CHAPTER FIVE.
AUNT JOYCE SPOILS THE GAME.
"We shun two paths, my maiden, When strangers' way we tell-- That which ourselves we know not, That which we know too well.
"I `never knew!' Thou think'st it? Well! Better so, to-day. The years lie thick and mossy O'er that long-silent way.
"The roses there are withered, The thorns are tipped with pain: Thou wonderest if I tell thee `Walk not that way again?'
"Oh eyes that see no further Than this world's glare and din! I warn thee from that pathway Because I slipped therein.
"So, leave the veil up-hanging! And tell the world outside-- `She cannot understand me-- She nothing has to hide!'"
(_In Edith's handwriting_.)
SELWICK HALL, DECEMBER THE FIRST.I would have fain let be the records of this sad first day that thischronicle is come to mine hand. But _Father_ and _Mother_ do desire meto set down honestly what hath happed, the which therefore I must essayto do.
It was of long time that I had noted a strange difference in _Milly_,and had talked with _Nell_ thereabout, more than once or twice. Though_Milisent_ is by four years elder than I, yet she had alway been the oneof us most loving frolicsome merriment. But now it seemed me as thoughshe had grown up over my head, all at once. Not that she was lessmirthful at times: nay, rather more, if aught. But at other times sheseemed an other maid, and not our _Milly_ at all. It was not our_Milly's_ wont to sit with her hands of her lap, a-gazing from thewindow; nor to answer sharp and short when one spake to her; nor toappear all unrestful, as though she were in disease of mind. And atlast, _Nell_ thinking less thereof than I, I made up my mind to speakwith Aunt _Joyce_, that I knew was wise and witty [sensible], and ifthere were aught gone wrong, should take it less hard than _Mother_, andcould break the same to _Mother_ more gentler than we. To say truth, Iwas feared--and yet I scarce knew why--of that man we met on Saint_Hubert's_ Isle. I had noted that _Milly_ never named him, though hewere somewhat cause of mirth betwixt _Helen_ and me: and when an otherso did, she seemed as though she essayed to speak as careless as evershe could. This liked me not: nor did it like me that twice I had met_Milly_ coming from the garden, and she went red as fire when she sawme. From all this I feared some secret matter that should not be: andas yester-morrow, when we were come from _Nanny's_, I brake my mind toAunt _Joyce_.
Aunt _Joyce_ did not cry "Pish!" nor fault me for conceiving foolishfantasies, as I was something feared she might. On the contrary part,she heard me very kindly and heedfully, laying down her work to givebetter ear. When I had done, she saith--
"Tell me, _Edith_, what like is this man."
I told her so well as I could.
"And how oft hast thou seen him?"
"Three times, _Aunt_. The first on Saint _Hubert's_ Isle, whereof youknow: the second, I met him once in the lane behind the garden, as I wasa-coming home from _Isaac Crewdson's_: and the last, this morrow, justas we came out of _Nanny's_ door, we met _Milisent_, full face: and aminute at after, this Sir _Edwin_ passed us on the road."
"Took he any note of you, either time?"
"When he met me alone, he doffed his cap and smiled, but spake not.This morrow he took no note of any one."
"_Could_ she be going to meet him?" saith Aunt _Joyce_ in a low and verytroubled voice.
"In good sooth, _Aunt_," said I, "you have put into words my very fear,which I did scarce dare to think right out."
"_Edith_," saith she, "is _Milly_ within, or no?"
"She was tying on her hood a moment since, as though she meant to goforth. I saw her through a chink of the door, which was not close shut,as I passed by."
"Come thou with me quickly," saith Aunt _Joyce_, and rose up. "We willfollow her. 'Tis no treachery to lay snare for a traitor, if it be as Ifear. And 'tis not she that is the traitor, poor child--poor, foolishchild!"
We walked quickly, for our aim was to keep _Milisent_ but just in view,yet not to let her see us. She was walking fast, too, and she took theroad to _Nanny's_, but turned off just ere she were there, into thelittle shaw that lieth by the way. We followed quietly, till we couldhear voices: then Aunt _Joyce_ stayed her behind a poplar-tree, and mademe a sign to be still.
"All things be now ordered, my fairest," I heard a voice say whichmethought was Sir _Edwin's_: and peeping heedfully round the poplar, Icaught a glimpse of his side-face, enough to be sure it were he. Aunt_Joyce_ could see him likewise. "All things be ordered," quoth he:"remember, nine o' the clock on _Sunday_ night."
"But thou wilt not fail me?" saith _Milisent's_ voice in answer.
"Fail thee!" he made answer. "My sweetest of maids, impossible!"
"I feel afeared," she saith again. "I would they had wist at home. Icannot be sure 'tis right."
"Nay, sweet heart, call not up these old ghosts I have laid so oftalready," saith he. "Sir _Aubrey's Puritan_ notions should neversuffer him to give thee leave afore: but when done, he shall right soono'erlook all, and all shall go merry as a marriage bell. Seest thou, wedo him in truth a great kindness, sith he should be feared to giveconsent, and yet would fain so do if his conscience should allow."
"Would he?" asks _Milly_, in something a troubled tone.
"Would he!" Sir _Edwin_ makes answer. "Would he have his daughter aright great lady at the Court? Why, of course he would. Every manwould that were not a born fool. My honey-sweet _Milisent_, let notsuch vain scruples terrify thee. They are but shadows, I do ensurethee."
"I think thus when I am with thee," saith she, smiling up in his face:"but when not--"
"Sweet heart," saith he, bending his goodly head, "_not_ is well-nighover, and then thy cruel _Puritan_ scruples shall never trouble theemore."
"It is as we feared," I whispered into the ear of Aunt _Joyce_, whoseface was turned from me: but when she turned her head, I was terrified.I never in my life saw Aunt _Joyce_ look as she did then. Out of hercheeks and lips every drop of blood seemed driven, and her eyes wereblazing fire. When she whispered back, it was through her set teeth.
"`As!' Far worse. Worser than thou wist. Is this the man?"
"This is Sir _Edwin_!"
Without another word Aunt _Joyce_ stalked forth, and had _Milisent_ bythe arm ere she found time to scream. Then she shrieked and shrank, butAunt _Joyce_ held her fast.
"Get you gone!" was all she said to Sir _Edwin_.
"Nay, Mistress, tell me rather by what right--"
"Right!" Aunt _Joyce_ loosed her hold of _Milisent_, and went and stoodright before him. "Right!--from you to me!"
"Mistress, I cry you mercy, but we be entire strangers."
"Be we?" she made answer, with more bitterness in her voice than ever Iheard therein. "Be we such strangers? What! think you I know you not,_Leonard Norris_? You counted on the change of all these years to hideyou from _Aubrey_ and _Lettice_, and you counted safely enough. Theywould not know you if they stood here. But did you fancy years couldhide you from _Joyce Morrell_? Traitor! a woman will know the man shehas loved, though his own mother were to pass him by unnoted."
Sir _Edwin_ uttered not a word, but stood gazing on Aunt _Joyce_ asthough she had bound him by a spell.
She turned back to us a moment. "_Milisent_ and _Edith_, go home!" shesaith. "_Milisent_, thank God that He hath saved thee from the veryjaws of Hell--from a man worser than any fiend. _Edith_, tell thyfather what hath happed, but say nought of all this to thy mother. Ishall follow you anon. I have yet more ado with him here. Make thymind easy, child--he'll not harm _me_. Now go."
_Milisent_ needed no persuasions. She seemed as though Aunt _Joyce's_words had stunned her, and she followed me like a dog. We spake no wordto each other all the way. When we reached home, _Milly_ went straightup to her own chamber: and I, being mindful of Aunt _Joyce's_ bidding,went in search of _Father_, whom I found at his books in his closet.
Ah me, but wh
at sore work it were to tell him! I might scarce bear tosee the sorrowful changes wrought in his face. But when I came to tellhow Aunt _Joyce_ had called this gentleman by the name of _LeonardNorris_, for one minute his eyes blazed out like hers. Then they wentvery dark and troubled, and he hid his face in his hands till I had madean end of my sad story.
"And I would fain not have been she that told you, _Father_," said I,"but Aunt _Joyce_ bade me so to do."
"I must have heard it from some lips, daughter," he saith sorrowfully."But have a care thou say no word to thy mother. She must hear it fromnone but me. My poor _Lettice_!--and my poor _Milisent_, my poor,foolish, duped child!"
I left him then, for I thought he would desire it, and went up to_Milly_. She had cast off her hood and tippet, and lay on her bed, herface turned to the wall.
"Dost lack aught, _Milly_?" said I.
"Nay," was all she said.
"Shall I bide with thee?"
"Nay."
Nor one word more might I get out of her. So I left her likewise, andcame down to the little parlour, where I sat me to my sewing.
It was about an hour after that I heard Aunt _Joyce's_ firm tread on thegravel. She came into the parlour, and looked around as though to seewho were there. Then she saith--
"None but thee, _Edith_? Where are the rest?"
There was a break in her voice, such as folk have when they have beensore troubled.
"I have been alone this hour, _Aunt_. _Milly_ is in our chamber, and_Father_ I left in his closet. Whither _Mother_ and _Nell_ be I knownot."
"Hast told him?"
"Ay, and he said only himself must tell _Mother_."
"I knew he would. God help her!"
"You think she shall take it very hard, _Aunt_?"
"_Edith_," saith Aunt _Joyce_ softly, "there is more to take hard thanthou wist. And we know not well yet all the ill he may have wrought to_Milisent_."
Then away went she, and I heard her to rap on the door of _Father's_closet. For me, I sat and sewed a while longer: and yet none coming, Iwent up to our chamber, partly that I should wash mine hands, and partlyto see what was come of _Milly_.
She still lay on the bed, but her face turned somewhat more toward me,and by her shut eyes and even breathing I could guess that she slept. Isat me down in the window to wait, when mine hands were washen: for Ithought some should come after a while, and may-be should not count itright that I left _Milisent_ all alone. I guess it were a goodhalf-hour I there sat, and _Milly_ slept on. At the last come _Mother_,her eyes very red as though she had wept much.
"Doth she sleep, _Edith_?" she whispered.
I said, "Ay, _Mother_: she hath slept this half-hour or more."
"Poor child!" she saith. "If only I could have wist sooner! How much Imight have saved her! O poor child!"
The water welled up in her eyes again, and she went away, something inhaste. I had thought _Mother_ should be angered, and I was somethingastonied to see how soft she were toward _Milly_. A while after, Aunt_Joyce_ come in: but _Milly_ slept on.
"I am fain to see that," saith she, nodding her head toward the bed. "Agood sign. Yet I would I knew exactly how she hath taken it."
"I am afeared she may be angered, Aunt _Joyce_, to be thus served of oneshe trusted."
"I hope so much. 'Twill be the best thing she can be. The question iswhat she loved--whether himself or his flattering of herself. She'llsoon get over the last, for it shall be nought worser with her than hurtvanity."
"Not the first, _Aunt_?"
"I do not know, _Edith_," she saith, and crushed in her lips. "Thathangs on what sort of woman she be. There shall be a wound, in eithercase: but with some it gets cicatrised over and sound again with time,and with other some it tarries an open issue for ever. It hangs all onthe manner of woman."
"What should it be with you, Aunt _Joyce_?" said I, though I weresomething feared of mine own venturesomeness.
"What it _is_, _Edith_," she made answer, crushing in her lips again,"is the open issue, bandaged o'er so that none knows it is there save Heto whose eyes all things be open. Child, there be some things in lifewherein the only safe confidant thou canst have is _Jesu Christ_. I sayso much, by reason that thine elders think it best--and I likewise--thatye maids should be told somewhat more than ye have heard aforetime. Ay,I give full assent thereto. I only held out for one thing--that I, notyour mother, should be she that were to tell it."
We were silent a moment, and then _Milisent_ stirred in her sleep. Aunt_Joyce_ went to her.
"Awake, my dear heart?" saith she.
_Milly_ sat up, and pushed aside her hair from her face, the which wasflushed and sullen.
"Aunt _Joyce_, may the Lord forgive you for this day's work!" saith she.
I was fair astonied that she should dare thus to speak. But Aunt_Joyce_ was in no wise angered.
"Amen!" she saith, as softly as might be spoken. "Had I no worser sinsto answer for, methinks I should stand the judgment."
"No worser!" _Milisent_ blazed forth. "What, you think it a lightmatter to part two hearts that love well and truly?"
"Nay, truly, I think it right solemn matter," saith Aunt _Joyce_, stillsoftly. "And if aught graver can be, _Milly_, it is to part two whereofthe one loveth well, and the other--may God forgive us all!"
"What mean you now?" saith _Milisent_ of the same fashion. "Is it mylove you doubt, or his?"
"_Milisent Louvaine_," saith Aunt _Joyce_, "if thou be alive twentyyears hence, thou shalt thank God from thy very heart-root that thouwert stayed on that road to-day."
"Oh ay, that is what folk always say!" murmurs she, and laid her downagain. "`Thou wilt thank me twenty years hence,' quoth they, everystinging stroke of the birch. And they look for us beaten hounds tocrede it, forsooth!"
"Ay--when the twenty years be over."
"I am little like to thank you at twenty years' end," saith _Milly_sullenly, "for I count I shall die of heart-break afore twenty weeks."
"No, _Milly_, I think not."
"And much you care!"
Then I saw Aunt _Joyce's_ face alter--terribly.
"_Milisent_," she said, "if I had not cared, I should scantly have goneof set purpose through that which wrung every fibre of my heart, ay, tothe heart's core."
"It wrung me more than you," _Milisent_ makes answer, of the samebitter, angered tone as aforetime.
Aunt _Joyce_ turned away from the bed, and I saw pain and choler strivefor a moment in her eyes. Then the choler fell back, and the painabode.
"Poor child! She cannot conceive it." She said nought sterner; and shecame and sat in the window alongside of me.
"I tell you, Aunt _Joyce_,"--and _Milisent_ sat up again, and letherself down, and came and stood before us--"I tell you, you have ruinedmy life!"
"My maid," Aunt _Joyce_ makes answer, with sore trouble in her voice,"thine elders will fain have thee and thy sisters told a tale the whichwe have alway kept from you until now. It was better hidden, unless youneeded the lesson. But now they think it shall profit thee, and may-besave _Helen_ and _Edith_ from making any like blunder. And--well, Ihave granted it. Only I stood out for one point--that I myself shouldbe the one to tell it you. Wait till thou hast heard that story, thewhich I will tell thee to-morrow. And at after thou hast heard it,--then tell me, _Milly_, whether I cared for thee this morrow, or whetherthe hand that hath ruined thy life were the hand of _Joyce Morrell_."
"Oh, but you were cruel, cruel!" sobbed _Milly_. "I loved him so!"
"So did I, _Milisent_," saith Aunt _Joyce_ very softly, "long ere youmaids were born. Loved him so fondly, trusted him so wholly, clung tohim so faithfully, that mine eyes had to be torn open before I would seethe truth--that even now, after all these years, it is like thrusting adagger into my soul to tell you verily who and what he is. Ay, child, Iloved that man in mine early maidenhood, better than ever thou didst orwouldst have done. Dost thou think it was easy to stand up to the facethat I ha
d loved, and to play the avenging angel toward his perfidy? Ifthou dost, thou mayest know much of foolishness and fantasy, but verylittle of true and real love."
_Milisent_ seemed something startled and cowed. Then all suddenly shesaith,--"But, Aunt _Joyce_! He told me he were only of four-and-thirtyyears."
Aunt _Joyce_ laughed bitterly.
"Wert so poor an innocent as to crede that, _Milly_?" saith she. "He isa year elder than thy father. But I grant, he looks by far younger thanhe is. And I reckon he 'bated ten years or so of what he looked. Healway looked young," she saith, the softened tone coming back into hervoice. "Men with fair hair like his, mostly do, until all at once theybreak into aged men. And he hath kept him well, with washes andunguents."
It was strange to hear how the softness and the bitterness stravetogether in her voice. I count it were by reason they so strave in herheart.
"Wait till to-morrow, _Milly_," saith Aunt _Joyce_, arising. "Thoushalt hear then of my weary walk through the thorns, and judge forthyself if I had done well to leave thee to the like."
_Milly_ sobbed again, but methought something more softly.
"We were to have been wed o' _Sunday_ even," saith she, "by a _Popish_priest, right as good as in church,--and then to have come home and won_Father_ and _Mother_ to forgive us and bless us. Then all had beensmooth and sweet, and we should have lived happy ever after."
Oh, but what pitifulness was there in Aunt _Joyce's_ smile!
"Should you?" saith she, in a tone which seemed to me like the biggestnay ever printed in a book. "Poor innocent child! A _Popish_ priestcannot lawfully wed any, and evening is out of the canonical hours.Wist thou not that such marriage should ne'er have held good in law?"
"It might have been good in God's sight, trow," saith she, somethingperversely.
"Nay!" saith Aunt _Joyce_. "When men go to, of set purpose, to breakthe laws of their country,--without it be in obedience to His plaincommand,--I see not how the Lord shall hold them guiltless. So hepromised to bring thee home to ask pardon, did he? Poor, trusting,deluded child! Thou shouldst never have come home, _Milly_--unless ithad been a year or twain hence, a forlorn, heart-broken, wretched thing.Well, we could have forgiven thee and comforted thee then--as we willnow."
I am right weary a-writing, and will stay mine hand till I set down_Aunt's_ story to-morrow.
SELWICK HALL, DECEMBER YE SECOND.I marvel when I can make an end of writing, or when matters shall havedone happening. For early this morrow, ere breakfast were well over,come a quick rap of the door, which _Caitlin_ opened, and in come _AliceLewthwaite_. Not a bit like herself looked she, with a scarf but justcast o'er her head, and all out of breath, as though she had come forthall suddenly, and had run fast and far. We had made most of us an endof eating, but were yet sat at the table.
"_Alice_, dear heart, what aileth thee?" saith _Mother_, and rose up.
"Lady _Lettice_, do pray you tell me," panteth she, "if you have seen orheard aught of our _Blanche_?"
"Nay, _Alice_, in no wise," saith _Mother_.
"Lack the day!" quoth she, "then our fears be true."
"What fears, dear heart?" I think _Father_, and _Mother_, and Aunt_Joyce_, asked at her all together.
"I would as lief say nought, saving to my Lady, and Mistress _Joyce_,"she saith: so they bare her away, and what happed at that time I cannotsay, saving that _Father_ himself took _Alice_ home, and did seemgreatly concerned at her trouble. Well, this was scantly o'er ere amessenger come with a letter to _Mother_, whereon she had no sooner casther eyes than she brake forth with a cry of pleasure. Then, _Father_desiring to know what it were, she told us all that certain right dearand old friends of hers, the which she had not seen of many years, werebut now at the _Salutation_ Inn at _Ambleside_, and would fain come onand tarry a season here if it should suit with _Mother's_ conveniency tohave them.
"And right fain should I be," saith she; and so said _Father_ likewise.
Then _Mother_ told us who were these her old friends: to wit, Sir_Robert Stafford_ and his lady, which was of old time one Mistress_Dulcibel Fenton_, of far kin unto my Lady _Norris_, that was _Mother's_mistress of old days at _Minster Lovel_: and moreover, one Mistress_Martin_, a widow that is sister unto Sir _Robert_, and was _Mother's_fellow when she served my dear-worthy Lady of _Surrey_. So _Father_saith he would ride o'er himself to _Ambleside_, and give them betterwelcome than to send but a letter back: and _Mother_ did desire her mostloving commendations unto them all, and bade us all be hasteful and helpto make ready the guest-chambers. So right busy were we all the morrow,and no time for no tales of no sort: but in the afternoon, when all wasdone, Aunt _Joyce_ had us three up into her chamber, and bade us sit andlisten.
"For it is a sorrowful story I have to tell," saith she: and added, asthough she spake to herself,--"ay, and it were best got o'er ere_Dulcie_ cometh."
So we sat all in the window-seat, _Milly_ in the midst, and Aunt _Joyce_afore us in a great cushioned chair.
"When I was of your years, _Milly_," saith she, "I dwelt--where I now doat _Minster Lovel_, with my father and my sister _Anstace_. Our motherwas dead, and our baby brother _Walter_; and of us there had never beenmore. But we had two cousins--one _Aubrey Louvaine_, the son of ourmother's sister,--you wot who he is," she saith, and smiled: "and theother, the son of our father's sister dwelt at _Oxford_ with his mother,a widow, and his name was--_Leonard Norris_."
The name was so long a-coming that I marvelled if she meant to tell us.
"I do not desire to make my tale longer than need is, dear hearts,"pursueth she, "and therefore I will but tell you that in course of time,with assent of my father and his mother, my cousin _Leonard_ and I weretroth-plight. I loved him, methinks, as well as it was in woman to loveman: and--I thought he loved me. I never knew a man who had such atongue to cajole a woman's heart. He could talk in such a fashion thatthou shouldst feel perfectly assured that he loved thee with all hisheart, and none but thee: and ere the sun had set, he should have giventhe very same certainty to _Nan_ at the farm, and to _Mall_ down in theglen. I believe he did rarely make love to so little as one woman atonce. He liked--he once told your father so much--a choice of stringsfor his bow. But of all this, at first, lost in my happy love, I knewnothing. My love to him was so true and perfect, that the very notionthat his could be lesser than so never entered mine head. It was_Anstace_ who saw the clouds gathering before any other--_Anstace_, towhom, in her helpless suffering, God gave a strange power of readinghearts. There came a strange maiden on the scene--a beautiful maiden,with fair eyes and gleaming hair--and _Leonard's_ heart was gone from mefor ever. Gone!--had it ever come? I cannot tell. May-be some littlecorner of his heart was mine, once on a time--I doubt if I had more. Hehad every corner and every throb of mine. Howbeit, when this maid--"
"How was she called, Aunt _Joyce_?" saith _Milly_, in rather an hardvoice.
Aunt _Joyce_ did not make answer for a moment: and, looking up on her, Isaw drawn brows and flushed cheeks.
"Never mind that, _Milly_. I shall call her _Mary_. It was not hername. Well, when this maid first came to visit us, and I brought herabove to my sister, that as ye know might never arise from the couchwhereon she lay--I something marvelled to see how quick from her face tomine went _Anstace'_ eyes, and back again to her. I knew, long after,what had been her thought. She had no faith in _Leonard_, and sheguessed quick enough that this face should draw him away from me. Shetried to prepare me as she saw it coming. But I was blind and deaf. Ishut mine eyes tight, and put my fingers in mine ears. I would not facethe cruel truth. For _Mary_ herself, I am well assured she meant me noill, nor did she see that any ill was wrought till all were o'er. Shedid but divert her with _Leonard's_ words, caring less for him than forthem. She was vain, and loved flatteries, and he saw it, and gave herthem by the bushel. She was a child laking with a firebrand, and neverknew what it were until she burnt her fingers. And at l
ast, maids, mineeyes were forced open. _Leonard_ himself told me, and in so many words,what I had refused to hear from others,--that he loved well enough thegold that was like to be mine, but he did not love me. There werebitter words on both sides, but mine were bitterest. And so, at last,we parted. I could show you the flag on which he stood when I saw hisface for the last time--the last, until I saw it yester-morrow. Othershad seen him, and knew him not, through the changes of years. Even yourfather did not know him, though they had been bred up well-nigh asbrothers. But mine eyes were sharper. I had not borne that face inmine heart, and seen it in my dreams, for all these years, that I shouldlook on him and not know it. I knew the look in his eyes, the poise ofhis head, the smile on his lips, too well--too well! I reckon thatbetween that day and this, a thousand women may have had that smile uponthem. But I thought of the day when I had it--when it was the one lightof life to me--for I had not then beheld the Light of the World._Milly_, didst thou think me cruel yester-morrow?--cold, and hard, andstern? Ah, men do think a woman so,--and women at times likewise--thinkher words hard, when she has to crush her heart down ere she can speakany word at all--think her eyes icy cold, when behind them are a stormof passionate tears that must not be shed then, and she has to keep thekey hard turned lest they burst the door open. Ah, young maids, youlook upon me as who should say, that I am an old woman from whom suchwords are strange to you. They be fit only for a young lass's lips,forsooth? Childre, you wis not yet that the hot love of youth is noughtto be compared to the yearning love of age,--that the maid that loveth aman whom she first met a month since cannot bear the rushlight unto herthat has shrined him in her heart for thirty years."
Aunt _Joyce_ tarried a moment, and drew a long breath. Then she saithin a voice that was calmer and lower--
"_Anstace_ told me I loved not the _Leonard_ that was, but only he thatshould have been. But I have prayed God day and night, and I will go onyet praying, that the man of my love may be the _Leonard_ that yet shallbe,--that some day he may turn back to God and me, and remember the trueheart that poured all that love upon him. If it be so, let the Lordorder how, and where, and when. For if I may know that it is, when Icome into His presence above, I can finish my journey here without theknowledge."
"But it were better to know it, Aunt _Joyce_?" saith _Helen_ tenderly.Methinks the tale had stirred her heart very much.
"It were happier, _Nelly_," quoth Aunt _Joyce_ softly. "God knowethwhether it were best. If it be so, He will give it me.--And now is thehardest part of my tale to tell. For after a while, _Milly_,this--_Mary_--came to see what _Leonard_ meant, and methinks she cameabout the same time to the certainty that she loved one who was not_Leonard_. When he had parted from me he sought her, and there was muchbitterness betwixt them. At the last she utterly denied him, and shutthe door betwixt him and her: for the which he never forgave her, but ata later time, when in the persecutions under King _Henry_ she came intohis power, he used her as cruelly as he might then dare to go. Ireckon, had it been under _Queen Mary_, he should have been content withnought less than her blood. But it pleased the good Lord to deliverher, he getting him entangled in some briars of politics that you shouldlittle care to hear: and so when she was freed forth of prison, he wasshut up therein."
"Then, Aunt _Joyce_, is he a _Papist_?" saith _Helen_, of a startledfashion.
"Ay, _Nell_, he is a black _Papist_. When we all came forth of_Babylon_, he tarried therein."
"And what came of her you called _Mary_, if it please you, _Aunt_?"quoth I.
"She was wed to one that dwelt at a distance from those parts, _Edith_,"saith Aunt _Joyce_, in the constrained tone wherein she had begun herstory. "And sithence then have I heard at times of _Leonard_, thoughnever meeting him,--but alway as of one that was journeying from bad toworse--winning hearts and then breaking them. Since Queen _Elizabeth_came in, howbeit, heard I never word of him at all: and I knew not if hewere in life or no, till I set eyes on his face yesterday."
We were all silent till Aunt _Joyce_ saith gently--
"Well, _Milly_,--should we have been more kinder if we had let theealone to break thine heart, thinkest?"
"It runneth not to a certainty that mine should be broke, because otherswere," mutters _Milly_ stubbornly.
"Thou countest, then, that he which had been false to a thousand maidsshould be true to the one over?" saith Aunt _Joyce_, with a pityingsmile. "Well, such a thing may be possible,--once in a thousand times.Hardly oftener, methinks, my child. But none is so blind as she thatwill not see. I must leave the Lord to open thine eyes,--for I wis Hehad to do it for me."
And Aunt _Joyce_ rose up and went away.
"I marvel who it were she called _Mary_," said I.
"Essay not to guess, dear heart," saith _Helen_ quickly. "'Tis plainAunt _Joyce_ would not have us know."
"Why, she told us, or as good," quoth _Milisent_, in that bitter fashionshe hath had to-day and yesterday. "Said she not, at the first, that`it were well to get the tale o'er ere _Dulcie_ should come'? 'Tis myLady _Stafford_, of course."
"I am not so sure of that," saith _Helen_, in a low voice: and methoughtshe had guessed at some other, but would not say out [Note 1]. "I thinkwe were better to go down now."
So down went we all to the great chamber, and there found, with_Mother_, Mistress _Lewthwaite_, that was, as was plain to see, in amighty taking [much agitated].
"Dear heart, Lady _Lettice_, but I never looked for this!" she crieth,wiping of her eyes with her kerchief. "I wis we have been less stricterthan you in breeding up our maids: but to think that one of them shouldbring this like of a misfortune on us! For _Blanche_ is gone to beundone, of that am I sure. Truth to tell, yonder Sir _Francis Everett_so took me with his fine ways and goodly looks and comely apparel andwell-chosen words,--ay, and my master too--that we never thought tocaution the maids against him. Now, it turns out that _Alice_ had someglint of what were passing: but she never betrayed _Blanche_, thinkingit should not be to her honour; and me,--why, I ne'er so much as dreamedof any ill in store."
"What name said you?" quoth _Mother_, that was trying to comfort her.
"_Everett_," saith she; "Sir _Francis Everett_, he said his name were,of _Woodbridge_, in the county of _Suffolk_, where he hath a greatestate, and spendeth a thousand pound by the year. And a well-lookedman he was, not o'er young, belike, but rare goodly his hair fair andhis eyen shining grey,--somewhat like to yours, my Lady."
_Helen_ and I looked on each other, and I saw the same thought was inboth our minds. And looking then upon _Mother_, I reckoned it had cometo her likewise. At _Milisent_ I dared not look, though I saw _Helen_glance at her.
"And now," continueth Mistress _Lewthwaite_, "here do I hear that at_Grasmere_ Farm he gave out himself to be one Master _Tregarvon_, of_Devon_; and up in _Borrowdale_, he hath been playing the gallant to twoor three maids by the name of Sir _Thomas Brooke_ of _Warwickshire_: andthe saints know which is his right one. He's a bad one, Lady _Lettice_!And after all, here is your Mistress _Bess_, she saith she is as sureas that her name is _Wolvercot_, that no one of all these names is hisown. She reckons him to be some young gentleman that she once wist,down in the shires,--marry, what said she was his name, now? I cannotjust call to mind. She should ne'er have guessed at him, quoth she, butshe saw him do somewhat this young man were wont to do, and weresomething singular therein--I mind not what it were. Dear heart, butthis fray touching our _Blanche_ hath drove aught else out of mine head!But Mistress _Bess_ said _he_ were a bad one, and no mistake."
"Is _Blanche_ gone off with him, Mistress _Lewthwaite_?" saith _Helen_.
"That is right what she is, _Nell_, and ill luck go with her," quothMistress _Lewthwaite_: "for it will, that know I. God shall never blessno undutiful childre,--of that am I well assured."
"Nay, friend, curse not your own child!" saith _Mother_, with a littleshudder.
"Eh, poor lass, I never meant to curse her," quoth she: "she'll getcurse enough
from him she's gone withal. She has made her bed, and shemust lie on it. And a jolly hard one it shall be, by my troth!"
Here come Cousin _Bess_ and Aunt _Joyce_ into the chamber, and a dealmore talk was had of them all: but at the last Mistress _Lewthwaite_rose up, and went away. But just ere she went, saith she to _Milisent_and me, that were sat together of one side of the chamber--
"Eh, my maids, but you twain should thank God and your good father andmother! for if you had been bred up with less care, this companion,whatso his name be, should have essayed to beguile you as I am a_Cumberland_ woman. A pair of comely young lasses like you should havebeen a great catch for him, I reckon."
"Ah, Mistress mine," saith Cousin _Bess_, "when lasses take as much careof their own selves as their elders of them, we shall catch larks by thesky falling, _I_ reckon."
"You are right, Mistress _Bess_," saith she: and so away hied she.
No sooner was Mistress _Lewthwaite_ gone, than _Mother_ saith,--"_Bess_,who didst thou account this man to be? Mistress _Lewthwaite_ saith thoudidst guess it to be one thou hadst known down in the shires, but shehad forgat the name."
I saw Cousin _Bess_ look toward Aunt _Joyce_ with a question in hereyes: and if ever I read _English_ in eyes, what _Aunt's_ saidwas,--"Have a care!" Then Cousin _Bess_ saith, very quiet--
"It was a gentleman in _Oxford_ town, Cousin _Lettice_, that I was wontto hear of from our _Nell_ when she dwelt yonder."
"Oh, so?" saith _Mother_: and thus the matter ended.
But at after, in the even, when _Father_ and Aunt _Joyce_ and I were byourselves a little season in the hall, I heard Aunt _Joyce_ say, verysoft--
"_Aubrey_, didst thou give her the name?"
Methought _Father_ shook his head.
"I dared not, _Joyce_," saith he. "She was so sore troubled touching--the other matter."
"I thought so," quoth _Aunt_. "Then I will beware that I utter it not."
"But _Edith_ knows," answereth _Father_ in a low voice.
"The maids all know," saith she. "I did not reckon thou wouldest keepit from her."
"I should not, but,"--and _Father_ paused. "Thou wist, _Joyce_, how shesetteth her heart on all things."
"I am afeared, _Aubrey_, she shall have to know sooner or later.Mistress _Lewthwaite_ did all but utter it to her this morning, only Ithank God her memory failed her just at the right minute."
"We were better to tell her than that," saith _Father_, and leaned hishead upon his hand as though he took thought.
Then _Mother_ and _Helen_ came in, and no more was said.
SELWICK HALL, DECEMBER THE FOURTH.I had no time to write yestereven, for we were late abed, it being nighnine o' the clock ere we came up; and all the day too busy. My Lady_Stafford_ and Sir _Robert_ and Mistress _Martin_ did return with_Father_--the which I set not down in his right place at my lastwriting,--and yesterday we gat acquaint and showed them the vicinage andsuch like. As to-morrow, _Mother_ shall carry them to wait on my Lord_Dilston_.
Sir _Robert Stafford_ is a personable gentleman, much of _Father's_years; his nose something high, yet not greatly so, and his hair andbeard now turning grey, but have been dark. Mistress _Martin_ hissister (that when _Mother_ wist her was Mistress _Grissel Stafford_) ismuch like to him in her face, but some years the younger of the twain,though her hair be the greyer. My Lady _Stafford_, howbeit, hath not agrey hair of her head, and hath more ruddiness of her face than Mistress_Martin_, being to my thought the comelier dame of the twain. _Mother_,nathless, saith that Mistress _Grissel_ was wont to be the fairer whenall were maids, and that she hath wist much trouble, the which hath thusconsumed her early lovesomeness. For her husband, Captain _Martin_,that was an officer of _Calais_, coming home after that town was lost inQueen _Mary's_ time, was attaint of heresy and taken of Bishop _Bonner_,he lying long in prison, and should have been brent at the stake had notQueen _Mary's_ dying (under God's gracious ordering) saved himtherefrom. And all these months was Mistress _Martin_ in dread disease,never knowing from one week to another what should be the end thereof.And indeed he lived not long after, but two or three years. Sir _RobertStafford_, on the other part, was a wiser man; for no sooner was itright apparent, on Queen _Mary's_ incoming, how matters should turn,than he and his dame and their two daughters gat them over seas anddwelt in foreign parts all the days that Queen _Mary_ reigned. And in_Dutchland_ [Germany] were both their daughters wedded, the one unto anoble of that country, by name the Count of _Rothenthal_, and the otherunto a priest, an Englishman that took refuge also in those parts, byname Master _Francis Digby_, that now hath a living in _Somerset_.
Medoubteth if _Mother_ be told who Sir _Edwin Tregarvon_ were._Milly_ 'bideth yet in the sulks, and when she shall come thereout willI not venture to guess. _Alice Lewthwaite_ come over this afternoon butfor a moment, on her way to her aunt's, Mistress _Rigg_, and saith noword is yet heard of their _Blanche_, whom her father saith he willleather while he can lay on if she do return, while her mother is allfor killing the fatted calf and receiving her back with welcome.
SELWICK HALL, DECEMBER THE V.This morrow we set forth for _Lord's Island_, a goodly company--to wit,_Father_, and _Mother_, and Sir _Robert_ and my Lady _Stafford_, andMistress _Martin_, and _Milisent_, and me. Too many were we for _Adam_to row, and thought to take old _Matthias_, had not _Robin Lewthwaite_chanced on us the last minute, and craved leave to take an oar, sayingit should be a jolly pleasance for him to spend the day on _Lord'sIsland_. So _Father_ took the second oar, and _Adam_ steered, and allwe got well across, thanks to God. We landed, _Father_ gave his hand tomy Lady _Stafford_, and Sir _Robert_ to _Mother_, and _Robin_, pulling aface at _Milly_ and me (for I wis well he had liever have been with us),his to Mistress _Martin_.
"Well, _Edith_," saith _Milly_, the pleasantest she hath spoken of late,"I reckon I must be thy _cavaliero_."
"Will you have my cap, _Milisent_?" saith _Robin_, o'er his shoulder.
"Thanks, I reckon I shall manage without," quoth she.
"Well, have a care you demean yourself as a _cavaliero_ should," saithhe. "Tell her she is the fairest maid in all the realm, and you shalldie o' despair an' you get not a glance from her sweet eyes."
"Nay, I'll leave that for you," saith _Milly_.
"Good. I will do mine utmost to mind it the next opportunity," quoth_Robin_.
So, with mirth, come we up to _Dilston_ Hall.
My Lord was within, said the old serving-man, and so likewise wereMistress _Jane_ and Mistress _Cicely_: so he led us across the hall,that is set with divers coloured stones, of a fashion they have in_Italy_, and into a pleasant chamber, where Mistress _Cicely_ was sat ather frame a-work, and rose up right lovingly to welcome us. Mistress_Jane_, said she, was in the garden: but my Lord come in the nextminute, and was right pleasant unto us after his sad and bashfulfashion, for never saw I a man like him, as bashful as any maid. ThenMistress _Jane_ come anon, and bare us--to wit, _Milisent_ and me--awayto her own chamber, where she gave us sweet cakes and muscadel; andMistress _Cicely_ came too. And a jolly time should we have had, had itnot come into Mistress _Cicely's_ head to ask at us if it were true that_Blanche Lewthwaite_ was gone away with some gallant. I had need to sayAy, for _Milisent_ kept her mouth close shut.
"And who were he?" quoth Mistress _Jane_. I answered that so far as weheard he had passed by divers names, all about this vicinage: but thename whereby he had called himself at _Mere Lea_ (which is Master_Lewthwaite's_) was _Everett_.
"I warrant you, _Jane_," saith Mistress _Cicely_, "'tis the same_Everett_ Farmer _Benson_ was so wroth with, for making up to his_Margaret_. He said if ever he came nigh his house again, he should gothence with a bullet more than he brought. A man past his youth, washe, _Edith_, with fair shining hair--no grey in it--and mighty sweetspoken?"
"Ay, that is he," said I, "or I mistake, Madam."
"Dear heart, but what an ill one must he be
!" quoth Mistress _Jane_."Why he made old _Nanny's_ grand-daughter _Doll_ reckon he meant to wedher, and promised to give her a silver chain for her neck this next_Sunday_!"
All this while sat _Milisent_ still and spake never a word. I gatdiscourse turned so soon as ever I might. Then after a little whilewent we down to hall, and good mirth was had of the young gentlewomenwith _Robin_ and me: but all the while _Milisent_ very still, so that atlast Mistress _Cicely_ noted it, and asked her if her head ached. Shesaid ay: and she looked like it. So, soon after came we thence, andcrossed the lake again, and so home. _Milly_ yet very silent all theeven: not as though she sulked, as of late, but rather as though shemeditated right sadly.
SELWICK HALL, DECEMBER YE VII.This morrow, I being in Aunt _Joyce's_ chamber, helping her to lay bythe new-washed linen, come _Milisent_ in very softly.
"Aunt _Joyce_," she saith, "I would fain have speech of you."
"Shall I give thee leave [go away and leave you], _Milly_?" said I,arising, for I was knelt of the floor, before the bottom drawer.
"Nay, _Edith_," she makes answer: "thou knowest my faults, and it is butmeet thou shouldst hear my confession."
Her voice choked somewhat, and Aunt _Joyce_ saith lovingly, "Dost think,then, thou hast been foolish, dear child?"
"I can hardly tell about foolish, _Aunt_," saith she, casting down hereyes, "but methinks I have been sinful. Will you forgive me mine hardwords and evil deeds?"
"Ay, dear heart, right willingly. And I shall not gainsay thee,_Milly_," saith Aunt _Joyce_, sadly: "for `the thought of foolishness issin,' and God calls many a thing sin whereof we men think but toolightly. Yet, bethink thee that `if any man sin, we have an Advocatewith the Father.' Now, dear heart, if thou wilt be ruled by me, thouwilt `arise and go to thy father' and thy mother, and say to them rightas did the prodigal, that thou hast sinned against Heaven and in theirsight. I think neither of them is so much angered as sorrowful andpitying: yet, if there be any anger in them, trust me, that were the wayto disarm it. Come back, _Milly_--first to God, and then to them. Thoushalt find fatherly welcome from either."
_Milly_ still hid her face.
"Aunt _Joyce_," she saith, "I dare not say I have come _back_ to God,for I have been doubting this morrow if I were ever near Him. But Ithink I have _come_. So now I may go to _Father_ and _Mother_."
Aunt _Joyce_ kissed her lovingly, and carried her off. Of course I knownot what happed betwixt _Father_ and _Mother_, and _Milly_, but I knowthat _Milly_ looks a deal happier, and yet sadder [graver], than shehath done of many days: and that both _Father_ and _Mother_ be verytender unto her, as to one that had been lost and is found.
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Note 1. Helen guessed rightly. As the readers of "Lettice Eden" willknow, the "Mary" of the tale was her mother.
Joyce Morrell's Harvest Page 5
