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 anddeath of poor _Blanche_. From being the merriest of all us, methinksshe is become well-nigh the saddest. I count it shall pass in time, butshe is not like _Milisent_ at this present. All we, indeed, have muchfelt the same: but none like her. I never did reckon her so much tolove _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 downnever a time he came. The which, as methinks, is somewhat significant.So I was little astonied this afternoon to be asked of _Robin_, as wetwo were in the garden, if I reckoned _Milisent_ had any care touchinghim.
"Thou wist, _Edith_," saith he, "I did alway love her: but when yonrogue came in the way betwixt that did end all by the beguilement of ourpoor _Blanche_, I well-nigh gave up all hope, for methought she werefair enchanted by him."
"I think she so were, for a time, _Robin_," said I, "until she sawverily what manner of man he were: and that it were not truly he thatshe 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 veryclose of that matter, though she be right open on other: but I see noreason, _Robin_, wherefore thou shouldst not win her favour, and I doensure thee I wish thee well therein."
"_Edith_, thou art an angel!" crieth he out: and squeezed mine hand tillI 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, andfair, and delightsome. Dost know, _Edith_, our _Nym_ goeth about to bea soldier? He shall leave us this next month."
"A soldier!" cried I: for in very deed _Nym_ and a soldier were twomatters that ran not together to my thoughts. Howbeit, I was not sorryto hear that _Nym_ should leave this vicinage, and thereby ceasetormenting of our _Helen_. The way he gazeth on her all the sermon-timein 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 thevirginals. Why, he is feared of his own shadow, very nigh: and isworser for ghosts than even _Austin Park_. I do trust, if we need anydefence here in _Derwentdale_, either the Queen's Majesty shall not send_Nym_ to guard us, or else that his men shall have stouter hearts thanhe. 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 lookethright 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] melow unto this magnifical gentleman, rather than take him by the hand andkiss him. _Ned_ saith--
"The Queen's Highness' barge ahoy!--all lined and padded o' velvet!--andin the midst the estate [the royal canopy] of cloth of gold! Off withyour caps, my hearties!"
_Walter_ laughed, and took it very well. Saith Aunt _Joyce_, when hecome 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 seeit 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 nosermons. 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 tarryas 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 theiroccasions. _Ned_ and we three maids were in divers parts of thechamber; _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 wasMdlvii." [1557.]
"The which, sith thou wert born in _July_, makes thee now of two andtwenty years," _Father_ makes answer.
"I believe so much, Sir," saith _Walter_, that looked somewhat divertedat this beginning.
"And thy wage at this time, from my Lord of _Oxenford_, is sixteen poundby 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 thelast (_Father_ keeping silence) he saith, looking up, with a flush ofhis brow--
"To speak truth, Sir, I dare not."
"Right, my lad," saith _Father_. "Speak the truth, and let come of itwhat will. But, in very deed, we must come to it, _Wat_. This matteris like those wounds that 'tis no good to heal ere they be probed. Norknew I ever a chirurgeon to use the probe without hurting of hispatient. Howbeit, _Wat_, I will not hurt thee more than is need. Tellme, dost thou think that all thy costs, of whatsoever kind, should gointo 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 feelan hard whipping by far less than your terrible gentleness. I know Ihave been a downright fool, and I have known it all the time: but whatis 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 asovereign,'--and `Look you, _Louvaine_, pay this bill for me,'--and theyshould 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 ladcome, or they have changed thee in _London_ town. Our _Walter_ used tohave his father's eyes and his mother's mouth. Well, I suppose thouart: but I should scantly have guessed it from thy talk."
"_Walter_," softly saith _Mother_, "thy father should never have sodealt when he were of thy years."
"Lack-a-daisy! I would have thought the world was turning round," quothAunt _Joyce_, "had I ever heard such a speech of _Aubrey_ at any yearswhatsoever."
_Father_ listed this with some diversion, as methought from the set ofhis 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 thinkyou a coward if you dare not spend freely and act boldly? Ay, and am
iser 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 Lordof _Oxenford_, that is best-dressed man of all the Court, and spendethan 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_, oneof the first wits in all _Europe_: and young _Blount_, that is high inthe Queen's Majesty's favour: and my young Lord of _Essex_, unto whomshe showeth good countenance. 'Tis not possible to lower one's self inthe eyes of such men as these--and assuredly I should were I lessfree-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 oureyes, _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 backfrom these very deeds."
"Then is there no difference, my son," asks _Father_, still as gentle asever, "betwixt being 'shamed for doing the right, and for doing thewrong?"
"But--pardon me, Sir--you are not in it!" saith _Walter_. "Do butthink, what it should feel to be counted singular, and as a speckledbird, unlike all around."
"Well!" saith Aunt _Joyce_, fervently, "I am five and fifty years of agethis morrow; and have in my time done many a foolish deed: but I dothank Heaven that I was never so left to mine own folly as to feel anyambition 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 thefinest compliment was ever paid me yet. I am a woman (wherefore I thankGod), and therefore (this young gentleman being testimony) have morebravery 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 anheavy sigh. "But let us reach the inwards of the matter first. Ireckon, _Walter_, thou hast many debts outstanding?"
"I am afeared so, Sir," saith _Wat_,--which, to do him credit, did lookheartily 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 thefull figures. It did then appear that our young gallant should havedebts outstanding to the amount of nigh two thousand pounds.
"But, _Wat_," saith _Helen_, looking sore puzzled, "how _couldst_ thouspend two thousand pounds when thou hadst but sixty-two in these fouryears?"
"Maidens understand not the pledging of credit," saith _Ned_. "Seethou, _Nell_: I am a shop-keeper, and sell silk gowns; and thou wouldsthave 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. (Dearheart, 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. Thoucomest to me for the gown, and I set down thy name in my books, thatthou owest me six angels: and away goest thou with the silk, and turnestforth 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 paynot our debts here, we go to prison; and folks do but say, Served himright! But if they pay them not there, why, the poor tailor andjeweller 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 alist 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 apoor 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, "Imust 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 hopedotherwise. But 'tis plain that this temptation, at the least, hath beentoo 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 inthose muddy waters if thou shouldst pay me two thousand pound to do thesame. Think but of men scenting themselves--with aught but a stiffsea-breeze. Pish! And as to dancing, cap in hand, afore a woman, andcalling her thine _Excellency_, or thy _Floweriness_, or thySome-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 presentI 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 ifshe cannot see an honest man's love, or will not take it, without allthat flummery, why, she isn't worth a pail o' sea-water: and I can getalong without her, and I will."
"Hurrah for _Ned_!" saith Aunt _Joyce_. "'Tis a comfort to find we haveone man in the family."
"I trust we may have two, in time," quoth _Father_. "_Wat_, my lad, Iknow this comes hard: and as I count thee not wicked, but weak, I wouldfain help thee all I may. But thou canst not be suffered to forget thatmy fortune is but three hundred pound by the year; and I have yet threedaughters to portion. I could not pay thy debts without calling in thatfor which thou hast pledged my credit--for it is mine, _Wat_, ratherthan thine, seeing thine own were thus slender."
"But, Sir!" crieth _Wat_, "that were punishing you for mineextravagance. 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 beenbetter 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_, theworst you could devise."
"Well, then we will say no more," saith _Father_. "Only draw up thoselists, _Walter_, and let me have them quickly."
_Father_ th
en left the chamber: and _Wat_ threw him down at _Mother's_knee.
"O _Mother_, _Mother_, if I had but thought sooner!" crieth he. "If Icould but have stood out when they laughed at me!--for that, in verydeed, were the point. I did begin with keeping within my wage: and thenall they mocked and flouted me, and told me no youth of any spiritshould 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 likehers.
"My boy!" she saith, "didst thou ask for God's strength, or try to holdon in thine own?"
_Walter_ made no answer in words, but methought I saw the water stand inhis eyes.
When _Mother_ and _Wat_ were both gone forth, Aunt _Joyce_ saith,--"Icannot verily tell how it is that folk should have a fantasy that 'tis ashame to be 'feared of doing ill, and no shame at all to be 'feared ofbeing laughed at. Why, one day when I were at home, there was little_Jack Bracher_ a-stealing apples in mine orchard: and _Hewitt_ (that isAunt _Joyce's_ chief gardener) caught him and brought him to me._Jack_, he sobbed and thrust his knuckles into his eyes, and said itwere all the other lads. `But what did the other lads to thee?' quothI. `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 borndays? Why, they might have dared me till this time next year, aforeever I had turned thief for their daring."
"But then, _Aunt_, you see," saith _Ned_, a twinkle in his eyes, "youare but a woman. That alters the case."
"Just so, _Ned_," quoth Aunt _Joyce_, the fun in her eyes as in his: "Iam one of the weaker sex, I know."
"Now, I'll tell you," saith _Ned_, "how they essayed it with me, when Ifirst joined my ship. They dared me--my mates, wot you--to go up to themasthead, 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 donought because I'm dared, and so that you know.' Well, believe me whowill, 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 haveno 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 thelike. _Ned_, lad, thou art thy father's son. I know not how _Wat_ gatchanged."
"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, theyshould perceive the sheer folly of fearing the lesser thing, and yetdaring the greater. 'Feared of the laughter of fools, that is but asthe crackling of thorns under the pot: and not 'feared of the wrath ofHim 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 humannature!"
SELWICK HALL, MARCH YE VII.Was ever any creature so good as this dear Aunt _Joyce_ of ours? Thismorrow, 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 bookof 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, "thatthine income was three hundred pound by the year. Right interesting itwere, for I never knew the figure aforetime."
"Well?" saith _Father_, laughing.
"But I hope," continueth she, "thou didst not forget (what thou didstknow aforetime) that mine is two thousand."
"My dear _Joyce_!" saith _Father_, and held forth his hand. "My truesister! I will not pretend to lack knowledge of thy meaning. Thouwouldst 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, todo the same at once should inconvenience me but a trifle, and to do itat twice, nothing at all."
"But, dear _Joyce_, I cannot," quoth he. "Nay, not for thy sake--I knowthou wouldst little allow such a plea--but for _Walter's_ own. To dothus should be something to ease myself, at the cost of a preciouslesson that might last him his whole life."
"I take thy meaning," saith she, "yet I cannot sleep at ease if I do notsomewhat. Give me leave to help a little, if no more. Might not thatbe done, yet leave _Wat_ his lesson?"
"Well, dear heart, this I promise thee," saith _Father_, "that in casewe go a-begging, we will come first to the _Manor House_ at _MinsterLovel_."
"After which you shall get no farther," saith Aunt _Joyce_. "But I wantmore than that, _Aubrey_. I would not of my good will tarry to helptill thou and _Lettice_ be gone a-begging. I can give the maids agown-piece by now and then, of course, and so ease my mind enough to getan 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 thoughshe 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," saithshe at last, "`half a loaf is better than no bread at all,' so I reckonI must be content with what I have. But if I send thee an whole flockof 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 Isomewhat marvelled what was ado with _Mother_, for smiles kept ever andanon flitting across her face, as though she were mighty diverted withthe flax she was spinning: and I guessed her thoughts should beoccupying somewhat that was of mirthful sort. At last saith Aunt_Joyce_:--
"_Lettice_, what is thy mind a-laughing at? I have kept count, and thouhast smiled eleven times this half-hour. Come, give us a share, goodfellow."
_Mother_ laughed right out then, and saith--
"Why, _Joyce_, I knew not I was thus observed of a spy. Howbeit, whatmade 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 nonesave _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 beafter that game."
"Eh deary me!" cries Cousin _Bess_. "Why, I ne'er counted one of ourlasses 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 yearselder than _Milly_: and so she might, would she have taken _NymLewthwaite_, for _Father_ and _Mother_ were so rare good as leave herchoose. 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 upto the game."
"And what wilt choose by, when thou art?" saith Aunt _Joyce_, with alittle laugh. "I know a young man that chose his wife for her comelyeyebrows: and an other (save the mark!) by her _French_ hood. Had I hadno better cause than that last, I would have bought me a _French_ hoodas fair, if I had need to send to _Paternoster_ Row [Note 2] for it, andfeasted mine eyen thereon. It should not have talked when I desiredquietness, nor have threaped [scolded] at me when I did aught pleased itnot."
"That speech is rare like a man, _Joyce_," saith my Lady
_Stafford_.
"Dear heart, _Dulcie_, dost think I count all women angels, by reason Iam one myself?" quoth Aunt _Joyce_. "I know better, forsooth."
"Methinks, _Aunt_, I shall follow your example," saith _Ned_, winking onme, 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 Imore 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 suchrubbish. Eh dear, this world! _Ned_, 'tis a queer place: and thelonger 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 notseen 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 mightspeak: "you said it as though you had discovered the same but thatinstant minute."
"Well, I had," saith she. "And so shall you, afore you come to sixtyyears: 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 longstretch of road: and may-be steep hills, child, and heavy moss, andswollen rivers to ford, and snowstorms to breast on the wild moors. Ah,how little ye young things know! I reckon most folk should count mylife an easy one, beside other: but I would not live it again, an' Imight 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 ofhome, '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 tomake your port, and forced to put to sea again."
"And when the sea hath been stormy," saith Aunt _Joyce_, "and the portis your own home, and you can see the light gleaming through thewindows?"
"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 lifehath 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 gethome, 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 everany knew. May-be, _Dulcie_, if the roads were smoother and the riversshallower 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,'" softlysaith Mistress _Martin_.
"Ay, it makes all the difference who leads us when we pass through thewaters," answereth Aunt _Joyce_. "I mind _Anstace_ once saying that.Most folks (said she) were content to go down, trusting to very shallowsticks--to the world, that brake under them like a reed; or to thestrength of their own hearts, that had scantly the pith of a rush. Butlet us get hold with a good grip of _Christ's_ hand, and then the watermay carry us off our feet if it will. It can never sweep us down thestream. It must spend all his force on the Rock of our shelter, beforeit 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 roughwalking 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 Lordof _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'sMajesty's despatches unto my Lord _Dacre_ of the North."
"But, _Aubrey_, that is quick work!" saith Aunt _Joyce_. "Why, I reckonit cannot be over nine days sith thine were writ."
"Nor is it, _Joyce_," saith _Father_: "but look thou, I had rareopportunities, 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_, myboy--for thine eyes ask the question, though thy tongue be still--myLord of _Oxenford_ hath loosed thee from thine obligations, yet hespeaks very kindlily of thee, as of a servant [Note 3] whom he is rightsorry 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: andmoreover that I heard divers matters touching the Court ways, whichlittle 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, whichAunt _Joyce_ saith is from _Mother_.
"_Father_, I have not deserved such kindness from you! But I do desireto say one thing--that I can see now it is better I were thence, thoughit was sore trouble to me at the first: and (God helping me) I willendeavour myself to deserve better in the future than I have done in thepast."
_Father_ held forth his hand, and _Wat_ put his in it.
"God helping thee, my son," saith he gravely. "I do in very deed trustthe 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 tospell _Nay_!"
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Note 1. The reader is requested to remember that these sums must bemultiplied 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 sixteenthcentury than at present. Any lady or gentleman, however well born andeducated, in receipt of a salary from an employer, was termed a servant.The Queen's Maids of Honour were in service, and their stipends weretermed wages.
Joyce Morrell's Harvest Page 9
