cousin Bess. "Nay, Mistress Joyce, I'm none such a dizard as that. I reckon Ned shall tell you, when a sailor is coming round the corner in sight of home, 'tis not often he shall desire to sail forth back again."

"Why, we reckon that as ill as may be," saith Ned, "not to be able to make your port, and forced to put to sea again."

"And when the sea hath been stormy," saith Aunt Joyce, "and the port is your own home, and you can see the light gleaming through the windows?"

"Why, it were well-nigh enough to make an old salt cry," saith Ned.

"Ay," saith Aunt Joyce. "Nay—I would not live it again. Yet my life hath not been an hard one—only a little lonely and trying. Dulcie, here, hath known far sorer sorrows than I. Yet I shall be glad to get home, and lay by my travelling-gear."

"But thou hast had sorrow, dear Joyce," saith my Lady Stafford gently.

"Did any woman ever reach fifty without it?" Aunt Joyce makes answer. "Ay, I have had my sorrows, like other women—and one sorer than ever any knew. May-be, Dulcie, if the roads were smoother and the rivers shallower to ford, we should not be so glad when we gat safe home."

"'And so He leadeth them unto the haven where they would be,'" softly saith Mistress Martin.

"Ay, it makes all the difference who leads us when we pass through the waters," answereth Aunt Joyce. "I mind Anstace once saying that. Most folks (said she) were content to go down, trusting to very shallow sticks—to the world, that brake under them like a reed; or to the strength of their own hearts, that had scantly the pith of a rush. But let us get hold with a good grip of Christ's hand, and then the water may carry us off our feet if it will. It can never sweep us down the stream. It must spend all his force on the Rock of our shelter, before it can reach us. 'In the great water-floods they shall not come nigh him.'"

"May the good Lord keep us all!" saith Mother, looking tenderly on us.

"Amen!" saith Aunt Joyce. "Children, the biting cold and the rough walking shall be little matter to them that have reached home."

SELWICK HALL, MARCH YE XIII. "Walter," saith Father this even, "I have had a letter from my Lord of Oxenford."

"You have so, Sir?" quoth he. "But not an answer to yours?"

"Ay, an answer to mine, having come down express with the Queen's Majesty's despatches unto my Lord Dacre of the North."

"But, Aubrey, that is quick work!" saith Aunt Joyce. "Why, I reckon it cannot be over nine days sith thine were writ."

"Nor is it, Joyce," saith Father: "but look thou, I had rare opportunities, since mine went with certain letters of my Lord Dilston unto Sir Francis Walsingham."

"Well, I never heard no such a thing!" crieth she. "To send a letter to London from Cumberland, and have back an answer in nine days!"

"'Tis uncommon rapid, surely," saith Father. "Well, Walter, my boy—for thine eyes ask the question, though thy tongue be still—my Lord of Oxenford hath loosed thee from thine obligations, yet he speaks very kindlily of thee, as of a servant [Note 3] whom he is right sorry to lose."

"You told him, Father,"—and Wat brake off short.

"I told him, my lad," saith Father, laying of his hand upon Walter's shoulder, "that I did desire to have thee to dwell at home a season: and moreover that I heard divers matters touching the Court ways, which little liked me."

"Was that all, Aubrey?" asks Aunt Joyce.

"Touching the cause thereof? Ay."

Then Walter breaks forth, with that sudden, eager way he hath, which Aunt Joyce saith is from Mother.

"Father, I have not deserved such kindness from you! But I do desire to say one thing—that I can see now it is better I were thence, though it was sore trouble to me at the first: and (God helping me) I will endeavour myself to deserve better in the future than I have done in the past."

Father held forth his hand, and Wat put his in it.

"God helping thee, my son," saith he gravely. "I do in very deed trust the same. Yet not without it, Walter!"

Somewhat like an hour thereafter, when Aunt Joyce and I were alone, she saith all suddenly, without a word of her thoughts aforetime—

"Ay, the lad is his father's son, after all. If he only could learn to spell Nay!"

————————————————————————————————————

Note 1. The reader is requested to remember that these sums must be multiplied by fifteen, to arrive at the equivalents in the present day.

Note 2. Paternoster Row was the Regent Street of Elizabeth's reign.

Note 3. The word servant was much more loosely used in the sixteenth century than at present. Any lady or gentleman, however well born and educated, in receipt of a salary from an employer, was termed a servant. The Queen's Maids of Honour were in service, and their stipends were termed wages.



CHAPTER TEN.

IN DEEP PLACES.

"So I go on, not knowing— I would not, if I might. I would rather walk in the dark with God Than go alone in the light: I would rather walk with Him by faith Than go alone by sight."

Philip Bliss.

(In Edith's handwriting.)

SELWICK HALL, MARCH THE XVII. Helen's birthday. She is this morrow of the age of seven-and-twenty years, being eldest of all us save Anstace. Alice Lewthwaite counts it mighty late to tarry unwed, but I do misdoubt of mine own mind if Helen ever shall wed with any.

From Father she had gift of a new prayer-book, with a chain to hang at her girdle: and from Mother a comely fan of ostrich feathers, with a mirror therein set; likewise with a silver chain to hang from the girdle. Aunt Joyce shut into her hand, in greeting of her, five gold Spanish ducats,—a handsome gift, by my troth! But 'tis ever Aunt Joyce's way to make goodly gifts. My Lady Stafford did give a pair of blue sleeves, [Note 1] broidered in silver, whereon I have seen her working these weeks past. Mistress Martin, a pair of lovesome white silk stockings [Note 2]. Sir Robert, a silver pouncet-box [a kind of vinaigrette] filled with scent. Anstace, a broidered girdle of black silk; and Hal, a comfit-box with a little gilt spoon. Milisent, two dozen of silver buttons; and I, a book of the Psalms, the which I wist Helen desired to have (cost me sixteen pence). Ned diverted us all by making her present of a popinjay [parrot], the which he brought with him, and did set in care of Faith Murthwaite till Nell's birthday came. And either Faith or Ned had well trained the same, for no sooner came the green cover off his cage than up goeth his foot to his head, with—

"Good morrow, Mistress Nell, and much happiness to you!"

All we were mighty taken [amused] with this creature, and I count Ned had no cause to doubt if Helen were pleased or no. Last came Walter, which bare in his hand a right pretty box of walnut-wood, lined of red taffeta, and all manner of cunning divisions therein. Saith he—

"Helen, dear heart, I would fain have had a better gift to offer thee, but being in the conditions I am, I thought it not right for me to spend one penny even on a gift. Howbeit, I have not spared labour nor thought, and I trust thou wilt accept mine offering, valueless though it be, for in very deed it cometh with no lesser love than the rest."

"Why, Wat, dear heart!" crieth Nell, her cheeks all flushing, "dost think that which cost money, should be to me so much as half the value of thine handiwork, that had cost thee thought and toil! Nay, verily! thou couldst have given me nought, hadst thou spent forty pound, that should have been more pleasant unto me. Trust me, thy box shall be one of my best treasures so long as I do live, and I give thee hearty thanks therefor."

Walter looked right pleased, and saith he, "Well, in very deed I feared thou shouldst count it worth nought, for even the piece of taffeta to line the same I asked of Mother."

"Nay, verily, not so!" saith she, and kissed him.

To say Wat were last, howbeit, I writ not well, for I forgat Mynheer, and Cousin Bess, the which I should not.

Cousin Bess marcheth up to Nell with—"Well, my maid, thou hast this morrow many goodlier gifts than mine, yet not one more useful. 'Tis plain and solid, like me." And forth she holdeth a parcel which, being oped, did disclose a right warm thick hood of black serge, lined with flannel and dowlas, mighty comfortable-looking. Mynheer cometh up with a courtesy and a scrape that should have beseemed a noble of the realm, and saith he—

"Mistress Helena Van Louvaine—for that is your true name, as I am assured of certainty—I, a Dutchman, have the great honour and pleasure to offer unto you, a Dutch vrouw, a most precious relic of your country, being a stool for your feet, made of willow-wood that groweth by the great dyke which keepeth off from Holland the waters of the sea. 'Tis true, you be of the Nether-Land, and this cometh of the Hollow-Land—for such do the names mean. Howbeit, do me the favour, Domina mea, to accept this token at the hands of your obeissant paedagogus, that should have had much pleasure in learning you the Latin tongue, had it been the pleasure of your excellent elders. Alack that it were not so! for I am assured your scholarship should have been rare, and your attention thereto of the closest."

Nell kept her countenance (which was more than Ned or Milly could do), and thanked Mynheer right well, ensuring him that she should essay to make herself worthy of the great honour of coming of Dutch parentage.

Saith Father drily, "There is time yet, Mynheer."

"For what?" saith he. "To learn Mistress Helena the Latin? Excellent Sir, you rejoice me. When shall we begin, Mistress Helena?—this morrow?"

Helen laughed now, and quoth she,—"I thank you much, Mynheer, though I am 'feared you reckon mine understanding higher than it demerit: yet I fear there shall scantly be opportunity this morrow. I have divers dishes to cook that shall be cold for this even, and a deal of flannel-work to do."

"Ah, the dishes and the flannel, they are mine abhorrence!" saith Mynheer. "They stand alway in the road of the learning."

"Nay, mine old paedagogus!" crieth Ned. "I reckon the dishes are little your abhorrence at supper-time, nor the flannel of a cold night, when it taketh the form of blankets. 'Tis right well to uphold the learning, yet without Nell's cates and flannel, your Latin should come ill off."

"The body is ever in the way of the soul!" saith Mynheer. "Were we souls without bodies, what need had we of the puddings and the flannels?"

"Or the Latin," sticketh in Ned, mischievously.

Mynheer wagged his head at Ned.

"Edward Van Louvaine, thou wist better."

"Few folks but know better than they do, Mynheer," saith Ned. "Yet think you there shall be lexicons needed to talk with King David or the Apostle Paul hereafter?"

"I trow not," saith Father.

"Dear heart, Master Stuyvesant," cries Cousin Bess, "but sure the curse of Babel was an ill thing all o'er! You would seem to count it had a silver side to it."

"It had a golden side, my mistress," made he answer. "Had all men ever spoken but one tongue, the paedagogus should scarce be needed, and half the delights of learning had disappeared from the earth."

"Eh, lack-a-day!—but how different can folks look at matters!" saith Cousin Bess. "Why, I have alway thought it should be a rare jolly thing when all strange tongues were done away (as I reckon they shall hereafter), and all folks spake but plain English."

"Art so sure it should be English, Bess?" saith Father, smiling. "What an' it were Italian or Greek?"

"Good lack, that could never be!" crieth she. "Why, do but think the trouble all men should have."

"Somebody must have it," quoth he. "I take it, what so were the tongue, all nations but one should have to learn it."

"I'll not credit it, Sir Aubrey," crieth Bess, as she trotteth off to the kitchen. "It is like to be English that shall become the common tongue of the earth: it can't be no elsewise!"

Mynheer seemed wonderful taken with this fantasy of Cousin Bess.

"How strange a thought that!" saith Aunt Joyce.

"Bess is in good company," answereth Father. "'Tis right the reasoning of Saint Cyril, when he maketh argument that the Temple of God, wherein the Man of Sin shall sit (as Paul saith), cannot signify the Christian Church. But wherefore, good Sir? say you. Oh, saith he, because 'God forbid it should be this temple wherein we now are!'"

"Well, it is a marvel to me," quoth Aunt Joyce, "that some folks seem to have no brains!"

"Is it so great a marvel?" saith Father.

"But they have no wit!" saith she. "Why, here yestereven was Caitlin, telling me the sun had put the fire out—she'd let it go out, the lazy tyke as she is!—Then said I, 'But how so, Caitlin, when there hath been no sun?' (You wist how hard it rained all day.) 'Ha!' saith she— and gazed into the black grate, as though it should have helped her to an other excuse. Which to all appearance it did, for in a minute quoth my wiseacre,—'Then an' it like you, Mistress, it was the light.'"

"A lack of power to perceive the relation betwixt cause and effect," saith Father, drily, "A lack of common sense!" saith Aunt Joyce.

"The uncommonest thing that is," quoth Father.

"But wherefore should the sun put the fire out?" saith Sir Robert.

"Nay, I'll let alone the whys and the wherefores," quoth she. "It doth, and that is enough for me."

Father seemed something diverted in himself, but he said nought more.

All the morrow were we busy in the kitchen, and the afternoon a-work: but in the even come all the young folks to keep Nell's birthday—to wit, the Lewthwaites, the Armstrongs, the Murthwaites, the Parks, and so forth. Of course Robin had no eyes nor ears for aught but Milisent. And for all Master Ned may say of his being so rare heart-free, I did think he might have talked lesser with Faith Murthwaite had it liked him so to do. I said so unto him at after, but all I gat of my noble admiral was "Avast there!" the which I took to mean that he did desire me to hold my peace. Wat was rare courtly amongst all us, and had much praise of all the maidens. Me-wondered if Gillian Armstrong meant not to set her cap at him. But I do misdoubt mine own self if any such rustical maids as be here shall be like to serve Walter's turn. I would fain hear more of this daughter of my Lord of Sheffield, that was his Excellency, but I am not well assured if I did well to ask at him or no.

SELWICK HALL, MARCH YE XX. 'Tis agreed that Aunt Joyce, in the stead of making an end of her visit when the six months shall close, shall tarry with us until Sir Robert and his gentlewomen shall travel southward, the which shall be in an other three weeks' time thereafter. They look therefore to set forth in company as about the twentieth of April. I am rare glad (and so methinks be we all) to keep Aunt Joyce a trifle longer. She is like a fresh breeze blowing through the house, and when she is away, as Ned saith, we are becalmed. Indeed, I would by my good will have her here alway.

"Now, Aunt," said I, "you shall have time to write your thoughts in the Chronicle, the which shall end with this month, as 'twas agreed."

"Time!" quoth she. "And how many pages, my sweet scrivener?"

"Trust me, but I'll leave you plenty," said I. "Your part shall be a deal better worth the reading."

"Go to, Mistress Edith!" saith she. "'All the proof of a pudding is in the eating.'"

"I am sure of that pudding," saith Milisent.

"These rash young women!" maketh answer Aunt Joyce. "When thou hast lived fifty or sixty years in this world, my good maid, thou wilt be a trifle less sure of most things. None be so sure that a box is white of all sides as they that have seen but one. When thou comest to the second, and findest it painted grey, thou wilt not be so ready to swear that the third may not be red."

"But we can be sure of some things, at any years, Aunt," saith Milly.

"Canst thou so?" saith Aunt Joyce. "Ah, child, thou hast not yet been down into many deep places. So long as a goat pulls not at his tether, he may think the whole world lieth afore him when he hath but half-a-dozen yards. Let him come to pull, and he will find how short it is. There be places, Milly, where a man may get to, that he can be sure of nothing in all the universe save God. And thou shalt not travel far, neither, to come to the end of that cord."

"O Aunt Joyce, I do never love to hear such talk as that!" saith Milly. "It causeth one feel so poor and mean."

"Then it causeth thee feel what thou art," saith she. "'Tis good for a man to find, at times, how little he can do."

"It may be good, but 'tis mighty displeasant," quoth Milisent.

"'Tis very well when it be no worse than displeasant," Aunt Joyce makes answer. "I thought of places, Milly, which were not displeasant, but awful—where the human soul feels nigh to being shut up in the blackness of darkness for ever. Thou wist little of such things yet. But most souls which be permitted to soar high aloft be made likewise to descend deep down. David went deep enough—may-be deeper than any other save Christ. Look you, he was appointed to write the Psalter. Throughout all the ages coming, of his words was the Church to serve her when she should come into deep places. There must be somewhat therein for every Christian soul, and every Jewish belike, ere Christ came. And to do that, I reckon David had need to go very deep down. He that shall help a man to climb forth of a well must know whereto the water reacheth, and on which side the steps be. List him—'Out of the depths have I cried unto Thee, O Lord!' 'I am come into deep places, where the floods overflow me.'"

"But, Aunt," said I, yet was I something feared to say it, "was not that hard on David? It scarce seems just that he should have to go through all those cruel troubles for our good."

"Ah, Edith," saith she, "the Lord payeth His bills in gold of Ophir. I warrant you David felt his deep places sore trying. But ask thou at him, when ye meet, if he would have missed them. He shall see clearer then when he shall wake up after His likeness, and shall be satisfied with it."

"What sort of deep places mean you, Aunt?" saith Helen, looking on her somewhat earnestly.

"Thou dost well to ask, Nell," quoth she, "for there be divers sorts of depths. There be mind depths, the which are at times, as Milly saith, displeasant: at other times not displeasant. But there be soul depths for the which displeasant is no word. When the Lord seems to shut every door in thy face and to leave thee shut up in a well, where thou canst not breathe, and when thou seest no escape, and when thou criest and shoutest, He shutteth out thy prayer: when thine heaven above thee is as brass, and thine earth below thee iron: when it seems as if no God were, either to hear thee or to do for thee—that is a deep pit to get in, Helen, and not a pleasant one."

"Aunt Joyce! can such a feeling be—at the least to one that feareth God?"

"Ay, it can, Nelly!" saith Aunt Joyce, solemnly, yet with much tenderness. "And when thou comest into such a slough as that, may God have mercy upon thee!"

And methought, looking in Aunt Joyce's eyes, that at some past time of her life she had been in right such an one.

"It sounds awful!" saith Milisent, under her breath.

"It may be," saith Aunt Joyce, looking from the window, and after a fashion as though she spake to herself rather than to us, "that there be some souls whom the Lord suffers not to pass through such quagmires. May-be He only leads the strongest souls into the deepest places. I say not that there be not deeps beyond any I know. Yet I know of sloughs wherein I had been lost and smothered, had He not held mine hand tight, and watched that the dark waters washed not over mine head too far for life. That word, 'the fellowship of His passions,' hath a long tether. For He went down to Hell."

"But, Aunt, would you say that meant the place of lost souls?" saith Helen.

"I am wholesomely 'feared of laying down the law, Nell," saith Aunt Joyce, "touching such matters as I can but see through a glass darkly. What He means, He knoweth. But the place of departed spirits can it scarce fail to be."

"Aunt Joyce," saith Helen, laying down her work, "I trust it is not ill in me to say thus, but in very deed I do alway feel 'feared of what shall be after death. If we might but know where we shall be, and with whom, and what we shall have to do—it all looks so dark!"

"Had it been good for us, we should have known," saith Aunt Joyce. "And two points we do know. 'With Christ,' and 'far better.' Is that not enough for those that are His friends?"

"'If it were not so, I would have told you,'" saith my Lady Stafford.

"But not how, Madam, an' it please you?" asks Helen.

"If there were not room; if there were not happiness."

"I take it," saith Aunt Joyce, "if there were not all that for which my nature doth crave. But, mark you, my renewed nature."

"Then surely we must know our friends again?" saith Helen.

"He was a queer fellow that first questioned that," saith Aunt Joyce. "If I be not to know Anstace Morrell, I am well assured I shall not know her sister Joyce!"

"But thereby hangeth a dreadful question, Joyce!" answereth my Lady Stafford. "If we must needs know the souls that be found, how about them that be missed?"

Aunt Joyce was silent for a moment. Then saith she—

"The goat doth but hurt himself, Dulcie, to pull too hard at the tether. Neither thou nor I can turn over the pages of the Book of Life. It may be that we shall both find souls whom we thought to miss. May-be, in the very last moment of life, the Lord may save souls that have been greatly prayed for, though they that be left behind never wit it till they join the company above. We poor blindlings must leave that in His hands unto whom all hearts be open, and who willeth not the death of any sinner. 'As His majesty is, so is His mercy.' Of this one thing am I sure, that no soul shall be found in Hell which should have rather chosen Heaven. They shall go 'to their own place:' the place they are fit for, and the place they choose."

"But how can we forget them?" she replieth.

"If we are to forget them," saith Aunt Joyce, "the Lord will know how to compass it. I have reached the end of my tether, Dulcie; and to pull thereat doth alway hurt me. I will step back, by thy leave."

As I listed the two voices, both something touched, methought it should be one soul in especial of whom both were thinking, and I guessed that were Mr Leonard Norris.

"And yet," saith my Lady Stafford, "that thought hath its perilous side, Joyce. 'Tis so easy for a man to think he shall be saved at the last minute, howsoe'er he live."

"Be there any thoughts that have not a perilous side?" saith Aunt Joyce. "As for that, Dulcie, my rule is, to be as easy as ever I can in my charitable hopes for other folk; and as hard as ever I can on this old woman Joyce, that I do find such rare hard work to pull of the right road. I cannot help other folks' lives: but I can see to it that I make mine own calling sure. That is the safe side, I reckon."