Chapter Five.
Aunt Joyce Spoils the Game.
“We shun two paths, my maiden,
When strangers’ way we tell—
That which ourselves we know not,
That which we know too well.
“I ‘never knew!’ Thou think’st it?
Well! Better so, to-day.
The years lie thick and mossy
O’er that long-silent way.
“The roses there are withered,
The thorns are tipped with pain:
Thou wonderest if I tell thee
‘Walk not that way again?’
“Oh eyes that see no further
Than this world’s glare and din!
I warn thee from that pathway
Because I slipped therein.
“So, leave the veil up-hanging!
And tell the world outside—
‘She cannot understand me—
She nothing has to hide!’”
(In Edith’s handwriting.)
Selwick Hall, December the first.
I would have fain let be the records of this sad first day that this chronicle is come to mine hand. But Father and Mother do desire me to set down honestly what hath happed, the which therefore I must essay to do.
It was of long time that I had noted a strange difference in Milly, and had talked with Nell thereabout, more than once or twice. Though Milisent is by four years elder than I, yet she had alway been the one of us most loving frolicsome merriment. But now it seemed me as though she had grown up over my head, all at once. Not that she was less mirthful at times: nay, rather more, if aught. But at other times she seemed an other maid, and not our Milly at all. It was not our Milly’s wont to sit with her hands of her lap, a-gazing from the window; nor to answer sharp and short when one spake to her; nor to appear all unrestful, as though she were in disease of mind. And at last, Nell thinking less thereof than I, I made up my mind to speak with Aunt Joyce, that I knew was wise and witty (sensible), and if there were aught gone wrong, should take it less hard than Mother, and could break the same to Mother more gentler than we. To say truth, I was feared—and yet I scarce knew why—of that man we met on Saint Hubert’s Isle. I had noted that Milly never named him, though he were somewhat cause of mirth betwixt Helen and me: and when an other so did, she seemed as though she essayed to speak as careless as ever she could. This liked me not: nor did it like me that twice I had met Milly coming from the garden, and she went red as fire when she saw me. From all this I feared some secret matter that should not be: and as yester-morrow, when we were come from Nanny’s, I brake my mind to Aunt Joyce.
Aunt Joyce did not cry “Pish!” nor fault me for conceiving foolish fantasies, as I was something feared she might. On the contrary part, she heard me very kindly and heedfully, laying down her work to give better ear. When I had done, she saith—
“Tell me, Edith, what like is this man.”
I told her so well as I could.
“And how oft hast thou seen him?”
“Three times, Aunt. The first on Saint Hubert’s Isle, whereof you know: the second, I met him once in the lane behind the garden, as I was a-coming home from Isaac Crewdson’s: and the last, this morrow, just as we came out of Nanny’s door, we met Milisent, full face: and a minute at after, this Sir Edwin passed us on the road.”
“Took he any note of you, either time?”
“When he met me alone, he doffed his cap and smiled, but spake not. This morrow he took no note of any one.”
“Could she be going to meet him?” saith Aunt Joyce in a low and very troubled voice.
“In good sooth, Aunt,” said I, “you have put into words my very fear, which I did scarce dare to think right out.”
“Edith,” saith she, “is Milly within, or no?”
“She was tying on her hood a moment since, as though she meant to go forth. I saw her through a chink of the door, which was not close shut, as I passed by.”
“Come thou with me quickly,” saith Aunt Joyce, and rose up. “We will follow her. ’Tis no treachery to lay snare for a traitor, if it be as I fear. And ’tis not she that is the traitor, poor child—poor, foolish child!”
We walked quickly, for our aim was to keep Milisent but just in view, yet not to let her see us. She was walking fast, too, and she took the road to Nanny’s, but turned off just ere she were there, into the little shaw that lieth by the way. We followed quietly, till we could hear voices: then Aunt Joyce stayed her behind a poplar-tree, and made me a sign to be still.
“All things be now ordered, my fairest,” I heard a voice say which methought was Sir Edwin’s: and peeping heedfully round the poplar, I caught a glimpse of his side-face, enough to be sure it were he. Aunt Joyce could see him likewise. “All things be ordered,” quoth he: “remember, nine o’ the clock on Sunday night.”
“But thou wilt not fail me?” saith Milisent’s voice in answer.
“Fail thee!” he made answer. “My sweetest of maids, impossible!”
“I feel afeared,” she saith again. “I would they had wist at home. I cannot be sure ’tis right.”
“Nay, sweet heart, call not up these old ghosts I have laid so oft already,” saith he. “Sir Aubrey’s Puritan notions should never suffer him to give thee leave afore: but when done, he shall right soon o’erlook all, and all shall go merry as a marriage bell. Seest thou, we do him in truth a great kindness, sith he should be feared to give consent, and yet would fain so do if his conscience should allow.”
“Would he?” asks Milly, in something a troubled tone.
“Would he!” Sir Edwin makes answer. “Would he have his daughter a right great lady at the Court? Why, of course he would. Every man would that were not a born fool. My honey-sweet Milisent, let not such vain scruples terrify thee. They are but shadows, I do ensure thee.”
“I think thus when I am with thee,” saith she, smiling up in his face: “but when not—”
“Sweet heart,” saith he, bending his goodly head, “not is well-nigh over, and then thy cruel Puritan scruples shall never trouble thee more.”
“It is as we feared,” I whispered into the ear of Aunt Joyce, whose face was turned from me: but when she turned her head, I was terrified. I never in my life saw Aunt Joyce look as she did then. Out of her cheeks and lips every drop of blood seemed driven, and her eyes were blazing fire. When she whispered back, it was through her set teeth.
“‘As!’ Far worse. Worser than thou wist. Is this the man?”
“This is Sir Edwin!”
Without another word Aunt Joyce stalked forth, and had Milisent by the arm ere she found time to scream. Then she shrieked and shrank, but Aunt Joyce held her fast.
“Get you gone!” was all she said to Sir Edwin.
“Nay, Mistress, tell me rather by what right—”
“Right!” Aunt Joyce loosed her hold of Milisent, and went and stood right before him. “Right!—from you to me!”
“Mistress, I cry you mercy, but we be entire strangers.”
“Be we?” she made answer, with more bitterness in her voice than ever I heard therein. “Be we such strangers? What! think you I know you not, Leonard Norris? You counted on the change of all these years to hide you from Aubrey and Lettice, and you counted safely enough. They would not know you if they stood here. But did you fancy years could hide you from Joyce Morrell? Traitor! a woman will know the man she has loved, though his own mother were to pass him by unnoted.”
Sir Edwin uttered not a word, but stood gazing on Aunt Joyce as though she had bound him by a spell.
She turned back to us a moment. “Milisent and Edith, go home!” she saith. “Milisent, thank God that He hath saved thee from the very jaws of Hell—from a man worser than any fiend. Edith, tell thy father what hath happed, but say nought of all this to thy mother. I shall follow you anon. I have yet more ado with him here. Make thy mind easy, child—he’ll not harm me. Now go.”
Milisent needed no persuasions. She seemed as though Aunt Joyce’s words had stunned her, and she followed me like a dog. We spake no word to each other all the way. When we reached home, Milly went straight up to her own chamber: and I, being mindful of Aunt Joyce’s bidding, went in search of Father, whom I found at his books in his closet.
Ah me, but what sore work it were to tell him! I might scarce bear to see the sorrowful changes wrought in his face. But when I came to tell how Aunt Joyce had called this gentleman by the name of Leonard Norris, for one minute his eyes blazed out like hers. Then they went very dark and troubled, and he hid his face in his hands till I had made an end of my sad story.
“And I would fain not have been she that told you, Father,” said I, “but Aunt Joyce bade me so to do.”
“I must have heard it from some lips, daughter,” he saith sorrowfully. “But have a care thou say no word to thy mother. She must hear it from none but me. My poor Lettice!—and my poor Milisent, my poor, foolish, duped child!”
I left him then, for I thought he would desire it, and went up to Milly. She had cast off her hood and tippet, and lay on her bed, her face turned to the wall.
“Dost lack aught, Milly?” said I.
“Nay,” was all she said.
“Shall I bide with thee?”
“Nay.”
Nor one word more might I get out of her. So I left her likewise, and came down to the little parlour, where I sat me to my sewing.
It was about an hour after that I heard Aunt Joyce’s firm tread on the gravel. She came into the parlour, and looked around as though to see who were there. Then she saith—
“None but thee, Edith? Where are the rest?”
There was a break in her voice, such as folk have when they have been sore troubled.
“I have been alone this hour, Aunt. Milly is in our chamber, and Father I left in his closet. Whither Mother and Nell be I know not.”
“Hast told him?”
“Ay, and he said only himself must tell Mother.”
“I knew he would. God help her!”
“You think she shall take it very hard, Aunt?”
“Edith,” saith Aunt Joyce softly, “there is more to take hard than thou wist. And we know not well yet all the ill he may have wrought to Milisent.”
Then away went she, and I heard her to rap on the door of Father’s closet. For me, I sat and sewed a while longer: and yet none coming, I went up to our chamber, partly that I should wash mine hands, and partly to see what was come of Milly.
She still lay on the bed, but her face turned somewhat more toward me, and by her shut eyes and even breathing I could guess that she slept. I sat me down in the window to wait, when mine hands were washen: for I thought some should come after a while, and may-be should not count it right that I left Milisent all alone. I guess it were a good half-hour I there sat, and Milly slept on. At the last come Mother, her eyes very red as though she had wept much.
“Doth she sleep, Edith?” she whispered.
I said, “Ay, Mother: she hath slept this half-hour or more.”
“Poor child!” she saith. “If only I could have wist sooner! How much I might have saved her! O poor child!”
The water welled up in her eyes again, and she went away, something in haste. I had thought Mother should be angered, and I was something astonied to see how soft she were toward Milly. A while after, Aunt Joyce come in: but Milly slept on.
“I am fain to see that,” saith she, nodding her head toward the bed. “A good sign. Yet I would I knew exactly how she hath taken it.”
“I am afeared she may be angered, Aunt Joyce, to be thus served of one she trusted.”
“I hope so much. ’Twill be the best thing she can be. The question is what she loved—whether himself or his flattering of herself. She’ll soon get over the last, for it shall be nought worser with her than hurt vanity.”
“Not the first, Aunt?”
“I do not know, Edith,” she saith, and crushed in her lips. “That hangs on what sort of woman she be. There shall be a wound, in either case: but with some it gets cicatrised over and sound again with time, and with other some it tarries an open issue for ever. It hangs all on the manner of woman.”
“What should it be with you, Aunt Joyce?” said I, though I were something feared of mine own venturesomeness.
“What it is, Edith,” she made answer, crushing in her lips again, “is the open issue, bandaged o’er so that none knows it is there save He to whose eyes all things be open. Child, there be some things in life wherein the only safe confidant thou canst have is Jesu Christ. I say so much, by reason that thine elders think it best—and I likewise—that ye maids should be told somewhat more than ye have heard aforetime. Ay, I give full assent thereto. I only held out for one thing—that I, not your mother, should be she that were to tell it.”
We were silent a moment, and then Milisent stirred in her sleep. Aunt Joyce went to her.
“Awake, my dear heart?” saith she.
Milly sat up, and pushed aside her hair from her face, the which was flushed and sullen.
“Aunt Joyce, may the Lord forgive you for this day’s work!” saith she.
I was fair astonied that she should dare thus to speak. But Aunt Joyce was in no wise angered.
“Amen!” she saith, as softly as might be spoken. “Had I no worser sins to answer for, methinks I should stand the judgment.”
“No worser!” Milisent blazed forth. “What, you think it a light matter to part two hearts that love well and truly?”
“Nay, truly, I think it right solemn matter,” saith Aunt Joyce, still softly. “And if aught graver can be, Milly, it is to part two whereof the one loveth well, and the other—may God forgive us all!”
“What mean you now?” saith Milisent of the same fashion. “Is it my love you doubt, or his?”
“Milisent Louvaine,” saith Aunt Joyce, “if thou be alive twenty years hence, thou shalt thank God from thy very heart-root that thou wert stayed on that road to-day.”
“Oh ay, that is what folk always say!” murmurs she, and laid her down again. “‘Thou wilt thank me twenty years hence,’ quoth they, every stinging stroke of the birch. And they look for us beaten hounds to crede it, forsooth!”
“Ay—when the twenty years be over.”
“I am little like to thank you at twenty years’ end,” saith Milly sullenly, “for I count I shall die of heart-break afore twenty weeks.”
“No, Milly, I think not.”
“And much you care!”
Then I saw Aunt Joyce’s face alter—terribly.
“Milisent,” she said, “if I had not cared, I should scantly have gone of set purpose through that which wrung every fibre of my heart, ay, to the heart’s core.”
“It wrung me more than you,” Milisent makes answer, of the same bitter, angered tone as aforetime.
Aunt Joyce turned away from the bed, and I saw pain and choler strive for a moment in her eyes. Then the choler fell back, and the pain abode.
“Poor child! She cannot conceive it.” She said nought sterner; and she came and sat in the window alongside of me.
“I tell you, Aunt Joyce,”—and Milisent sat up again, and let herself down, and came and stood before us—“I tell you, you have ruined my life!”
“My maid,” Aunt Joyce makes answer, with sore trouble in her voice, “thine elders will fain have thee and thy sisters told a tale the which we have alway kept from you until now. It was better hidden, unless you needed the lesson. But now they think it shall profit thee, and may-be save Helen and Edith from making any like blunder. And—well, I have granted it. Only I stood out for one point—that I myself should be the one to tell it you. Wait till thou hast heard that story, the which I will tell thee to-morrow. And at after thou hast heard it,—then tell me, Milly, whether I cared for thee this morrow, or whether the hand that hath ruined thy life were the hand of Joyce Morrell.”
“Oh, but you were cruel, cruel!” sobbed Milly. “I loved him so!”
“So did I, Milisent,” saith Aunt Joyce very softly, “long ere you maids were born. Loved him so fondly, trusted him so wholly, clung to him so faithfully, that mine eyes had to be torn open before I would see the truth—that even now, after all these years, it is like thrusting a dagger into my soul to tell you verily who and what he is. Ay, child, I loved that man in mine early maidenhood, better than ever thou didst or wouldst have done. Dost thou think it was easy to stand up to the face that I had loved, and to play the avenging angel toward his perfidy? If thou dost, thou mayest know much of foolishness and fantasy, but very little of true and real love.”
Milisent seemed something startled and cowed. Then all suddenly she saith,—“But, Aunt Joyce! He told me he were only of four-and-thirty years.”
Aunt Joyce laughed bitterly.
“Wert so poor an innocent as to crede that, Milly?” saith she. “He is a year elder than thy father. But I grant, he looks by far younger than he is. And I reckon he ’bated ten years or so of what he looked. He alway looked young,” she saith, the softened tone coming back into her voice. “Men with fair hair like his, mostly do, until all at once they break into aged men. And he hath kept him well, with washes and unguents.”
It was strange to hear how the softness and the bitterness strave together in her voice. I count it were by reason they so strave in her heart.
“Wait till to-morrow, Milly,” saith Aunt Joyce, arising. “Thou shalt hear then of my weary walk through the thorns, and judge for thyself if I had done well to leave thee to the like.”
Milly sobbed again, but methought something more softly.
“We were to have been wed o’ Sunday even,” saith she, “by a Popish priest, right as good as in church,—and then to have come home and won Father and Mother to forgive us and bless us. Then all had been smooth and sweet, and we should have lived happy ever after.”
Oh, but what pitifulness was there in Aunt Joyce’s smile!
“Should you?” saith she, in a tone which seemed to me like the biggest nay ever printed in a book. “Poor innocent child! A Popish priest cannot lawfully wed any, and evening is out of the canonical hours. Wist thou not that such marriage should ne’er have held good in law?”
“It might have been good in God’s sight, trow,” saith she, something perversely.
“Nay!” saith Aunt Joyce. “When men go to, of set purpose, to break the laws of their country,—without it be in obedience to His plain command,—I see not how the Lord shall hold them guiltless. So he promised to bring thee home to ask pardon, did he? Poor, trusting, deluded child! Thou shouldst never have come home, Milly—unless it had been a year or twain hence, a forlorn, heart-broken, wretched thing. Well, we could have forgiven thee and comforted thee then—as we will now.”
I am right weary a-writing, and will stay mine hand till I set down Aunt’s story to-morrow.
Selwick Hall, December ye second.
I marvel when I can make an end of writing, or when matters shall have done happening. For early this morrow, ere breakfast were well over, come a quick rap of the door, which Caitlin opened, and in come Alice Lewthwaite. Not a bit like herself looked she, with a scarf but just cast o’er her head, and all out of breath, as though she had come forth all suddenly, and had run fast and far. We had made most of us an end of eating, but were yet sat at the table.
“Alice, dear heart, what aileth thee?” saith Mother, and rose up.
“Lady Lettice, do pray you tell me,” panteth she, “if you have seen or heard aught of our Blanche?”
“Nay, Alice, in no wise,” saith Mother.
“Lack the day!” quoth she, “then our fears be true.”
“What fears, dear heart?” I think Father, and Mother, and Aunt Joyce, asked at her all together.
“I would as lief say nought, saving to my Lady, and Mistress Joyce,” she saith: so they bare her away, and what happed at that time I cannot say, saving that Father himself took Alice home, and did seem greatly concerned at her trouble. Well, this was scantly o’er ere a messenger come with a letter to Mother, whereon she had no sooner cast her eyes than she brake forth with a cry of pleasure. Then, Father desiring to know what it were, she told us all that certain right dear and old friends of hers, the which she had not seen of many years, were but now at the Salutation Inn at Ambleside, and would fain come on and tarry a season here if it should suit with Mother’s conveniency to have them.
“And right fain should I be,” saith she; and so said Father likewise.
Then Mother told us who were these her old friends: to wit, Sir Robert Stafford and his lady, which was of old time one Mistress Dulcibel Fenton, of far kin unto my Lady Norris, that was Mother’s mistress of old days at Minster Lovel: and moreover, one Mistress Martin, a widow that is sister unto Sir Robert, and was Mother’s fellow when she served my dear-worthy Lady of Surrey. So Father saith he would ride o’er himself to Ambleside, and give them better welcome than to send but a letter back: and Mother did desire her most loving commendations unto them all, and bade us all be hasteful and help to make ready the guest-chambers. So right busy were we all the morrow, and no time for no tales of no sort: but in the afternoon, when all was done, Aunt Joyce had us three up into her chamber, and bade us sit and listen.
“For it is a sorrowful story I have to tell,” saith she: and added, as though she spake to herself,—“ay, and it were best got o’er ere Dulcie cometh.”
So we sat all in the window-seat, Milly in the midst, and Aunt Joyce afore us in a great cushioned chair.
“When I was of your years, Milly,” saith she, “I dwelt—where I now do at Minster Lovel, with my father and my sister Anstace. Our mother was dead, and our baby brother Walter; and of us there had never been more. But we had two cousins—one Aubrey Louvaine, the son of our mother’s sister,—you wot who he is,” she saith, and smiled: “and the other, the son of our father’s sister dwelt at Oxford with his mother, a widow, and his name was—Leonard Norris.”
The name was so long a-coming that I marvelled if she meant to tell us.
“I do not desire to make my tale longer than need is, dear hearts,” pursueth she, “and therefore I will but tell you that in course of time, with assent of my father and his mother, my cousin Leonard and I were troth-plight. I loved him, methinks, as well as it was in woman to love man: and—I thought he loved me. I never knew a man who had such a tongue to cajole a woman’s heart. He could talk in such a fashion that thou shouldst feel perfectly assured that he loved thee with all his heart, and none but thee: and ere the sun had set, he should have given the very same certainty to Nan at the farm, and to Mall down in the glen. I believe he did rarely make love to so little as one woman at once. He liked—he once told your father so much—a choice of strings for his bow. But of all this, at first, lost in my happy love, I knew nothing. My love to him was so true and perfect, that the very notion that his could be lesser than so never entered mine head. It was Anstace who saw the clouds gathering before any other—Anstace, to whom, in her helpless suffering, God gave a strange power of reading hearts. There came a strange maiden on the scene—a beautiful maiden, with fair eyes and gleaming hair—and Leonard’s heart was gone from me for ever. Gone!—had it ever come? I cannot tell. May-be some little corner of his heart was mine, once on a time—I doubt if I had more. He had every corner and every throb of mine. Howbeit, when this maid—”
“How was she called, Aunt Joyce?” saith Milly, in rather an hard voice.
Aunt Joyce did not make answer for a moment: and, looking up on her, I saw drawn brows and flushed cheeks.
“Never mind that, Milly. I shall call her Mary. It was not her name. Well, when this maid first came to visit us, and I brought her above to my sister, that as ye know might never arise from the couch whereon she lay—I something marvelled to see how quick from her face to mine went Anstace’ eyes, and back again to her. I knew, long after, what had been her thought. She had no faith in Leonard, and she guessed quick enough that this face should draw him away from me. She tried to prepare me as she saw it coming. But I was blind and deaf. I shut mine eyes tight, and put my fingers in mine ears. I would not face the cruel truth. For Mary herself, I am well assured she meant me no ill, nor did she see that any ill was wrought till all were o’er. She did but divert her with Leonard’s words, caring less for him than for them. She was vain, and loved flatteries, and he saw it, and gave her them by the bushel. She was a child laking with a firebrand, and never knew what it were until she burnt her fingers. And at last, maids, mine eyes were forced open. Leonard himself told me, and in so many words, what I had refused to hear from others,—that he loved well enough the gold that was like to be mine, but he did not love me. There were bitter words on both sides, but mine were bitterest. And so, at last, we parted. I could show you the flag on which he stood when I saw his face for the last time—the last, until I saw it yester-morrow. Others had seen him, and knew him not, through the changes of years. Even your father did not know him, though they had been bred up well-nigh as brothers. But mine eyes were sharper. I had not borne that face in mine heart, and seen it in my dreams, for all these years, that I should look on him and not know it. I knew the look in his eyes, the poise of his head, the smile on his lips, too well—too well! I reckon that between that day and this, a thousand women may have had that smile upon them. But I thought of the day when I had it—when it was the one light of life to me—for I had not then beheld the Light of the World. Milly, didst thou think me cruel yester-morrow?—cold, and hard, and stern? Ah, men do think a woman so,—and women at times likewise—think her words hard, when she has to crush her heart down ere she can speak any word at all—think her eyes icy cold, when behind them are a storm of passionate tears that must not be shed then, and she has to keep the key hard turned lest they burst the door open. Ah, young maids, you look upon me as who should say, that I am an old woman from whom such words are strange to you. They be fit only for a young lass’s lips, forsooth? Childre, you wis not yet that the hot love of youth is nought to be compared to the yearning love of age,—that the maid that loveth a man whom she first met a month since cannot bear the rushlight unto her that has shrined him in her heart for thirty years.”
Aunt Joyce tarried a moment, and drew a long breath. Then she saith in a voice that was calmer and lower—
“Anstace told me I loved not the Leonard that was, but only he that should have been. But I have prayed God day and night, and I will go on yet praying, that the man of my love may be the Leonard that yet shall be,—that some day he may turn back to God and me, and remember the true heart that poured all that love upon him. If it be so, let the Lord order how, and where, and when. For if I may know that it is, when I come into His presence above, I can finish my journey here without the knowledge.”
“But it were better to know it, Aunt Joyce?” saith Helen tenderly. Methinks the tale had stirred her heart very much.
“It were happier, Nelly,” quoth Aunt Joyce softly. “God knoweth whether it were best. If it be so, He will give it me.—And now is the hardest part of my tale to tell. For after a while, Milly, this—Mary—came to see what Leonard meant, and methinks she came about the same time to the certainty that she loved one who was not Leonard. When he had parted from me he sought her, and there was much bitterness betwixt them. At the last she utterly denied him, and shut the door betwixt him and her: for the which he never forgave her, but at a later time, when in the persecutions under King Henry she came into his power, he used her as cruelly as he might then dare to go. I reckon, had it been under Queen Mary, he should have been content with nought less than her blood. But it pleased the good Lord to deliver her, he getting him entangled in some briars of politics that you should little care to hear: and so when she was freed forth of prison, he was shut up therein.”
“Then, Aunt Joyce, is he a Papist?” saith Helen, of a startled fashion.
“Ay, Nell, he is a black Papist. When we all came forth of Babylon, he tarried therein.”
“And what came of her you called Mary, if it please you, Aunt?” quoth I.
“She was wed to one that dwelt at a distance from those parts, Edith,” saith Aunt Joyce, in the constrained tone wherein she had begun her story. “And sithence then have I heard at times of Leonard, though never meeting him,—but alway as of one that was journeying from bad to worse—winning hearts and then breaking them. Since Queen Elizabeth came in, howbeit, heard I never word of him at all: and I knew not if he were in life or no, till I set eyes on his face yesterday.”
We were all silent till Aunt Joyce saith gently—
“Well, Milly,—should we have been more kinder if we had let thee alone to break thine heart, thinkest?”
“It runneth not to a certainty that mine should be broke, because others were,” mutters Milly stubbornly.
“Thou countest, then, that he which had been false to a thousand maids should be true to the one over?” saith Aunt Joyce, with a pitying smile. “Well, such a thing may be possible,—once in a thousand times. Hardly oftener, methinks, my child. But none is so blind as she that will not see. I must leave the Lord to open thine eyes,—for I wis He had to do it for me.”
And Aunt Joyce rose up and went away.
“I marvel who it were she called Mary,” said I.
“Essay not to guess, dear heart,” saith Helen quickly. “’Tis plain Aunt Joyce would not have us know.”
“Why, she told us, or as good,” quoth Milisent, in that bitter fashion she hath had to-day and yesterday. “Said she not, at the first, that ‘it were well to get the tale o’er ere Dulcie should come’? ’Tis my Lady Stafford, of course.”
“I am not so sure of that,” saith Helen, in a low voice: and methought she had guessed at some other, but would not say out (Note 1). “I think we were better to go down now.”
So down went we all to the great chamber, and there found, with Mother, Mistress Lewthwaite, that was, as was plain to see, in a mighty taking (much agitated).
“Dear heart, Lady Lettice, but I never looked for this!” she crieth, wiping of her eyes with her kerchief. “I wis we have been less stricter than you in breeding up our maids: but to think that one of them should bring this like of a misfortune on us! For Blanche is gone to be undone, of that am I sure. Truth to tell, yonder Sir Francis Everett so took me with his fine ways and goodly looks and comely apparel and well-chosen words,—ay, and my master too—that we never thought to caution the maids against him. Now, it turns out that Alice had some glint of what were passing: but she never betrayed Blanche, thinking it should not be to her honour; and me,—why, I ne’er so much as dreamed of any ill in store.”
“What name said you?” quoth Mother, that was trying to comfort her.
“Everett,” saith she; “Sir Francis Everett, he said his name were, of Woodbridge, in the county of Suffolk, where he hath a great estate, and spendeth a thousand pound by the year. And a well-looked man he was, not o’er young, belike, but rare goodly his hair fair and his eyen shining grey,—somewhat like to yours, my Lady.”
Helen and I looked on each other, and I saw the same thought was in both our minds. And looking then upon Mother, I reckoned it had come to her likewise. At Milisent I dared not look, though I saw Helen glance at her.
“And now,” continueth Mistress Lewthwaite, “here do I hear that at Grasmere Farm he gave out himself to be one Master Tregarvon, of Devon; and up in Borrowdale, he hath been playing the gallant to two or three maids by the name of Sir Thomas Brooke of Warwickshire: and the saints know which is his right one. He’s a bad one, Lady Lettice! And after all, here is your Mistress Bess, she saith she is as sure as that her name is Wolvercot, that no one of all these names is his own. She reckons him to be some young gentleman that she once wist, down in the shires,—marry, what said she was his name, now? I cannot just call to mind. She should ne’er have guessed at him, quoth she, but she saw him do somewhat this young man were wont to do, and were something singular therein—I mind not what it were. Dear heart, but this fray touching our Blanche hath drove aught else out of mine head! But Mistress Bess said he were a bad one, and no mistake.”
“Is Blanche gone off with him, Mistress Lewthwaite?” saith Helen.
“That is right what she is, Nell, and ill luck go with her,” quoth Mistress Lewthwaite: “for it will, that know I. God shall never bless no undutiful childre,—of that am I well assured.”
“Nay, friend, curse not your own child!” saith Mother, with a little shudder.
“Eh, poor lass, I never meant to curse her,” quoth she: “she’ll get curse enough from him she’s gone withal. She has made her bed, and she must lie on it. And a jolly hard one it shall be, by my troth!”
Here come Cousin Bess and Aunt Joyce into the chamber, and a deal more talk was had of them all: but at the last Mistress Lewthwaite rose up, and went away. But just ere she went, saith she to Milisent and me, that were sat together of one side of the chamber—
“Eh, my maids, but you twain should thank God and your good father and mother! for if you had been bred up with less care, this companion, whatso his name be, should have essayed to beguile you as I am a Cumberland woman. A pair of comely young lasses like you should have been a great catch for him, I reckon.”
“Ah, Mistress mine,” saith Cousin Bess, “when lasses take as much care of their own selves as their elders of them, we shall catch larks by the sky falling, I reckon.”
“You are right, Mistress Bess,” saith she: and so away hied she.
No sooner was Mistress Lewthwaite gone, than Mother saith,—“Bess, who didst thou account this man to be? Mistress Lewthwaite saith thou didst guess it to be one thou hadst known down in the shires, but she had forgat the name.”
I saw Cousin Bess look toward Aunt Joyce with a question in her eyes: and if ever I read English in eyes, what Aunt’s said was,—“Have a care!” Then Cousin Bess saith, very quiet—
“It was a gentleman in Oxford town, Cousin Lettice, that I was wont to hear of from our Nell when she dwelt yonder.”
“Oh, so?” saith Mother: and thus the matter ended.
But at after, in the even, when Father and Aunt Joyce and I were by ourselves a little season in the hall, I heard Aunt Joyce say, very soft—
“Aubrey, didst thou give her the name?”
Methought Father shook his head.
“I dared not, Joyce,” saith he. “She was so sore troubled touching—the other matter.”
“I thought so,” quoth Aunt. “Then I will beware that I utter it not.”
“But Edith knows,” answereth Father in a low voice.
“The maids all know,” saith she. “I did not reckon thou wouldest keep it from her.”
“I should not, but,”—and Father paused. “Thou wist, Joyce, how she setteth her heart on all things.”
“I am afeared, Aubrey, she shall have to know sooner or later. Mistress Lewthwaite did all but utter it to her this morning, only I thank God her memory failed her just at the right minute.”
“We were better to tell her than that,” saith Father, and leaned his head upon his hand as though he took thought.
Then Mother and Helen came in, and no more was said.
Selwick Hall, December the fourth.
I had no time to write yestereven, for we were late abed, it being nigh nine o’ the clock ere we came up; and all the day too busy. My Lady Stafford and Sir Robert and Mistress Martin did return with Father—the which I set not down in his right place at my last writing,—and yesterday we gat acquaint and showed them the vicinage and such like. As to-morrow, Mother shall carry them to wait on my Lord Dilston.
Sir Robert Stafford is a personable gentleman, much of Father’s years; his nose something high, yet not greatly so, and his hair and beard now turning grey, but have been dark. Mistress Martin his sister (that when Mother wist her was Mistress Grissel Stafford) is much like to him in her face, but some years the younger of the twain, though her hair be the greyer. My Lady Stafford, howbeit, hath not a grey hair of her head, and hath more ruddiness of her face than Mistress Martin, being to my thought the comelier dame of the twain. Mother, nathless, saith that Mistress Grissel was wont to be the fairer when all were maids, and that she hath wist much trouble, the which hath thus consumed her early lovesomeness. For her husband, Captain Martin, that was an officer of Calais, coming home after that town was lost in Queen Mary’s time, was attaint of heresy and taken of Bishop Bonner, he lying long in prison, and should have been brent at the stake had not Queen Mary’s dying (under God’s gracious ordering) saved him therefrom. And all these months was Mistress Martin in dread disease, never knowing from one week to another what should be the end thereof. And indeed he lived not long after, but two or three years. Sir Robert Stafford, on the other part, was a wiser man; for no sooner was it right apparent, on Queen Mary’s incoming, how matters should turn, than he and his dame and their two daughters gat them over seas and dwelt in foreign parts all the days that Queen Mary reigned. And in Dutchland (Germany) were both their daughters wedded, the one unto a noble of that country, by name the Count of Rothenthal, and the other unto a priest, an Englishman that took refuge also in those parts, by name Master Francis Digby, that now hath a living in Somerset.
Medoubteth if Mother be told who Sir Edwin Tregarvon were. Milly ’bideth yet in the sulks, and when she shall come thereout will I not venture to guess. Alice Lewthwaite come over this afternoon but for a moment, on her way to her aunt’s, Mistress Rigg, and saith no word is yet heard of their Blanche, whom her father saith he will leather while he can lay on if she do return, while her mother is all for killing the fatted calf and receiving her back with welcome.
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, and Mistress 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, saying it should be a jolly pleasance for him to spend the day on Lord’s Island. So Father took the second oar, and Adam steered, and all we got well across, thanks to God. We landed, Father gave his hand to my Lady Stafford, and Sir Robert to Mother, and Robin, pulling a face 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,” saith he. “Tell her she is the fairest maid in all the realm, and you shall die 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 were Mistress 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 at her 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 next minute, and was right pleasant unto us after his sad and bashful fashion, for never saw I a man like him, as bashful as any maid. Then Mistress Jane come anon, and bare us—to wit, Milisent and me—away to her own chamber, where she gave us sweet cakes and muscadel; and Mistress Cicely came too. And a jolly time should we have had, had it not 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 say Ay, for Milisent kept her mouth close shut.
“And who were he?” quoth Mistress Jane. I answered that so far as we heard he had passed by divers names, all about this vicinage: but the name 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 go thence with a bullet more than he brought. A man past his youth, was he, Edith, with fair shining hair—no grey in it—and mighty sweet spoken?”
“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 wed her, 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 gat discourse turned so soon as ever I might. Then after a little while went we down to hall, and good mirth was had of the young gentlewomen with Robin and me: but all the while Milisent very still, so that at last Mistress Cicely noted it, and asked her if her head ached. She said ay: and she looked like it. So, soon after came we thence, and crossed the lake again, and so home. Milly yet very silent all the even: not as though she sulked, as of late, but rather as though she meditated right sadly.
Selwick Hall, December ye vii.
This morrow, I being in Aunt Joyce’s chamber, helping her to lay by the 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 but meet 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 her eyes, “but methinks I have been sinful. Will you forgive me mine hard words and evil deeds?”
“Ay, dear heart, right willingly. And I shall not gainsay thee, Milly,” saith Aunt Joyce, sadly: “for ‘the thought of foolishness is sin,’ and God calls many a thing sin whereof we men think but too lightly. Yet, bethink thee that ‘if any man sin, we have an Advocate with the Father.’ Now, dear heart, if thou wilt be ruled by me, thou wilt ‘arise and go to thy father’ and thy mother, and say to them right as did the prodigal, that thou hast sinned against Heaven and in their sight. I think neither of them is so much angered as sorrowful and pitying: yet, if there be any anger in them, trust me, that were the way to disarm it. Come back, Milly—first to God, and then to them. Thou shalt 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 I think I have come. So now I may go to Father and Mother.”
Aunt Joyce kissed her lovingly, and carried her off. Of course I know not what happed betwixt Father and Mother, and Milly, but I know that Milly looks a deal happier, and yet sadder (graver), than she hath done of many days: and that both Father and Mother be very tender unto her, as to one that had been lost and is found.
Note 1. Helen guessed rightly. As the readers of “Lettice Eden” will know, the “Mary” of the tale was her mother.